Fowl Play

I had not been in China long. The team consisted of just me, my assistant Lucy, and our driver Mr. Qi (known as Xiao Qi or “little” Qi, an appropriate and inoffensive diminutive); and we sat cheek by jowl in an office that was actually a small hotel room, barely emptied of the stacked mattresses that had cluttered it when my key first went into the lock.

This was Beijing in the winter of 1982, a bone dry, frigid, and windy capital still emerging from the Cultural Revolution, a combination that made settling in all the more difficult. Friendships with local folks were simply not possible owing to the peril still associated with foreigners. Well-intended liberals never understood that their pursuit of locals could actually endanger the very people they sought to embrace. There was neither a skyline nor fresh fruits and vegetables, with the roofs of low-slung houses still covered by white cabbages, the only locally grown vegetable available throughout the winter—constantly turned to guard against decay.

I had hired Lucy upon my arrival, realizing just how daunting my first chore was to be. The arrangement of opening festivities, to be attended by our chairman and almost seven hundred guests, was going to be an organizational nightmare. The bevy of expat Hong Kong cha-cha queens, knowing nothing of northern ways, got short shrift as they lined up for consideration. That they neither spoke Mandarin nor had connections (guanxi) about town convinced me that what I really needed was a seasoned local “dragon” to get the job done.

Lucy’s name was in the ether. She had a long career at the American Consulate in Hong Kong, where her claim to fame was significant involvement in the Kissinger disinformation exercise attending his earliest trips into China. Lucy was part of the cabal that had convinced the world that the statesman was bound for Pakistan; and after she retired, she decided to return to her native Beijing, working on start-up operations in an environment more akin to the Wild West than the Middle Kingdom. I was told that she had recently left Marc Rich’s famous trading company because of her objections to his sharp practices.

She agreed to see me, arriving in the lobby of the Jianguo Hotel, where I was both living and working, in a mink coat, traditional Chinese dress (qipao), and diamond earrings—a most regal lady, radiating a great sense of purpose; and the interview proceeded—she of me! Two things quickly became apparent: she was the person to get the job done, and I would be working for her.