Ghost Hero

“Bullshit. Of course it will.” Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “I need to live in this community. The Chinese community, I mean. So does Lydia. Bill, well, what’s the opposite of collateral damage? What I’m saying, we need something sweet to counteract the stench of ratting a guy out.”

“I’m not ratting anyone out,” I said.

“That’s not the way it’ll look.” Jack didn’t meet my glare.

“What do you want?” Jerrold asked.

“Who would you take this to? Jin, at the Consulate?” At Jerrold’s nod, Jack said, “Call him. Get him over here.”

“First of all, I don’t just call the Cultural Attache and tell him ‘get over here.’ Second, I’d need to hear what you have to say before I approach Jin.”

“You won’t. I have a deal to offer, and if I need to get a lawyer to help me offer it I’ll do it in public. You’ll get what you want, in the end, but I’ll make the whole thing as embarrassing for the State Department as I possibly can. That won’t do anything for your promotion, will it?”

“Promotion” was the magic word. Dennis Jerrold dialed the Consulate of the People’s Republic of China.

25

It was a tense twenty minutes up there in Jack’s office, waiting for Jin. I tried to talk to Jack but he cold-shouldered me. He made fresh coffee. Bill had some of the coffee. Jerrold, as though he were at the dentist, leafed through an art book. I didn’t have more tea; the last thing I needed was caffeine to blend with the adrenaline already sizzling through me. I kind of felt like I was at the dentist, too.

Finally, the downstairs buzzer buzzed, and Jack answered it. He waited at the door as he had for us—was that only the day before yesterday?—and stepped aside to admit a sour-faced, bald Asian man. Jerrold rose to his feet. I did, also, before I could stop myself. Bill didn’t.

“Mr. Jin. Thank you for coming.” Dennis Jerrold executed a creditable bow, which Jin returned.

“Mr. Jerrold. You say, important.” Jin looked around the room, then strode forward and took a chair.

Now Bill did stand, because there were only four chairs, and five of us. He went over to lean on the sill of the new window.

“It is important.” Jerrold brought Jin a cup of my bitter green tea. He introduced each of us, and Jin gave us each an unsmiling nod, remaining seated. Jerrold said, “These people have a … proposal for us.”

“Bill and I don’t,” I said.

“Lydia, you might as well get in on it, because it’s happening anyway,” Jack said. “And it’s not a proposal. It’s a deal. In response to a threat.”

Jack brought Jin into the loop in a couple of sentences. Jin listened intently, interrupting only once—“Alive? Chau Chun is alive?”—and after Jack was done he sat grimly sipping tea. No one else spoke, either, until Jin finally said to Jerrold, “You cannot arrest Yang? Make him tell you location of Chau?”

“I’m sorry.” Jerrold, shamefaced, apologized to Jin for the rule of law. “He’d get a lawyer immediately. I have certain … pressures … I can put on people”—he gave Jack a look—“but in this situation I doubt if they’d work. And if we did find him, Chau I mean, there’s not much we could do anyway.”

Jin pursed his lips, gestured at Jack. “What he say. Your government will not extradite. Is true?”

“I’m afraid it probably is. The events surrounding the Tiananmen riots are seen differently here from the way the Chinese people understand them—”

Jin waved him off with his teacup. To Jack, he said, “What do you want?”

Jack took a deep breath, and said, “Mike Liu.”

This was beyond pins dropping. You could’ve dropped a piano through the ceiling and no one would have noticed.

Just to make sure Jin knew who he was talking about, Jack gave him the Chinese version. “Liu Mai-ke. I’ll give you the smuggler’s name if your government frees Liu Mai-ke.”

“What the hell—” Jerrold started.

“Listen! There’s going to be a big Free Liu Mai-ke rally next week. Designed to embarrass the PRC government.” Jack turned to Jin. “Those paintings, the phony Chaus, have Mike Liu’s poems on them. I don’t suppose you knew that.”

“No, I did not.”

“Well, they do, and they’ll probably have the paintings at the rally.”

Jerrold pointed accusingly at me. “I thought she said they wouldn’t—”

“As Chaus. They won’t be exhibited or brought onto the market as Chaus. But they may well be shown as, I guess you’d say, homages. Just because they’re not authentic doesn’t mean they won’t be used to make a political point.”

He looked to me. I gave an irritated shrug. From Jerrold came a sharp, exasperated breath.

“And the real Chaus,” Jack said. “They are going on the market. At exactly the same time as the rally. Which is smack in the middle of Beijing/NYC. Mr. Jin, your government is going to come off looking pretty bad, with Chaus and fake Chaus and Mike Liu’s poetry all over the place, at exactly the moment when you’re spending a lot of money to look good. Here,” he added, “in New York.”

New York, the Cultural Attache’s turf. From which, presumably, he’d rather not be called home in disgrace. You could tell from his stony face that these words were not lost on Jin.

“Or,” Jack said, settling in his chair, “you can disarm the whole thing. Mike Liu’s been off people’s minds for a while now, so it won’t look like you’re yielding to pressure. Say he’s sick, how’s that? The PRC and the Communist Party can demonstrate your great humanitarian compassion by releasing him. Once he’s out, he’s useless as a