As she watched Zhen’s Kundalini demonstration on the surveillance monitor—the entire apartment was covered by cameras and microphones in the fixtures, woodwork, and ceilings—Dominika’s heart stopped when she heard Zhen tell Nate her perfume was called ylang-ylang. That’s how they would do him. Zhen would dab him with fragrant oil spiked with the monkshood toxin during some yoga tryst, which would kill him by the next morning.
Would Nate sense the danger? Why would he? He was an operations officer on the hunt, intent on recruiting a beautiful Chinese girl. Benford and CIA had no idea of the threat; they couldn’t warn him. Dominika herself was in a screamingly perilous position. She couldn’t call CIA; she was in China. She couldn’t throw a package over the wall of the US Consulate as it was surrounded by MSS lookouts. She was constantly accompanied by MSS escorts, and the diminutive Rainy Chonghuan was always at her side. They had put her in a luxurious guest apartment one floor up, directly above this one, which Dominika had no doubt, was also humming with multiple digital microphones and lenses, making it exceedingly risky to try to leave the building and somehow make street contact on the fly with Nate who, she also assumed, was under MSS surveillance.
If she acted to save Nate and made a mistake, the Chinese would report it to the Kremlin, and she would be lost. Dominika had tried to send Nate subtle warnings. She had advised the MSS that Zhen must not seem overly inquisitive, and ask no personal questions, the mark of an intelligence officer. She recommended that Zhen downplay her UK university years by simply saying they were paid for by a “scholarship.” Dominika told her hosts it was “safer to be vague,” but in reality these were inconsistent notes that she hoped would be the silent dog whistle in Nate’s head to get him to start smelling a trap. She also strongly advised that Zhen should mention Fernando’s Restaurant in Macao to shock the American into blurting something actionable, really knowing it would be a premature and aggressive note, sure to alarm Nate. She feared these would be too subtle, too diffuse warnings. Would Nate pick up on them? She couldn’t try any more subtle sabotage, for the Chinese were too smart. Dominika didn’t know how else to confound MSS plans to kill Nate.
Grace had invited Nate back to her apartment for a home-cooked meal, in repayment for the dinner at the China Club. She opened the door, smiled, and pulled him by the hand into the apartment. She wore a beige shirtdress that came to midthigh, with floppy sleeves rolled up past the elbows. She briefly pressed up against him—he could feel the softness of her breasts under the shirt—and kissed him lightly. She padded barefoot through the living room—the air was thick with ylang-ylang—around the corner, and into a small but modern kitchen done all in white tile and stainless steel. On the counter were a number of ingredients, and a small black-handled Chinese cleaver.
“I’m making a Burmese tomato salad,” said Grace. “The word for salad in Burmese is ‘lethoke.’ It means mix by hand.”
“Were you ever in Burma?” said Nate. “What’s it called now?”
“Myanmar,” said Grace. “Only as a tourist. But a Burmese woman there taught me how to make the salad. Her name was Kyi Saw.” Grace chopped the ingredients skillfully, whisked lemongrass vinegar, canola oil, and fish sauce, then fried sliced onions and garlic in a small pot of oil. Nate watched how she moved effortlessly around the kitchen, her hands quick and deft. She assembled the salad in a large wooden bowl, lightly tossed it with her hands until everything was incorporated, and handed Nate a fork. He tried a thin slice of tomato. The taste was salty, sweet, and pungent, with a slight crunch of crushed peanuts.
“This is really delicious,” he said. “I’ve never had anything like this before.”
Grace leaned on the counter and looked sideways at him. “I think they serve a version of the salad at a restaurant in Macao,” she said. “It’s a little restaurant on the beach called Fernando’s. We should go there sometime, and I’ll show you.” Nate kept his face neutral. Don’t like the sound of that at all, he thought. Coincidence? Maybe, maybe not.
“Sounds like fun,” said Nate. They brought plates of salad out to the balcony and ate while looking at the harbor and the scudding clouds in the night sky blushing pink from the city lights. “I find it inconceivable that this vibrant city was actually returned to China, and is now under the thumb of Beijing,” said Nate. “Do you think the spirit of Hong Kong can survive?”
“The people here are trying, resisting and demanding their rights. But I do not know if they will succeed,” said Grace.
“I know the rest of the world hopes they will succeed,” said Nate.
“So do I,” said Grace.
“It would be a worthy effort, to help Hong Kong stay free,” said Nate. “Something with meaning.” He stopped and came off the gas, putting it in neutral, not wanting to overdo the theme. They could come back to it; at the right moment, Nate could tell her specifically how she could help. Work for CIA.
“I could see that,” said Grace. “Right now I devote myself to the hotel, nothing else. And yoga is my only escape.”
“I have to be honest with you,” said Nate. “When you showed me that Kundalini Awakening, I was a little startled, scared even. I didn’t know what had happened to you.”
Grace laughed. “Do you want to learn a little more? I can tell you about the chakras, the energy points in your body. They’re very important; they control everything,” said Grace. Okay, stud, keep this under control.
Nate so far had kept things platonic, despite the black bra and the arched back, and the cursory kisses. He could imagine Benford’s reaction if it became known that he had recruited Grace Gao by bedding her; it would be an affirmation of Benford’s lingering belief that Nate should no longer be employed by CIA. He had not dwelled on it in some time, but now Nate contemplated what a nightmare it would be if he got kicked out of the Agency, and returned home to Richmond, Virginia, where his family all along had brayed that Nate wouldn’t make it as a spook, never mind that his downfall took ten years and not two, as they had predicted. So how do you handle this Chinese beauty who wants to show you her chakras?
They sat on the floor facing each other, cross-legged, knees nearly touching. Grace took the wide copper bowl off one of the altar tables, put it on the floor beside them, and struck the rim lightly with a small wooden dowel. The bowl gave off a clear, smooth note like the chime of a grandfather clock. “Singing bowl,” said Grace, “to clear your mind.” She ran the dowel around the lip of the bowl, which began a pulsing hum that grew into a second bullfrog tone overlaying the first. She stopped stroking the bowl, and the tones slowly faded. She shifted herself slightly forward so their knees touched.
“There are seven chakras in your body, and they all represent different emotions,” said Grace. She took a small bottle out of her dress pocket, unscrewed the cap, and tilted it forward to wet the tip of her finger. The dizzying fragrance of ylang-ylang enveloped them, and Grace dragged her fingertip along the sides of Nate’s neck, on the undersides of his wrists, and on his ankles. “The oil will help you relax,” she said.
She touched the top of his head. “This is the seventh chakra, the violet chakra, the crown, which brings bliss.” She leaned forward and kissed his forehead.
“This is the sixth chakra, the indigo chakra, the brow, which controls intuition.” She kissed his eyelids.
“The fifth, blue, the throat for healing.” She moved lower and nuzzled his throat with her lips. Jesus, she’s heading south, is there a Captain Picard chakra?