An Affair of Deceit (10 page)

“Who?”

Wheeler looked out the large picture window that framed a view of rolling Virginia hills. “Ethan Greene is a good man and a solid agent, but he’s paranoid, and your father is his current obsession. He’d like to see this latest disappearance as part of a pattern of deception, even of betrayal, but no such pattern exists.” He turned back to her. “You must let James Riley do his job. He is not as paranoid as his commander. He’ll see reason and keep Greene from going too far with this. If you want to protect your father’s legacy, you must stop your personal inquiry and tell James everything you know. Then you must leave it to them. All of it. If you are meant to know the truth, the truth will find you.”

He’d again used Riley’s first name. Abigail wondered how long Wheeler had been acquainted with him. She decided not to press that point, but instead she goaded his pride. “Are you so powerless? Can you do nothing to help?”

He leaned back in his chair and smiled sadly. “I wouldn’t go so far, dear. I don’t want their interference in my problems, nor do they wish to have mine in theirs. And Abigail, your father has made many enemies over the years. You must know that by now. He has done everything he could to make an enemy of you, too, to keep you away and keep you safe, but here you sit, ready to defend him against his assailants.”

She stood. “I am not defending him, Mr. Wheeler. I just want the truth. I don’t know why you’re afraid to help me.”

“I’m not the one who’s afraid, Abigail. You’re the one who needs to open her eyes and see the truth of what’s going on around her.”

She struggled against anger. “Am I not trying to do exactly that?”

“No, you’re not.” Wheeler smiled again, more softly now, looking every inch like the kindly great-grandfather he would soon be. “Abigail, these stories aren’t mine to share. If you want
to know them, and I fear that you will stop at nothing less, you must start listening to James Riley.”

“Him?” Abigail was baffled. “What does he have to do with anything?”

“You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

After leaving Wheeler’s office, Abigail did a second thing that day that she’d never done before.

She invited a man to lunch.

Upon reflection, it did seem to her like the sort of thing a successful twenty-seven-year-old American woman should have already done at some point in her life. But she’d never met a man worth inviting into her life, let alone to lunch.

She was well aware of the distinction she was bestowing as she dialed his number, the one pressed in such fine black ink under “James Riley, PhD.”

“Hello?” he said, after five interminable rings.

She decided to leave no room for chatter. “This is Abigail Mason. Please join me for lunch at noon at Aviary. Do you know the place?”

A long silence ensued, during which she heard, of all things, songbirds chirping loudly in her ear. Was he in a park or at the zoo? How odd, and yet how apt, for she was inviting him to a place named for a bird enclosure.

“I know the spot. I’ve got some things to take care of, but I think I…” He paused, said something that was muffled, and continued. “Yes, I can meet you there. Is that OK?”

That word again,
OK
. It irritated her. So very American. She wondered whom he’d taken with him to the zoo, and why he would be at such a place at a time like this. “I’m the one inviting you. You have no need of my further approval to attend.”

He laughed. “I thought maybe you’d need a ride. I’ll just see you there, Abigail.”

Irritation upon irritation! She mustn’t let him get in the habit of using her first name.

Now, at five to twelve, she sat alone at a table tucked into a quiet corner of the rooftop establishment known as Aviary. She wasn’t a regular customer, neither here nor anywhere, but Beth had recommended the place for the privacy its design allowed. No pigeons flittered about—had there been, Abigail would have had to reevaluate her high opinion of Beth—but as a rooftop restaurant, the space was entirely exposed to the elements. An indoor component to the restaurant existed as well; otherwise, Washington’s unpleasant climate would make it uninhabitable three hundred and sixty days of the year. Fortunately, the weather had turned lovely after yesterday’s storm, and Abigail had asked to be seated outside. There, thick banks of potted bamboo were living screens between the tables, providing a seclusion that was valued among DC’s elite.

And it was quiet. In the open air, even nearby conversations floated away, perfectly unintelligible. Abigail could only hear faint whispers below the constant rustling of bamboo as the tall plants swayed in the breeze. The sound soothed her.

“Hi.”

She jumped half out of her chair in surprise.

Riley stood three feet away, his unruly sandy hair flying in the wind and his eyes squinting almost to extinction in the sun. He wore another slightly wrinkled black suit that labeled him as a conservative government man, and she wondered how comfortable he really was in such a staid costume.

“Hello,” she responded, staying seated, and when he made no move to pull out his chair and sit down, fresh confusion flooded her mind. Abigail had no idea what a woman was supposed to do in this situation, but Wheeler’s advice to trust this man was fresh in her mind.
Be friendly
, she admonished herself.
He has what you need.

So Abigail stood and offered him her hand, and she was dumbstruck when Riley took a step toward her and pulled her into his arms for a double-cheek kiss.

To him, it must have been a few seconds of polite greeting, but to her, the extraordinary moment passed in slow motion. To be held like a friend and kissed on both cheeks was not something that regularly happened to her, and to have it done by a man whom she found attractive was downright singular.

His freshly shaven face felt as soft as a kitten’s nose as he leaned in. Over the trace of soap Abigail smelled his familiar cologne, something akin to an herbal bouquet simmering in black tea. Unusual, but it seemed natural on him. For a moment, she wanted to press her whole body against his and tuck her head under his chin like a child, safe and warm.

But she didn’t. Aching with frustration at her self-imposed restraint, she kept her hands at her sides when his lips brushed like a butterfly against her cheek.

She stiffened, her stomach clenching with a desire for something she could not name.

Riley pulled away, and his eyes looked sad and a touch regretful. As he released her arms, his charming half-grin turned undeniably cynical.

His expression made her feel rejected, like she’d failed a test she hadn’t had time to prepare for and couldn’t have expected. It was unfair.

Riley sat down, shaded by bamboo. He ran his fingers through his hair, an act that did nothing to subdue the wayward strands. “Thanks for calling. I’m sorry if I sounded busy.” He laughed. “I mean, of course I was busy. I’m
always
busy.”

“Who isn’t? But everyone has to eat, even in times like these.” She picked up a menu and studied it, determined not to make eye contact with him until she gained control of her tumbling stomach.

“That’s true. Everyone has to eat,” he repeated but didn’t pick up his menu.

A white-shirted waitress approached and asked whether they would have appetizers or a drink.

“Sushi and beer?” Riley asked Abigail, his golden-brown eyebrows lifted in playful question.

“It’s noon,” she said in disbelief.

“Exactly. The perfect time for sushi and beer.”

He was happy again. How quickly his seas changed. Abigail stared, fascinated by his ability to repair his emotional state. However easily he might bounce back, though, she didn’t have the heart to steal his joy again. She conceded to drinking beer at midday.

“Why not?” she answered rhetorically but with a healthy measure of derision, and she handed her menu to the waitress as Riley ordered a variety of
maki
rolls.

“What’s your Mandarin name?” he asked Abigail once the waitress had left.

“What are you talking about?”

“You were born in Taiwan to a Han Chinese mother. You must have a Chinese name, and it isn’t Abigail. Do you know what it is?”

She hadn’t thought of it in years, but it sprang into her mind like she’d heard her mother call it across the dusty courtyard just yesterday.

Bai Xi
. It meant
pure hope
.

“I don’t remember,” she lied. It was so terribly personal. Besides, her mother had asked her not to use it once they’d arrived in America. She’d picked a new name, a pretty American one, and they’d both traded “Mason” for her mother’s maiden name of “Li.” Abigail hadn’t minded giving up her first name, but she’d wanted to keep her father’s last name. After all, she wanted him to come back to them, even if her mother didn’t. But her mother had insisted, and Abigail dutifully didn’t use his name until she left for college. Then she became Abigail Mason, a hybrid of her two childhoods. “Don’t you know it, anyway?”

His smile faded. “No, I don’t. It’s not part of your birth record, and it’s not in your file. You really overestimate how thorough my research has been. My job is harder than it looks.”

“What is your job, exactly?”

“Fair question. I’m a psychologist by education, but I don’t counsel. I’ve never been a clinician. I’m what they call an operational psychologist, and I provide behavioral analysis wherever it’s needed. Sometimes that means interviewing potential assets or suspects in a crime. But other times it means analyzing data to determine what sort of person we’re looking for.”

“What sort of person are you looking for right now, Doctor?”

“Please, you’re welcome to call me Riley,” he said, his eyebrows knitting together as he glanced around. “And I’m happy to keep you informed of our progress, but you cannot play an active role.”

She shrugged slightly. Argument was pointless, for she would do whatever she wished, regardless of what Riley said.

The waitress arrived with two sweating glasses of pale yellow beer. Riley immediately sipped his, and his face lit up with appreciation. He leaned back in his chair and looked out to the tall, historic buildings that surrounded the open terrace.

Abigail drank her beer. The liquid bubbled pleasantly on her tongue, and she let it settle there for a second before she swallowed. It certainly was refreshing.

“I spoke with Donald Wheeler,” she said, eager to turn the conversation to something more relevant. “He seems to think you have information that would be of use to me.”

Riley looked genuinely confused. “I have no idea what he meant by that.”

“But you know him?” She tried to keep her tone even; interrogating an expert interrogator wasn’t an easy prospect. Her best chance was to keep him from feeling attacked.

He waved his hand in a lazy circle. “Everyone who lived in Asia in the seventies and eighties knew Donald Wheeler. He
helped my family when we were over there, and he helped my mom and me when we had to come back after my dad died.”

“Seems he helped both of us in exactly the same way. That’s odd, don’t you think?”

“Not really. It was a brutal time and place for Americans. I think everyone who was abroad at that time has a few scars to show.”

Abigail thought of her mother’s serenity. “Not everyone.”

Riley misunderstood. “If you think you don’t have scars, Abigail, then I’ve underestimated your self-awareness.”

He found her self-aware? She was, of course, but it was lovely to receive a compliment unbidden, especially one that had nothing to do with her appearance. Appreciating a person’s outer shell was the basest, most primal form of admiration. Abigail therefore never liked being told that she was pretty, but self-aware? She liked it so much that she couldn’t quite think how to respond.

A server arrived with their sushi platter before she could untangle her tongue.

Riley dove into the meal with the focused gusto of a man who hadn’t eaten in days. But he didn’t crowd her out. After he popped one whole
tekkyu
tuna and cucumber roll into his mouth and groaned with apparent gratification, he picked another up with his chopsticks and held it out to her.

Was she supposed to lean forward and be fed like an animal? How undignified. Using her own chopsticks, she grabbed the roll and tucked it between her teeth.

He laughed. “You have no idea how charming you are when you’re being unreasonably defiant.”

She finished chewing. “No one has ever called me charming, Doc—” She stopped herself, vowing to compromise where she could. “Riley. Will that do,
Riley
?”

“You can call me Yang if you want. That’s what the Taiwanese kids called me.”

“Yang? That’s the word for male, the opposite of yin. Are you sure they weren’t just calling you
boy
?”

His soft green eyes flashed like jade in the sun as he gave her an easy smile. “No. Well, maybe. It’s a common word, and it has more meanings than
love
. It’s a weevil, a tree, sunshine, sheep, and a dozen other things.”

More meanings than love.
Abigail’s brain stuck on that for a moment. Yes, there were many meanings of
love
, and few were simple. But she didn’t want to talk of love with Riley, however easily the topic seemed to come to his lips. In her family, people didn’t talk of love. She remembered another definition of
yang
. “It means
foreign
, too.”