“Maybe?” Puo stares at me.
“Yes. But it was your stupid warning that got it all started. Made me second-guess what I was about to do—”
“And there was nothing else that led up to that besides possibly seeing him earlier this morning?” he asks annoyingly.
I stick my tongue out at him and choose not to tell him about the memory flashbacks of the Skyline Hotel basement and receiving the digi-scrambler—he does know me too well. “What was with the warning?” I ask in a more normal voice.
Puo exhales. “I’m sorry it freaked you out, but you looked shaken. I haven’t seen you like that since that … that morning—”
That morning.
The morning Winn left. The morning I woke up and he was just gone.
“—We’re getting in deeper here,” Puo continues, “and I didn’t want—”
“For me to do something stupid,” I finish for him. Getting in deeper. Yeah, that’s a polite way to put it.
Puo nods, and watches me for several seconds before finally saying, “I’m sorry it got to you, and contributed to your freak out—”
Not contributed. Caused. But I let it go.
Puo straightens up and raises his hand like he’s in the boy scouts. “—I hereby retract all warnings and any inhibitions it may have unduly placed on you.” Puo waves his hands and flutters his fingers over me in a mocking fashion. “Go forth, and do your crazy, seat-of-the-pants, unbelievably-lucky-there’s-no-way-that-should-work lunacy.”
“Thanks,” I say. It’s stupid, but it does make me feel better.
“But I’m not going to stop worrying about you,” Puo adds seriously. “It doesn’t work that way.”
I give Puo a small smile.
Before the moment gets even more awkward, Puo says, “So what was with the line you fed Liáng about Shǐ and Chang’ans.”
Heh. “Some of that seat-of-the-pants lunacy. Nothing I said was untrue—” Not that lying would bother me. But I think it’s an extra stroke of genius here. “—But I think I can get Liáng to reveal who he’s working for.”
“Right,” Puo says, sticking out his lower lip and nodding lightly. “Except, now, he’s outside, unsupervised and possibly rattled with a perfectly plausible excuse to contact Shǐ.”
Ah, shit. “Go get him,” I tell Puo.
As Puo clomps up the steps to retrieve Liáng, I ask, “What were you two looking at when I came in?”
Puo says dryly over his shoulder, “More good news.”
Great.
The basement is chilly. The cold air pools down at the bottom of the house. The watery hole down to the subway tube is dark, its surface flat. The hole feels sinister, like it’s sucking up all the light in the room and something is about to crawl out of it.
Puo leads a frustrated-looking Liáng back down into the basement.
Seeing Liáng’s frustrated face riles me right back up. “When were you going to tell us?” I demand of Liáng before he’s halfway down the steps.
“Tell you what?” he snarks, gearing up for a fight.
“You know damn well what,” I say. “I followed Shǐ—”
“Followed nem where?” Liáng shoots right back.
I can tell by the set of his jaws, and the growing fire in his eyes that he’s not going to give anything away. The time we left him to stew let him collect himself.
Damn it.
I may not be able to get who Shǐ and Liáng are really working for, but I need to get something for tipping my hand that I followed Shǐ. “On nir date in Northampton.”
“Date? What date?” Liáng asks, his tone way too interested.
Well, that’s one mystery solved. Liáng likes Shǐ. Not a fair exchange for exposing my surveillance of Shǐ. But something.
Except seeing Liáng try to control his disappointment and his over-interest in the fictitious date makes me feel bad for lying—Why in the world do I feel bad?
And why am I disappointed? The flirting was fun the other night, but nothing more than that. Was it?
I can’t back off the lie now, but suddenly neither do I want to pile it on. So instead, I sidestep the question and tell Liáng, “Ne was being followed by two British agents on the train from Hampstead to Northampton.”
“Who did they work for?” Liáng asks, followed quickly by, “Was that what you meant by date?”
“That,” I say, referring to the first question and ignoring the second, “was somehing I thought you might know.”
“No,” Liáng says. “I know nothing of who might be following nem.”
We all stare at each other as we try and figure out a way forward. The computer system hums in the background. The single white fluorescent bulb lighting the basement paints everything in a bright garish light. The dirt pile from excavating the hole to the flooded underground tube squats silently in the corner.
Finally Liáng says, “I need to talk to nem.”
“No!” Puo and I say at the same time.
I pick up the explanation, “If Shǐ is under surveillance, nir comm-links and other electronic communications are likely bugged.”
“You’ll risk exposing us,” Puo says.
“If you haven’t already,” I add.
Liáng gives Puo a concerned look. Then then Puo looks at me and says, “There’s something you should know.”
Puo brings up an email attached to our post office box. We have a package waiting for us to be picked up—a package we didn’t order.
“Wait,” Liáng says. “If you’re concerned about Shǐ being tracked—”
Puo shakes his head no. “This is Jay Brewer’s original email account. I’m signing in, just like he would. I even spoofed our IP-address to be exactly his. Digitally, I am Jay Chadwick Brewer.”
“Look at the sender,” Puo points out to me.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. The address is the same one that delivered the SFID chip for our rogue squiddie.
The authorities are onto us. But which ones? The Muppies? The cops on the train? Were the cops on the train Muppies? And do they have the rogue squiddie’s SFID now?
Damn it. This is Puo’s fault. If I had made that lift, we would know who we were dealing with.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WHO WERE the cops on the train?
That’s the question that needs to be answered before we do something like stroll into the Muppies’ headquarters and upload Cleaners’ code into their central hub. I’m sure if the Muppies are tailing us, they’d love for us to bebop into a tightly controlled government building—it’d be like checking ourselves into prison.
Puo spent the last twelve hours scouring his system and the internet for signs we’re under surveillance. He didn’t find anything, but he was quick to say all that could mean is that they were very, very good.
Whoever they are, they obviously got to the SFID chipmaker. From which it isn’t too far a leap to guess they know about the rogue squiddie, and may have even connected it to the one that went missing, and then the one that showed up at the British Museum. And then there’s the whole dropping the stone through the Great Court ceiling. Which in retrospect, may not have been such a hot idea—but I am not reckless.
They know we’re coming.
But do they know who we are? Do they know our plan to upload code? Do they know our objective? Are they searching the underwater tubes for a hole punched up to a creepy, old basement?
We need answers to these questions before we can safely proceed.
And since we can’t contact Shǐ electronically, and Liáng might have already exposed himself at the Heath, that leaves me to drop in unannounced on Shǐ to figure out what ne knows and alert nem.
Which is why the next afternoon I’m getting ready for a night out at the opera in my upstairs master bathroom.
I shimmy into my tight, skinny jeans, made tighter by the black yoga pants I have on underneath. I slip a loose, white undershirt over my matching black body suit and a marigold sweater that hangs loo
se around my neck, with some holes, over that.
Liáng wasn’t sure where Shǐ was set up, but reluctantly shared how he got in touch with nem. Puo then was able to anonymously arrange for two tickets to be sent to nem to the exclusive Nomad Opera House performance in Birmingham tonight—an opera house that sets up for only one performance in abandoned buildings and factories and doesn’t advertise.
I look at myself in the mirror and pull my straight black shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. The ushers would probably have a fit if I tried to walk into their ultra-exclusive, super fancy-schmancy opera night like this in jeans and a marigold knit sweater—so it’s a good thing I’m not actually planning on being seen.
With all the layers, it’s starting to get warm in the bathroom. I’ve started applying some light makeup when there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I call out, not taking my eyes off my puckered lips as I apply some plain lip balm—it’s cold out there.
Puo steps into the bathroom and closes the door behind him. His face is a mask of no-nonsense seriousness. “Liáng’s downstairs waiting for me to go out and get dinner—”
We still haven’t moved past being able to get food alone.
Puo continues in the same breath, “—so this needs to be quick. I think they’re working for—”
“Puo!” Liáng calls out from the hallway upstairs. He must have followed Puo up. “You ready?”
Puo grimaces and calls out over his shoulder, “Yeah.” Puo gives me a pointed look and then turns around leaves.
I follow quickly into the hallway. “Puo,” I say, “maintain comms tonight on the ingress and egress.”
“You got it,” Puo says.
“I thought we needed radio silence,” Liáng asks Puo as they head back downstairs.
Puo explains it’s a safety measure on the way to the job and the way back to make sure things go smoothly.
The real reason is so Puo and I can continue this conversation before I talk with Shǐ.
Who does Puo think are they working for? And why did he look so worried?
* * *
I managed to snag a seat on the 16:50 bullet train north to Birmingham, full of commuters, most of whom are distracted on their pocket tablets or staring out the window after a long day of work.
I amuse myself on the ride by planning out how many lifts I could do before we arrive, and what kind of profit that would produce. But ultimately I restrain myself, as that would prove a needless risk—I’ll have to make sure I mention my restraint to Puo, particularly when there are so many people who are just asking for it by not paying attention and leaving their stuff in open view.
I often wonder if some people really do want their stuff to get stolen so they can replace it with new merchandise or have insurance cash them out or just to have a story to tell. People are funny creatures. I swear there was one woman once—
“Majestic Lion here,” Puo says over my comm-link, inventing his own code name. “Mule, you receive?”
“Nice try, Toad,” I say to Puo for calling me Mule—softly, to avoid attracting attention from the other passengers. Toad has been the code name we’ve used for Puo in the past that he hates.
“Majestic Lion—”
“Toady—”
“Majestic Lion—!”
“How about we split the difference,” I say, “Majestic Toady.”
“Only,” Puo says, “if you go by Malignant Mule.”
“Try again,” I tell him.
“Malevolent Marsupial? Megalomaniacal Meerkat? Meddling Moose—?”
“You’re going by Annoying Ant,” I say.
“Oh yeah, Annoying Ant, that’s real clever,” Puo says. “You know, you got to put some thought into these things.”
I grind my teeth at Puo. “Can we can get back to more important things?”
“Mmm,” Puo says, “How about this. You’re still Queen Bee, and I’m Chameleon? Still a reptile, but one of my choosing.”
“Fine.” Queen Bee is what I’ve gone by in the past.
“Okay, good. Chameleons eat bees, ya know. So I win—”
Freaking Puo!
Puo continues, “—Plump Panda is here with me—”
I hear Liáng object to this moniker, probably the plump part. There isn’t an ounce of fat on the well-defined muscles of Plump Panda.
“—And now children,” Puo says, “it’s time for a story.”
I snort. Puo’s stories are always … interesting. Always inventive, never true, and rarely on point. I think they only ever make sense to him. “Oh, good,” I say. “I didn’t think I was going to get to hear one this trip.”
I hear Puo explaining to Liáng that the point of the story is to spend the time in conversation to know that both parties are safe and to shush during story time.
Puo turns his attention back to me. “In sixth century south China, pangolins were domesticated and prized for their delicious flesh that tasted like deep-fried butter—”
“What’s a pangolin?” I interrupt to ask.
Puo answers, “A cross between an anteater and an armadillo roughly the size of a foot. Now—”
“Plump Panda,” I ask, “is any of this true?”
“Of course it’s true!” Puo roars. “I’m no liar. And Plump Panda can’t hear you.”
I can hear Liáng in the background who heard me perfectly well, “Pangolins are in south China, but do not taste like deep-fried butter—”
“Mutiny!” Puo mocks, “Treachery! Lying thieves! I am telling this story. So quiet now, close thy mouths and open thy ears. For what you may hear may change the course of history.”
“Well, that’s not grandiose at all,” I say.
“Shush!” Puo says.
I keep quiet for a second, but when Puo doesn’t say anything I add, “All right.”
“Shush!” Puo admonishes again. When it’s quiet for another second, Puo continues, “Now back to sixth century south China. The pangolin was prized for its delicious, buttery meat, and so an enterprising farmer decided to round them up for domestication, forming the first-ever pangolin farm. At first everything went well, but less than a year in, the farmer noticed that the pangolins weren’t breeding.”
The scenery outside rushes by in a near blur as the train reaches maximum speed.
“Suddenly,” Puo continues, “the farmer’s burgeoning business wasn’t going to make it more than a year or two. Now he tried many things. Dim lighting with soft music—didn’t work. He even tried giving them alcohol through fermented berries—didn’t work, although that is how the popular pangolin alcohol shooter out of the snout was invented. Now, strangely enough, what did work was using charcoal to draw enlarged genitals on the pangolins themselves—”
“Eww,” I can’t stop myself from saying. “Gross.”
“It’s true,” Puo swears. “You can’t make this stuff up—”
Pretty sure you can.
Puo continues, clearly enjoying himself. “—But that’s not even the strangest part—”
This should be good.
“—The wife of the farmer thought it was disgusting too. So she sewed little outfits for them to cover up the fake genitals. And damned if the little buggers didn’t breed even better. They liked their little outfits and role playing—”
“Role playing?” I can’t help myself.
“Oh, yeah,” Puo says. “Kinky little creatures. Apparently, the hard-working baker was the biggest hit. They loved the little chef hat—”
Freaking Puo.
“—Anyway, a local government official got wind of this and came to visit one of the breeding sessions.”
I hear Liáng in the background make a rookie mistake and ask about ‘breeding sessions.’
“Oh, yeah,” Puo says. “The breeding sessions were the best Friday night activity around. People came from miles around for the Randy Rodeos—”
I have to cover my mouth with my hand to keep from laughing out loud and drawing attention to m
yself, as well as not to encourage Puo.
“Well,” Puo continues, “the government official witnessed this grand event. And by that time, there were vendors hawking hot food, and the precursors of rock music would play in the smoky arena—”
“Camille—” I say, riffing off Puo’s code word of Chameleon. “—stay on point.”
“Chameleon! It’s Chameleon—”
“Stay. On. Point.”
Puo grumbles, and picks up his narrative, “So when the government official visited the smoky arena with the smell of fire and sizzling meat, they say that he bought a stuffed animal souvenir, and a candle lit in his brain. And thus, entertainment taxes were born.”
The pleasant female train voice announces that we’re three minutes from our destination.
“What’s your point, Camille?” I ask.
“It’s Chameleon, and my point is that whenever the government gets involved, it all goes to poo.”
That isn’t so much a message but a given fact.
And shit.
Message received loud and clear. Puo thinks Shǐ works for the Chinese Government. But what about Liáng? Agent or blackmailed pawn?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
GETTING MIXED up with an official government on a job is a supremely dumbass, dangerous thing to do. It’s almost a guarantee they’re going to try to screw you.
They say there’s no honor among thieves, but if that’s true then governments are lying, scheming, backstabbing assholes that make thieves look good by comparison. They either try to blackmail you on the back end with exposure and jail time (which is usually done to try and get out of having to pay you, and what they may be doing with Liáng) or they set you up as the fall guy, so another government can have someone to publicly arrest and blame.
Either scenario would be ideal from Shǐ’s point of view in our current situation. Which brings me back to my original assessment: shit.
My impending meeting with Shǐ just took on a whole new dimension.
The Nomad Opera House is setting up in an abandoned old textile factory, a few blocks south of the main train station in downtown Birmingham—close enough that I choose to walk, enjoying the cool night.
The Elgin Deceptions (Sunken City Capers Book 2) Page 14
