“Coffee?” he suggested, because he was tired after the sleepless night and needed a jolt to his wits.
“Sure. That’d be great.”
He waved the waitress over, ordered two espressos and lit a cigarette. Shahpour had settled back in his chair, visibly relaxing in the absence of his boss. Two red kites appeared in the night sky above his head, the ropes attaching them to the ground invisible to the naked eye.
“So does he do that sort of thing a lot?”
“What? Take off like that? Sure. I’ve sat in on meetings where Miles excuses himself for an hour, gets a massage and comes back smelling of Chanel No. 5. He calls it ‘sport fucking.’ ”
“What does Isabella call it?”
Shahpour acknowledged his point with a nod and said, “So what about you?”
“What about me?”
“What’s your story with Megan? Is that serious? Is it something you hope might develop?”
Two hours earlier, Shahpour would not have dared ask such a question, but it was an indication both of how much alcohol he had consumed, and of his growing confidence in Joe’s company, that he was now prepared to do so.
“It’s early days,” Joe replied. “I hope she was nice to you in Zapata’s.”
Shahpour exhaled smoke through a broad, self-confident smile. “That was funny that night. I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“Not at all. To be perfectly honest, Megan and I weren’t together at that point. In fact I’d only just met her.”
“And yet she ends up talking to the one guy in the room who knows Miles Coolidge.”
“I know. Amazing coincidence.”
“Was it?”
The air went out of the conversation. Shahpour lowered his cigarette and fixed Joe with a look of such intensity that it forced his eyes to the table.
“Was it what?”
Everything was sober and still.
“Was it just coincidence?”
There are many ways that a spy is trained to deal with the unexpected, but mostly he must rely on his own judgment and common sense. Joe had been startled by what Shahpour had said, certainly, but he was not about to fold under pressure. He looked down at the fleets of ships on the Huangpu, boats so weighed down by cargo that they resembled submarines nosing south towards the East China Sea.
“You think I was trying to get to Miles?”
The American leaned forward. His gold necklace rocked against the base of his throat and Joe could see the sincerity, the seriousness which was at the very core of his character. What was striking was not so much the intensity of Shahpour’s mood, but the sudden air of expectancy about him, as if he was trying to broker an understanding. He had about him the air of a man who wished to confess something.
“That’s what Miles thinks,” he said.
Joe dismissed the theory with a practised look of astonishment. “Miles still thinks I work for the British government?”
“Do you still work for the British government?”
“No.”
Shahpour looked around him. The terrace was beginning to empty. He appeared to be weighing up the risks of his next remark. There were clearly consequences to what he was about to say and he did not wish to be overheard.
“What I’m about to tell you could get me fired.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t tell me.”
He leaned forward. “I’m like you used to be, Joe. Deep cover. I’m a NOC. I don’t work for Microsoft.” It was the drink talking. Alcohol and circumstance had handed a nervous, inexperienced spy the chance to confide in a colleague whose word he thought he could trust. “Same goes for our so-called buddy. Miles Coolidge knows as much about software as my Uncle Ahmed. We’re both Company. We’re both undercover. Miles has told me everything about your past.”
“Shahpour, you shouldn’t be telling me this. I am not who you think I am. I’m not with the Office any more…”
“Well, you see I just don’t believe that.” Joe’s denial had been persuasively sincere, but Shahpour was sticking to his strategy. “I think you’re here because of what happened to Ken. I think you’re here because you know what we did to him.”
“You’re talking about Kenneth Lenan?”
Joe was mesmerized by the confession of CIA culpability in his murder, but there was barely a blink of surprise.
“Of course that’s who I’m talking about. You wanna know why he was killed?”
Joe said nothing.
Shahpour wiped his mouth on a napkin. “Kenneth Lenan worked for us, OK? He came over. Six months ago he gave up a Uighur CIA asset to the MSS because he had conflicted loyalties with his bank balance. Lenan identified the Agency officer who had recruited that asset out of Guantanamo and told the MSS where he was living in San Francisco. That officer got his body dismembered by a Triad gang in Chinatown.”
“Shahpour, you’re being unprofessional…”
Goodarzi shook his head. “The officer’s name was Josh Pinnegar. You’re telling me you never heard of him?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” Joe was trying to keep his mood light and detached, but the flood of information, confirming every detail of Waterfield’s TYPHOON product, was breathtaking. “I work for a small pharmaceutical company because I got tired of this sort of-”
“Don’t lie to me, man.” There was a risk that Shahpour might shut down. Joe had to keep him talking. “My career is on the line here. My life. Now you came to me, Joe. I know why you’ve come to Shanghai. I know what it is that you need and I want to help you.”
What perplexed Joe about Shahpour’s entreaty was its extraordinary sincerity. He knew, with the vivid conviction of a blameless man proclaiming his innocence, that the American was telling him the truth. Somehow it couldn’t be any other way. Yet Joe could not risk the obvious possibility that RUN was being flushed out as part of a clumsy, second-rate plot. He had to believe that Shahpour was putting on an elaborate performance.
“I can help you,” he said. What was the best way of proceeding? He did not want to let go of the rope which now connected them. “I know British officials in China who will talk to you about this. I can put you in touch with-”
“I want it to be you.”
“I’m out.” For the first time, Joe raised his voice, as if he was offended by the repeated accusation. He had to play the role. He had to stay in character. “I’ve handed in my notice. I don’t have the keys to the shop any more. I’m private sector. Why do you think I’d be any use to you?”
“Forget it then.”
Their waitress had been waiting for a natural pause in the conversation and she now approached the table as Shahpour turned and stared at the lights of Pudong. The espressos were placed on the table and Joe spooned sugar into his cup as he hit on a possible tactic. Somehow he had to draw Shahpour out without compromising his own position.
“Listen, what do you expect me to say? If I’d come out here under operational cover, I’d hardly be likely to blow that cover on the basis of what you’ve just told me. Why are you doing this? Why would you be so uneasy?”
A burst of sulphurous pollution drifted over the terrace, yet it did not disturb Shahpour from his mood. He continued to stare out over the river like a scolded teenager. It was as if he had played his final hand and there was nobody left to confide in. Then, a breakthrough.
“I’ll tell you why.” He was speaking into a southern breeze which took his quiet words out over the water. “I joined the Agency in the new year of 2002. I did it because I believed in America. I did it because I believed that I would be an asset to my country, that I could help prevent what had happened to us happening again.” Now he turned, and Joe saw the disillusionment in his young eyes, the conflict of a decent man. “My father came to the United States in 1974. He had a place to study engineering at a college in Detroit, Michigan. You know how he came to choose Detroit?” Joe shook his head. “He was from Sari, a city on the southern shore of the Caspian Sea. He looked at a map of America, he saw a big blue lake with a city right beside it, and he thought it looked like home.”