“Shahpour used to work in construction,” Megan said, making a joke with her eyes. “Now he’s here in China selling software to small businesses.”
By the tone of her voice, it was obvious to Joe that she had been bored by their conversation. Inadvertently, however, she had supplied him with two important pieces of information. “Construction” might mean Macklinson. “Selling software” could possibly imply that Shahpour was using the same cover as Miles.
“What about you guys?” he asked.
Tom and Ricky explained that they had been living in Shanghai for some time. Joe, deliberately standing behind them, added that he had arrived in the New Year. Shahpour did a good job of appearing to listen, but it was obvious that he was interested solely in their relationship to Megan. Was one of these guys her boyfriend? If not, could he take her off their hands?
“And what do you do, Tom?” he asked.
“I’m a yacht broker.”
“You, Joe?”
“Pharmaceuticals.” There was a danger of the conversation lasting no more than a few minutes. Ricky made a drunken joke about “making knickers for a living,” but as far as Shahpour was concerned, he, Tom and Joe were just three British guys getting in the way of his plans for Megan. If Joe was going to find out what he needed to know, he would have to act fast. “I work for a small British company here,” he said. “Quayler. We’re trying to expand into China.”
“Pharmaceuticals, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“Dancing Queen” sealed it. When Megan and Ricky heard the opening bars of the song, they both screamed in delight and announced that they were heading back to the dance floor.
“Great to meet you, Shahpour,” she called out, disappearing into the distance.
“Yeah, great to meet you too.”
There was a certain ruthlessness in the manner of her departure and Joe felt a pang of sympathy. He looked at Shahpour’s face, where an uneasy mixture of loneliness and irritation crossed behind his eyes. Male pride had been wounded. Just as quickly, however, his frustration was replaced by a look of practised indifference.
“So what’s her story?” he asked.
“Oh she’s just crazy,” Tom replied. “Forget about her.”
An awkward silence lingered. To Joe’s frustration, he could sense that both Tom and Shahpour wanted to end the conversation. They appeared to have little in common, and their reason for meeting had just disappeared downstairs. Joe was left with a dilemma. Try to keep them talking, a strategy which might arouse Shahpour’s suspicion, or abandon the contact altogether. He could always tap Megan for answers later on.
“So you’re from America?” he asked, opting for one last question.
“Nowadays I try to keep that a secret,” Shahpour replied. His eyes were once again scanning the balcony and Joe could see that it was a lost cause. A man like that didn’t want to be wasting his night talking to a guy who sold antibiotics for a living.
“Which part?” he asked.
“Pacific Northwest.”
Another disinterested answer. Time to wrap things up.
“Well look, here’s my card.” As a tactic, this was not as cack-handed as it might sound; in China, exchanging business cards is common practice, regardless of social circumstances. “It was good to meet you.”
Shahpour was well aware of the tradition and duly accepted Joe’s card in a manner imitative of the Chinese, clasping it in both hands, studying the lettering carefully and even bowing his head for comic effect. He then returned the favour, as Joe had hoped he would, handing two cards of his own to Tom and Joe.
“Goodarzi?” Joe said, pronouncing Shahpour’s surname. He had noted, with a leap of astonishment, that the card was embossed with the Microsoft logo.
“Goodarzi, yes. And yours? Lennox?”
Joe nodded. Had Shahpour put a slight stress on the surname, as if he had heard it before? Or was he simply checking its pronunciation? Joe could not be sure. “It’s Scottish,” he said.
Shahpour’s eyes went to the roof of the club, as if he had been reminded of something, taken sideways into a separate life. Was Joe imagining this? It was like watching himself struggling with the memory of Ansary Tursun. Where had he heard the name before? Their eyes met but Joe was disappointed to see that Shah-pour now looked just as bored and as indifferent as before. He was even angling past them as he shook their hands, heading back in the direction of the cantina.
“It was great to meet you guys,” he said. “Dancing Queen” was coming to an end. “Maybe we’ll run into each other sometime.”
“I certainly hope so,” Tom said, without feeling, and before Joe could add a farewell of his own, Shahpour Goodarzi had been swallowed up by a balcony of girls.
An hour later, out on the terrace, Joe saw Shahpour leave the club in the company of a young Chinese girl wearing torn denim jeans and a tight pink top. Turning to Megan, whose T-shirt was soaked through with sweat after a long session on the dance floor, he said: “Well, your Iranian friend got lucky.”
“My Iranian friend?”
“Shahpour. The guy who worked in construction. You remember? The one you were talking to on the balcony.”
“Oh him.” She had forgotten their encounter entirely. “Were you jealous, Joe?”
He liked the way she went directly to the point. Her game was never over. “Inconsolably,” he said, because he was now loose and drunk and strangely tempted by the idea of going to bed with her. “What was he like?”
“Didn’t you and Tom stay and talk to him afterwards?” A line of German students squeezed past them, pushing Megan’s body closer to Joe’s. He caught the sweet toxicity of her breath as she held his arm for balance.
“Only for five minutes. He said he used to work in construction.”
“That’s right. Some big American company,” Megan remembered.
Zapata’s was emptying out. Joe could not afford to ask too many questions, at the risk of seeming unusually inquisitive. He offered Megan a cigarette and looked around the terrace.
“Where are the others?”
“Jeff and Sandrine went home about an hour ago. I guess Ricky and Tom are still dancing.” Megan had not moved from her position, close to Joe. It was strange, he thought, how alcohol and the adrenalin rush of work could combine to push his longing for Isabella temporarily to one side. For weeks he had thought about little else but their first possible encounter, yet this alluring, flattering woman had worked her way under his skin. In Megan he detected something of the same rawness of spirit which had once captivated him about Isabella. Running his hand across her flat, cool stomach, he began to doubt the nature of his own feelings. How much of his need for Isabella was love, and how much a desire to get even? Did Joe want to possess Isabella again, only so that he could walk away? Seven years is a long time to harbour the grudge of heartbreak.
“So you think he was Iranian?” Megan asked, the palm of her hand gently brushing the hairs on Joe’s arm. Here was another chance to discuss Shahpour, but all he could think about was the delicacy of her touch.
“Iranian Californian,” he said. “A lot of them live over there. Families who escaped the Shah.”
Megan nodded. They were communicating as much through silence as they were through words. The early hours of the humid Shanghai morning were a possibility into which they could pour their desire. Joe pulled Megan towards him so that his arms were completely encircling her waist. She leaned back against his chest. He lowered his face into her hair and closed his eyes to the smell of her. It was in this blissful instant that the name Ansary Tursun suddenly returned to him and he was alone again on the streets of Tsim Sha Tsui. The process by which Joe’s brain arrived at the inspiration was as puzzling to him as the momentary loss of his desire for Isabella. He looked up at the night sky and smiled.
“So what are the rooms like at the Ritz-Carlton?” Megan whispered.
“What’s that?”
Joe had heard her, but he needed time. His memory was racing back to the apartment, to Sadha and Lee, to stories of torture and betrayal.