Within two minutes Waterfield was dialling Joe on a scrambled line to Shanghai. There wasn’t time for contemplation or delay. He was enraged.
“Joe?”
Joe had just spotted Zhao Jian’s brother at the entrance to the Paradise City. He was walking up the steps towards him, his clothes and body soaked with sweat.
“David?” He wondered why London was calling on the Quayler mobile and assumed that the conversation was encrypted. “It’s not a great time.”
“I’ll be brief then. Have you checked your emails lately?”
“David, at the last count, I had seventeen separate email addresses. The answer is no. Probably not. I haven’t.”
“Didn’t think so.” Waterfield was staring at the printout in front of him.
An attack is set for Saturday, Mr. Richards. The code they have used is “ZIKAWEI.”
“Something rather odd has crossed my desk,” he said. “Something rather disturbing.”
Joe was struggling to hear above the noise of the intersection. The giant, fifty-foot-high photograph of David Beckham gazed down at him from the facade of the Metro City mall like an image from a parallel world. He raised a hand at Yun and waved him inside. The blessed chill of air conditioning greeted them both like a soothing balm.
“Go on.”
“Do you want to tell me what you’re up to?”
Joe didn’t need this. Not now. Not with everything that was going on. London had effectively abandoned him, so he had abandoned London. It was that simple. This wasn’t the moment for a lecture about the team ethic, for warnings about “going off piste.” He would rather Waterfield just left him in peace and allowed him to get on with his job.
“David, I might have to call you back.”
“And I might have to start worrying about your position.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Guy Coates said you had a meeting in Beijing the other day.” Waterfield had put two and two together. “That wasn’t on the books. Do you want to explain why?”
Joe removed the phone from his ear and swore under his breath. Why was Waterfield bringing this up now? Yun was staring at him, waiting for further instructions. “Can this not wait?” he said.
“You weren’t pursuing your little infatuation with the professor, by any chance? Tell me that isn’t the case because I warned you about that.”
Joe thought about hanging up, but it wasn’t his style. He didn’t like admitting defeat. Besides, to do so would be to indicate culpability. “What makes you say that?”
Waterfield tried a different approach. “When I called the other day, where were you?”
“With Isabella. I told you. Why?”
“Don’t lie to me, Joe. For God’s sake don’t lie.”
“David, what the hell is going on?”
“I have said before and I will say it again. You are in Shanghai to get close to Miles Coolidge. You are in Shanghai to find out what the hell happened to Kenneth Lenan. Now I want to know what progress you have made.”
It was like being scolded by a schoolmaster, a humiliating, infuriating interjection by someone who had lost all trust in his abilities. A salesgirl approached him and attempted to spray aftershave onto his wrist. Joe waved her away.
“David, it sounds to me as though we should have this conversation at a time that’s convenient for both of us. I will explain myself to you at that point. Now I really have to-”
“Does the word ‘Zikawei’ mean anything to you?”
Joe again removed the phone from his ear, gesturing at Yun to apologize for the delay in issuing him with instructions. “How are you spelling that?” he said.
“Z-I-K-A-W-E-I.”
Joe couldn’t think straight. He was still incensed. It would take him about a minute to work out the implications. Meanwhile he was heading towards a bank of escalators and wondering why Water-field was wasting his time.
“I’m going to read to you the contents of an email that was sent to one of your addresses on the Office server.”
“Go ahead,” Joe said. He didn’t care if he sounded insubordinate. Yun was walking alongside him now. They had twenty minutes, at best, to be in position.
Waterfield continued, “The message reads: ‘An attack is set for Saturday, Mr. Richards. The code they have used is “ZIKAWEI.” ’ ”
Joe stopped at the bottom of the escalators and felt a jab at the base of his gut. Mr. Richards. The professor was trying to contact him. Why the hell hadn’t he checked his emails? “Can you repeat that?” he said.
“Of course.” There was a controlled superciliousness in Water-field’s voice as he read the message a second time. “Wasn’t Richards the name by which you were known to our friend?” he asked.
“Yes it was,” Joe admitted.
“So you have been to see him?”
Joe was wondering how to play it, working out if he had the time to lie. “Attack?” he replied, ignoring the question. “He says an attack is set for Saturday?”
“That is correct. And the code associated is this word ‘ZIKAWEI.’ ”
The full meaning of the email was beginning to dawn on him. “Can you Google it?”
Waterfield had to admire RUN’s nerve. Sitting down in front of a Vauxhall Cross computer, he opened Internet Explorer, hit a Favorite for Google and typed “Zikawei” into the search bar. “Sorry,” he found himself muttering. “Should have done this before.”
“What does it say?” Joe asked.
Waterfield read out the contents of the top line:
The Xujiahui Library of Shanghai. Pronounced “Zikawei” in the local dialect.
“Must be Shanghainese,” Waterfield said. “Do you want me to go on?”
50
Joe Lennox froze in the blinding white atrium of the Paradise City mall.
Zikawei. Xujiahui. 9/11. 3/11. 6/11.
The attack was happening now.
He should have gone to the fire alarms first, should have immediately alerted a guard. Instead, his first overwhelming instinct was to protect Isabella. Joe hung up on Waterfield and dialled her number.
Her phone was switched off.
Zhao Jian’s brother was staring at him as if he had lost his mind. Joe dialled the number again. He swore aloud when he heard the message a second time and offered a silent prayer that Isabella had decided to remain at home.
“Izzy, it’s Joe. If you get this, call me. Straight away. It’s not safe. For God’s sake, stay away from Xujiahui. Tell Miles to get out of there. There are bombs. It’s a trap. For Christ’s sake, stay away.”
He turned to Yun.
“There’s going to be an attack.” He was holding Zhao Jian’s brother by the arms, hands gripping his shoulders. “Find a fire alarm,” he said. “Alert the guards. Tell them to evacuate all the malls in Xujiahui as soon as possible. Do this as fast as you can.”
Joe did not wait for a reply. He was already pounding up the escalators, desperate to reach the cinema. Between the fourth and fifth floors, hordes of Chinese shoppers staring at him as he pushed past, he realized that Shahpour was also in danger. Almas, after all, had called the meeting. How could he have been so stupid, so short-sighted, as to ignore that coincidence?
Shahpour was on the ground floor of Larry’s when his mobile lit up on the bar. Alice Cooper was screaming out of the sound system. He moved his gin and tonic to one side and looked at the read-out.
“Joe. Hey buddy. What’s going on?”
Joe had to shout against the pounding rock music. “Shahpour?”
“I’m here.”
“Memet hasn’t shown up, has he?”
Shahpour frowned. He could barely hear what was being said. He picked up his drink and moved towards the entrance. It would be easier to talk out on the street. “How did you know that?” he shouted.
Joe prayed that Shahpour would have the courage to do what he was now going to ask him to do. “I think he’s already been and gone…”
“What do you mean?”