Code Name Komiko

by Naomi Paul

  Lian took a deep breath. It’s a party, after all, she thought, starting up the ramp. Just like any other party: drinks, music, hors d’oeuvres, snooping for secrets about a corrupt multimillionaire clothing mogul. Maybe a round of charades.

  The boat had looked impressive from the dock, but it was almost unbelievable to behold once you were on deck. Every chrome surfaced gleamed, and every inch of teakwood was perfectly polished. Lian could only guess at the dimensions, but two decks rose above the main one she was on, and the guests standing at both the bow and the stern were a bit out of focus from where she’d boarded amidships.

  This deck and the one above it were filled with well-dressed partygoers from seemingly every corner of the globe, men and women in designer labels to complement their diverse skin tones and bone structures. These are the beautiful people, Lian thought . . . and the ones who aren’t beautiful must have to find consolation in their insane wealth. She felt acutely aware of being neither, and the same fraudulent sensation she’d had at the Fàn Xī dinner crept over her once more. Then she chided herself for the moment of self-pity: here she was, spending Friday night on a yacht, while people like Zan were stuffed into a musty shoe-box apartment in the Chungking Mansions.

  Perspective was important, she reminded herself.

  She looked both ways down the deck, then shrugged and started for the stern, hoping she’d spot someone she knew. As she rounded the corner, she did. Rand Harrison, glass of champagne in his hand and spiritless smile on his face, was holding forth among a crowd of his guests.

  Lian stopped in her tracks. The European couple who had been walking behind her didn’t notice, and bumped into her, causing her to stumble. So of course it was at that moment that Harrison looked up, pausing between words as their eyes locked. He just as quickly looked away and continued speaking, and Lian apologized to the European couple, ducking around them to walk the other direction. Harrison’s gaze was an appraisal and a threat, all at once. She wanted to move away from it quickly. As quickly as she could in high heels.

  On the opposite end of the yacht, she found Mingmei front and center like some exquisitely carved figurehead, the ivory folds of her dress rippling in the light sea breeze. Lian tapped her on the shoulder and called her name timidly.

  “You traitor,” Mingmei said when she turned around. She was all smiles, though, her eyes wide as she looked Lian up and down. “I’ve never seen that dress before! You clearly went shopping without me there to approve. It’s my one joy in life, and you stole it from me!”

  Lian blushed. Her black cocktail number had been a hasty choice, the first thing she had seen in her size. She had snatched it off the rack. It had a severe diagonal cut at the hem. She hadn’t been at all sure about it as the clerk had run her credit card, but she’d been in a hurry and didn’t want to linger at the shops. It was bad enough that she had had to shell out for a brand-new smartphone that week; add the dress to her tab, and this investigation into Rand Harrison was becoming expensive.

  “How did I do?” she asked Mingmei. “Is it completely hideous, or just mostly hideous?”

  Mingmei let her lip quiver and her eyes go moist; it was an act Lian knew well. “Oh, Lian,” she said. “All this time, I thought you were ignoring my fashion advice. But now I see that I taught you well. I really am amazing, aren’t I?”

  Lian smiled and hugged her friend. “You’re not wrong, Mingmei.”

  “Sure. But one day I might be, and it’ll be a humbling new experience.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve been a little ‘off’ lately,” Lian said. “It’s been a . . . strange week, starting at the beach and spiraling out from there. But that’s no excuse for me to lose my temper with you.”

  Mingmei hugged her tighter. “Forgiven and forgotten. I’m just so glad you decided to come out tonight, after all. What changed your mind?”

  Lian didn’t think it was politic to mention that she was hoping to bring their host’s empire to its knees, so instead she said, “The little miniature quiches they’re serving.”

  Mingmei laughed as she let Lian go, then was immediately distracted by something just behind them. Lian turned to see Matt approaching, a drink in each hand and a brown-haired boy about his age close behind. When Matt caught Lian’s eye, he raised one of the citrus-trimmed glasses as if to toast her arrival.

  “Excellent,” Mingmei said, switching to English. “Here comes Matt with something fruity!”

  “I told you, his name is Taylor,” Matt said as the boys joined them. “And just because he wears glasses and listens to Death Cab for Cutie records, that doesn’t make him ‘fruity.’”

  The other boy smiled and held out his hand to Lian. “Taylor,” he said to her, “as advertised. You must be Lian?”

  She shook his hand and nodded. “Nice to meet you, Taylor. And way to nail the pronunciation.”

  “Yeah, Matt coached me. Said he’d been enough of a dumbass for both of us when he’d met you, so I didn’t need to suffer.”

  Lian smiled at him and accepted the lime-festooned cocktail that Matt offered her.

  “We were at the bar when I spotted you coming on board,” he said. “So I grabbed an extra Long Island Iced Tea for you.”

  “Ooh,” Mingmei said, taking a sip. “‘Long Island.’ It sounds like such an exotic place.”

  The boys looked at one another and cracked up. “Anyway, ladies,” Matt said, “I hope it’s about your speed.”

  “Lian’s speed is usually both feet on the brake pedal,” Mingmei said. “But tonight we’re going to make her cut loose a little.”

  Conversation with Matt and Taylor came easily, and as Lian took tiny sips of her very strong drink, she was surprised to discover that she was actually having a good time. A waiter with a tray of the little quiches even passed near them, and she grabbed a couple. Okay, she reminded herself. Don’t forget why you’re really here or anything, but admit that this turned into a decent Friday night.

  “Remember I was telling you how great David Bowie is?” Matt was asking Mingmei. “I slipped the DJ a couple bucks to put some on. If you don’t love him through this sound system, then I don’t know what to do with you.”

  Lian coughed as a bit of the hors d’oeuvre went down wrong. “Please,” she said to Matt. “Please tell me you didn’t request ‘China Girl.’ Please tell me you at least have that much tact.”

  He fixed her with a curious look, as if he couldn’t believe she’d think so little of him. “No, Lian. I asked him to spin one I thought you’d dig. It’s a little-known demo track called ‘I’m Afraid of Americans.’”

  She felt her cheeks flush. “Yeah. Well played.”

  Synth bleeps and a fuzzy bass line began to unwind from the speakers, and Matt grinned. “Hey, it’s on now!” He took Mingmei’s hand and gave a theatrical, courtly bow. “Care to dance, m’lady?”

  “Of course,” Mingmei said, handing Lian her glass—which had just ice and a lime slice in it now—and heading with Matt for the dance floor inside the main deck lounge.

  “So, um,” Taylor said to Lian. “You’re not actually afraid of Americans, are you? Because that could make this conversation awkward.”

  “I’m only afraid of the ones who give me a reason,” she answered. She didn’t think Taylor was one of those; he was soft spoken, even a little shy, and kept pushing his black-framed glasses up his nose every time he made a joke. Charmingly nerdy.

  “To be honest,” she continued, “I haven’t met many Americans in my life. You and Matt and his father are kind of my metric, right now.”

  “Huh. Well, two out of three ain’t bad,” Taylor mused.

  “Meaning?”

  “Oh. Well, um, I guess I put myself in the ‘win’ column,” he said. “I’m biased, though. But Matt, he’s a good guy. No question.”

  Lian thought that “no question” was a little generous.

  “He and I grew up on the same street,” Taylor said. “We went to the same school, always hung out together.
He’d come over and we’d read my comic books, or play video games, or make up weird concoctions in the blender and dare each other to drink them. Now that he’s moved out here, you know, that’s the Matt I think of when I miss him.”

  Lian thought of a cynical reply but bit her tongue. Taylor’s version of Matt was quite a lot different to her own.

  “So when you’re deciding which Americans to be afraid of,” Taylor said as the song was winding down, “maybe give Matt a break. It’s been a rough time for him, pretty steadily. I mean, on top of all that, being uprooted from his hometown to move halfway around the world, and he and Ashlynn breaking up, and everything.”

  “Ashlynn?” Lian said. “The blonde girl, his girlfriend?”

  “Ex-girlfriend. Couldn’t do the long-distance thing, so they called it off a few weeks ago. He’s seemed pretty depressed the last month or so, when I’ve talked to him, so it’s nice to see him enjoying himself again.”

  He pointed over to where Matt was instructing Mingmei on how to use the telescope mounted to the starboard deck near the stern. The two of them were laughing, his hand on her back, her eyes on the stars.

  Lian watched them for a moment and decided she wasn’t afraid of American Matt. She might actually be coming around to thinking he was a decent guy. But why, she wondered, had he lied about still having a girlfriend in the States?

  “It’s weird. All of this—” Taylor swept his hand to indicate the yacht party—“this isn’t who he is at all. Deep down, he’s still the kid wearing oversized hand-me-downs from his big brother, T-shirts of bands that were before our time.” He smiled and glanced over to where Matt and Mingmei were dancing. “He was rocking Ziggy Stardust shirts before he’d even heard of David Bowie.”

  “Wait,” Lian said. “Why was he wearing hand-me-downs?”

  Taylor fidgeted a little, pretending to be fascinated by the label on his beer bottle. Clearly, he was thinking he’d already said more than he should have. “Well, um, his dad—”

  “Taylor,” Rand Harrison said, clapping him hard on the shoulder—aggression masquerading as familiarity? Lian wondered. Certainly Taylor seemed to chafe at the touch.

  “I’m so glad you could come visit Matthew for a bit. I know it means the world to him,” Harrison said. “But now I wonder if you’d allow me a moment alone with the lovely Ms. Hung here.”

  Taylor shot her a quick look, as if to make sure she’d be okay. She gave him a thin smile that she hoped didn’t betray her unease.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Harrison,” Taylor said. “This is a pretty hip little shindig you’ve got going on, by the way.”

  “Be sure to fill out a comment card to that effect,” Harrison said, dismissing him.

  Lian stood at the prow, her elbows on the railing, gazing out across the harbor. She was acutely aware of Harrison’s presence next to her: a little too close, a little too intimidating. His champagne glass was gone; in its place was a mostly empty tumbler of Scotch. But his tone was stony sober. “I’m pleased that you could join us here tonight, Lian,” he said. “I know the Seaward isn’t much to look at. I think of her as a ‘starter yacht.’ A test run toward something more substantial.”

  Maybe he was trying to joke with her, but he didn’t crack a smile.

  “Speaking of which,” he said, turning on one elbow so he could look down the ship’s vast length to where Mingmei and his son stood chasing comets. “You should know that Matthew’s spoken very highly of you, these last few days.”

  “Really?” Lian said, genuinely surprised. “It’s hard to believe he’s spoken of me at all.”

  “Oh yes. He fears you’re going to give him quite a run for his money in your economics course. If you’ll pardon my pun.”

  “Leading indicators are that he’s invested in doing well in that class,” she said. “If you’ll pardon mine.”

  Harrison appraised her with his plastic smile. “Very clever. I applaud your wit, Lian . . . or, rather, I give you an invisible hand.”

  She returned the smile, but with no more sincerity than she was being offered.

  “My son, as I’m sure you know, is a very intelligent kid. So, understandably, it’s a trait he values in others. And from your role as the devil’s advocate at our dinner last Sunday, it’s clear to me that you’re a very intelligent kid, too. That your mode of thinking is very . . . deep.”

  As he said the word, he flicked his wrist, and the ice cubes from his glass sailed over the chopping black water and sunk with a quiet splash.

  Lian felt a chill run up her spine. There were very few people on the decks, and none near them at the prow. Almost all of the guests were inside the lounge, dancing to a techno remix of some brassy big band tune or shouting their conversations at the bar. Even Matt and Mingmei had wandered somewhere out of sight.

  No one would see Harrison push her over the railing. No one would hear her screams over the hubbub of the party.

  “I like to consider myself a somewhat intelligent man, too,” he said. “Intuitive, even. And I’ve intuited that you, Lian, don’t think all that much of me. What I’ve done to cultivate that feeling, I can’t imagine, but neither can I pretend I don’t sense it from you.”

  She said nothing. What was there to say?

  “All I ask,” he said, leaning uncomfortably close, “is that you give me a chance. I just feel that would be the . . . intelligent thing to do.”

  She smiled and opened her mouth, knowing she needed to respond but not sure what words might come out. Before any could, Harrison’s phone vibrated in his coat pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the incoming number, and turned to her.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” he said. “Duty calls.”

  He stalked away several paces, and then answered the call as he disappeared into a stairwell. Lian watched him go, unsure of what to make of their encounter.

  A moment later, a light went on in the second deck cabin, and Harrison appeared, pacing the room: passing before the windows, vanishing for a moment, walking back the other way. If Lian leaned back on the railing, she had a pretty good view of him. He was agitated, clearly. As he talked, he gesticulated with his free hand. There was anger in his face and posture, to be sure. But as the phone call went on and Lian watched closely, she was certain she saw something else. Something unexpected.

  Rand Harrison looked scared.

  SEVENTEEN

  “This one,” Matt shouted over falsetto singing, scatting, and a two-note bass line. “This one is one of the all-time greats. It’s him teaming up with this other band, Queen. It was huge! This was like 1981, 1982.”

  “You’re making up years that never existed!” Mingmei yelled back. “Surely, the world was a void before I was born!”

  Lian watched the adults on the dance floor, doing awkward, tipsy adult dances to the mid-tempo song. Clearly, they had all existed before Mingmei was born—several of them knew when to shout along with the singer’s plea, “Let me out!”

  Lian wanted to shout it, too. The run-in with Rand Harrison had left her shaken and had seemed like the perfect cue to call it a night. She’d only entered the lounge to say good-bye to Mingmei and the boys but had gotten swept up in Matt’s pop music lecture.

  “Hey,” he said as the epic track quieted for a few measures of harmonizing and snaps. “It’s so damn noisy in here, I can’t hear myself think. Which is a shame, because I am awesome at thinking. Why don’t we freshen up our drinks and head up to the second deck for a little?”

  Before she could protest, Lian found her own voice drowned out again by swelling guitars. The others made for the bar, but she caught Mingmei’s elbow.

  “Listen,” Lian said. “I think I’m going to make a break for it. I’m exhausted, and I’ve got ninety minutes of violin practice before I can sleep, so . . .”

  “Don’t even think about leaving,” Mingmei chastised her. “One, you’re on a yacht, which is an opportunity you might not have again until my fragrance line becomes an international phenomenon
. Two, you look amazing in that dress. Three, Taylor said he was having a great time talking to you—that you were smart and funny and cute. I made him repeat the last one, so I know it’s true. He really likes you, Lian!”

  “Oh. Fantastic.”

  Mingmei’s eyes narrowed. “Because there’s something wrong with a boy liking you? Or because you’ve got so many guys throwing themselves at you that there’s no room for one more?”

  “Ouch,” Lian said, though she smiled. “Words can hurt, Mingmei.”

  In truth, Taylor was a good-looking, quietly pleasant boy, and if she didn’t have a corporate empire to topple, its evil CEO creeping her out, and a senior year schedule filled to bursting, Lian might have let herself be flattered by his attention.

  “Just stick around a while longer,” Mingmei begged. “Otherwise he’ll feel like a third wheel. And, hey, if you wind up making out with him a little, even better! He’ll be on a plane back to Colorado in a couple of days, so you’re spared the awkwardness of running into him later.”

  Lian shook her head, even as she let Mingmei take her hand and lead her after the boys. “You and I are very different people, Mingmei,” she said.

  “Too true. But, slowly, I am lowering you to my standards.”

  The second deck boasted an impressive aft-facing sunken lounge, replete with billiards and foosball tables, an arcade Galaga video game, a flatscreen television that Lian judged to be sixty inches or more diagonally, and sofas swathed in the softest leather she’d ever felt. Matt let them in with a keycard and locked the door behind them.

  “I nicknamed this the Fabius Maximus Suite,” he told them. “Fifty bucks to anyone who can figure out why.”

  Lian wrinkled her brow and looked around. The whole room seemed designed for a guy Matt’s age: two ergonomic, speaker-augmented gaming chairs rested against a side wall. An open cabinet displayed an impressively designed stereo with an iPod dock and a CD carousel. Dozens of discs lined the shelves—mostly American bands she wasn’t familiar with, but some classical works as well. Ten or more books lay on various surfaces, all with bookmarks inside: some fiction, some history, a Nassim Taleb that Mr. Chu had recommended (but that wasn’t on the syllabus). A Colorado Rockies pennant hung on the wall in between an oversized calendar of Marvel comic heroes and a framed poster of some movie about Brad Pitt and a bar of pink soap. A coffee table book on military engagements throughout the ages.