The following evening, Melanie Sloan found herself in the backseat of a large, silver-colored Mercedes sedan, headed for the Opus Nine restaurant. Her driver was an equally large man decked out in the traditional black uniform of a chauffeur, right down to his black cap. She’d recognized him from her training days as one of the scarier hand-to-hand combat instructors at the Farm. When he’d come to pick her up at the operatives’ billeting building he’d been completely in character, insisting that she ride in the back when she’d reached for the right front door. She’d wondered what the desk people in the lobby must have thought, having seen her come back with the garment bags from the session with Twyla’s costume people wearing shabby jeans and a sweatshirt, but made up like a movie star.
Now she was decked out in a high-thigh-slashed dress from Alexandre Vauthier with net stockings and a black waist sash, with makeup, jewelry, and a hairstyle to match. She felt hugely self-conscious. On the other hand, she thought, this was a whole lot better than sitting bare-assed naked in a straight-backed wooden chair in front of Dragon Eyes. She hadn’t recognized him until he’d taken off those French movie director’s glasses. The instructors on the newbie courses had told stories about the doctor who could purportedly see into people’s minds. Their description of those penetrating eyes hadn’t done them justice. She shivered despite herself.
She forced herself to sit perfectly upright so as not to disturb her elaborate costume or her hairdo. With her left hand she held some slack in the shoulder strap of the seat belt to keep it from mashing the dress’s delicate if daring lace bodice. As she thought about her séance with Allender yesterday she mused on her life and career with the Agency so far.
She’d grown up in Boston, the only child of two extremely successful parents who’d married later in life. Her mother was an eminent cardiologist at Mass General, specializing in women’s coronary care. Her father was a professor of molecular biology at Harvard Medical. Both her parents had been fully booked and professionally self-absorbed while she was growing up, leaving Melanie eventually to feel more well-polished than cherished as a child. Loving and doting parents they were not. They had, however, done their duty with regard to her education and appropriate social grooming in the rarefied atmosphere of Boston’s academic universe. It hadn’t hurt that she’d inherited her mother’s good looks, and she herself had managed an undergraduate degree from Boston University and a master’s from the Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy.
“Almost there,” the driver announced.
“Right,” she said, taking a deep breath. Now she was wearing a few thousand dollars’ worth of clothes and shoes, not to mention jewelry. While it all felt wonderful, she still wondered what Allender wanted her to do when she did The Walk across the restaurant. And how was she supposed to know where he was seated?
She needn’t have worried. The maître d’ and a waiter were standing at the restaurant’s front entrance when the big Merc came swooping up. The driver got out and hustled around to open the right rear door, and then the maître d’ was making effusive greetings as the driver handed her out of the car. With the maître d’ leading and the waiter in tow, they made their way into the main dining room and then turned to head for a curved upholstered booth just beyond the piano, where Allender was sitting in isolated splendor. He was wearing a luxurious-looking dark burgundy smoking jacket over gray slacks, and instead of a shirt he wore what looked like a silk turtleneck sweater.
Melanie concentrated on not tripping over those incredibly narrow heels she was wearing and looked straight ahead with as regal an expression as she could manage. She saw Allender incline his head in an approving nod and then start to get up as she approached. If other people were watching, she didn’t see them, because Allender had now removed his shadowy glasses and was giving her the full-on dragon-eyes treatment, but with a wholly different blaze this time, one of visible admiration. She found herself mesmerized for a moment by those amazing eyes, and then the maître d’ was pulling the table to one side so she could sit beside him in the plush enclosure while the waiter fussed with the glasses and cutlery.
“Welcome to Opus Nine, Ms. Rockefeller,” the maître d’ gushed. “Such a pleasure to have you join us for dinner.”
This time Melanie did see reactions from other diners nearby at the mention of that fabled name. She nodded and smiled at him but didn’t say anything. Menus were placed discreetly on the table and then they were left alone. Melanie surveyed the room, which was crowded and somewhat noisy. She looked sideways at Allender as if to ask, Well?
He’d put his glasses back on but it was obvious he was impressed—and pleased. “Stunning,” he said. “I saw one poor guy miss his mouth and drop a forkful of mashed potatoes into his lap, and another one poured wine all over his table. The bartender overfilled a glass of beer and two waiters tried for the same door at the same time, fortunately with empty trays. Well done, indeed, Ms.—Rockefeller.”
“What did you tell them,” she asked, as the waiter approached with an ice bucket and some champagne.
“Only that I had an important guest coming for dinner who would appreciate some discretion because she was a Rockefeller. Twyla certainly did you justice.”
“I’m terrified I’m going to spill something on it,” she admitted quietly, after the waiter had poured out the champagne and backed away.
“Don’t be,” Allender said. “After all, this little Kabuki certainly beats sitting bare-assed naked in a straight-backed wooden chair in my office, yes?”
She almost dropped her champagne flute, although he didn’t appear to notice. Good Lord, she thought. Those were her exact words. In the car. She’d thought exactly those words. No way. No. Freaking. Way.
The waiter returned, took their orders, topped off the champagne, and set the almost empty bottle to one side. He’d ordered the fish of the day; she’d gone for beef. After two years in Europe, she craved American beef.
For the next ten minutes he led the conversation, mostly asking her about her life in Boston and then in Washington, before the Agency. She realized he was trying to put her at ease. She wondered how old he was. If he was an assistant deputy director, fifties, probably. He was entirely composed, with no fidgeting or adjusting of his body’s position on the banquette. One elegantly long hand for his champagne flute, the other in his lap, reminding her of one of those sitting Buddha statues. Since they were sitting side by side in the European fashion, they made minimal eye contact, especially with those Onassis eyeglasses. His voice was calm and devoid of any identifiable accent, pleasant but professionally neutral. He was making no attempt to initiate intimacy between them, remaining well out of her personal space. It was almost like talking to someone you happened to sit next to on the bus, she thought. She was tempted to ask him about his background and service with the Agency, but then thought better of it. It wasn’t a date, not with all the Ms. Rockefeller BS, or Kabuki as he’d called it. What are we doing here, she wondered?
“Do you see the Chinese family, third table on the left from our vantage point?”
Not moving her head, she looked. There were four of them. One older man with an authoritative bearing and obviously the paterfamilias. Next to him was a plain, round-faced Chinese lady, probably his wife. The other two were younger, looking like son and daughter-in-law, or vice versa. As she looked away, she thought she saw the older man stealing a surreptitious look in her direction.
“Yes,” she said, looking now into the middle distance, as if unaware there was anyone else in the busy restaurant.
“Depending on who leaves first, us or them, I want you to give the older man a secret smile. Just a quick look. Acknowledge his interest. Let him know that you’re aware of him. That’s all. If his wife is watching you or him, don’t do it, but do look for an opportunity to make eye contact without her seeing you do it. Even if he just takes a last look as they’re going out the door.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Try it on me.”
She did.
“A tiny bit too long. I want him wondering if it even happened. Again.”
She looked away and then back.
“Much better, but don’t let your gaze linger like that. A quick flash, then a demure look away and down.”
The waiter showed up with dinner. Allender asked if she’d like some wine, but she said no. The champagne had gone to her head a little more than she would have liked in these circumstances. He ordered a single glass of red and then they enjoyed Opus Nine’s justifiably famous cooking. As they were finishing, the Chinese family got up and headed for the door. The “wife,” chattering away with the “son,” was paying no attention to her husband, and just before the group entered the hallway to the front door, the older man looked back at Melanie. She managed a quick glance in his direction. There’d been nothing subtle about his look, and then he was gone.
“Contact?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, I’d say so,” she said, with a small smile. Like an eagle looking at a baby bunny, she thought.
“Good. Now describe him to me, please.”
She waited until the plates were cleared and coffee ordered. “Mainland Chinese, I’d think,” she began. “Bigger and taller than the average Chinese I’ve met. Early fifties. Military bearing, lots of authority, so I’d guess PLA, probably a general or maybe even a commissar.”
“What’s unique about the face?”
“Those black, flyaway eyebrows that make him look like he’s about to pounce. Not the usual round, fleshy face I associate with older Chinese party officials. More oval, with a strong nose and cheekbones. Thick, black hair. No eyeglasses. Not a man who smiles much.”
“Very good,” he said. “Especially from twenty feet away. You must have excellent distance vision. What was he wearing?”
She drew a complete blank. She simply couldn’t remember. How odd.
“You can’t remember because you were focused on his face, which, admittedly, is his most interesting feature. I can relate to that.”
She turned her head to look directly at him and thought she saw the trace of a smile, although with those birth-control glasses she couldn’t be too sure. It was the first thing he’d said to her that was even remotely personal, but if it had been a “moment” it quickly passed.
Coffee came and dessert was declined.
“So,” she asked once the waiter had withdrawn. “May I ask who that man was?”
“I’ve determined two things this evening,” he said, appearing to ignore her question. “One, you can rock a room just by walking in, especially when you’re properly adorned. And, two, the chief of the Ministry of Security Services office at the People’s Republic of China embassy in Washington, Major General Chiang Liang-fu, was at least somewhat smitten.”
Wow, she thought. “What in the world is someone like that doing in the Williamsburg area?” she asked.
“Vacation? Seeing some of the United States with his family? Meeting with whatever network they have in place in this area that covers the Farm or the military bases here in the Tidewater area? Possibly all of the above, although I doubt it’s really an operational visit. We know who he is, what he is, and where he is at all times. It’s not like he sneaks around undercover. He doesn’t have to.”
“Does he know who you are?” she asked.
“Probably,” he said, but did not elaborate. That surprised her.
“And he likes the ladies?” she asked.
“Indeed he does,” he said. “And, of course, official Washington is positively a groaning board of attractive women. Or so I’ve been told.”
She laughed out loud. The purported ratio of nine attractive women to every eligible man was a well-known urban legend in Washington. “Or so you’ve been told?” she teased.
“Time to go,” he said, glancing quickly around the room. “You go to the powder room; I’ll wait out front. When you come out walk directly to the front door. Your car will be ready. We’ll say our good-byes, and then you’ll leave. The cultural-indoc section will expect you at nine tomorrow.”
“Got it,” she said, beginning to slide sideways on the banquette. The waiter, who’d been hovering nearby, rushed to move the table aside and offer a hand up. She had a thousand questions, but realized that he’d tell her what she needed to know when she needed to know it. It would be unprofessional to get ahead of that curve right now.
Five minutes later she was escorted by the maître d’ through the front doors to the waiting Mercedes. She saw one of the dark-windowed Agency Suburbans parked nearby. Allender was standing by the Mercedes. He took her right hand and helped her into the sedan, babbling something about a delightful evening and hoping she’d enjoy the rest of her time in Williamsburg. As she put on her seat belt, she resisted an urge to look back as the big Merc rumbled away from the restaurant. This time she didn’t bother to hold off the shoulder strap.
She’d had some fun tonight, a nice change from the tedious business of yet more training. The clothes and the rest of her costume had been a treat and she was proud to have been able to pull it off. And Allender: What a fascinating man. When he’d had those protective glasses off, anyone who could see his face had been staring. She could well believe people thought he was a mind reader. And yet, he wasn’t a cold fish. She’d gotten the impression of tight control more than intellectual arrogance. She felt herself blushing at the thought of going to bed with a man like that. She saw her driver glancing back at her in the shadow of the backseat and composed her face.