The Golden Mountain Murders by David Rotenberg Page A

construction pits – teeming with labourers. Now, ten years later, those huge holes in the ground housed the foundations of seventy of the most modern skyscrapers in the world. Loa Wei Fen had helped that come to be – had been a midwife to the birth of the New China.
    There is no notion of the nobility of martyrdom in China – but sacrifice, although not honoured, is understood. Dying for one’s country is considered the act of a fool. The Guild of Assassins had mourned Loa Wei Fen’s passing with a three-day fast and then a week of contests. But no one had mourned more deeply than Loa Wei Fen’s teacher and bed partner who now, in his mind’s eye, reviewed each of the one-on-one combats. Then he considered the surprise winner – a girl. He wondered what her future held as he handed over his boarding pass at the second security check in the boarding lounge.
    He found this security check as ludicrous as the first one. He was not some moron with plastique in his shoes and matches in his pocket. He was a trained and practised assassin, and had been for many, many years.
    On the plane the attractive cabin attendant offered him a hand, as if he needed help walking down the aisle. That was good. Age is a fine disguise for an assassin. Fong passed by him and he noted the man’s gait, his slight stoop, his dark liquid eyes that were in constant motion – and the hands that had killed the boy he loved, Loa Wei Fen.
    The old assassin closed his eyes. But he did not sleep. He roamed his memory leaping from one floating pod of images to the next. His mother crying as he was pulled from her grasp by his father and handed over to his uncle who recruited for the Guild. His uncle’s strong hand and stern voice telling him that he had been greatly honoured. His early schooling in the province west of the Wall. The sudden move to Taipei. The first time the power had roared through his arms and his opponent had been flung clear across the room. The Tibetan woman who had taught him the use of the swalto blade, then the night she had come to his bed and first made him a man then rolled him over and cut the outline of a cobra onto his back. Even now he could will the ancient red welts to life, fangs dripping, hood full of blood. But no reason to – not here. Not now. Zhong Fong was at the back of the plane. His contract was to follow and execute when so instructed.
    Fine.
    He’d done it many times before when the government had seen fit. Although he preferred the old ways – swalto and strong hands – he had also adapted to the new. The disappearing plane with political opponents on board. The collapsing building when an executive board meeting is taking place. The unaccountable fire – like the one that would take place in just over seventy-two hours in the apartment of computer expert Mr. Kenneth Lo. But he preferred the old. Poison was a special interest of his – and snakes. Poisonous snakes. Without willing it, the welted lines on his back filled with blood and the cobra awoke.
    The plane hit air turbulence and the “Fasten Seat Belts” sign came on. He made as if he didn’t understand the announcement. The cabin attendant leaned over him and did up his belt. He allowed himself to take in her odour.
    Sweet, like fruit left just a little too long in the sun.
    She would suffice if he needed to use her – fleshy enough to be a shield. But he doubted he would need her “assistance.”
    The plane travelled on through the night but he did not sleep. The sense of movement that so few others on the plane felt was minutely evident to him. He felt every directional shift. At one point before dawn the plane ceased its northward march and turned east – towards the West. Turning east to get to the West – to the Golden Mountain.
    He remembered the “party” at Tiananmen Square and the boy with the flower standing in front of the tank. His young assassins had infiltrated the protestors and awaited his order. A single dead boy