Ghost Hero

symbol. Nothing to rally about, no reason to show the fake paintings.”

“And the real ones?” Jerrold demanded.

Jack shrugged. “Not a lot we can do about that.”

“You can tell me where they are. I might be able to delay the sale until after Beijing/NYC. There’s pressure, and there’s pressure. As you know.”

Yeah, I thought, and I’d like to see you try it on the guy who ultimately owns them now: Lionel Lau.

“You guys are both diplomats.” Jack was beginning to look pleased with himself again. “I’m sure you can spin this to your bosses. Explain how you saved the PRC all kinds of face. What a media crisis you averted. Get your own experts to refute the new Chaus. Beijing/NYC can go on, all the approved artists can sip white wine with the critics, and the PRC can sit back and rake in millions from the sale of tame art. Win-win. How about it?”

Jerrold exchanged a glance with Jin. Damn these people. I sent Bill a look, and then I said, “Not yet.”

Everyone turned to me.

“Jack, if you’re selling our souls here, the price isn’t high enough. Mr. Jerrold, we’ll give you the name of the smuggler, God help us. We’ll also tell you who has the new paintings. But Mike Liu doesn’t only get released from prison. He gets kicked out of the country. Well, come on, people. What’s to keep the PRC from grabbing him up again as soon as this is over? You get what you want once Mike Liu lands here.”

Way to raise the stakes, Lydia. The first to speak, coming from left field, was Bill. “If you agree to this,” he said, “I can get the sale of the real Chaus delayed.”

“What?”

“There’s pressure,” Bill said. “And there’s pressure.”

“You said you couldn’t—what are you—” Jerrold was practically sputtering.

“Mr. Jerrold, you’re a reputable diplomat.” Under the circumstances Bill’s tone wasn’t nearly as sarcastic as it might have been. “I’m sure you understand what I’m saying when I tell you, you don’t want to know.”

“But he can do it, I guarantee,” I said. “And the last thing is, as part of this deal, the State Department has to agree to accept Mike Liu. To give him asylum.”

“No asylum!” Jin barked. “Stupid poet. That make him sound like political prisoner.”

As opposed to what, I wondered, but I kept silent. I could see on Jerrold’s face that he’d heard the same thing I had: If Jin was negotiating the terms of Mike Liu’s release, he’d already agreed to it.

In Chinese, Jerrold asked Jin to step into the hall with him. That was almost funny, Bill being the only person here who didn’t understand what he said; but I got the feeling the language choice was more out of courtesy than secrecy anyway. They left together, Jerrold holding the door for Jin. We three sat in silence, and after a while Jerrold came back in, picked up one of Jack’s chairs, and carried it into the hall. Holding the door and carrying chairs? Maybe there was more than one reason why he was still staff, not line. Jerrold set the chair in the hallway alcove. Jin sat and took out his cell phone.

“This is a conversation Mr. Jin would understandably rather keep private,” Jerrold said, coming back into the room and closing the door behind him. “We’ll wait.”

Once again, I wondered, As opposed to what?

If the twenty minutes before Jin had arrived were tense, the forty Jin spent in the hall gave new meaning to I- need-to-jump-up-and-run-around-the-room-screaming. I didn’t, though. I passed the time thinking about my mother’s reaction to my face in The New York Times anywhere near the words “federal indictment.” I don’t know what Bill was thinking, but after about half an hour he pulled out a cigarette and nailed Jack with a look that squelched any protest Jack might’ve made. Jack glanced at the new window, but being only temporary, it didn’t open. He sat back, rubbing his neck.

Finally the door opened and Jin strode back in. We all shot to attention, but Jin waited while Jerrold retrieved his chair from the hallway. He settled himself, not looking any more jovial than before.

“Have spoken, my superiors,” Jin said. “Liu Mai-ke, pah, stupid man, bad poet. Nothing but irritation, stirs up other stupid people. Unlikely will be rehabilitated. People’s Republic better without him. Will send him here. You”— he pointed a thick finger at Jack— “will tell us name of human trafficker. You”—moving to Bill—“will stop sale of Chaus.”

“Delay,” I said.

“You”—the finger swung to me—“will be silent!”

“And none of you,” Jerrold added, visibly relieved and palpably taking charge, “will go anywhere until this deal is complete. Just in case you were thinking of running out on us. Or warning anybody.”

“No problem,” said Jack.

“You bet, no problem. This whole process shouldn’t take more than twenty-four hours. Let’s go.”

“Wait,” I said. “Go where?”

“Don’t worry, the quarters are comfortable. And the food’s not bad, and it’s on us. Now, either you all accompany me voluntarily, or I’ll ask the Nineteenth Precinct to detain you in their quarters. I’ll have to call Justice to get that to happen, and the whole process is kind of a pain, so I’ll be even more aggravated than I am now. How aggravated do you want me? If this all works out, you’ll be home in your own beds tomorrow night. If it doesn’t, you’ll want to practice being guests of Uncle Sam, anyway.”

Which is how I came to be spending the night—without my cell phone—in a government-contracted four-star hotel on the Upper East Side. I ate grilled salmon in a small but, as promised, comfortable room with a giant TV, a lovely view over the East River, a disconnected phone, and a State Department security officer outside my door. Jack and Bill, I understood, were billeted together down the hall. Because they were both large guys, I hoped their room was bigger.

26

Morning’s usually a busy time for me. I wake up early, go running, or rollerblading, or to the dojo. Get my blood moving before the action starts. Not today, though. The sunrise over the East River was gorgeous, the hotel bathrobe was comfy,