Ghost Hero (32 page)

“He can’t do it,” Bill said.

“I sure as hell can,” said Jerrold.
“What deal?”

“Listen, Jack—”

“Oh, shut up, you guys. I’m sorry. I’m not big and tough like you. I’m a wimp and I can’t do it.” To Jerrold: “I’ll give you the smuggler’s name. But I need to get something in return.”

“How about, you and your family don’t end up on the terrorist watch list?”

Jack shook his head. “Not enough. Once it gets out who gave this guy up—”

“It won’t get out.”

“Bullshit. Of course it will.” Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “I need to live in this community. The Chinese community, I mean. So does Lydia. Bill, well, what’s the opposite of collateral damage? What I’m saying, we need something sweet to counteract the stench of ratting a guy out.”

“I’m not ratting anyone out,” I said.

“That’s not the way it’ll look.” Jack didn’t meet my glare.

“What do you want?” Jerrold asked.

“Who would you take this to? Jin, at the Consulate?” At Jerrold’s nod, Jack said, “Call him. Get him over here.”

“First of all, I don’t just call the Cultural Attaché and tell him ‘get over here.’ Second, I’d need to hear what you have to say before I approach Jin.”

“You won’t. I have a deal to offer, and if I need to get a lawyer to help me offer it I’ll do it in public. You’ll get what you want, in the end, but I’ll make the whole thing as embarrassing for the State Department as I possibly can. That won’t do anything for your promotion, will it?”

“Promotion” was the magic word. Dennis Jerrold dialed the Consulate of the People’s Republic of China.

25

It was a tense twenty minutes up there in Jack’s office, waiting for Jin. I tried to talk to Jack but he cold-shouldered me. He made fresh coffee. Bill had some of the coffee. Jerrold, as though he were at the dentist, leafed through an art book. I didn’t have more tea; the last thing I needed was caffeine to blend with the adrenaline already sizzling through me. I kind of felt like I was at the dentist, too.

Finally, the downstairs buzzer buzzed, and Jack answered it. He waited at the door as he had for us—was that only the day before yesterday?—and stepped aside to admit a sour-faced, bald Asian man. Jerrold rose to his feet. I did, also, before I could stop myself. Bill didn’t.

“Mr. Jin. Thank you for coming.” Dennis Jerrold executed a creditable bow, which Jin returned.

“Mr. Jerrold. You say, important.” Jin looked around the room, then strode forward and took a chair.

Now Bill did stand, because there were only four chairs, and five of us. He went over to lean on the sill of the new window.

“It is important.” Jerrold brought Jin a cup of my bitter green tea. He introduced each of us, and Jin gave us each an unsmiling nod, remaining seated. Jerrold said, “These people have a … proposal for us.”

“Bill and I don’t,” I said.

“Lydia, you might as well get in on it, because it’s happening anyway,” Jack said. “And it’s not a proposal. It’s a deal. In response to a threat.”

Jack brought Jin into the loop in a couple of sentences. Jin listened intently, interrupting only once—“Alive? Chau Chun is
alive
?”—and after Jack was done he sat grimly sipping tea. No one else spoke, either, until Jin finally said to Jerrold, “You cannot arrest Yang? Make him tell you location of Chau?”

“I’m sorry.” Jerrold, shamefaced, apologized to Jin for the rule of law. “He’d get a lawyer immediately. I have certain … pressures … I can put on people”—he gave Jack a look—“but in this situation I doubt if they’d work. And if we did find him, Chau I mean, there’s not much we could do anyway.”

Jin pursed his lips, gestured at Jack. “What he say. Your government will not extradite. Is true?”

“I’m afraid it probably is. The events surrounding the Tiananmen riots are seen differently here from the way the Chinese people understand them—”

Jin waved him off with his teacup. To Jack, he said, “What do you want?”

Jack took a deep breath, and said, “Mike Liu.”

This was beyond pins dropping. You could’ve dropped a piano through the ceiling and no one would have noticed.

Just to make sure Jin knew who he was talking about, Jack gave him the Chinese version. “Liu Mai-ke. I’ll give you the smuggler’s name if your government frees Liu Mai-ke.”

“What the hell—” Jerrold started.

“Listen! There’s going to be a big Free Liu Mai-ke rally next week. Designed to embarrass the PRC government.” Jack turned to Jin. “Those paintings, the phony Chaus, have Mike Liu’s poems on them. I don’t suppose you knew that.”

“No, I did not.”

“Well, they do, and they’ll probably have the paintings at the rally.”

Jerrold pointed accusingly at me. “I thought she said they wouldn’t—”

“As Chaus. They won’t be exhibited or brought onto the market as Chaus. But they may well be shown as, I guess you’d say, homages. Just because they’re not authentic doesn’t mean they won’t be used to make a political point.”

He looked to me. I gave an irritated shrug. From Jerrold came a sharp, exasperated breath.

“And the real Chaus,” Jack said. “They
are
going on the market. At exactly the same time as the rally. Which is smack in the middle of Beijing/NYC. Mr. Jin, your government is going to come off looking pretty bad, with Chaus and fake Chaus and Mike Liu’s poetry all over the place, at exactly the moment when you’re spending a lot of money to look good. Here,” he added, “in New York.”

New York, the Cultural Attaché’s turf. From which, presumably, he’d rather not be called home in disgrace. You could tell from his stony face that these words were not lost on Jin.

“Or,” Jack said, settling in his chair, “you can disarm the whole thing. Mike Liu’s been off people’s minds for a while now, so it won’t look like you’re yielding to pressure. Say he’s sick, how’s that? The PRC and the Communist Party can demonstrate your great humanitarian compassion by releasing him. Once he’s out, he’s useless as a symbol. Nothing to rally about, no reason to show the fake paintings.”

“And the real ones?” Jerrold demanded.

Jack shrugged. “Not a lot we can do about that.”

“You can tell me where they are. I might be able to delay the sale until after Beijing/NYC. There’s pressure, and there’s pressure. As you know.”

Yeah, I thought, and I’d like to see you try it on the guy who ultimately owns them now: Lionel Lau.

“You guys are both diplomats.” Jack was beginning to look pleased with himself again. “I’m sure you can spin this to your bosses. Explain how you saved the PRC all kinds of face. What a media crisis you averted. Get your own experts to refute the new Chaus. Beijing/NYC can go on, all the approved artists can sip white wine with the critics, and the PRC can sit back and rake in millions from the sale of tame art. Win-win. How about it?”

Jerrold exchanged a glance with Jin. Damn these people. I sent Bill a look, and then I said, “Not yet.”

Everyone turned to me.

“Jack, if you’re selling our souls here, the price isn’t high enough. Mr. Jerrold, we’ll give you the name of the smuggler, God help us. We’ll also tell you who has the new paintings. But Mike Liu doesn’t only get released from prison. He gets kicked out of the country. Well, come on, people. What’s to keep the PRC from grabbing him up again as soon as this is over? You get what you want once Mike Liu lands here.”

Way to raise the stakes, Lydia. The first to speak, coming from left field, was Bill. “If you agree to this,” he said, “I can get the sale of the real Chaus delayed.”

“What?”

“There’s pressure,” Bill said. “And there’s pressure.”

“You said you couldn’t—what are you—” Jerrold was practically sputtering.

“Mr. Jerrold, you’re a reputable diplomat.” Under the circumstances Bill’s tone wasn’t nearly as sarcastic as it might have been. “I’m sure you understand what I’m saying when I tell you, you don’t want to know.”

“But he can do it, I guarantee,” I said. “And the last thing is, as part of this deal, the State Department has to agree to accept Mike Liu. To give him asylum.”

“No asylum!” Jin barked. “Stupid poet. That make him sound like political prisoner.”

As opposed to what,
I wondered, but I kept silent. I could see on Jerrold’s face that he’d heard the same thing I had: If Jin was negotiating the terms of Mike Liu’s release, he’d already agreed to it.

In Chinese, Jerrold asked Jin to step into the hall with him. That was almost funny, Bill being the only person here who didn’t understand what he said; but I got the feeling the language choice was more out of courtesy than secrecy anyway. They left together, Jerrold holding the door for Jin. We three sat in silence, and after a while Jerrold came back in, picked up one of Jack’s chairs, and carried it into the hall. Holding the door and carrying chairs? Maybe there was more than one reason why he was still staff, not line. Jerrold set the chair in the hallway alcove. Jin sat and took out his cell phone.

“This is a conversation Mr. Jin would understandably rather keep private,” Jerrold said, coming back into the room and closing the door behind him. “We’ll wait.”

Once again, I wondered,
As opposed to what?

If the twenty minutes before Jin had arrived were tense, the forty Jin spent in the hall gave new meaning to I-need-to-jump-up-and-run-around-the-room-screaming. I didn’t, though. I passed the time thinking about my mother’s reaction to my face in
The New York Times
anywhere near the words “federal indictment.” I don’t know what Bill was thinking, but after about half an hour he pulled out a cigarette and nailed Jack with a look that squelched any protest Jack might’ve made. Jack glanced at the new window, but being only temporary, it didn’t open. He sat back, rubbing his neck.

Finally the door opened and Jin strode back in. We all shot to attention, but Jin waited while Jerrold retrieved his chair from the hallway. He settled himself, not looking any more jovial than before.

“Have spoken, my superiors,” Jin said. “Liu Mai-ke, pah, stupid man, bad poet. Nothing but irritation, stirs up other stupid people. Unlikely will be rehabilitated. People’s Republic better without him. Will send him here. You”—he pointed a thick finger at Jack— “will tell us name of human trafficker. You”—moving to Bill—“will stop sale of Chaus.”

“Delay,” I said.

“
You
”—the finger swung to me—“will be silent!”

“And none of you,” Jerrold added, visibly relieved and palpably taking charge, “will go anywhere until this deal is complete. Just in case you were thinking of running out on us. Or warning anybody.”

“No problem,” said Jack.

“You bet, no problem. This whole process shouldn’t take more than twenty-four hours. Let’s go.”

“Wait,” I said. “Go where?”

“Don’t worry, the quarters are comfortable. And the food’s not bad, and it’s on us. Now, either you all accompany me voluntarily, or I’ll ask the Nineteenth Precinct to detain you in
their
quarters. I’ll have to call Justice to get that to happen, and the whole process is kind of a pain, so I’ll be even more aggravated than I am now. How aggravated do you want me? If this all works out, you’ll be home in your own beds tomorrow night. If it doesn’t, you’ll want to practice being guests of Uncle Sam, anyway.”

Which is how I came to be spending the night—without my cell phone—in a government-contracted four-star hotel on the Upper East Side. I ate grilled salmon in a small but, as promised, comfortable room with a giant TV, a lovely view over the East River, a disconnected phone, and a State Department security officer outside my door. Jack and Bill, I understood, were billeted together down the hall. Because they were both large guys, I hoped their room was bigger.

26

Morning’s usually a busy time for me. I wake up early, go running, or rollerblading, or to the dojo. Get my blood moving before the action starts. Not today, though. The sunrise over the East River was gorgeous, the hotel bathrobe was comfy, the shower was fabulous, and breakfast was quite tasty, featuring a selection of premium teas. Lunch wasn’t bad either. I was climbing the walls by the time the security officer knocked on the door at midafternoon to tell me the car was here.

Yesterday’s final negotiation—besides one phone call to my mother, to tell her I was working overnight—was that we’d all, including the Yang family, be at the airport to see Mike Liu arrive.

“They’re putting him on a plane that gets in at five,” Jerrold said. “Direct flight. You don’t trust me to call and tell you he’s here?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

So we all piled into a black government limo, Jerrold up front with the driver, Bill and me in the normal backseat, Jack in the one facing us. Which meant we all had to stare at each other on the hour-long drive.

When we finally got to Newark after sixty particularly long minutes, the car dropped us and went off to park in some special diplomat place. Jerrold flashed credentials and we were led through blank hallways and up an elevator, then shown to a room with a one-way window overlooking the vast space where people wait to meet international travelers.

Jerrold checked his watch. “Plane should be just landing.” The door opened, admitting Mr. Jin and Dr. Yang. The professor glared around the room, with just slightly more discernible anger and contempt for Jack than for the rest of us. Jin and Jerrold bowed to each other. No one spoke. We all stood at the window, watching the crowd below. A normal crowd, no press, no Mike Liu welcoming committee. That was part of the deal, too. And Jin had won on the no-asylum demand, but Mike Liu, being married to an American citizen, could start his naturalization process this same afternoon.

An unbroken stream of people pulled suitcases or pushed piled carts through the doors, looked around, got their bearings in America, and went on. Some spotted people waiting for them in the crowd; some had to look deeper, because their people were farther back. If your people happened to be Anna and Mrs. Yang, you’d have seen them in a second, Anna leaning over the waist-high barrier, her mother standing beside her. Anna was in constant motion, rising on her toes, tilting left and right, as though at a ball game tied in the final minutes when everyone’s on their feet and you can’t see. Finally, she saw.