feels like he’s lost something else, something almost as precious as his wife and child, and the anger he’s been carrying gives him a sharp shake. “I’ll do that,” he says, getting up and avoiding Anna’s eyes. “Listen, one other thing. Maybe this doesn’t mean anything, or maybe it does, I don’t know. I think Murphy has been misrepresenting how close he is with the U.S. people here, how much they know about what he’s doing. I think he’s lying to Shen.”
“Why? What makes you say so?”
The instant he looks at Anna, her eyes skitter away, but they snap back to him the moment he begins to speak. He talks to Arthit, but he feels her gaze like warmth on his cheek. “I had a talk with someone who’s with them-the U.S., I mean-and I’m not mentioning a name, okay? You never heard a name from me.”
Arthit’s forehead wrinkles in a question, but he says, “Sure.”
“And this guy seemed to be worried that Murphy has gone off the tracks, the way he did in Vietnam. They’re not hearing much in the way of reports from him, and they’re getting worried that he’s … well, overenthusiastic in the way he does things. The bottom line is, the newspapers are taking an interest in Murphy, thanks in part to me, and if there’s a bad story, I’m pretty sure Shen doesn’t know that the Americans are going to deny any direct involvement. Shen will be left holding the bag. You know the drill: ‘We’ve used Mr. Murphy as an intelligence source from time to time, but no one here authorized anything beyond that.’ So who else is responsible? Shen, that’s who.”
“That’s interesting,” Arthit says. “There’s a space between them. You might be able to get a lever in there, especially if Shen thinks he’ll to be the scapegoat in case anything goes wrong. But you’d have to find a way to get the word to Shen.”
“I’m working on that,” Rafferty says. “Maybe you can think about it, too.” He smiles and directs the smile at Anna as well. “So there are two things to consider until tomorrow.”
“Turn your enemies against each other,” Arthit says. “Very Sun-tzu.”
“It’ll be interesting to see who turns up at the shopping mall tomorrow,” Rafferty says. “If this woman is a plant, if Murphy set her up, maybe Shen’s people won’t even be told about it. Might just be Murphy and a thug or two if his plans for me include stuff he thinks Shen might draw the line at.” He picks up the beer again and knocks back about half of what’s left. “Is it just me, or is this complicated?”
“ ‘O, what a tangled web we weave,’ ” Arthit says, and Rafferty feels a sharp pang of conscience, but his friend’s eyes are direct and clear; he’s talking about Murphy. “But it all seems simpler if we just keep the end in mind. Getting you out from under.”
“Right,” Rafferty says. “Thanks for everything.” To Anna, who has sprung to her feet, he says, “And thanks for the beer.”
She nods, and Rafferty surprises himself by reaching for her hand and saying, “And take good care of my friend. He needs it.”
She looks at Arthit, at her own hand clasped in Rafferty’s, at the floor, at everything in the room, before she looks at him. When she does, he sees that her eyes are moist. She says, in her low, uninflected voice, “I will.”
It’s raining again when he comes out; he can almost feel the weight of the swollen river rushing by several miles to the west. He has an impulse to lift his head and scream curses at the sky. Instead he turns left and takes the sidewalk to the corner, realizing he’s lost yet another umbrella. He makes the right, and there’s Ming Li, waiting for him behind the wheel of the little Toyota.
He gets in, and she starts the car without asking whether it’s okay if she drives. The tires hardly squeal at all as she pulls away from the curb. He doesn’t say anything, just sits back with his eyes closed.
She says, “And?”
“And I’d like to kill myself. But since that wouldn’t accomplish anything, let’s go get something really good to eat and then sleep for twelve hours. I think we’re going to need it.” He pulls out the cell phone he used when he called America. “But first.” He presses SEND and a moment later says, “Helen Eckersley’s room, please.”
29
But he doesn’t sleep.
They eat at a Chinese restaurant Mrs. Ma recommended to Ming Li after selling her the guns. The food lives up to her hopes, but the two of them pick at it. The sidewalks are almost empty, the rain blowing down in sheets, and every time a customer climbs the three steps to the door and drips his way in, the waitress mops mud from the floor. People talk anxiously in Cantonese, and Ming Li says they’re discussing the welter of contradictory instructions issuing from the government: stay, go, get your belongings and/or yourself to higher ground, just sit tight- everything’s fine. Through the streaked window, the streetlights gleam below them, reflected in the fast-flowing water that fills the street.
After a few minutes of trying to talk about something-anything-other than what’s coming, they give up and discuss it: what they’ll do, what they’ll have the others do, what they hope to get from it.
The ways it can go wrong and kill them.
“You know,” Ming Li says, “you can’t worry about protecting me. You can’t divide your attention. It’s too dangerous. Believe me, I’m not going to be thinking about you when things get moving. I’ll be focused on myself. You need to do the same.”
There’s a dark, shapeless cloud in his chest, something that feels like a million swarming insects. Everything he’s planned, everything he’s trying to do, seems transparent, clumsy, amateurish, unconvincing. It wouldn’t fool a child. These people, Murphy and Shen, they’re not idiots. Nothing is going to work. He says, without meaning to, “They’re not idiots.”
“They want something,” Ming Li says, following his thought. “Dangle the right purse in front of an American high-school girl and watch her run into traffic to get it.” She makes a motherly gesture with her chopsticks. “Eat the duck before it gets cold. Colder.”
“If I did, I think I’d heave it all over the table.”
“Take some with you.” She raises the hand with the chopsticks in the air, and the waitress is there instantly. “Wrap this up, please.”
“All?” the waitress asks.
“You’ll wind up eating it,” he says to Ming Li.
“I know.” She says to the waitress, “And could you throw in an extra order of rice?”
They sit silently again, both of them looking out the window. “It’s kind of unfair,” Ming Li says. “This weather, I mean, the flooding, all the rest of it. There are cities that could use wiping out, but this isn’t one of them.”
“Makes perfect sense to me,” Rafferty says. “We’re caught in a meaninglessness node. The weather is just as meaningless as the situation we’re in. If the city drowns, if we get hurt or killed, it’ll all be collateral damage. Nobody, anywhere, is directly responsible for this, but that didn’t stop them from setting the forces in motion.”
“Older brother,” Ming Li says, “with all due respect, please shut up. You don’t have to bring down the world order to stay alive. I mean,
“It keeps me from being frightened,” Rafferty says, “but fear isn’t the only bad feeling there is, is it? There’s anger, loneliness, self-pity, anxiety for others, the confusion of being overwhelmed, the sense of outraged justice because none of this is right, none of it even makes sense. I’ve got all of those.”
Ming Li is wiping her chopsticks on her napkin. “That’s good,” she says. “You’re probably going to need them.”
It’s the second night in their hotel, since Rafferty couldn’t face the thought of moving again. There’s something almost comforting in the act of closing the door behind him and seeing a room he knows, with the bed in the same place and the bathroom right where he left it, and his awful fake-leather bag on the chair, and his change
