The brothers were fighting over the button as Cono continued up the sidewalk, the bright mountain peaks etched with shadows high in the distance. When he reached the corner of Panfilov Park nearest the museum, he made a wide loop, just close enough to watch the building and its driveway between the tree trunks. Halfway through his return on the same loop, he saw a silver Mercedes slowly gliding up. It came to a stop close to the pine trees, where the final curve rose to the steps of the wood-gabled museum.
A Chinese man in a shiny gray suit that almost matched the color of the car emerged from the front passenger seat. His coat was buttoned and the stiff white edge of a handkerchief in his breast pocket caught the sunlight before he stepped into the shade.
Cono began whistling the national anthem of the People’s Republic as he walked across the mulch. The man in the suit turned his trim body, scanning the darkness beneath the trees. He had a square, handsome face, and although he was squinting, his features showed no perturbation. Cono appeared, still whistling, and tossed a chestnut toward the man. He snatched it with a downward flick of his hand and threw it in a high arc back to Cono, who caught it with the top of his foot and let it drop. The Chinese man nodded his head slightly at Cono.
“Too bad we don’t have a soccer ball,” he said in English.
Cono responded in Mandarin. “And who would keep score?”
“The game’s the thing, after all.” The Chinese man stuck to English.
“Ah, the game. Let’s begin with tennis in Tulufan.” The obtuse pass-phrase that Timur had chosen caused the man to smile in a quick, well-practiced motion. His teeth seemed to be newly polished. He held out his hand and Cono shook it. Cono felt no faint twitches of trepidation in the man’s grip. He was a man at ease.
“Let’s sit down,” Cono said. They sat cross-legged on the carpet of pine needles a few paces away from the car. The Chinese man unbuttoned his suit coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Cono declined his offer of a smoke, and the man lit a Dunhill, dragging on it deeply.
“My friend,” he said in Mandarin, “you have dirt on your face.”
Cono wiped the specks of dirt left on his lips by the chestnut husk he had caught in his mouth. “The measure of a true friend …”
“… is whether he will tell you when your face is dirty,” said the Chinese man. “Well, we are not friends. There is too much business in front of us. And your boss has given us such short notice—I was supposed to have this pleasure weeks from now. I wonder why the rush. No time for niceties before getting to the details.”
“The details. How many flowers are you offering?”
“The gift is six million. Dollars, I should say. And, for the oil contract when it’s done, ten times that, on top of the first six. Even though you look like a strong young man, you will have a hard time carrying the flowers through the park, especially with that wound on your shoulder.” The man held the cigarette to his mouth but did not inhale. He was waiting for Cono to speak.
“And that is your final number?” Cono stroked his cheek with a pine needle and held it to his nose to enjoy the scent.
“Yes, but the gift comes in halves. Half now and—there is a little bump in the road.”
“A bump?”
“They have a Chinese girl who could make everything slightly dirty, like your face. Just a whore who knows too much and needs to be returned to her homeland, where she belongs, where she will be safe. The other half of the gift, three million, comes when we have her.” The Chinese man settled his hands on his knees and looked at Cono.
“Sounds like a high-priced whore. You’ve lost your business sense for a pretty face. She must be quite appealing.”
“I’ve never seen her. Those are just my orders.” He sighed. “Otherwise you would be right—there are many more just like her, at bargain rates.”
Cono was twirling the pine needle in his mouth. “I’ll convey the news, with your wishes for the whore’s safety.”
The Chinese man slapped Cono’s knee and stood up. He was tall for a Chinese, tall like Cono’s father had been, but well built, with real shoulders, not just suit-coat padding.
“You don’t look very Chinese,” the man said, staring down at Cono. “But you speak Mandarin like a native. How is that?” He snapped his cigarette butt into the pine mulch.
“I watch a lot of China Central TV.”
“I never watch TV. Especially not something as dull as CCTV. It leaves too little room for thinking. And doing.” The man’s suit pants were barely creased from the sitting. He paused before walking to the car. “It seems strange they would trust a, shall we say, ragtag foreigner like you with this small fortune and not a Kazak.”
“Yes, it is a small fortune. As for Kazaks, even they tell me it’s a country where nothing’s nailed down. Maybe a neutral party was needed.”
“Is there such a thing as neutral?”
“Then, shall we say, a buffer.” Cono’s voice was only slightly mocking.
“Good thinking. That’s why we want the girl. To get our buffer back.” The Chinese man stepped to the trunk and opened it. “It’s in four cases. Four more are waiting.” Cono reached for one case and the Chinese man grabbed another. They dropped them in the shade where they had been sitting, followed by the other two.
The man in the suit put his hand on the door handle and paused. “By the way, did you like my joke about the Dalai Lama?”
“I’ve heard it before. Next time you tell it, make it Kazakhstan instead of Tibet. But yes, I did laugh.”
The man forced a smile.
“Tell me,” said Cono, “how do your people trust a well-dressed man like you with this very small fortune?”
“We have so many checks and balances. It makes the system work. Not like here in this country. Maybe they could use our help.”
“It seems they’re already getting some help from you.” Cono tore a sprig from the overhanging branch and stroked it with his fingers. “Although it is quite modest.”
“The world, even this empty piece of it, is full of competition from people wanting to help. Are you saying our bid is unsatisfactory?”
“It’s not alligator hands. But for pumping rights it will get only a frog’s glance at a gnat while dragonflies are hovering. And as a bid for larger influence, the frog will only croak at you and swim away.”
The Chinese man turned his face to avoid the bright reflections from the windows of an apartment block at the far edge of the park. “You wear those sloppy clothes, and you are very, very impolite, but you see where the future lies.”
“Only one of several possible futures. It depends on who you back and whether you insult them with half-gifts.”
The Chinese man let out a long sigh. “A neutral party. We could use a neutral party like you.”
“Ah, but the competition …”
“Tell your boss—is that what he is?—that the bidding is not over yet, and that we have a strong interest in talking further with a man of vision, who can see the benefits of a closer relationship, both for his dear, ragged country and for himself.”
Cono twitched the pine sprig in a dismissive little wave goodbye, to acknowledge that he had heard. The man got into the car without looking again at Cono, and the Mercedes slowly backed away.
In a room high in the deteriorating apartment building that overlooked the park, Katerina Rulova kept her face at the tripod-mounted binocular scope as she spoke. “Yes, it’s him.”
“How do you spell his name?” asked the blond-bobbed woman seated next to her writing on a notepad. They spoke in English.
“Z-h-e-n-g L-u P-e-n-g. Pronounced Jung. Arrived seven months ago. Previous station was Urumqi, for four years, running the campaign against Uyghur separatists, the Muslims. Infiltrated the first Xinjiang uprising and ordered the retaliatory slaughter at the second one. Reportedly he had lots of opportunity there to make use of his interrogation training.”
“What else?” said the other woman.
“Yo
ur predecessor, Mr. Simmons, had a whole profile on Zheng, said he’s a useful pit bull that Beijing brings in for the dirty work. He came from a rich family, elite, all well educated. During the Cultural Revolution, when Zheng was a boy, they were sent to shovel dung, and worse. His parents were paraded like pigs on hands and knees, made to eat from a trough. An ex-colleague of his, a defector, said Zheng always carries a photo taken that day, of his parents eating slop. Then they were beaten to death. Zheng’s background was a drag on his career. And he had another black mark—he’s only half Chinese. Mother was from some place north, Korea or Mongolia. Not pure. He couldn’t advance in the party. So he became an eager tool for the government, trying to prove his worth to them, and to his China. Mr. Simmons told me …”
“Enough psychobabble. Why has Zheng been posted here?” The blonde, Clara Hodgkins, had herself arrived in Almaty only two months previously, from Delhi. Her accent was northern Midwest American.
“He’s probably here because of the oil, like most of us,” Katerina said.
“And who’s the other man?”
“I couldn’t really see him. He was beneath the trees the whole time.”
“You said they took cases out of the trunk.”
“Four cases.”
“And you didn’t see the other guy?”
“He kept his head down, almost like he knew someone might be watching.”
“Maybe he knew we picked up the phone call, at least part of it,” Clara said as she stood up to look through the scope.
“Or maybe he’s just smarter than average,” Katerina said.
“Well, I don’t see anything going on now.”
“He’s probably deep in the park by now. We could call someone to track him,” Katerina suggested lightly. “I have some local stringers.”
“Not enough time.” Clara sat down. “I’d have to spend an hour just clearing it. It’ll be dark soon. He’ll be gone, probably is already.”
Katerina looked into the scope and saw an old-model Toyota swing into the museum’s driveway. The trunk popped open when it came to a stop. Cono stepped out of the shade. He loaded all four cases in the trunk, then got in the front passenger seat. The Toyota reversed and was soon shrouded by trees and out of the scope’s view.
“What’s happening now?” Clara said, her pen clicking on the notepad.
“Nothing,” Katerina said. “It’s over.”
“With a little more lead time we could’ve hooked up a high-def camera and run an image analysis on the other man. Why don’t we have the equipment up here?” Clara stood and pressed her head against the window.
“I’m told we have several rooms like this around the city,” Katerina replied. “I guess the office doesn’t have enough equipment to go around.”
Clara sighed. “For an ugly town, the view’s not bad today,” she said. “Pretty clear.” She looked back into the room. “Tell me more about Mr. Zheng.” As her eyes adjusted to the relative darkness inside, Clara assessed with quick glances the well-cut aquamarine pantsuit that drew attention to the younger woman’s breasts, waist, and hips. Her shape reminded Clara of herself ten, fifteen years ago. But Clara had never worn those absurdly high heels.
“After Mr. Simmons briefed me, he told me to make the man’s acquaintance. It didn’t work the first time, but the second time he invited me for a drink.”
“And?”
“And we didn’t talk about his time in Xinjiang, of course.”
“Sheenyan?”
“The Chinese province where his last station was, where the Muslim uprisings happened.”
Clara groaned. “Here I am, learning Kazak for weeks, and we’re only talking Chinese. What did you find out from him?” The small golden cross dangling from a chain around her neck winked in the light as she spoke.
“He thinks Almaty is a beautiful city, with so much greenness, not at all like Xinjiang.”
“And?”
“And he said he represents China’s commercial interests in Kazakhstan. He was vague about how much time he would spend here—it would depend upon the progress of Chinese trading in the region.”
“Did he say anything about the Muslims in Kazakhstan? Is he here to deal with them, like his last assignment?” Clara was back in her seat, scribbling on her notepad.
“He didn’t mention that. Of course they’re mostly Muslims here in Kazakhstan, except for the Russians and Koreans. But their religion is more of a tradition, only as much as they could carry on their horses in the old days, they say.”
“What about those mullahs whining over the loudspeakers?”
“You hear more prayer calls around the city now than a few years ago, but not a lot more.” Katerina looked out the window, down to where she had seen Cono a few minutes earlier.
“Many churches here? The big one in the park looks more like a museum.”
“There are some others. The Russians still go to them, but the Russians are fewer now, and they’re poorer.”
“So the Christians are losing out. What else did Mr. Zheng say?” Clara’s pen was hard at work on her pad.
“He wanted to take me to a hotel room, but Mr. Simmons’s instructions didn’t include that, so I didn’t. Instead, Mr. Zheng talked about the superiority of the Chinese in all things, and how his nation would regain its past greatness and rightful position in the world. And we agreed to meet another time.”
“And?”
“He was very gracious. He even said, ‘Till our paths meet again’—his English was quite good.”
“And did Simmons give you different instructions sometimes?” Clara’s chin wrinkled as she pursed her lips.
“I’m sure he put everything in the reports,” Katerina said idly, gazing out the window.
The Toyota’s engine strained on a winding road that rose in the foothills beyond the southwest edge of the city. Cono told Timur about the encounter with the Chinese man, and how many flowers had been offered, but left out mention of the three million that rested on turning over Xiao Li. Timur listened intently to Cono’s recounting of the well-dressed Kitai’s wish to negotiate further with a man of vision.
The motor almost choked as the car mounted a final incline that ended at a gate of wide steel doors topped with razor wire. Timur yanked the parking brake and got out to unlock the chain securing the gate, then returned to the car and eased it forward to a truck landing in front of a high aluminum roll-up door. To the left, beyond the truck landing, the steps and grooves of a giant quarry pit were encased in shadows. Timur got out again and relocked the gate.
“It doesn’t make money anymore,” Timur said. “Rocks are too cheap. My old man was hoping to turn it into a tourist lookout like the one at Koktyube. But he’s too old, and I took it from him. The equipment still works. The machines make a hell of a noise, especially the grinders. It all makes for easy burials.”
Timur unlocked a sliding bar, hoisted the aluminum door high enough so he could squeeze underneath, then pulled hard on a thick chain to raise the door higher.
With the car inside the long, vaulted building, they lifted the four cases into an interior metal shed that Timur had opened. It was full of jackhammers and wire on wooden spools. Drill-bits as tall as a man were stacked against one wall.
When the shed was shut Cono said, “It’s not a very princely palace to house your state treasure. Where are the porters?”
Timur brushed the dust from his hands. There was dust everywhere, even in the still air. “I have thousands of porters working for me, the whole National Security Bureau, but none of them has been to this place. When there’s a big job to be done, you have to do it yourself. Every sheik knows that, even if it means driving a beat-up Toyota.”
Timur flipped open a metal lid on the wall of the shed. Cono saw the digital touch panel just before Timur’s body blocked it from view; Timur punched in a code, each tap making a different tone, which Cono memorized. The lid twanged shut, emitting a small cloud of dust.
“If any
one touches the treasure, they’ll be surprised,” Timur said.
“Looks pretty low-tech. It blows up and the flowers burn with it.” Cono kissed his fingers to signal a goodbye. “But then I guess there’s no better technology around here.”
“I can’t show you all the state secrets, can I, brother? There’s a lot more.”
“More places to blow up money?”
“Cono, I wonder if you have confidence in me. The place is full of tunnels from when there was a little silver down below, before the old man had to blast the big pit in search of rocks to make gravel for his Soviet bosses. The good thing was, they ignored the mine after that. But I didn’t. I’ll be back later without you.”
“I guess you played here as a kid. Underground.”
“I know the tunnels better than I know my family.” Timur’s gaze flickered momentarily toward the back of the building, where a horizontal double door was fixed to the crusty floor, flanked by a disused forklift and a rusting iron frame with flywheels. There was a metal box mounted to the side of the horizontal doors, like the one on the shed. The glance had lasted less than a second, but Cono took in all that Timur’s eyes exposed.
“And when the money is downstairs,” Cono said, “and everything goes poof above, no harm done.”
“The jihadis aren’t the only ones who can rig explosives. You see through too much, Cono. That’s why I prefer to keep you as a friend.”
“As a friend,” Cono said, “as a friend.” He waited a second, looking at Timur, before he raised his right hand and rubbed his ear.
The Toyota’s engine screamed as Timur downshifted to check their speed on the swerving road descending toward the city.
“How’s the girl?” Cono asked.
“Not eating much, but at least she hasn’t scratched the eyes out of any more of my toads. They tell me she tries to come on to them, but I’m sure they overestimate themselves.”
“Most men do. It’s the only way they can reproduce. It’s why we’re all here, us humans. Overestimation.”
Performance Anomalies Page 8
