Flower Net (Red Princess 1)

When she was gone, he closed his eyes. There had been a time when he yearned to go to Beijing. Now that he was actually on his way, his mind was filled with advice—from Jack Campbell and Noel Gardner, from Rob Butler and Madeleine Prentice, from that asshole Patrick O’Kelly at the State Department, and now from this woman. It ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous to the downright scary. If he had a chance, he should go to the Friendship Store. (Madeleine had picked up some great souvenirs when she was there.) But he could certainly pass on the restaurant that specialized in snake. Rob Butler’s advice had been simple—“Keep your nose clean.” Beth Madsen had told him where he might find good deals on silk and jade. Of course he’d be busy, Beth said, but he shouldn’t miss the Great Wall. She’d be happy to take him there.

Jack Campbell and Noel Gardner had taken him out for hamburgers at the Carl’s Jr. across the street from the courthouse. With his usual earnestness, Gardner had latched onto Madeleine’s idea that the two murders might be the work of a serial killer. “We don’t know where Watson and Guang were killed,” he’d remarked, “but if you find that place, you need to determine what elements make the scene stand out. Think about what the killer’s motive could be.”

Serial killers, David learned, were driven by three main motives—domination, manipulation, and control. The serial killer seldom directed his anger toward the focus of his resentment. He—and serial killers were universally men—could be counted on to be charming, highly articulate, even glib. “If this is a serial killer, we don’t know if these are his first and second murders or his tenth and eleventh,” Gardner had gone on. “But I can guarantee you that if he goes on with his crimes, he will become more flagrant with the bodies. He’ll take great pleasure in tau

nting law enforcement.”

“But are there serial killers in China?” David had asked, echoing Madeleine’s question.

“I don’t know,” Gardner had replied. “But if you find anything that points in that direction, go to the embassy, send us a fax, and Jack and I will talk to our behavioral science department.”

This whole conversation—with Gardner taking the serial angle seriously and Campbell’s ominous silence—had been unnerving. But David’s last-minute “advice” from Campbell and O’Kelly had a strange cloak-and-dagger feel to it. O’Kelly began with a lecture on protocol: “Always address the Chinese with their full titles. For one thing, women keep their maiden names; for another, the Chinese are very formal. So say, ‘Pleased to meet you, Vice Minister Ding or Subhead Dong.’” O’Kelly had laughed heartily at his tasteless joke, then once again settled into his forbidding tone. “Remember, in China everyone has a title. Butcher Fong, Dentist Wong, Worker Hong. But if you don’t know someone’s title, use mister or madame.”

O’Kelly had quickly moved to more serious admonishments: “Watch what you say in your hotel room.” (All hotels for foreigners were supposedly bugged.) “Don’t say anything significant on an unsecured phone.” (If hotel rooms were in fact bugged, this made sense to David, but no one had really explained to him either why he would need a secured phone or how he would find one.) “Don’t eat too much.” (They didn’t want him to seem like a glutton.) “Don’t drink too much.” (Or an alcoholic.) “Don’t get into any card games. Don’t play mah-jongg or bet on anything.” (In other words, don’t look like a gambler.) “Don’t be too friendly. You’re not anyone’s friend.” When questioned on this, Campbell finally had to spell it out. “Keep your dick dry.” David supposed this fell somewhere under the heading of “Keep your nose clean,” and he said so.

“Mr. Stark, this isn’t a joke,” O’Kelly had said. “You’re going to be under constant surveillance. Do you know why?” When David hadn’t answered, O’Kelly had explained. “You’re a potential mark for them. They may try to compromise you—through drinking or fooling around with a woman—so that they can blackmail you into spying for them.”

At this David had laughed, but again neither Campbell nor O’Kelly had joined in. What was most disconcerting, now that David thought about it, was the lack of humor in any of these discussions combined with the sense that O’Kelly—and, he hated to admit it, but Madeleine, Campbell, and Gardner—seemed to know a lot more than he did. But whenever David tried to ask a question or get some semblance of reassurance, his colleagues had avoided the subject by going back to their recommendations, reminders, and warnings.

“You have been issued an official invitation from the Ministry of Public Security—China’s leading intelligence service,” O’Kelly had reminded David. “They may want to turn you for themselves or even hand you over to the Ministry of State Security, which also handles espionage and counterintelligence overseas.”

“I think I want to stay home,” David quipped.

“We don’t think so,” O’Kelly said tersely.

“Who’s this ‘we’?” David asked.

O’Kelly ignored the question. “This is the first time we’ve been invited to cooperate with the Chinese in an investigation on their turf.”

“What do you mean, the first time on their turf?”

“We’ve had some dealings with China in the past. Let’s just say that things didn’t work out. We’ve got a tough political situation going on right now with the threat of trade sanctions. This case—this invitation—is the only thing that’s going right between our two countries. We just don’t want it—or you—to go south on us.”

“Are you questioning my loyalty?”

“You wouldn’t be here if we were. We know your record. We know your family and associates from your FBI check before coming to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. We aren’t worried.”

“Can’t Jack come with me?”

“I wasn’t invited,” Campbell said, breaking his silence.

“And we don’t think it’s appropriate to send the legate from Hong Kong either,” O’Kelly added.

“I don’t like this.”

“Mr. Stark, no one asked you to like it,” the man from State had said. “You found a body. China—for whatever reason—has an interest in that body. And we have an interest in stabilizing our diplomatic relationship with China by whatever means possible. You seem to be that means.”

Now, as Beth Madsen sidled back across David, this time grazing her breasts against his left cheek, he wondered if she was on his list of don’ts. Could the Chinese really bug each hotel room? That seemed both daunting and dull. What could they learn from a gaggle of Tennessee two-step dancers?

The terminal was hardly an advertisement for the newly affluent society he’d been led to expect by Patrick O’Kelly. Instead, as he followed Beth down a bleak hallway and into a cavernous room, he saw numerous soldiers in drab uniforms, old women with kerchiefs on their heads sitting together and gossiping, and exhausted travelers nervously clutching bags and passports. A layer of dirt coated everything, and the smell of cigarettes and simmering noodles hung in the air. But what struck David most was the cold; he could see his breath even inside.

He stood behind Beth at passport control. The surly uniformed officer didn’t say a word or even look at David as he handed over his passport to be stamped. He waited with Beth as the luggage came through on the carousel and walked with her to the Customs check, where they were waved through without opening their bags.

“I have a driver if you need a lift,” Beth offered.

David gazed out past the temporary wooden barricades that separated the secured area of the terminal and the exit, which was jammed with Chinese—civilians and more soldiers in green greatcoats. He wasn’t sure if it was an acoustical anomaly or if the people were really shouting. He watched as another passenger pushed into the cacophonous swarm and was instantly assaulted by people asking him if he needed a ride.

“I’m supposed to be picked up,” David said a little nervously. “Where do you think I’d go to meet someone?”