‘Can you tell me more about what Krixo do?’ Jaq asked.
Sophie must be used to the question, responding with an elevator speech on the crucial role of rare earth metals in green energy, leaving Jaq none the wiser.
Vikram leaned back and folded his hands over his stomach. ‘And what are your plans for Krixo?’
Sophie leaned forward. ‘We plan to double in size every year for the next ten years.’
Vikram’s eyes lit up.
As did Jaq’s when the next course was served, raw beef with caviar: folds of thinly sliced, finely marbled meat piled high, ruby-red pillows for the tiny black beads of caviar hiding under nasturtium leaves.
The waiter replaced their glasses and described the wine for the next course.
‘All the expansion to happen in China?’ asked Vikram.
‘That’s the exciting bit,’ Sophie said. ‘It made sense to start in China. It’s where most of the rare earths are mined. But Krixo . . .’ she corrected herself, ‘but my father also developed advanced recycling technology. Do you have any idea how much precious metal Britain throws away every year? Materials that could be recycled and reused. He wanted to open a demonstration plant in Teesside. And that’s where I need your help.’
Vikram beamed as the spring salad was served. It was a work of art: swirling pea shoots dotted with orange nasturtiums and violet periwinkles lay on a bed of crinkly black kale, pale lambs’ lettuce, emerald wild rocket and watercress sweetened with circles of pink radish and red cherry tomato.
Sophie talked on as the main courses came, sea bream with smoked cod roe followed by pigeon breast. Jaq listened intently, the project suddenly as interesting as the food.
Rare earths – the technology metals, seventeen elements with extraordinary properties – are not actually rare at all, just difficult to get at. Most are present in the earth’s crust, but so tightly bound to other minerals, and so widely dispersed, that it is very expensive to extract them.
Green energy relies on rare earths – energy-efficient light bulbs, solar panels, wind turbines, rechargeable batteries – and so does modern communications technology.
And yet, we throw away our old phones, our spent batteries, consigning them to landfill for want of a simple, cost-effective process to extract and recover the key materials.
‘Fascinating,’ said Vikram, although most of his fascination appeared to be with Sophie herself.
‘There’s one teeny, tiny problem,’ said Sophie, her eyes lighting up as the trio of desserts arrived.
‘And what might that be?’ asked Jaq.
Sophie plunged a spoon into the black olive and chocolate mousse and sighed.
‘It’s so terribly difficult to get the joint venture partner to agree to anything. We don’t see eye to eye, and . . .’ Sophie turned and pouted at Vikram. ‘I need help.’
‘Joint ventures are notoriously difficult in China,’ he said, authoritative and supportive. He tapped the thin wafer of caramelised liquorice and it shattered into the lime cream below. ‘But we have a lot of experience in this area, don’t we, Jaq?’
Long and bitter experience, yes. Jaq nodded and bit into a chocolate shaped like a skull. You win some, you lose some. Sophie’s project had just revealed its true face.
Sophie glanced around before dropping her voice to a whisper. ‘That’s why the next phase will be Krixo alone, without the joint venture.’
‘Does the joint venture partner know that?’ asked Jaq.
‘No.’
Her lovely shoulders drooped, and she took a sip of dessert wine.
‘The only way to negotiate is from a position of strength,’ Sophie said.
Strength? What did she mean? Jaq glanced at Vikram.
‘So, Sophie,’ Vikram said, ‘you asked for help. Give us an idea of the scope of the work.’
Sophie’s chauffeur-driven limo arrived before Vikram’s taxi. Her driver paid the bill while Sophie said her rather tipsy and effusive goodbyes. Jaq waited until she was gone before wiping the crimson lipstick from her cheek and ordering a double espresso.
‘You said it was just lunch.’
Vikram made a rueful twist of his lips. ‘I don’t know anyone else as capable as you.’
‘I don’t do industrial espionage.’
‘Come on, Jaq,’ Vikram said. ‘You’ve worked with Chinese joint ventures before. You know how tricky things can be. Keep an open mind.’
‘I don’t trust her.’
‘She liked you.’
‘What she was asking me to do was to approach a Chinese development agency under false pretences and visit a factory she claims to own. I can’t do it.’
‘It’ll be tricky, I know, but money is no object, you saw how generous—’ began Vikram.
‘That’s not tricky, it’s downright dishonest! I’ve had enough of investigating dodgy companies. I’ve put my friends in danger, and I’m not doing it again. Give me a technical problem and I’ll solve it, give me a project and I’ll manage it, give me a team and I’ll lead it, but no more mysteries.’
‘Jaq, you are overreacting, imagining things.’
‘It doesn’t smell right . . .’
‘Stick to facts, Jaq.’
‘The fact is, I’m not doing the Krixo job. I’m going to Shetland.’
‘Triple rate.’
‘Whatever the salary, the answer is still no.’
Vikram turned away from her.
‘Bugger it. How am I going to find someone else?’
‘I’m sorry, Vikram.’ Sorry you have such poor judgement. Sorry you can’t see through the superficial charms of a client to the murky layer of risk below. Sorry you can’t see that no job is better than the wrong job.
‘Make one trip to China for me, OK? Business-class flights, five-star hotel, all expenses paid.’
She shook her head. ‘I—’
‘Quadruple rate.’ He put a finger to his lips. ‘One trip. Fact-finding, that’s all.’
Good money, better than she’d ever earned before. Two months’ salary for a fortnight’s work. Could she do it? Could she override her gut feeling, ignore all instinctive doubts and misgivings? For what? Money? No, however tempting it sounded, she wasn’t going to let filthy lucre cloud her judgement.
‘I’m an engineer, not a spy.’
Vikram sighed. ‘I don’t want to lose this client.’
She stood up to leave.
‘Think about it over the weekend,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ll call you on Monday.’
Outside the light was fading. Jaq unlocked her bicycle and checked the lights.
No way was she going to China.
Enough of adventure. She was just an engineer. Engineering was all she wanted to do.
PART IV
OCTOBER
Shingbo, China
The early-morning fog cleared to reveal a fleet of ships sailing down the Qiantang river towards Hangzhou Bay. The boats were moving faster than the lorries. A line of vehicles stretched back down the road in a queue several miles long.
Yan Bing, acting head of the Art Squad, directed operations from the back of a police car. If his source was correct, and given the effort that had gone into extracting the information, he had no reason to doubt it: the delivery would arrive today. A small parcel, the size of a shoebox, containing the Qianlong wedding cup. Early interception, and secret storage until after the Spring Festival, would ensure Madam Yun’s banishment and his own job security.
Sweet revenge.
The area was too flat for covert surveillance; a police car was visible from miles away, and even an unmarked car would arouse suspicion. Better to hide in plain sight. Yan Bing’s men had closed the east and west gates, and the river provided a natural boundary to the north. By setting up diversions to direct traffic through the south entry, he ensured all traffic entering the industrial park had to funnel through his inspection point.
It was set up to look like a normal search. His men were reviewing documents, checking
axle weights, the security of the tarpaulins, and shaking a little cash loose as compensation for the trouble.
He inspected the queue of traffic: buses packed with workers, three-wheeled trucks brimming with vegetables for the factory canteens, lorries and tankers for the raw materials that didn’t come by ship or rail, the odd bicycle. Yan Bing ignored them all, leaving his men to go through the motions. He knew exactly what he was looking for.
The buzz of excitement as the first international courier van approached soon fizzled out: nothing but documents, express-release bills of lading, letters of credit – no parcel of the right size.
It was almost lunchtime before the next suspect appeared: a young man in the back seat of a taxi.
Yan Bing signalled to his deputy that he would deal with this one personally. Smoothing his uniform and setting his cap at a severe angle, he took his time before springing from the car.
The taxi driver, an old man with a paunch, stood by his vehicle, trembling hands holding out a sheaf of papers. Yan Bing ignored him and walked around the taxi. Front seat empty. Nothing on the back seat except the passenger. He banged his truncheon on the window.
‘Get out.’
The taxi driver opened the door for the startled passenger.
A young man emerged. Clean-shaven, short hair, good teeth, dressed in a crisp white shirt, pressed grey trousers and polished black shoes.
‘Papers!’ Yan Bing inspected the ID card: Ning Dan, a Shanghai resident.
‘What’s all this about?’ The man was well spoken, just the trace of a city accent. An air of confidence that spoke of easy money, a rich family or a lucrative job. Probably both; one begot the other.
‘I ask the questions.’ Yan Bing brought his face closer, sniffing cologne. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Krixo factory,’ the driver answered on behalf of his passenger, anxious to curry favour. ‘From the railway station.’
Yan Bing returned the ID card and addressed the driver. ‘Open the trunk.’
He watched the suspect as the driver fumbled with the catch. He betrayed no sign of anxiety. A cool customer. Or innocent.
The trunk was empty.
Yan Bing smashed his truncheon against the taxi in frustration.
His deputy approached. ‘Shall I issue a violation?’
‘Triple.’ Yan Bing named a spot fine that would wipe out the taxi driver’s income for three months. Something to encourage care in his future choice of passenger. Unsurprisingly, the driver chose to make a donation to the police orphans and widows fund instead.
It began to rain. Yan Bing sheltered in his car as he ate lunch, a dish of noodles from a mobile vendor taking advantage of the traffic jam like flies to shit.
As he slurped the last of the broth, something about the taxi passenger nagged at him. Something in the boy’s manner. His confidence, bordering on arrogance. The way he kept his hands in his pockets. What was he hiding? Yan Bing made a call. Ning Dan. Check him out.
The rest of the day dragged on. A few more couriers were stopped at the checkpoint, none with anything of interest. He was almost asleep when the call came.
Ning Dan. Engineer. Educated abroad. Recent contact with England. Internet traffic and calls being monitored.
Of course; the smugglers were smarter than he’d realised. The messenger wouldn’t bring the Qianlong wedding cup here. He would be carrying a key to a safe-deposit box, or a verbal message with the location for the drop.
Yan Bing ordered his men to suspend operations and sped towards the Krixo factory.
Time for another conversation with Ning Dan.
Lisbon, Portugal
A storm was blowing in from the tropics, hitting the Azores hard overnight and now approaching mainland Europe at its most westerly point, just north of Lisbon. The air was heavy, humid, pressing on Jaq as she emerged from the metro at Rato and walked towards her mother’s nursing home. The smell of roasting chestnuts wafted over from a mobile brazier. A woman shuffled half a dozen blackened fruits into a corner of old newspaper – Diário de Notícias. An ancient man with bow legs hobbled towards her waving a sheet of lottery tickets. Nothing much had changed.
The cemetery gates were closed, so she took the long way round, climbing Rua de Estrela, the cobbles slippery after a shower of rain, and turned right at the top of the hill to reach the convent.
The mother superior came out to greet her.
‘Bem vindo.’ Welcome back.
Jaq shuddered. The very sight of those grey robes, the white wimple, the heavy wooden rosary and cross, was enough to transport her back decades, back to the childhood stolen from her in this place.
‘Anda cá, menina.’ Come here.
The appellation menina, literally translated as ‘girl’, was more a term of endearment than an attempt to infantilise a grown woman. Or was that exactly the problem? Had she become so used to being patronised by the nuns that she failed to register the ideological undercurrent? Mafalda had been at another convent when Jaq had been incarcerated here. She was not responsible for the things that happened. Except in so far as she was part of the same church, the same organisation that denied women control over their own bodies. The same organisation now caring for her mother.
Jaq bit her lower lip and approached the old woman. She allowed the mother superior to embrace her, returning the kiss on one cheek, then the other, marvelling at the smoothness and softness of the old woman’s skin. The nun’s grey robes rose in a gust of wind, the tails of her wimple flapping against the stone arch.
‘Come and see me before you leave.’ The tone of voice made it clear the mother superior had issued a command, not a request.
Jaq bent her head and pressed forward against the wind. The scented garden was thirsty for rain, releasing the aromas of lavender and sweet basil as she hurried past.
Dona Rosa, the nursing sister, a wide-hipped woman with skin the colour and patina of a coffee bean, waited for Jaq at the entrance to the new dementia wing.
‘I’m concerned about Dona da Silva.’ Her dark eyes crinkled, and perfect white teeth gleamed through full red lips as she outlined the issues. ‘She’s more communicative . . .’
That was a change. The last time, Angie had not said a word, spending the whole visit staring at a wall.
‘But increasingly erratic. Her delusions and paranoia are getting worse.’
‘She knows I’m coming?’
‘She’s looking forward to seeing you.’
Jaq doubted that very much. It would take more than a change of ward for Angie to welcome the daughter she blamed for everything.
They walked together to the day room. Several men and women sat slumped around a wide-screen television. Most in easy chairs, a few still in wheelchairs, waiting for the hoist that was busy lifting a man who resembled a bundle of sticks. Those who were awake stared at the flickering screen of the TV. One woman was sleeping, a trickle of drool running down her cheek. Another was rocking to and fro, keening softly. Angie sat bolt upright in her wheelchair, her eyes glittering.
‘Maria de Jaqueline,’ she said. ‘About time!’
Jaq swallowed hard. It was a relief to have her mother back, even if it only meant reprimands. It was almost reassuring to be chastised. Better than being abandoned again.
‘Mãe.’
‘Don’t call me that!’
‘Angie.’ Jaq stepped forward awkwardly, unsure if her mother would accept a kiss.
‘Keep away from me!’
Everyone in the room turned their attention from the soap opera on the screen to the unfolding real-life drama.
‘Let’s give you some privacy.’ Dona Rosa grabbed hold of Angie’s wheelchair and set off down the corridor at a furious pace.
Angie’s new room was smaller than the old cell. There was barely room for the single bed, nightstand and an easy chair. But instead of a barred window that looked out on to a stone wall, french doors opened on to the garden. Or would when the weather permitted. Right now, the
glass panes in aluminium frames rattled against the door jamb.
Jaq sat on the bed as Dona Rosa helped Angie into the chair. ‘You look well, Angie.’ It was true. When Jaq had last visited, her mother had looked much frailer. Now a spark of life had returned.
Her mother sniffed. ‘What do you care?’
Rosa intervened. ‘Dona da Silva, your daughter has come a long way to see you.’
‘Leave us.’ Angie waved her hand, dismissing the nurse.
Dona Rosa stood up and indicated a buzzer on the end of a long white cable that snaked across the bed. ‘Just press this if you need me.’
Jaq waited until the door closed softly. ‘How are you feeling, Angie?’
‘Terrible.’ Angie pointed an accusing finger at the door. ‘That woman is torturing me.’
‘Dona Rosa?’
Angie leaned forward, hard eyed glittering, little flecks of spittle mottling her lips. ‘She is the devil.’
Deluded. No point in reasoning with her. Try distraction.
‘I brought you something.’ Jaq unpacked the iPod and portable speaker. She set it up on the nightstand beside Angie’s bed.
‘What is it? Give it to me!’
‘Wait.’
‘Ha! That’s a fine imprecation coming from you. She who couldn’t wait.’ Angie’s voice was harsh. ‘You never had an ounce of self-control.’
Jaq pressed play and suddenly there was music in the room. The piano notes soft at first, then rising in confidence and tempo as Schubert’s glorious impromptu swirled around them.
Angie stopped talking and listened in silence, her hands moving with the music. When the first étude finished, Jaq pressed pause.
‘Maria João Pires?’
‘Yes.’ Her mother knew not only the piece but the artist. Some parts of her brain were functioning properly.
Angie tutted. ‘Overrated.’
‘I disagree.’ Jaq sighed. ‘Who would you like to hear?’
‘Sam.’
Tears prickled her eyes. In truth, her brother had been an indifferent pianist, but she would do anything in the world to hear him play again.
‘But you killed him, didn’t you?’
The Chemical Reaction Page 8