Эльвира Барякина - White Ghosts

It appears that Wyer sent Felix out of Shanghai on purpose, so he wouldn’t ask awkward questions about his suspicions.

We wracked our memories to recall the complete chain of events that had led to Labuda’s death. Wyer had initially decided to make a scandal out of the Czechoslovak Consulate case and told me to write an article about Nina and Jiří. But later he realized that this was not in his interests and had ordered Jiří’s disappearance.

I had wondered at the time why Wyer had allowed Nina to remain under house arrest: he wasn’t exactly known for his leniency or pity, especially to a woman who had led his son-in-law astray. The only logical explanation was that he didn’t want to draw any attention to the false Czechoslovak Consulate. In a sense, Nina belongs to Shanghai high society, and if she had gone to prison, especially with a baby, reporters would have been eager to delve more deeply into her case.

Wyer had even been prepared to leave Nina alone if she agreed to get out of town, but she refused, and then the captain had arranged a car accident to get rid of Katya. Jiří Labuda’s case was buried for good; the child who represented a threat to any legitimate heirs Edna might have was dead, and getting rid of Nina was just not worth the trouble as far as Wyer was concerned.

No matter how hard we tried, Felix and I couldn’t figure out what kind of information Jiří might have had on Wyer. Apparently, his testimony was related to the weapons in the crates, so I decided to ask Nina if she could possibly guess who Jiří might be selling arms to.

When she heard my question, Nina turned white. “It’s none of our business. For your sake and mine, please, don’t go into it, or Wyer will destroy you.”

Perhaps, from a pragmatic woman’s point of view, Nina is right. She is prepared to accept life with all its injustice and not challenge the rich and mighty. But I can’t do that. My male pride screams out for revenge.

Wyer has killed Katya, and if the authorities can’t provide me with satisfaction, then I’ll have to find it myself.

6

Two days passed, and then I got an unexpected message from Nina telling me that we needed to talk about Jiří. Like me, she hasn’t been able to forgive or forget anything.

“I know a smuggler, his name is Jose Fernando Burbano,” she said. “He used to be into weapons, and I think he and Jiří were trying to do a bit of business together.”

Now that was a name from the past. I remembered Don Fernando from my early days in Shanghai. Fifteen years ago we had played cards together and enjoyed every moment of each other’s company.

“Don’t have any dealings with him without telling me first,” Nina implored me when I told her about our previous acquaintance. And then she suddenly added: “I didn’t even think that you were giving Katya a thought.”

Like many unhappy couples, Nina and I often fail to see things that are obviously good about each other, instead choosing to concentrate on vices that end up being a figment of our imaginations.

Tomorrow, I’ll give Don Fernando a visit and try to figure out what the link is between him, Jiří, and Captain Wyer.

1

The dazzling sun was shining over the river, which reeked of mud and machine oil; the merchant ships in the dock were nearly melting from the heat. The tackle creaked, the seagulls squabbled, and the sound of hammering could be heard as the riveters fixed the outer hull of a ship.

Klim reached the dock by sampan and ordered the boatman to take him to an overloaded junk with the inscription “Santa Maria” emblazoned across its stern in gold.

“Do you see the rope ladder hanging from the side?” Klim said. “I’ll try to climb up it, then you wait for me here in your sampan.”

The boatman nodded, but when Klim pulled himself up onto the lowest rung, right above his head he heard the sound of a revolver being cocked.

“Who are you?” a one-eyed Chinese asked quietly, aiming his revolver at Klim’s forehead.

The boatman let out a gasp and began to row back to the shore, leaving Klim hanging helplessly over the water.

“My name is Klim Rogov,” he said hastily. “I’m an old friend of Don Fernando.”

The one-eyed man glanced over his shoulder and shouted something in an incomprehensible dialect. Steps thundered on the deck above, and after a few agonizing minutes, Klim was allowed on board.

Santa Maria’s deck was buried in crates and bales. Small birds fluttered from one perch to another, chirping and pecking at the sacking and shaggy hemp ropes.

“The master is waiting for you,” One-Eye said, and he chaperoned Klim through the narrow passage between the crates.

Fernando was dressed in a hat, a dirty shirt, and pants that were rolled up to his knees. He was sitting under a canopy, eating a watermelon, his Chinese crew standing at a respectful distance to one side.

“Now, look who’s here!” the Don roared as he threw the watermelon rind overboard and rushed to give Klim a hug. “Where on earth have you been all this time?”

“En Argentina y Rusia,” said Klim, smiling.

“Wow, you’ve learned to speak our language!” Fernando said, changing to Spanish. “Now tell me everything. Would you like some coffee? But not just any old coffee, this stuff is instant. It’s made using the latest military technology.”

The Don listened to Klim’s story and cackled happily.

“Listen, can you translate technical documents into English?” he asked. “You can see how much stuff I’ve accumulated?” Don Fernando pointed at the crates on the deck. “Tomorrow morning I’m going to Canton, and half of my papers are in Russian which nobody there understands at all.”

Klim shrugged. “I can try.”

It would be good to provide the Don with a service, he thought, and then ask him to return the courtesy.

A Chinese boy brought them a binder, and Klim looked through the creased pages covered with scribbles in pencil. It was a list of military equipment—grenades, artillery shells, gas masks, field telephones, etc. The list had been compiled using the old Russian spelling rules that had been common before the revolution.

“Where did you get all these?” Klim asked the Don.

“I bought it from your countrymen, the Cossacks. Their steamer, the Mongugai, lies anchored right across from the Wusong fortress at the mouth of the Huangpu River. It was the last White Army ship to arrive in China, and the authorities refused the Cossacks permission to go ashore. They’re stuck on board, their engine room is completely ruined, and they have nothing to eat, so they’re selling off their arsenal.”

“And you’re planning to resell it in Canton?”

Don Fernando nodded. “Something is brewing there, you know, so the demand for weapons is huge. Sun Yat-sen wants to levy taxes on the local merchants to pay for his military expenses, so the Chamber of Commerce has raised a local militia to defend themselves against him.”

Don Fernando ordered his boy to bring Klim a pen, an inkwell, and paper.

“Sit down right here under the canopy and write. I used to have a Czech translator who was good at Russian. He wanted to get home, to Prague, but didn’t have the money, so he agreed to help me for a share in the business. Unfortunately, he’s dead now.”

Klim couldn’t help but smile: things were working out much quicker than he had anticipated.

“The Cossacks have been sitting on that ship for almost a year,” Don Fernando said, lighting up a cigar. “The Chinese governor has demanded that they give up all their weapons for nothing, but they are worth at least a hundred thousand dollars. Naturally, the Russians have turned down his generous offer, and now the Chinese navy is holding the Mongugai at gunpoint until the Cossacks starve to death.”

“What do the foreign concessions have to say about this?” Klim asked.

“The whites in Shanghai are pretending that they know nothing about the whole situation.”

They’re so greedy, they’ve lost their minds, Klim thought. They’re torturing innocent people for no reason whatsoever, and as a result, all these weapons will end up in Sun Yat-sen’s hands for a song.

It took Klim the whole day to finish the translation.

“Oh, I forgot about the Avro!” Don Fernando said as Klim handed him the final page. “The Cossacks offered me a brand new biplane, still in its original packaging. It’s too big for the Santa Maria, and I won’t take it with me this time, but I’ll try to find a buyer for it in Canton. One-Eye, bring me the papers the Russians gave us.”

Klim couldn’t understand a word of the biplane specifications.

“I’ll need a technical dictionary,” he said. “I have one at home, and I could bring you the translation tomorrow.”

“That sounds fine with me,” Don Fernando said. “How much do you want for your services?”

Klim put the biplane’s specifications into his wallet. “I’d like to interview you for my newspaper.”

Don Fernando exchanged glances with One-Eye. “My! We have become popular all of a sudden. All right, tomorrow you’ll get your interview along with my heartfelt thanks. But don’t be late. We set sail at ten in the morning.”

2

Tony Aulman called Nina and told her that he had succeeded in releasing the cash from her bank account.

“Come and take it,” he said. “Your account is closed.”

Half an hour later the driver brought Nina to Peking Road where she saw young Chinese men and women queuing at the entrance and up the stairs leading to the lawyers’ waiting room.