Was Stone right? Was Catlin spying for Chen Yi?
The thought burst through her with such force that for an instant she was afraid she had spoken aloud. But Catlin was still watching her without expression, his eyes seeing her turmoil far too clearly.
"I haven't met Chen Yi," Lindsay repeated slowly. Then, almost helplessly, "I haven't?"
"You haven't. You also haven't met any of the FBI types who will doubtless be hanging around like white on rice."
There was a pause. "Have I met you?" she asked politely.
"I'm hurt," he retorted.
"And I'm a kuei" she shot back, tired of all the wheels within wheels, deceptions within lies.
Catlin laughed, shaking his head. "I hope whoever is listening for the FBI knows his Chinese artifacts."
"Listening in?"
"Yeah. If not this instant, then certainly by the time we come back. From now on, unless I get the room for us and vet it regularly, we'll have to assume it's wired for sound. All phones that aren't public are presumed to be tapped, taped and generally very public indeed."
Lindsay's breath came out in a harsh sound. She felt hunted, trapped, besieged. Suddenly she remembered Catlin's words: Before this is over with, you 're going to need somebody you think you can trust.
"Catlin," she breathed, afraid to put in words what she was thinking: Was it him? Could she trust him?
"I'm here, Lindsay. Night or day, for better or for worse, I'm right beside you. You don't go anywhere without me anymore. No exceptions. No arguments. Dress rehearsal is over."
Chapter 11
"Uncle Wu!" said Lindsay, her voice husky with surprise and pleasure as she saw the small Chinese man bent over one of Sam Wang's bronzes.
The man straightened and turned around. He smiled and bowed very slightly in the same movement, then took Lindsay's hand in both of his and smiled.
"It is as the beauty of the autumn moon for my humble eyes to see you once again, cherished daughter," said Wu. "Please take my softest wishes for the easing of your grief at the death of your most honorable mother. Surely our magnificent and most powerful God has taken up to Christian heaven the most beautiful, humble and dutiful of all his daughters."
Blinking back sudden tears, Lindsay squeezed Wu's hand. Catlin watched, listening to the odd rhythms of Mandarin thoughts translated directly into English. Apparently Wu's adaptation to America had ended with learning the language. Like Yi, Wu retained the Chinese order of his names, last name first. Unlike Yi, Wu hadn't changed the patterns of his thinking to match the culture whose language he had learned. Wu's English was as florid, self-effacing and evocative as the man himself was physically restrained. He didn't hug Lindsay as a Western man would have in the same circumstances; instead, he let his words caress her.
"Please accept this lowly daughter's most humble thanks, most honorable Uncle Wu," Lindsay murmured in Mandarin, bowing her head slightly, suiting her speech to the Chinese man who was inches smaller than she was in her high heels. "As always, your exquisite words are the sweetest of music to sad ears accustomed to the unadorned rhythms of English speech."
Wu smiled and caressed Lindsay's hand again, a public gesture of affection that was rare for a native Chinese. It told Catlin more than any words could have. Wu felt the same complex and to Western eyes ambiguous affection for Lindsay that he would have felt for his own daughter. The ambiguity existed only in the Western mind, where women were valued more highly than in the Eastern culture. Wu had no doubt of his love for Lindsay, and neither did she.
She turned toward Catlin. "Uncle Wu, this is Mr. Jacob Catlin," she said, reverting to English. "Catlin, please meet the most honorable Mr. Hsiang Wu."
Lindsay's speech told Catlin two things. The first was that Stone hadn't told Lindsay that Catlin spoke Mandarin as well as she did. The second was that Wu had considerable status within the Chinese community of San Francisco the designation "most honorable" was a normal part of the way people addressed him. That was surprising. Most of San Francisco's Chinese immigrants were from the south of China, not the north. Cantonese rather than Mandarin was by far the dialect of choice. For a northern Chinese to have power in San Francisco's Chinatown was unusual.
As he accepted the frail hand that Wu held out, Catlin bowed slightly, acknowledging Wu's status.
"It's an honor to meet you," said Catlin.
Wu bowed very slightly in return. "I am but the most humble of Lindsay's old friends," he said, so softly that it was difficult to hear his words.
"As I am but the most humble of her new ones," Catlin said smoothly.
Very shrewd black eyes fixed on Catlin for a long moment Wu nodded once, as though agreeing with an inner thought! "I am pleased to see at last with my own humble eyes the mail who is both intelligent and powerful enough to make my sometimes lamentably willful daughter acknowledge her proper place within history and culture."
"That's well beneath man, preferably chained to a steaming wok," Lindsay explained to Catlin, her voice rich with amusement over what was obviously an old argument. "Ah, Uncle Wu, it's good to be lectured by you once again."
"It is an unrelenting and stem duty that this most humble uncle pursues in the sad absence of your true father," acknowledged Wu, his eyes sparkling with suppressed humor.
"Barefoot and pregnant, hmmm?" asked Catlin, running his fingertip along the line of Lindsay's jaw. "The idea has possibilities."
Lindsay felt color climbing up her cheeks, but she didn't withdraw from Catlin's touch. Instead she turned her head slowly, an act that both increased the pressure of the caress and allowed her to face him fully. "Don't get any ideas, Catlin."
"Not new ones, certainly," Catlin agreed with a wicked smile. "Men have been having those kinds of ideas since the first time one of them figured out it was the only way to keep women from taking over the world."
There was a bark of laughter and an approving look from Wu that told Lindsay her old friend had accepted Catlin. It didn't surprise her. Wu had the traditional Chinese appreciation for intelligence, as well as the equally traditional appreciation for strength and sheer male presence. Catlin had more than his fair share of all three.
Lindsay sighed dramatically and shook her head. "I'm surrounded by traditionalists."
"Surely that is to be expected, daughter," murmured Wu. "You have returned to stand in the glorious reflection of China, the greatest of all traditions." His voice changed, showing for a moment all the emotions of an exile from a beloved land. "It is a terrible thing to know that men who have less honor than dogs stand astride the bleeding body of the most subtle and magnificent culture the world has ever known."
In Wu's voice Catlin heard resonances of grief and regret, hatred and grudging acceptance. Obviously Hsiang Wu had not greeted with enthusiasm the revolution that had transformed one of the oldest empires on earth into one of the younger Communist countries.
"But that is only the babbling of a thoughtless old man who has never learned that living in memory is a beggar's substitute for the unfolding glories of a new day," Wu said, dismissing his complaint with a wave of his hand. "Come, daughter of one of my oldest and most honored friends. Indulge the whims of a humble old man who would know what young eyes see in these most venerable and ancient of bronzes."
Lindsay hesitated, then slipped into Mandarin for a moment, not wanting Wu to lose face in front of Catlin. "Honorable uncle," she murmured, "Tonight I am the most humble servant of the respected Mr. Jacob Catlin, as well as the undeserving employee of the most honorable Museum of the Asias. I cannot tell you anything that would diminish the interests of the honorable Mr. Catlin or those of the museum. But when I find out which of the bronzes Mr. Catlin might wish to purchase, and whether there are any the museum should have, I will be most honored to discuss all other bronzes with you."
For an instant Wu's black eyes fixed on Catlin as though the Chinese expected a response from him despite the fact that Mandarin had been spoke
n. When none came, Wu looked back to Lindsay, understanding that she believed their conversation to be a private one that excluded Catlin.
"Ah! Forgive the clumsiness of an eager old man," Wu said in Mandarin. "I would do nothing to cast shadows on your honor and the honor of your esteemed family."
Catlin waited impassively, doing nothing that would reveal his knowledge of Mandarin.
Lindsay threw him a quick, appealing look, "I'm sorry to be rude, but "
"No problem," Catlin said, interrupting her apology for speaking in a language she believed he didn't understand.
Lindsay resumed her outpouring of effusive Mandarin, apologizing in many different ways for her inability to help Wu. He accepted her apologies with more apologies of his own until the ritualized politeness was complete on both sides. Then, with a few more graceful phrases, Wu withdrew to study another of the bronzes that Sam Wang had arranged so artfully throughout the room.
Catlin pulled Lindsay close. "Problems?" he asked too softly to be overheard.
"I explained that I was your expert and couldn't help him with any of the bronzes," Lindsay said in a very low voice.
"Would you usually?"
"Of course. He's a very old friend. And he returns the favor. Some of the best bronzes the Museum of the Asias owns came to me originally through Uncle Wu."
"Convenient," murmured Catlin.
"What does that mean?" whispered Lindsay.
"It's always convenient to have well-placed friends."
"It's what the Harvard types call the 'old boy network'" Lindsay said softly, but her smile was very hard. "The Chinese invented it about the time Europeans wore badly cured furs and carried clubs."
Laughing softly, Catlin bent and brushed Lindsay's mouth with his own. "Do you suppose Wu has heard about a bronze charioteer?"
"No."
"So quick. So sure." Though Catlin said nothing more, the question was implicit in his words and in his watchful eyes.
Lindsay shrugged. After a moment's hesitation she leaned toward him like a woman enjoying the warmth and strength of her lover's presence.
"Uncle Wu's family is in exile," she whispered, her voice barely above the threshold of hearing. "The Hsiang family supported the wrong side of the revolution. They fought on for a time after Mao was in control, but finally they were forced to flee."
"So?"
"So whoever has the Xi'an bronzes also has an in with the Chinese government," Lindsay murmured impatiently, pointing out the obvious. "There would be no other way to get the bronzes out of the ground, out of the province and out of the country."
"Is that what Stone told you?" Catlin asked softly.
"He didn't have to. Anyone who knows anything at all about Xi'an and China would figure that out for himself."
"Do me a favor," Catlin breathed, caressing Lindsay's cheek with his hand. "Don't mention your conclusions about China's government and stolen bronzes to anyone but me. Okay? Not everyone knows China as well as you do."
"What about Stone? Can I tell him?"
Catlin's only answer was the movement of his palm over her smooth skin.
"But-"
Catlin's hand tightened subtly, warningly, on Lindsay's chin, reminding her that the place for arguments was not in public.
"I all right," said Lindsay, her voice low, husky. And in her mind Stone's words echoed, describing Yi as a Chinese spy and Catlin as little, if any, better. She wondered if Catlin would be willing to discuss the matter when they were alone.
"Anyone else in the room that you know?" Catlin asked.
She blinked at the sudden change of subject and glanced quickly around. The living room of Sam Wang's hillside home in Marin County was large, about the size of two average living rooms put together. Any similarity to an ordinary home ended there, however. The carpet was scarlet, with a thick plush-cut pile that deadened sound. Woven throughout the rich red wool were dragon designs in a gold material that had the unmistakable shine of raw silk.
The carpet's synthesis of East and West was repeated throughout the room's appointments. The furniture was ebony, but patterned after Scandinavian rather than Oriental designs. The only exception was a stunning carved ebony screen where dragons tangled in an intricate, quintessentially Chinese display. Beyond the living room, a wall of glass revealed the setting sun and the seething magenta surface of San Francisco Bay. The city itself lay across the water, tier upon tier of buildings rising from the darkening land in sunset shades that went from scarlet to gold.
There were few people in the room. Sam Wang had staggered the invitations to allow guests to file past the bronzes. Lindsay's quick glance revealed no one else who looked familiar, although two of the men huddled around a bronze showed the unconcealed enthusiasm of avid collectors rather than the more restrained appreciation of scholars or connoisseurs.
Lindsay shook her head, silently telling Catlin that no one else was known to her.
"All right," he said softly, smoothing his hand over the shining thickness of her hair. "Let's take a run at the bronzes."
"Wait," she whispered urgently, putting her hand on his upper arm.
The hardness of the underlying flesh surprised her. In his handmade suit coat and slacks, Catlin looked too civilized to be so powerful.
Wolf in sheep's clothing, she thought to herself, divided between wariness and amusement. Thank God I'm not wearing a curly white coat and baa-ing for mama.
Catlin arched his left eyebrow in wordless query even as he covered Lindsay's fingers with his own.
With her hand pressed caressingly between his hard palm and equally hard biceps, Lindsay felt her thoughts unraveling into sensual speculation.
"Are we supposed to buy something tonight?" she asked a little desperately, hating the effect that Catlin had on her when she had so little effect on him.
"If the bronzes are good, yes. We'll buy spectacularly. It will get the word out as nothing else could."
Lindsay nodded, knowing that Catlin was right. Word of a new, aggressive collector would go through the grapevine like wildfire through dry grass.
"Are we buying for you? The museum? The government?" she asked.
"The check won't bounce," Catlin murmured dryly, thinking of the Hong Kong account that had been opened in his name, "if that's what's bothering you."
She shook her head, then saw the tiny expansion of his nostrils as perfume drifted up from her hair. She saw his eyes dilate suddenly, and knew in that instant that he was as intensely aware of her as she was of him. The knowledge was both exciting and oddly comforting.
"But what if you and the museum both want the same piece?" she asked softly.
Catlin smiled as he bent down and kissed Lindsay slowly, ignoring the people hovering over the bronzes. "You tell me, honey cat," he murmured, lifting his head.
"You," said Lindsay, her voice both soft and tight, her heart beating too quickly, "are a "
He kissed her again, cutting off her words. "Just call me G.B." he whispered. "That way if anyone overhears he won't wonder why you're calling your lover a genuine bastard."
"In other words, you get what you want and the museum takes what's left over," she whispered, her eyes bleak as she realized the implications. Tonight the cream of the bronze connoisseurs, buyers and scholars would be treated to a first-class example of a museum employee overlooking the interests of her employer in favor of the interests of her very obvious lover.
Catlin shrugged. "You're assuming I leave something." He looked at her, his amber eyes gleaming with reflections of the elegant track lights overhead. Slowly he pulled her close against his body and whispered softly in her ear. "I don't leave much behind. Ask anyone who knows me. When I'm finished all that's left are memories, and damn few of those. Remember that, Lindsay. And remember what I told you last week in D.C."
The voice was hushed but the words were like razors cutting her. She remembered what he had told her. And she a
lso remembered her own blithe words: I won't say you didn't tell me if you won't say I told you so.
For a moment Lindsay stayed frozen within Catlin's arms; then she deliberately returned his apparent hug. She was getting better at the act, although she had forgotten the ramifications for a moment. In the week that Catlin had lived with her, she had become accustomed to his presence. She had fielded Sherry's envious queries as to Catlin's prowess in bed. She had learned to smile at Jackie's probing questions as to Catlin's "needs." She had even held her tongue when L. Stephen's propositions had gone from tasteless to crude. But tonight it was Hsiang Wu she would disappoint. Hsiang Wu, who was the bulwark of the Chinese refugee community she had grown up in and loved. Hsiang Wu, who knew everyone and honored her by calling her daughter.
For the first time, Lindsay was glad that her mother was dead.
"I remember," Lindsay said raggedly against Catlin's skin.
Catlin closed his eyes, hearing bleakness where laughter and music had formerly been in Lindsay's voice. He knew with the understanding that came only from experience that she was tasting the bitterness of betraying old friends. He had tried to prepare her for this. And he had known that there was no preparation for betrayal.
Welcome to undercover life, Lindsay, he thought. Welcome to the outer ring of hell. Step right this way. The next ring awaits, and the next, and the next, until nothing is left and hell is everything that ever was or ever will be.
Abruptly he released her. "Let's give it a fast once-over to see if there's anything new to add to my collection."
"You came to the wrong place if you want something new," said Lindsay, keeping her voice even with an effort. "The newest piece in this room is twenty-two centuries old. Or should be, if Wang's bronzes are as advertised."
Catlin smiled at Lindsay's small joke and ignored the signs of strain around her eyes and mouth as he led her toward the black, lacquered cube that supported one of Sam Wang's third century bronzes.
As soon as Lindsay bent over the bronze she forgot her inner turmoil in the rising excitement of seeing something that was both ancient and exquisitely made. She looked up at Catlin and nodded, knowing that his first question would be whether or not the piece was genuine.
Tell Me No Lies Page 18
