“I think we’re in the doghouse,” Garza said, then followed her. Milo grabbed his shoes and hurried to catch up.
Together, they left the hotel and walked up Nathan Road and crossed Salisbury to reach the trees in front of the Space Museum, opposite the Peninsula. Cars swept along between them and the hotel, and as they eyed the height of its tower, Leticia said, “What’s he doing?”
Garza rocked his head. He had a habit of sucking on the side of his upper lip, as if digging for errant crumbs. “Staying in, apparently. All we’ve got is the hotel records. He arrived yesterday and hasn’t left the room. Just like London.”
“He’s displaying himself,” said Milo.
“Of course he is,” Garza answered, “but to us, or to them? Or to someone else?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Leticia. “We get his ass out of here one way or another.”
Milo said, “Let me talk to him first.”
Leticia looked at him. “What about Xin Zhu’s men?”
“What?” asked Garza.
Milo said, “It doesn’t matter now. We were marked as soon as we stepped into that lobby, probably earlier. I’m just going to have a talk with him, and if Zhu decides to pick me up on the way out, it won’t matter-no one’s been honest with me about anything we’re doing.”
“We’re not here for a conversation,” Garza said, and even with the sunglasses, Milo knew he was glaring at him.
“He’s eluded you for weeks,” Milo said, “and now he makes himself known to everyone. Give the man some credit.”
“You’ll get yourself killed,” said Leticia.
“Look,” Milo said, “you can both stand around here trying to figure out how to extract him without anyone noticing, or how to shoot him and escape without getting caught, but Alan knows all of this, too. He came to Hong Kong knowing he’d be trapped in there. He also knew that you wouldn’t be able to get to him. The only thing he could conceivably want is a conversation. I’m the ignorant one here-I’m the least risk to your operation.”
Garza faced Leticia, as if expecting some decision, but she just shrugged. Garza said, “If you try to sneak him out on your own, both of you are targets.”
“Here,” Leticia said. She took Milo’s hand in one of hers and with the other removed a small pistol, a Baby Browning. 25, from her purse and settled it into his palm. “It’s a classic lady’s gun, but it should do the work.”
“I’m not going to kill him.”
“I know that, Milo. But you might have to kill someone to get out of there alive.”
Three minutes later, he was in the lobby. The lady’s gun in his jacket pocket was heavier than it had looked. He didn’t even try to find his shadows, because they were everywhere. All he knew was that He Qiang wasn’t among them now. He took the stairs to the second floor.
There was a single open door halfway down, with a maid’s cart. Room 212 was at the far end, beyond it. He walked slowly, easily, and as he passed the open door, he glanced inside. Standing on the other side of the cart was the man he believed to be He Qiang, staring at him. Milo stopped, his hand clutching the pistol in his pocket, but the man shook his head and waved him on. Milo wasn’t sure what to do. He was being guided to the room, and he had an instinctive desire to turn and walk out of the hotel again, no matter what answers lay behind that door. Yet he continued forward. The answers were too compelling. Finally, he stood in front of 212. He knocked. “Alan? It’s Milo.”
There was silence, and he considered repeating himself, but he knew he’d been heard. He waited. Two minutes passed, and during that time he heard whispers behind the door. A conversation, but just one voice. He was on a telephone. Milo kept hold of the Browning. Then he heard the beep of a cell phone being hung up, and the door opened. It wasn’t Alan Drummond. It was an Asian man with a low forehead, features that were definitely not Chinese. The man was Cambodian. Somehow, this did not surprise him.
“Is he dead?” Milo asked.
“Come in,” said Tran Hoang, stepping aside to let him into the dark room.
4
Sung Hui was washing in the bathroom when Zhu’s phone rang Sunday morning. He didn’t recognize the number but guessed he’d find Shen An-ling on the line. The last thing he expected was the voice of Hua Yuan, Bo Gaoli’s wife. They hadn’t talked since that visit to her house at the Purple Jade Villas, and, with everything else going on, he had forgotten about her. She sounded peculiar, even for her, as if after more than a month she’d come out of her house and discovered that the world had been wiped clean during her absence. She said, “Comrade Colonel, we need to talk. Can you come here?”
“Today?” he asked, looking around for Sung Hui-she had left the bathroom, probably for the kitchen.
“Today, yes. Now, actually. It must be now.”
She’d said it in a way that made Zhu think that, no, it did not have to be now, though he couldn’t explain what gave him that feeling. “Can you tell me what this is about?”
“I was cleaning up his things. My husband’s. And I came across a letter he wrote to you. Please, come to read it.”
“I’m busy this morning,” he said.
“Get here fucking now,” she snapped.
He’d lied about being busy to see how she would react, but he wasn’t sure how to interpret her reaction. “In that case, of course. I’ll be there immediately.” He lowered his voice, “Hua Yuan, you’re afraid. Why?”
She didn’t answer at first, and he heard noise in the background. Paper, perhaps the letter Bo Gaoli had written to him. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of weeping. Between sobs, she said, “Please.” A sniff. “If you read the letter,” she said after a moment, “you will understand. Hurry.” She hung up.
He dressed and found Sung Hui boiling water for tea. They had made love the previous night, and there was a pleasant morning-after glow lingering between them-he could feel it. He kissed her forehead. “I need to run now. I’ll be back soon.”
“Let’s go out to dinner tonight.”
“As you like,” he said, and she frowned at him. “What?”
“What do you like, Zhu?”
He began to say, I like what you like, or, I’m happy to see you happy, but he knew how inept those phrases were, so he just said, “What I like is you. Here at home or at a restaurant, or in the desert. It’s all better with you.”
Her frown faded away to nothingness.
His phone rang again as he was driving north on the ring road, and this time it was Shen An-ling, calling from Hong Kong. He Qiang had arrived to run things, but Zhu still wanted someone else there to help direct.
“Has he left his room yet?” Zhu asked.
“No, but Leticia Jones and Milo Weaver are now in town. They appeared at the hotel, then changed their minds and checked into the Kowloon.”
“So they spotted you?”
“I was in the lobby, but it was He Qiang. Weaver saw him in New York.”
“Sloppy.”
“Yes,” said Shen An-ling. “But we gave him a phone, and if you’d like I can patch you through to him once he’s alone.”
“Yes. That would be good.”
“A woman came to his room.”
“To Drummond’s?”
“She was looking for someone named Charlie. Drummond opened the door a little and said a few words to her, then she left. Apparently, she had the wrong room.”
“Is she a guest?”
