The Fourth Sacrifice tct-2
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‘An archaeologist?’ Margaret was taken aback. ‘That doesn’t sound very sexy to me. What is he, real life’s answer to Indiana Jones?’
Sophie smiled dreamily. ‘Well, not far off it. He’s made a whole bunch of documentary series for NBC on great archaeological finds around the world. He gets better ratings than the top cop shows.’
Margaret looked sceptical. ‘The great American public finally discovers culture. So, what’s his secret?’
Sophie shrugged. ‘There’s something about him … I don’t know, he just brings the whole thing to life.’ She paused, giving it serious thought for a moment. ‘Plus, he’s got a great ass.’
Margaret nodded seriously. ‘Well, when it comes to culture, that definitely helps.’ She went into the guardhouse and retrieved her purse and umbrella and stepped out on to the sidewalk. Sophie walked out after her. Margaret said, ‘So why’s the Ambassador holding a reception for him?’
‘It’s a pre-production party. Shooting starts tomorrow at the Ming Tombs outside Beijing. Some new documentary series on one of China’s most revered archaeologists. Some guy I never heard of. But it’s a big deal here. The Chinese have been bending over backwards to facilitate the shoot, so the Ambassador’s just doing his bit.’
‘And Zimmerman’s fronting the series?’
‘Yes. It’s his production company that’s making it.’ Sophie paused. ‘So do you want to come? I can get an invitation sent round to your hotel.’
Margaret thought about it for a moment. It wouldn’t take her long to pack, and it wouldn’t break her heart to give room service and CNN a final miss. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Why not? I can run a rule over Mr Zimmerman’s ass and see if it measures up.’
*
Margaret left Sophie at the consular section on the corner of Silk Street, grateful that the assistant RSO had had the sensitivity not to ask her the questions that everyone else she had met over the last ten weeks had asked. She pushed her way down through the narrow market lane, past great bolts of silk and racks of dressing gowns and shirts and dresses, to the six-lane Jianguomenwei Avenue that cut through the east-central city like an open wound. Here, twenty-first-century towers of glass and marble rose above the roar of traffic into the pall of pollution that hung low over the capital, and from their upturned Chinese eaves looked down on the crumbling remains of a disappearing city: the hutongs and siheyuans where street and family life bled one into the other; the real Beijing that was in danger of being swept away on the tide of financial success generated by a new devotion to the free-market economy.
She had no plan, no real notion of where she was going or what she wanted to do, other than the certain knowledge that she did not want to return to her hotel room. There was some desire in her, some need, to drink in this city for the last time, to let it wash over her, to feel its vital, vibrant life. She realised, with a dreadful ache, that she would miss it, with all its noise and pollution and traffic, its shouting, spitting, staring people, its sights and sounds and sometimes awful smells. But then she knew, too, that none of it meant anything without the man who had steered her through it, taught her to love it.
Why had he never been in touch? There was as much anger as hurt raging inside her. Not a call, not a letter. Nothing. Despite what she had led the First Secretary to believe, she had heard about Li’s release. They had told her, during one of those countless debriefings, that he had been reinstated. She had expected him to contact her. It was one of the reasons she had made no attempt to integrate with the social life of the embassy, despite umpteen invitations. Instead she had waited night after night by the phone in her hotel room for a call that never came. Once, she had phoned the offices of Section One of the Criminal Investigation Department in Dongzhimen and asked, in English, for Deputy Section Chief Li Yan. The request had caused some consternation at the other end of the line. Finally, someone speaking halting English had asked who she was, then told her that Deputy Section Chief Li was unavailable.
The No. 4 bus appeared out of the haze, and Margaret jostled with the Chinese in the queue to climb aboard and hand her five fen to the bus conductress, who scowled at her suspiciously. Yangguizi, foreign devils, never travelled by bus. Margaret ignored the faces turned towards her in unabashed curiosity as she clung to the overhead rail, squeezed in among all these bodies. It was extraordinary, she thought, how it was possible to feel so alone in a city of eleven million people.
She battled her way to the door and got off just past the Beijing Hotel, from where Western journalists had watched the tanks heading for their confrontation with demonstrating students in Tiananmen Square eleven years before. She crossed to the other side of East Chang’an Avenue via an underpass. This was foolish, she knew, a needless, self-inflicted pain. But still her feet carried her to the corner of Zhengyi Road, and she turned down into its tree-lined seclusion, away from the thunder of traffic on the main avenue. On her right, the compound of the Ministry of Public Security was hidden away behind a high stone wall, occupying the former home of the British Embassy. Further down, the apartment blocks provided for senior police officers rose above the still-lush green trees of early fall.
She felt sick now, and there was a lump in her throat as if something she had swallowed was stuck there. She had no difficulty identifying Li’s apartment on the second floor, the three rooms he had shared with his uncle. She smiled, remembering the night they had spent there, when they might have made love but hadn’t because she had drunk too much. And she remembered a cold, damp railway carriage in some anonymous siding in the north of the country where she had finally lain in his arms and they had declared their love. When they had returned to Beijing to reveal why three men had been murdered, and to clear Li of the accusations levelled against him by frightened men, he had told her to wait for him. He had told her he loved her. And she had waited. And waited.
She wiped the tears from her face and became aware of the security guard at the gate watching her curiously, this strange blonde-haired, blue-eyed yangguizi, standing weeping on the sidewalk, staring up at an anonymous apartment building. She turned quickly away. This was futile, stupid. It was history, and she was leaving in the morning. Her life was too full of pain for there to be any pleasure in looking back. She could only go forward.
A small, red taxi cruised slowly up the other side of the street. She called, and waved, and ran across the road. The taxi stopped and she jumped in. ‘Ritan fandian,’ she told the driver, and for a moment marvelled that he knew immediately what she meant. And then straight away felt saddened. China, its language, its people, had taken a long time getting into her soul and under her skin. And now that it had, she had no further use for it.
As the taxi headed back up towards East Chang’an Avenue, a tall broad-built Chinese man with close-cropped hair wheeled a bicycle out from the apartment compound. He was wearing an open-necked white shirt tucked into dark trousers at a narrow waist. He stopped for a moment, feeling in his pockets. Then he turned to the security guard. ‘You got any cigarettes, Feng?’
The security guard was uncomfortable. None of the other officers in the compound even spoke to him, never mind knew his name.
‘Sure, Deputy Section Chief,’ he said, taking an almost full pack from his pocket. ‘Here, have it. I’ve got plenty.’
Li took it and smiled. ‘I’ll bring you a replacement on the way back tonight.’
‘No need,’ the guard said.
Li grinned. ‘Yes there is. My uncle always told me a man with a debt is a man with a burden. See you tonight.’ And he lit a cigarette and pushed off on his bike following, oblivious, in the wake of Margaret’s taxi.
II
It was almost dark when Margaret passed through the security gate of Yi Ban, No. 1 building of the American Embassy on Guanghua Road, west of Ritan Park. On the right was the main administration block housing the Press Office and the Department of Cultural Affairs, a huge satellite dish oriented south-west on the lower roof. Straight ahead wa
s the Ambassador’s residence, a plain two-storey building with a brown tile roof. It stood at the end of a paved drive bordered by immaculately kept flowerbeds and silently weeping willows. On a tall flagpole the Stars and Stripes fluttered listlessly in the gentle evening breeze. From the street Margaret had heard the sounds of traditional Chinese music drifting languidly from the direction of the residence. Now, as she approached the double red doors at the front, she could see, through a latticed wall off to her right, the musicians — three men and two women — playing on an illuminated terrace.
The Ambassador himself met her at the door, accompanied by his wife, an attractive, statuesque woman in her middle-fifties. Margaret hadn’t met her before, and the Ambassador made the introductions.
‘Oh, yes,’ his wife said, regarding Margaret with curiosity. ‘You’re the rice lady. I’ve heard so much about you.’
Sensing Margaret’s embarrassment, and perhaps knowing something of her unpredictability, the Ambassador ushered her quickly inside to the cool of a dark marble-floored hallway. At the far end, a green-carpeted staircase curled up to the second floor where the Ambassador’s family had their private apartments. Off to the left was a cloakroom and a guest bedroom. Through a square arch to the right, came the sound of voices lubricated by alcohol, early inhibitions already washed away. Margaret had not come early.
From the cloakroom, she saw the Ambassador having a quick word with his wife. Perhaps he was telling her that for a diplomat’s wife she had just been very undiplomatic. Whatever he said, she did not seem impressed and strode away into the main lounge to rejoin her guests. He, however, remained unflappable, and took Margaret by the arm and steered her across thick-piled Chinese rugs through a passage towards a long lounge crowded with people. They passed a square room on their right, opulent classical Chinese furniture facing in to an ornately carved low table inlaid with mother of pearl. ‘Our little reception room, specially for the Chinese,’ he said. ‘They do like us to make a little fuss. Makes ’em feel like honoured guests.’
The lounge was a subtly lit oblong space with full-length windows down one side, sofas and armchairs neatly arranged in ordered groups. White walls were hung with pastel-coloured silk and paper collages, different coloured discs representing ancient seals dangling from each like pendulums. The Ambassador followed Margaret’s eyes to the pictures. ‘Produced on paper handmade by master papermakers in Annhui Province. The works of Robert Rauschenberg.’ He smiled his regret. ‘Just on loan, sadly. Like most of the pieces in the house. Part of the State Department’s Art in Embassies Program. Great idea. Just a pity we’ve got to give ’em back.’ He signalled a waiter with a drinks tray. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘Vodka tonic with ice and lemon,’ she told the waiter. He nodded and melted away.
Meantime, the Ambassador had contrived some hidden signal, and Sophie emerged smiling from the crowd. ‘Hi, glad you could make it.’
‘I’ll leave Sophie to introduce you to folk,’ the Ambassador said. ‘Got to keep mixing.’ And with a smile and a wave he was gone. Margaret was relieved. There was something about him that always made her slightly uncomfortable — her sense that somehow he felt uncomfortable with her.
‘You hungry?’ Sophie asked, steering her towards the top of the room and through another square arch to a dining room which made a T with the lounge. Beneath a regimented array of photographs of vases and artefacts, a very long table groaned with salads and cold meats, and hot trays with bubbling Chinese dishes. Everything looked delicious, but Margaret had little appetite.
‘Maybe later,’ she said, looking around for the waiter and her drink. A group of guests had spilled out through open French windows on to the terrace where the quintet was playing. ‘Who is everyone?’ She was beginning to wonder why she had come. There was no one here who looked remotely as interesting as Sophie’s description of Michael Zimmerman, and she wasn’t really in the mood for making small talk.
‘Oh, there’s some senior members of the production team, representatives of the companies who’re sponsoring the series. That bunch of Chinese over there …’ she nodded towards a group of men standing uncomfortably in suits and holding glasses of wine like they didn’t know what to do with them, ‘… they represent the various government departments that have facilitated the shoot.’
‘Excuse me, I think this is yours.’
Margaret turned to find a young man in a dark suit holding her vodka tonic. ‘Oh, thanks,’ she said, taking it from him.
‘My pleasure,’ he said and leaned across her to Sophie. ‘Sophie, I think the Ambassador’s looking for you.’
Sophie jumped. ‘Oh. Is he?’ She raised her eyebrows to Margaret in apology. ‘Be right back.’ And she hurried off.
Margaret took a long pull at her vodka and was slightly disconcerted to find that the young man was still there.
‘Don’t you just hate these things?’ he said, tugging uncomfortably at his collar.
‘Sure,’ said Margaret, a little surprised. ‘But in my case it’s self-inflicted. At least you’re getting paid to be here.’
He gave her a very odd look. ‘I’m sorry?’
A sudden cloud of apprehension descended on her. She waved her glass at him. ‘Well, aren’t you …? Didn’t you …?’ She didn’t have the courage to finish, and he laughed suddenly.
‘You thought I was the waiter?’ And his face lit up with amusement, dark warm eyes twinkling at her.
‘Oh, my God.’ Margaret couldn’t bring herself to look at him. ‘I am so sorry.’ But when she did sneak a glance, it was clear he had not taken offence.
‘I’m afraid I’m a self-inflicted guest, just like you.’ He had dimples either side of a wide smile, strong eyebrows below shiny auburn hair swept back from his temples. He was older than Margaret had first supposed, she saw now. Mid, perhaps even late, thirties. There was just the hint of grey streaked through his hair. ‘The waiter was looking for you down the other end of the room. He said you were with Sophie, so I took the drink off him and figured if I could find Sophie I’d find you. And I did.’
Margaret was still overcome with the embarrassment of her faux pas. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again, at a loss for anything else to say.
‘Don’t be. It’s my own fault really. I was so keen to meet the woman who wanted to …’ he paused for effect, ‘… run the rule over my ass, that I completely forgot to introduce myself.’
Margaret felt her face flush with embarrassment.
He held out his hand. ‘Michael Zimmerman.’
It was one of those few times in her life when Margaret was at a complete loss for words. She shook his hand, feeling like a total idiot. How could he possibly know about her conversation with Sophie? How could she possibly mistake him for a waiter? She didn’t know which was more embarrassing. And those smiling eyes of his continued to hold her relentlessly in their gaze. She might have sunk without trace, but recovered just in time. ‘Actually, the only way I’d measure anything of yours would be on an autopsy table.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he said, ‘Sophie told me. We both deal in death, you and I.’
‘Do we?’
‘You cut them up, I dig them up.’
Margaret fixed him with a steely glare. ‘And I’ve been set up, haven’t I? Sophie hadn’t even appeared when I ordered my drink. Who is she anyway, your little sister?’
‘Close,’ Michael said. ‘She went to school with my little sister. Had a crush on me since she was three and I was fifteen.’ He lifted a glass of red wine from the table and took a sip. ‘She thought you needed cheering up.’
‘Oh, did she?’ Margaret wasn’t sure she liked being an object of pity.
‘Hey, don’t be hard on her. She’s a good kid. Smart, too.’ He took another sip of wine. ‘She just couldn’t believe you didn’t know who I was.’
‘And neither, presumably, could you. Must be a bit of a blow to the celebrity ego to find that not everyone in the world knows who you are.’
In spite of herself, Margaret couldn’t resist a smile. ‘Oh, did you?’
‘So I watched for you coming in, and …’
‘And …?’
‘Well, I just figured anybody that ugly sure as hell needs cheering up.’
Margaret laughed, and was surprised to find herself attracted to him. Which was disturbing. Was she really drawn to the same stereotypical male that appealed to the readership of Cosmopolitan? The thought filled her with horror. But then, she consoled herself, the readership of Cosmopolitan had never met him in the flesh. It wasn’t the image she found attractive, but the man. And she had no preconceived perception of him as a media personality. She’d thought he was a waiter, for God’s sake! Anyway, it was a long time since she had indulged in a little harmless flirting. ‘I should have realised,’ she said. ‘A real waiter would have had more class.’
‘I’m sure he would,’ Michael said. ‘It’s what my critics accuse me of. A lack of class. You know, the kind of snobbish élitism that would normally consign a documentary on archaeology to some obscure cable channel watched by a handful of people.’
‘Ouch,’ said Margaret. ‘Did I touch a nasty contusion just beneath the skin?’
‘No,’ Michael grinned. ‘A great big open wound. I just got mauled by the TV critic of the New York Times, who thinks I reduce history to the level of soap opera.’
‘And do you?’
‘Well, yes, actually I probably do,’ Michael nodded. ‘But, you know, what that guy missed is that good soap opera is just good storytelling, and history is bursting with good stories to be told. I mean, you’re a forensic pathologist, right?’ Margaret nodded. ‘So nobody knows better than you. Every crime has its story, motivated by any number of things — greed, lust, jealousy … And it’s your job to peel away the layers that obscure that story, to piece together, bit by bit, the trail of evidence that will lead eventually to the truth.’