Hanging his jacket in the foyer closet, Canning said, “Well, it isn't as nice as the George V in Paris or the Sherry-Netherland in New York. But I suppose it'll do.”
She was looking quite pleased with herself. “We've got to spend the next sixteen or seventeen hours in here. Can't take a chance of going out to dinner or breakfast and being spotted by your friends from the Imperial. We'll have food sent up. So… If we're going to be imprisoned, we might as well have all the comforts.”
He sat down in the other armchair. “We're going to Peking in a French jet?”
“That's right.”
“Tell me about it?”
“Didn't Bob McAlister tell you about it?”
“He said you would.”
She said, “It belongs to Jean-Paul Freneau, a very classy art dealer who has headquarters in Paris and branch offices throughout the world. He deals in paintings, sculpture, primitive art — everything. He's a valued friend of the Chairman.”
Canning made a face. “Why would the Chairman maintain a close friendship with a rich, capitalistic French art dealer?”
Lee Ann had the rare habit of looking directly at whomever she was talking to, and now her black eyes locked on Canning's. A shiver went through him as she spoke. “For one thing, now that China is at last moving into the world marketplace, she needs contacts with Western businessmen she feels she can trust. Freneau has helped to arrange large contacts for the delivery of Chinese handicrafts to the Common Market countries. More importantly, Freneau has helped the Chairman to buy back some of the priceless Chinese art taken out of the country by followers of Chiang Kai-shek in 1949. Every time some wealthy Nationalist puts a piece or a collection on the market, Freneau is there with the highest bid. He's the agent for Red China in its attempt to keep the Chinese heritage from being spread throughout the private collections of the West.”
“And why is Freneau so willing to cooperate with the CIA?”
“He isn't,” she said. “He's cooperating with Bob McAlister. They've been friends for years.”
“When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow morning at nine.”
He thought for a moment. Then: “I guess the only other thing is the list of names. The three agents we have in China.”
“You really want me to go through that now?”
He sighed. “No. I guess tomorrow on the plane is soon enough. But I do want to know about you.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“You're a surprise.”
“How?”
“When McAlister described Tanaka… Well, I didn't think…”
Her lovely face clouded. “What are you trying to say? That you don't like working with someone who isn't a nice lily-white WASP?”
“What?” He was surprised by the bitterness in her voice.
“I am as American as you are,” she said sharply.
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. It isn't your ethnic background that bothers me. I just wasn't expecting a woman.”
Gradually her face unclouded. “That's exactly Bob McAlister's sense of humor.”
“So tell me about yourself.”
“If we're going to sit here and jabber much longer, I want a drink.” She stood up and took off her trench-coat. She was wearing a red silk blouse and a long black skirt, and she looked better than any woman he had ever seen. “Can I get you something?”
“Whatever you're having,” he said.
She came back from the bathroom a few minutes later and handed him his glass. “Vodka and orange soft drink.”
He clinked glasses with her in a wordless toast. After he had taken a good swallow of the concoction, he said, “Once in the car and then again just a few minutes ago, you got very hot under the collar when you thought I was questioning your Americanism. Why so sensitive?”
Hesitating for a moment, pausing to sip her drink she finally said, “I'm sorry. It's a problem I have, a psychological problem I understand but can't lick.” She took another drink. She seemed unwilling to say anything more, then suddenly explained it with a rush of words that came almost too fast to be intelligible: “My mother was Japanese-American, and my father was half Japanese and half Chinese. He owned a small shop in San Francisco's Chinatown. In 1942, about the middle of May, they were taken from their home and put in a concentration camp. You must know about the camps where Japanese-Americans were kept during World War Two. They called them 'assembly centers' but they were concentration camps, all right Barbed wire, armed guards, machine-gun posts guarding them… They spent more than three years in the camp. When they got out, after V-J Day, they found my father's store had been stripped of merchandise and rented to someone else. He received no compensation. They had also been evicted from their home and lost their personal possessions. They had to start all over again. And it wasn't easy — because banks and businessmen just weren't in the mood to help any Japanese-Americans.”
Leaning forward in his chair, Canning said, “But you aren't old enough to have lived through that.”
“I'm twenty-nine,” she said, her eyes never wavering from his. There was a thread of fear woven through those black irises now. “I wasn't born until well after the war. That's true. But I was raised in an emotionally torn hoursehold. My parents were quietly proud of their Asian ancestry, but after their ordeal in the camp they were anxious to prove themselves 'native' Americans. They became over-Americanized after that. They even stopped writing to relatives in the Old World. They taught me Chinese and Japanese in the privacy of our home, but they forbid me to speak it outside the home. I was to speak only English when I was out of their company. I was twenty-four before anyone but my mother and father knew I was multilingual. And now I seem to have this need to prove how American I am.” She smiled. “About the only good thing to come of it is a very American drive to achieve, achieve, achieve.”
And she had achieved a great deal by the age of twenty-rune. While she was still twenty she had graduated from the University of California. By twenty-five she'd obtained a master's and a doctorate in sociology and psychology from Columbia University. She had done some speech-writing for a successful Vice-Presidential candidate, and it was in that capacity that she had met and become friends with Bob McAlister and his wife. When she was twenty-six she had applied for a position with the CIA, had passed all the tests, and had backed out at the last minute when she'd accepted a proposal of marriage from one of her professors at Columbia. The marriage had failed a few months ago, and she had been more than available when McAlister had asked for her help in the Dragonfly investigation.
“I took the oath and signed the secrecy pledge the first time I applied for work with the agency,” she said. “So there was really no technical reason why Bob couldn't tell me everything and ring me in on this.”
Canning stood up and said, “Another drink?”
“Please.”
When he came back with two more vodka atrocities, he said, “I'm damned glad he did ring you in. You're the most efficient partner I've ever worked with.”
She didn't blush or demur, and he respected her for that. She just nodded and said, “That's probably true. But enough about me. Let's talk about you.”
Canning was not the sort of man who liked to talk about himself, and especially not to people whom he had just met. Yet with her he was talkative. She sat with her head tilted to the left and her mouth slightly open as if she were tasting what he said as well as listening to it.
Around seven o'clock they stopped drinking and talking long enough for her to order their dinner from room service. While she did that, he took a hot shower, brushed his teeth, and shaved. When he came out of the bathroom in fresh slacks and a T-shirt, the room-service hot cart was set up and the food was ready.
While he was in the shower, she had changed into a floor-length silk lounging robe which had a peaked hood after the fashion of a monk's habit. The silk was forest-green, with a decorative gold zipper all the way down the front. She was striking, exotic.
&nb
sp; They ate mizutaki, the white meat of the chicken stewed in an earthenware pot and flavored with many herbs. When the chicken was gone, they drank the excellent broth. This was accompanied by piping hot sake which was delicious but which — Lee Ann explained — tasted like a spoiled sauterne when it was cool. For dessert, there were mandarin-orange slices and shredded almonds. To finish the meal and stretch out the evening, there were six small bottles of Kirin, the excellent lager that was an equal to the best European beers.
At some point, they adjourned to one of the beds, where they stretched out side by side, each with a bottle of Kirin. The conversation continued nonstop, and Canning found that the sound of her voice was like a tranquilizer.
Shortly before ten o'clock she went to use the bathroom, and when she came back she was nude. She was exquisite. Her breasts were small but perfectly shaped, upthrust, with nipples as dark as baker's chocolate. Her stomach was as flat as that of a young boy. Her navel was convex rather than concave; a sweet, protruding nubbins. Her pubic thatch was thick and dark, and her legs were as smooth and sinuous as any he had ever seen in Las Vegas showrooms or in the Crazy Horse Saloon or in the airbrushed pages of Playboy. Yet for all of this, there was something childlike and vulnerable about the way she stood before him.
He said, “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe it's the wine.”
“No.'
She switched off all but one light.
“I'm too old for you.”
“You're younger than you are. And I'm older than I am.”
“It's so fast.”
“That's the American way. I'm an American woman, and American women get what they want. I want you.” She knelt on the bed beside him. “Relax. Enjoy. Remember that we could be in Peking when Dragonfly is detonated. We could be dead tomorrow.”
“Is that the only reason for this?” he asked.
“No. I like you.”
He reached for her.
She stretched out on top of him.
He tasted her mouth.
After a while she undressed him.
His erection was like a post. When she touched it he felt a quick flash of guilt and remembered Irene. But that passed, and he slipped into a pool of sensation.
Afterward, she got two fresh bottles of Kirin. They sat up in bed, drinking. They touched one another, gently, tentatively, as if to reassure themselves that they had been together.
At some point in the night, after the Kirin was gone, when she was lying with her head upon his chest, he said, “I told you about my son.”
“Mike.”
“Yes. What I didn't tell you was that he thinks of me as a murderer.”
“Are you?”
“In a sense.”
“Who have you killed?”
“Agents. The other side.”
“How many?”
“Eleven.”
“They would have killed you?”
“Of course.”
“Then you're no murderer.”
“Tell him that.”
“The meek don't inherit the earth,” she said. “The meek are put in concentration camps. And graves.”
“I've tried to tell him that.”
“But he believes in pacifism and reason?”
“Something of the sort.”
“Wait until he finds most people won't listen to reason.”
He cupped one of her breasts. “If I told him about Dragonfly, Mike would say the world has gone mad.”
“I think poor Bob McAlister feels that way. At least a little bit. Don't you think?”
“Yes. You're right.”
“And of course, it hasn't gone mad.”
“Because it's always been mad.”
She said, “You know why I wanted you?”
“Because I'm handsome and charming?”
“A thousand reasons. But, maybe most of all — because I sensed violence in you. Death. Not that you're fond of death and violence. But you accept it. And you can deal it.”
“That makes me exotic, exciting?”
“It makes you like me.”
He said, “You've never killed anyone.”
“No. But I could. I'd make a good assassin if I believed the man I was to kill had to die for the good of mankind. There are men who need to die, aren't there? Some men are animals.”
“My liberal friends would think I'm an animal if they heard me agree with you,” he said. “But then, so would some of my conservative friends.”
“And your son. Yet without you and a few others like you, they'd all have fallen prey to the real animals a long time ago. Most men who can kill without guilt are monsters, but we need a few decent men with that ability too.”
“Maybe.”
“Or maybe we're megalomaniacs.”
“I don't know about you,” he said. “But I don't always think I'm right. In fact, I usually think I'm wrong.”
“Scratch megalomania.”
“I think so.”
“I guess we're just realists in a world of dreamers. But even if that's what we are, even if we are right, that doesn't make us very nice people, does it?”
“There are no heroes. But, Miss Tanaka, you're plenty nice enough for me.”
“I want you again.”
“Likewise.”
They made love. As before, he found in her a knowledge and enthusiasm that he had never known in a woman, a fierce desire that was beyond any lust that Irene had ever shown. None of the very civilized, very gentle lovers he had had were like this. And he wondered, as he swelled and moved within her, if it was necessary to see and accept the animal in yourself before you could really enjoy life. Lee Ann rocked and bucked upon him, gibbered against his neck, clutched and clawed at him, and worked away the minutes toward a new day.
At twelve-thirty he put through a call to the desk and asked for a wake-up message at six the next morning. Then he set his travel clock for six-ten.
Lee Ann said, “I gather you don't trust Japanese hotel operators.”
“It's not that. I'm just compulsive about a lot of things. Didn't McAlister warn you?”
“No.”
“I have a well-known neatness fetish which drives some people crazy. I'm always picking up lint and straightening pictures on the walls…”
“I haven't noticed.”
Suddenly he saw the room-service cart, covered with haphazardly stacked, dirty dishes. “My God!”
“What's the matter?”
He pointed to the cart. “It's been there all night, and I haven't had the slightest urge to clean it up. I don't have the urge now, either.”
“Maybe I'm the medicine you need.”
That could be true, he thought. But he worried that if he lost his neuroses, he might also lose that orderliness of thought that had always put him one up on the other side. And tomorrow when they got into Peking, he would need to be sharper than he had ever been before.
HSIAN, CHINA: FRIDAY, MIDNIGHT
Steam blossomed around the wheels of the locomotive and flowered into the chilly night air. It smelled vaguely of sulphur.
Chai Po-han walked through the swirling steam and along the side of the train. The Hsian station, only dimly lighted at this hour, lay on his right; aureoles of wan light shimmered through a blanket of thin, phosphorescent fog. The first dozen cars of the train were full of cargo, but the thirteenth was a passenger cab.
“Boarding?” asked the conductor, who stood at the base of the collapsible metal steps that led up into the car. He was a round-faced, bald, and toothless man whose smile was quite warm but nonetheless unnerving.
“I'm transferring from the Chungking line,” Chai said. He showed the conductor his papers.
“All the way into Peking?”
“Yes.”
“And you've come from Chungking today?”
“Yes.”
“That's quite a trip without rest.”
“I'm very weary.”
“Come aboard
, then. I'll find you a sleeping berth.”
The train was dark inside. The only light was the moonlike glow which came through the windows from the station's platform lamps. Chai could not really see where he was going, but the conductor moved down the aisle with the night sureness of a cat.
“You're going the right direction to get a sleeping berth,” the toothless man said. “These days the trains are full on their way out from the cities, on their way to the communes. Coming in, there are only vacationers and soldiers.”
In the sleeping cars, where there were no windows, the conductor switched on his flashlight. In the second car he located a cramped berth that was unoccupied. “This will be yours,” he said in a whisper.
All around them, three-deep on both sides, men and women snored and murmured and tossed in their sleep.
Chai threw his single sack of belongings onto the bunk and said, “When will we reach Peking?”
“Nine o'clock tomorrow evening,” the conductor said. “Sleep well, Comrade.”
Lying on his back in the berth, the bottom of the next-highest mattress only inches from his face, Chai thought of his home, thought of his family, and hoped that he would have good dreams. But his very last thought, just as he drifted off, was of Ssunan Commune, and instead of pleasant dreams, he endured the same nightmare that had plagued him since the end of winter: a white room, the gods in green, and the scalpel poised to dissect his soul…
THREE
WASHINGTON: FRIDAY, 3:00 P.M.
Andrew Rice ate a macaroon in one bite while he waited for McAlister's secretary to put the director on the line. He finished swallowing just as McAlister said hello. “Bob, I hope I'm not interrupting anything.”
“Not at all,” McAlister said guardedly.
“I called to apologize.”
“Oh?”
“I understand that you had to sweet-talk those federal marshals because I called them so late Wednesday evening.”
“It's nothing,” McAlister said. “I soothed everyone in a few minutes. It didn't even come close to a fist-fight.”
“Yes, but with everything you've got on your shoulders right now, you don't need labor problems too.”
“Really, I was being petty. I should never have mentioned it to the President.”
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