Bwana sized up the hostel as he approached it on a quiet residential street in Mulin.
Shunyi district was on the northern edge of Beijing. Its green spaces, golf courses and distance from the city’s hustle made it a prime neighborhood for the wealthy and international residents of the city.
Many countries’ embassies have their staff living here. He passed a group of young travelers smoking on the sidewalk and checked out the building. A bright-red neon sign announced that the establishment was the Pleasant Delight Hostel. Mandarin lettering declared that every guest was guaranteed a comfortable room, bed and hot meals. On each side of it were stretches of commercial joints. Restaurants, takeout places, hair salons, cell phone stores.
Bwana hitched his bags on his shoulder, skirted past an embracing couple and climbed the stairs to the hostel.
‘Gimme a minute, mate.’ The man behind the counter sized him up swiftly and spoke in English, with an Australian drawl.
His blond hair was tousled and the cut-off Tee he wore gave him a surfer look.
Bwana waited patiently as the check-in clerk dealt with another couple and then moved towards the counter.
‘You got a reservation?’
‘You the manager?’
‘That I am, mate. Hard to believe, I know. I’m an Aussie, if you haven’t guessed by now. Came to China ten years ago as a backpacker. I fell in love with the country and then with Lian.’ He jerked his head backwards.
Who’s he referring to?
Bwana’s frown cleared when he leaned over the counter and saw a woman at a computer.
‘I got lucky there,’ the Australian chuckled. ‘Her folks were loaded. They said I didn’t have to work—’
‘In your dreams,’ she snorted without turning around.
‘Yeah, well,’ the manager grinned unrepentantly, ‘I taught her English—’
‘And I taught him manners.’
‘That she did,’ he acknowledged. ‘She had an inheritance … I came up with the brilliant idea of—’
‘My idea!’
‘Her idea,’ he bobbed his head, ‘of starting this joint for backpackers, for those who want to experience China in a different way. Business has been great. Can’t complain. We’ve got tourists from all over—’
‘He didn’t ask for your life story.’
‘Sorry.’ He straightened and held his hand out to Bwana. ‘Matt Weaving. My, you’re a big lad, aren’t you? You got a booking with us?’
‘Carl Frommer.’ He shook the manager’s hand.
The Australian nodded as if in recognition and checked that there was no one within hearing distance.
‘I was told to give you a room on the ground floor.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But we’re fully booked. Best I can do is the first floor … that’s the second story, if you’re a Yank.’
‘Where does it face?’
‘Backyard, which is also our garden.’
‘I’ll take it.’
Bwana slid across some rolled-up dollars and took the swipe card Weaving handed him.
‘You can take the elevator or the stairs.’ The Australian pointed down the hallway. ‘Dining room’s beyond. Open twenty-four hours.’
‘Where are the other guests from?’
‘America, England, Scotland, Italy, France, Brazil, South Africa … you name it, mate, we’ve got them here. We’re like the United Nations.’
Bwana thanked him, checked out the dining room and took the stairs to the upper level. The hallway was carpeted and deadened his footsteps. Dim lighting in the ceiling. A window at one end that overlooked the street he had come up on.
He entered his room and sighed in relief at the sight of the big bed. He dropped his bags and went to the window at the rear, nodding in satisfaction at the sight.
The garden was a large square with flower beds at the sides and several potted plants arranged strategically between tables for al fresco dining. Snatches of conversation in different languages came to him when he cracked open the window.
That drop’s about fifteen feet if I have to make a quick getaway. Does the room have a hotel map?
It did, tucked in the welcome pack. He unfolded it and tracked the location of his room with a finger. There was the garden, a path that led to the back gate, through which was the parking lot and the street behind the hotel.
I can escape that way if I have to.
He tested the mattress and grinned in delight at its firmness. Not too soft, not too hard. Just the way I like it.
‘I’ve checked in,’ he said in a call to Meghan on his sat phone. ‘This room’s like paradise, after that long flight.’
‘Any problems getting to your hotel?’
‘A talkative manager.’
‘Don’t shoot him.’
‘He’s Australian, wife’s Chinese. Do you know their story? Are they Mossad helpers?’
‘Nope. Zeb’s friends.’
‘Huh! He didn’t tell me.’
‘Need to know, Bwana,’ she said, smirking. ‘Hit the bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘What about the others?’
‘Everyone’s checked in safely.’
Meghan hung up and went to shower. When she returned to the bedroom, her phone was buzzing.
‘Yeah?’ She recognized Beth’s number.
‘Sis, you plan to sleep?’
‘Nope.’
‘You’re thinking what I am?’
‘Staking out Bwana’s hotel?’
‘Yeah.’
‘See you in half an hour.’
It was two am when Bwana was woken up.