Chapter 686 - The Final Trump Card
Forged weapons import certificates and end-user statements, shell shipping companies set up to lease freighters for arms transport—all ultimately pointed to former Army Corporal Weiss Rando, who had served in Korea.
In ATF's files, Rando wasn't a big fish. Just one of countless small fry in the industry trying to score. ATF didn't have the resources to specifically pursue him. Besides, Rando wasn't in the country at the time, nor in any country where American law enforcement could act freely—he was on former Yugoslav territory working as an eight-hour soldier, clocking in and out, overtime pay required for extra hours. Though his main clients were the Kosovo Liberation Army, he didn't get along with the fanatical Arab volunteer fighters, so he also worked for the Serbians.
He served the Serbians well enough that Serbian arms companies opened their doors to him. The former Yugoslav arsenals became his goldmine.
Though he had never been arrested by American or allied judicial authorities, Salina still firmly remembered that smiling face from the file photo.
"Mr. Weiss Rando." Considering this was a secret interrogation, Xu Tianqi from the Foreign Affairs Department wasn't called to participate as usual. The interpreter was Chen Sigen, who belonged to the Special Investigation Command and had trained students for the Political Security Bureau.
"We know exactly what you've been doing in Bosnia and West Africa over the past decade. Now please tell us: you disguised yourself as a Jesuit to come to Lingao—what exactly are you trying to do?"
Weiss moved his hands from the armrests to his lap. Though it was a sweltering summer night, he felt slightly cold. At least the Chinese had been merciful enough not to cuff his hands and feet to the interrogation chair. This was half because two burly, fully armed agents stood behind him, and half because he truly had no weapons. The sword and wheellock pistol he had brought to Lingao, befitting his seventeenth-century European soldier identity, had been confiscated by Customs. As for the Skorpion submachine gun and pistol, and the remaining meager ammunition, Weiss had carefully packaged and buried them in a cave beneath Phoenix Hill before departure. The Portuguese poet Camões had once recited his immortal Os LusĂadas in that cave. Now he felt that had been the right decision. In Lingao, a submachine gun couldn't save his life, but under the protection of the great Camões's spirit, perhaps he could lift Lady Luck's skirt a little higher.
"Before I answer these questions—" Weiss's voice was low but slow and clear. It had been nearly three years since he had spoken English after coming to seventeenth-century Asia. He felt like he was in reading class at school, awkwardly reading aloud in front of the teacher, constantly ready to correct his pronunciation. "May I have the honor of knowing who I'm speaking with across this table?"
"You may consider us to be speaking with you on behalf of the federal government." Salina answered. Standard New York accent, but her tone was as cold and hard as her expression.
Weiss leaned his head back against the chair and showed a strange smile. "Federal government? Perhaps I really should believe your nonsense, great citizens of the Australian Federation. You'd better hurry back—the Dutch in Java are about to visit your Australian homeland. What should I call you? Ms. Cook? I forgot it's the seventeenth century. I'd better call you Ms. Tasman."
He grew more agitated as he spoke, faster and faster. His torrent of English was peppered with Italian and Portuguese words. Chen Sigen's translation fell increasingly behind his pace.
"Madam, if you could represent the United States government, there should be an aircraft carrier anchored in this bay—at minimum an amphibious assault ship. Not just one Polish freighter that should have been in the shipbreaker's yard long ago, plus nothing but sailing ships. Every town on this island should be flying the Stars and Stripes, with sixty—no, at least a hundred stars on it."
Weiss caught his breath and continued: "Chinese, you're the same. With Beijing's backing, you'd be driving tanks to rule the world by now. You definitely wouldn't be huddled in a small county town, having your army defend against a seventeenth-century government's attack with nineteenth-century muzzle-loaders. So you and I are the same—all working independently in this damn world. The difference is you have more people, and I'm alone. I don't think I'm wrong, am I?"
Salina remained unmoved, regarding him coldly. The Chinese likewise weren't inclined to answer his questions.
"You're not alone. We know you have accomplices." A genial-looking Chinese man sitting behind the table spoke up. He wore a gray military uniform with blue collar tabs but no rank insignia, no weapon belt, no pistol. His empty turned-down collar directly framed a round head. Clearly a big shot's bearing.
"Of course, I did have a few accomplices. But they're probably all shark droppings by now. Are you that concerned about them?"
"Mr. Rando, please calm down. Your views on the Chinese and the Chinese government are too superficial. Why not talk about yourself? Have you enjoyed these past three years?"
You old smooth operator, Weiss thought. He wants me to make a full confession. Not confessing wasn't an option. He closed his eyes and began from the strange storm the Maquarello had encountered in the South China Sea. He spoke in one breath, only pausing when a Chinese man brought him a glass of water. He continued until finally reaching his hiring by Li Siya and coming to Lingao through Jesuit connections—only omitting the part about attacking Lingao with Captain Aragonés. The Chinese behind the table had been busy taking notes, but when Li Siya's name appeared, it triggered a whispered discussion.
"You say you were hired by Li Siya. Do you know her?" Jiang Shan asked.
"This woman is quite famous in Macao. She found me through the Jesuits and paid six hundred Spanish pesos to have me gather your military intelligence, then resell it to the Dutch East India Company at ten times the price." Weiss shrugged. "She actually thought I didn't know anything."
"What exactly does Li Siya do? Is she working for Liu Xiang, Zheng Zhilong, or the Spanish?" Someone was very interested in this question.
"None of the above. She's a broker. When there's enough profit, she'll do a job herself. Two years ago she brokered a joint Spanish and Chinese pirate Liu attack on you—it ended in heavy losses. So regardless of whether the Dutch offer high prices, she has always maintained strong interest in you."
"Do you know Li Huamei?"
"No."
"She's the captain of the Hangzhou. This ship occasionally docks in Macao."
"Oh, you mean that female captain who moonlights as a pirate."
"She is indeed a captain."
"I know of her, but I don't know her personally. She doesn't appear often in Macao."
"What's her relationship with Li Siya?"
"I don't know." Rando shook his head. "Li Siya is a woman who's very careful about maintaining her mystique. She rarely even shows herself on Macao's streets."
"Tell us about your friends on the ship," the fat man in the blue-gray uniform interrupted the discussion about Li Siya. "How many were there, and where are they?"
"I believe I just said." Weiss felt impatient. Fatigue, tension, anxiety, and the nonchalance he had to fake were all fraying his nerves.
"Two Filipino sailors disappeared after the storm. I assume they were swept off the deck into the sea by waves. Then there was First Mate Paul, that unlucky German who cracked his skull on the bridge and went to meet God. Finally, the friend who boarded the same lifeboat with me—"
"Who is this person?"
"A Japanese man who called himself Hale—maybe American. Who knows! Anyway, he spoke English but had a Japanese face. Paul had temporarily found him to help out. He looked like someone who'd been in this business."
"Is this him?"
Someone handed him a photograph. It was a picture of a naked male corpse with cross-shaped sutures on the chest.
"That's Paul." Rando muttered. "Poor German."
"The person you said got on the lifeboat with you—is he still alive? Where is he now?"
Weiss grumbled: "No, don't ask me where he is. After our lifeboat was capsized by waves and the locals fished me out, I never saw him again. If you want to find out where he is, ask the venerable Poseidon."
"You don't seem very concerned about your friend."
"I believe you're more concerned about him than I am." Weiss grinned. This conversation was growing more interesting than before. "I'm more concerned about myself, which is why I came to you. I think the information I brought and my ship should be worth more than six hundred silver pesos."
Might be worth six Type 30 revolver rounds, Wu Mu thought. He felt directly executing this dangerous character might be a more prudent approach. But he still spoke in a relatively mild tone: "Mr. Weiss, those pistols you smuggled in among clothes and cigarettes obviously don't have the front-page-worthy sensationalism of poison gas bombs. As for that pitiful amount of ammunition—it wouldn't be enough for an hour's target practice. These rifles and machine guns probably wouldn't even be enough to supply a very small guerrilla unit. But any government could use this as grounds to confiscate your ship and cargo. Therefore, your ship is already past tense."
Those present looked at him with unfriendly eyes. Rando knew it was time to play his trump card. Otherwise, it would soon become worthless.
But once he played it, he could only completely submit to fate—or to whatever final arrangement these Chinese had for him.