by Adam Brookes
He did not respond.
“Well, whatever it is, I don’t want to catch it, so I’ll heat you some soup and leave you.”
She went into the kitchen. Mangan heard cupboards opening and closing, the clatter of pans. The flat began to fill with smell. She came back and stood in the doorway, arms folded.
“It’s heating up,” she said. “Bygvandgrød. Danish barley soup. Powerfully medicinal, obviously.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t seen you,” he said. “It’s just been…”
“I’m sorry, too,” she said. “I needed people.”
He nodded, coughed.
“How did you do that?” she said. “After the bomb. You just went away, disappeared into work. Is that how you coped?”
“It was just work.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“I hope your bedside manner is better with the afflicted mothers of Ogaden,” he said. But she didn’t smile, just leaned her head against the wall, a slow, considered blink.
“You walled yourself off,” she said. And she turned and went back to the kitchen, reappearing with a bowl of steaming soup. It was thick and a nut-brown color, made Mangan think of beef, oxtail, childhood.
“If the fever’s not gone in twenty-four hours, go to a doctor,” she said, putting on her coat. Then she stopped, went to the table, took a pen that was lying there, slid a piece of paper from Mangan’s printer. She bent and wrote, big, vigorous strokes. She turned and held up the paper for him to see. It read, “CALL MAJA, THE DANISH!!,” and then her phone number, each digit four inches high.
“And perhaps you can call me this time?” she said, and then she was gone.
He sat in the silence, spooning the soup, letting it warm him.
The fever broke some time around four in the morning, and Mangan slept. He woke at midday, shaky, and padded around the apartment, feet cold on the concrete floor, making tea, picking up his laptop and carrying it back to bed.
There was an email in his inbox, as he expected. The message cryptic.
Following your great success, we feel a meeting necessary. Please be ready travel next week. Congratulation.
He called Hoddinott.
“I have an invitation I need to run by you,” he said.
27
London
A heavyset man wearing a suit and an earpiece opened the door and Fan Kaikai stepped from the taxi in pallid June sunshine. He gestured and another man in a red porter’s uniform took his bag to a service entrance.
“Nice to see you again, sir,” the heavyset man said. “And how is university treating you?”
“Oh. Fine, thank you,” said Kai. He walked through the marbled foyer to the lift, paused for the retina scan.
In the apartment, they were already preparing dinner. In the kitchen, a chef worked on scallops and eels and some kind of fish while an assistant chopped coriander and peeled ginger. They stopped working as he entered, laid their cleavers on the worktop, made little bowing motions. He took two beers from the fridge, went to the reception room and lay on a sofa. Through the glass walls, he could see across Hyde Park, its horses, tourists, runners, sticky-fingered children, to the Serpentine, the little boats. He’d always wanted to hire such a boat, row around in circles on the still water, just like in Beijing, on the lake. But to do so felt foolish, infantile. The room was airless, silent, smelled of a chemical newness, untouched furniture.
Then the intercom was chiming and the butler was opening the door and guests were being ushered into the dining room. Kai joined them at the dining table. Champagne was poured, and some dreadful, insipid saxophone music played in the background.
Across the table from him sat the sour, disconsolate figure of his Aunt Charlotte. Real name Fan Jinmei, but she went by her English name, Charlotte Fan, as she floated from London to Hong Kong and Macau and the Caribbean, tending the family estates, nurturing the fortune, the money dancing through the darkened offshore labyrinths. A bit of a dancer herself, Aunt Charlotte. Fan had seen her inebriated and swaying to show tunes on glowing yachts, in cavernous ballrooms in Beijing, glittering salons on the Peak in Hong Kong. And she was a gambler, a regular in the choosier Macau VIP rooms, an activity that evaded family censure, which Kai never understood. Now she regarded him from across the linen tablecloth, her eyes still and resting on him, her skin stretched tight, matte and powdery, her eyebrows carefully applied in a testy arch.
Next to her, the woman. Miss Nicole Yang. His new nanny.
Some nanny. He gaped at her. She wore a tight silk shirt of silver blue, a hint of black lace beneath, lace on fair skin, and her hair was shiny, and her eyes were on him with a sort of glittering humor and intensity as if she were really interested and as if she were sending him a private message which said: Don’t mind your aunt, the old crab, and I understand you’re under pressure and you feel like a fish out of water, and we’ll talk later and sort it all out, and it’ll be all right. And while he sensed she meant to reassure, he found himself instantly on his guard.
And next to her, to his consternation, the man he knew as Uncle Checkbook, hunched, jaundiced and unsmiling in a debt collector’s suit. He had picked up a plate and was inspecting its underside as if for signs of indiscretion. Or betrayal. Why is he here? Kai had the sense of facing a tribunal of some sort, of awaiting judgment, the icy justice of his family.
Aunt Charlotte spoke, in Mandarin.
“So. Tell us about Oxford this year. You father is keen to hear all about it.”
“Oxford is fine, thank you, Aunt Charlotte. Please tell my father that I am working hard and I will ensure I get my degree, and I intend to apply for graduate school in the United States next year.”
An impressed look from Nanny Nicole. From Uncle Checkbook, a watery stare. From Aunt Charlotte, a sigh.
“Really?” intoned his aunt. “I think your father is still keen for you to return home for a while. He thinks that some experience at China National Century would help you at business school.”
“Perhaps I should discuss it with my father.”
There was a pause.
“Perhaps you should.”
He glanced at Nicole Yang, nanny, interloper and unknown quantity, and caught her eyebrow in an arch, just for him.
They picked at chicken poached in soy and sesame. The scallops came, glistening in snow peas and garlic. Aunt Charlotte frowned and spoke as if deep in thought.
“From what your father has shared with me, I think he envisages some time spent in the telecoms division. Traveling. Seeing what the corporation is doing, what it will do in the future. Southeast Asia, maybe. Africa, certainly. So much happening there.”
The boy said nothing.
“It’s a very good opportunity…” said Aunt Charlotte.
“Yes, yes, a good opportunity,” said Kai, trying to sound brisk.
Silence. Nicole piled scallops on Kai’s plate, suppressing a smile.
“And now,” said Aunt Charlotte, “please tell us about this… this unfortunate incident.”
“It was not an incident.”
“Please tell me.”
He sighed, looked down as he spoke.
“I came back to my rooms in college and my laptop was gone. Stolen. And I thought the room might have been searched.”
“And what did you do?”
“I called the police.”
“You called the police.”
“Yes.”
Aunt Charlotte lifted a scallop from her plate with her chopsticks and with an abrupt, snatching motion of the head, disposed of it. Her lips shone with grease.
“Why did you call the police?” she said.
Kai looked at her.
“When a crime is committed, it is customary to report it.”
From Uncle Checkbook, a sniff and a shake of the head.
“In future,” said Charlotte Fan, “you will communicate with me, or your father, or one of our representatives in London before involving the authorities.”
&n
bsp; “Why?”
Uncle Checkbook was speaking in a slow monotone: “The laptop. What was on it? What did you use it for?”
“I used it for… for everything. My studying. The net, email.”
“Banking?”
“Yes, online banking.”
Uncle Checkbook said nothing.
“It was password protected,” said Kai.
Uncle Checkbook ate a scallop, masticated slowly.
“Did you load a tracker on the laptop?”
“No.”
“So you can’t track it.”
“Well… no.”
“Did you encrypt any of your files?”
“My password file was encrypted. And most of my email.”
“Family email?”
“All encrypted. As instructed.”
Uncle Checkbook thought for a moment, then pointed a finger at him.
“You should assume that everything on the laptop is compromised.”
Aunt Charlotte was looking alarmed.
“Everything?”
“Everything. Email addresses. Company information. Bank details. Account numbers. Sort codes.”
Aunt Charlotte swore under her breath, glared at Kai.
“But I don’t see why this… I mean, it’s just transfers from you to me. What’s the big deal?” He knew he sounded whiny.
Neither Aunt Charlotte nor Uncle Checkbook responded. Nicole was half-smiling again. Eels, flash fried in chilli and bean paste, the clink of crockery on the glass tabletop. A huge carp steamed in a soy and ginger broth, loaded with spring onions. Nicole filleted the fish, its flesh falling away from the bone, soft as air.
Finally, Aunt Charlotte spoke.
“Why did you conclude the room was searched?”
“Things looked out of place. And then they found the glove. The latex glove.”
“Was anything else missing?”
“There was nothing else to take. Apart from my underwear and trainers.”
Another pause, the ceramic chink of chopsticks on bowl.
“You have been communicating with the Chen girl,” said Uncle Checkbook.
“Well, not really… I mean, I…”
“You have spoken to her.”
“I…”
“What were you saying to her?”
“Nothing. I just suggested that…”
“That what?”
“That we should try to communicate. Build some trust perhaps.”
Aunt Charlotte’s eyes were glittering, her mouth working.
“You will do no such thing.” She was trying to collect herself. “You understand, don’t you, that this girl is dangerous to you? That she will find ways to discredit you, use your actions against you, break your reputation?”
Kai did not reply.
Uncle Checkbook spoke.
“Is that all you said to her? Were there any other meetings?”
Kai was looking down, concentrating on his food.
“No.”
Uncle Checkbook sat very still.
“Your father wishes you to be extremely careful. No, let me rephrase that. He orders you to be extremely careful. Your behavior affects the entire family and all those who depend on the family.”
Silence for a moment.
“Miss Yang will be at Oxford for the remainder of your time there. Since you appear incapable of conducting yourself in a way that is respectful of the needs of your family, she will supervise you and ensure that your decisions do not create more trouble and embarrassment than they already have. You will inform her of all your movements and activities. Is this clear?”
Kai nodded sullenly.
“You will not have any further interaction with the Chen girl. Is that clear?”
Another nod.
“And you will not discuss with anyone, anyone, the financial arrangements of the family, including the remittance of funds to you. Is that clear?”
“I do not understand this obsessive need for secrecy…”
Uncle Checkbook leaned toward him, reached out and took hold of Kai’s wrist, his grip like concrete.
“There is a great deal you do not understand about the arrangements your family has in place to protect its position and its honor, and to fulfil its duty to our country. And you will not understand until we feel that you are trustworthy. Until that time, you will behave exactly as we tell you. Your father wishes me to impress upon you what is at stake. Our position. Everything the family has worked for. All this.” He gestured around himself, at the apartment, the furnishings, the art, the safe room, the chefs, the cars, the retina scanners, the cameras, the quiet, hard men in reception. London, its caverns of wealth and privilege.
The rest of the meal passed mostly in silence. Kai absented himself, went and sat alone looking out at the London night, at the lights of palaces glittering in the darkness across the park.
They conflate everything. They are so drunk on their wealth and status that they confuse their own destiny with that of all China. Theirs is the supreme vanity of the oligarch.
Nicole had barely spoken all evening. But just before she left, she walked up behind him, leaned close to him and touched his arm, and said, “See you in Oxford.”
He stood, walked to the glass walls. The glass was tempered, laminated with polycarbonates for flex when struck by a bullet. He stared into the city’s ocher night glow, watched the torrent of headlights.
What was she really doing here?
28
Addis Ababa, Ethiopia
They met the following day, Mangan still weak, even paler than usual. Was this sickness, or some sort of delayed reaction to the blast?
It was a bare room in the Dessie Hotel. Hoddinott was waiting for him, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“You look terrible,” said Hoddinott.
“I’ve been ill,” Mangan replied.
Hoddinott drank from a bottle of water, regarded him.
“Quite an outcome, the strike,” said Hoddinott.
Mangan just nodded, looked away.
“Look, you mustn’t get maudlin,” said Hoddinott. “It was a very—”
“Drop it,” said Mangan.
Hoddinott raised both hands, calming, placatory.
“All right,” he said. “Tell me.”
“No detail. Just ‘a meeting.’ I’m to be ready to travel next week, apparently.”
“Where to?”
“Did you hear me? No detail.”
Hoddinott was rubbing the back of his neck.
“I will have to pass this to London. But clearly this is way too much, way too soon. We know nothing about these people. My recommendation will be to ignore this contact. I trust you agree.”
Mangan thought for a moment.
“Why do you trust I agree?”
“Well, I’m frankly a little puzzled, Philip. Your previous experience in this line of work, in China, ended, let us say, in dramatic fashion. Your latest flourish seems to have left you queasy. I am not clear why you are so eager to continue now.”
Mangan didn’t answer.
“What is your reason, Philip?” said Hoddinott.
Mangan stood, walked to the window. Since coming to Addis, he realized, he had been living in suspended animation. He looked out over rooftops of tin, corrugated iron, a sea of rust, antennas, wild swirls of cable, black mud, shadowed passageways. How do they live down there, he thought, amid such fragility, such contingency? He had read that satellites were mapping shanty towns, ascribing them boundary and shape, lending them fixedness for the first time. All he saw was change, complexity. He felt a strong desire to move, to surge forward.
“Tell them I’m going to the meeting,” he said.
29
The Clown found him on the Tuesday.
He had been at the Ministry of Internal Affairs, scratching around for a lead on the bomb investigation, sitting in a corridor, waiting for an interview that never materialized. On his way home, he stopped at a coffee shop on Mauritius Street,
a place with a high ceiling, tall wooden stools, the smell of baking pastries. A television was mounted on the wall. It showed a theater, a girl on a stage under the lights and the cameras, reciting poetry. She was seven or eight years old and wore a sequined dress. She was reciting doggedly. Men stepped up from the audience holding banknotes. They licked the banknotes and affixed them to the girl’s face and neck with saliva. Some of the notes stuck, others fell away.
And then there he was, standing just to Mangan’s right.
He spoke quietly.
“I hope you see that we are serious,” said the Clown.
Mangan collected himself and tried to focus, to manage his position.
“You are clearly serious. I would like to know who you are.”
“I represent someone who wishes to meet you.”
“I need to know who,” said Mangan.
“You will travel to Harer. You fly on Friday. A ticket is booked in your name and must be picked up from the Ethiopian Airlines office. Stay in Harer at the Jamal Guest House, in the old city. A room is booked for you there. You will be contacted.”
“I’m sorry, but you are going to have to tell me more. Why Harer?”
The Clown gave a patient smile.
“It is convenient.”
The Clown was looking around himself, scanning the room with those whiteless, inert eyes. Who for? thought Mangan. Them or us?
Mangan leaned in closer to him.
“For this to work,” he said, “you will need to be a little more forthcoming with me. Do you understand?”
A gibbous smile.
“Please do not push me too hard with your questions.”
“What does your friend want?”
“Everything will be explained in Harer.”
London
Patterson was late. The whole day had been turned upside down by the telegrams coming in from Addis station. Patterson had hurriedly searched for maps of Harer, appreciations of the city as an operational setting. By late morning plans were afoot for station officers to babysit Mangan as he attended the meeting, but Africa Controllerate was incredulous, Vezza vetoing the idea with a quiet shake of the head and a short disquisition on the potency of local counter-intelligence: NISS, the battle-hardened Tigrayan bloodhounds who’d learned their trade over years of vicious insurgency, who knew every inch of the dusty ground, who’d sniff out an under-resourced, over-exposed station operation in a moment. The plans were dropped. By lunchtime the talk was that Patterson herself would deploy, but Counterterrorism expostulated that a Far East Officer had neither the business nor the tradecraft to be wandering East Africa on a counterterror mission, Weekes writhing with anger. Security Branch cited “inadequate optic on the target” and “multiple threat vectors,” and that was that. The plan was dropped by midafternoon. Hopko knew when to choose her battles.