He was actually relieved each night when he touched his withered leg and found that nothing had changed.
But he couldn’t allow his friendship with Li to stop him from doing what he had to do. He wasn’t Judas, and Li… Li wasn’t Jesus. He needed to focus, to figure out how to meet the American agent without betraying himself. He flipped open his Bible, then shut it irritably. The answer wouldn’t be found in there.
Then he looked at the book again.
Unless it would.
As the plan filled his mind, Cao slid the Bible back into his desk. The idea was a long shot, and he would have to trust in the endurance of this American, this American he’d never met. But he had no other options.
Ten minutes later Cao was in his jeep, navigating through the night, heading east. Armored jeeps and paddy wagons blocked the entrance to Tiananmen, but when the soldiers manning the blockade saw the stars on Cao’s uniform, their scowls turned to salutes and they waved him through.
To the east of Tiananmen, the traffic picked up again, and the city turned bright and shiny. This stretch of road was Beijing’s answer to Fifth Avenue, chockablock with stores that sold thousand-dollar handbags to China’s elite. Cao passed a Ferrari dealership, low-slung yellow cars glowing under the lights. A Ferrari dealership.Less than a mile from Tiananmen. While all over China farmers and factory workers scrambled to eat. Perhaps Li was right after all. Perhaps China needed him in charge.
No. Even if Li was right, he couldn’t be allowed to take such insane risks. Cao pushed the pedal to the floor. He didn’t have much time.
WELLS DIALED A NUMBER he’d never called before, a 415 area code. Exley answered on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Jennifer?”
“Jim.” His cover name sounded strange in her mouth. She kept her voice steady, but still he could hear the tension. “Was your flight okay?” In the background he heard CNN.
“Everything’s fine. The hotel’s great. Might as well be Paris.” Wells wanted to keep this conversation as banal as possible. No doubt the Chinese were monitoring every phone call into and out of the St. Regis tonight.
“What time is it there?”
“Two A.M. But I’m wide awake. Jet lag. Is anything happening? Anything I should know about?” This would be her only chance to tell him if his cover was blown.
“No. The kids are fine. Everyone misses you.” An all-clear, or as close as he would get.
“Tell them I miss them too. How’s my niece?”
“Still hasn’t called. Your brother’s worried sick.” So the mole was still gone.
“Well, tell him not to worry. Listen, honey, this call’s costing a fortune, so… I just wanted to check in, say I love you.”
“I love you too, honey. Stay safe, huh? You’re on your own this time.” A reference to the way she’d saved him in New York. Her voice cracked, and before he could say anything else, she hung up.
30
“SIR.” THE CONCIERGE, A SMALL MAN in a three-button suit, waved frantically as Wells strode toward the St. Regis’s front door. “Good morning, sir. A moment, please. We are asked to give this to our American guests.”
The concierge handed Wells a paper embossed with the State Department’s logo and headlined “Notice to Americans.”
“Last nightthe U.S. consulate in Guangzhouwas informed that an American couple visiting China for an adoption had been attacked. The incident was apparently motivated by anger at deteriorating American-Chineserelations.” Bureaucrats and diplomats loved the word incident, Wells thought. It avoided touchy issues, like what had really happened and who was to blame.
“So far this incident appears isolated. However, U.S. citizens should keep a low profile and avoid anti-American demonstrations”—good call—“andlarge groups of Chinese.” With 1.5 billion people in the country, that might be tough. “The situation is fluid and updates will be issued as conditions warrant.”
“Maybe you stay in the hotel today, sir,” the concierge said.
“And miss my chance to see Beijing?”
“WHERE TO, SIR?”
“Tiananmen Square.”
The St. Regis doorman looked unhappy. “No cars in Tiananmen today, sir.”
“Just have him get as close as he can. I want to see the Forbidden City”—the former Chinese imperial palace, north of Tiananmen. “Forbidden City is open, right?” It better be, Wells thought. He was supposed to meet Cao Se there.
“Yes.” The doorman waved a taxi forward, but his frown didn’t disappear, not even after he palmed Wells’s tip.
Wells wasn’t surprised to see that the cabbie had a soldier’s close-cropped hair. Everyone who left the St. Regis today would be watched. He’d have to assume that Cao had planned for the surveillance. Trying too hard to ditch his watchers would only draw more attention. Though if he could lose them without seeming to work at it, he would.
“So what do you think about this mess?” Wells said to the cabbie. “I think we’ll work it out. In two years it’ll be like it never happened.” Jim Wilson was an optimist. Wells wasn’t so sure.
“No English.”
“Oh. Not that many Chinese speak English, I’m noticing. Course, I don’t speak any Chinese, so there it is. The language of the future, everyone says.” The driver just shrugged.
As they moved west toward Tiananmen, the traf fic slowed to a standstill. Ahead the road was blocked and police were diverting cars off the avenue. Around them a steady flow of Chinese walked west. Wells saw his chance. He handed a hundred-yuan note to the driver and popped out, ignoring the cabbie’s sputtering.
Wells picked his way through the soot-belching trucks, packed minibuses, and shiny black Mercedes limousines jammed together on the wide avenue. The sweet smell of benzene mixed with the stink of unburned diesel. He joined the Chinese heading west on the sidewalk, following the human current toward Tiananmen, and peeked back at the cab. The driver had a radio to his mouth, no doubt warning other agents to watch for Wells. Which wouldn’t be easy in this crowd. Mostly men, they had the same buoyant mood he’d sensed the day before. They waved Chinese flags and didn’t seem to mind having Wells among them. Two men traded a camera back and forth, snapping pictures, holding their hands high in a V-for-victory salute. Though Wells knew from his years in Afghanistan that under the wrong circumstances a crowd like this could become a mob in seconds.
He felt a tug on his elbow. “American?” A tall man in a fraying blue sweatshirt pointed an angry finger at him.
“Canada,” Wells said. No need to start a riot. He was taking enough risks today. His questioner pushed by and was swallowed in the crowd. After the next intersection the road was clear. Men surged onto the pavement. Police clustered around cruisers and paddy wagons, watching for trouble but not interfering with the flow.
Farther on, a herd of television trucks sat close together, Chinese channels that Wells didn’t recognize, along with CNN, Fox, BBC, NHK. The wholeworld is watching.A company-sized detachment of soldiers massed near the trucks, to protect the reporters, or maybe to intimidate them.