"Gee, thanks."
Stratton thought aloud. "Let's see, if Wang will deal and he wins this current round of intrigue, you're in clover-you've got a source at a high level. And if he loses, Wang might be persuaded to accept asylum in the United States-'defect' has a nasty ring to it, don't you think? He would be a man with a grudge against the guys who forced him out. He would provide great inside intelligence up until the time he left, and knowledgeable guesses about how things might go from there."
Linda Greer assayed a wan smile. "You could have been a great one, Stratton.
It's all there in your file."
"And does the file also say that I left in such disgust that, if I had stayed, I probably would have blown my head off?"
"Or somebody else's."
"And no doubt the file also says I am now a straight-and-narrow, almost middle-aged college professor who hardly ever does anything more adventuresome than jaywalking?"
"That, too."
"So why bother?"
"A spur-of-the-moment thing. Nothing we set up. We thought the fact you deliberately came to China might mean you were bored, but we were willing to let it go at that. No contact. But suddenly you have natural access-much better than any of us could ever get-to a major player in the Chinese drama. So we thought we'd try-although we had a hunch you'd say no."
"And all this while I was supposed to think I was here in this romantic setting because of your vast powers of sympathy. Or was it my dashing figure and rugged good looks?"
She had the grace to smile.
"Stratton, Thomas Henry. D.O.B. et cetera, et cetera. Married the former Carol Webster, pediatrician. Rancorous divorce after nine years and one child, Jason, age six… "
"He's nearly eight."
"Okay, Mr. Rugged Looks." Linda Greer took his hand with both of her own. "Will you do it, Tom?"
"What's in it for you, Linda? Little gold star on that pretty forehead? Big desk at Langley, maybe. One case is all it takes, right? I know how it works."
"Do you really?" She was hurt.
Stratton instantly regretted the nasty jabs.
"How do you think I got this job, Tom? I got it because I'm good, and I've got some guts. And I've risked my ass once or twice, literally. I'm no war hero, and maybe I don't have your scars, Tom, but I've got a few little nightmares of my own. No ribbons, no plaques on the wall, just some pretty rotten dreams. And, yes, I want out of Peking. I want to work in a place where the twentieth century has arrived, where I can leave the city without a dog tag or a babysitter, where I can have a life, like a normal woman. So the answer is yes, I want this case.
I want him. Wang Bin."
"Linda, I'm sorry… " But nothing gave way. No tears, no rage. Just a trace of color in her cheeks-and again the question.
"Tom, will you do it? Please."
"No," Stratton said. "I've already got my ribbons, remember?" A bloody stage, a pitchfork, a scream. He remembered.
"Nothing I can say or do to change your mind?"
"No."
"Shit."
They did not speak of it again. Leaving the restaurant, Linda Greer once again became an earnest tour guide. She drove competently on parking lights, dipping here and there into seemingly unpeopled alleys. Stratton had lost all sense of direction by the time Linda wheeled through a gate set in a twelve-foot brick wall. She nodded to two armed soldiers posted there, as though to trusted doormen.
"The diplomatic compound," she announced. "This is where I live."
Stratton waited.
She killed the motor and half-turned in the driver's seat. Her arm crawled up Stratton's shoulder and around his neck.
They kissed.
"That would be delightful, but the answer is still no."
"Mata Hari goes off duty after dessert," she murmured. "Besides, Peking is a lonely post, and you aren't bad-looking-in an almost middle-aged, professorial kind of way. You think you're the only one who needs some company?"
Stratton didn't believe a word of it, but he went.
CHAPTER 6
She drove alone through the night. The great city slept. Waxen pools of light marked a twenty-four-hour dumpling restaurant that was a nocturnal refuge of the young men and women who drove the number-one buses; a mindless twenty-mile route, back and forth endlessly, along Changan, and nary a turn. Her groin ached deliciously. Her mouth felt bruised. Maybe she had fibbed about going off duty, but she'd told the truth about one thing: she had needed the company. Peking was not exactly swarming with available American men. She yearned to be back in bed, but the digital clock on the dashboard read 3:15. Linda Greer was late.
She had roused Stratton with a lie, saying her reputation would be ruined if the night guards' report showed that a visitor to Miss Greer's apartment had not left. He had gone willingly enough-a goodbye kiss and a hug.
Her route led through the northern quarter of the city, and she knew it by heart. She turned right at a corner marked by a dusty bicycle shop and flashed her lights before a gray metal gate set firmly into the usual Peking-anonymous concrete wall. The gate creaked open at the urging of an old man in worker blue.
She-or some other consular officer-was expected on duly appointed diplomatic rounds.
After nearly a year in Peking, she still did not understand why the Chinese had to do it in the dead of night. Was it distaste? Or left-over superstition that had survived the arrival of the Communist era? She had asked, at first, but all of her questions had been answered with a shrug. This is how it has always been done. After a while, she, too, had learned to shrug. By embassy tradition, it was a job reserved to the junior member of the consular corps. If that happened to be a woman, who also happened to be an intelligence officer, too bad. In another month, a new junior vice-consul would report for duty and Linda Greer would drive no more by night in Peking.
There were no preliminaries. The Chinese had no more liking for this chore than she.
"I am Miss Greer of the American Embassy. Where is Mr. Li?"
"Mr. Li is ill tonight. My name is Mr. Hu."
Linda nodded. Hu's on first, a pockmarked man with a cowlick. She was glad she had worn a skirt. Her panties were damp with the aftermath of love; no, of good old-fashioned, hard-and-fast sex. For a wild moment Linda imagined driving to Stratton's hotel, rushing to his room on some pretext and… no, that would never do. That ruggedly aloof professor with the scarred body and great stamina was not for keeping; strictly a half-night stand. Still, it was better to think of him than to contemplate her late-night diplomatic duty.
"I believe there are two," she said primly, waving a pair of manila folders.
Mr. Hu nodded. It was not unusual. The average was about twelve a year, but they tended to cluster in the peak tourist months. Twelve ducks.
The inner room was chilly, smelling of things Linda Greer never thought about.
The welder, too, was new to Linda. She thought of asking Mr. Hu if the entire crew had been changed, but didn't bother.
"Friedman, Molly R., Fort Lauderdale, Florida," she read from the file.
Mr. Hu gestured. The lid was open. Linda looked, nodded.
"Wang, David T., Pittsville, Ohio." Her own voice seemed strained.
"We have already begun on that one."
"I am required to see it first."
"You were late."
"That is procedure."
"It is very hot."
A Chinese standoff. Linda could insist. They would shout and argue and, finally, with ill grace, they would probably snap the welds and open the lid. Linda had a sudden vision of herself, screaming like a harridan in Mandarin in the foreigners' morgue in Peking at the deadest hour before dawn. She shivered and surrendered.
"Very well," she said.
Mr. Hu nodded. The welder, a stocky, middle-aged woman, twirled a knob and ignited her torch.