He walked around the vast square, chaotic with construction – his watchdog doing a good job of staying with him without getting too close – and then turned north toward the great tiled roofs of the Forbidden City.
His tail backed off then and turned him over to a second man, so Nicholai knew that the surveillance of Guibert was something of a priority. The tall roofline of the Imperial Palace, easily recognizable from a hundred photographs, loomed in front of him as he looked for a place to kill Voroshenin that would offer the requisite time and space as well as offer an avenue of escape.
Nicholai had hoped that the walls of the Forbidden City might offer such a location, but then he realized that the area was of course far too heavily guarded now that Mao had taken up residence there and many of the buildings had been turned into housing for high officials or government offices.
Nicholai went into the palace, now a museum, to get warm and firm up his tourist credentials, and lingered on the grounds (if one could be said to “linger” on this bitterly cold afternoon) before leaving the Forbidden City. Observing that he had now acquired an additional tail, he turned east and walked across a lovely bridge over the southern reaches of Beihai Lake, frozen and silver against the white willow trees along its banks.
It would not do to walk too confidently, so Nicholai assumed the gait and pace of a man who is slightly, albeit unconcernedly, lost. He paused at the corner of Xidan Street, pretended to consider his route, and then “decided” to turn north. His tails switched off, one lingering as he fussed with his scarf, the other coming ahead to pick up the trail.
It was enough for Nicholai to get a good look at their faces without being noticed. He dubbed one of them the Greyhound for his tall, slim build and foot speed, and the other Xiao Smiley, an ironic reference to his dour expression. To be fair, Nicholai thought, no one would be very happy to be pulled from a nice warm hotel lobby onto the freezing streets.
Nicholai upped his pace to see if the Greyhound would keep up with him, or whether there was another agent to turn him over to. The Greyhound quickened his steps, although he was careful to stay far behind Nicholai as he went through the South Gate into Beihai Park.
The park was lovely, Nicholai thought, and represented the very best of Asian landscaping art. Built around the oval of Beihai Lake, its walkways wended through graceful rows of willow trees, impeccable placements of stones, and perfectly located pavilions. Every curve offered a new perspective, and the whole thing came close to achieving the elusive quality that the Japanese called
In fact, in winter the park resembled a distinguished elderly lady, spare and yet beautiful, who preserves her posture and dignity even in the knowledge of cold death. A man more verbally talented than I, Nicholai thought, might compose a poem about her.
Walking northward along the eastern edge of the lake, he came to a bridge that spanned the lake onto an island. Nicholai read the small sign that pointed toward the Jade Isle and stepped onto the gracefully arched bridge.
He paused at the apex to look over the lake and see if the Greyhound followed him. The Greyhound was smart and strode right past him, never even glancing as he continued onto the island. It was the smart move, Nicholai thought, anticipating that I will keep going onto the Jade Isle, but still allowing him to double back if I change my mind. Lazily scanning the scenery, he saw Xiao Smiley stop and linger in a pavilion near the base of the bridge.
Nicholai turned and crossed the bridge onto the Jade Isle, which was dominated by a tall white tower on a small rise in the center of the thickly wooded island. A narrow footpath flanked by trees and shrubs led up to the tower, identified by a plaque as, not surprisingly, the White Pagoda, built in 1651 to honor the visit of the Dalai Lama.
Ironic, Nicholai thought, considering that the Chinese had just invaded Tibet.
The tower itself was closed. Nicholai strolled around the base of the tower, which, with its curved lines and additional “steeple” with a gold Buddhist symbol on top, more resembled Tibetan than Chinese architecture.
He finished his circuit of the tower and then took a narrow curving path down through the trees to the southern edge of the Jade Isle, where the Bridge of Perfect Wisdom crossed back onto the main part of the park. From the bridge he noticed small docks on the islands, and others across the pond, and realized that on less inclement days one could hire a boat to access the island.
The Jade Isle has possibilities, Nicholai thought, particularly at night, but luring Voroshenin there would be a problem. Schooled in paranoia by the Stalinist purges, the Russian would not easily be lured anywhere, and if he is the chess player he is reputed to be, he will be quick to sniff out a ploy.
But it was a location to keep in mind, and at least Nicholai had fulfilled the immediate task of allowing himself to be spotted by Haverford’s spies in the White Pagoda.
19
HAVERFORD SAT and watched Solange pack.
It didn’t take long – she actually owned very few things. The rest of it – the books, the art, the fine kitchen equipment, even most of her wardrobe – had been bought and paid for by the Company and would be sold.
The bottom line was, after all, the bottom line.
She’d taken her eviction stoically, only putting up a small argument.
“But where will I go?” she asked when Haverford came to shut down the house.
He shrugged his lack of an answer. The gesture evoked what they both knew – she’d been hired for a certain job, for a certain period of time. The job was over and the time was up, and she should have thought of her future earlier.
And her concern was a bit disingenuous. Certainly she knew that a woman of her beauty, charm, and doubtless sexual talent would always find a man willing to pay for them. She had done it before and would do it again, and the money he had paid would be more than sufficient to tide her over.
“And how will Nicholai find me?”
As a piece of acting it was beautiful. I was almost convinced for a second there, Haverford thought, smiling at himself and recalling what his father had said after rescuing him from a youthful entanglement with a Broadway dolly that he thought he was in love with.
“All actresses are whores,” Haverford Senior had pronounced, “and all whores are actresses.”
This one certainly is, Haverford thought, watching Solange dab at her eyes with a handkerchief. “How will Nicholai find me?” He didn’t enlighten her that, in the unlikely case that her emotions were genuine, she needn’t trouble herself over them.
Now she folded a negligee into her suitcase, paused, and trained her remarkable eyes on Haverford. “Perhaps you and I, we could make an arrangement?”
He had to admit that he was tempted. What man wouldn’t be? She was incredibly beautiful and would no doubt be a revelation in bed, but there was no way that he could justify her continued presence in the house to the cold- blooded Company number-crunchers.
“We have an arrangement, my darling,” he answered. “You performed a service – brilliantly – and I paid you.”
“You treat me like a whore,” Solange said, snapping the suitcase shut.
Haverford saw no need for a response. In any case, he had just received word from his sources in Beijing that Hel had made his rendezvous on the Jade Isle and been duly spotted from the White Pagoda.
20
MEN ARE FOOLS, Solange thought as she left the house in Tokyo.
A few tears, the sparkle of an eye, the twitch of a hip, and their brains are as easily turned off as an electrical switch.
Haverford was smarter than most, but just as blind.
Like the rest, he sees what he wants to see and nothing more.
