Detained

She threw herself on the ugly couch. She was tired from the ten hour flight. She was hungry. She had the beginnings of a headache from the amount of cramming she’d done—reading up on Chinese business regulations, and what little there was publicly available on the privately held Parker Corporation.

She’d spent most of the flight with what might be pictures of Will Parker scrounged from files and internet image matching services taped to her upright tray table. If this was Parker, he was tall, had dark hair, a square jaw and glasses. He wore a business suit well; and an expression of superiority better. In a tux with a glamorous Chinese woman on his arm, he was definitely social pages drool-over material.

The only thing Darcy was drooling over was the thought of her hotel room, being able to have a hot shower, and stretch out full-length in bed. At least she’d brought a wrap. She dug it out of her wheelie bag and snuggled into it. It was a poor substitute for the overcoat she’d have packed if she’d known her damn visa was going to be invalid, and she’d end up in a freezing cold room somewhere in the backblocks of Pudong airport, where she might well starve to death because they forgot about her.

How long was how long realistically likely to be? Worst case, she’d spend the night in detention. But surely not. Surely someone would phone Sydney tonight, and sort it out.

Thank God she’d taken the Friday flight. She had the weekend to get over the detention ordeal before she needed to front at Parker’s office for her interview.

She sat shivering on the couch. When her stomach rumbled audibly she stood and paced about the small room. Damn, this wouldn’t do. There was no way she was spending the night here. She got to her feet and went for the door. She’d find someone who could fix this mess, if she had to stand in the corridor and scream fire till someone showed up.

Someone showed up before she had the chance. Smiley was back and he had another passenger with him. A man dragging a carry-on bag, worn blue jeans and a crushed white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He spoke Mandarin, or maybe it was the local dialect to the official. He didn’t seem happy. Neither of them acknowledged her.

“Excuse me. Do you have an invalid visa too?” she said.

The man turned. He had thick, dirty blond hair and deep ocean blue eyes. Thirty-something, six foot-ish, muscular, a knockabout rumpled look to him.

“Yeah, you too?” he said with a laugh, and an Australian accent.

“Were you on QF129?

“You?” He had sandy eyebrows and a crooked nose that looked like it might have been broken a time or two.

“Yeah. Do you know what’s going on?”

“What kind of game are you in?”

“I’m a journalist, with the Sydney Herald.”

“Right, well that accounts for you then. Sometimes they make you sweat.”

“Are you a journo too?”

Quick head shake, slow blink. “No. I have a business here.”

“This has happened to you before? How worried should I be?”

He held up a hand, a give me a minute gesture. He turned to Smiley and rattled something off. Smiley responded with head nods, exited and closed the door on them.

Darcy figured her expression must have bled annoyed. Her fellow detainee was apologetic, as though it was his fault. “Don’t worry. This is all about the inconvenience. They’ll likely hold you for a few hours, and then let you go as if nothing happened.”

“They didn’t take my passport.”

“Right. Like I said, it’s all about the inconvenience.” He dragged his wheelie bag further into the room and tucked an e-reader deeper into a zip pocket. “I ordered us dinner.”

“You ordered us dinner. How many times have you been detained?”

He shrugged, noncommittal. “I hope you like Chinese food.”

“I’m starving. I’ll eat anything. Does your influence extend to getting the air-con adjusted to somewhere north of South Pole?”

He glanced around, grimaced. He had the white line of a scar under his chin. “You’re right, it is a bit chilly. Wait till the dentist’s dream comes back and I’ll see what I can do.”

Darcy smiled. He’d noticed the teeth. He’d ordered food. He seemed to know the drill, and he was someone to talk to. Detention was looking up. If he could get the air fixed, the evening might not be a complete loss. She watched as he sat at the table. He didn’t appear to be the least bothered by all this.

“Where are you from?”

“Small town in Queensland. Tara. Population of about eight hundred on pension cheque day. You?” He had a slow drawl, a country town cadence when he spoke in English. His Chinese was rapid fire.