Chapter Forty-five
Wednesday
The Dragon Inn North is one of the best Chinese restaurants on the North Shore. My ex, Barry, used to say it’s because it serves Mandarin food instead of Cantonese. No greasy egg foo young or General Tso’s chicken fried in dough so thick it could choke you. Instead, the menu is filled with delicately spiced dishes like ginger shrimp and Mongolian beef.
It used to occupy a small room in the old Belden Stratford hotel, where, my father had told me, Benny Goodman’s sister lived. Dad could have been a groupie for the King of Swing; he knew all sorts of arcane details about his life. The restaurant’s success in the city had encouraged them to open a North Shore branch. The place is extremely popular, especially on Christmas Day, when lots of Jewish families, and even some exhausted Christians, show up for dinner.
I didn’t tell Luke where I was going. I knew he’d disapprove. In fact, I debated going at all. It would entangle me even more with Delcroft. And with Parks’ death, Hollander’s disappearance, and Stokes’ threats, it was getting riskier by the day. But the possibility of finding out more about Parks was irresistible. It might help me figure out what to do with the flash drive.
I arrived at the Waukegan Road location and pushed through the ornate door, festooned with a dragon, of course, in gold leaf. The owner, whom I knew, stood in the coatroom talking on her cell in Chinese. Always well dressed, with a strand of pearls around her neck, she gave me a casual wave but didn’t seem anxious to end her call. Which meant she probably wasn’t the person who’d sent me the note.
I sat in the reception area, where I had a view of the dining room. Lunch, even on a weekday, was robust, and the clanking of silverware, the gurgle of water being poured into glasses, and the pleasant aromas of spices and tea were comforting.
Ten long minutes later, I wondered if the note had been a ruse. I pulled out my cell to check for emails or texts. Nothing. I dropped my phone back into my bag. I was getting hungrier by the second and was on the verge of ordering some ginger shrimp to take home, when a young Asian woman wearing an apron hurried out from the kitchen. Her hair was pinned back underneath a hairnet, but a big hank had escaped. She tucked it behind her ear as she approached.
I stood up.
“You are Ellie Foreman?” A thick accent made her r’s sound like l’s.
I nodded.
“This for you.” She pulled out an envelope from her apron pocket, handed it to me, then disappeared back into the kitchen.
What was going on? Time seemed to stop. I looked around. The owner, still on the phone, seemed to be watching me, and a couple of the waiters in the dining room craned their necks. Was everyone in on the secret except me? Or was it just my imagination?
“Hi there.” The owner finally ended her conversation and laid her cell on the counter. “You want to order something?” As if someone had released the “Pause” button on a video, motion began again. The owner smiled, waiters went back to their work, and I realized the paranoia had been in my head.
“I’m sorry.” I zipped up my jacket. “I forgot about an appointment. I’ll be back.”
Outside, I studied the thin envelope. There was no name on it, but it had been licked closed. I opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper and another typewritten note.
Come to the Baha’i Temple at 2 pm. Make sure no one is following.
Chapter Forty-six
Wednesday
Someone was running me through an obstacle course. These messages and out-of-the-way meets were the stuff of B-movie melodrama and spy games. I ought to pick up my marbles and go home. At least call Luke and tell him where I was. In the face of the unknown, even curiosity had its limits.
Instead, I drove east toward Sheridan Road.
I couldn’t object to the new meeting place. The Baha’i Temple, one of only seven in the world, is a magnificent structure with an airy, almost ethereal atmosphere. The interior walls are cladded with both white cement and quartz, which capture and bathe everything in dazzling light. The temple’s ceiling soars 140 feet, and the dome is designed with intricate symmetrical shapes that lie between intersecting lines. Amid such beauty and tranquility, it would be hard not to have a spiritual experience. I parked and went inside, practically tiptoeing around the sanctuary. A few tourists snapped photos; a couple of small kids, clearly not enamored with their surroundings, whined about going back to their hotel to watch Disney movies.
I don’t completely understand the Baha’i faith. It seems like an anything-goes Buddhism with few rituals and rules. Which makes it more appealing than other religions, including my own with its 613 mitzvahs. I think you can even have “dual citizenship,” so to speak, embracing both the religion in which you were raised as well as the Baha’i faith.
No chairs were set up, so I sat on a marble window seat. Five minutes went by; it was after two. Meditation or not, I was annoyed. I’d give it another five minutes. I stared at the dome, counting down the seconds.
The light tap of footsteps echoed across the marble floor. I looked toward the sound. A young woman who looked half-Asian and half-Caucasian cut across from the opposite side of the temple. Petite and very slim, she seemed to glide rather than walk. Her hair was chin length, her eyes a piercing black. Although she was wearing a parka, jeans, and work boots, she exuded an air of delicacy. This had to be the woman who’d come to the house.
I folded my arms. This waif had been ordering me around the North Shore? We’d see about that.
When she spoke, her voice was light and feathery, with no trace of an accent. “Thank you for coming. I am sorry to make you go through so many hoops before we met. But I had to be sure we weren’t being followed. And that you were alone. I am Grace Qasimi.”
“I assume you’re the person who came to my house yesterday?”
She nodded.
“How did you find me?”
“I found your business card among Gregory’s things. After he was…after he died.”
I recalled how we’d traded cards when we were shooting the trade show. Was that only a few weeks ago?
She pointed to the window seat. When we both sat down, she lowered her voice. “He said you were consulting with Delcroft. Like him.”
“Well, not exactly.” I unfolded my arms. I should at least hear her out. “So what’s so important that you had to leave notes all over the North Shore?”
A frown crossed her face, as if she was irritated I felt the need to ask. But then she must have thought better of it, because her expression relaxed. “Gregory and I—well, he was my fiancé.” She held up her left hand so I could see a diamond engagement ring. “I—I can’t take it off. I just, well…” She stared at the ring and twisted it. Then she looked up at me.
“I’m so sorry…”
Her eyes filled and she blinked rapidly, as if struggling to suppress her emotions. My voice trailed off. I got the feeling that she wanted me to know they weren’t just living together like so many young people today. That they had formally pledged themselves to each other. It probably was a family tradition. And now she felt like a widow.
“For your loss,” I finished.
She swallowed, then nodded as though she was tired of hearing such bland, insignificant words.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m afraid…In fact, I am desperate.”
“Why? Are you in danger?”
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“Because I know the truth about Gregory.”
I stiffened. “What truth?”
She lowered her voice. “Gregory said he was going to meet with you the day he died. Where the Blue and Red Line intersect.”
“That’s right.”
She looked at me with a wide, unflinching gaze. “Gregory would never kill himself. Never. He was pushed. I know it.”
There it was.
“Were you there?” she asked after a pause.
I nodded.
“What
do you think?”
I chose my words carefully. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Especially after Delcroft said he was spying for the Chinese.”
“But…” She bit her lip. “You see, that’s only part of it.” She looked around the temple, a cautious expression unfolding across her face. Her voice quieted to a whisper. “I’m here because Gregory said of all the people he’d come in contact with, you seemed like the only normal person.”
I consider myself your average garden-variety neurotic, but thinking about Delcroft’s high-strung executives, security chiefs, and surveillance teams, Parks was probably right.
“And because you work in video,” she went on, “you have contacts. With the news media.”
I started to tell her that wasn’t the case anymore, but she kept going. “I want to restore Gregory’s reputation. His honor. Expose his murder. What they are saying about him is untrue.”
“So he wasn’t a spy?”
She let a long moment pass. “I suppose he was,” she finally said. “But he was a double agent.”
Chapter Forty-seven
Wednesday
“Have you heard of the Uyghurs?” Grace pronounced it “Weegers.”
It took me a moment to close my wide-open mouth. A double agent? What the hell was going on now? I shook my head.
“They’re an ethnic group in China. There are about ten million of us, including Gregory and myself. Most of us live in the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region. It’s in southwestern China in a desert called the Tarim Basin. It borders more than half a dozen other countries, by the way, including Russia, Mongolia, Afghanistan, Pakistan, India, even Tibet. But most Uyghurs are descended from Turks, and because of that, they often look more Caucasian than Asian. Like Gregory,” she said wistfully.
Keanu Reeves. I ran my tongue around my lips. How had I never heard of the Uyghurs?
“And”—she hesitated—“we are Muslims. In fact, we are the second-largest Muslim population in China.”
“Oh.”
“The Uyghurs have struggled for independence for years. China won’t allow it, of course, and the government has gone out of its way to discriminate against us.”
“How?”
“Forced abortions, sterilizations. They refuse to let our children go to school. They put restrictions on food. Some Uyghurs have been—how do you say—kicked out of their homes. And then they put us in prison—on trumped-up charges.” She gazed around the temple, as if seeing her homeland through a gauzy curtain of time. “But we have survived. And we have organized demonstrations. Most have been peaceful, but there have been some confrontations with the police.”
“That explains why I’ve never heard of you,” I said. “China having such a free press and all.”
The corners of her lips moved up, as if I’d scored a point. “Now the Chinese government claims we are terrorists.”
“Because you are Muslims.”
She ran a hand through her hair, as if she was struggling with what to say next. “Well, frankly, a few Uyghurs are—or were—militant. So China and the US listed them as terrorists back in 2002.”
“In the wake of 9/11,” I said.
She nodded. “But you see, it was only a tiny percentage of Uyghurs. It is true that China has seen more terrorist attacks recently. But when the government claims that the Uyghurs are responsible, well, that is a lie. They say we are under the influence of Islamic fundamentalists with ties to al-Qaeda and ISIS. They even say we have weapons of mass destruction.”
“How unusual,” I said. “They must have graduated from the Dick Cheney school of diplomacy.”
She almost smiled. Then she gazed around. The family with the whiny kids had disappeared. Only one man remained, and he seemed to be in no hurry to leave. I eyed him.
So did Grace. She took my arm. “Let’s walk.”
We strolled out of the sanctuary and went down a staircase to the lower level. Ahead of us was a tiny theater where a film about the history of the Baha’i faith was playing. She led me inside, and we sat. We were the only ones there.
Grace went on, speaking just above a whisper. “The important thing to understand is that most Uyghurs are willing to maintain their ties to China, if they would just grant us more autonomy. The truth is that the few incidents that have occurred were motivated by the government’s repression, not by terrorism.”
I gazed up at the film, which was showcasing the Baha’i temples around the world. There were only six or seven, and Chicago’s was certainly the most beautiful. “Grace,” I whispered, “what does this have to do with Delcroft?”
“I’m getting to that. As I said, China can’t send in the army to kill us, so they send in drones instead. There have been dozens of drone strikes in the area. My brother was killed in one just recently. He was only nine years old.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“They target madrassas and mosques. China says it is all part of the war on terror. This is why Gregory wanted the anti-drone technology.”
“For the Uyghurs, not the Chinese government?”
“Actually, for both.”
Chapter Forty-eight
Wednesday
I frowned, about to say, “I don’t get it,” when the man who’d been loitering in the temple poked his head into the tiny theater. When he saw us, he casually entered and sat in the back row. Grace went rigid, and her eyes grew wide. I motioned for her to get up. Together, just as casually, we walked out.
“We should go outside,” I said.
Grace nodded.
I was surprised at how calm I was. Was I getting used to being tailed? As long as no one approached me, I suppose I was. We climbed the stairs back to the main level. I zipped up my parka, and Grace wound a wool scarf around her neck. Together we exited the temple.
“Who do you think he works for?” I yanked a thumb back toward the building.
“I do not know. But they are closing in. I am afraid.”
“Maybe you should leave. Get out of Dodge.”
Her forehead creased.
“It’s an American expression,” I said. “It means get away. Leave Chicago.”
She didn’t reply but steered me toward a battered green Toyota. I sucked in a breath. “You!”
She looked over, clearly surprised by my exclamation.
“You’re the one who’s been following me all over the North Shore!”
She shrugged, as if tailing me was something she did every day, like brushing her teeth. “I had to make sure you were someone I could trust.”
“Do you know how much you scared me? I was ready to call the cops on you!”
She almost smiled. “Now you know what we live with every minute of every day.”
I guess I’d asked for that.
“So.” I tried to remember where we’d left off. “You were saying Gregory wanted Delcroft’s technology for the Uyghurs and the Chinese.”
“Yes. He wanted it for us so we could defend ourselves from China’s drone strikes. But we have no plans to launch them. We don’t have the resources. Or the inclination. So, you see, he did not care if the Chinese had the system as well. It’s a defensive weapon. Of course China would want to protect itself.”
The temperature was dropping. I wrapped my arms across my chest.
“Come,” Grace said. “We will sit in my car.”
I followed her. Once we were inside, she said, “But you see, the real reason China will never give us autonomy is not because they think we’re terrorists. It’s because the Tarim Basin is full of oil. Lots of it. In fact, the government is building a pipeline through the area right now.”
I sighed. “And the arm bone is connected to the thigh bone.”
“What?”
“Another American expression. It always comes back to oil, doesn’t it?”
She shot me a puzzled look.
“How to get it. How to protect it.”
She didn’t say anything.
“And Gregory was tasked with g
etting the technology.”
“He discovered Delcroft was working on a new system and that Hollander was the brains behind it. What he didn’t expect was that she was willing to sell it to General Gao under the table. Gregory became their intermediary.”
Finally, some clarity. I crossed my ankles. If Grace was telling the truth, Hollander wasn’t trying to expose Parks to General Gao. Her explanations to Delcroft—and me—about trying to catch a spy were lies. She was conspiring against her country. She was a traitor.
But why? I gazed through the windshield. She’d been a military brat, I knew; her father had been a high-ranking general. What had turned her against her country? Was it her father? A dysfunctional relationship? Or was it greed? I wondered how much the Chinese were paying her. It had to be millions. Maybe more. I was making mental calculations when Grace spoke.
“It was only after negotiations were under way with her that Gregory realized how useful the technology would be for us.”
“So he was working for the Chinese government when he ‘consulted’ with Delcroft.”
She nodded. “Yes, but Gregory did not think Gao, or his superiors, knew he is—or was—a Uyghur activist too. But I am not so sure.”
“Do you think the Chinese are behind his death?”
“That I do not know. But he was working with Gao and Hollander at the same time he was working for us.”
“Where would the Uyghurs get the money and resources to build a sophisticated anti-drone system?”
“Gregory said he knew sources to tap,” she said. “He kept saying the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
“Here? In the US?”
“I do not know.”
“But then he was killed.”
She bit her lip. “That’s why I came to you. It is time to expose everything. Let the public decide who are the guilty parties.”
I raised my hands and held them out. “Whoa. Hold on, Grace. I’m grateful to know the whole story, but I can’t get involved. Jihadi terrorists…drone strikes…Chinese politics…This is way out of my league.”
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