10. 审讯室

He Zhenguo arrived at the detention center at 7:45 AM, the morning sun casting long shadows across the exercise yard where prisoners shuffled in circles like ghosts in a purgatory. The warden met him at the entrance with a look of strained relief. "Detective, she's stable. The poison was a slow-acting compound—arsenic-based, but the dose was sub-lethal. The medical examiner thinks it was intended to incapacitate, not kill. A warning, perhaps, or a message."

He Zhenguo nodded. A warning—that was consistent with the Governor's style. He had let Lin Wanqing live because she was still useful, still a conduit for information. And now she was sitting in an isolation cell, wrapped in a hospital blanket, her face pale but her eyes sharp with the clarity of someone who had stared into the abyss and seen the face of her own mortality.

She looked up as He Zhenguo entered, and a weak smile crossed her lips. "Detective. I'm still alive. That must disappoint someone."

"It disappoints me less than it disappoints them," he said, pulling up a chair. "I need to ask you something. The Courier—the man who led me to the lighthouse—told me that the Governor is not a person. It's a committee. Three people. He gave me one name—Sir Edward Ashworth, the colonial secretary, who is apparently a decoy. I need the other two."

Lin's eyes flickered with recognition—not surprise, but the weary acknowledgment of a secret she had hoped to keep buried. "The committee is real," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Gui told me about it once, when he was drunk. He said that the Governor was not a title, but a rotating seat. Three men, each taking turns to be 'the face' of the operation. The others stay in the shadows. Ashworth is one of them—the least dangerous, the most visible. He's the sacrifice, the one who takes the fall if things go wrong."

"And the other two?"

Lin reached for a cup of water, her hands trembling. "One is a banker. A man named Yukio Tanaka—Japanese-Filipino, but he's lived here for thirty years. He runs a private investment firm that handles the gold accounts. He's the money man. The other is a politician—someone who was never elected, but who has wielded more power than any mayor. His name is Chan Kwok-Hing. He was the deputy to the colonial governor before the handover, and he stayed on as a 'special advisor' to the new administration. He's the one who makes the laws look the other way."

He Zhenguo wrote the names in his notebook, his hand steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. Tanaka and Chan. Two names that had never appeared in any file, any database, any surveillance log. They were ghosts—but now they had faces.

"Do you have evidence?" He asked. "Anything that ties them to the murders, the embezzlement, the gold?"

Lin shook her head slowly. "Gui was the only one who kept records. He was paranoid—he recorded everything, just in case. But he also knew that those records would be his death warrant if anyone found them. He hid them somewhere. I don't know where."

He Zhenguo thought of the journals, the tapes, the letters. Gui had been a hoarder of secrets, but he had also been a pragmatist. He would have kept his most dangerous evidence in a place that was both accessible and secure—a place that only he could access. And since he was dead, that place was now a vacuum.

He stood up and walked to the door, then paused. "One more question. The Courier—the man at the lighthouse. Was he part of the committee?"

Lin's eyes widened. "The Courier? He was just a messenger. A go-between. But he knew too much. If he's still alive, he's a target. And if he's dead, he's a martyr. Either way, the committee will not stop until they have eliminated every loose thread—including me."

He Zhenguo left the cell and walked to the duty room, where he made two phone calls. The first was to the airport police, requesting a full watch on all inbound and outbound flights for Yukio Tanaka and Chan Kwok-Hing. The second was to the customs service, asking for a freeze on all accounts connected to Tanaka's investment firm. He did not have warrants, but he had enough probable cause to justify the holds—at least for a few hours.

At 10:00 AM, he received a call from the port authority. A private yacht had been spotted near the territorial waters, flying the flag of a neighboring state. The yacht was registered to a company that traced back to Tanaka's firm, and it had been anchored off the coast for three days. Onboard, according to a crew member who had called in anonymously, were several crates of "antiques" that were being loaded for transport.

He Zhenguo grabbed his coat and drove to the port, where he commandeered a patrol boat and set out toward the yacht. The sea was calm, the sky a pale winter blue, and the yacht gleamed in the distance like a white jewel. As they approached, he could see figures moving on the deck—crew members, and a man in a white suit who was smoking a cigar and watching the patrol boat with the detached amusement of someone who had expected this visit.

He boarded the yacht and identified himself. The man in the white suit, who introduced himself as Tanaka's personal assistant, offered a polite smile and a glass of champagne. "Mr. Tanaka is not on board, I'm afraid. He is in the neighboring territory for a business meeting. But I am happy to show you around—we have nothing to hide."

He Zhenguo searched the yacht thoroughly, but the crates contained only ceramics and paintings—valuable, but not illicit. No gold, no cash, no documents. He was about to leave when he noticed a small scratch on the wall of the captain's cabin—a false panel, similar to the one in Shen's safe. He pressed it, and a hidden drawer slid open, revealing a single manila envelope.

Inside was a letter, handwritten in elegant cursive, addressed to "Governor Ashworth." It read: "The detective is closing in. I have relocated the gold to the secondary vault. Will await further instructions. —Y.T."

He Zhenguo pocketed the letter and smiled. Tanaka had slipped—he had left a paper trail, and now He Zhenguo had proof that the gold existed and that Ashworth was receiving orders from someone else. The committee was real, and Tanaka was an active member.

He returned to shore and called Magistrate Fang. "Your Honor, I have new evidence. Tanaka is confirmed as a member of the committee. And I have a letter that links him directly to Ashworth. We need to expedite the warrants."

Fang's voice was cautious. "Tanaka is a foreign national. We need to coordinate with the neighboring territory's authorities. This will take time."

"How much time?"

"At least forty-eight hours. Possibly more."

He Zhenguo hung up, frustration gnawing at him. Forty-eight hours was an eternity. In that time, Tanaka could destroy evidence, flee the country, or silence every witness. He could not wait. He had to act alone.

He drove to the Northern District, where Tanaka's investment firm was located in a high-rise building overlooking the harbor. He entered the lobby, flashed his badge, and demanded access to the executive floors. The security guard hesitated, then called upstairs. A moment later, the elevator doors opened, and a young woman in a business suit escorted him to the thirty-second floor.

The office was a cathedral of glass and chrome, with a view that stretched to the horizon. And seated behind a massive desk was Yukio Tanaka himself—a small, immaculate man in a bespoke suit, with silver hair and the measured calm of a chess grandmaster.

"Detective He," Tanaka said, rising to shake his hand. "I was wondering when you would find your way here. I must say, I admire your persistence."

He Zhenguo did not shake the hand. "I found the letter, Tanaka. The one on your yacht. The one that mentions the secondary vault. I know about the gold. I know about the committee. And I know you are not the top—Chan Kwok-Hing is above you. But you are high enough to hang."

Tanaka's smile did not waver. "A letter can be forged. A yacht can be searched. But what you cannot find, Detective, is the vault. Because the vault is not in this city. It is not in this territory. It is in a place that does not exist on any map—a place that only I can access. And I will never tell you where it is."

He Zhenguo stepped closer, his voice low. "I don't need the vault. I just need you. And I have enough to keep you in custody until the warrants arrive. You will be arrested, Tanaka. Today."

Tanaka's smile finally faltered. He reached for a button on his desk—a panic alarm, probably—but He Zhenguo grabbed his wrist and pressed it against the desk. "Don't. You're not going anywhere."

At that moment, the office door burst open, and a team of uniformed officers entered—not He Zhenguo's team, but a squad led by a captain he did not recognize. The captain looked at He Zhenguo with cold eyes and said, "Detective, you are under arrest for unauthorized entry, assault, and obstruction of justice. Put your hands where I can see them."

He Zhenguo stared in disbelief. "I have a warrant—"

"The warrant has been revoked. By Magistrate Fang himself. You are no longer assigned to this case. Come quietly, or we will use force."

He Zhenguo felt the world tilt. Fang had betrayed him—or had been forced to betray him. The committee had reached the magistrate, had bought him, or had threatened him. The system he had trusted had turned against him.

He let go of Tanaka and raised his hands. The officers cuffed him and led him out of the office, past the smirking face of the banker, past the stunned employees, and into the elevator. As the doors closed, Tanaka's voice echoed from the desk: "Goodbye, Detective. I do hope we meet again—under more pleasant circumstances."

He Zhenguo was taken to a holding cell in a different precinct—one that was not under his control, not under Fang's, but under the direct authority of the commissioner's office. He sat on a metal bench, his cuffs still on, his mind racing. He had been outmaneuvered, outgunned, and outranked. The Governor had not only survived—he had counterattacked.

But He Zhenguo had one card left. The second letter. The one that Mouse had hidden, the one that he had not yet shown to anyone. He had kept it in his sock, a copy of the original, in case the original was destroyed. He reached down and pulled it out, his fingers clumsy with the cuffs.

He read the letter again, this time with new eyes. It contained not just the list of accounts, but also a name that he had overlooked—a name at the very bottom, written in tiny script: "Chairman Kwan's secretary, Ms. Poon. She knows the location of the secondary vault. She is the key."

Ms. Poon. He had not interviewed her. He had not even considered her. She was a minor functionary, a ghost in the machine. But if Mouse had trusted her enough to mention her, she was more than that.

He folded the letter and waited. The night passed slowly, the hours ticking by in the cold silence of the cell. He did not sleep. He planned. And when the morning light crept through the high window, he had a plan.

He called for the guard and asked for a phone call. The guard, a young officer who looked uncomfortable with the assignment, handed him a receiver. He dialed the number of a reporter he knew—a woman named Yip, who had covered his cases before and who owed him a favor.

"Yip, this is He Zhenguo. I need you to do something for me. I need you to find a woman named Ms. Poon—secretary to Chairman Kwan. She has information about the gold vault. I can't tell you more. But if you find her, you will have the story of the decade."

He hung up and waited. He had set the wheels in motion. Now he needed time—and luck.

At noon, he was released. The charges had been dropped, the commissioner having realized that arresting a detective with a track record was bad for public relations. But He Zhenguo knew that the release was a tactical retreat, not a victory. The committee was still out there, and they would not make the same mistake twice.

He walked out of the precinct and into the sunlight, his coat wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot. He hailed a taxi and gave the driver an address—the home of Ms. Poon, which he had memorized from the staff directory at the tea house.

When he arrived, the apartment was empty. The furniture was covered in sheets, and a note on the kitchen counter read: "Gone to the countryside. Will return in a week." A week was too long. He searched the apartment frantically, looking for any clue—a phone number, an address, a business card.

Under a loose floorboard in the bedroom, he found a small notebook. It was Ms. Poon's diary, and the last entry, dated February 2, read: "Chairman Kwan called. He said the vault is secure. He said the gold is safe. But I heard someone crying in the background—a woman. I think it was Miss Lin. I am afraid. I am going to hide this notebook where no one will find it."

He Zhenguo pocketed the notebook and left the apartment. He had a new trail—the crying woman, who was likely Lin Wanqing. But if Lin was crying, she was still alive. And if she was alive, she might still be talking.

He drove back to the detention center, but Lin had been transferred—released into the custody of a "private medical facility," according to the warden. The facility was owned by a company that traced back to Tanaka's firm. She was in their hands, and He Zhenguo knew that she would not survive the night.

He had to act now. He had to find the vault, find the gold, and find the evidence that would bring down the committee—before they silenced everyone who knew the truth.

He pulled out Ms. Poon's notebook and flipped to the last page. There, in cramped handwriting, was an address: "221B, Wharf Street, Basement Level 3, Old Fish Market."

He knew that place. It was a condemned building, scheduled for demolition. A perfect hiding spot.

He started the engine and drove, his mind clear, his purpose sharp. The final stage of the game had begun. And he intended to win—no matter the cost.