Jordan sat up and studied the subway map that spanned the windows. Davis slumped against the seat and stared at her. “What’s really going on here, Rae?”
She pointed to the sign. “We’re on the Northeast Branch. We need to get off at the next station.”
“You know what I meant.”
She looked him straight in the eyes. “Let’s get out of this first, and then we can talk.”
“And you’ll tell me the truth?”
A voice announced the next stop, and Jordan jumped to her feet. “We need to catch Line 1 to the west.”
“Answer the question.”
Jordan shifted her weight, maintaining her balance as the subway train slowed. He’d put his life on the line for her twice, and now he was a fugitive. If anyone had a right to know, he did. “I will.”
After switching trains twice, Jordan and Davis got off at Quzhaung station on Haunshi East Road, an area known for its restaurants and clubs. Spotting a pay phone near a cybercafé, Jordan pulled Davis aside.
“Do you have any money?” She had a few coins in her pocket, but most of her money was in her purse back at the hotel.
“We can’t go in here,” he said. “The wăng kā require you place an ID on file.”
Of course, he was right. China regulated the use of the Internet and most electronic communication devices. Any person connecting you to a server was required by law to enter your name, birthdate, and ID number into the system. The same was true with any electronic purchase, such as a new SIM card for your phone. It meant the Chinese government knew—among other things—where everyone was, who they were talking to, and what type of social media they preferred.
“I just want to use the payphone.”
In addition to his camera, Davis still had his passport, credit cards, and a wad of cash.
“How about coins? Do you have any coins?” She dug deeper in her pockets and produced a few jiao, China’s equivalent of a dime. Davis produced his own handful. Between them it was enough.
The first person Jordan tried reaching was Lory. When his answering machine picked up, she was asked to deposit two yuan for three minutes, the equivalent of a dollar. She left a detailed message, explained she no longer had a phone, and ended up telling him she would try again later.
“What now?” Davis asked.
It was after midnight, and she had one local cell number, the one for the PO that Lory had given her earlier. She punched in the digits. If this didn’t constitute an emergency, she didn’t know what did. The PO was expecting her call. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Agent Jordan? The Chinese have posted military details outside the consulate gates, and I’ve been fielding calls from my local police contacts for the past hour.”
“Is your phone secure?”
“As secure as you can get in China. Start talking.”
Jordan told him about the attempts on her life, starting with the attack at the restaurant and ending with what had happened at the hotel.
“Any idea why they’re so hot to find you?”
“I asked questions about Zhen.” Jordan didn’t feel comfortable giving him details over the phone. “Apparently I touched a nerve.”
“That may be an understatement.” He hemmed and hawed for a second, then said, “The quicker we get you off the streets the better. Where are you?”
“Are you sure the phone is safe?”
“I need to know where to send the driver.”
Not really an answer, but she’d accept it. “We’re near the Quzhaung subway station.”
“We?”
She told him about Davis.
“Are you sure he can be trusted?”
“He had my back today.” She could hear the PO breathing softly and wondered what he was thinking. Finally he spoke. “Okay, there’s a twenty-four hour noodle and congee shop on Ziniu Road. Travel west on Huanshi East one block and turn left. The shop will be on your right. I’ll send Charlie to pick you up. It will be at least an hour. He’ll get you somewhere safe until we can sort this mess out. He’s a good guy. You can trust him.”
“And if things get dangerous?”
“Don’t worry about Charlie,” the PO said. “It wouldn’t be his first rodeo.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, they were sitting at a table inside a small diner, bowls filled with food, looking out at the street. At this time of night, it was mostly young people their age who were out—men in white button-down shirts and black pants; women in various shades of silk teetering along on their three-inch stilettos. Between them they had a full view of the block.
Davis poured two glasses from a bottle of Baijiu and handed her one.
Jordan held up her hand and refused to take it. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“Come on, you haven’t experienced China until you’ve tasted the sorghum wine.” He set the glass on the table in front of her and raised the other in a toast. “Ganbei. It means ‘dry the glass.’ The locals drink it straight down.”
Jordan studied him for a moment, then reached for the small cup on the table. What the hell, she thought. She was stiff and sore, and a drink would help take the edge off the pain. Clinking glasses, she wrinkled her nose at the strong aroma and braced herself for the shot. The amber liquid surprised her. It went down easy. Showing Davis her empty glass, she set it down.
“So are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he said.
Jordan picked up her chopsticks and twisted them into her noodles. She knew she owed him some answers. He’d saved her life and now, because of her, he also was wanted by the Chinese police. But where did she start, and how much should she tell him?
“Come on, Rae. I think I’ve earned your trust enough to be read in. Consider me an asset.”
“In the first place, DSS agents don’t have assets. In the second, you do realize that assets can sometimes become collateral damage, right?”
“And sometimes they’re disposable. I’m willing to take the risk.”
He’d proven that. The question was, how much risk was she willing to take? After all, he worked for Reuters.
“Will you answer a few questions?” she asked.
“If it will get me some answers.” Davis poured them another round of Baijiu. The second shot warmed her insides, and she felt herself thawing toward him. It was hard not to warm to the smile lighting up his handsome features.
“Where did you acquire your skills?”
“You mean my writing talent?”
“No. I mean your street fighting abilities, rappelling off a building. Those aren’t typical everyday talents.”
“Would you believe me if I told you I was raised in a tough neighborhood and used to frequent the climbing wall at the local gym?”
“No.” Maybe in another place or time, but something in his eyes and the way he’d reacted to both situations convinced her there was more to it.
“When I joined the Army, I had some Special Forces training. I’ve kept active. It helps when you’re a reporter asking to be embedded into war zones.”
“Why become a reporter?”
“Do you have a thing against all journalists, or just against me?”
The gruffness in his voice surprised her. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you do. You struggled to even say the word.”
She looked down at her glass, the drops of liquor like garnets on crystal, then she lifted her gaze. “I just don’t understand how you can justify making a living capitalizing on other people’s pain and misery.”
“Is that how you see my job?” His dark eyes locked on hers. “Let’s get something straight, I do what I do because someone needs to tell the stories. A lot of people died in that plane crash, a lot of people were left without mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers. But what you see as capitalizing on the survivors’ misery, others view as a ferreting out of the truth in order to find justice for the victims.”
Jordan sat in stunned silence. He sounded impassioned enough to be believable. “If that’s true, I owe you an apology.”
“But you don’t really buy it, do you? What happened to make you so cynical? Is it so hard to believe that some of us wear white hats?”
She had to admit, he had a good shtick. She’d painted him with the same brush as she did all reporters. Maybe she was wrong about him. “Let’s just say, it hasn’t been my experience.”
“That’s what happens when you bring your own baggage to the party.”
“Sometimes I need a bellman.”
“Don’t we all?” He poured the last of the Baijiu into their glasses, then lifted his in a toast. “To second chances.”
She raised her glass. “Second chances.”