As it is, the subway ride’s long enough to give me plenty of time to think. Too much time. I keep seeing Celine’s face lit by the flickering TV, her open eyes, her slack mouth. Just what I need, another fucking thing like that in my head.
God, you’re an asshole, I tell myself. I mean, she’s dead and you’re not, so suck it up and drive on. And it’s not like I really knew her, but she was smart, smarter than I realized, and she cared about things, and now she’s paid for it.
Okay, I don’t know for sure that someone killed her. If I had to guess, I’d guess an overdose of some kind, and who knows? Those texts last night could actually have been from her. She could’ve gotten really wasted and decided that she had to talk to me right now about what she saw at the Caos’ party, because, you know, wasted-people logic where it just couldn’t wait for the morning. In which case it really sucks that I didn’t go out there, because if I had, maybe she wouldn’t have died.
Maybe she was into something and did a little too much, and it’s just a weird coincidence that she was at a party where a girl died and that she was writing about the lifestyles of the rich and heinous on her blog.
Yeah. Right.
By the time I get off the Number 2 subway line at my Gulou stop, I’m sweating, streaking the dust on my face and leaving blotches of mud on my bandanna when I wipe my forehead. First thing I do when I get home, I say to myself as I ride up the escalator, first thing I do is tell my mom. Maybe not everything, but enough to convince her and Andy to get the fuck out of Dodge for a while. No bullshit story about how I need the apartment private for me and my boyfriend, Creepy John. I have to scare them enough so they get out of the kill zone. I don’t know if Andy has a passport or not, but just go to Hong Kong or something-he can go to Hong Kong, right? And Mimi, what do I do with Mimi? Can they take her to Hong Kong?
As for me… maybe it’s time to call the embassy. Not that they can help much if I actually get arrested for something. Or that they’d necessarily even want to. I don’t know how much of the trouble I caused over Lao Zhang and the Uighur last year stayed between me and my private-contractor friends at GSC and how much of it turned into official US government trouble.
I guess I could call Carter, my contract-spook frenemy at GSC. GSC gets a lot of outsourced US intelligence work. Or it’s an actual CIA front, for all I know. The distinction is pretty fuzzy these days. Maybe Carter could give me some intel.
I doubt he’d actually help me much. Last time I tallied things up, I kind of owed him.
I think about what I might be able to trade. He’s into horse-trading. It’s mostly the only way I can deal with him. I can’t count on hitting him in his tiny guilt complex, not again. Not on something like this.
It’s your own fucking fault, Doc. I can hear him saying it already.
Outside, it’s brighter than I was expecting. The wind’s died down, the dust settling onto the sidewalks. I blink a few times and head south on Jiu Gulou Dajie, toward the hutong that leads to my apartment complex.
Okay, think of a good lie to tell Mom. Or an acceptable version of the truth. Maybe, I’ve got some Chinese gangsters after me. Because… No time to explain. Just get out of town.
I’ve reached the entrance to my alley. There’s a new black Audi parked there, pretty much blocking the way. The license plate is white instead of blue, with a big red V on it right after the 京 for “Beijing.” Military plates, I think, which means they get to park wherever they like. Half of those plates are counterfeit anyway, and the ones that aren’t, you always see them on Audis and Beemers and even Porsches. Way to “Serve the People,” asshole.
That’s when I stop in my tracks. New Audi. Military plates. Blocking the entrance to my hutong.
I turn on my heel and head back up the street, fast as I can without actually running. Maybe they didn’t see me.
I hear the click of a car door, footsteps hitting the ground, and now I am running, which is crazy, because I can’t run fast. And whoever these guys are, now there’s one on either side of me, and they’re jamming hands under my armpits and grabbing my arms, and one of them says, “Bie zhaoji.” Don’t be nervous.
Right.
“Let go of me! Fang wo zou!”
“Don’t cause trouble. Just come with us,” the one on my left says.
“Hey!” I yell. “I don’t know these men! Somebody call the police!”
I say this, and there’s an old, shoulder-hunched auntie staring at us, granite faced. A couple of college kids, who get out their cell phones and start recording. A street sweeper in a Day-Glo vest freezes, broom and dustpan in hand.
The guy on my right punches me in the face.
Nobody does anything as the men drag me back toward the Audi.
Chapter Fifteen
★
Two guys in front, one guy in back, next to me. I blink, trying to clear the fuzz from my eyes.
They might be driving an Audi with military plates, but none of the three guys is wearing any kind of uniform. Just slacks and sport coats or bomber jackets. They’re all young, though, with buzzed hair and military vibes.
The guy next to me opens up my little canvas bag, gets out my iPhone, and powers it off.
I probe the area around my right cheek and eye and temple with my fingertips, wincing.
“Sorry,” the guy on my right says. “You should have done what we said.”
“Who are you?” I manage, my voice shaking.
He doesn’t answer.
My ears are still ringing, but my head’s cleared some. Enough for me to panic. They could be taking me someplace to kill me, for all I know.
You can’t lose it, I tell myself. If you’re going to get out of this, you have to keep it together.
My heart’s pounding in my throat. I think, I’m sitting by the rear door-do I open it? Take my chances? I look out the window, try to get my bearings. We’re on the Second Ring Road. It’s a freeway, sort of, but the traffic’s so bad a lot of the time, that if it slows enough…
The rear door has to be locked. They wouldn’t have missed something like that. I haven’t ridden around in Audis much. If I pull the handle, will it unlock? Or does it have some kind of child safety lock on it?
I take a quick glance at the guy to my left. He’s staring at me. He’s lean and cut and looks like he moves fast. I know he hits hard. I’m pretty sure he’s not going to give me a chance to try to find out.
These aren’t Pompadour Bureaucrat’s people, I don’t think. His crew flashed IDs the two times they picked me up. And the plainclothes team didn’t have nearly this nice a car.
So someone else. A Cao? Uncle Yang?
Military plates, I’m guessing Uncle Yang.
I am in some serious, big-time shit.
We drive north on the Jingzang Expressway, then west on the Fifth Ring Road. I tell myself they aren’t taking me somewhere to kill me. Using an official car to kidnap me in broad daylight, on one of Beijing’s more heavily touristed streets? It doesn’t seem smart.
On the other hand, guys this high up can get away with all kinds of dumb.
Assuming it’s Uncle Yang I’m dealing with.
We keep going west, past the Summer Palace, past temples and golf courses, heading toward the Fragrant Hills. The Fragrant Hills has some of the prettiest scenery in Beijing, people tell me. All the time I’ve lived here, I’ve never been. Until now. And this isn’t looking like a sightseeing opportunity.