Chapter 31 #2
“Probably to lead you to us. If Chen wants you dead, if Pangu wants you dead,” Ming-na said, looking like she shared that sentiment, “then you’re on borrowed time.
And so are we, thanks to you. We might as well make what time we have left count.
” Ming-na turned to her husband. “If they can track us down here, so can others.”
It was, Alice felt, a veiled insult. Like saying, If they can do it, it can’t be that hard.
He gave a curt nod, having probably figured that out the moment he saw his sister.
“But,” said Alice, “if we’re in that much danger, wouldn’t we all be safer in the US? I’m sure we can get you in. I agree with Mom. Going back to Hong Kong is suicide.”
“Haven’t you been listening?” Ming-na’s voice rose to a near panic level. “You. Are. Not. Safe. Anywhere. And you’ve probably killed us too. Our only hope, slim as it might be, is to get Pangu before it gets us.”
“I agree,” said Vivien, standing up and straightening her Shanghai Tang. “Hong Kong it is.”
But Vivien was denied her dramatic exit. Alice yanked her down.
“I’m not going anywhere until I’ve had the beef noodle soup.”
Kai-wen watched his niece and wife head to the kitchen, then turned to his sister. “Alice. You named her Alice. Our mother would be proud.”
“But would she forgive me?”
“You only did as she asked.”
“Will you forgive me?”
He tried to answer but realized she deserved the truth. And he didn’t know what that was. Not yet.
The next day, after a shower and surprisingly deep sleep, Kai-wen and Ming-na walked two streets over to the small apartment shared by a mother and daughter. Members of their network.
“We’ll get them back to you,” Ming-na assured them as she took their identity papers.
“I don’t think you will.” The mother smiled at her. “But thank you for saying that. We’ll go into hiding and hope for the best. We all have escape routes.”
Kai-wen and Ming-na bowed deeply. “If there was any other way…”
“If we do nothing, we’ll be as guilty as the terrorists,” said the thirty-year-old daughter. “And probably die in the next attack anyway. At least now we have a chance to stop it. We’ll be fine.”
Vivien bowed deeply when the borrowed identity papers were handed to them by her brother. It was, Alice realized, the first time she’d seen her mother do that. Normally it was others bowing to her.
The act had always seemed contrived. A meaningless, dated tradition. At best a habit. At worst an act of humiliation more than humility.
Now, holding the papers of the women who’d made such a sacrifice for her, Alice saw how wrong she was. How jaded she’d become. And she too bowed.
Chen went straight for the fortune cookie.
I think it worked. We have no plans to attack.
He stared at the words, longing to believe, to trust the American. But felt in his core that would be a mistake. Fortunately, their own fleet was steaming to meet the Americans and troops were already on alert.
If this was a trick, they’d be ready, and the Americans would pay. Though so would he, for having fallen for it.
One of Kai-wen’s contacts at EVA Air got the four of them onto a flight. Once in Hong Kong, they took the train into the city center, then looked around for a taxi. It was futile.
The city, once so vibrant, was unrecognizable. Fires were still smoldering; shops had been broken into, not necessarily by gangs but by men and women desperate for food, for water, for clothing and shelter. The necessities of life that had so quickly been taken from them in the latest attack.
“Now what?” asked Vivien.
“Now this,” said Alice. She’d picked up an abandoned bicycle from the sidewalk.
Vivien was on the verge of protesting, then stopped. Stooped. And picked another one up. A minute later, she was wobbling along the road, trailing the others. It had been years, decades, since she’d ridden a bike. It was not “just like riding a bike.”
She muttered and swore and grumbled. But she kept up.
Half an hour later, sweaty, filthy, exhausted, they stopped by a bridge.
“Here?” asked Vivien, dropping the bike to the pavement and glancing around. It looked deserted.
“Here.” Kai-wen lowered his bike carefully to the ground.
“This bakery was Liam’s last stop,” said Ming-na. She’d been thinking about this all the way there. “It’s possible he was set up by whoever he met here. Are we walking into the same trap?”
She knew no one could answer that, but she still needed to say it.
“Do we have a choice?” asked Kai-wen. “The baker must have told Liam something. We need to find out what it was. Alice is right. He was holding that coconut bun for a reason.”
They walked to an entrance underneath the bridge, and at once, the smell of wok hei filled the air.
The cavernous place was packed. It was like a food court ringed with stalls.
Hawkers were yelling, trying to get their attention, trying to get them to sit at their tables, though there was precious little space.
People were crammed in together, slurping, chewing, gesturing. Shouting at each other. Makeshift lights, cheerful red lanterns, had been strung up.
Bowls of wonton soup and fish congee were being ladled out. Beef chow fun was being spooned out of woks onto melamine plates.
Kai-wen smiled at his niece, who was staring, open-mouthed. Astonished at the explosion of activity in a city that had seemed dead. It was like waking up to spring after a bitter winter. Life reasserting itself.
She inhaled deeply. If her uncle dreamed of the smell of peach blossoms in May, if that was his comfort scent, this was hers. Food. Asian food. Wok hei.
“There.” Vivien pointed to a modest stall near the back and made her way over.
“I think…” her brother began, but got no further before Vivien spoke.
“Mui-mui,” she said to the young server, using a term for little sister, “can you please tell your auntie that Shu-hui is here?”
It was a guess. A risk.
“Shu-hui?” whispered Kai-wen. “What makes you think—”
“That the baker is one of us? Because Liam did. He was gathering information. Desperate for it. He came here.”
“Yes, and then he was murdered,” hissed Ming-na. “Maybe by whoever’s behind there.”
She jabbed her hand toward the curtain.
It was, Vivien had to admit, a valid point.
The young server’s eyes hadn’t left Vivien. She seemed entranced.
“She recognizes you,” Alice said to her mother, in English.
The server disappeared behind the curtain.
“Was this a mistake?” Ming-na asked. She looked at her sister-in-law. The celebrity. The face of the human rights campaign against the Chinese government. And the face that could condemn them all.
Alice wondered the same thing. So far, no one had recognized Vivien.
Not on the ferry, or the flight, or in the streets.
But this was a young person who might have access to more outside news.
Had Vivien Li’s celebrity, her very public campaign against the regime, penetrated the great social media wall of China?
“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir.”
Pardington looked up to see his private chef standing at the door to the Oval Office. The President was in the middle of a meeting with his counterparts.
They were of a mind. The Chinese leader was both lying and telling the truth. But which was the lie, and what was the truth?
There was huge debate about whether Vivien Li was, in fact, a Chinese agent. Or maybe even the head of a terrorist organization.
“Have you met her?” demanded the Italian PM. “Scariest woman I’ve ever met.”
“Yeah, you consider any strong woman with opinions and an agenda scary,” said the Australian PM.
“But what is her agenda?” demanded the French Prime Minister. The President’s parents had been killed in the latest attack, and she was trying to deal with that, as well as the rest of the catastrophe.
Pardington waved for his private chef to enter.
He looked down at the éclair placed in front of him. The corner of a tiny slip of paper was just visible beneath the pastry.
Pulling it out, he glanced down. It contained three words:
National People’s Congress.
He looked up. The leaders were still squabbling.
Stress, lack of sleep, fear, the constant howl of grief, both personal and public—unsustainable pressure from all sides was making rational decisions near impossible.
And instead of thinking clearly, calmly, they were taking their fears out on each other.
Pardington knew he was as susceptible as the rest. The desire to scream at them was almost unbearable. He could feel it burning his throat. Instead, he took a deep breath in and exhaled so strongly, the others stopped in mid-rant to stare at him.
“You OK, Fraser?”
“Probably not. Look, we can’t turn on each other. Let’s agree we’re all on the same side. We don’t make war on our allies, and we try to avert war with adversaries. Chen was right. Our needs have aligned, however temporarily. We need to take advantage of that.”
“You believe him?” asked Italy.
“I don’t think we have much choice. And honestly, he’s more vulnerable than we are.” He looked down at the slip of paper in his hand. “What do we know about the National People’s Congress?”
“Auntie asks that you come,” said the young server. Like Vivien, she’d used the affectionate term reserved for older women, “Auntie.” It was essentially an honorific.
Alice realized no one ever called her mother “Auntie Vivien.”
The young server was holding open the curtain that divided the public from the private.
Their dividing line between relative safety and possible danger.
Vivien had used the code name, the one that identified them as spies. And spies were imprisoned, interrogated, beaten, then shot. On the other side of the curtain.
Kai-wen stepped forward, but Vivien touched his arm and moved in front of him.
“My turn. Wait here.” She crossed the threshold.