Tell Me No Lies

by Elizabeth Lowell

  "Somebody made Wang's dragon," Catlin said, thinking of the extraordinary bronze he had seen just a few hours before.

  Closing her eyes, remembering the dragon, Lindsay sighed. "Yes. Somebody did. What a shame all that intelligence and beauty is in the service of fraud." She opened her eyes and looked again at the half coin. "Where did you get this?"

  "It was given to me."

  A single look at Catlin's closed face told Lindsay that she had just heard all that he would say on the subject. She smiled sadly and flipped the coin back to him.

  He caught it without looking away from her eyes. They were haunted. "Nightmares again?" Catlin asked softly.

  " Just thinking."

  Catlin wanted to go to Lindsay, to pull her into his arms, to hold her until neither one of them could think of anything more than the wild, consuming fire that came when they touched one another. Yet he knew that it was more for him than for her that he sought the oblivion of their mutual sensuality; it was his need to forget rather than her own that made desire pulse thickly with every heavy beat of his heart.

  "About what?" he asked, sliding the coin back into his pocket.

  "I'm like that coin. So much cut away. Lost."

  "I don't understand."

  "China," Lindsay said simply. The word was both a curse and a sigh. "I was born there, Catlin. I grew up seeing myself as Chinese. My mother couldn't have loved the country more if she had been born there, too. She died an exile in every way that counts but one. She was among people she loved."

  "Are you an exile?"

  "Yes. No." Lindsay made a husky sound that could have been laughter or a sob. "I don't know. Sometimes I smell ginger frying in a hot steel wok and it's like I've been dropped into a time machine and I'm five again, washing vegetables for Auntie Liu and laughing until I ache as I listen to her stories about wise peasants and foolish tax collectors. Sometimes I smell freshly turned earth under a wet spring sky and I'm six, following the women to the fields, pushing tiny onion plants into the ground while mud oozes over my sandals, and every time I look up I see figures rising out of the mist around me, surrounding me, planting as I am planting. The mist obscures all differences, mutes all voices into the sound of water falling to the earth. I'm in the center of people, always people, and they hug me and laugh with me and teach me."

  "And the nightmare?" Catlin asked, his voice neutral.

  "Oh, it's there, too. The sound of gunfire. My uncle's blood. My mother's tears. My screams. Yet now that I remember what really happened – " Lindsay closed her eyes. "It's sad – my God, it's sad, but – " Her voice broke. "But in the end it's just one death, just one child's horror. The Chinese people have suffered so much. Especially the peasants. All they wanted was to plant their crops, to marry and have children, to respect their ancestors, to live and die as Men of Han. All through the centuries, most of the rural Chinese didn't even care who was in control of the country, as long as there was some form of government that permitted peasants to live and die with a minimum of dignity."

  Catlin sat down next to Lindsay. "That's all most people anywhere want," he said quietly.

  "Most of them don't get it. Not in China. Not in this century. All they've had is war and famine and death." She looked at Catlin, searching his eyes as though she expected to find the truth reflected there. "It's going to happen all over again, isn't it? The People's Republic is going to use Qin's bronzes as an excuse to tear itself apart and then snarl over the scraps like starving dogs."

  Lindsay closed her eyes and spoke before Catlin could. "For the second time in as many weeks, I'm glad that my mother is dead. She used to weep for her peasants until her eyes were the color of blood, and my father would hold her and talk of a time when it would all be changed, when the government that knew no God would be replaced by one that did. I used to lie in bed listening to them talk and wish that I could do something that would help. That's what I was thinking about, Catlin. My parents and China and tears."

  The pad of Catlin's thumb caught the drop trembling on the edge of Lindsay's eyelashes. He said her name softly as he pulled her into his arms.

  "I'm glad she's dead," Lindsay said against Catlin's chest. "She had been so hopeful in the years since Mao's death. She was so confident that the millennium had come at last. She was planning on reopening the old mission outside of Xi'an. She was going home again. It would have destroyed her to know that nothing had changed."

  "That isn't quite true," Catlin said as he smoothed away another tear. "For better or worse, China's government is riding the tiger of change. No matter who wins this round-Mao purists or Deng progressives – the tiger has been summoned. The government can't go back. It can only hang on and hope to guide the tiger from time to time.''

  "What about the people? What do they do while the tiger is loose?"

  "They plant crops and raise children and endure whatever comes," Catlin said quietly. "They've been doing it for five thousand years. They'll do it for five thousand more. They're one of the toughest people on earth."

  With a startled sound Lindsay looked up. "That's what Uncle Mark used to say to Mother. And then he'd wish to God that the Chinese weren't so damned enduring. I guess he believed that if they would just fight back sooner they wouldn't have to suffer so much."

  Catlin thought of the men who had fought, and the ones who had died and how near he had come to being among the dead. He pulled Lindsay closer.

  "Maybe," he said quietly. "And maybe more of them would have died. You can't know. That's the hell of it. You just can't know. You can only hope that what you're doing helps more than it hurts."

  Lindsay turned in Catlin's arms until she was curled against him and could hold him as he was holding her. Though he said nothing more, she sensed that he was thinking about his own past. She wanted to ask about it, to know more about the man whose heart beat so strongly beneath her cheek. She wanted to comfort him as he was comforting her.

  Eyes closed, cheek resting against the softness of Lindsay's hair, Catlin savored the moment of peace. When the phone rang, he tightened his arms instinctively, wanting nothing to interrupt. At the second ring Lindsay stirred reluctantly.

  "I'll get it," he said.

  "No. Just sit and relax. I'll take care of it. It's probably O'Donnel again, wanting to yell at you for losing the agents who were following you."

  Catlin watched Lindsay walk into the bedroom and wished that she were back in his lap, warming him even as he warmed her.

  Lindsay picked up the phone on the third ring. "Hello?"

  An unfamiliar voice began speaking to her in Cantonese. She understood some, but not enough. "Wait, please," she said first in English and then in Mandarin. She covered the receiver with her palm. "Catlin? How are you with Cantonese?"

  He came off the couch in a single motion. Soundlessly he strode into the bedroom and took the phone from her. He began speaking in rapid Cantonese.

  "Miss Danner has difficulty with your dialect. Please permit me to translate for you."

  "You are Rousseau?"

  "I was. Now I am Catlin."

  "The Chinese Christian Benevolent Society has a private chapel. Miss Danner knows its location. If you wish to look at some unusual bronzes, be there in ten minutes. If you wish to leave alive, be certain that you are not followed."

  The line went dead.

  Catlin looked at Lindsay. "Do you know where the Chinese Christian Benevolent Society's private chapel is?"

  "Yes. It's one of those beautiful, unexpected buildings in the center of Chinatown's worst slum. Curved, tiered roof, high wall, inner garden. It's – "

  "Can you get us there?" he asked, interrupting her.

  "Yes."

  "How long?"

  "Ten minutes, maybe a little more."

  Catlin punched in Stone's number and waited. He recognized the voice that answered. "O'Donnel, get Stone. Fast."

  "What-?"

  "Now." Catlin's voice w
as like a whip.

  There was silence, then a harsh, "Stone here."

  "We just got either a bite or an invitation to our funeral. Maybe both. They're going to be looking for tails. Make goddamn sure we don't have any. Clear?"

  "But-"

  "I'm turning the phone over to Lindsay," Catlin said. "She'll tell you where we're going. Don't come closer than two blocks."

  "What if it's a trap?"

  "Then we're in such deep shit that you couldn't help us if you followed us in with the U.S. Marines. Remember – Lindsay's your best hope of getting close to those bronzes. Don't do anything to burn her. Stay the hell clear. This is just a mutual show and tell. They didn't ask for money."

  "Shit Marie," grumbled Stone. "At least let us wire you."

  "No time. They're not stupid, Stone. We're on a deadline."

  Without waiting for an answer, Catlin handed the phone to Lindsay. While she spoke he pulled out his gun, inspected the load and bolstered the gun again. The whole process took only a few seconds. He opened the bedside drawer, pulled out two spare ammunition magazines and tucked them in the pocket of the corduroy sport coat he was wearing.

  Lindsay hung up the phone and turned toward Catlin. "If you didn't want the FBI to follow us, why did you tell them where we were going?"

  "We don't have enough time to flush FBI tails. Especially if one of them is O'Donnel. We'll have to pray that Stone is as smart as I think he is."

  "Aren't you going to call Yi?"

  "No," Catlin said. He looked up at her with hard yellow eyes. "Don't trust him, Lindsay," he said softly. "Don't trust anyone but me. I'm the only one in this whole goddamn game who will take a bullet for you."

  She was too shocked to say anything.

  "Ready?" he asked calmly.

  Catlin took Lindsay's arm without waiting for an answer and led her out of the hotel. Less than ten minutes later they were outside the chapel. It was everything that Lindsay had said it was – beautiful, very Chinese and in the midst of a slum. The language of Canton swirled around them like atonal, staccato music. The street was alive with children and dark-haired women. Men stood in groups, smoking cigarettes and talking. The long white stucco wall surrounding the chapel grounds displayed a few spray-painted ideographs, New World graffiti telling of a feudal, territorial approach to life that had been old long before Christ was born.

  As Lindsay and Catlin walked up to the high outer wall, a gate swung open. It was solid black with three ideographs carved in high relief. With a casual motion Catlin drew his gun and walked through the gate, laying his right hand along his leg to conceal the weapon. His left hand was on Lindsay's arm, ready to push or pull her away from danger.

  The boy who had opened the gate was alone, but the cut of his hair and clothing marked him as a recent arrival to America. Catlin watched the gatekeeper very carefully; he had seen too many child soldiers in Asia to dismiss the boy simply because he was not yet sixteen.

  "Lead us," Catlin commanded in Cantonese.

  The boy's dark, slightly tilted eyes widened. He bowed, responding to the authority in Catlin's voice and body. If the boy noticed the discreetly drawn gun, he did nothing to show it. Without a word he turned and began leading them down the carefully raked gravel path. On either side of the path artistically trimmed evergreens rose into the late afternoon. An artificial stream wound like a silver ribbon through the garden, widening into a pool where lotus plants grew in circular profusion. Though barely a hundred feet long, the garden gave an illusion of space, serenity and peace.

  Catlin absorbed the garden in a glance and dismissed it as a potential danger for the simple reason that there was no place in it to hide. Any ambush would have to come inside. He slipped the gun into the pocket of his sport coat, but kept his finger on the trigger. If he had to shoot he wouldn't bother pulling the gun out first.

  The chapel itself was about as big as their hotel suite. Three doors opened off along the right side, and one along the left. All led to other rooms, and some of these led to still more rooms. The building was a warren that had grown over the years as money became available.

  The boy led them through a small kitchen where the scents of fresh ginger, scallions, garlic and peanut oil had permeated the very walls. In addition to the usual gas stove and oven, there was a second stove. Instead of burners on top, there were three circular holes where big woks could be set and heated from below without any wasted energy. Next to the Chinese stove a small, erect woman chopped bamboo shoots with a cleaver. She looked up, bowed over her clasped hands and then resumed preparing the vegetable for its brief time in the fire.

  "Know her?" Catlin asked Lindsay as they followed the boy into one of the rooms that opened off the chapel.

  "No."

  "She wasn't bowing to the kid," said Catlin. "Which means that the man we're going to see is not only feared, he is also respected. We're honored guests of the venerable warlord, as it were."

  They saw few other people as the boy skirted the chapel by going through interconnected rooms. The rooms were small, redolent of pungent cigarettes and incense, and furnished with a melange of Oriental and European furniture. Traditional pictures of Jesus alternated with Chinese landscapes painstakingly done in silk embroidery using stitches so tiny that a single landscape represented a life's work for one woman, or decades of effort for several.

  "What do they use all these little rooms for?" Catlin asked as they were led through yet another small space studded with chairs and small tables.

  "Sunday school. Chinese language lessons. English language lessons. Civic meetings. Mah-jongg. Socializing. Most of the homes around here are tiny and overcrowded," added Lindsay. "If more than three people want to get together, they have to stand on street corners, yell over the chaos of one of the local restaurants or join one of the benevolent societies and use their meeting rooms. Places like this are the core of Chinese-American communities."

  "Looks like a deserted core at the moment."

  Lindsay frowned. The thought had occurred to her, too. In her memories the building had always been alive with voices. The silence inside, unlike the silence in the garden, made her uneasy. Reluctantly she realized that Catlin might be right to be walking with a drawn gun in his pocket. The thought didn't comfort her. The chapel was in many ways as much a home as her aunt's house had been.

  "Here we go," muttered Catlin.

  The boy had stopped in front of a carved, lacquered door. He opened the door, bowed to them and stepped aside. A single look told Catlin that the room was large, empty of people and had at least one other exit. An exquisite silk folding screen opened along the far wall, concealing any doors on that side. Two chairs were positioned with their backs to the folding screen. A third chair faced the others across a low table. A white teapot and three small cups were set on a tray. The cups had no handles. Their shape, like that of the teapot, raised simplicity to art.

  Catlin released his hold on Lindsay's arm, allowing her to enter the room. He picked up one of the two chairs, placed it next to the single chair whose back was against a blank wall and gestured for Lindsay to sit down. He stood beside her, to the right. His gun was drawn again, muzzle held down along the side of his right leg.

  "Do you – " Lindsay began, only to stop when Catlin's hand brushed over her lips in silent command.

  After a few moments the utter, unnatural quiet of the building began to be almost tangible. The sudden sound of a woman walking in high heels into the chapel came like distant staccato thunder, swelling and then fading into silence again. A door opened and closed. The footsteps that came this time were much softer and yet somehow heavier, the measured tread of a confident man. But if Catlin and Lindsay hadn't been absolutely still, listening for just such sounds, the footsteps would have passed unnoticed, as would the slight whisper of a door opening behind the silk screen.

  Lindsay reached out to silently warn Catlin that someone was coming. Her fingers touched onl
y air. She turned quickly. He was gone. From the corner of her eye she caught a blur of movement as he vanished behind a fold in the long screen on the other side of the room. She sensed rather than saw him closing in on the concealed door.

  Catlin waited to one side of the door, poised to strike if he didn't like what he saw coming into the room. Even as the flash of gunmetal and the large, blocky outline of Lee Tran registered on Catlin's mind, the edge of his hand slashed out. At the last instant he softened what easily could have been a killing blow. Pragmatism rather than sentiment made Catlin pull his punch – a dead man couldn't answer questions.

  Air went out of Tran's lungs in a sudden whoosh. There was no sound of returning air, for Catlin's blow had paralyzed Tran's diaphragm, making it impossible for him to breathe. That was all that prevented him from screaming when Catlin's second blow landed an instant later, breaking Tran's wrist. Tran's foot lashed out in a belated attempt to return the attack. Catlin caught the foot and twisted hard as he heaved upward, all but wrenching Tran's leg out of its socket as he was thrown into the screen.

  The screen exploded outward, crashing to the floor. Tran lay helplessly on his back, his eyes dazed, his right leg useless, his gun lying inches beyond his broken right wrist. Catlin's foot sent the gun sliding toward Lindsay even as he bent and dragged Tran to his feet.

  "Pick it up," Catlin said curtly to Lindsay, never looking away from Tran's shocked, sweaty face. "It's the same model as mine. The safety is off and it's ready to go. Watch the other doors."

  Without warning Catlin picked up Tran and slammed him full length against the wall. His right leg gave way as he fought for balance. Catlin held his old enemy upright by the simple expedient of a hand wrapped around Tran's throat and the cold muzzle of the gun jammed beneath his chin. After a moment, Tran's eyes focused and he began to take racking breaths again.

  "You are the liquid stool of a diseased dog," Catlin said calmly in Cantonese. His hand began closing on Tran's throat. "You should have continued to buy your deaths, spawn of excrement eaters. You have the crotch of a snake and the face of an outhouse rat. What made you think you could kill a man?"