Jack brought Jin into the loop in a couple of sentences. Jin listened intently, interrupting only once—“Alive? Chau Chun is alive?”—and after Jack was done he sat grimly sipping tea. No one else spoke, either, until Jin finally said to Jerrold, “You cannot arrest Yang? Make him tell you location of Chau?”
“I’m sorry.” Jerrold, shamefaced, apologized to Jin for the rule of law. “He’d get a lawyer immediately. I have certain … pressures … I can put on people”—he gave Jack a look—“but in this situation I doubt if they’d work. And if we did find him, Chau I mean, there’s not much we could do anyway.”
Jin pursed his lips, gestured at Jack. “What he say. Your government will not extradite. Is true?”
“I’m afraid it probably is. The events surrounding the Tiananmen riots are seen differently here from the way the Chinese people understand them—”
Jin waved him off with his teacup. To Jack, he said, “What do you want?”
Jack took a deep breath, and said, “Mike Liu.”
This was beyond pins dropping. You could’ve dropped a piano through the ceiling and no one would have noticed.
Just to make sure Jin knew who he was talking about, Jack gave him the Chinese version. “Liu Mai-ke. I’ll give you the smuggler’s name if your government frees Liu Mai-ke.”
“What the hell—” Jerrold started.
“Listen! There’s going to be a big Free Liu Mai-ke rally next week. Designed to embarrass the PRC government.” Jack turned to Jin. “Those paintings, the phony Chaus, have Mike Liu’s poems on them. I don’t suppose you knew that.”
“No, I did not.”
“Well, they do, and they’ll probably have the paintings at the rally.”
Jerrold pointed accusingly at me. “I thought she said they wouldn’t—”
“As Chaus. They won’t be exhibited or brought onto the market as Chaus. But they may well be shown as, I guess you’d say, homages. Just because they’re not authentic doesn’t mean they won’t be used to make a political point.”
He looked to me. I gave an irritated shrug. From Jerrold came a sharp, exasperated breath.
“And the real Chaus,” Jack said. “They are going on the market. At exactly the same time as the rally. Which is smack in the middle of Beijing/NYC. Mr. Jin, your government is going to come off looking pretty bad, with Chaus and fake Chaus and Mike Liu’s poetry all over the place, at exactly the moment when you’re spending a lot of money to look good. Here,” he added, “in New York.”
New York, the Cultural Attaché’s turf. From which, presumably, he’d rather not be called home in disgrace. You could tell from his stony face that these words were not lost on Jin.
“Or,” Jack said, settling in his chair, “you can disarm the whole thing. Mike Liu’s been off people’s minds for a while now, so it won’t look like you’re yielding to pressure. Say he’s sick, how’s that? The PRC and the Communist Party can demonstrate your great humanitarian compassion by releasing him. Once he’s out, he’s useless as a symbol. Nothing to rally about, no reason to show the fake paintings.”
“And the real ones?” Jerrold demanded.
Jack shrugged. “Not a lot we can do about that.”
“You can tell me where they are. I might be able to delay the sale until after Beijing/NYC. There’s pressure, and there’s pressure. As you know.”
Yeah, I thought, and I’d like to see you try it on the guy who ultimately owns them now: Lionel Lau.
“You guys are both diplomats.” Jack was beginning to look pleased with himself again. “I’m sure you can spin this to your bosses. Explain how you saved the PRC all kinds of face. What a media crisis you averted. Get your own experts to refute the new Chaus. Beijing/NYC can go on, all the approved artists can sip white wine with the critics, and the PRC can sit back and rake in millions from the sale of tame art. Win-win. How about it?”
Jerrold exchanged a glance with Jin. Damn these people. I sent Bill a look, and then I said, “Not yet.”
Everyone turned to me.
“Jack, if you’re selling our souls here, the price isn’t high enough. Mr. Jerrold, we’ll give you the name of the smuggler, God help us. We’ll also tell you who has the new paintings. But Mike Liu doesn’t only get released from prison. He gets kicked out of the country. Well, come on, people. What’s to keep the PRC from grabbing him up again as soon as this is over? You get what you want once Mike Liu lands here.”
Way to raise the stakes, Lydia. The first to speak, coming from left field, was Bill. “If you agree to this,” he said, “I can get the sale of the real Chaus delayed.”
“What?”
“There’s pressure,” Bill said. “And there’s pressure.”
“You said you couldn’t—what are you—” Jerrold was practically sputtering.
“Mr. Jerrold, you’re a reputable diplomat.” Under the circumstances Bill’s tone wasn’t nearly as sarcastic as it might have been. “I’m sure you understand what I’m saying when I tell you, you don’t want to know.”
“But he can do it, I guarantee,” I said. “And the last thing is, as part of this deal, the State Department has to agree to accept Mike Liu. To give him asylum.”
“No asylum!” Jin barked. “Stupid poet. That make him sound like political prisoner.”
As opposed to what, I wondered, but I kept silent. I could see on Jerrold’s face that he’d heard the same thing I had: If Jin was negotiating the terms of Mike Liu’s release, he’d already agreed to it.
In Chinese, Jerrold asked Jin to step into the hall with him. That was almost funny, Bill being the only person here who didn’t understand what he said; but I got the feeling the language choice was more out of courtesy than secrecy anyway. They left together, Jerrold holding the door for Jin. We three sat in silence, and after a while Jerrold came back in, picked up one of Jack’s chairs, and carried it into the hall. Holding the door and carrying chairs? Maybe there was more than one reason why he was still staff, not line. Jerrold set the chair in the hallway alcove. Jin sat and took out his cell phone.
“This is a conversation Mr. Jin would understandably rather keep private,” Jerrold said, coming back into the room and closing the door behind him. “We’ll wait.”
Once again, I wondered, As opposed to what?
If the twenty minutes before Jin had arrived were tense, the forty Jin spent in the hall gave new meaning to I-need-to-jump-up-and-run-around-the-room-screaming. I didn’t, though. I passed the time thinking about my mother’s reaction to my face in The New York Times anywhere near the words “federal indictment.” I don’t know what Bill was thinking, but after about half an hour he pulled out a cigarette and nailed Jack with a look that squelched any protest Jack might’ve made. Jack glanced at the new window, but being only temporary, it didn’t open. He sat back, rubbing his neck.
Finally the door opened and Jin strode back in. We all shot to attention, but Jin waited while Jerrold retrieved his chair from the hallway. He settled himself, not looking any more jovial than before.
“Have spoken, my superiors,” Jin said. “Liu Mai-ke, pah, stupid man, bad poet. Nothing but irritation, stirs up other stupid people. Unlikely will be rehabilitated. People’s Republic better without him. Will send him here. You”—he pointed a thick finger at Jack— “will tell us name of human trafficker. You”—moving to Bill—“will stop sale of Chaus.”
“Delay,” I said.
“You”—the finger swung to me—“will be silent!”
“And none of you,” Jerrold added, visibly relieved and palpably taking charge, “will go anywhere until this deal is complete. Just in case you were thinking of running out on us. Or warning anybody.”