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by and for red rats. “It reminds me of a fable written by Liu Zhongyuan, a Tang dynasty poet, about such a rat-ravaged barn. For a short period of time, people gave it up, so the rats relieved it was a world of their own. Then one man broke in, and all the rats, so fattened that they could hardly run, were killed in no time.”
     
    “It’s a fable, Chief.”
     
    “Old Hunter and you want me to think more carefully about accepting the job, I understand,” Chen said. “But I really have no choice.”
     
    “Yes, Chief Inspector Chen?”
     
    “You may well call me impossibly bookish or romantic, but when someone like Comrade Zhao says he considers me one of the few Beijing can trust in a difficult situation—as an emperor’s special envoy—what can I say? As Confucius said, ‘If people treat me as the man of the state, I have to live up to the expectation.’”
     
    “I have not read the book.”
     
    “But I will be careful. You may be right about it being possibly a show, and there’s no point in jumping headlong into the muddy river.”
     
    “I didn’t think I could change your mind,” Yu said somberly, “but I had to tell you all that. Having said so, I am still your partner. If you want to work on the case, you have to count me in.”
     
    “Thanks. I know I can always count on you,” Chen said. “But at this stage, it would be better for you to stay in the background.”
     
    “How are you going to proceed?”
     
    “I haven’t decided yet. I’ll talk to the people on the list, I think.”
     
    “It’s like touching the tiger’s tail,” Yu said, draining his cup.
     
    And the tiger could bite.
     
    * * * *
     

3
     
     
    A
    FTER HIS TALK WITH Detective Yu, Chief Inspector Chen decided to restudy his investigation plan.
     
    Chen took out the folder again. There was one point made by several sources. Xing had made frequent trips to Shanghai, it was said, because of his mother. It was common knowledge in Fujian that Xing was a most dutiful son. His father had passed away when he was only three, and his mother had brought him up all by herself. About two years ago, Xing had bought her a mansion in Shanghai. Several months before fleeing overseas, he had moved her out to the United States. No one seemed to know, however, why, before that, the old woman had chosen to stay in Shanghai, with Xing being kept so busy in Fujian most of the time.
     
    There was no ruling out the possibility of Xing having come here, Chen contemplated, for clandestine business under the pretext of filial piety. Shanghai had been transforming itself into one of the fastest-developing cities in the world. Xing could not have helped putting his capitalist fingers into the socialist pie.
     
    The people Xing had contacted in Shanghai could be classified in two groups. Those with official positions, and those without. A majority were those met at parties and public activities. It was Xing’s style to have lavish receptions and banquets, with hundreds of people hand-shaking and business-card exchanging and connection building and bargain making above and under tables. But there were also a small number of people Xing had met behind closed doors, in VIP karaoke suites or private dining rooms. Those were not necessarily suspicious, though. Xing knew the necessity of cultivating connections even when there were no immediate business plans.
     
    Chen did not mind, as an old proverb goes, looking for a horse in accordance to a map, but going through the people on the list, one by one, would probably take him months without getting him anywhere. Of course, he might still claim a conscientious job done with a long report to the committee, a report that would be shelved, dust-covered, and eventually shredded.
     
    Instead, he decided to have a focus. A concentration on those with official positions possibly connected with Xing’s business, but not those necessarily high in rank. There was no hurry for the latter. Chief