A frisson of irritation washed over her. Do I mind? Yes, I do bloody well mind. Can I say so? No, of course I can’t. Ten minutes into her first long-haul business-class flight and she’d already become the sort of person she despised. Corrupted by privilege.
‘Fine.’
She regretted her generosity when he returned with the priest, who took his seat beside her.
‘Good evening,’ he said.
‘Hi.’ She put on her headphones.
The purser returned with the drinks trolley. Jaq was going to need something stronger than champagne to get through this flight without picking a fight. Subjects to avoid: transubstantiation, denying women rights over their own bodies, child abuse and the callous neglect of the world’s disenfranchised by their omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, non-existent deity.
She took off her headphones. ‘Gin and tonic, please.’
‘Same for me,’ the priest said.
So, alcohol wasn’t a problem for these men of the cloth. What happened to self-restraint and denial of earthly pleasures?
He clinked his crystal tumbler against hers. ‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers.’ A little devil rose inside her. ‘We may as well introduce ourselves, since we’ll be sleeping together.’ She extended a hand. ‘Jaq Silver.’
‘Timur Zolotoy.’ He took her hand in a firm grip. The sleeve of his cassock rolled back to reveal an intricate lattice of tattoos.
A priest with a past?
‘What takes you to Shanghai, Jaq Silver?’
None of your bloody business. The silence stretched into discomfort.
He spoke again. ‘I’m going to look for work.’
‘Oh, you count it as work, do you?’ She could remain silent no longer. ‘I assumed yours was more of a vocation.’
‘Well . . .’ He sipped his drink and wrinkled his brow, the dark eyebrows joining. ‘I enjoy the girls and the dancing, but I only strip for the money.’
She spluttered a mouthful of gin back into the tumbler.
‘Never judge a book by its cover, Jaq Silver.’ He fluttered his thick, dark lashes.
‘You’re a stripper?’ She did a double take. ‘Disguised as a priest?’
‘Master of disguise.’ He smiled, his parted lips revealing a gold molar. ‘This is one of many stage outfits, and by far the most comfortable for travelling. Since we’ll be sleeping together, I thought full disclosure was only fair.’
The smell of hot bread announced the arrival of food. Her neighbour turned his attention to the selection of wines, choosing a Gewürztraminer to go with the seafood appetiser. Dry and spicy, good choice. Jaq took the same.
The smoked salmon and prawns came with a side salad. Jaq shook the little glass bottle, mixing the copper-coloured vinegar with the green-gold olive oil, then added salt and pepper from a pair of miniature Dutch clogs. By the time she’d buttered the sesame-topped roll her companion had already cleared his plate.
‘So, you’re a chemical engineer?’
‘How did you . . .?’ Immediately defensive.
‘You really want to know?’ He raised one eyebrow. ‘You won’t be offended by my observations?’
She debated her options. It was a long flight, and now she was intrigued.
‘Go on.’
He flashed his green eyes at her. ‘You’re the only woman in business class. You are travelling alone, so it is probably for work.’
‘What deep insight,’ she mocked.
‘You aren’t wearing any make-up.’ He raised his perfect straight nose and sniffed the air. ‘Or perfume. You don’t colour your hair and you dry it naturally. You don’t care what other women think, so I’m guessing you are a big shot in a predominantly male environment. So far so good?’
So far so bad, and painfully true. How many female bosses had she come across in her working life? None, if you excluded Camilla. Plenty of bright young scientists and engineers, but how many senior colleagues? Few of her age. Where did those younger women go?
‘No sign of a manicure.’ He nodded at the hand holding her glass. ‘You shouldn’t bite – there’s stuff under your nails that isn’t good for you.’
She put down the gin and curled her fingers into the palm of her hand to hide her ragged cuticles.
‘Metal fragments under the nail of the pinkie, paint under the middle finger and sawdust under the thumb.’
Really? She’d changed the lock on Aunt Lettie’s garage door, filed the burrs, sanded the new jamb and painted, which would explain the swarf and other fragments, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of checking whether he had really seen it.
‘I’m guessing you live alone.’
And so what? She was beginning to regret giving this cheeky bastard permission.
He pointed at the shoes under her seat. ‘You travel wearing work boots to keep your carry-on luggage light. Those anti-static soles and steel-reinforced toecaps must weigh a bit.’
Jaq’s feet were not abnormally small for a woman, but she had never encountered a construction site that stocked adequate safety boots in her size.
He tapped the boarding pass on her armrest. ‘You’re travelling from Teesside. The North-East of England must have the highest concentration of chemical manufacturing in England.’
What’s left of it.
‘So, I guess you are an executive in the chemical industry, off to kick ass in China. Right?’
‘Wrong,’ she said. But an alarmingly creditable attempt.
The attendant cleared their plates, changed their glasses and served the main course.
‘Am I losing my touch?’ He turned to her and wrinkled his nose. ‘Completely wrong?’
She sipped the new wine. A rich Malbec. Robust and velvety at the same time. It was possible for strength and softness to coexist. ‘Partly right,’ she relented. ‘I trained as a chemical engineer.’
He clicked his fingers and rolled his shoulders. ‘Score!’
‘You really figured all that out from those small clues?’
‘My job is to please.’ He dug into his food. ‘To please, you must understand. To understand you must observe.’
‘Seriously?’
‘No.’ He grinned. ‘I might have caught a glimpse of your frequent flyer profile. The rest was guesswork.’
Despite all attempts to hold it in, her laughter escaped in a throaty chortle. At last, something she believed. Then a moment of doubt.
‘You asked to sit next to me.’ She’d been here before. Beautiful young men with ulterior motives taking an unusual interest in her. What did he know? Her last mission had been hushed up, governments reluctant to reveal the extent to which they had lost control of the trade in chemical weapons. One or two newspapers had run speculative articles. Could he have targeted her because of past misadventures?
He shook his head. ‘Relax, this was the only free seat in business class. Some dude missed his connection.’
She turned and looked behind her. The upper cabin appeared full. She scrutinised his face. ‘So, how did you get into your current line of work?’
His green eyes sparkled. ‘You mean, why is a nice boy like me working as a stripper?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I used to swim. For my country.’
The accent was Eastern, though his English was perfect. ‘And your country is?’
‘Russia.’
She nodded, impressed despite herself. Russia trained formidable athletes.
‘We were paid in prize money. Then I injured my shoulder.’ He rubbed his left shoulder with a large right hand. ‘When things got tough, the prize money ran out. The swim team were far from home. Someone offered me a way to make a quick buck. I enjoyed it. Maybe more than the swimming.’ He grinned. ‘So, in a nutshell, Jaq Silver, I do this for the money.’
You and me both.
‘And I’m not alone. There’s not a country in the world where I can’t find a superb athlete looking for a bit of work on the side.’
A
stripper in every port.
‘Although not all of them can dance.’ He yawned. ‘But all the international travel gets a bit much. Which is why I persuaded this lovely gentleman here,’ he beamed at the cabin attendant, who blushed as he cleared away their plates and glasses, ‘to find me a seat in business class.’
The cabin attendant said something, and Timur replied in fluent Mandarin.
‘Lovely talking to you both,’ he returned to English, ‘but I badly need my beauty sleep.’ Timur pressed the button to turn his chair into a flat bed. ‘Goodnight, Jaq Silver. Sweet dreams.’
‘Anything else, madam?’ the steward asked. ‘Coffee, a liqueur?’
Jaq suppressed a burp. ‘No, thanks.’
‘Sir?’
But the Master of Disguise was already asleep.
The huge Boeing 747-400 had started its descent when she woke after a full, unbroken eight hours of sleep. And what dreams. Delicious.
She glanced at the empty aisle seat. Her extraordinary travelling companion had vanished. Returned to his assigned seat for landing? Perhaps she had dreamed the whole mad encounter. Touchdown so smooth, only the deceleration signalled that the huge plane was on the ground.
As she was collecting her things, she found a business card in her right safety boot. A thick purple border and violet letters: Timur Zolotoy. Masters of Disguise. A contact number and a handwritten message.
Lovely to meet you, Jaq Silver. Come to the show one day.
I’ll save you a hot seat.
And a private dance.
Hong Kong, China
A plane banked as it flew over Hong Kong and turned west to the airport at Chek Lap Kok. On the rooftop of a penthouse above Kowloon Bay, a slight woman in flowing robes flung a curved sword high into the air. The steel blade caught the setting sun, sending out flashes of rose and amber as it spun. Mico arched her back and executed a backward somersault, landing on her feet just in time to catch the plummeting weapon in the leather sheath slung across her back.
She removed the blindfold and shook her ponytail free. The remnants of the silken hairband, sliced open by the blade, fluttered to the floor.
‘Bravo!’ Stretched out on his lounger beside the pool, Sun Chang applauded, his eyes crinkling with affection for his daughter. ‘How was your trip? I haven’t seen you since you got back.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Terrible flight. I hate long haul, so many hours sitting still. It messes up my training.’
He laughed.
‘Don’t you get bored? Training all day?’
She skipped over to him, bare feet squeaking on the polished wood floor. ‘Don’t you get bored, drinking beer all day?’
He raised his cheek for her kiss, belching as she bent towards him. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she brushed his forehead with her lips before turning away and settling herself on another lounger.
‘This is work. A new brand.’ He pushed the frosted glass towards her. ‘Here, try it.’
She patted her lean stomach. ‘Too many calories.’
‘Aha, thought you might say that. This is a special light beer, our new brand for women.’
She picked up the bottle from the table between them and inspected the label.
‘Why the rabbit?’
‘Hop!’ He chuckled to himself. ‘Don’t you see? Beer is made with hops – rabbits hop, girls love cuddly rabbits.’
‘Little girls don’t drink beer. Your target is adult women.’ Careful. Her sexual politics, and preferences, were a taboo subject. ‘Your idea? The rabbits?’
‘Yes. D’you like it?’
She didn’t say what she really thought.
‘Let me taste.’
He handed her the glass.
It was surprisingly good. Bright, bubbly, clean. ‘I like it.’
He clapped his hands with delight.
‘I have business in Shanghai next week. Some foreign guy who insists on a face-to-face meeting.’ He handed her a card with a purple border: Timur Zolotoy. ‘I might need a translator. Fancy coming along? You could take a look at the launch plans for Hop! Give me your professional opinion. As an adult woman.’ He sighed. ‘An adult, unmarried woman.’
‘Dad . . .’ she warned.
‘You’re almost thirty, Mico. You can’t put it off for ever.’
‘Maybe I haven’t found the right person yet.’
‘Then consider the ones I find for you. Meet them. Give them a chance. Yang’s cousin is a millionaire already, and my accountant has a son just back from Harvard . . .’
‘If you bring this up again, I’m moving out.’
‘It’s hard for me to understand your generation.’ He sighed. ‘Meet me halfway. Come with me next week? Get to know more about the beer business.’
Why not? She owed her father that much. They didn’t need her on the film set; her new fight scenes would be shot on location at the Shaolin Temple. And she could make a side trip to see Yun in Beijing. Her heart raced with happiness at the prospect.
‘I’ll think about it.’
Shanghai, China
Shanghai Pudong airport stretched as far as the eye could see. A bridge connected the two terminals across multi-lane roads to a central train station. Pedestrian conveyor belts, crammed with people, ferried a river of travellers in both directions.
Disembarking ahead of the masses, Jaq marched straight up to an immigration desk. She presented her passport and landing card with trepidation. How much police information was shared? Given her history, would they turn her back at the border? If she was refused entry, then there was nothing she could do except get on a plane back to Europe. She would have fulfilled her obligation to Vikram and Sophie, enjoyed an excellent meal and a good sleep and earned enough to keep her mother in care.
The immigration official, a young Chinese woman ramrod straight in an impeccable uniform, stamped her passport and waved her through. Jaq emerged into a cathedral of light: huge glass panels held in a vast lattice of white-coated metal tubes rising to a high vaulted roof, the afternoon sun diffracted and tempered to an even glow.
She eschewed the travelator, choosing to walk, glad to stretch her legs. Her little trolley made a clicking noise as it rolled towards the Transrapid. Vikram had booked a hotel limousine transfer, but Jaq cancelled it, preferring to make her own way. After hearing so much about the fastest train in the world, she wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to experience it for herself. Magnetic levitation – another successful application of rare earth magnets.
A sleek white train hugged the platform: pointed nose, tinted windows, orange and blue go-faster stripes. The doors slid open with a sigh, and Jaq stepped inside.
She checked her emails. A short reply from Dan with an address, a date and a time. Tonight, in the centre of Shanghai. She put the address into her phone.
The doors locked with a soft click and the train began to float forwards. Jaq ran through each stage. First, lift – the repulsion between two similar magnets that allows the train to rise above the rails. Next, stability – the compensating forces that stop it veering sideways or flipping over as it lifts. And finally, propulsion – the repulsion between magnets that drives the train forwards, free of friction from rails or wheels, thanks to the lift.
The magnetic river was a British invention. Eric Laithwaite, a professor at Imperial College London, built the first full-size working model in the 1940s – a single linear motor giving lift, stability and propulsion. How tragic, how predictable, that such a groundbreaking piece of British engineering could only be commercialised by others. Her adopted country was famous for the brilliance of its engineers, infamous for its inability to value them or their inventions. Because of men like Frank Good. Men who had no interest in progress or innovation, men who only cared for short-term self-interest, who only saw this year’s bonus.
The train sped past marsh and open fields. The speedometer on the ceiling clicked up to 100 km/hr in less than a minute. Jaq was pushed back into her chair. Newton�
��s second law: force equals mass multiplied by acceleration.
The ride was smooth, even as the speedometer hit 200 then 300 km/hr; there was no noise or vibration. Only the wind outside, rushing over the smooth aerodynamic shape. A strange sensation; keep your eyes on the horizon, or middle distance, and it felt much like any other train ride. But if you tried to focus on the side of the track, everything became a dizzy blur. The train tilted as it rounded a bend, then straightened up and uncoiled, moving faster and faster. Four hundred km/hr and rising. No vibration, nothing inside the carriage to suggest the true speed. The speedometer settled at 431 km/hr, and the sleek white train zoomed towards the skyscrapers of Shanghai.
Without the acceleration, everything felt normal. Newton’s first law: it’s as natural to be in motion as it is to be at rest. Without friction, without resistance, moving forward takes no more energy than remaining static. There is no reason not to continue.
Indefinitely.
So much easier to travel, to stay on the move, embrace the new, never look back.
The hotel sat a few blocks back from the Huangpu river. A white-gloved, top-hatted flunkey opened the door on to an elegant lobby. Beyond the leather armchairs, a sweeping stone staircase led up to the master suite: a bedroom with a curtained four-poster bed, a bathroom with double sink, rain shower and enormous free-standing claw-footed bath, a small study with office chair, desk and laptop docking station already connected to a keyboard, screen and printer, and finally a sitting room with brocade sofas, glass tables, a huge TV and quadraphonic sound system.
Jaq locked the door, stripped off and headed straight for the shower. Lost in the pleasure of hot water pummelling her skin, she did not emerge for a while.
So, this was the suite that Sophie reserved year-round, guaranteeing its availability at forty-eight hours’ notice. Krixo must be doing well to run to such extravagance.
Wrapped in a bathrobe, Jaq drew back the curtains and gazed out at the busy street below. Daylight was fading fast. Time to move.
She checked her phone for the address where Dan had suggested they meet. Very close. There was something vaguely unsettling about the brevity of the message. The fact that he didn’t ask if it was convenient. Dan was an engineer, not given to flowery language, but he was always polite and had a superb command of English. It wasn’t like him to be so curt. He must have been in a hurry.
The Chemical Reaction Page 10