Chapter Forty-Five

“There,” says Ana, withdrawing her forefinger from my belly. Again I find myself on a eucalyptus-scented fire escape in Shenzhen.

“Sorry for the sidebar,” says Ana. “There’s an outside group interfering with some very delicate earth cycles, and we’re having to check out every lead. As soon as you feel grounded, you may go.”

I look around dizzily. “Where the hell did you just send me?”

“You didn’t leave this spot, Julian, and no time elapsed. You were looked into, nothing more. I hope you’ll forgive me if I’m rather abruptly on my way. All the best to your soul group, and I do hope you’re able to help your sister.”

“Wait,” I say, taking hold of Ana’s wrist.

She gives me a cool look. I let go in a hurry.

“Sorry. Do the Chinese have Tree?”

Ana sighs. “Yes, they’ve got her, and no, there’s nothing I can do to help you. I’m sorry.”

Before I can decide on my next question, the woman in the raincoat has turned and hurried away. Half a moment later, she is down the stairs and halfway across the patio below.

“Thanks for not breaking my back just now,” I call to her. “I know it crossed your mind.”

Turning, Ana Manguella gives me a half smile before covering her head with the hood of the raincoat. A moment later, she has disappeared down the glistening sidewalk.

So.

They have Lillian and Tree. I close my eyes and try to focus on something / anything intelligent to do. As usual, nothing comes to me. Re-opening my eyes, I start down the stairs. Before I’ve reached the second step my eyes catch sight of something on the sidewalk below. Or, loosely speaking, someone. Sans earring, Agent Barnes is walking briskly along the same stretch of sidewalk just graced by Ana Manguella, and in the same direction. Either our girl is being tailed by the Truth Guy or we have ourselves a coincidence.

I think for another moment just in case there’s something heroic to be done and I’m man enough to do it. Could be, I decide, and most definitely not. Anyway it’s not entirely clear which of the two more urgently requires protection from the other. I wait a few minutes, watching the sidewalk for any other of the usual suspects, asking myself meanwhile what happens should Phoebe fail to show at the appointed time and place. Not to worry, I conclude. She’ll be there. The woman has a thing for me.

Finally I decide it’s more-or-less safe to descend to the wet street below. I flag the first taxi that passes, this one equipped with a reasonably functioning fare meter. By the time I’m dropped at the rendezvous, though, it’s spitting out bubblegum. The sun, meanwhile, has penetrated the clouds. The sidewalk is almost dry. After paying the cabbie, I survey the busy intersection, hoping to catch sight of Phoebe’s Buick. Nothing doing.

Concealing myself in a doorway, I check the analog watch on my wrist. A woman like Phoebe, I remind myself, has carte blanche to be forty minutes late anytime anywhere, and she knows it quite well. Further minutes pass. I’m beginning to cast about for a plan C when all at once the Buick appears at the curbside. Elated, I forget my bruised kidney long enough to dash to the passenger side of the car, rip open the door, and cast myself inside—very nearly crushing Phoebe Sternbaum’s daughter.

Beneath me, five-year-old Ling screams in C-sharp. Very sharp.

“Uh, Phoebe,” I say, removing my great white ass from her daughter’s face, “you didn’t tell me that Ling was coming along.”

Phoebe doesn’t reply.

“Phoebe?” I shout over Ling. “You didn’t tell me that—”

“Plenty time I introduce you now,” says Phoebe, not turning. “Is my daughter, Ling. She so nice to meet you.”

The Buick hangs a left.

“Uh, Phoebe? Your husband isn’t going to take this very well. He’ll call the police, okay? They’ll put out an APB, which stands for Absolutely Positively Busted.”

Ling continues to bawl, her eyes tightly shut. I don’t think she likes me very much.

“Phoebe?” I try again. “I can’t have the police involved in this. If you bring Ling, I can’t come with you.”

With a screech, Phoebe halts the car at a curb, imperiling half a dozen bicyclists. She switches off the engine, sets the hand brake, and gives me a fierce stare. “You go you don’t go I don’t care I just go without you. But nobody go without my daughter.”

We stare at each other. Ling meanwhile reaches for high-D. She’s very nearly on the money.

“Next you’re going to tell me you forgot the cash,” I say.

“Hah-row use credit cards,” says Phoebe.

“Did you get the credit cards?”

“Har-roh have always with him.”

I stare through the windshield, mulling over my alternatives. It doesn’t take me very long.

“Okay,” I say. “But you have to drive on back roads. Do you understand back roads?”

“I know this,” says Phoebe, cranking the car and slamming the gearshift. “You think everybody stupid but you.”

I spot a cell phone kiosk. “Wait. Park the car. I need to buy a phone. I need to buy three phones.”

“Buy what?”

“Just stop the car. It’s all part of the master plan. And could you do something about your daughter?”

Phoebe mutters a little Cantonese through her teeth.

This is going to be a really pleasant ride.

By the time we exit the car, Ling has transitioned from hysterical to totally composed. “Is she always like that?” I ask Phoebe, guiding our travel party toward the phone kiosk. “Sudden extreme mood changes? Psychotic episodes? Maybe I should know now.”

“What you want buy?” asks Phoebe irritably.

“Three phones small enough to carry here,” I say, patting one of the cargo pockets of my khakis. “Service all over China.”

Phoebe helps me select a small flip-phone and establish service under a false name. I choose Lowell P. Nightsong. The phone company assigns me a number with five nines and a pair of fours. Decent poker hand. Phoebe doesn’t go for it.

“So unlucky,” she says. “Have two fours. Four is mean death, and nine mean the end. Nobody China want this number.”

“What would a lucky number be?” I ask.

Phoebe shrugs. “Eight is mean get rich.”

“What is mean stay alive?” I want to know.

It takes the kiosk owner several tries to acquire a number with neither fours nor nines. It costs triple. Now he’s showing me how to place a call, which with my large hands is comically difficult. I always knew I was avoiding phones for a reason.

“Okay,” I say to Phoebe, pocketing the phone, “I need two more.”

“Just get them here,” she says.

“Not here.” I spot a sign on a nearby department store window and begin walking. Inside I acquire a second phone under another false name—I decide to go with Ted Williams—choosing the smallest model available and paying way extra for no fours or nines. Ditto a third phone purchased at a nearby supermarket. The third kiosk owner is unable to obtain a phone number without nines. I wind up with three of them and one four. That makes me only slightly dead.

“Let’s stop here,” I tell Phoebe, leading her and Ling toward an ATM machine. “I need you to withdraw some cash. As much as it’ll give you.”

The ATM is balky, as expected, but in the end spits out 33,939 yuan, exactly triple Phoebe’s request. Good thing. Neither of Phoebe’s other cards work at all. By the time we walk away, the ATM is flashing sporadic error messages. I grab all three cards from Phoebe’s hand and drop them into the slot of a nearby mailbox.

“What you do?” she cries, her hands covering her face.

“You can’t use those cards again,” I say, walking toward the car.

“You crazy!” shouts Phoebe.

“And no more phone calls,” I add over my shoulder. “Turn your phone off now so we can’t be tracked. In fact, take the battery out. Understand battery?”

“Understand asshole tell me everything I do,” mutters Phoebe, unlocking the Buick.

Ignoring her, I activate the least expensive of my three phones and, walking away from the car, dial Tree’s number.

“Hello?” answers a man’s voice. The accent is Chinese.

“Where is Shatrina Carter?” I demand.

“She cannot come to the phone now,” comes the careful reply. “May I ask who is calling?”

“You may kiss my pit bull’s ass,” I answer. “Is that in your phrase book?”

After a hesitation, I hear, “My name is Wu Shu Rong. I am a detective with the Shenzhen Police Department. Professor Carter we think is possibly in some kind of danger. Therefore we have placed her in our protection. Please may I ask—”

I hang up then dial two phone numbers from my wallet. The first connects me to the US Embassy in Guangzhou, the second to the coordinator of Lil’s and Tree’s teaching program. I give the same information to each: Shatrina Carter is missing and probably wrongfully detained. I give them the name of Wu Shu Rong, in case it turns out to mean anything. Clicking off the call but leaving the power on, I toss the phone onto a pile of turnips in the back of a passing truck.

That done, I turn and hurry toward the waiting Buick. It’s like I said. This secret agent stuff’s overrated.