Authors: Lisa See
The woman closed her file, snapped her laptop shut, and turned her full attention on David. By the time the pilot announced that he’d received clearance to land, Beth Madsen had told David what to see, where to go, what to eat. When the flight attendants came through, picking up headsets and encouraging people to stow their belongings, Beth slipped over David’s lap and went to the bathroom. As she edged past him, she regarded him with undisguised interest. He felt a throb begin in his groin. What was he thinking?
When she was gone, he closed his eyes. There had been a time when he yearned to go to Beijing. Now that he was actually on his way, his mind was filled with advice—from Jack Campbell and Noel Gardner, from Rob Butler and Madeleine Prentice, from that asshole Patrick O’Kelly at the State Department, and now from this woman. It ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous to the downright scary. If he had a chance, he should go to the Friendship Store. (Madeleine had picked up some great souvenirs when she was there.) But he could certainly pass on the restaurant that specialized in snake. Rob Butler’s advice had been simple—“Keep your nose clean.” Beth Madsen had told him where he might find good deals on silk and jade. Of course he’d be busy, Beth said, but he shouldn’t miss the Great Wall. She’d be happy to take him there.
Jack Campbell and Noel Gardner had taken him out for hamburgers at the Carl’s Jr. across the street from the courthouse. With his usual earnestness, Gardner had latched onto Madeleine’s idea that the two murders might be the work of a serial killer. “We don’t know where Watson and Guang were killed,” he’d remarked, “but if you find that place, you need to determine what elements make the scene stand out. Think about what the killer’s motive could be.”
Serial killers, David learned, were driven by three main motives—domination, manipulation, and control. The serial killer seldom directed his anger toward the focus of his resentment. He—and serial killers were universally men—could be counted on to be charming, highly articulate, even glib. “If this is a serial killer, we don’t know if these are his first and second murders or his tenth and eleventh,” Gardner had gone on. “But I can guarantee you that if he goes on with his crimes, he will become more flagrant with the bodies. He’ll take great pleasure in taunting law enforcement.”
“But are there serial killers in China?” David had asked, echoing Madeleine’s question.
“I don’t know,” Gardner had replied. “But if you find anything that points in that direction, go to the embassy, send us a fax, and Jack and I will talk to our behavioral science department.”
This whole conversation—with Gardner taking the serial angle seriously and Campbell’s ominous silence—had been unnerving. But David’s last-minute “advice” from Campbell and O’Kelly had a strange cloak-and-dagger feel to it. O’Kelly began with a lecture on protocol: “Always address the Chinese with their full titles. For one thing, women keep their maiden names; for another, the Chinese are very formal. So say, ‘Pleased to meet you, Vice Minister Ding or Subhead Dong.’” O’Kelly had laughed heartily at his tasteless joke, then once again settled into his forbidding tone. “Remember, in China everyone has a title. Butcher Fong, Dentist Wong, Worker Hong. But if you don’t know someone’s title, use mister or madame.”
O’Kelly had quickly moved to more serious admonishments: “Watch what you say in your hotel room.” (All hotels for foreigners were supposedly bugged.) “Don’t say anything significant on an unsecured phone.” (If hotel rooms were in fact bugged, this made sense to David, but no one had really explained to him either
why
he would need a secured phone or
how
he would find one.) “Don’t eat too much.” (They didn’t want him to seem like a glutton.) “Don’t drink too much.” (Or an alcoholic.) “Don’t get into any card games. Don’t play mah-jongg or bet on anything.” (In other words, don’t look like a gambler.) “Don’t be too friendly. You’re not anyone’s friend.” When questioned on this, Campbell finally had to spell it out. “Keep your dick dry.” David supposed this fell somewhere under the heading of “Keep your nose clean,” and he said so.
“Mr. Stark, this isn’t a joke,” O’Kelly had said. “You’re going to be under constant surveillance. Do you know why?” When David hadn’t answered, O’Kelly had explained. “You’re a potential mark for them. They may try to compromise you—through drinking or fooling around with a woman—so that they can blackmail you into spying for them.”
At this David had laughed, but again neither Campbell nor O’Kelly had joined in. What was most disconcerting, now that David thought about it, was the lack of humor in any of these discussions combined with the sense that O’Kelly—and, he hated to admit it, but Madeleine, Campbell, and Gardner—seemed to know a lot more than he did. But whenever David tried to ask a question or get some semblance of reassurance, his colleagues had avoided the subject by going back to their recommendations, reminders, and warnings.
“You have been issued an official invitation from the Ministry of Public Security—China’s leading intelligence service,” O’Kelly had reminded David. “They may want to turn you for themselves or even hand you over to the Ministry of State Security, which also handles espionage and counterintelligence overseas.”
“I think I want to stay home,” David quipped.
“We don’t think so,” O’Kelly said tersely.
“Who’s this ‘we’?” David asked.
O’Kelly ignored the question. “This is the first time we’ve been invited to cooperate with the Chinese in an investigation on their turf.”
“What do you mean, the first time on
their
turf?”
“We’ve had some dealings with China in the past. Let’s just say that things didn’t work out. We’ve got a tough political situation going on right now with the threat of trade sanctions. This case—this invitation—is the only thing that’s going right between our two countries. We just don’t want it—or you—to go south on us.”
“Are you questioning my loyalty?”
“You wouldn’t be here if we were. We know your record. We know your family and associates from your FBI check before coming to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. We aren’t worried.”
“Can’t Jack come with me?”
“I wasn’t invited,” Campbell said, breaking his silence.
“And we don’t think it’s appropriate to send the legate from Hong Kong either,” O’Kelly added.
“I don’t like this.”
“Mr. Stark, no one asked you to like it,” the man from State had said. “You found a body. China—for whatever reason—has an interest in that body. And we have an interest in stabilizing our diplomatic relationship with China by whatever means possible. You seem to be that means.”
Now, as Beth Madsen sidled back across David, this time grazing her breasts against his left cheek, he wondered if she was on his list of don’ts. Could the Chinese really bug each hotel room? That seemed both daunting and dull. What could they learn from a gaggle of Tennessee two-step dancers?
The terminal was hardly an advertisement for the newly affluent society he’d been led to expect by Patrick O’Kelly. Instead, as he followed Beth down a bleak hallway and into a cavernous room, he saw numerous soldiers in drab uniforms, old women with kerchiefs on their heads sitting together and gossiping, and exhausted travelers nervously clutching bags and passports. A layer of dirt coated everything, and the smell of cigarettes and simmering noodles hung in the air. But what struck David most was the cold; he could see his breath even inside.
He stood behind Beth at passport control. The surly uniformed officer didn’t say a word or even look at David as he handed over his passport to be stamped. He waited with Beth as the luggage came through on the carousel and walked with her to the Customs check, where they were waved through without opening their bags.
“I have a driver if you need a lift,” Beth offered.
David gazed out past the temporary wooden barricades that separated the secured area of the terminal and the exit, which was jammed with Chinese—civilians and more soldiers in green greatcoats. He wasn’t sure if it was an acoustical anomaly or if the people were really shouting. He watched as another passenger pushed into the cacophonous swarm and was instantly assaulted by people asking him if he needed a ride.
“I’m supposed to be picked up,” David said a little nervously. “Where do you think I’d go to meet someone?”
“Follow me,” Beth said.
He hitched up his suitcase in one hand and his briefcase in the other and stepped into the throbbing crowd. He felt the crush of warm bodies against him but pressed on. “Taxi?” “Driver, cheap.” “I take you to hotel.” David finally broke through and into the open.
The air was thick with coal smoke, exhaust, and the freezing fog’s lingering dampness. Along the curb, pristine luxury cars were sandwiched between dented heaps that looked like oversized tin toys. Reunited families gathered here and boisterously crammed belongings and relatives into the cramped confines of the Chinese-made cars. A couple of generals—dressed austerely in long olive-green coats—silently stepped into their Mercedeses, while a bevy of American tourists fretted over a mountain of suitcases being passed into the underbelly of a tour bus.
“Here’s my car,” Beth said, pointing to a Cadillac Town Car. “I’ll be at the Sheraton Great Wall if you want to get together for dinner or anything.”
“I’m staying there too.”
She eyed him again in her hungry way. “Sure you don’t want to come with me now?”
“No, I’d better wait here.”
As Beth slid into the backseat, David started as a voice asked, “Mr. Stark?” He turned to see a Chinese man in his twenties dressed in a gray suit with a knit vest. His hair hung lankly over his collar and his eyes shone a deep black. The man took David’s silence as affirmation.
“I am Peter Sun, an investigator for the ministry and your driver,” the man said in lightly accented English. “Please follow me.”
David tried to take a seat in front, but Peter shook his head. “It wouldn’t be right for a guest to sit up here. Please sit in the back. You’ve had a long journey. Rest and enjoy the ride.”
Peter announced that he would take David on the scenic old road instead of the new toll road. The old road was lined with poplars. Their bare trunks created bony silhouettes against the gray sky. Beyond the trees, bare fields melted into fog banks.
Speeding along the road, they passed peasants bringing their wares into town. David saw a bicycle loaded down with a pig carcass—one half strapped to each side of the bike. Seemingly oblivious to her bloody cargo, a young girl pedaled with quiet dignity. A half mile later, they passed a load of used tires that bounced and swayed precariously on the back of a flatbed bicycle truck pulled by a man with a deeply lined face. Sitting on the handlebars in front of him was a small child bundled in a hot-pink padded jacket. Peter honked at this slow-moving obstacle, swerved wide around it, and aimed a few angry words out the window. Neither the little girl nor her father acknowledged the epithet.
By the time they got into the city, darkness had fallen. Still, the streets were choked with people, bicycles, and cars. As Peter jerked the Saab through the crowds, yelling when people didn’t move out of his way fast enough, David was amazed to see just how Western things seemed. Neon lights advertised Kentucky Fried Chicken, McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, and Waffle King. Garish signs proclaimed
FRENCH BREAD COOKED ON PREMISES
and
BEIJING IS WAITING FOR YOU
. Below a second-story window a draped banner advertised the
HEAVENLY BODIES STUDIO
. Inside, a group of women bounced to music David could not hear. When he commented on how busy things seemed, Peter said, “We’re still far from the center of Beijing. Tomorrow, when we go to MPS headquarters, you’ll see the Forbidden City and Tiananmen Square.”
Peter pulled into the porte cochere of the Sheraton Great Wall Hotel, opened the car door for David, announced he would return at twelve the next morning, then sped off into the night. A bellman took David’s bag, and together they pushed through the revolving doors and into the hotel. The lobby—an atrium rising six stories—bustled with activity. Walking to the check-in desk, David heard English, German, Spanish, Japanese, and, of course, Chinese. He saw signs pointing the way to separate restaurants that served food from four different Chinese provinces.
In the elevator, the bellman rattled off the hotel’s amenities—tennis courts, gym, indoor swimming pool, coffee shop, and cocktail lounge with nightly entertainment. At the end of his monologue, the bellman asked, “What kind of business are you in?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“You need help? Do you want to
xiahai
, plunge into the sea?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I have good
guanxi
, good connections. I can get you anything you want.”
David thought the bellman was trying to set him up with a prostitute. “I don’t need anything like that.”
The bellman looked at him quizzically. “I know people. You want find good building for factory, my uncle can help you. You want help getting contracts, I have cousin who can help you. If I help you, you help me. We can be partners. We can plunge into the sea together.”
“No, no, nothing,” David said as the elevator slowed to a stop.
“Umbrellas.” The bellman jabbered on as they walked down the corridor. “What do you think about umbrellas? It rains all over the world. We can have a business. Something like Imperial Umbrellas of China or Royal China Umbrellas.”
David pressed some bills into the budding capitalist’s hand and shut the door after him. The room was stultifyingly hot. David turned off the heat and tried unsuccessfully to crack open the window. He flipped on the air-conditioning and stripped down to his underwear.
It was still early, but David stretched out on the bed. He was bone tired but wide awake. Jet lag. David thought about calling Beth’s room but immediately dismissed the idea. He wasn’t hungry, he didn’t want a drink, and he definitely wasn’t up to considering the alternatives. His mind raced. The events of the last week had certainly gotten him out of his regular life.