When it’s work, you get the CTU phone from 24. If his wife ever phones up, it’s the training anthem from Rocky.”
Joe found himself laughing, even as he noted that Zhao Jian had been correct about Linda’s identity. “How long have they been seeing each other?”
“How do I know? Guy’s some kind of sex addict. I never saw anything like it, not even by Asian standards. No disrespect to his wife, right, but Miles is running chicks all over town.”
It was well past ten o’clock. The terrace was still packed with diners, most of whom had donned jackets or sweaters against the chill of the late evening. Cargo ships were moaning on the Huangpu. The lights of Pudong were as romantic and as breathtaking as any sight in China and Shahpour Goodarzi was casually shopping his boss to the Secret Intelligence Service.
“He doesn’t try to keep any of this under wraps?”
Shahpour looked confused. “Why would he? He’s not British, Joe. Every other guy in this restaurant probably has a chick shacked up in an apartment in Gubei. You know how things work over here.” He ran a finger along the surface of the table. “Still, I gotta say that Miles is operating at a whole other level. He’s tried to screw every Chinese girl from here to Beijing. One of my buddies calls him an MBA.”
“What’s that?”
“Married but available.”
Joe laughed, because he knew that it was vital to appear unfazed by what Shahpour was telling him. The more relaxed he appeared, the more information he would be able to glean. “So Isabella knows?” he asked.
Shahpour shrugged. He was aware that Joe and Isabella had once been involved, but was clearly working on the assumption that Joe no longer harboured feelings for her. “I have no idea what she knows. I’ve never met her. I’m not even sure they still live together.”
The revelation sent a fizz of satisfaction through Joe’s body. That would explain why Jian had never photographed her. He offered Shahpour a cigarette, which the American lit from the candle at the edge of the table. His eyes caught Miles coming back from the restaurant’s interior and Joe turned to find a rather forced look of regret on his face.
“Guys. I got a problem.”
He was behind Joe’s chair. The hot dead weight of his hand again.
“What’s that?” Shahpour seemed to have anticipated what was coming.
“Goddam conference call from Redmond, starting in thirty minutes. I have to get to the office.”
Joe balled his napkin onto the table and grinned in a way that was visible only to Shahpour. A waitress was clearing away their plates. “You have to leave?”
“ ‘Fraid so. But listen, it shouldn’t take long. Maybe I can catch you guys later? We got a lot of catching up to do. Shahpour, will you take care of this? Put it on Gates?”
“Yes, sir.”
And with that he was gone, shaking Joe’s hand and slipping off into the night. It seemed extraordinary that Miles should choose a few hours with Linda over the opportunity to probe more deeply into Joe’s cover. His departure had either been prearranged, as part of a rather obvious American trap, or Miles was still as craven and as selfish as he had ever been. Zhao Jian had a fixed camera outside Linda’s apartment complex which would at least provide Joe with evidence of whether he was telling the truth.
“Coffee?” he suggested, because he was tired after the sleepless night and needed a jolt to his wits.
“Sure. That’d be great.”
He waved the waitress over, ordered two espressos and lit a cigarette. Shahpour had settled back in his chair, visibly relaxing in the absence of his boss. Two red kites appeared in the night sky above his head, the ropes attaching them to the ground invisible to the naked eye.
“So does he do that sort of thing a lot?”
“What? Take off like that? Sure. I’ve sat in on meetings where Miles excuses himself for an hour, gets a massage and comes back smelling of Chanel No. 5. He calls it ‘sport fucking.’ ”
“What does Isabella call it?”
Shahpour acknowledged his point with a nod and said, “So what about you?”
“What about me?”
“What’s your story with Megan? Is that serious? Is it something you hope might develop?”
Two hours earlier, Shahpour would not have dared ask such a question, but it was an indication both of how much alcohol he had consumed, and of his growing confidence in Joe’s company, that he was now prepared to do so.
“It’s early days,” Joe replied. “I hope she was nice to you in Zapata’s.”
Shahpour exhaled smoke through a broad, self-confident smile. “That was funny that night. I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“Not at all. To be perfectly honest, Megan and I weren’t together at that point. In fact I’d only just met her.”
“And yet she ends up talking to the one guy in the room who knows Miles Coolidge.”
“I know. Amazing coincidence.”
“Was it?”
The air went out of the conversation. Shahpour lowered his cigarette and fixed Joe with a look of such intensity that it forced his eyes to the table.
“Was it what?”
Everything was sober and still.
“Was it just coincidence?”
There are many ways that a spy is trained to deal with the unexpected, but mostly he must rely on his own judgment and common sense. Joe had been startled by what Shahpour had said, certainly, but he was not about to fold under pressure. He looked down at the fleets of ships on the Huangpu, boats so weighed down by cargo that they resembled submarines nosing south towards the East China Sea.
“You think I was trying to get to Miles?”
The American leaned forward. His gold necklace rocked against the base of his throat and Joe could see the sincerity, the seriousness which was at the very core of his character. What was striking was not so much the intensity of Shahpour’s mood, but the sudden air of expectancy about him, as if he was trying to broker an understanding. He had about him the air of a man who wished to confess something.
“That’s what Miles thinks,” he said.
Joe dismissed the theory with a practised look of astonishment. “Miles still thinks I work for the British government?”
“Do you still work for the British government?”
“No.”
Shahpour looked around him. The terrace was beginning to empty. He appeared to be weighing up the risks of his next remark. There were clearly consequences to what he was about to say and he did not wish to be overheard.
“What I’m about to tell you could get me fired.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t tell me.”
He leaned forward. “I’m like you used to be, Joe. Deep cover. I’m a NOC. I don’t work for Microsoft.” It was the drink talking. Alcohol and circumstance had handed a nervous, inexperienced spy the chance to confide in a colleague whose word he thought he could trust. “Same goes for our so-called buddy. Miles Coolidge knows as much about software as my Uncle Ahmed. We’re both Company. We’re both undercover. Miles has told me everything about your past.”
“Shahpour, you shouldn’t be telling me this. I am not who you think I am. I’m not with the Office any more…”
“Well, you see I just don’t believe that.” Joe’s denial had been persuasively sincere, but Shahpour was sticking to his strategy. “I think you’re here because of what happened to Ken. I think you’re here because you know what we did to him.”
“You’re talking about Kenneth Lenan?”
Joe was mesmerized by the confession of CIA culpability in his murder, but there was barely a blink of
