Girl Goes To Wudang (An Emily Kane Adventure Book 7)

by Jacques Antoine

  Slightly at a loss for what to do once she’d reached the mouth of the horseshoe, she stood nearly directly under the chandelier, and wished Margie hadn’t been left behind. Cameras flashed all around, and Emily couldn’t help but marvel at the subtle ironies of fate. A few short years ago, Chinese agents would have given anything for a photograph or any other sort of likeness of her face, anything to help get her into their power… and now, she stood in the heart of the regime that had sought her so avidly, allowing them to have their fill of photographs. Did they savor the moment as much as she balked at it?

  Emily remembered Margie’s warning – “Don’t bow, the Chinese don’t do that.” She’d bristled at hearing those words. “Are you saying this because I’m Japanese,” she’d asked. “No,” Margie said, with a note of confusion in her voice. “Well, maybe… it’s just that people often bow when they’re confused, and it’s not the image the ambassador wants us to project.”

  Just then, two men rose from the seats of honor and gestured to her – POTUS and President Liang – bidding her to approach and be recognized. At the same moment, a man’s voice announced her – in case anyone present didn’t already know who she was – “Tenno Michiko, Captain, United States Marine Corps.” The slight inflection of her name in the northern accent was oddly reassuring. At least, something made sense in this already long and bizarre evening.

  “Your courageous actions have meant much to us, Capt Tenno, and we are honored by your presence.” President Liang grasped her hand, and grinned broadly for the rest of the people in the hall, and Emily caught herself about to bow, then nodded with a nervous glance and forced a smile.

  “Nali, nali, nin guo jiang le,” she said. “I am not worth such praise. Please forgive this bucai zai xia, but the honor is mine, Liang zhuxi.” In the background, Emily heard the voice of the American president’s interpreter, who stumbled over her use of an archaic, self deprecating phrase, bucai zai xia, “this lowly untalented one,” rather than a military title to refer to herself, and noticed Liang’s smile of appreciation.

  A hovering functionary handed Liang an ornate, white silk box. He lifted the lid and paused to contemplate the medal within.

  “There has been some discussion among my comrades as to the proper way to recognize your service to the Chinese people. Some thought the Order of Friendship was appropriate, since that is what we ordinarily use for foreign dignitaries. But the Congress did not intend it to recognize acts of martial valor such as yours.”

  The familiar protest burned in her chest again: why should anyone honor such an angel of death? But Tarot’s face came to her, and she felt again the warmth of Birdie’s embrace, and Angie’s. They were right, she owed the dead this recognition, and she stood a bit taller – perhaps as tall as one can in an evening gown – and listened with a quieter heart to President Liang’s speech.

  “I initially proposed enrolling you in the Order of the Republic, which is intended to recognize martial valor, but was not meant to be awarded to any foreign person. Perhaps you can imagine my perplexity, wishing to honor you for the service you rendered at great risk to your life, and the wounds you suffered on our behalf, and finding myself without resource. Reflecting on this situation, and understanding that, but for your timely efforts, General Diao’s insurrection might well have succeeded, and the People’s Republic would no longer exist as a free nation, I recommended to the Central Committee that we revive an older award that has fallen into disuse. With their consent and approbation, then, I hereby present you with the Order of the Heroic Exemplar, First Class.”

  President Liang unpinned the medal from the velvet lining of the box, held it up for the cameras, and turned to Emily. The smile he’d worn for the whole of his long speech faltered for an instant when he considered the shape of her gown, as there seemed to be no seemly way to pin the medal on her. He glanced at the American president, who remained stone-faced, trying not to betray any knowledge of whatever might be troubling him.

  With a nod and a smile of recognition to his counterpart, Liang held the medal up once more, and the cameras flashed again. He placed it back in its box, and handed it to Emily with a significant bow. “With this award,” he said, “I commend your actions to my people as an example of heroic conduct worth emulating.”

  Emily bowed much lower than he did, as low as she thought seemly in an evening gown, and accepted the box, modifying the formula for humility she’d used earlier. “This zai xia is humbled by the attention you have granted her, Liang zhuxi. She will strive to be worthy of it.”

  Had she done enough to appease him for being out-played by her superiors? Perhaps there was no way to know, but she took it as a positive sign that he asked her to sit between them – arguably the two most powerful men in the world – and talk for a moment. Some awkward shifting of seats along one side of the horseshoe was required, and cameras flashed as he asked about family, living arrangements, her experience of Beijing, all the rather dull information typically exchanged between artificial acquaintances. She tried not to smile at the effort of the interpreter to translate this conversational fluff for the American president. Should she ask Liang anything, just to be polite? Or would that be inappropriate? If only Margie were here to advise her right about now.

  He gestured toward the more distant seats. “General Yang informed me of the marvelous demonstration you gave our cadets the other day at the NDU. He thinks you must have studied Chinese wu shu for many years.”

  “The general is too kind. I have only scratched the surface of your traditions, and am eager to learn more.”

  “You are indeed a scholar, Tianhuang Daozi, always looking to learn more.”

  Emily pricked up her ears at this remark. Formal and polite, it was indeed how one might read the hanzi of her name, just as Mrs. Gao had done the other day, but all official documents she knew of within China only showed her name in English letters – all except the lease she signed for Mrs. Gao. How much did he know about where she lived, and why had he taken the trouble to find it out? Liang leaned back to consider her face with care, and Emily fought the urge to turn away.

  From the other side, a deeper voice spoke in the flat monotone characteristic of American English, and especially noticeable to someone who’s just been concentrating on speaking in the pitches of Mandarin. “It is a bracing experience, I must admit it, Capt Tenno, to listen to an American officer conversing fluently with a foreign head of state, and not to be able to understand without the aid of an interpreter.” The President of the United States smiled amiably at her, and she wondered how to respond.

  “I’ve had similar experiences all too often,” President Liang said, now speaking passable English. “Two semesters at the University of Texas,” he offered as an explanation after a moment of bemused puzzlement.

  “I studied French for two years at Harvard, and can barely order a meal,” the American president said. “I am honored and impressed to be in such learned company.”

  A signal from a functionary warned both men that it was time to move the agenda along, and a protocol officer gestured to Emily. She stood and bowed again to each president.

  “This has been an honor, Liang zhuxi…” Emily said, before Liang interrupted her.

  “Please do not call yourself zai xia again, Capt Tenno. Your humility becomes you, but virtues and actions deserve recognition, and yours are formidable. I will remember this meeting.” As she moved away in the direction indicated by white-gloved hands, Liang called out to one more recipient of an honor. “Now we should recognize one of our own, an official in our intelligence service whose actions were instrumental in protecting the People’s Republic.”

  Just as she passed through the doors, something registered in the corner of Emily’s eye, and she turned to see a large man in a dark gray suit, and Liang pronounced the name, “Jiang Xi.” Best not to react, Emily thought. Don’t betray any special intimacy with Li Li’s uncle. A Secret Service agent showed her the way to the State Banqu
et Hall, and Margie’s table.

  12

  A Side Door

  The State Banquet Hall looked as if it had been intended to accommodate an army, though how one might serve them a meal without it going cold was difficult to see. Brightly lit from dozens of fixtures in the twenty foot high ceiling, and decorated in white and gold, everyone knew dinner wouldn’t be served until the lights dimmed, and the guests of honor had arrived.

  “They say five thousand guests can be served in a single sitting.” Margie hovered around her new charge, who leaned against a wall next to a large fern like a shy girl at a school dance.

  “It doesn’t look like there’s tables for more than a few hundred tonight,” Emily said.

  A musical ensemble occupied risers at the far end of the hall, and had been regaling them with mood music for the last several minutes. Between the tables and the musicians, an expanse of open floor beckoned, ample room for dancing on the highly polished parquet tiles.

  “Do I really have to ask?” Margie arched an eyebrow and gave her an inquisitorial look, as if Emily should know exactly what she wanted.

  “It went okay, I guess...”

  “… and?” When Emily didn’t respond right away, Margie huffed at her. “It’s like pulling teeth with you, girl.”

  “Oh… right. He gave me this.” Emily opened her clutch, which was barely large enough to hold a tiny wallet, a key, her phone, and an oblong silk box. She flipped it open and held it out.

  “Holy moly,” Margie said, once she’d had a chance to examine it. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “I dunno. What do you think it is?”

  “… only the most prestigious honor they give anyone… and I didn’t realize they even gave this one to foreigners. We should show it to Jeannie, see what she thinks. She knows all about this stuff. But I think this is the one they give astronauts and test pilots, you know… not the usual trinket they give party members just for time served. What exactly did you do to earn something like this?”

  Emily wondered if she could get away with nudging her to go find Jeannie without her. In the past, these sorts of conversation had oppressed her. She even considered giving Margie a recitation of her glorious deeds – “I slit the throats, or snapped the necks, of a few dozen men, before plunging a blade through the heart of …” – her cheeks grew warm and she thought better of indulging this reflection. Sunnier paths of thought were to be her new occupation, and she might as well begin forming the habit this very evening.

  Scanning the hall, where dozens of well-dressed people milled about in groups small and large, hovering near the tables they’d been assigned to, but not wishing to sit until the VIPs had arrived, Emily noticed two very stylish young men enter, one laughing loudly, while the other chattered at him. Everything about the taller one – his haircut, clothing, his very gait – suggested how unimpressed he was by his surroundings. Black tuxedo, no cummerbund or stripes, white tie, jacket slung over one shoulder, only Liang and the American president had worn tuxes. All the other men were probably wary of adopting aristocratic attire at a public event and opted for less flashy suits. His friend wore black on black, a silk shirt and crimson tie providing the only contrast in his ensemble.

  Emily followed their progress from across the hall, and each step the tall one took seemed to her to respond to the rhythm of music she couldn’t hear. The jacket he held with one finger was a not-so-gentle mockery of all the ambitious types in stiff suits and gowns, who tried not to notice him.

  “There’s someone who knows how to make an entrance,” she said.

  “That’s Wu Wei’s son, you know, the industrialist.”

  “He makes a big show of not caring about anything.”

  “Why should he? He’s rich.”

  A moment later, the main entourage of the two presidents entered the room, to the relief of the two hundred or so people who’d been unable to get comfortable until that moment. A round of applause greeted them, and the music shifted to something more stirring, a medley that seemed to have been concocted out of iconic American tunes, as if an homage to Aaron Copland’s Appalachian Spring had been intended, though with a recognizably Chinese flavor, and which gave way after several minutes to Nie Er’s March of the Volunteers. The crowd applauded politely once again, and waited for the signal to sit.

  Food appeared almost instantly, as an army of red-jacketed servers buzzed among the tables. At Emily’s table, a first course of fried fish and shellfish was presented, apparently out of sequence, though no one seemed to notice, then soup, and finally rice dishes and steamed dumplings and savory cakes. Plates piled high with fried and steamed vegetables – bok choy, jie lan, sweet choy sum, and spinach, or xian cai – circulated all the while on carts with warming trays. Alcoholic drinks and various types of tea materialized at the slightest gesture, and bottles of distilled sorghum liquor, called maotai, or baijiu were distributed to each table along with trays of various melon pieces.

  Conversation with anyone more than one or two seats away was made difficult by the height of the ceiling and the size of the tables, which were mostly circular and seated twenty people or more. In the center of each one a small speaker and microphone were provided for toasting, and Emily turned her head to look when she heard the electronic echoes of toasts from other parts of the room. Mostly polite, the toasts were mainly personal, and didn’t assume that people seated at a particular table knew everyone else. But soon enough they bred a conviviality that became infectious, and people began to use the microphone to introduce themselves to their tablemates.

  An elderly Chinese gentleman made a safe toast to President Liang, and another toasted his American counterpart. A younger woman raised a glass to Margie and Emily, “our American friends,” and Margie took the microphone and introduced Emily to the table as “my new friend and valiant officer, Captain Tenno Michiko.” The Chinese seated nearby clapped and laughed, perhaps not fully understanding Margie’s imperfect pronunciation of Mandarin.

  Emily stood and took up the microphone. “Allow me to toast a good friend, who saved my life yesterday.” She turned to indicate Margie with a grand gesture. “Without the valiant assistance of Ms. Cabot, I would never have found this gown, no matter how long I searched the shops of Guomao, Sanlitun and Chaoyang… and I would have been in sorry circumstances indeed, among so many handsome and well-dressed people. To Marjorie Cabot, a true hero.”

  The crowd clapped and laughed at this new level of conviviality and more lighthearted toasts began to bounce around the table, and the alcohol flowed more freely. Finally, with the orchestra beginning to retune their instruments, President Liang stood to offer a final toast, after a few dignified remarks on China-US relations, and the room fell silent. He honored the American president, and raised a glass to his vision of international cooperation, and then read a list of names from a card.

  “I would like to draw everyone’s attention to the following men and women, whom we have had the pleasure of meeting earlier this evening and presenting with the highest honors available to the people of China. Please stand and be recognized.”

  He read off the names of several Chinese officers, who were present in uniform, and stood to be acknowledged. Then Jiang Xi’s name was read, and he stood at a nearby table and raised his hand in acknowledgment. Finally, President Liang read off her name: “Please join me in recognizing Captain Michiko Tenno of the United States Marine Corps, whose martial valor was instrumental in protecting our nation during the recent unpleasantness.”

  The words rang in her ears – “the recent unpleasantness” – the very ones she’d found so distasteful when Jepsen had used them the other day. She stood and… Jiang Xi had waved his hand when his name was called, but she didn’t feel comfortable following his example. With a glance at Margie, she dipped her head in Liang’s direction, which she meant as a sign of respect, but mainly hoped to avoid the inquisitorial gaze of so many strangers. At least, it felt inquisitorial in the midst of the stu
nned silence that had gripped the crowd – even the orchestra had gone quiet – until Liang clapped his hands, and the sound seemed almost to puncture a bubble, and soon others joined in, politely and nervously at first, and then with the enthusiasm that often follows on sudden surprises. The people around the table saluted her with raised glasses and she nodded again, and glanced at Margie for an indication that it was safe to sit down again.

  “And now, comrades and honored guests, I invite you all to join in the festivities, with an evening of western dancing.” Liang handed the microphone to an aide, and took his wife’s hand as the orchestra struck the opening chords of a Viennese waltz. After a moment, the American president and his wife joined them on the dance floor, and then other couples ventured out, some with trepidation, some with high spirits, and soon enough there were no longer any distinctions to be made, except perhaps in the level of skill. The two presidents sat after the first waltz, and observed from a table reserved for them at the side of the Banquet Hall… but the band played on.

  A hand nudged the back of Emily’s chair, and when she turned, she saw the dark eyes and sharp features of Wu Wei’s son. The chair to her left was vacant for the moment, and he took his chance and sat down.

  “I’ve been so curious to learn the identity of Liang zhuxi’s guest of honor. Imagine my surprise to discover an American soldier.”

  Emily turned, wide-eyed, to Margie, looking for advice, or just permission to respond to so exotic and self-assured a person, but all she found was equal astonishment in her friend’s face.

  “I am sorry to disappoint.”