Su Bo sat hunched over a low table, surrounded by mountains of paper. The air in the room was thick with the smell of cheap tobacco and the ozone of a small, illegal radio receiver he had rigged to pick up the internal communications of the state bank.
In 1989, information was the most expensive commodity in China. There were no digital tickers, no internet forums. If you wanted to know the "true" price of a company voucher, you had to listen to the whispers of clerks and the rustle of paper in the back alleys.
"The spread is widening," Su Bo muttered, his pen flying across a ledger. "The Zhaos are buying up the 'Vacuum Electron' vouchers at 55 Yuan. They think they're being clever by squeezing the supply. But they're only looking at the factories in Puxi."
Han Huojin stood by the window, peeking through a crack in the curtains. He was out of his suit, wearing a rough worker's jacket to blend into the neighborhood. He looked at Su Bo with a mixture of fascination and irritation.
"Explain it to me in plain English, Su Bo," Han said. "I'm a bureaucrat, not a calculator. What is Xia doing?"
Su Bo looked up, his eyes bloodshot. "It's a pincer movement, Secretary Han. The Zhaos are trying to corner the market by volume. They want to own the most vouchers. But Lin Xia isn't looking for volume. She's looking for velocity."
He pointed to a map of the city's industrial districts. "I've spent the last forty-eight hours sending 'messengers'—mostly students and street vendors—to the outlying districts. They aren't buying vouchers. They're spreading a rumor."
"A rumor?" Han asked, his brow furrowing.
"They're telling the workers that the 'Vacuum Electron' company is about to be audited for tax evasion," Su Bo whispered. "They're saying the vouchers will be worth zero by next week. The workers are panicking. They're flooding the grey market with their papers, trying to get rid of them for whatever they can get."
Han Huojin felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air. "She's intentionally crashing the price? She's devaluing her own assets before the trading session starts?"
"She's crashing the price for them," Su Bo corrected. "The Zhaos are buying at 55 Yuan. If the price drops to 30 Yuan because of the panic, the Zhaos lose half their capital before the doors to the Yellow House even open. Meanwhile, Lin Xia has a separate pool of cash waiting at the docks. She'll buy the 'panic' shares at the bottom."
Han Huojin turned away from the window and sat on a rickety wooden chair. He realized that Lin Xia wasn't just playing a game of business; she was playing a game of psychological warfare.
"If the Security Bureau finds out about the rumor-mongering," Han said softly, "they won't just shut down the factory. They'll call it 'Counter-Revolutionary Economic Sabotage.' Do you know the penalty for that?"
Su Bo went back to his math. "I was already fired for being right once, Secretary. I'd rather be executed for being brilliant than spend my life counting buttons for a state collective."
Han looked at the young man, then at the stacks of vouchers. He realized he was no longer just a "protector" or a "mentor" to Lin Xia. He was an accomplice.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, encrypted pager, a device given only to high-ranking officials. He had been receiving messages all morning from the Ministry. They were asking for his report on the "Industrial Efficiency" of the Pudong region.
He hadn't written a word about the textile success. He had been too busy protecting the "Ghost-Stitch" from the vultures.
"I have to go to the Ministry before the session," Han said, standing up. "I need to stall the audit of the No. 4 Mill. If Director Ma signs those papers today, the Zhaos will realize they've been played, and they'll pull their liquidity. The market will collapse before Xia can buy in."
"What if you can't stall him?" Su Bo asked without looking up.
"Then tell Miss Lin to stay away from the Pujiang Hotel," Han replied, his hand on the door handle. "Because if that audit goes through, the Zhaos will be looking for blood, and the police will be looking for a scapegoat."
Han Huojin arrived at the Ministry of Commerce thirty minutes later. The building was a cold, stone monolith of socialist architecture, smelling of floor wax and stale tea. Every footstep echoed in the long, marble corridors.
He found Director Ma in his office, surrounded by the usual haze of cigarette smoke. On Ma's desk was the red folder containing the audit of the Zhao family's mill, the one Lin Xia had used as leverage.
"Secretary Han," Ma said, his voice raspy. "I was just about to send this to the Prosecutor's office. It seems the No. 4 Mill has been faking its silk exports for three years. It's a disgrace."
Han sat down, forcing his heart to slow its frantic beat. He had to be a politician now. He had to be the "Ice King" he would eventually become in the future.
"Director Ma," Han said smoothly. "I agree. It is a disgrace. But have you considered the timing?"
Ma squinted through the smoke. "The timing? Crime has no schedule, Han."
"The French delegation just signed a three-year exclusivity deal with the Pudong site," Han lied—or rather, he exaggerated. "If we arrest the Zhao leadership today, the French will see it as 'instability.' They will pull their contracts. The foreign currency we just earned will vanish, and the Central Committee will want to know why we killed the goose that was laying the golden eggs."
Ma hesitated. The "Golden Egg" argument was the only thing that worked in 1989. "But the corruption... the numbers are clear."
"The numbers are a mess," Han countered. "Give me forty-eight hours. Let me 'supervise' a restructuring. We can punish the Zhaos privately, take a 'management fee' for the state, and keep the French happy. If we go public now, we all look like we were asleep at the wheel."
Ma looked at the red folder. He looked at Han. He was a man of the old guard, but he wasn't a fool. He knew that Han Huojin was a rising star, and he didn't want to be on the wrong side of a future Minister.
"Forty-eight hours," Ma said, pushing the folder into a drawer. "But if a single word of this leaks to the 'Yellow House' traders, I'll have your badge, Han."
While Han was fighting with paper in Puxi, Su Bo was moving through the shadows of the Pudong docks.
The rumor he had started was working too well. The "Panic" was setting in. Small-time traders—men who had gambled their life savings on a few vouchers—were gathered in the tea houses, their faces pale with terror.
"They're taking the factory! The 'Vacuum' is empty!" a man shouted, throwing his papers onto a table. "I'll take 25 Yuan! Just give me enough for a bus ticket home!"
Su Bo moved through the crowd like a ghost. He didn't buy the vouchers himself. He signaled to the "messengers", the students who were acting as Lin Xia's front.
"Buy," Su Bo whispered as he passed a young man in a university jacket.
By 1:00 PM, the "Panic" had driven the price of Vacuum Electron vouchers down to an all-time low of 22 Yuan. The Zhaos, sitting in their ivory towers in Puxi, were oblivious. They were waiting for the 2:00 PM session, believing they held the strongest hand.
But Su Bo was worried. As he turned a corner near the docks, he saw a black sedan parked in an alley. It was the same sedan Lin Xia had described, the one used by the Security Bureau.
A man stepped out, holding a camera. He wasn't looking at the traders. He was looking at Su Bo.
Su Bo didn't run. He knew that if he ran, it would confirm their suspicions. Instead, he pulled out a cigarette, fumbled for a light, and walked straight toward the car.
"Looking for a light, comrade?" Su Bo asked, his voice shaking only slightly.
The man in the car lowered the camera. He had a scarred face and eyes that looked like cold stones. "You're with the Lin girl. The one from the cannery."
"I'm a student," Su Bo said. "I'm just here to see the 'Great Market' everyone is talking about."
The man reached out and grabbed Su Bo by the collar, pulling him toward the car window. "Tell your mistress that the 'wind' she's so fond of is about to become a gale. We know about the rumor. We know about the vouchers. If she shows her face at the Pujiang Hotel today, she won't be leaving in a limousine."
The man pushed Su Bo away and the car sped off, splashing mud onto his shoes.
Su Bo scrambled back to the apartment. He had thirty minutes. He grabbed the final tally of the "Panic Buy."
Total Vouchers Acquired: 12,400.
Average Price: 26 Yuan.
Total Capital Spent: 322,400 Yuan.
It was almost every cent Lin Xia had. If the "Yellow House" didn't recognize the vouchers, or if the Zhaos managed to freeze the trading, she would be destitute.
He looked at the telephone on the wall. He wanted to call her. He wanted to tell her about the man with the camera. But he knew her office phone was likely tapped.
He took a piece of red paper, the color of luck and celebration, and wrote a single number on it: 22.
He went downstairs to the dumpling shop and handed the paper to the delivery boy. "Take this to the Red Star Cannery. Give it to the lady in the black dress. Tell her the 'Winter Harvest' is ready."
As the clock struck 1:30 PM, Han Huojin emerged from the Ministry building. He felt a strange sense of calm. He had done his part. He had held back the tide of the old world for forty-eight hours.
He walked toward the Pujiang Hotel, his heart heavy. He knew he should stay away. As a government official, being seen at a grey-market trading session was professional suicide.
But he couldn't leave her to face the Zhaos and the Security Bureau alone.
He found a spot in a small café across from the hotel. He ordered a coffee and watched the entrance.
At 1:45 PM, a sleek, black Hongqi sedan—the kind used by the old elite, pulled up. Out stepped Zhao Meifeng and her son, Kun. They looked triumphant, confident that their 55-Yuan vouchers would dominate the room.
At 1:50 PM, a rust-covered truck from the docks rumbled up. Out stepped Zhang Wei and the black-market kingpin, Lao Feng. They looked like predators arriving at a feast.
And finally, at 1:55 PM, a simple taxi pulled to the curb.
Lin Xia stepped out.
She was wearing the black Ghost-Stitch cheongsam. She didn't have a briefcase or a guard. She only had a small, red silk pouch in her hand.
She stood on the sidewalk for a moment, looking up at the grand facade of the Pujiang Hotel. The rain had stopped, and a single ray of cold, winter sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating her like a spotlight on a stage.
Han Huojin leaned forward, his hands gripping the coffee cup. He saw her take a deep breath, her shoulders squaring. She looked like a woman who was walking toward her own execution, or perhaps, her own coronation.
From his vantage point, Han could see the man with the camera hiding behind a pillar near the hotel entrance. He could see Zhang Wei watching her from the lobby with a look of pure malice.
But Lin Xia didn't look at them. She looked at the red paper in her hand, the message from Su Bo.
She smiled. It was the same sharp, dangerous smile she had worn when she told Han she had a "feeling for the wind."
She walked into the hotel, her heels clicking on the stone steps, a sound that echoed like the first drumbeat of a new era.