Chapter Eleven: The Underground Black Market

Waiting by the roadside for less than ten minutes, Lao Zhu’s white BMW 5 appeared. As soon as he stopped at the intersection, Lao Zhu leaned out of the car window, waving his pudgy hand at Zhang Can, “Get in!”

Zhang Can quickly opened the back door and slid into the car, only to discover Lao Su already inside, his face plastered with a wide smile as he greeted him, “Zhang!”

But Zhang Can could sense the insincerity in Lao Su’s smile, a forced cheerfulness that barely concealed a hidden hostility—there was a blade behind that smile, a subtle challenge in every glance.

“Where are we headed?”

Lao Zhu was driving in a direction away from his usual haunt, the Old Stone Studio, prompting Zhang Can to ask in confusion.

“Zhang, don’t say too much, just come with me,” Lao Zhu replied with a hearty chuckle. “I wouldn’t sell you out. It’s a good thing, trust me!” His genuine laughter formed a sharp contrast to Lao Su’s expression—one sincere, one feigned; one friendly, one malicious.

Zhang Can feigned his usual openness, chatting amiably with Lao Su about antiques. Lao Su responded in detail, betraying nothing of the tension between them. No outsider could have guessed there was any discord.

Zhang Can knew Jin City well, but Lao Zhu’s route wove through unfamiliar districts. Before long, they left the main road for a narrow country lane—the city’s outskirts. As the drive continued, the road grew increasingly desolate, flanked by wild grass taller than a man.

At the end of the lane was a rough mountain road, barely four meters wide and riddled with potholes. Fortunately, Lao Su’s car had a high enough chassis to survive the climb. They wound up the mountain, crested one summit, and then Lao Zhu turned off onto a broad plateau.

Through the window, Zhang Can saw several large tents pitched on the plateau, with seven or eight rugged vehicles parked nearby—Hummers, Wranglers, Grand Cherokees. Compared to these, Lao Zhu’s BMW seemed ill-suited for mountain terrain.

Lao Zhu parked, got out first, and announced, “Zhang, Lao Su, we’re here!”

Lao Su’s face darkened. Every word from Zhu Senlin felt like a jab. Why mention Zhang first, then him? Did this mean, in Zhu’s mind, Zhang Can now outranked him? Under ordinary circumstances, it wouldn’t matter, but yesterday Zhang Can had embarrassed him, and in the antique trade, losing face over one’s appraisal skills was humiliating. Lao Su had stumbled in front of Zhu Senlin, who now seemed to favor Zhang Can, so Lao Su was especially sensitive.

On the wild plateau, five or six men were grilling skewers, the aroma of roasted meat thick and tempting.

Lao Zhu beckoned, leading Zhang Can and Lao Su into the largest tent.

Inside, seven or eight men sat around a large, foldable round table. Four were seated, each with someone standing behind them.

Zhu Senlin, beaming, greeted the four at the table one by one, “Lao Ma, Lao Chen, Sun San…” Finally, he addressed the most imposing, portly man, “Mr. Wang, you’re here already?”

Mr. Wang wasn’t truly fat, but he exuded prosperity—a “blessed” appearance, as men liked to call it.

Mr. Wang nodded, casting a curious glance at Zhang Can. “Boss Zhu, you usually bring Master Su, right? Why the extra man today?”

At his words, the others turned their gaze to Zhang Can, who was a stranger to them. Their eyes were full of suspicion, but they all knew Zhu Senlin well—he wouldn’t dare bring an undercover cop.

Zhu Senlin hurried to reassure them, “Mr. Wang, everyone, please don’t worry. This young fellow is Zhang Can, a friend of mine. He’s been in this business in Jin City for years—don’t be fooled by his age, his eye for antiques is…” He raised his thumb.

Zhu Senlin took a seat at the table, with Lao Su standing behind him. Judging by the arrangement, Zhang Can realized the others standing behind were likely the appraisers for each seated boss. Of the four seated, Zhang Can recognized all but the evidently senior Mr. Wang.

Lao Ma was Ma Dong, Lao Chen was Chen Xingguo, Sun San was Sun Tianzhi—all owners of antique shops in Jin City, with stronger reputations and wealth than Zhu Senlin. Zhang Can knew them well, though he was a small-time figure earning a living by picking up odd jobs; these bosses had no reason to know or remember him.

Mr. Wang tapped the table and said, “Good, since you’re with Boss Zhu, that settles it. Let’s begin. Rules as always—cash only. Show your funds!”

Mr. Wang’s assistant promptly placed a suitcase on the table and opened it, revealing stacks of bills still bearing bank seals. Two-thirds were renminbi, one-third US dollars, with Franklin’s portrait visible on the notes.

Mr. Wang spread his hands, “One million renminbi, one million US dollars. As usual, minimum five million renminbi; anything above that, we wire immediately.”

Ma Dong, Chen Xingguo, and Sun Tianzhi each displayed their cash, all in the same amounts. When it was Zhu Senlin’s turn, he smiled awkwardly, opened his case, and said, “My resources are thinner—seven hundred thousand dollars, one million renminbi.”

Mr. Wang waved his hand, signifying acceptance, then turned to Sun Tianzhi, “Boss Sun, let’s begin. Show your goods.”

Sun Tianzhi motioned to his assistant, who bent to open a case and carefully placed an item on the table—a small grayish-white figure, shaped like a puppy, only six or seven centimeters long, three or four centimeters high, and half a centimeter thick. Clearly, a piece of jade.

Sun Tianzhi smiled and said, “Gentlemen, this jade dog comes from a channel in Henan, said to be from the Western Zhou period. Take a look!”

He chose his words carefully—not “definitely,” but “said to be.” In this business, every deal hinges on the buyer’s skill; cash changes hands, profit or loss is borne personally, and no one airs grievances afterwards. In the antique trade, everything depends on one’s eye, and the thrill lies in the risk.

Everyone knew truly valuable antiques were rare, and those of a certain tier were forbidden by law. Only jade and jadeite were plentiful; genuine antique jade pieces were exceedingly scarce. Even so, most jade items on the market were fake—of a thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine were counterfeits. Still, the law didn’t strictly regulate jade; as long as items were labeled as “A-grade” or “B-grade,” they could be sold openly. Techniques for faking jade had grown ever more sophisticated; at a street stall, the color could rival the finest, but nearly all were imitations.

Moreover, their current transaction was entirely illicit. If Sun Tianzhi’s claims were true, the provenance would be equally dubious. This trade was a gamble on expertise. For Ma Dong, Chen Xingguo, and Sun Tianzhi, millions weren’t ruinous, but who wanted to lose money?

The appraisers approached the table, each wielding magnifying glasses and tools to inspect the jade dog. Its surface appeared ancient, but with their experience, such a convincing façade was easy to replicate.

Lao Su knew Ma Dong, Chen Xingguo, and Mr. Wang’s appraisers—this was not their first meeting. The experts clustered around the table, nodding and greeting each other as they examined the jade dog.

Zhu Senlin glanced at Zhang Can, signaling him to join the appraisal. Zhang Can noticed everyone was absorbed in the jade dog, no one watching him, so he leaned in to whisper to Zhu Senlin, “Lao Zhu, the jade dog is real, but don’t buy it. The quality isn’t particularly good, and it’s not worth much. If you buy it now, you’ll likely spend a fortune unnecessarily. Wait for the next piece.”

Zhang Can had just used his unique vision to inspect it—the jade dog was indeed old, an antique without doubt, but beneath its weathered exterior, the jade quality was mediocre—not top-tier.

The jade dog was fashioned from Nanyang jade, mined in Dushan, Nanyang, Henan Province, commonly known as Nanyang jade or “Du Jade,” one of the four famous jades of China. It was called Du Jade because, unlike hard jade or soft jade, which consist of a single mineral, Nanyang jade contains multiple minerals, giving it distinctive properties. Its Mohs hardness ranges from six to six and a half—second only to jadeite, and harder than other types.

Jade, by its very nature, is stone grown within stone. Jadeite is hard jade, the hardest of all, found only in Myanmar. Soft jade is produced worldwide, but China is the largest producer and most diverse. The term “soft” doesn’t mean it’s actually soft—just softer than jadeite. Both hard and soft jades are extremely tough. A simple test: scratch jade across glass; real jade remains intact, fake jade shatters.

Of course, ninety percent of buyers know nothing about this. Regardless of authenticity, if the customer breaks or damages the piece, even if they decline to buy, compensation is expected—or at least trouble follows. Those in the trade have their own ways of verification.