“So-”
“With your command of English, I would have made it out long ago.”
He was alarmed. There was something urgent in her vague words, but she didn’t elaborate. Still, there was an unambiguous difference between tonight’s call and her phone call the night he stood at her Bingjiang apartment windows, overlooking the sleepless river. This time, she was still so concerned about him, and her suggestion was a realistic one. But this time, she chose not to involve herself more than necessary.
It was understandable. What could he possibly give her? Nothing except trouble, particularly in the midst of his own troubles.
There was no point in going to her hair salon. He finished up the phone call like a suddenly hollow man, murmuring polite yet meaningless words. He reminded himself that she had helped him so generously.
The evening was beginning to spread out against the sky. He walked on along Huaihai Road, passing the consulate she had just mentioned, as if in some mysterious correspondence. Then he turned onto a shady side road lined with trees. Ahead of him, he saw a new Sichuan restaurant, with several Westerners talking outside under the flashing neon sign. Heavenly Sichuan. He remembered hearing a lot about this place. On an inexplicable impulse, he stepped inside.
The restaurant, while still designed in the old Sichuan style, was pretty much Westernized in terms of its service. The proprietor must have taken into consideration the consulates located nearby, not only the American consulate but several other Western ones as well. Chen chose a corner table. At a table in the other corner, a waitress was deftly cutting and placing a portion of a squirrel-shaped fish on a dainty plate in front of each diner, all Westerners. It was quite different from the Chinese way of everyone dipping their chopsticks into the same big platter.
At the recommendation of a bespectacled waiter, Chen ordered sliced spicy pork draped like clothing on a tiny bamboo pole, pock-faced granny’s spicy tofu, and a steamed live bass with ginger and scallion.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
“Maybe. She might come, but I’m not sure.”
“These will be enough for now, I think. When she comes, you can order more,” the waiter said considerately. “Anything to drink?”
Chen was thinking of hot tea when the waiter opened up the menu to the wine page.
“How about the Bordeaux? It’s very appropriate and fashionable to have red wine with the Sichuan dishes.”
“Well, whatever you recommend, but I’d like a pot of green tea too.”
He wasn’t surprised to see that the two Westerners across the aisle-both men-were dining with three young Chinese women. Each of them was holding a glass of red wine, laughing, and using chopsticks as if they had done so all their life.
He found himself the only solitary diner there. Few, Shanghainese or not, would go to a stylish restaurant alone. The waiter came back to the table, carrying a medium-sized live bass jumping in a hand net for his inspection. He nodded absently.
At the next table, the diners were from Russia, which gave him an idea. Just a couple of days ago, he had planned to visit Overseas Chinese Lu in Pudong but had ended up staying at White Cloud’s apartment. This evening, he’d finally go to Overseas Chinese Lu’s place. But first, he had to think about what he was going to do, tomorrow, with the footage from the hotel surveillance camera.
The spicy tofu was brought to the table. It was quite tasty, but after just a spoonful, he lost himself in a tangle of ideas, one after the next, in a futile attempt to find a way out. He worked through the possible scenarios so many times that thinking only exhausted him.
The next dish that came out was the thin-sliced pork. It was beautifully prepared and looked almost like a table decoration.
Before Chen could take a bite, he thought of something Peiqin had said about Kai’s son studying at an Ivy League college and Daniel Martin’s business of making arrangements for the children of high officials who were going abroad. Was there a connection? But it was probably such small change for those officials…
“The live fish,” the waiter said, serving a large, colorful platter with the steamed fish covered with green onion, red pepper, and golden ginger.
Was Chen just like the Watch Boss, anxious to have a last fling before the end?
The dead fish eyes seemed to be staring back at him.
Outside, it started raining. It could be difficult to get a taxi on a rainy night. Most of the customers here had come in their own cars, so they weren’t worried. Not so for Chen, but then again, he wasn’t anxious to leave for Pudong.
He was beginning to have second thoughts about his plan for the night. Given the present circumstances, there was no telling if visiting them would cause trouble for the Lus. Besides, Chen couldn’t afford to spend the night in sentimental conversation about the old days. Overseas Chinese Lu had grown impossibly nostalgic of late. In the meantime, Chen didn’t have much time left-the net was closing around him.
Then his cell phone buzzed.
“Where are you?” Wenting asked, her voice energetic and exuberant against a background of muffled noise.
“In a Sichuan restaurant-Heavenly Sichuan-near the American consulate.”
“Oh, I know it. It’s close to Wulumuqi Road, right? I’m in the subway on the way to the train station. I’m glad I called you to check, so now I just have to take a taxi over to the restaurant. This way I don’t have to make a trip to Suzhou to talk to you. I’ll see you at Heavenly Sichuan in half an hour.”
Twenty minutes later, Wenting scampered into the restaurant, heading straight over to the table as if she were late for a date.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She reached across the table to peck him lightly on the forehead, her hand taking his tenderly. She put something in his hand.
“Oh, you look terrible,” she said with a note of affectionate concern.
That might be true. He’d slept little, what with Gong’s phone call that stretched late into the night, and then the train back to Shanghai so early in the morning.
“The latest update,” she whispered in his ear, her finger touching his unshaven face like a lover.
The waiter hurried over, carrying a bottle of red wine in his hand.
“No, I have to leave soon,” Wenting said. “I’ve got some urgent business.”
Nodding, the waiter withdrew in quick steps.
“He’s waiting for me,” she said to Chen, standing up. “He insists I shouldn’t take up too much of your time.”
After Wenting left, Chen turned on his laptop and inserted the new flash memory drive she had delivered from Melong. It had the same three folders as before, updated to include recent e-mails. There weren’t too many e-mails in the past two days. He skipped over those between Sima and Jin.
But some of the e-mails in Shen’s folder caught his attention. The date stamp on these e-mails was today. Melong must have captured them this afternoon.
In one message from FL earlier this morning: “The widow may have started talking.”
Shen’s response was curt: “Talking about the guy buried and dug up again? I’ll have her place bugged tomorrow.”
“Do whatever necessary,” FL wrote back. “Better something done once and for all.”
FL wrote again five minutes later, as if in afterthought. “Just like in the hotel.”
There were no further e-mails from Shen.
Was the widow in the e-mail Liang’s widow? If so, she could be the next target. But Liang was dead and buried with all his secrets-why were they being so ruthless toward her? Whatever the answer, once again it pointed to some high, unknown stake that had put them on an unbearable edge.