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Overview
San Francisco, 1989: Forty years after Mao and his People's Liberation Army set out to change China forever, Dr. Lili Quan prepares for a journey that will change her life forever.
To honor her mother's dying wish that she "return" home, American-born Lili reluctantly sets out for China. For Lili, a passionate idealist, this will be an extraordinary trip filled with remarkable discoveries - from meeting and falling in love with Chi-Wen Zhou, a victim of the Cultural Revolution and zealous Taoist, to finding Dr. Ni-Fu Cheng, the grandfather Lili believed had died years ago. But Ni-Fu has made the most remarkable discovery of all: he's discovered the secret to long life. As greedy and unscrupulous men vie for control of the most earth-shattering discovery of the century, Lili, Ni-Fu's only living relative, could become a pawn in a deadly and dangerous international game. Before she can hold the key to the future, Lili must unlock the deadly secrets of the past.
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940156517961 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AKESO PRESS |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2019 |
| Sold by: | Draft2Digital |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 822 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Rabbit in the Moon
A Novel
By Deborah Shlian, Joel Shlian
Oceanview Publishing
Copyright © 2008 Deborah and Joel ShlianAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-933515-14-4
CHAPTER 1
January 1989
Beijing, China
"Idiots! A simple task. I send two young soldiers to extract information from a helpless old man. What could be easier? Yet they return saying he refuses to cooperate? I tell you, comrades, I don't know what's become of this younger generation. They're not made of the same stuff as the three of us. They're weaker. Softer."
To punctuate his point, Foreign Minister Lin took a deep drag on his cigarette, savored the unfiltered tobacco, then gathered a bolus of saliva in his mouth and launched it, aiming it into the spittoon near his desk.
The two men in the overstuffed chairs facing him nodded.
"You are right, Comrade Lin," agreed General Pei-Jun Tong. "Deng's open door policies cause our children to forget our sufferings. His reforms bring spiritual pollution and immoral behavior. Instead of shuo ku, my son wants only to talk of his new business ventures with the West. He has no interest in hearing about the evil social conditions before the revolution. 'Ziyou shichang. Free markets.'" The general shook his head. "Imagine owning his own factory. Thank goodness old Mao is not here to see the death of his dream for China."
"Deng says it does not matter whether the good cat is black or white, as long as it catches mice," Intelligence Officer Peng Han reminded his fellow Long Marchers. All three old men had accompanied Mao on that eight thousand-mile epic trek through China in 1934.
Foreign Minister Lin jumped up from behind his desk with the furious energy of a man thirty years his junior. His fist slammed the desk, scattering papers and upsetting the teacup perched on the edge. "Of course it matters! We sacrificed everything for the Party and our country. If we lose our ideals now, we are no better than those foreign devils!"
A girl in pigtails and a white jacket entered carrying a thermos of boiling water. Soundlessly, she refilled the foreign minister's teacup and offered some to his guests.
The men waited for her to leave before continuing.
"I couldn't agree more, Comrade Lin," Han said. "Our numbers have dwindled. Deng has stripped the Party of most old allies. In my section of the Intelligence branch few of us remain." He sipped his tea. "Ironically, it was the wave of student protests as much as our work behind the scenes that helped discredit Hu Yaobang last year."
The foreign minister shook his head. "You're too hard on yourself, old friend. He would never have been ousted without you." All three understood it was political suicide to openly disagree with Deng's economic reforms. Instead, they'd had to clandestinely destroy reformers like Hu Yaobang.
"Peng Han is right about one thing. It's more difficult than ever to keep things as they were," General Tong lamented. "Deng forgets the bedrock of Mao's philosophy: political power grows out of the barrel of a gun." The old soldier rubbed his balding temple. "He slashed the army's ranks by a million, and with so many of the old Marxists retired, we have fewer seats on the Politburo."
"Precisely why we're meeting today." Lin fingered the collar of his crisp gray cotton Zhongshan tunic. Foreigners knew it as the "Mao jacket" though it was actually introduced by Sun Yat-Sen shortly after founding the Republic of China in 1912. When Mao later adopted it as his preferred uniform, a billion people dutifully followed his lead. Only in the last few years had many resumed wearing Western styles, especially the young. To Lin, who clung to the old way of dress with the same tenacity with which he clung to the old way of thought, it was a sensible, functional garment — cheap fabric, comfortable cut.
He pulled the jacket over his matching slacks. "Thank goodness the new head of the Xi'an Institute remains loyal. With Professor Cheng's discovery we will regain control of the Party." He cleared his throat with a noisy flourish, then spewed another frothy mouthful into the spittoon. "We must get him to talk."
"I agree," Han replied, tugging his own jacket. Although all three men ate far more than the fifteen hundred or so calories on which the average Chinese managed to exist, only Peng Han's belly rippled under his Mao suit. "But torture is not the way. If, as he claims, there is no written record of his research, we need him alive and we need his cooperation."
"Any word from the young man you set up as lab assistant?"
"ChiWen Zhou is slowly gaining the professor's trust."
"It's been months," the general reminded.
"Such things take time. After all, he's not family."
The foreign minister interrupted, "What about relatives?"
Han took a deep breath and opened the file he'd brought with him. "Dr. Cheng's wife and son died in childbirth. His brother was killed fighting with Chiang Kai-chek. One daughter, Su-Wei, escaped to the United States before Liberation."
"And now?"
"She lives in San Francisco," he said, reading the prepared notes. "Widowed, one daughter: Li Li Quan. Su-Wei was recently diagnosed with cancer."
"Could she survive a trip to China?" asked the general.
Han thought a moment, wondering what plan his old friend was conjuring. "I suppose."
The general nodded. "She might provide just the incentive our friend needs to talk."
"Perhaps we could persuade her to return home," Han said.
The foreign minister spent a long time staring at nothing while the aromatic steam from the bitter, dark red tea called Iron Dragon permeated his sinuses. Finally, he looked at his friends and smiled. "Daughter, maybe even granddaughter. Yes, comrades. Perhaps we could."
Washington, D.C.
A few weeks later a visa request came across the American consul's desk. He gave it no more attention than any other in the stack. After all, since Nixon's visit in 1972, Chinese students and professors were crossing the Pacific in record numbers. If anything, the People's Republic of China should be worried that so many of their best and brightest were electing to stay in the States.
But that was not the consul's concern. If Dr. Seng's government agreed to let him go, the American Consulate would not interfere. Provided, of course, that the man was not a spy. That was why the consul now asked his secretary to make a copy and send it to the CIA in Langley.
Beijing
At the north entrance to Beihai Park, David Kim watched impatiently as hundreds of ice skaters enjoyed Sunday afternoon on the frozen lake. Checking his gold Rolex for the second time in five minutes, he wondered if this meeting would be a mistake. Would his father approve? He wasn't sure. Up to now the senior Kim had dealt with the Chinese himself, always following bureaucratic channels, going through the kind of tedious red tape that made Westerners leery of doing business here.
But then Shin-yung Kim was Korean, imbued with an easterner's appreciation of the finer points of negotiation. Over many years David's father had carefully cultivated relationships within strategic Party-connected organizations in China, so that now Kim Company was one of Korea's largest family-owned chaebols or business conglomerates with a firm toehold in a country of one billion untapped consumers.
"Forty years ago, these same people invaded our country. Today they buy our TV sets, our textiles, even our monosodium glutamate," Kim reminded his number one son before sending him off to run the MSG division in Beijing. "No longer will the world be conquered by guns. This time, the admirals and generals will wear finely tailored suits; their weapon, economics; their battlefield, world markets."
Although David understood his father's obsessive drive to beat an old opponent at this new game, the younger Kim was impatient for money and power. He was impulsive. A gambler. That's why he stood waiting in the insufferable January cold. Lee Tong's mysterious note suggesting a clandestine rendezvous had been too intriguing to pass up.
"Annyong haseyo!"
David whirled as a thirtyish-looking Chinese man with a tousled thatch of black hair and sharp cheek bones dismounted from his black one-speed Flying Pigeon bicycle.
"Speak Chinese!" David snapped, annoyed not only by the man's lateness, but by the way his padded cotton jacket and baggy blue trousers contrasted with his own impeccable cashmere coat and Pierre Cardin suit. Lee Tong hadn't even bothered to shave. Hard to believe such a man owned his own factory. "Anyone hearing Korean will assume we're spies and I don't think even your hou-tai," he said, referring to Tong's Party connections via his father, "will protect you."
"Sorry." Tong nervously checked the crowd before lighting an unfiltered Camel. He too had second thoughts about this meeting.
David winced as Tong grasped his cigarette between thumb and forefinger. Vulgar, he thought. Like some low-class coolie. "Why this secret meeting?" he asked Tong. "Aren't you satisfied with the agreement made between Kim Company and your plant?"
"You have been most generous. This has nothing to do with MSG." He took a long drag, then lowered his voice. "Recently I overheard my father, General Pei-Jun Tong, talking with two former Long Marchers. What I learned could make us both very rich men."
At that moment two motorcycles, sidecars filled with Public Security Bureau police officers, passed the park entrance. Tong stopped talking, following their progress.
"They're just cruising," he said, lowering his voice. Still, he took David's arm, guiding him toward the bridge. "If you're not walking, they think you're up to no good."
Xi'an, China
From his window in the Shaanxi Provincial People's Hospital, Ni-Fu Cheng could barely make out Xingqing Park on the eastern outskirts f the city. When he was first sent to Xi'an some thirty-four years ago, he spent many hours strolling among the trees and flowers that grew on the ancient site. Once the official residence of the Tang Dynasty, Xingqing Palace's 123 acres had long ago been replaced by an art gallery, reading room, teahouse, small lake, and children's playground.
Ni-Fu had loved coming there. At first it was simply to drink in the beauty, to read and think among the singing cicada. There were great possibilities then, and his heart was filled with hope. In recent years he had sought the shelter of the park for different reasons. The peace he found there helped to drive away his growing sadness.
But, at age seventy-five, he was now locked inside the Xi'an Institute, deprived of even the park's small pleasure. He turned to catch the cool winter breeze and was just able to discern the edges of the buildings that made up Jiaotong University. Off and on over the past thirty years he had taught science and medicine there, reveling in the exchange of ideas with eager young men and women hungry for knowledge. And for over thirty years he'd managed to keep his longevity research a secret.
Damn Dr. Seng! Too bad he had taken over the Institute. Too bad he had understood the implications of Ni-Fu's work. And too bad, like a good puppet of the Party, Seng had been only too eager to ingratiate himself with the elders.
Well, at least Ni-Fu had had the foresight to hide his research notes where no one would find them. Not even the torture he'd endured had loosened his tongue.
Ni-Fu thought he caught the voices of some young students outside. How he missed them. To Ni-Fu they were China's most precious resource, the hope for his country's future. To old men like General Tong and his fellow Long Marchers, this young generation was the single greatest threat to the Party's existence. Fear of losing power had made Ni-Fu their prisoner. He would be their salvation, hopefully producing a potion to literally cheat death; one that would enable them to live long enough to suppress this young generation as they themselves had been suppressed over forty years before.
Tears came to Ni-Fu's eyes as he considered the futility of his life.
CHAPTER 2February 1989
12:00 P.M.
Washington, D.C.
One month later and some twelve thousand miles away, two men sat nursing brandies after lunching at the White Owl, a fashionable Georgetown restaurant. Although they'd known each other for a long time — had gone through Wharton's MBA program together — each had followed different paths.
Charlie Halliday joined "the Company" as he liked to think of the CIA, while Martin Carpenter became vice president of Aligen, a leading U.S. pharmaceutical company. Each had the kind of perfectly chiseled features that made you think BMWs, cable-knit sweaters, and weekends in the Hamptons. They could have been twins — except that Halliday's thick hair had turned to gray, while Carpenter's was still as black as when they were schoolmates two decades earlier.
"You didn't haul me halfway across town just to buy me a hot lunch, Charlie. What's up?"
"I hear your company's looking for a new Tagamet," Halliday responded.
"We're always looking for a box-office bonanza. A new billion dollar pill every few years keeps us one of the big boys in the drug business."
"You're in trouble, Martin." The CIA officer pointedly lowered his voice. "Aligen has spent over three hundred million on R&D for a herpes cure that the FDA still hasn't approved."
"We're almost there."
"Almost only counts in horseshoes, my friend. If Aligen doesn't come up with a winner soon, you're going to be in deep financial shit."
Carpenter's eyes narrowed. "Since when does your Company care what happens to my company?"
"Since we learned the Chinese may be onto a pharmaceutical miracle."
The waitress brought refills. Carpenter waited until she left before responding. "I suppose you have that on the highest authority?"
"That's what they pay me for," Halliday said. "Look, Marty, I know you just spent the morning trying to convince the FDA to expedite your phase-three trials. Unsuccessfully, I might add."
"Lousy bureaucrats. Christ, don't they know that in this business timing's everything? I've got deadlines and all they care about is paperwork. Paperwork!" The veins in Carpenter's neck distended as if to emphasize his frustration. "This AIDS epidemic has taken most of the steam out of the herpes scare." A bitter laugh. "Today you thank the doctor when he says you have herpes or the clap!"
Halliday's smile was sympathetic. "Two of your highest margin drugs expire this month. Every generic manufacturer is ready to enter your markets."
"We plan to sue."
"Marty, we both know Aligen is undercapitalized and over leveraged. You can't afford long, drawn out litigation. You've gotta come up with a new drug that'll knock the socks off the competition. Something that can't be copied and something that's really new." Halliday leveled cool blue eyes at his friend. "I can help."
Carpenter snapped to full attention. "I'm all ears."
Making certain no one was near enough to eavesdrop, the CIA officer removed a manila folder from his briefcase. He placed a picture on the table of two men in white lab coats, arms around each other. Carpenter guessed the Chinese in the picture to be in his thirties and the Caucasian to be somewhat younger.
"Dr. Ni-Fu Cheng. Brilliant physician, teacher, and medical researcher trained in England during the '30s. Returned to Shanghai about ten years before Mao and his boys took over." Halliday pointed to the picture. "Dr. Cheng was also something of a history buff. Qin Shi Huangdi, known in the West as Ch'in, first emperor of China, was obsessed with immortality. He sent several expeditions into the Eastern Sea seeking the elixir of life. When he died, he was buried in a tomb surrounded by seventy-five hundred life-size terra-cotta soldiers."
"Yeah," Carpenter interrupted, "I've seen pictures in National Geographic. Pretty amazing." He smiled wryly. "Of course since the old boy died, I assume the mission was a failure."
"Well, that's just it. No one thought of his quest for immortality as more than a man's mad obsession. Until Dr. Cheng. As a student at Oxford, Cheng spent hours holed up in historical archives. Liked to read original documents. By chance he came across a two-thousand-year-old account of Qin's search written by the emperor's personal physician. Certain clues suggested one expedition had found a substance that prolonged life. Cheng was impressed enough to ask his Oxford professors to support a research project."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Rabbit in the Moon by Deborah Shlian, Joel Shlian. Copyright © 2008 Deborah and Joel Shlian. Excerpted by permission of Oceanview Publishing.
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