But the Lord Will Save (8)
Gao Xusen had invited me to Pinyun Zuo, a lavish social club nestled at the foot of Baiyun Mountain. It was the very same place I'd passed by not far from the mountain ridge where stray dogs had gathered, howling mournfully, when we'd raided the party secretary's secret vault last month. Gao Xusen's power—now firmly secured with his additional promotion, just like my own subordinates'—had grown strong enough to empty out a club reserved exclusively for communist nobles with a single word.
The helicopter I boarded touched down on the expansive lawn south of the club's artificial lake. The field was vast enough to accommodate several choppers lined up in a row. I could see my escort team's subordinates from the first chopper to land forming a loose perimeter around the area. The public security officers and private security hunters who'd been guarding the place from the start didn't interfere with my men's movements in the slightest.
As I stepped out, a first-grade inspector in a crisp uniform, standing ramrod straight, cut through the wind and approached with a sharp salute.
"We've been awaiting your arrival, honored guest. Allow me to escort you to the main hall."
I walked the broad path with my subordinates in tow, passing two tennis courts and a massive outdoor pool before reaching the club's main building. There, on the adjacent lawn, stood a solitary outdoor table that caught my eye. Perched incongruously atop it was a small price tag bearing a restaurant's name.
I swallowed a silent chuckle inwardly. Classic communist showmanship—nothing added, nothing taken away.
When places like this Pinyun Zuo were branded hotbeds of corruption, Beijing's central government had ordered luxury clubs across the country shuttered and repurposed for public use. The result was that lonely table and its absurd price tag. What good were dirt-cheap dishes when room fees ran into the millions of won? Ordinary citizens had no choice but to inquire at the distant iron gates along the long driveway and turn away. Even if they had the money, I doubted the club would accept reservations from common folk.
The ability users guarding the club were all green recruits fresh from university towns. Gao Xusen had dressed these untrained newbies in uniforms and stood them up like decorations. He must have been eager to show off to the other nobles.
The inspector escorting me halted before the main entrance, turning to assume parade rest—as if he lacked the clearance to proceed further.
In front of the building stood a line of women uniformed in white shirts, navy two-button blazers, and matching H-line skirts. Objectively beautiful, with pronounced curves and striking features, they greeted me with Korean-style bows, hands neatly overlapped above their navels.
I appreciated the communist noble's effort, but fatigue was already setting in. Why waste my precious time on this? Dealing with power brokers always dragged like this, though. In a way, it was reassuring. No idiot pouring energy into frivolities like this could ever win Miju's heart. No need to worry about irrational betrayal...
One of the waiting women stepped forward with a smile, her demeanor soft and graceful.
"The staff of Pinyun Zuo sincerely welcomes your visit. Please, come inside. Everything you desire has been prepared."
Her fluent standard Mandarin came from a blue-eyed blonde whose gold nameplate read Aokexana. No doubt a toy doll the club manager had bought outright from some impoverished corner of Eastern Europe with wads of cash.
Leaving some subordinates outside, I entered the main building, where a sweet haze of perfume and makeup wafted from the reception desk. Thick, arousal-stirring scents. Women steeped in those fragrances stood everywhere my gaze landed, offering friendly smiles. But to a disabled man whose eyes pierced to the contents within, they were merely shit sacks dressed up with pleasant aromas.
Gao Xusen sat at the head of the banquet hall. Spotting me, he gestured to a seat and rose dramatically, urging everyone else around the table to their feet as well.
"Many new faces, I imagine? Introduce yourselves. This is Director Ri, my righteous brother forged in battle and the unsung hero of the great subjugation. I can't go into details, but he aided me immensely, body and soul, during that ordeal."
The hall was filled with faces whose basic profiles I knew from updates via Miju—Gao Xusen's faction members. Mid- and low-level nobles and communist capitalists who strutted like kings before foreign businessmen now offered polite greetings, each stating name and title.
Gao Xusen followed with jovial words.
"Thank you for accepting my invitation, Director! We've shared so many life-and-death trials, yet I've never properly hosted you. So I've arranged this gathering to celebrate our shared victory—please, enjoy yourself to the fullest!"
The man was unnaturally excited already, his face flushed like he'd been drinking. Was it the venue, or had he simply craved revelry after so long without? The men at the table had been raring to go even before I arrived, potbellied cocks stirring to life. No pleasant sight. I reined in the hand creeping to my temple and replied.
"We should handle business first, even if we enjoy later, shouldn't we, Secretary? I believe there are matters we need to settle."
"Hahaha! Director, always the same. Surrounded by beauties good for body and eye alike, and you bring up work first? As I said before, your cool-headedness is admirable, but the girls dolled up waiting for our honored guest will feel slighted."
Even as he spoke, Gao Xusen nodded toward one of the women nearby. Judging by her pulling documents from a bag under the table, she seemed his new secretary, replacement for Jia—slain by Miju's hand.
Her gait approaching me, eyes fixed with a faint smile, evoked a professionally trained model. Direction aside, she was a solitary gudu poison, honed to lethal sharpness.
"Here you are, sir."
I took the proffered binder with its coquettish grace and examined it. Miju's review marks were already there. Two identical contract bundles, red seals stamped alternately on each page. Skimming the equity distribution clauses, I added dozens of signatures to complete both sets.
The secretary winked playfully and click-clacked back to her master with one bundle.
Gao Xusen peered closely at my signatures before asking,
"Director. I hesitated to mention this to Secretary Park, but these assets nominally transferring to a U.S. company bothers me somewhat. No chance of issues later, right?"
My signatures used a shell company's CEO identity. The address was listed as North Orange Street 1209, Wilmington—the largest city in Delaware.
I shook my head leisurely.
"No such risk. Rest easy."
"How can you be so sure? I'd like the reasoning."
"The reasoning..."
Few global operators were unaware of Delaware's fame, yet communist nobles like Gao Xusen proved surprisingly ignorant of affairs beyond the mainland. I gathered my thoughts briefly before speaking slowly.
"America has a few states infamous as havens for operators like me. Delaware, Nevada, New Mexico, Wyoming. Do you know their common thread, Secretary?"
"Not a clue."
"They require zero personal information from incorporators for LLC registration. Same when opening bank accounts in the company's name."
"Perfect anonymous accounts, then?"
Gao Xusen and his communist nobles and capitalists leaned in. They used anonymous accounts too, but true anonymity was impossible under the Party's financial networks. Preparing disposable tails numbering their accounts was their cursed fate, fraught with daily anxiety.
I shrugged.
"Exactly. Insiders say they hold less and less accurate info than a library card."
"Oh ho, I thought that was only possible in places like the Bahamas or Panama..."
Gao Xusen, marveling, pressed further.
"But if authorities get serious, couldn't they trace it? American imperialists are going overboard with their bitching about us lately. If suspicious funds from China pop up, they'll investigate. If they kick up a fuss first, our central government sniffs it out, and we're sleepless over Fox Hunts."
Fox Hunt: China's campaign to snag corrupt officials abroad.
I shook my head again.
"Won't happen. Not while I avoid mistakes."
"Why?"
"Delaware has more companies than people—over a million. That shell company's address, 1209 North Orange in Wilmington? Home to 300,000 registered entities."
"One building shared by 300,000 companies? Did I hear right?"
"Yes. Big names too: Apple, Google, GM, Walmart, Deutsche Bank. Tens of billions in tax evasion yearly from that spot alone. Economically, one of the world's darkest abysses."
"Heh..."
"Tracking every transaction from that many firms is impossible, and it'd gut state revenue from tax haven fees. The feds push a probe? The state slams on the brakes, no holds barred."
"Indeed, indeed."
"Finally, most super PACs—dumping billions to sway U.S. elections—use the same address. Unless they're dragging ex-presidents and top politicos and CEOs to hearings en masse, who'd poke that hornet's nest? Pay the set taxes, and no safer shade exists."
Though my shell paid taxes faithfully. As long as funds didn't blatantly flow to D.C. insiders, enemy states, or terrorists, IRS, CIA, and FBI would ignore my little toy.
I caught my breath, wrapping up.
"Trust me, Secretary. I'm paranoid to a fault—especially about my personal safety."
My explanation omitted a bit. Companies were anonymous at setup, but annual reports now required founders' real names and addresses. Penalty for skipping? A hundred-dollar fine. Most paid it and skipped. It flagged them for the AG, but with hundreds of thousands piled up and investigations nearing zero, it was a toothless fig leaf.
They don't even check reports if filed.
Besides, America blocked China's Fox Hunts hardest. A dozen shell firms' ownership tweaks wouldn't ruffle U.S. feathers enough for Beijing to push—especially as they laundered funds and funded elite pleasures.
Gao Xusen laughed heartily.
"When have I not trusted you, Director? Just ignorance-fueled unease."
He handed the contracts to his secretary and clapped.
"Now, let's handle the rest over food, drink, and fun."
His clap was the signal. Waiting women ascended the stage at the hall's front, assuming poses. Varied outfits, varied races. Under bright lights, the lineup resembled a showcase of goods awaiting sale.
The host, in misguided courtesy, yielded first pick.
"You're the sole guest of honor here, Director. Choose any number to attend you. Many are new today, I hear."
He bellowed to the women.
"Whoever catches the Director's eye gets my full backing! You know one patron changes your life, whatever your dreams. Behave!"
Expectant replies echoed from the stage. Each voice clear and pure—yet the souls beyond rang dry and drab as bundled cash in apple crates. No fight urgency today as excuse; time to find some meaning in this pointless waste, however slight.