The target continued the demonstration of their powers. “Senior Official, there are five cigarettes left in your box of Chunghwas. There’s only one Mevacor cholesterol tablet left in your coat pocket—better have your secretary get some more.”

Chen Xufeng picked up the box of cigarettes on the desk; the Senior Official took out the blister pack of pills from his pocket. The target was correct on both counts.

“Stop coming after me. I’m in a tricky situation just like you. I’m not sure what to do now,” the target continued.

“Can we discuss this in person?” asked the Senior Official.

“Believe me, it would be a disaster for both sides.” With that, the phone went dead.

Chen Xufeng exhaled. Now he had the proof to back up his story—the thought of disbelief from the Senior Official unsettled him more than his opponent’s antics. “It’s like seeing a ghost,” he said, shaking his head.

“I don’t believe in ghosts, but I do see danger,” said the Senior Official. For the fourth time in his life, Chen Xufeng saw that pair of eyes bore into his.

THE INMATE AND THE PURSUED

In the No. 2 Detention Center at the city outskirts, Song Cheng walked under escort into the cell. There were already six other prisoners inside, mostly other inmates serving extended terms.

Cold looks greeted Song Cheng from all directions. Once the guard left, shutting the door behind him, a small, thin man came up.

“Hey, you, Pig Grease!” he yelled. Seeing Song Cheng’s confusion, he continued, “The law of the land here ranks us Big Grease, Second Grease, Third Grease … Pig Grease at the bottom, that’s you. Hey, don’t think we’re taking advantage of the latecomer.” He pointed his thumb at a heavily bearded man leaning in the corner. “Brother Bao’s only been here three days, and he’s already Big Grease. Trash like you may have held a pretty government rank before, but here you’re lowest of the low!” He turned toward the other man and asked respectfully, “How will you receive him, Brother Bao?”

“Stereo sound,” came the careless reply.

Two other inmates sprang up from the bunks and grabbed Song Cheng by the ankles, dangling him upside down. They held him over the toilet and slowly lowered him until his head was largely inside.

“Sing a song,” Skinny Guy commanded. “That’s what stereo sound means. Give us a comrade song like ‘Left Hand, Right Hand’!”

Song Cheng didn’t sing. The inmates let go, and his head pitched all the way into the toilet.

Struggling, Song Cheng pulled his head out. He immediately began to vomit. Now he realized that the story designed by those who had framed him would make him the target of all his fellow inmates’ contempt.