“Not my homeland. I was born and raised right here in DC.”
Li, a prominent intellectual rights lawyer, had graduated from Georgetown University, which made him wholly homegrown. Still, Thorne couldn’t help needling him; it was part of their relationship.
Thorne frowned. Despite what Li had said, he didn’t like the moo goo gai pan at all. “As an outsider, you’re privy to an awful lot of their secrets.”
“Who said I’m an outsider?”
Thorne regarded him thoughtfully before hailing a passing waiter, who stopped and stood before him with the air of someone who, despite the hour, had many things better to do. Picking up the greasestained plastic menu, Thorne ordered General Tso’s chicken. “Extra crispy,” he said, though it’s doubtful the waiter heard him or, if he did, cared, until Li spoke to him in the withering Cantonese only a Mandarin could manage. Off the waiter went, as if Li had lit his tail on fire.
After pouring them both chrysanthemum tea, Li said, “Really, Charles, after all these years it would behoove you to learn Cantonese as well as Mandarin.”
“What? So I can intimidate waiters in Chinatown? That’s all it’s good for these days.”
Li regarded him again with his patented inscrutable look.
“You do that deliberately,” Thorne complained. “You know that, don’t you? I’m on to you.”
The waiter set down a platter of General Tso’s chicken, and, after giving Li a questioning look and receiving an answering nod, beat a hasty retreat.
“Is it extra crispy?” Li said.
“You know it is,” Thorne replied, piling some into his bowl of rice.
The two men ate in companionable silence amid the sizzle and steam of the open kitchen behind them. The usual bustle, shouting, and shoving, however, were missing. The unaccustomed hush lent the place a forlorn air.
At last, when the first frenzy of shoving the food into his mouth had abated, Charles said, “I’ve known you a long time, Li, but I still can’t figure how an outsider like you is trusted with—”
“Hush, Charles.”
Their waiter, wiping his hands on his filthy apron, walked past them to the men’s room.
Li pointed at Thorne’s dish. “There really was a General Tso, you know. Zuo Zongtang. Qing Dynasty. Died in 1885. From Hunan. Odd since the dish is mainly sweet, not spicy like most Hunan dishes. It’s not indigenous to Changsha, the capital of Hunan, nor Xiangyin, the general’s home town. So what is its origin? There’s speculation that the name of the dish was originally zongtang chicken.”
“Meaning ‘ancestral meeting hall.’”
Li nodded. “In that event, nothing to do with the good general.” He swirled some tea around his mouth and swallowed. “Of course, the Taiwanese have claimed they created the dish.” Li put down his chopsticks. “The point being, Charles, that no one knows these things— no one can.”
“Are you saying that it’s impossible to know how you became such a trusted guardian of—”
“Listen to me,” Li said, abruptly and finally. “I’m saying that in Chinese culture there are many reasons for many things, most of them too complicated to comprehend fully.”
“Try me,” Thorne said with a mouthful of food.
“I can’t go into my lineage. It would make your eyes pop and your head spin. Suffice it to say, I am among the elite residing outside of Beijing. As to your suggestion of returning to the motherland, I’m far too valuable to the powers that be precisely where I am.”
“‘The powers that be.’” Thorne flashed a lopsided grin. “One of those opaque, distinctly Chinese phrases.”
“As they say,” Li said, returning the lopsided grin like a forehand over the net, “Beijing is composed of equal parts quicksand and cement.”
“What do ‘the powers that be’ think of your bedding Natasha Illion?” Li and Illion, a supermodel of Israeli background, had been a breathless item for over a year, something of a record for that rareified, hothouse species.
Li, silent on the subject of his inamorata, watched Thorne return to his eating, waiting a decent amount of time before he said, “I understand you have a bit of an issue.”
At that, Thorne’s chopsticks froze halfway to his mouth. He covered his consternation by making a show of putting them down slowly and carefully. “Exactly what have you heard, Li?”
“Exactly what you have. You and the rest of the senior staff at Politics As Usual are about to be investigated for illegal voicemail hacking.” He cocked his head. “Tell me, does the illustrious Senator Ann Ring know?”
“If she did,” Thorne said acidly, “she’d be jumping out of her skin.” He shook his head. “The investigation has not yet begun.”
“For the time being.”
“She must, on no account, find out. It will be the end.”
“Yes, the end of your gravy train. How many millions is your wife worth?”
Thorne regarded him bleakly.
“But the senator will find out the moment the investigation begins, if she hasn’t already.”
“She hasn’t, believe me.”
“Tick-tock, Charles.”
Thorne winced inwardly. “I need help.”
“Yes, Charles,” Li Wan said, “you most certainly do.”
El Enterrador led them to the back of the apse, down a short, dimly lit corridor, into the rectory, which smelled of incense, polished wood, and man-sweat. Beneath an enormous figure of Christ on the Cross were laid out the architectural plans for Maceo Encarnación’s villa on Castelar Street.
“Are you sure this is where our man is going to be?” Bourne had asked Constanza Camargo earlier in the evening.
“If, as you say, he was flown here to Mexico City,” she had replied, “this is the reason why.”
El Enterrador took them floor by floor, room by room, through the house. “Two floors,” came his papery whisper, “plus, most importantly, a basement.” He told them why.
“The roof is made of traditional unglazed Mexican tiles. Very sturdy. There are two exit doors on the ground floor—front and back. None on the second floor, save the windows. And as for the basement—” his long, stiletto-like forefinger showed them on the plan.
Then he lifted the top sheet, exposing another. “Those were the original plans. Here are the modifications Maceo Encarnación made when he moved in.” His forefinger stabbed out again. “You see, here—and here—and again here.” His black-ice eyes cut to them for an instant. “Good for you, possibly. Possibly not. That is not my business. I told Constanza Camargo that I would get you in. The rest is up to you.”
He stood up, his cowl throwing an oblique shadow across the modified plan. “Afterward, if you are successful, if you manage to escape, you will not come here, nor will you go to Constanza Camargo’s home.”
“We discussed with her what would happen,” Rebeka said, “after.”
“Did you?” Clearly, el Enterrador’s interest was piqued. “Well, well.”
“She must like us.”
El Enterrador nodded. “I believe she does.”
“How do you know Señora Camargo?” Rebeka asked.
El Enterrador flashed them an evil smile. “We met in heaven,” he whispered, “or in hell.”
“That’s hardly helpful,” Rebeka said.
“We are in Mexico, Señorita. Here there are volcanos, serpents, madness, gods, sacred places. Mexico City is one such. It is built upon the navel of the Aztec world. Here, heaven and hell meet.”
“Let’s get on with it,” Bourne said, “shall we?”
The evil smile returned to the false priest’s lips. “An unbeliever.”
“I’m a believer in doing,” Bourne said, “not talking.”
El Enterrador nodded. “Fair enough, but...” He handed a small object to Bourne. It was a tiny replica of a human skull, studded with crystals. “Keep this safe,” he said. “It is protection.”