Futile Devices Scans

He Chu San went to meet him and led him into his office. The proxy approached the floor-to-ceiling windows and glanced at the sea glittering beneath the morning light. Then he turned and drew the curtains, plunging the room into gloom.

“Start?” He Chu San asked.

“Start.”

…

Father He sat beneath the awning, comfortably smoking his pipe. Two old neighbors hurried past his stall.

“Where are you rushing off to?!” Father He called.

“Old He! Haven’t you read today’s paper?! Something terrible happened! I have to hurry and find my stockbroker!”

“What terrible thing?” Before Father He could finish asking, the two men had already put their old legs to work and disappeared. Puzzled, he picked up the morning paper from his stall. The front-page headline screamed THE DEATH OF HONG KONG!!! Beneath it ran the subheading Huge Bubbles Hidden in Property and Stock Markets; Hang Seng Index to Fall to Historic Low. The article, written by an anonymous “informed source,” cited enormous amounts of data and went on at great length about the damage to the Hong Kong dollar and Hong Kong stocks since the fall of the British pound the previous year. It further claimed that gigantic bubbles were hidden beneath Hong Kong’s apparently prosperous property, stock, and futures markets. Every sentence talked Hong Kong stocks down, all of it written with absolute confidence.

Elio’s Notes: The Hang Seng Index is one of the principal benchmark indexes used to track the Hong Kong stock market.

For all the sweeping grandeur of the article, Father He read only three lines before tossing it aside. “What’s it got to do with me? I can’t afford a flat anyway.”

“You two as well! You’re already so old—what are you playing around with stocks for?!” he shouted after the two men.

Hearing him, Mother Wu came outside and worriedly picked up the newspaper. “Doesn’t our A’San do something with stocks too?”

“That useless brat!” Father He swept one hand grandly through the air. “Don’t believe a single word he says!”

…

Yet before stock-index display boards, in front of hundreds and thousands of computers, and outside the various exchanges, dense crowds were all heatedly discussing the same “disaster.” Newspapers large and small in their hands carried analytical articles expressing the same views, supposedly written by various “informed sources” and “anonymous experts.” Telephones rang nonstop across brokers’ desks, and the exchanges were in an uproar.

Just as everyone wondered whether these “experts” were merely worrying about imaginary disasters or whether someone with ulterior motives was deliberately stirring trouble, the morning market opened—and the predictions immediately seemed to come true. A huge wave of sell orders for Hong Kong dollars suddenly appeared on the foreign-exchange market, and the Hong Kong dollar exchange rate began to fall. Green figures flashed across screens large and small. Investors’ anxiety did not last long before turning into outright panic—large sell orders also appeared in the stock market, and the Hang Seng Index began trending downward.

It should have been a clear, mild day beneath a cloudless sky, yet fear swept across the entire city like a wave of plague. With a media offensive supporting them, the speculators behind the scenes began dumping Hong Kong dollars and aggressively selling Hong Kong stocks the moment the market opened. Under these circumstances, large numbers of retail investors began following the tide, rushing to sell their shares, sell Hong Kong dollars, and buy US dollars in an attempt to preserve their wealth. For a time, a stock-market plunge appeared almost inevitable. The streets and alleys were filled with discussion, and panic spread everywhere.

Inside the main office of the standalone Wan Chai building, several managers’ fingers flew over their keyboards while they held phones between their shoulders and ears, rapidly issuing instructions to the people on the other end. All kinds of professional jargon and coded expressions spilled from their mouths. Kevin understood some of it and some of it he did not. He stood alone in front of the television, where footage showed large crowds of anxious investors while financial reporters tensely delivered live market updates: from ten in the morning until twelve-thirty, throughout the entire morning session, the Hong Kong dollar and Hang Seng Index continued falling toward historic lows, dark clouds gathering over this solitary city in the sea…

…

Inside the dim general manager’s office, He Chu San calmly watched the constantly changing figures on his computer while his fingers played with the diamond ring necklace around his neck.

“You’re married?” the proxy asked. He had never seen He Chu San wearing it during their previous meetings.

“We pledged ourselves to each other privately.”

The proxy smiled. “Young people always think a single moment can last an entire lifetime.”

“Better to have that one moment than to live an entire lifetime, grow old, and never have had it at all.”

The proxy smiled again.

He Chu San watched the Hong Kong dollar exchange rate fall past its lowest point by the close of the morning session. He stood and turned the computer screen toward the proxy. “Report to the Shopkeeper. This afternoon, it’s your turn to enter.”

…

Beneath the scorching midday sun, Xia Liu Yi hid in a corner of an upper-floor lobby in the Hong Kong Convention and Exhibition Centre. His baseball cap was turned backward and a mask covered his face as he pressed himself against the floor-to-ceiling glass, straining to look outside through binoculars.

Although He Chu San had hurriedly ended their call that night, and although he had never told Xia Liu Yi exactly which day he planned to act, Xia Liu Yi’s eyelid had been twitching violently since the previous night. He had a feeling He Chu San would not wait any longer. He could sense He Chu San’s intensely suppressed emotions and the desperate urge to finish everything as soon as possible so they could see each other again. The anxiety had left Xia Liu Yi’s hands and feet cold. He would not feel at ease until he saw He Chu San with his own eyes.

By then he had been squeezed into that little gap for more than an hour. He Chu San’s office both faced the sea and sat high above the ground. Xia Liu Yi had spent the entire morning running through the nearby buildings before finding this single narrow angle from which he could look diagonally toward He Chu San’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Yet the curtains there had remained tightly shut the entire time.

He looked again and again through the binoculars, confirming that He Chu San’s car was still parked below. Just as he widened his eyes and strained to see whether the office curtains had moved, an employee of the Convention and Exhibition Centre finally noticed him. “Sir? Sir?”

“What?”

“Sir, you can’t remain here.”

“I’m here for an exhibition.”

“There are no exhibitions on this floor today. Which one are you attending?”

“The… the exhibition downstairs.”

“Then we’ll escort you downstairs.”

“Don’t touch me! Get lost!”

“Sir, if you continue behaving like this, we’re going to call security!”

Seeing two tall, broad Indian security guards running toward him, Xia Liu Yi rapidly calculated the consequences of beating them both to the ground—and the police cars that would soon be parked downstairs afterward. He pulled his cap lower, clutched the binoculars, and swiftly slipped away along the wall.

An hour later, he climbed onto the rooftop of the building from which he and He Chu San had gazed at each other that night. Beneath the blazing sun, he frowned as he held up a pink parasol. He had just bought it from the supermarket downstairs. There had been no choice of color.

From beneath the parasol’s lace-trimmed edge, he raised the binoculars again. From this direction, he could see only the main office of He Chu San’s company. He saw Kevin walking slowly near the windows and several office workers sitting at computers.

…

At that moment, He Chu San sat inside the general manager’s office separated from Xia Liu Yi’s line of sight by a single door, rapidly scrolling through pages on his computer. The afternoon session had begun, but the decline of the Hang Seng Index was starting to stall.

He Chu San stood and made several calls in succession. He learned that the major blue-chip companies had begun responding to the rapid decline of their own share prices, buying back their stock to halt the fall.

“Tell your funds to enter the market!” he told the proxy. “We’re about to lose control of the situation!”

The proxy glanced at his watch. It was not yet three.

“‘He’ is attending a lecture right now and can’t answer the phone. We have to wait until he comes out.”

He Chu San grew anxious. “By the time he comes out, it’ll be too late! Notify your traders directly!”

The proxy looked at him. “I think you misunderstand what I am. I’m not his agent. I’m his stand-in. I have no authority to make decisions.”

He Chu San rushed forward and seized his wrist. “Get this straight! I’ve put one hundred million into this! The Shopkeeper stands to make three billion! Every second you hesitate means an enormous loss. Can you afford to take responsibility for that?! Call him right now!”

Meeting He Chu San’s blazing, razor-sharp gaze, the proxy frowned slightly. In front of him, he dialed the brick phone and then held it out.

Beeeep—! Beeeep—!

As expected, Xie Ying Jie did not answer.

He Chu San’s face turned pale, cold sweat beading down his back. He knew Xie Ying Jie was doing it deliberately. Stirring up the market like this still had not been enough to win the man’s trust. A shark would not surface if it could not smell blood in the sea. Xie Ying Jie intended to squeeze out the final drop of blood in He Chu San’s body before believing in his loyalty.

He Chu San released the proxy, strode to the desk, and dialed the internal line. “Kevin, tell them to put the clients’ money in too!”

One of the managers listening nearby spoke through the phone. “Mr. He, but…”

“Tell them to shut up! Do it! I’ll take responsibility for whatever happens!”