Chapter 142: The Last Trump Card

By forging weapon import certificates and end-user statements, and setting up a shell shipping company to charter freighters for arms transport, everything eventually pointed to former Army Corporal Weiss Lando, who had served in Korea.

In the ATF’s files, Lando was not a big fish; he was just one of the countless small fry in the industry trying to make a quick buck. He wasn’t important enough for the ATF to specifically target. Moreover, Lando was not in the country at the time, nor was he in a country where a US law enforcement agency could operate freely—he was in the former Yugoslavia, being an eight-hour warrior—clocking in and out on time, with overtime pay for extra hours. Although his main clients were the Kosovo Liberation Army, he didn’t get along with the fanatical Arab volunteers, so he also worked for the Serbs.

He served the Serbs well, so much so that the Serbian arms companies opened their doors to him. The arsenals of the former Yugoslavia became his gold mine.

Although he had never been arrested by the judicial authorities of the United States or its allies, Salina had firmly memorized the smiling face in the file photo.

“Mr. Weiss Lando,”—considering this was a secret interrogation, Xu Tianqi from the Foreign Affairs Department was not brought in as usual. The interpreter was Chen Sigen, who was attached to the Special Reconnaissance Command and had previously trained cadets for the Political Security Bureau.

“We know everything you’ve done in Bosnia and West Africa over the past ten years. Now, please tell us, what are you trying to achieve by disguising yourself as a Jesuit member and coming to Lingao?”

Weiss moved his hands from the armrests to his lap. Although it was a sultry summer night, he felt a little cold. At least the Chinese had been merciful enough not to shackle his hands and feet to the interrogation chair. This was partly because two burly, fully armed agents were standing behind him, and partly because he had no weapons. The sword and wheellock pistol that he had brought to Lingao, befitting his 17th-century European soldier identity, had been confiscated by customs. As for the Scorpion submachine gun and pistol, and the few remaining rounds of ammunition, Weiss had packed them carefully before leaving and buried them in a cave on Phoenix Hill, where the Portuguese poet Camões had once recited his immortal “The Lusiads.” Now he felt that this had been the right thing to do. In Lingao, a submachine gun couldn’t save his life, but perhaps under the protection of the great Camões’s spirit, he could still lift Lady Luck’s skirt a little.

“Before I answer these questions,” Weiss’s voice was low, but slow and clear. It had been almost three years since he had spoken English after arriving in 17th-century Asia. He now felt like he was in a reading class at school, awkwardly reading an article in front of the teacher, ready to correct his pronunciation at any moment. “May I have the honor of knowing who you are, gentlemen, who are speaking with me?”

“You can consider us as speaking to you on behalf of the federal government,” Salina replied. Her New York accent was standard, but her tone was as cold and hard as her expression.

Weiss tilted his head back against the chair, a strange smile on his face. “The federal government? Perhaps I should believe your nonsense, great citizens of the Australian Federation. You’d better hurry back. The Dutch in Java are about to pay a visit to your Australian motherland. What should I call you? Ms. Cook? I forgot it’s the seventeenth century. Let’s call you Ms. Tasman instead.”

He became more and more agitated as he spoke, his words tumbling out faster and faster, a torrent of English mixed with Italian and Portuguese words. Chen Sigen’s translation couldn’t keep up with his pace.

“Madam, if you could represent the US government, there should be an aircraft carrier docked in this harbor—or at least an amphibious assault ship, not just a Polish freighter that should have been sent to the scrapyard long ago and a bunch of sailing ships. The flag of the United States should be flying over every town on this island, and it should have sixty, no, at least a hundred stars.”

Weiss took a breath and continued, “And you Chinese, the same goes for you. If you had Beijing’s support, you would already be ruling the world with tanks, not hiding in a small county, defending against a 17th-century government army with 19th-century muzzle-loaders. So, you’re the same as me, all of us trying to make it on our own in this damn world. The only difference is that you have more people, and I’m all alone. I’m not wrong, am I?”

Salina remained unmoved, watching him coldly. The Chinese also had no intention of answering his questions.

“You’re not all alone. We know you have accomplices,” a good-natured-looking Chinese man sitting behind the long table spoke up. He wore a gray military uniform with a blue collar tab, but no rank insignia, no military belt, and no pistol. A round head protruded directly from his empty lapels, giving him the air of a high-ranking official.

“Of course, I do have a few accomplices. But they’re probably all shark shit by now. Do you care about them?”

“Mr. Lando, please calm down. Your views on the Chinese people and the Chinese government are too superficial. Why don’t we talk about yourself? Have you enjoyed the past three years?”

You old fox, Weiss thought. You want me to confess from the beginning. He had no choice but to comply. He closed his eyes and began to speak, starting with the strange storm the Mackerel encountered in the South China Sea. He spoke in one long breath, only pausing once when a Chinese man brought him a glass of water. He continued until he mentioned being hired by Li Siya and coming to Lingao through the Jesuits, only omitting the part about joining Captain Aragones’s attack on Lingao. The Chinese men sitting behind the long table had been busy taking notes, but the mention of Li Siya’s name sparked a flurry of whispered discussion.

“You said you were hired by Li Siya. Do you know her?” The question came from Jiang Shan.

“This woman is very famous in Macao. She found me through the Jesuits and hired me for six hundred Spanish pesos to gather military intelligence on you, then sell it to the Dutch East India Company for ten times the price,” Weiss shrugged. “She really thought I didn’t know anything.”

“What exactly does Li Siya do? Is she a subordinate of Liu Xiang, Zheng Zhilong, or the Spanish?” Someone was very concerned about this question.

“None of them. She’s a broker. When the profits are big, she’ll do the job herself. Two years ago, she brokered a deal between the Spanish and the Chinese pirate Liu to attack you, but they suffered heavy losses. So, regardless of whether the Dutch offer a high price, she has always been very interested in you.”

“Do you know Li Huamei?”

“No.”

“She’s the captain of the Hangzhou. The ship sometimes docks in Macao.”

“Oh, you mean the female captain who occasionally dabbles in piracy.”

“She is indeed a captain.”

“I know of her, but I don’t know her personally. She doesn’t often appear in Macao.”

“What is her relationship with Li Siya?”

“I don’t know,” Lando shook his head. “Li Siya is a woman who is very careful to maintain her mystique. She rarely even shows her face on the streets of Macao.”

“Let’s talk about your friends on the ship,” the fat man in the blue-gray uniform interrupted the discussion about Li Siya. “How many of them were there, and where are they now?”

“I think I’ve already said,” Weiss said, growing impatient. The fatigue, tension, anxiety, and the facade of nonchalance he had to maintain were all wearing on his nerves.

“Two Filipino crewmen disappeared after the storm. I assume they were swept overboard. And the first mate, Paul, that unlucky German, smashed his head on the bridge and went to meet God. Finally, the friend who got on the same boat with me—”

“Who was this person?”

“A Japanese man who called himself Hale—or maybe he was American. Who knows! Anyway, he spoke English and had a Japanese face. Paul hired him at the last minute to help out. He looked like he had been in this business before.”

“Who is this?”

Someone handed him a photo. It was a picture of a naked man’s corpse, with a cross-shaped suture on his chest.

“That’s Paul,” Lando mumbled. “Poor German.”

“The man you said got on the boat with you, is he still alive? Where is he now?”

Weiss muttered, “No, don’t ask me where he is now. Since our lifeboat was capsized by the waves and the local natives fished me out, I haven’t seen him since. If you want to know his whereabouts, you’d better ask the esteemed Poseidon.”

“You don’t seem to care much about your friends.”

“I believe you care about him more than I do,” Weiss grinned. This conversation was much more interesting than the previous one. “I care more about myself, which is why I came to you. I think the information I brought and my ship should be worth more than six hundred silver pesos.”

It’s worth about six rounds from a Type 30 revolver, Wu Mu thought. He felt that directly executing this dangerous individual would be the most appropriate solution. But he still said in a relatively mild tone, “Mr. Weiss, the few pistols you smuggled in your clothes and cigarettes are obviously not as sensational as poison gas, which could make the headlines. As for the pitifully small amount of ammunition, it’s not even enough for us to shoot at a target for an hour. And these few rifles and machine guns are probably not enough to supply even a very small guerrilla team. But any government could confiscate your ship and cargo based on this. Therefore, your ship is already a thing of the past.”

The people present looked at him with malicious eyes. Lando knew it was time to play his trump card. Otherwise, it would soon become worthless.

But once he played it, he would be completely at the mercy of fate or these Chinese.