by Barry Lancet
“You don’t sound to me like you can speak Chinese,” I said.
“I got the hearing. You think you can do better?’
“No.”
“That’s right, you won’t be doin’ better. Ev-er.”
He slathered a truckload of scorn onto the back of his words, but I let it slide. “You called me out here for a reason. Let’s hear it.”
With a disdainful flourish he pulled out an envelope and waved it at me. It was a brother to the one at the church.
I stuck out my hand and he said, “Cost you two C-notes. Guy said you’d cough it up.”
I scoffed at him. “No, he didn’t. Everything these guys do is prepaid. You got your fee up front.”
“Pay with green or pay with blood.”
The fist in his right pocket began to move. The wrist appeared. Then whatever he had bunched in his hand snagged on the corners of the pocket. His hand went into contortions as he tried to wrench the load free.
I caught a glimpse of metal, which is all I needed. I moved in from the opposite side, slamming the heel of my right hand into his chin. His head snapped back. His fist popped loose with a folding knife in tow. I swatted the arm away and the sheathed blade flew from his grasp and skittered away across the pavement with the staccato tap-tap-tap of a dancer on speed.
His backup came off the hood of the Lincoln fast, a pair of switchblades springing open. Shiny steel glittered in the orange light of the Danko signage.
The lead gangbanger rubbed his jaw. “Now you gotta pay. A pair of Cs or we puncture you bad, man.”
“Not going to happen,” I said.
“Then you’re mine, Brodie. There’s three of us.”
From the shadows of the doorway behind me came a soft two-note whistle that said, Over here, boys. Renna had his gun pointed at the young thug’s chest.
“You got a cop backing you? Man, what kind of shit is that?”
“At the moment the best kind.”
He shrugged, waved off his partners, and held up the envelope again. “Got to be worth a C-note, man.”
“You don’t want to deliver it,” I said, “keep it.”
Down the street, the helmeted sentry maintained his surveillance.
“This sucks.”
He thrust the envelope at me, shoved his hands in his pockets, and strutted away, his shoulders rocking from side to side. The trio slid into the old Lincoln and peeled away from the curb with attitude.
“Glad you didn’t leave the piece in the car this time,” I said.
“Wasn’t going to happen with the invite we got.”
This time there was a note. I extracted it from its envelope, read it, and said to Renna, “You may be the one with the firepower but you’ve been snubbed anyway.”
Extending his thick paw, Renna stepped from the shadows. I passed the message over.
Mr. Pollo on Mission and 24th.
7:45 sitting.
Come alone, without your friend. Don’t be late.
Renna said, “A restaurant called Mr. Chicken? What the hell is that?”
“A good restaurant in a sometimes dicey part of town.”
I glanced at the time. We had forty-five minutes yet. I rang Karen Stokely, a freelance photojournalist I knew. She answered on the first ring and I said, “You in town?”
“Yes.”
“You anywhere near Mission and Twenty-Fourth?”
“Fifteen minutes by car.”
“Get over to a place called Mr. Pollo now. It’s a restaurant. Snap a photo of everyone going in and out as soon as you arrive.”
“Until . . .”
“Eight ought to do it. Be discreet.”
“How discreet?”
“The guy doesn’t like to be photographed.”
“A celeb?”
“A Chinese spy.”
“They still have those? Thought everything was cybertheft with them.”
“Far from it,” I said. “And this guy will bite, Karen. Don’t let him see you. He may have a watcher or two hanging around outside. Can you handle that?”
“Been doing it for years. I’ll want hazard pay.”
“You get what I need, I’ll add something on top of the usual fee.”
“Is there a story in this?”
“Could be down the line. But the main thing is to stay out of sight. These are not nice people.”
“Have you seen the men I’ve been dating lately?”
We signed off and I strolled back into Gary Danko with my wallet out.
The hostess held out her palms. “Mr. Zhou has already taken care of the bill and the tip.”
“Very generous of him.”
“He usually is.”
“You mind a question?”
“Of course not.”
“When did Zhou make the reservation?”
“That would be last night, when he dined with us.”
“Originally for one?”
She looked surprised. “Yes, until it became a plus-one a few hours ago.”
Cautious, calculating, and five steps ahead.
Trust no one and no thing.
China Rules.
CHAPTER 19
THE MISSION DISTRICT
WE drove to Mr. Pollo in an unmarked SFPD car.
“Cop who knows the beat told me there’s one way in and out,” Renna said, having just finished up a phone conversation with a buddy back at HQ. “Seen the layout. Deliveries come in through the front door. Doesn’t sound like a place your snake would go.”
“Your friend’s wrong.”
“Oh?”
“Zhou would never let himself be boxed in, so there’s a back way out of some kind. Maybe just a window, I don’t know.”
Renna chewed on the comment. “My guy’s never seen one but he did say there could be a jerry-rigged exit. He said the storefronts are even along the street but the sides are sometimes pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle because of the way the land was divided in the old days. Streetcar tracks and narrow lanes cut through neighborhoods at odd angles, so some lots were trapezoidal, which gives you odd lots and rooms with diagonal walls. And because rear access was difficult, some basements are connected.”
“Meaning Zhou could exit through a neighboring basement if necessary?”
“If he’s the type to scout things like that out in advance, yeah.”
“So he has all the breathing room he needs.”
Renna scanned the rearview mirror for a tail. “It’s the kind of warren people can pop out of too. You be careful.”
“Always am.”
“I’ll make myself scarce but won’t be far. You still have me on speed dial?”
“Yep.”
Renna eased the cruiser to the curb two blocks short of the restaurant. I undid my tie and slipped out of my jacket. I tossed them in the backseat, hopped out, and covered the remaining yardage on foot. Mission Street was alive with pedestrian and vehicular traffic. People were going out for a bite or an after-work drink. A steady stream of weary workers on their way home headed into the Twenty-Fourth Street BART station.
Mr. Pollo occupied a modest storefront three doors down from the southwest corner of Mission and Twenty-Fourth. Dark curtains in the display windows cloaked the interior from view. A quick glance around revealed neither my photographer nor any of Zhou’s watchers.
But they were out there.
Mine and his.
I entered, pushed aside another black curtain on the other side of the door, and was confronted with a single wedged-shaped room. Just like Renna’s friend had said. It was pleasant and clean and divided on a diagonal by a counter with two stools facing a grill and a chef’s workstation. A short glass partition running along the edge of the counter marked the dining area from the kitchen, which was open and part of the experience. Local art, some signage, and a framed movie poster decorated the walls.
“Glad you could make it, Brodie,” Zhou called out in English. “I hope my messenger didn’t inconvenience you.”
The elusive spy was playing with my head. He was camped at one of only four small tables on the dining side of the divider, tucked against a wall, where he could watch the door.
“No problem at all,” I said. “Considerate of you to send an escort.”
The helmeted biker had followed in our wake, at a distance.
Zhou looked unhappy. “He’s a loaner. Sounds like I need to trade him in.”
Oops. I’d given my Chinese adversary more information than I should have. Next time his man would be harder to spot.
Zhou waved me to a seat and watched my approach with alert dark-brown eyes. They raked over me, probing, I knew, for any clue about my inner state of mind.
I slid in opposite him. “Some coincidence seeing you at the funeral.”
“Not at all. My people know I know you.”
The dapper spy had changed into a tan suit fashioned from quality summer linen and paired with a pale-yellow shirt and light-brown tie. Despite his epicurean leanings, he was as slim as a knife blade, and the suit fit him like a sheath. His abundant black hair was neatly parted, and its fullness clashed with his sharp features: narrow eyes, angular nose, and sunken cheeks.
“So you were sent?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Here we go, I thought. Zhou came with an operating manual. Tommy Tomita had filled me in:
“First, only when he says no does it mean no. Everything else is up in the air.”
“Diplomatic tendencies?”
“Officially, that’s what he is, yeah.”
“How do you get a yes out of him?”
“He’ll say, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Deniability in case of electronic ears. Everything else will depend on context.”
“You do know some characters, Tommy.”
“Meeting Zhou is a window onto a world I don’t think anyone should ever have to look through,” Tommy had told me at the outset. “But if you’ve got no choice, then step in knowingly. Because it’s going to be like nothing you’ve ever encountered.”
He’d been right. But it was too late then, and it was too late now.
CHAPTER 20
ZHOU waved the server over and introduced him in impeccable English. “This is Will McGuire, one of the proprietors. The other is the chef, Jonny Becklund.”
On the far side of the counter, Becklund was busily preparing asparagus for a salad, arranging the pieces on four rows of three plates—a full seating at Mr. Pollo, but only one of three nightly sessions.
Hearing his name, Becklund raised his head from the compact yet efficient workstation, nodded in our direction, then returned to the evening’s meal. In keeping with the casual, earthy atmosphere of the place, he wore a ball cap backward in place of a chef’s hat and was dressed in a clean white T-shirt and an apron with cowboy art. Tattoos ran up his arms and peeked out around his neck. Letters inked across his knuckles spelled foie gras.
“There is no printed menu,” Zhou said. “They work up a four-course meal every day based on what they find at the local farmer’s market.”
Will was a tall man with a reddish beard. He wore a black T-shirt with white dropout letters from a saké brewery up in Oregon. Zhou asked after the saké, liked what he heard, and ordered a small carafe for starters. To be followed by a bottle of pricey Napa red. Once again I was about to dine grandly on the People’s money.
As soon as Will turned away to procure the saké, Zhou’s eyes locked onto mine and without missing a beat he said, “Let’s continue in Japanese so we can talk freely, if that’s acceptable.”
Zhou was a man of many talents. He was smart, devious, and strategic. He spoke at least three languages—English, Chinese, and Japanese. His Japanese was accomplished, subtle, and far too smooth for a nonnative speaker. The same could be said for his English. His country had invested heavily in him. He was the wrong kind of million-dollar man.
“I see no problem with that,” I said.
“Good. I’m told your lieutenant friend is close.”
Before I could rein in my surprise, the shift of my eyes confirmed the spy’s suspicion. Renna intended to ditch our tail then circle back, and probably had.
But Zhou was a master. He’d played a hunch, his statement abrupt yet matter-of-fact. The chameleon had sandbagged me, starting with a cordial introduction to the owners, then transitioning into a polite request to switch languages before slipping in a languid observation about Renna’s whereabouts and skimming off my reaction before I could raise my guard. I’d forgotten how good he was. I’d have to up my game or Zhou would suck everything out of me and leave me a dry husk, with nothing to show for the encounter. And I needed something—for Mikey and Sharon.
The damage done, I swung into recovery mode. “After I gave him your résumé, he insisted on tagging along.”
“ ‘Alone’ means alone, Brodie.”
Aside from the proprietor-waiter, no one paid us the least attention. The other diners chatted happily over wine or saké or imported beer. Chef Becklund was seasoning the salad. Pots simmered on the stove beside him.
I shrugged. “Ever try to stop a determined policeman?”
Zhou’s voice dropped to a lower register. “Many times.”
Considering the talent present, the question was badly phrased. I changed tracks. “I did you a favor, coming here.”
“You came to satisfy your curiosity and because you need information about your friends’ deaths. But the fact is my line of work has prerequisites. You are aware of those.”
China Rules again. The attrition rate of Chinese diplomats and spies was high in the People’s Republic. Aside from the predictable perils of the spy trade in general, and the type of fall from grace I’d outlined for Renna, infighting on the home front was also fierce. Infamously so. Losers found themselves demoted, discarded, or disposed of in one of several unappetizing ways. They might be arrested. They might be tortured. They might disappear altogether. Sometimes all three.
In short, the quicksand might swallow them whole.
“True,” I said. “But we have history and a mutual friend.”
“Tommy Tomita is only a start.”
“Fair enough. You’ve taken your precautions, I took mine. How many guys do you have backing you up this trip?”
“That’s my business.”
I scanned the room. Last time we’d met, aside from the sniper zeroed in on my window seat, there had been Chinese watchers in the restaurant. Mr. Pollo was far too small for embedded confederates. Further, with Renna floating around the edges, Zhou would not risk summoning a shooter. His sentries would be outside, in close proximity. And possibly one or two in the basement passages.
“My police friend’s down the street. You behave, we’ll have no problem.”
Before my host could reply, the first course arrived, shaved asparagus with a lemon vinaigrette and creamy burrata cheese. The first bite released a bouquet of flavors and textures. Tart, creamy, and mellow layered over a tender yet crisp vegetable and a soft, multilayered cheese with a creamy center. After the first bite, I knew the stellar reports I’d heard about Mr. Pollo were no exaggeration. They also claimed the place was a treasured hideaway foodies held extremely close. I could see that too.
Once the waiter drifted away, Zhou’s look turned somber. “So the question becomes, have you done anything else to expose me?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but when I sit down with you, insurance seems a wise move.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
“Sounds like one to me.”
I lifted another serving of asparagus and cheese to my mouth, thinking that paranoia takes many forms. In China, when you wake up to find your neighbor gone, you wonder if he scampered away on his own or was grabbed by the authorities. Was he snatched at his office? Off the street? From his home, at night? You may have no more than a passing acquaintance with the person or persons next door or in the
next office, but speculation inevitably starts.
It haunts you.
Is he—or she—being interrogated for something he did, or are the powers that be pumping your neighbor or office mate for information about you? Are you next on the list? The paranoia is endless. It is a way of life. And with China’s expansion, overseas territories no longer offered the brief reprieve they once did. Money talked. It bought influence and eyes-on, and China spread funds around—liberally.
“I’m smarter than that.”
“It is reassuring to hear you say such a thing, Brodie. I would hate to have to report your death to our mutual friend.”
“After our first meeting, taking precautions is a logical move.”
Zhou’s eyes blazed, his anger unmistakable. He leaned forward, cracked the curtain maybe half an inch, and said, “Precautions like that?”
I peered through the slim opening out onto the darkening street. In the shadowed doorway of a shuttered taqueria across the road, Karen stood in an unnaturally rigid pose. She wore Levi’s, a light blue linen shirt, and a utility vest for the odds and ends of her trade. Looking far too much like the photojournalist she was.
I sighed. So much for discreet.
The only inspired touch was tucking her long blond hair under a sapphire-blue panama hat. When I took a closer look, I saw her eyes were skittish with worry. A Chinese man stood behind her, half-hidden in the layered gloom of the shop inlet. One hand hung by his side; the other would have a weapon jammed in her back. Firepower or a blade. Dread crawled up the back of my neck.
“I should advise you,” Zhou said, “to stay out of the spy business.”
A genius at what he does. I ought to heed my own assessments.
“Like I said, I only wanted insurance. You’ll get the memory chip from the camera. Let her go.”
“I would also advise you to stay out of the insurance business.”
“Let her walk, Zhou.”
“It’s not a wish I’m willing to grant you just yet.”
“Unless?”
“I hear something I like.”
