So he put the pictures in order. It also helped him keep his mind off Lia Frank. Why wasn’t she back? And wasn’t it amazing that he seemed unwilling to leave this room until he saw her get in? She had stepped across his path and somehow gained his attention, the involuntary drift of his awareness. First he had started to let pleasant thoughts breach his barrier, thoughts about what might happen. Now, admit it, he was worried about her. He was in here with the TV playing low because he was worried. He knew perfectly well she had not been on an international flight. She was coming from Jingdezhen. Still, there had been an air disaster. It was getting late. And no lights had come on in her courtyard.
He picked up the picture of Xiaoli, with her little bowl haircut and her quick, amused eyes. He taped it to the door frame. He liked the idea of those eyes following him as he passed by. He wanted to remember her.
Now something was happening on TV. He touched the volume button. It was a statement by-he squinted at the name and title that flashed on the screen-the Deputy to the U.S. Ambassador. The man stepped in front of the camera, cleared his throat, straightened his notes. “The United States joins China in grieving the crash of China International Flight Sixty-eight. We express the greatest regret and sorrow that this accident occurred. Our nation’s prayers go to the families of those Chinese passengers and crew who lost their lives and”-a polished little beat-“also to the families of the six Americans aboard the plane, including four young Luce Scholars bound for fellowships in China. Our thoughts are with you.”
Michael stood in the middle of the floor, sensed the invisible shift in dynamics. This would alter opinion. It had to. People couldn’t think the U.S. would shoot down a plane with its own citizens on board. Or could they?
And where was Lia? He took a few soundless steps to the window and looked out over the half-curtain. He could see down the length of the courtyard and through the decorative rock gate. He could see the fountain spraying in the entry court, the pools of lamplight. But her court beyond was still dark.
At that moment Lia was sitting in a forest of boxes, hundreds of pots and their stories intersecting before her. She had been through all of them once. Now she’d seen dozens a second time. Tonight she had found yet one more fake, something minor, hardly enough to justify the effort. But this brought the count to ten. So it wasn’t as if she could stop. She had to keep going, even though it was too much and it seemed insurmountable.
Her cell phone bleated. She flipped it open. “Wei.”
“Lia,” said Dr. Zheng.
“Hi. I’m glad you called. Phillip’s not here. Gao said he was in Vancouver.” She wedged the phone into her shoulder and lowered a pot back into its boxed froth of white silk.
“He’s held up. It’s the plane crash. All the flights are delayed.”
“I know, I was delayed too, and that was domestic. How long?” She latched the lid down.
“Indefinite.”
She paused, hand on the box. “Don’t tell me this is turning into a… a situation.”
“Well, the crash itself would seem to have been an accident. These days, who can say? As to what they’re reporting, about people seeing lights streaking up, I don’t know. But there was a naval vessel, the U.S.S. Roosevelt, in the area at that time.”
“Oh. That’s sticky.”
“I should think.”
“Not good.”
“No.”
“Has the Chinese government made a statement?”
“Not yet. But air travel’s frozen-at this moment, anyway.”
“And Phillip…?” She was getting the drift and she didn’t like it at all.
“Phillip is not coming to Beijing. He made it as far as Vancouver. Then everything was canceled. If his flight had taken off an hour earlier he’d have made it.”
“Well, so-when?”
“I can’t say.” There was a silence. “Luo Na,” Zheng finally said. “You’ll have to try to finish this yourself.”
How can I? she wanted to scream. Nobody ever rules on anything alone, and these are eight hundred pieces, and already I’ve found fakes… it’s beyond what anyone should be expected to stand by, alone. It had always been her fantasy to find a cache like this. Only in her fantasy, she was not alone, she was not uncertain, she was not already chipped away by falsehoods. “What choice do I have?” she said. “If I have to do it, I’ll do it.”
“The sale will be quick. I’m sure of it. He wants it.”
“And the shipping?” she asked. Normally their Hong Kong office would take care of this.
“I’ve thought of that,” Zheng said. “We still want to keep the purchase quiet. The buyer plans to remain anonymous. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s acquiring it. I don’t see any reason to bring the Hong Kong office in on things now. You can do it, Lia. It’s only a few more days.”
“I know,” she said, feeling her adrenaline spike right up through the middle of her fear. “You’re right. The profile should stay low.”
“Very. Yes. But don’t worry, I’ll hire Tower Group. There’ll be nothing for you to do except keep an eye on it.”
“Good.” Tower was the Rolls-Royce, the world-class Hong Kong company that specialized in packing and shipping fragile, incredibly valuable fine artworks. This job would be wei ru lei luan, as dangerous as a pile of eggs. But those people were masters. She knew that. “Okay,” she agreed. “Let me get to work. I’ll go as fast as I can.”
Gao Yideng drove the ah chan to the northeastern suburbs of the city, where just a decade ago pigs ran along the narrow raised paths between plots of vegetables and rows of poplars. Now it was a low-lying, semi-industrial outskirt with warehouses and factories, mopeds and carts and stores. The farm plots had receded. The wide streets of packed dirt buzzed with people shopping, carrying packages, going to work.
Gao drove up at the back of a blank white warehouse. He got out of the car and opened a combination lock, rolling up the automatic door just long enough for them to drive inside. Then it closed again.
The sedan whispered to a stop on the white concrete floor. In front of them stood a truck. It shone like a light from heaven. All white, it stood bright as ice, Lanqian Industries tastefully painted along one side. In the back the cargo compartment, made to order, was precisely measured. It would hold the crates of porcelain tightly and perfectly packed. Then the false wall, and the freezer compartment, as Bai had specified. This was narrow, not too deep, well insulated from the main cargo bay. Bai and Gao opened the rear doors of the truck into this freezer, swinging back the big plates of steel and shafting light into the mist-frozen compartment. The two men laughed in delight. It was early summer outside, blazingly hot already, and the frigid air blasting from the empty freezer was paradise.
Bai saw they’d done a beautiful job. He could do anything with this truck. He could drive this cargo all the way to Australia.
“Well?”
“It’s perfect,” Bai said. “You know what I say?” He turned to Gao. “Tan guan xiang qing.” We might as well go ahead right now and congratulate each other and dust off our official hats.
She was scrolling down her list, her mind racing, dizzy with pressure, scanning for the next one she should get out and recheck. There were no more second opinions now. Everything rode on her instincts. The problem was that she’d never had instincts. Data, yes; data forever. More data than anyone. But not instincts.
Her handphone rang. “Lia?” It was Michael.
“Hi,” she said. She sat up on her haunches.
“You’re back.”