“Thank you, Auntie Yao,” Chen said. “Don’t worry about me. I want to have a quiet meal here.”

“Good. I don’t think he’ll bother you again – not until he’s done with his horse shit,” she said, glaring over her shoulder.

“Don’t worry about me, Auntie Yao,” Gang echoed from his table as she retreated into the kitchen.

Auntie Yao must have been the restaurant’s only waitress, having worked there for years and knowing the regular customers well. She soon returned to Chen’s table with the noodles and the chef’s special.

The special came in a small rustic urn, still steaming, as if from a rural kitchen. The beef noodles looked both hot and fresh.

She sat on a stool not far from his table, as if guarding him, making sure that Chen had a quiet meal.

But he wasn’t going to have one that evening.

He was just putting the chopsticks into the fragrant-smelling urn when his cell phone rang. Possibly another call from Yong, he thought, who didn’t give up easily.

“Comrade Chief Inspector Chen, this is Huang Keming from Beijing.”

“Oh, Minister Huang.”

“We need to talk. Is it a good time for you?”

It was not, but Chen chose not to say so to the new Minister of Public Security. Nor was it really a question from Huang. Chen rose, hurrying out of the eatery, both hands covering the phone. “Yes, please go ahead, Minister Huang.”

“Do you know about Shang Yunguan, a movie queen during the fifties?”

“Shang Yunguan… I watched one or two of her movies long ago. But they didn’t leave much of an impression. She committed suicide at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution, I think.”

“She did, but in the fifties and early sixties, she was very popular. When Chairman Mao came to Shanghai, he danced with her at parties arranged by the local government.”

“Yes, Minister Huang?” Chen asked, wondering where this was going.

“She could have taken – or been given – something from him. There were many opportunities.”

“Something from Mao?” Chen was instantly alert, though hardly able to smother the sarcasm in his voice. “What could that possibly be?”

“We don’t know.”

“Perhaps pictures with captions saying ‘Our great leader encouraged a revolutionary artist to make a new contribution,’ or ‘Let hundreds of flowers bloom.’ Our newspapers and magazines were full of his pictures.”

“Shang could have left it to her daughter Qian,” Huang went on without responding, “who died in an accident toward the end of the Cultural Revolution, leaving behind a daughter of her own, named Jiao. So you are going to approach Jiao.”

“Why?”

“She may have it.”

“Something from Mao – the Mao material, you mean?”

“Yes, you could say that.”

“Did Shang, Qian, or Jiao ever show this material to anyone?”

“No. Not that we are aware of.”

“Then there may not even be any such material.”

“Why would you think that?”

“With someone like Shang, a popular movie actress, her home must have been thoroughly ransacked and searched by Red Guards. They never found anything, right? The Mao material – whatever it could be – wasn’t something like a life-saving imperial decree like in ancient time. Even if it existed, it didn’t save her; if anything, it probably only caused her trouble. How would she have been able to leave it to her daughter Qian? And how could Qian, dying in an accident, have given it to her daughter Jiao?”

“Comrade Chief Inspector Chen!” Huang obviously was not pleased with Chen’s response. “We cannot afford to overlook this possibility. There are some quite suspicious things about Jiao. About a year ago, for instance, she suddenly quit her job and moved into a luxurious apartment. Where did the money come from? Now she’s regularly attending parties with people from Hong Kong, Taiwan, or Western countries. What is she really up to? What’s more, the host of these parties, a certain Mr. Xie, is someone who bears a deep grudge against Mao. So she could be trying to sell the Mao material for a large advance.”

“An advance for a book? If she has the money already, I don’t think we can do anything about it. The publisher would now have the material – the Mao material.”

“Perhaps not yet, or not entirely. Something might have been arranged, out of consideration for her safety. If such a book were published while she was in China, she could get in trouble. She knows better -”

“Has she applied for a passport?”

“No, not yet. If she did anything too obvious, it wouldn’t do her any good.”

It sounded like a conspiracy scenario to Chen. The minister must have some reason to be concerned, but Chen had many questions.

“Why the sudden attention to this?” Chen resumed after a pause. “Shang died years ago.”

“It’s a long story but, in short, it’s because of two books. The first one is entitled Cloud and Rain in Shanghai. You must have heard of it.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You are too busy, Chief Inspector Chen. It’s a best seller about Qian, and about Shang too.”

“Really? A best seller?”

“Yes. And then the other book is the memoir by Mao’s personal doctor.”

“That one I’ve heard of, but I haven’t read it.”

“With that book we learned our lesson the hard way. When the doctor applied for a passport so he could go to the States for health reasons, we let him go. His book was then published there. It’s full of fabrications about Mao’s private life. However, readers are so interested in those horrible details that they swallow them without a hiccup. The book is selling like hotcakes all over the world. In some languages, it has been reprinted ten times in one year.”

Chen had heard stories about Mao’s private life. In the years shortly after the Cultural Revolution, when Madam Mao was denounced as a white-bone devil, lurid details about her life as a third-rate movie actress started coming out, with some particulars having direct or indirect connection to Mao. The Beijing authorities soon put an end to the “hearsay.” Since, after all, there’s no separating Madam Mao from Mao.

“So these two books have led us to be concerned about the possibility that Jiao might have something left behind by Shang. Something that she could use against the interest of our Party.”

“I’m still lost, Minister Huang.”

“I don’t think we need to go into details on the phone. You’ll learn more from the case file compiled by Internal Security.”

“Internal Security is already investigating?” Chen said, frowning. Internal Security was usually assigned the most sensitive political cases. “If so, why call me in?”

“They’ve been following Jiao for weeks, but without success. So their plan is to take tougher measures, but some leading comrades in Beijing don’t think that’s a good idea. Comrade Zhao, the ex-secretary of the Central Party Discipline Committee, is one of them. Indeed, we have to think about repercussions. Both Xie and Jiao are known in their circles and have connections to Western media. Besides, if we push too hard, Jiao might act rashly, out of desperation.”

“What can I do?”

“You are going to approach Jiao from a different angle. Check her out, as well as the people associated with her, and more importantly, discover what was left by Shang and retrieve it -”

“Hold on. What different angle?”

“Well, whatever approach you think will work. Soft rather than tough, you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t. I’m no 007, Minister Huang.”

“This is an assignment you can’t say no to, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen. Any slander against Mao, the founder of the Chinese Communist Party, will affect the legitimacy of our Party. This is a special task and, Comrade Zhao recommended you to me. Based on what Internal Security has learned, one possible approach would be through the parties she frequents. You can blend in, speaking your English or quoting your poetry.”

“So I am to approach Jiao as anything but a cop -”