I turn to glare at him. “Is this the part where I apologize? John? Tell me something, how does it feel to be someone’s flying monkey? Or is that too personal a question?”
John doesn’t flinch. He also doesn’t slow down. “Let’s turn here.”
“Why? Where are you taking me?”
“We need to keep moving,” he replies. “Listen, we know that you and Mrs. Carter plan to fly out of here in the morning. If we know it, everybody knows it. Anything you do at this point will only make things more dangerous for Lillian, so—”
“Don’t call my sister by her first name.”
“Not a problem,” replies John. “Now, if you don’t mind I have a couple of questions.”
“Not until you answer one for me.”
John says, “If I can.”
“What do you know about Timothy Dobbins?”
He shakes his head.
“How about Jerome Stiles?” I ask.
“Sorry.”
I stop walking. “I guess you’ve never heard of Hydrangea Laboratories either, which would make you the most ignorant person I’ve spoken to in some time. I’m going back to the American Teacher’s Apartment.”
John raises his hands. “Mr. Mancer, giving you unnecessary information will not help me protect you. Can you grasp that?”
“I’m not going to cooperate until you answer my question,” I reply. “Can you grasp that?”
“Let’s keep walking,” John mutters, glancing around.
“Not until you tell me what you know about Timothy Dobbins.”
The cool blue eyes become ice cold. “Dobbins steals things. He and two others stole something they should have left alone.”
“What two others?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Thieves. Small fries. What does it matter?”
“A white guy and a Latino?” I ask.
John looks away. I take that for a yes.
“Then Dobbins cut them out,” I say, “so they’re after him, same as everybody else?”
“Can we walk now?” answers John.
I don’t budge. “What did he steal?”
“I’m not going to tell you that.”
“It was the virus, wasn’t it?” I ask.
John looks at me in surprise.
Shit. “Is he really my father?” I ask, trying to recover.
“We shouldn’t be standing here,” replies John. “Come on. I’ll tell you what I know.”
I don’t budge. “Is he my father?”
“You already know the answer to that, Julian.”
“How many others are there? Half-siblings? How many?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know the number. Your father couldn’t get funding, so he made money any way he could. Patent theft mostly. Then he stole the wrong thing. That’s all I’m going to tell you.”
“Why was I…”
I can’t quite bring myself to say it.
“Why was I… created?”
John says, “Look, we shouldn’t be standing here.”
“Why was I created?”
“Want to take a look at your skin?” he replies cuttingly. “Want to take a look at your sister’s skin? What do you see? Any clues? Could you possibly be any whiter? Could you two possibly be any taller? Any smarter? Any more psychic? If you were creating a master race, Julian, what would it look like? Some people think it would look a lot like you.”
I stare at him.
“He got excited when he got the first pair of twins,” says John. “He started trying to turn out more, but you couldn’t sequence genomes back then. It was a crap shoot.”
“Tim Dobbins is a white supremacist?”
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t call him that, exactly. He never went to rallies or anything. But he does like white. The whiter, the better. We have to go now.”
“I don’t believe this shit. How could—”
“We have to go now,” insists John, grabbing my sleeve.
We turn two corners in quick succession, my mind reeling. Master and race are definitely two words that should never appear in the same sentence. And who in his right mind would want to envision an entire planet populated by myself and my sister?
“Mr. Mancer,” says John, “I have an important question. What did Dobbins give you that night?”
“Nothing,” I reply irritably.
“Nothing? He exposed himself in public like that just to give you nothing?”
“There was something in the bag,” I answer, “but I refused it.”
“What was inside the bag?” asks John.
“I didn’t look.”
“What did he say was inside the bag?”
“Bird’s nest soup. I don’t know what was inside the goddamn bag.”
My companion stops in a shadow, creating a space between us. “That doesn’t seem fair. I answered your questions, and you didn’t answer mine.”
I stop and look around. We have left the busy shopping district. John and I are alone in a narrow unlit lane. Suddenly two Chinese men emerge from the shadows and position themselves behind me.
John steps a little closer. “What was that you said about… a virus?”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” I reply. “Who exactly do you work for?”
“What kind of virus?” asks John.
“You stopped the Chinese from arresting me in Beijing,” I say. “That seems to leave out China.”
“You have fifteen seconds to convince me you’re worth keeping alive.”
“Unless,” I continue, “you work for one of the Chinese factions. Or—could it be those happy North Koreans?”
“Ten,” John says, looking away.
“Did I ever tell you that you represent the lowest form of vertebrate life?” I say.
John pulls an ice pick from beneath his shirt and examines the tip. “Five.”
“And you look stupid in shorts. And your ears don’t match.”
“Three… two… ,” he says, stepping forward.
“I have the protocol,” I tell him.
John’s eyes flicker. “What protocol?”
“The one that shut down the Chinese remote viewing program. Haven’t you heard? We’re going to shut down the North Koreans in less than a month.”
“Neither you nor your sister will be alive a week from now,” he replies.
“I don’t know who you work for,” I say, voice steady, “but I know they want this protocol.”
John studies my face. Finally he says, “Okay, tell me about it.”
“First let’s talk about my sister.”
He mutters a phrase of Mandarin, and an unseen lightning bolt penetrates my right kidney. I crumple to the pavement, gasping for air.
John’s footsteps echo in the empty street as he circles me. “The protocol, Julian. What does it do?”
My hands search for something, anything.
“Julian?” says John.
My left hand closes around something familiar. It’s the handle of a wooden chopstick. I search for its mate.
John stops pacing. He’s standing at my head. “I don’t think you have any protocols, Julian. I think you’re a totally annoying waste of time. The Chinese are probably reaching the same conclusion about your sister.”
I find the other chopstick. I take one in each hand.
“And that virus you’re dangling?” he continues. “Old news. SARS is dying out. It’s a non-issue.”
A sudden noise echoes in the empty street.
John speaks a few words of Mandarin, and the two Chinese men turn and run in the direction of the sound.
“Julian, get up on your knees,” he tells me, “quickly.”
I don’t move.
“Julian. Get up on your knees. I’ll kick you if you don’t.”
With a groan, I hoist my butt into the air. John grabs me by the back of the collar and yanks me up. As I rise, I thrust the two chopsticks where his eyes should be. He lurches in surprise, and I turn and run. Stumbling alon
g the darkened street, I realize that I’m headed toward the two Chinese men. Skidding to a stop on the damp pavement, I spot a narrow alley and hurry toward it, John’s footsteps now behind, running.
Entering the alley, I encounter the silhouette of a man in a fedora. When I try to stop, my feet go out from under me. Lying helpless on the cobblestones, I watch the silhouette step closer and remove something from a pocket.
“Wait! No!” I cry.
He doesn’t wait. Striding past me, the fedora-ed silhouette meets John the instant he turns the corner. I hear the whistling of steel and a cry of pain. Unwilling to discover what comes next, I begin limping in the opposite direction.
Rounding a corner, I burst into the street right in front of a racing taxi. The taxi squeals to a stop, horn blaring. I jerk open the passenger door and throw myself inside.
Chapter Forty-Four
I awake at first light to pee a little more blood into the third-floor squatter. Stepping on the rusty handle, I try to get a flush but the blood-stained pee just swirls around a little. This is a zero-star hotel. Toilet down the hall. The drawers either don’t open or don’t close. On the other hand, there’s no “Approved for Foreigners” sign in the lobby, which should make this place relatively safe, relatively being the hinge word. Returning to my room and its sullen cot, I lower myself as gently as I can manage. No broken ribs, as far as I can tell. I double the pillow behind my head and take a moment to review the plan concocted during the hellish night.
It’s a thing of beauty, this plan.
Actually I think I’m functioning surprisingly well. Before exiting the taxi last night, I removed my shoes and stuffed them under the passenger seat. The bad guys always plant little transmitters in your shoes. Then I had the driver drop me at a shoe store where I walked right into a pair of faux Kenneth Coles. As far as I know, my former shoes are still motoring the greater Shenzhen metropolitan area. Here in my room, I went through my wallet, my belt, my everything, in search of additional bugs. There were none. I was almost disappointed.
Beyond the uncurtained window is enough light to declare dawn. Moaning, I roll to one side and push myself upright to begin the work of getting into my new shoes. Never break in a pair of shoes with a minced kidney.
I don’t particularly like that John character. The next time he offers me a taxi ride, I’m saying no.
Quite slowly, I descend the unlit staircase to greet the day. As usual, it doesn’t greet me back. I inform the desk clerk that I’ll be staying another night. I hope I lie better than I salsa.
The empty street is aswirl with a fine drizzle. Ducking into the foyer of a nearby branch bank, I try all three ATMs. Not one is working. I really need to clean out the bank account, which includes not only my return plane fare from Miriam but also my last paycheck from Lil’s school. A king’s ransom, no, but we’re not ransoming kings here.
On my third effort, one of the ATM malfunctions badly enough to spit out a random amount of cash. I grab it before the machine changes its mind.
Walking away, I see that the ATM gave me half-again what it should have. Smugly stuffing the cash into two pockets, I awaken a cabbie and hand him a written address.
We zip through the wet streets to the most affluent section of Shenzhen. I happen to know that Phoebe Sternbaum frequents an early aerobics class atop the Guanghua Building. I also know that the class dismisses at seven o’clock. By the time the driver drops me near the entrance of the building, the rain has completely stopped. I check my watch. Right on time.
Across the street from the Guanghua Building is a beef-and-noodles place. I dash in and take a table near the window. After ordering a tea, I monitor the street for any sign of a beautiful woman in a black leotard. Of course it’ll be black, as will her shoulder bag. Phoebe’s long shiny hair, meanwhile, will be loose at her neck. I find myself anticipating her exact scent after an hour of prancing at the gym. Funny how absence makes the olfactory nerve grow fonder.
Suddenly I spot her beneath a black umbrella. Phoebe’s outfit is charcoal and her raven hair loose, much as I’d pictured it. Hurrying outside, I fall in behind her and time my approach so as to reach her just as she takes the car keys out of her purse.
“They say that regular exercise leads to increased libido,” I announce.
Turning, the woman in the leotard does a double-take. “Julian.”
I do a double-take of my own. Though Phoebe has arranged her hair to partially cover the swelling and discoloration, her left jaw is badly bruised.
“My God. What happened to you?”
Phoebe attempts a laugh. It doesn’t come off. “Just fall down my bathtub,” she says. Her face sobers. “Why you no meet me? Why you don’t—”
“Could you drive while we talk? I’d like a ride, actually, if that’s at all possible.”
Wordless, Phoebe unlocks the car and we sit inside. Neither of us speaks as the Buick backs out of the parking space and enters traffic.
It’s presently impossible not to recall the last time we sat side-by-side in this car, Phoebe revealing her fear that her husband would kidnap their daughter, if not something worse. I don’t think my response was all that helpful.
Finally I turn and say, “Phoebe, I know I’ve been a bit of an ass. No excuses, okay? But I’m here to tell you something, and I hope you’ll listen. If you still want to go to Beijing, I’ll go with you.”
The woman behind the wheel levels a cool gaze at me. Even without makeup, even with the swollen jaw, this is still one beautiful woman. Her eyes go back to the road. She says nothing.
“Did your husband do that to you?” I ask.
“Why you so much care?” she replies. “I tell you he want kill me, you don’t care nothing.”
“I told you to get yourself some help.”
“I come to you get some help,” she says.
“Phoebe. I’m a substitute teacher. You have powerful friends in Beijing, and you come to a substitute teacher?”
“That why I come to you,” she replies angrily, jerking the wheel at an intersection. “You just nobody, not connected nobody, not tell nobody, not tell my husband and his…” Her voice trails off.
“Phoebe, I didn’t know that he—that you were being—you should have said something, okay?”
More silence for a minute. I knew this wouldn’t be easy.
“Why you want go Beijing?” Phoebe asks coolly.
“You said you have some friends there. Maybe those friends can help my sister.”
“What kind of trouble your sister?”
I give her the short version. Lillian’s flight was quarantined. I’m afraid she’ll catch her death. “Your government won’t help me,” I say, “and my government can’t. I need some help from outside the government.”
Phoebe gives me a wry look. “You think I know those kind of people? Outside the government? Who tell you this?”
I return the look. “You did. You said they’d find your husband, no matter where he hid.”
She stares straight ahead. “Maybe I tell you a lie.”
“That still makes you the best shot I’ve got,” I reply. “Phoebe. Look at you. You need to do something before it’s too late.”
We cover several blocks in silence.
“When you want go?” asks Phoebe.
“Can you be ready in an hour?”
“What? An—”
“I can’t wait. My sister needs help now.”
Phoebe blows out a blast of air. “One hour to change my whole life. What else you want?”
“Harold’s credit cards.”
Her mouth falls open.
“And any cash you find lying around.”
“Shit,” she hisses.
I can tell from her voice. She’s in.
“And don’t tell anybody,” I say. “No calls, no notes, no emails. Nothing, you hear? Who’s watching your daughter?”
Looking a bit pale, Phoebe says, “My mother.”
“Good. Act like everythin
g’s normal. And it is, actually. More or less. All this will blow over in a few days.”
“When I first meet you,” says Phoebe weakly, “I think, this one is trouble.”
I place my left hand on her right. “Phoebe, I—”
She pulls her hand away. “Is something I not tell you.”
“What?”
“I still not tell you,” she says.
Fair enough, considering everything I’m not telling her.
“Drop me at this bus stop,” I say. “At eight-thirty, meet me at this address.” I slip the note inside her purse. “Don’t park. Just stop the car. I’ll be watching for you.”
Gritting my teeth, I unfold myself from the passenger seat. “And remember the cash,” I say, closing the door.
Aboard Bus 126, I check my watch. Seven-twenty. Plenty of time to make my eight o’clock appointment with Tree at the travel agency. Not that I intend to keep it.
My sleepless night was just what I needed for elaborating a plan that takes into account the near certainty that Tree’s and my intentions are now common knowledge. Thus, I will not meet her at the travel agency but intercept her before she gets on the bus. If memory serves, near Tree’s bus stop are two or three small diners at the mouth of a narrow alley. At one of those diners I’ll sit behind a newspaper and watch for Tree’s approach. As soon as she shows, I grab her and we make haste to the other end of the alley where we jump into a taxi, and off we go to meet Phoebe’s splendid Buick.
I think people make too much of this spy business. It’s just common sense.
Truthfully I’m less than confident that Tree so much as made it back to her apartment last night. I certainly didn’t. But what else am I supposed to do?
What it comes down to is—and I’ve had to get really clear with myself about this—I can’t imagine taking on Beijing without Shatrina Carter.
Or with her, for that matter.
No, I haven’t exactly mentioned Tree to Phoebe yet, but there’s still plenty of time for introductions.
Through the window of Bus 126, I see we’re drawing near the narrow alley in question. I make my unsteady way to the rear door and push the button. Moments later I’m on the sidewalk, still a short hike shy of where I need to be. Seven twenty-nine. Still plenty of time.
The Year of the Hydra Page 43