more in the direction of his hotel.
Jet lag was setting in by the time he reached it. The four men who’d been outside earlier were still there, still staring blankly across the street as he entered. He glanced at the clerk at the front desk. The clerk smiled but said nothing.
The elevator seemed to take forever to arrive. Jing Yo stood perfectly erect, as he had been trained from his first day at the monastery.
Revenge was his purpose, not politics. He had wasted his time at the UN.
He corrected himself. His mission was repentance, not revenge. He had to atone for causing Hyuen Bo’s death.
The elevator door opened. A short black man with a chubby face got out. He was wearing a tracksuit and listening to music on an iPod.
Jing Yo pressed the button for his floor, then stepped to the back of the car. The elevator began to rise.
It stopped at the next floor. A mother and small child started to get in. Then the woman stopped. “Is this elevator going down?” she asked.
“No.”
The doors started to close. Jing Yo threw his hand forward, halting them.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the woman. She bent, then straightened. “You dropped this.”
She handed Jing Yo a business card, then stepped back as the doors closed.
The cabbie’s English was far worse than Jing Yo’s, but he found the place easily and left Jing Yo off in front. Not knowing what to expect, Jing Yo went in and was offered a table toward the back. He asked for a cup of tea.
He was halfway through the tea when the same black man he’d seen in the hotel elevator came into the diner. Seemingly lost in his music, the man didn’t acknowledge Jing Yo as he passed, walking to a booth at the very end of the room.
“There is my young friend,” said a cheerful voice across the room.
It belonged to an elderly Chinese man walking toward Jing Yo from the front of the restaurant. He had a cane, though he didn’t seem to need it for walking; he wielded it like a wand or poker, punching the air before him. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored gray pin-striped suit, with a crisp white shirt and a red patterned tie. A few wisps of hair clung to his temples, but otherwise he was bald. He wore thick bifocal glasses.
Jing Yo rose as he approached.
“Sit, sit,” said the old man, raising his cane and waving it at him. “Have a seat. I am sorry for being late.”
He asked the waitress for tea and a banana muffin. Then he eased himself into the seat, maneuvering slowly, as if he had something in his pockets that he didn’t want to break. “My hips,” he said cheerfully in English. “Both steel.”
“I don’t understand,” said Jing Yo.
“Replacements. They taught me to sit a special way.”
The old man smiled, adjusted his jacket, then looked up at the waitress, who was approaching with his order.
“Would you like more tea, sir?” she asked Jing Yo.
“No,” said Jing Yo.
“You can call me Wong,” said the old man when she left. It was the equivalent in English of asking to be called Jones. “I am in your service.”
He spoke in Chinese, but not the Mandarin dialect — he used Jing Yo’s own native Jin, with an accent heavily tilted toward Shanxi.
“Thank you,” replied Jing Yo.
“English,” said Wong, though he too was using Chinese. “For now. It will raise less suspicion.”
Then he switched seamlessly to English.
“What brings you to America, Mr. Srisai?” asked Wong.
“I am a student,” said Jing Yo. “I have come on an assignment.”
“Mmmmm.” Wong nodded. “A very difficult assignment. I was surprised when I heard of it.”
“I need to get to Washington, I believe. I’m not yet sure. I only just arrived.”
Wong reached his hand across to Jing Yo’s. It was brown, marked with liver spots, and wrinkled. But the grip was strong. “You will have more help here than you suspect. Your progress was marked at the very highest levels of the school. The faculty has taken quite an interest in you.”
“Thank you.”
Wong took a sip of his tea. He savored it, then took another. “This tea has gotten better. Or my taste buds have declined. The exact reason doesn’t matter, if the result is the same.” He picked up his muffin and broke it in half. “What do you think of America?”
“I’ve only just arrived.”
“Mmmmm.” Wong put a small piece of the muffin in his mouth. “You might order one. They’re very good.”
“Thank you.” Jing Yo bowed his head slightly. “But I am fine.”
“I heard you studied to be a monk,” said Wong, shifting to Chinese. “Do you have any dietary requirements?”
“No.”
“We believe the Americans plan to use the scientist for propaganda,” said Wong softly. “We have not yet located him. There are several places a person like this could be. We’re watching his family very closely.”
Wong paused and took another bite of the muffin. He chewed it slowly, as if each movement of his teeth were a dialogue with the food.
“We have other friends. We have ways of finding things out,” said Wong. “It would be ideal to discover him before he is used. After that, there are questions about what course to take. But…”
He let the word hang in the air, the silence suggesting many possibilities — and none.
“I have a theory,” said Wong, returning to his tea. “The president is coming to the United Nations on Friday. When the president makes a speech, perhaps we will see him then.”
Jing Yo said nothing. Finding the man would be difficult enough, but killing him inside the UN, where security would surely be high, would be nearly impossible.
Only because of the time limit. If he had infinite time, he could easily find a way. He would prepare carefully, and infiltrate. But with only a day and a half to get ready, it would be impossible.
“You look daunted,” said Wong.
“Jet lag.”
“You have more help than you can imagine. Even now, hundreds are at work.”
Wong took the last morsel of muffin and ate it, a bit more quickly than he had the others. Then he took his cane and started to rise. Jing Yo rose as well, out of respect.
“Your clothes, even for a student, do not suit you. The clothes make the man.” Wong chuckled. “I have a cousin who is a tailor. He will make you something very suitable, and quickly.” He handed Jing Yo a card.
Jing Yo took it, and watched as Wong walked to the front and paid the bill. Someone jostled him from behind. He turned quickly. It was the black man with the chubby face.
“Yo, bro, you dropped this,” said the man, handing him a BlackBerry cell phone. “Better be careful. Brick’s worth a lot of dough.”
