“So you live here?”
Either man might have asked the question but Joe got there first. Miles nodded as he wiped a paper napkin over the dome of his head. He was staring at Joe, as if relieved that a long wait was over.
“That’s right. I’m in software now,” he said. “A free marketeer. You?”
“Pharmaceuticals.”
“Oh come on.” Miles laughed and shook his head, as if Joe had blundered the lie.
“Seriously. I got out six months ago.”
“Pharmaceuticals? It’s cover, Joe. Come on. You can tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell. I’m serious.” He looked around at the neighbouring tables, suggesting with his eyes that Miles was being childish. He wondered if Shahpour had shown him his card, or whether the rumours had filtered through from Grosvenor Square. Perhaps the whole thing really was just coincidence and every one of his carefully laid plans in Shanghai had proved pointless. “I got sick of working for an organization in thrall to a bunch of corrupt neocons, so I handed in my notice. If that makes you feel bad, I apologize. It’s not personal.”
Miles reared back in his seat. “Why would I give a shit?”
“I’m glad you don’t.”
There was a pause while Miles seemed to contemplate the philosophical implications of what Joe had told him. Finally, shaking his head, he said, “Seriously? You resigned out of moral disgust?” as if ethical behaviour should be anathema to men of their calling.
“People do braver things every day.”
It looked as though Miles believed him, because a glint of guilt briefly flashed across his eyes. Joe had always been the principled one. The competitive rage of Hong Kong would soon return, because even marrying Isabella had not been enough.
“What about you?” Joe asked.
“What about me?”
“Why did you leave?”
The waitress set a pot of Lipton’s tea on the table, looked quickly at Joe and walked away. Miles sniffed. “Why do you think?” he said.
“Money?”
“You got it.”
Simultaneously they reached for cigarettes: Joe for a packet of Zhong Nan Hai, Miles for a soft pack of Camel Filters. Joe’s pulse had settled now. He was able to relax and concentrate on the strategy he had put together with Waterfield.
“So what does ‘software’ mean?”
“I guess it means the same as ‘pharmaceuticals.’ ”
What Joe had not anticipated was the abrasiveness of the conversation. Either Miles was working to a prepared script of his own, hoping to catch Joe off balance, or the years had rendered him even blunter and more aggressive than before.
“So you’re not in computers? You’re still working for the government?”
Miles ran a hand over his beard, acting as if Joe was being slow on the uptake. “Like I told you, man. I’m legitimate. I work ninety-hour weeks on software piracy. I travelled 100,000 miles last year trying to make sure Windows Vista doesn’t develop a single-fold eyelid when we finally release in Asia.”
Joe couldn’t help but laugh. The lies. The casual racism. He poured the tea and rested his cigarette in a burn-scarred ashtray.
“Do you miss it?”
Miles lurched forward. “Like pussy, man,” he whispered. “Like pussy.”
Joe disguised another wave of consternation in a gentle, smiling shake of the head. A part of him had always admired Miles’s sheer effrontery-brazenly lying about his work, about Linda, his mistress, about his marriage-yet the reply had been an implied insult to which he wanted to respond in kind.
“Speaking of which, how is Isabella?”
Miles sniffed again, pinned like an insect on his indiscretions. It had been a long time since anybody had challenged his natural authority.
“Oh she’s great,” he replied. “Why? You wanna meet up with her?”
Joe remembered the last time that he had seen the pair of them together, sitting on a sofa at a party in Causeway Bay. He had walked into the room and Isabella had immediately turned away, pretending to hold a conversation with the woman to her left. They had been separated for two months at that point and Joe had watched Isabella’s hand link into Miles’s arm, playing with the strap of his watch. Afterwards, out on a balcony, he had deliberately started an argument which had ended with both Miles and Isabella leaving the party. Those were the worst times and the humiliation of that period still ran through him like acid in the stomach.
“Sure. It would be great to see her.”
“Dinner?” Miles suggested immediately.
Joe suspected that this was pre-ordained. Miles would want to maintain as much control over Joe as possible, to shunt him around town until he knew exactly what he was dealing with. Joe had planned to decline any initial invitation from Miles under the pretence of leaving Shanghai on Quayler business, but he was aware that he had several bags of fresh food resting at his feet and that such a tactic would now be impossible.
“Dinner sounds great.”
“What about tomorrow? I know Izzy’s free. I can get us a table at M on the Bund. She’d get a kick out of seeing you.”
A kick? He had forgotten Miles’s seemingly effortless slights and condescensions. He was acting as though Joe had been a mere footnote in the long narrative of Isabella’s life. The rain was starting to ease off on Huaihai and he listened to the sound of the crawling traffic, to horns, the squeal of brakes.
“Fine,” he said. “I’d like that.” M on the Bund was a rooftop restaurant with views over the Huangpu and prices to match. Though he had imagined the circumstances of their reunion for seven long years, in that moment Joe had no conception of how he would react to seeing Isabella after such a span of time. What would he say? How would she behave? Why was he agreeing to meet both of them at the same time?
“You gotta cellphone?”
“Of course.”
Miles was sipping his tea. He knew, as well as anyone, how much the separation had cost Joe in terms of his happiness and self-esteem and appeared to be enjoying his discomfort. Joe, realizing that he had been handed an opportunity, lifted his briefcase onto the table, flipped the catches and swivelled it towards Miles so that it was possible for him to view the contents. He looked quickly at his face and noted the eagerness with which the American scanned the leather interior.
“What you got in there?” Miles asked. “Vaccines? Viagra?”
“Just work,” Joe said, “just work,” closing the lid and passing Miles the card. “You got one of these?”
“Sure.”
This was the second part of his plan. Miles took a card from his jacket and handed it to Joe, who carried off the act to perfection.
“Microsoft?”
Miles nodded. “Yup.”
“I think I met a colleague of yours the other day. I’ve got his card in here somewhere.”
Reopening the case, he scrabbled around for several seconds before emerging with what he needed. “Shahpour Goodarzi?” he said, as if struggling to pronounce the name. “Does that ring a bell?”
The deception had been simple and effortless and Miles fell for it like a hooked fish. “Shahpour?” he said, snatching the card out of Joe’s hand. “Where the hell did you meet him?”
Joe strained, reaching for the memory. Eventually he said: “Zapata’s? Maybe three nights ago. Matter of fact, I think he was trying to chat up my girlfriend.”
“You’ve got a girlfriend already?”
The information had slipped out in the heat of the moment. It was his only mistake. There was no operational advantage in Miles knowing about Megan and Joe stubbed out his cigarette, annoyed with himself.
“Early stages,” he said, “early stages,” knowing that Isabella would now be told. How would she react when she heard the news? The only thing he feared was her indifference.