BLOOD DRAGON by Freddie Peters (books to get back into reading .TXT) 📕

“You mean, did he support the government and the People’s Communist Party?”

Nancy nodded. “Was he a traitor? He is pictured with Deng Xiao Ping. There is also a picture of Deng with artists at the 1989 China Vanguard event in Beijing.”

Licot nibbled at one of his crackers. “I came across that photo when I was doing my research in 1994. That’s when I decided to find out more about your father.”

“My family and Deng’s are both from the Sichuan province. It’s totally possible they knew each other. Deng was my grandfather’s age and they belonged to the same social class.”

Licot looked surprised. “Very good, that is also what I gathered from the artists I interviewed. Your father knew Deng. For a while, I think he trusted his political judgement.”

“Deng was the reason why he returned to China in the first place.” Philippe sat at the edge of his seat, fascinated.

“Mo Cho was already strongly portraying his political convictions in his work. He might have regretted the way the Communist Party dealt with artists during the Cultural Revolution, but he still believed in the ideal of communism.”

“Did he not realise the Communist Party did what it did because there was no place for freedom and democracy in their ideology?” Nancy’s voice hardened.

Licot smiled kindly. “Perhaps not when he returned, but I believe Tiananmen Square changed all that.”

“So why go back?” Philippe gave Nancy a worried look. Was he interfering in a very personal matter?

“Did he think he could change things all on his own?”

Licot placed his hand over her arm.

Her hand clenched her glass so hard he feared she would break it. She placed it on the table. “Apologies.”

“Nothing to apologise about.” Licot’s warm voice was soothing. He paused for a moment considering his answer. “As I said earlier, I never met your father. But he was a determined man, defending what he believed was right … freedom of expression, freedom to be who you are. He somehow reminded me of Ai WeiWei.”

“Are you being kind to me?” Nancy couldn’t help asking.

“No, I assure you I am not. Based on all the things I heard then and the pieces of his art I also saw at the time … his art was a means to an end.” Licot nodded. “Hence the Beijing event.”

“This is almost too good to be true …” Nancy stood up and walked to the large window overlooking the hills. “Or perhaps I don’t like the implications of what that means?”

“He was a dedicated artist and people liked him … he followed his vocation come what may.”

“Even sacrificing his family?” Nancy had managed to speak with little anger.

“Perhaps it was not a sacrifice for him. You and your mother were safe, after all.”

She had never considered this aspect. He had ensured they were both safe, creating an environment in Paris where they were surrounded by friends and supporters.

“The messages of his work were unambiguous and critical. He had hoped at one time that it would make a difference. When the uprising came and its subsequent suppression, everything collapsed around him.”

“So why not return to Europe, or at least stay in Hong Kong?” Nancy had returned to her seat.

“Sometimes you have to carry the fight right to the door of your opponents,” Licot said gently.

Nancy closed her eyes. “Even if it means losing your life?”

“Perhaps … I do not know what happened to him after he returned. The artists who who spoke to me became vague about his whereabouts.”

“They may not have wanted to tell you …” Philippe shook his head. “… To protect him.”

Licot said nothing but locked eyes with Nancy. The conversation would be continued, but only on a one-to-one basis.

Chapter Thirty-One

The light looked faint, or was it the reverberations of Kowloon nightlife that gave him this impression? Jack took another swig of the second beer he had just bought. The night was turning chilly and he would have to decide whether he was going to spend the night at the YMCA or return to the Mandarin Oriental.

He rose to his feet, still surveying the window through which he thought he had spotted movement.

There it was again … A faint glow, most probably the beam of a torch.

“Second floor, fifth window from the left.” Jack murmured.

He shouldered his rucksack, took a last swig of beer and moved swiftly towards the hotel entrance. He slowed his pace a fraction as he walked through the lobby. A couple of young men came out of the lift, loud and boisterous. Jack stopped the doors from closing with his foot.

Predictably, the lift had been programmed not to stop at the floors that were being renovated. Jack alighted at the seventh floor, went into his room and without taking time to inspect it, turned to the floor plan showing the fire exits. He was not far from one of them. Jack walked out of his room again, turned left. The exit was a few doors away from the end of the corridor. He inspected the door frame, then the push bar that opened the door itself. There seemed to be no alarm linked the door. He ran his eyes along the walls. This place had no need for high security.

Jack pushed the bar. The door resisted a little and then gave way. The cold air that rushed in smelt stale and damp. There was no handle on the other side of the door. Once on the stairwell there was only one way … down and out.

Jack took a ballpen out of his rucksack. He crushed the plastic casing with his foot, chose a splinter of the right size and pushed it into the latch bolt. The piece retreated into the frame. As long as it held, the exit door would remain open. Jack lodged another piece at the bottom of the door leaving it with the groove facing upwards to provide a handle.

The beam of his small torch illuminated concrete stairs