Magnus Lee knew this because it was he who had built the apartments and the Eiffel Tower. Like all government officials, he had a second career, one dedicated to making as much money as humanly possible. His salary at the China Investment Corporation was the equivalent of $5,000 a year. His salary running a real estate development company ran to $5 million. Or rather, it had until recently.
Still, it was not his sudden drop in salary that troubled him. It was something else. Magnus Lee had not used his own money to fund his building projects. If he had, he would not be in such a bind. He had used money entrusted to him.
Lee had built other developments, too. The developments had names like St. Mark’s, Belgravia, and even St. Tropez. Like Paris, they resembled the architecture of their namesakes. Of late, however, the market for single-family homes and apartments had not been faring well. In fact, it had been in the shitter.
Lee returned to his desk and fell into his chair, contemplating his fate.
At that moment there was a commotion in the outer office. Miss May’s high voice could be heard uttering supplications. Lee’s door swung open, and a frail old man shuffled into his office. He was not wearing a Western business suit but traditional silk trousers and a high-collared jacket and soft shoes. He was bald and stooped, and his skin had the texture of rice paper.
“Elder Chen,” said Lee, catapulting to his feet. “As always, a great pleasure.”
“Do not get up on my account,” said the old man.
“Come in. Come in. Your presence brightens my day.”
Elder Chen, whose full name was Chen Ka-Ting and whose age Lee could only guess at, stopped on a dime. “Does it need brightening?” he asked sternly. Before Lee could respond, Chen broke into an avuncular grin. “It is enjoyable for a worthless old man to tease such a famous financial genius.”
Lee smiled, too. “You are too kind. I am certainly no genius.”
“Yes, yes,” said Elder Chen, patting Lee on the arm. “Why else would the wise men in Beijing allow you to invest the country’s funds? We were wise to elect you Big Mountain and entrust you with the society’s funds.”
Magnus Lee’s rise in finance was matched only by his ascendance in the Purple Dragon, Beijing’s most revered triad. Triads were secret societies founded in the last century to help support and protect communities from the tyrannies and injustices of government. They provided financing to local businessmen, helped ensure that police or petty government officials did not interfere with their activities, and engaged in other, less proper businesses, such as prostitution, drug trafficking, and extortion. In the end, a triad was a business, and like all businesses, it was required to earn a profit.
The head man in a triad was called Mountain Master. The member in charge of finances was Big Mountain.
Lee’s cheeks ached from smiling. The purpose of the visit was clear. No one had ever accused Elder Chen of being subtle. “Thank you, Elder Chen. May I offer you tea—or coffee, perhaps?”
“Coffee, yuck! Never! A Western calamity. Tea. Red Lip, if by chance you happen to have some in your cupboard. My liver is troubling me.”
“Of course.” Lee wrapped an arm around his visitor and guided him to a chair. “But first you must sit.”
The rumor was that Elder Chen was suffering from cancer and ate only two-turtle soup. When you looked at him, it was hard to determine whether he was healthy or ill. He weighed little more than 100 pounds and his walk was so unsteady that a child’s whisper might blow him over.
Lee called in Miss May and relayed the order for tea. Elder Chen insisted on taking her hand and stroking it for far too long, all the while complimenting her on her beauty. Miss May was a smart, tireless worker, but she possessed the face of a pug. Poor girl, thought Magnus Lee. It wasn’t two-turtle soup that kept the old devil alive. It was the mighty blue pill.
Miss May freed herself and returned with hot tea. The two men drank in silence. Abruptly, Elder Chen set down his cup and stood. “It is a lovely day. Let us walk.”
Lee glanced out the window. The sky was a dense cloud of putrid yellow, no trace of blue to be seen. Emissions from the region’s factories lay trapped beneath a strong inversion layer, blanketing the city with a noxious sulfur monoxide cloud. “A fine idea. It is always nice to get outside.”
The two men left the building and walked along the Champ de Mars. Elder Chen’s bodyguards followed ten steps behind.
“Your work is marvelous,” said Chen, waving an arm in admiration at the buildings on either side of them. “I feel like I really am in Paris.”
“You are. Paris, Beijing prefecture. I officially adopted the name. Buyers appreciate authenticity.” Lee stooped to pick a flower. “See? French tulips imported from Grasse, in the South of France.”