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 everything’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.

I flag a taxi, and right away the driver is pointing to his fare meter and wagging his head. I glance at the display whose LED readout is flashing uselessly. We settle on a fare, and off we go.

Of course, the sticky part of my plan isn’t here in Shenzhen or even along the thousand-odd kilometers of China’s various highways and highwaymen but the city variously called Zhongdu, Dadu, Daidu, Cambuluc, Beiping, Yanjing, Peking, and Beijing. Either Phoebe’s connections there turn out to be in a really generous mood, or we’ve got a problem.

Nothing new there.

“Here! Here!” I tell the cabbie, who drops me at the discreet end of the narrow alley in question. He slaps at his useless meter as I collect my change and slowly unfold my body from the rear of the taxi. Both street and alley, still wet from the morning rain, have a bright just-polished sheen.

Come with me. Hurry.

What? I look around. Various people are striding past, some near, some far, some with their heads beneath rain hoods. Did one of those people just speak to me? The words were so brief and hushed, they almost could have been my own thought. Except that they came wrapped in a woman’s voice. An Englishwoman’s voice. A very particular Englishwoman’s voice.

My eyes fix on the rapidly vanishing body of a woman wrapped in a tan hooded raincoat, hurrying away. I begin to follow her. It isn’t easy. Whoever she is, this woman is really covering some ground, and I may have a fractured rib after all. After a difficult block, the woman throws a quick glance over her shoulder. It’s too brief to reveal her identity, but I think I catch a glimpse of white skin. She rounds a corner, and I do as well, just in time to see the woman enter a wrought-iron gate. Turning toward me for an instant, Ana Manguella throws me a very deliberate stare before vanishing. I follow through the gate and up a flight of iron stairs to a small fire escape cluttered with the branches of a nodding eucalyptus.

Finally arriving at the spot where she stands, I open my mouth to speak, but Ana whispers, “Shhh.” As I catch my breath, she peers down at the street corner we’ve just rounded. Impatient, I check my wristwatch. Now I give it a shake. It doesn’t seem to be working.

“Might I ask,” says Ana, removing her hood and shaking out her hair, “what you call yourself doing?”

“And might I ask,” I reply, “how you knew I’d be getting out of that taxi at that street corner at that moment?”

“I told you I work in security.”

“No,” I say, “you told me you’re in charge of security. I think I’m starting to figure out what that means.”

“Julian, the whole world knows about your eight o’clock appointment with Shatrina Carter. There are practically TV crews standing by. And here you just step out of a taxi.”

“Well,” I begin defensively, “I chose a good, safe spot to step out of that taxi.”

“Which is why it was so hard for me to find you? I won’t save you again. You need to understand that.”

“That’s too bad,” I tell Ana, “because I’m on my way to Beijing and I think I’m going to need quite a bit of saving.”

“Why Beijing?” she asks brusquely.

“They’ve got my sister.”

“They’ve got a lot of people, Julian. What exactly does your soul group intend to do in Beijing?”

“What soul group?” I demand. “The only soul group I know anything about is the Temptations, and they broke up a long time ago.”

The blue and the green narrow suspiciously. “I think you told me a very different story before.”

“About the Temptations?”

“About your work,” says Ana.

“Forget that nonsense. All that world-saving business came to exactly nothing. All we care about now is getting out of this as alive as possible.”

“Then why do things keep getting stranger and stranger?” asks Ana. “And why does my intuition keep pointing directly at you?”

“I, too, have something that keeps pointing directly at you. Still in all.”

“What are you doing to the numbers?” asks Ana.

“What numbers?”

“What time is it?” she says.

“I don’t know. My watch isn’t working.”

Ana raises one sleeve of her raincoat. There are at least a dozen watches strapped to her forearm. Suddenly I expect her to offer me a very fine deal on a Rolex Cellini. Looking a bit closer, I note there are thirteen watches on Ana’s arm, all but one malfunctioning much the same way as mine. Troubling. I think back on my morning. The malfunctioning taxi meter. The balky ATM machines. My own cheap-ass wristwatch. I strain to remember when and where I last saw a correctly displayed number. It seems I got into a taxi at seven twenty-nine.

On reflection, I’m not crazy about that particular three-digit number. Add the three digits together, I note, and you get eighteen, which reduces to nine. Before the taxi, I’d boarded a bus at—what was it?—seven-twenty. Nine again. What’s more, the bus was a 126.

“I’m waiting for your answer,” says Ana.

“Do you have an abacus?” I ask.

She gives me a weary look.

“How about a Rubik’s cube? A Ouija board? Have you ever listened to the Double White album really stoned?”

“Julian.”

“Just a moment.”

Again studying the watches on Ana’s forearm, I note that each displays a time that reduces to nine. All except one, an analog. I look more closely at the two hands of the analog watch. The date box displays a three and a six.

That’s just creepy.

“May I borrow this for a moment?” I ask, unbuckling the analog watch from Ana’s arm. Xu says nines started cropping up on his random number generator on March third. I’d say whatever process began on that day is putting on speed.

“I’m still waiting,” says Ana.

“I’m not doing anything to the numbers,” I tell her, examining the analog watch closely.

“Wasn’t it you,” Ana says accusingly, “who said you enjoy playing stupid math games? Wasn’t it you whose soul group disapproves strongly of this planet’s structure of duality?”

“That’s a misquote.”

“And now you don’t have a single clue as to why all the numbers are changing?”

“Exactly,” I say, replacing the watch on her forearm. “I like the way you put it.”

Actually it wasn’t the analog I returned to Ana but my own useless one. The analog is now on my own wrist.

Ana exhales forcefully. “Julian, I have something to say to you, but first I owe you an apology.”

“You’re goddamn right you do.”

“I was guilty of mixing work with pleasure,” she says. “I think I made a bit of a mess, actually, and I’m sorry. And I really do wish your sister well. Now.”

Ana spreads her feet slightly. “Julian Mancer, because of possible violations of Articles Four and Five—damn, another nine—of the Intergalactic Code, you are being sidebarred for questioning.”

Ana’s right forefinger touches the center of my belly. At the same moment, I see an enormous flash of ruby-tinged light and everything goes to black.