“Appreciative? I was — I am! — pissed off at all your unnecessary digging!”
“Of course,” she says, hanging her head like the regretful courtesan, and hating herself for it.
“Here’s your problem, Chu: a little information is a dangerous thing. A lot of information is fatal. Stick to the program. Have a little faith.”
She can’t find the strength to lift her head. The only sound is of the chair sliding back and the rustle of bills.
“Sit down,” she says, head still lowered.
“Say whatever it is you have to say.”
“Sit… down.” It’s a matter of pride now. Of face.
He sits. She raises her head, exuding a determination she has never shown him.
“We need an exit strategy,” she says. “For tonight.”
“It can’t look like that,” he says. “You can’t go through this and climb onto a private plane and—”
“Who said anything about a private plane? A strategy. Options. A safe house. This is your side of things. Do what you do. You must.” Unconditional.
He doesn’t speak; merely silences her with the rush of color to his face. All but his lips, which take on an eerie, bloodless pallor.
“What this is,” he speaks slowly and deliberately, “is bigger than stink. How exactly do you think I was able to come up with the Harmodius?”
“We have asked ourselves this same question.”
“You two talk too much. Do your fucking jobs. Go home. Someday—” He cuts himself off, a drunk who knows even the bartender cannot hear what he wants to say.
“What? Someday we will hear the truth? Someday you will explain? You are a storyteller, David. It is your job. Promote the op. Coach up your players.”
She wins a slight grin, some blood returning to his lips. He appreciates her Americanized metaphors. She believes he will always see her as Chinese first, a woman second, an operative last. She can’t forgive him that. He lives the bias she sees on so many faces. Not Knox’s, to his credit. She’s not sure how Knox sees her, or sometimes if he sees her, but he’s not one to label without justification. David is more predictable.
“I can tell you this. I,” he corrects himself immediately, “we were hired — contracted,” another correction, “by an individual. Not a government. There’s a reason for that, a subtext that would be nothing but speculation were I to share it with you. I may have misled you. Maybe I appeared impressed with that early intel you provided. If you’d thought it through, you might have come to the conclusion that it was because I am in the dark on this one. I know less than you do. But I know to keep my nose clean, something you and Knox could use a lesson on. How to stick to the op. You… this intel… obviously this thing is—”
“Bigger than stink,” she says, quoting him.
“Yes.”
“Big enough to lose John in the process?”
Dulwich answers with inquisitive eyebrows.
Her stomach tightens: he’ll accept whatever losses there are.
“Look, complete the op. Knox understands the risks. He lives for shit like this, and don’t let him convince you otherwise.” Dulwich pauses. “He’s playing you; you’re playing him. I’m playing both of you. It’s what we do.” He repeats somewhat mournfully, “It’s what we do.”
He hoists the espresso to his lips, but the demitasse is empty and the miscalculation embarrasses him. He doesn’t know whether to lift the small cup toward the waiter, calling for another, or return it to the table. It surprises, even troubles Grace, that so small an act can hang so significantly between them.
“I? We? Which is it?”
Here, she thinks, is the root of the problem, but the clanging of the demitasse back into the saucer jolts her and she loses her train of thought.
“I’d be extremely careful if I were you.”
Grace watches Dulwich go. She doesn’t like having her back to the street. She comes around the table and sits down, wanting time to compartmentalize the highlights of the discussion. Still, her wet clothes bother her. The waiter clears the table, a sympathetic look on his face — Dulwich’s open hostility has crossed the room.
She is thinking in the third person, hearing the voice of a Chinese army intelligence officer from her long distant past: what do we know now that we did not know before? What needs to be discarded to clear our heads? Of what we have learned, what could be disinformation? Retain only absolute truths. Do not be swayed by subjectivity or opinion. Hold your source in high regard, regardless of appearance or manner.
She filters the conversation accordingly, only bits and pieces making their way through the various layers of screens: the Harmodius; limited resources; NTK; his reaction to the mention of the Israelis; his resistance to Brian Primer’s involvement. His confession about the nongovernmental client.
The waiter brings her more tea. She orders a sugary pastry, unable to resist the thought of more food. There was a time when she would have rushed to inform Knox, to involve him in the puzzle. But with experience comes confidence, and with confidence, patience and understanding. Better to present Knox with information he can use than gush out a riot of confusion. Knox has his own filters. She knows better than to edit her information for him.
Grace squints, savoring the pastry. That butter, sugar, salt and flour can combine in so many different ways is a testament to the supremacy of man’s evolution; she pities animals their bland diets. Returning from her revelry, she spots a man in profile on the sidewalk, passing the café. Bile leaks up from her esophagus; she recognizes him from the hospital elevator. Mid-thirties. Nondescript. One of Dulwich’s? She finds herself hoping so. The alternative is less than promising.
An instant later, she reverses her defensive attitude. This stranger is a bridge to the truth between what she believes and what she knows. More to the point, she feels she is justified to take the offensive. She elects not to run from this man, but to challenge him, take him on. She doesn’t ignore her earlier abduction but feeds off her anger over it; does not enter into the task naively but remains alert and hyperaware of her surroundings, convincing herself that they wouldn’t have succeeded in taking her the first time if she hadn’t been so focused on running firewalls and prying open electronic trapdoors.
With the sidewalk underfoot, sounds and smells swirl around her; she submits to the tease of nerves and her resolute determination to reverse the injustice.
If the man from the hospital took up a position down the adjacent alley, intent on keeping watch on the front and back of the café, he sorely miscalculated his own confinement. He has no choice but to move away from Grace as she appears at the end of the alley. Slowly at first. Scheming. Perhaps he plans to circle around; perhaps he’s lost interest in her.
But not she in him. She closes the gap quickly, clear-minded and fleet of foot. Confrontation and combat require emotionless focus. This man is her prey now, their roles reversed. If he wants to turn and face her, it will be at his own peril.
There’s no such resolve. He’s on the run — a surveillant assigned to see but not be seen. He’s out of luck; she has him in her sights.
Disguised within Grace are power, coordination, training and experience. She brings this combination to bear on the man, who is attempting to pretend she does not exist. Chops his right knee from behind just before he exits the alley.
He didn’t come looking for a fight. She drops her purse and its contents spill. His right arm swings in a failed attempt to maintain his balance. Grace grabs the arm as it passes, throws her right shoulder into his armpit and steps forward, thrusts her right elbow into his back, ducks beneath the arm and turns his wrist as she lifts it to connect with his shoulder blades. He drops down to his knees, stunned with pain.