"Insane?" she suggested.
He closed his eyes, shook his head slowly. "At least we know now, the four of us. We must be careful. Though"-he paused-"I am sorry beyond words for this. It should never have happened."
"I’m all right," she insisted. "Really, I am."
"And ingenious too," he said softly. "Do you know, Xiao Mo, that today you were successful at jia chi bu dian? To pretend to be stupid when one is smart. It is one of the classic ancient strategies."
"It is?"
"Yes. And a difficult hand to play. I salute you."
"And I you," she returned.
He felt her open intelligence all the way through him. Again like Meiyan. Meiyan who had never returned, whose fate was unknown, who was still his wife. Meiyan was always there between him and anyone else. Would it be so with this outsider Mo Ai-li? Her hands were the pale color of nephrite, speckled, jittery. Her face a triangle, constructed differently from all faces he had known. Her hair.
"Dr. Lin?"
"You make me think of the legend of Mu-lan," he told her. "She’s a famous Chinese heroine. She was very brave, like you."
"Yes. Mu-lan." Mo Ai-li smiled up at him. "I know the story. But I must disagree. I am not like her. In order to go to war, and express her duty to her father, Mu-lan posed as a man. I’d never do that."
The yawning rush of yin came from her and he felt his face warming. He looked down and saw that he was still holding her arm. He let it go. "No," he had to agree, "I think you would not."
Lin went directly to Kong Zhen. "The PLA picked up the female interpreter!" he shouted, as soon as he had closed Kong’s door behind him. "They questioned her, they were rude to her-is it not unthinkable!"
All color drained from Kong’s face. "Did they let her go? Is she all right?"
"Yes. All right. But it’s a disgrace!"
"Speak calmly. What happened?"
"A soldier approached her at the phone hall. She was calling her father-you see, he’s an official in the U.S. Government-and the soldier ordered her off the phone and into his truck. They took her somewhere, she doesn’t know where. None of them knew she could speak, so they talked in front of her-"
"Oh!" Kong said. "Very good."
"She said their language was crude. The leader argued with his men-he hadn’t wanted her brought in. They said they thought the Americans might smuggle out Peking Man if they found it. Then they apologized to her and let her go."
"Aiya, " Kong sighed.
"This cannot happen," Lin said firmly.
"I know, I know. Ten thousand years of stink! All right, Shiyang, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it."
"Elder cousin," said Kong Zhen into the phone barely an hour later. He had gotten a call through to Vice Director Han as quickly as he could. "We have had a small problem. The Army detained one of the Americans-the female. They frightened her." He paused, listening to the flood of indignation on the other end. "Yes. I know you never intended it. Yes. Yes, they let her go. But this sort of thing cannot be permitted. Consider the potential for guoji yinxiang," International repercussions. "Elder cousin." Kong took a deep breath. "I truly believe these particular outside people will not smuggle out Peking Man. The possibility is as remote as a needle at the bottom of the sea. Yes, I know this is only my humble opinion. Yes. I know you must be careful. But, elder cousin"-he swallowed-"my lowly suggestion is this: You should remove the surveillance."
"Here is buried Abel Oort," said Guo Wenxiang, kicking lightly at the small, moss-eaten headstone in the weeds.
Alice watched Spencer drop to a squat and lay his hands on the pocked, lichen-molded surface. She had told him right away about being picked up by the PLA. He’d been pissed. Good and pissed off like a friend should be. Then she told him the rest, that they thought he meant to steal Peking Man if he found it, and she saw him frightened, pale for the first time. He had turned around and walked away from her, and closed the door of his room. An hour later he emerged, in control of himself again, and said he was ready to go and meet Guo at the graveyard.
Now Guo and Alice stood watching Spencer bent over the gravestone, writing in his notebook. "I understand you ran into some trouble today," Guo said.
She froze.
"It’s so, isn’t it? I told you my connections were top level."
She swallowed. "Yes," she said. "You did."
"You must move carefully." He threw each syllable at her emphatically. "There seems to be suspicion that your group will smuggle national artifacts out of the country. Now, Interpreter Mo. If I am to be your consultant, you should explain your business in China." He waited.
Tell him. "Dr. Spencer is an archaeologist. He has an idea he may be able to recover the remains of Peking Man."
Guo’s eyebrows flew up in abhorrence. "He would take Peking Man out of China?"
"No, no. That’s crazy."
"Are you certain?"
"Certain."
"Really. Do you know the true face of this man?"
She looked at the middle-aged American in the weeds. "No," she said honestly. "But I know that’s not what he’s after. It doesn’t fit-not in the world he comes from. He’s a scholar. He wants academic success. Were he to smuggle an artifact, he’d lose unimaginable face. It would ruin his career." To her it all seemed so clear that she was sure Guo Wenxiang must perfectly understand it. An American would change his expression, say, Ah yes, I see, you are right. But Guo was Chinese. He stonewalled, staring across the graves and weeds, as if she had said nothing of import.
Then he answered: "Of course, the PLA is basically business, do you understand me or not? The business of holding the plate of sand together. This is China." He stopped and lit a cigarette, sucked hard, and blew out smoke. "Also, Mo Ai-li. The place Dr. Spencer is talking about in Inner Mongolia is even more sensitive than here. Don’t do anything that might be wrongly interpreted."
"You mean near Eren Obo?"
"Yes. That’s Alashan County. It’s a military area-most classified. Missiles. Mo Ai-li, be more careful. Think back and forth."
She nodded, pushing down anxiety.
"If there are things you want to know, come to me," Guo advised.
"Perhaps you’re right." She closed her eyes. The advanced Chinese, the command of colloquialisms, the slang: at a certain point, when you got close to things that were neibu, Inside their damned private bubble, it was all worthless. "There is something"-she sighed-"a most delicate matter."
"No problem."
"And no one is to know of it."
"You will trust me," he said. It was a cold observation, a twist of the knife that said, Face it, you’ll trust me, you have no choice. He sucked on his cigarette. "Shenmo shi?" What is it?
"A colleague of mine is searching for his wife. She may be dead. Her name is Zhang Meiyan."
"Zhang Meiyan?"
"Yes. Originally from Zhengzhou, but interned here in the laogai. Early seventies, I think."
Guo blew a smoke ring. "Interned where? Which camp?"
"I don’t know. But I believe there were a lot of camps on the Nei Meng side, over the Helan Shan, in the desert-"
"I know that," Guo cut her off. His tone said: I know because I live here and I lick crumbs out of the gutter for my living, but it’s something you are not supposed to know. He studied her strange green eyes.
She stared back.
"Did he hear from the wife after she was sent away?" As Guo spoke his lips came apart around the cigarette, revealing small, pointed teeth.
"I don’t think so. Not for a long time, at least."
"Boundless is the bitter sea." Guo exhaled one last blue cloud, then ground the butt under his shoe. "Well. The women’s camps were all closed. In 1980, all the women still alive were released. Some were given housing registrations in villages on the Ningxia side. Others were assigned in Inner Mongolia, across the mountains. What’s the husband’s name?"