She slips it into her bag. “Let’s go and see Jin Qiang. The taxi should be waiting downstairs.”
Opened in 2009, the first new building on the Bund for seventy years, the Peninsula Hotel is dauntingly grand. The lobby is pillared art deco, a tone-poem in ivory and old gold. The carpets are vast, the conversation muted. White-uniformed bellboys hurry discreetly between the vast reception desk and the near-silent lifts.
In the online catalogue, Eve’s mint-green shift dress was described as a “chic, summery office staple,” but catching sight of herself in a mirror in the lift, she senses that she’s striking the wrong note. The dress is sleeveless and she’s cut herself shaving—her armpit still stings quite badly—so somehow she has to conduct a vital meeting with a senior officer of the Chinese Ministry of State Security without ever raising her right arm.
Jin Qiang is alone in the suite. It’s vast, soft-lit and restfully luxurious. Sky-blue curtains frame a view of the river, and more distantly the skyscrapers of Pudong.
“Mrs. Polastri, Mr. Mortimer. This is a great pleasure.”
“Thank you for agreeing to see us,” says Eve, as she and Simon lower themselves into silk-upholstered armchairs.
“I have most affectionate memories of Richard Edwards. I trust he’s in good health?”
For some minutes, the niceties are observed on both sides. Jin is a quietly spoken figure in a dove-grey suit. He speaks English with a faint American accent. At intervals a look of refined melancholy touches his features, as if he’s saddened by the vagaries of human behaviour.
“The murder of Zhang Lei,” Eve begins.
“Yes, indeed.” He steeples his long, manicured fingers.
“We wish to convey our assurances that this action was not sponsored, executed or in any way enabled by agents of the British government,” Eve says. “We have had our differences with your ministry, particularly concerning the activities of the individuals calling themselves the White Dragon. A unit, we have reason to believe, of the Chinese military. But this is not the way we would choose to resolve those differences.”
Jin smiles. “Mrs. Polastri, you are mistaken in thinking that the White Dragon group is part of the Chinese People’s Liberation Army. They, and others like them, are just mischief-makers, acting without reference to anyone.”
Eve inclines her head diplomatically. This, she knows, is the official line on all cyber-attacks originating in China.
“We’re here in Shanghai to assist in any way we can,” says Simon. “Especially with reference to the killer of Lieutenant Colonel Zhang.”
“He was, I’m afraid, just plain Mr. Zhang.”
“Of course. My apologies. But we understand that Richard Edwards has communicated to you our suspicions concerning a female assassin?”
“He has. And I’m aware of the circumstances surrounding the death of Viktor Kedrin.”
Eve leans forward in her chair. “Let me cut to the chase. We believe that the woman who killed Kedrin also killed Zhang Lei. We believe she is not acting alone, but on behalf of an organisation of considerable reach and power.”
“That is indeed cutting to the chase, Mrs. Polastri. May I ask what Zhang Lei and Viktor Kedrin had in common, that they should both be… eliminated by this organisation?”
“At this stage it’s hard to say. But I would repeat that neither we nor our American colleagues had any hand in the death of Zhang Lei. Nor that of Viktor Kedrin.”
Jin folds his hands in his lap. “I must accept your assurances.”
Eve is suddenly conscious of the cut under her arm. For a ghastly moment she wonders if she has left a bloodstain on the silk upholstery of her chair. “May I be frank with you?” she asks.
“Please do.”
“Richard Edwards’s belief, which we share, is that a covert organisation—as yet unidentified—is committing these murders. We don’t know their purpose or agenda. We don’t know who they are, or how many. But we suspect that they have people placed in our own organisation and also in MI5, for whom I used to work. And almost certainly in other intelligence services.”
Jin frowns. “I’m not sure how I can help you.”
Eve feels the meeting slipping from her grasp. “Our only way forward, as things stand, is to follow the money. Is there anyone in the Western security services, Mr. Jin, whom you know or suspect to be in the pay of an organisation such as I have described?”
Silence swirls dizzyingly around her. She senses Simon’s shock at the impropriety of her question.
Jin’s features remain impassive. “Perhaps we might order some tea,” he suggests.
“Have you seen my black cardigan?” Villanelle asks. “The Annabel Lee one, with the pearl buttons?”
In answer, Alice Mao groans. She’s lying on her bed opposite a young man with chiselled features and a gym-toned body which gleams like oiled teak. Both of them are naked. Beneath the silk sheet, the man’s hand is moving rhythmically between Alice’s legs. It’s half past two in the afternoon.
“I’m sure I left it here somewhere,” Villanelle murmurs.
Exasperated, Alice rolls onto her stomach. “Please. Just come to bed?”
“I have to go shopping.”
“Now?”
Villanelle shrugs.
“Ken’s very much in demand, you know,” Alice says. “He’s doing us a huge favour, fitting us in like this.”
Villanelle knows Ken’s story, because Alice has told it to her. How he was a student at Hong Kong University, completing an MA dissertation on the late poetry of Sylvia Plath, when he was talent-spotted in a hotel steam room. How he became Ken Hung, the most famous porn star in China.
As if on cue, Ken throws back the sheets. “Ladies, we have wood!”
Alice gasps. “Oh my goodness, it’s just like in the films. Bigger, even. Sweetie, at least have a little stroke.”
“Sorry, but I really don’t want that thing anywhere near me. I just want my black cardigan.” Villanelle frowns. “You don’t happen to know somewhere I can buy nice kitchen stuff, do you?”
“You could try Putua Parlour on Changhua Lu,” says Ken, complacently regarding the most famous penis in China. “I get all my bakeware there. I’m a big Nigella fan.”
An hour later, Villanelle is strolling down one of the many aisles of Putua Parlour, noting the positioning of the CCTV cameras. It’s a warehouse store for the restaurant trade, offering every imaginable appliance and vessel. Shelf after shelf is piled high with pans, skillets, steamers, hotpots, baking dishes and gleaming tinware. There are elaborate cake stands, fantastical jelly-moulds, and an entire aisle of woks. Tiny woks for flash-frying individual prawns, jacuzzi-sized woks capacious enough for a whole ox.
The place has only a handful of customers. There’s a young couple quietly arguing about kebab-skewers, a harassed-looking man loading a trolley with bamboo dim-sum steamers, and an elderly woman muttering to herself as she picks through the melon-ballers.
In the last aisle, Villanelle finds what she’s looking for. Cleavers. Fine-bladed cleavers for slicing and dicing, heavy bone-choppers for hacking and dismembering. Her eye alights on a chukabocho, a locally made cleaver with a 25oz carbon-steel blade and a tiger-maple handle. It feels good in her hand. Two minutes later she checks out, paying for a dozen cocktail glasses and several sets of paper umbrellas. Somehow, unseen by the CCTV cameras, the chukabocho has made its way to the bottom of her shoulder bag.
“OK, I admit it,” says Eve. “I’m nervous.”
“You’ve been on dates before, haven’t you?”
“This is not a date. This is an appointment with the head of the Chinese Secret Service.”