The Mandarin Club

by Gerald Felix Warburg

  “Rachel? May I see you a moment?” It was Talbott, in a gray suit at the doorway. How long had he been watching?

  “Certainly. Karen, will you take over?” She slid her charts to a colleague on her right and stood, relieved to have been rescued from her dangerous daydreams.

  The walk down the hall to Mr. Talbott’s temporary office on the other side of the suite was awkward. After some time, her boss spoke.

  “It’s the FBI again, Rachel.” Talbott, ever the proper Brahmin, pronounced the word “again” with a formal long “A.” “They requested the opportunity to see just the two of us first.”

  Then, as they approached the Fourteenth Street corner of the floor, there was Mr. Hickman, he of the sad eyes and neighborly smile, standing with an assistant. Hickman reached to greet her, a firm shake offered with a bracing left hand and a steadying gaze. She fancied him, and was embarrassed to find herself checking for a wedding ring.

  “I have some good news,” Hickman began after they were seated. “As you know, we’ve shared your frustration trying to solve this one.”

  “We know you have been making every effort,” Talbott said. “But it has been several weeks now. And the perpetrators are still at large.”

  “Yes. And we know your personal loss has been compounded by the disruptions and the need for added security.”

  “It has been a terrible loss. And a terrible uncertainty.”

  “Sir, as you know, there were no claims of responsibility. It’s been a lot harder given the number of possible suspects. I mean, there have been a number of sensitive areas we have had to get into, the need to coordinate with FBI, CIA, Homeland Security.”

  “Sensitive areas?” Talbott asked.

  “Just all the different folks—foreign interests and all—that you do business with. So many people coming and going from your offices that day, too.”

  “Mr. Hickman, is this not a murder investigation? This isn’t CIA work. I don’t understand.”

  “Certainly, sir. And that is how we’ve treated it. It’s just that we had a lot of ways to go trying to establish motive. We’ve had to analyze a certain amount of circumstantial evidence on who the real targets were. The Canadian Ambassador. Senator Smithson. Mr. Dooley.”

  What does this have to do with Mickey? Rachel was confused as she listened to them parry like attorneys. Where was this going?

  “And your conclusions?” Talbott cut short the speculation with his own question.

  “We think we’ve got it resolved.”

  “Resolved?”

  “We think we know who it was that day with the bomb.”

  “Indeed. Who?”

  “We have no positive ID. The bomb was apparently in the perpetrator’s lap. Didn’t leave much intact to work with, I mean, on DNA.” The FBI man pivoted as he got to the point. “Mr. Talbott, what more can you tell us about the New World Land Company?”

  “The Hong Kong investment consortium?”

  “Yeah. The real estate outfit.”

  “That was one of Mr. Porter’s ventures with the Hightower Fund.”

  “And how much do you know about his partners in this venture?”

  “Actually, very little. You see, Mr. Hickman, as we have explained to you several times, I run the government relations shop. Mr. Porter managed our international investments. But how does this relate to the bombing?”

  “Mr. Talbott, Ms. Paulson.” Rachel started a bit at the mention. She had begun to think the two of them had forgotten she was there. “It seems that Mr. Porter may have left his Asian partner holding the bag on some bad debt. We are still sorting this out. But it appears that this partner, Joseph Cheung, saw a couple of his real estate ventures crater last month, triggering default clauses in the loan agreements. Then he disappeared. We’ve traced his movements to Washington on April 1. He was seen leaving the Mayflower Hotel early that morning, and we think he headed over here in a cab. We believe the bomb was on his lap in the cab in front of the garage when it detonated.”

  “Joseph Cheung?” Talbott maintained perfect decorum, his bearing erect as ever. “You believe Mr. Cheung was responsible for all this?”

  “Yes,” Hickman responded confidently, “that’s where we’re heading.”

  “Cheung, a murderer?”

  “Well, it may prove to be a crime of revenge.”

  “Revenge?”

  “Payback. We’ve had our sources trying to get more details out of Hong Kong this week. But frankly, the cooperation of the Hong Kong authorities comes only in fits and starts. Helpful one week, stonewalling the next. So the work has been quite challenging.”

  “I see.”

  “Mr. Hickman?” Rachel said. “May I ask a question?”

  “Yes.” His soft eyes held her again.

  “Are you sure you understand who they were trying to kill? The bomb went off right outside our main offices, where Mr. Talbott and I were due to be meeting. I mean, on your recommendation, I’ve had police around my house twenty-four hours a day ever since.”

  “That’s right, ma’am. We appreciate your cooperation. And I certainly understand your concern.” His steady gaze calmed her. “But there’s evidence that Mr. Cheung had issues only with Mr. Porter. Mr. Cheung had suffered a series of business reversals in the Hong Kong real estate market. He apparently blamed Mr. Porter and his Hightower Fund for exacerbating a run on his capital. Cheung went to Tokyo before he came to Washington. He was erratic, drinking heavily, and ranting during his meetings with his Japanese bankers. Your Mr. Porter allegedly defrauded him, then pulled the rug out from under him with their partners in Tokyo. So we think we are pretty solid on motive.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s also clear that the bomb itself was targeted at personnel—there wasn’t a whole lot of structural damage beyond the entrance and the offices facing the street. It was people he was after.”

  “So Alan was killed over money?” Talbott said. “What a horrid thought.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And. . . do you think we are safe now?” Rachel asked.

  “Yes. Mr. Cheung was after just Porter, and was heading for his office. We plan to notify local jurisdictions over the course of the morning and withdraw the police protection. Sorry for the intrusion.”

  Mr. Hickman stayed for a while, and the three shared a coffee, Rachel drinking deeply, craving the caffeine jolt. Talbott and Hickman reviewed how they would handle the release of information regarding the investigation’s wrap-up. Soon, the rest of Rachel’s first morning back was gone, lost to internal PR planning and to calculating discussions about who should be told what.

  They were doing what the TPB team did best. They were shaping the news, sculpting content, spinning the murder of one of their own. Their PR team would blithely explain away the violence on their own doorstep.

  So this was where it all led, she thought. This is how it would have ended for me—with a carefully massaged press release regretting my demise.

  When finally they broke just before the noon hour, Rachel found herself spent. No longer able to face her day, she felt compromised by the compulsion to flee.

  She gave in. She rode the elevator down to her BMW and drove out the F Street garage, its entry covered with fresh whitewash. She turned left on Fifteenth Street, driving past the rows of Vietnamese-American tee-shirt vendors, all the way to Constitution Avenue. She drove down the Mall, past the White House and the Ellipse, rolling through the flashing yellow light at Twenty-Third, then pulling up the westbound ramp onto the Roosevelt Bridge. She hit the northbound merge onto the George Washington Parkway in a transfixed state, and drove right past her Spout Run exit.

  Opening the sunroof, she saw now, for the first time, what a glorious spectacle this May day had become. Full green-leafed oaks lined a brilliant blue ribbon of water, several crews sculling in the river’s center. Every neck was strained, oars cocked, awaiting a signal from a small boat alongside. As she cruised past, the stillness was abruptly b
roken by a signal that sent the athletic bodies churning down river in a frenzy, all arms working together.

  Rachel drove on in silence. She was an electronic runaway, her Blackberry turned off and stuffed in the glove compartment. She felt wild as she opened all the windows, breathing deeply again, letting the wind whip her hair and flatten her silk blouse against her chest.

  She took the McLean exit and retreated south down Kirby Road through neighborhood streets toward home. She found the driveway once again empty; the police had apparently gotten the FBI call to withdraw.

  She felt relieved as she returned, the home blessedly quiet at mid-day. Barry had already been and gone over the weekend. He and Jamie had taken in the latest Harry Potter movie on Sunday before Barry headed up to New York City for the week. But the debris Jamie and Rachel had left during their frantic morning getaway remained—a Corn Flakes box on the counter, a hair brush and a milky napkin by the sink.

  She found reassurance in the hum of the dishwasher. At least she’d remembered to set the timer to run their bowls and cups. She began to walk the house, her methodical patrol, double-checking the locks and dead-bolting the front door.

  She was alone with her thoughts as she walked up the stairway, kicking off her shoes at the landing. In the master bedroom, she ran a bubble bath, pausing to watch the foam steadily rise. She leaned against the sink with a sigh as she took the last clips from her hair and peeled off her stockings. She finished undressing, tossed her clothes on the bed, then returned to regard herself dispassionately in the bathroom mirror. After a few moments, she shut off the water and reached for a towel, before remembering it was Monday—her big laundry day—which meant no towels.

  She slipped naked down the stairs toward the dryer in the laundry room. As she passed the door to Barry’s den, she stopped at his music center and impulsively reached for a Stanley Turrentine CD, some fluid saxophone to fit her flighty mood. Then she adjusted the speaker controls to throw the sound into the master bedroom suite.

  She sat against the arm chair, fiddling with the dials, and then she turned and gazed about the room, feeling the chill of leather against her bare bottom. The room was all Barry, all controls and smooth surfaces. The neat-as-a-pin desk. The locked filing cabinets. The abstract graphic print hiding the wall safe. The coolness masking the infinite inaccessibility.

  That was it, she realized—his infinite inaccessibility. That’s what hurt her the most. All those years of trying to rediscover his heart, to comfort him in his secret retreats, to revive his ardor. All those dollars wasted on frilly underwear she’d ordered from the Victoria Secret catalogues in a fruitless search for a renewed spark.

  Despite her anger, she felt mischievous. In her noon-time escape, she searched for an old tune, a recalled scent, a mood upon which to float away as she sat right there on Barry’s chair. She savored the sensation for a long minute, then stood, tall and shameless, to leave. She stretched her calves, leaning jogger-like against the arm of the couch. For a moment, she felt fairly Amazonian. Men just might be dispensable.

  A flicker of motion alerted her eyes. Her pupils locked on the back of a man’s head, then a nose in profile outside the window glass, just turning round the shrub. A face, peering past her, expressionless.

  “Aaah.” It was a grunt she huffed out, lacking the volume of a scream. She darted behind the lounger, then, like a crab, scurried on hands and knees toward the stairs, her bad shoulder throbbing anew as she cursed.

  She swung to her feet in the hallway, elbows to chest now, racing up the stairs as she shouted. Her arms were shaking, the image of the impassive face against the glass superimposed with all the villains she had ever feared.

  She spun around at the landing just in time to see, at the louvered window in the front doorway, the silhouette of yet another figure, slightly crouched, with a gun in hand. This time she screamed, an impressive guttural scream of rage and violation. She leaped up the last few steps and raced into the bedroom, grabbing her cell phone from the dresser. Her heart was drumming as she ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  For a second, she considered making a run back to Barry’s den with the key to the pistol he insisted on keeping locked in his desk drawer. But the den was too far to risk now. So much for all the gun safety crap, she thought, in a fury now.

  “Goddamn FBI,” she muttered as she punched 911, leaning against the pathetic button lock on the bathroom door. “Got your man. Right!”

  “Hello, this is Emergency Operations. What is—”

  “I’m at 3631 Chesterbrook. There are two men trying to break in!”

  “Calm down, ma’am.”

  “I am calm! They have guns!”

  “That’s 3631? What is the cross street?”

  “Thirty-sixth Road. Three-six-three-one! There are men at both doors with guns!”

  “Two armed men. I understand. We will get Arlington Police units on the way as we speak.”

  “Hurry! Please! We had the police here! Where the hell are they now?”

  “I’m going to stay on the phone with you. Now just stay calm. Where are you in the house?”

  “I’m in the damn bathroom!” Then she stopped speaking. Over the casual settling of the bath bubbles, she could hear the creaking sounds of feet steadily climbing the staircase.

  “Ma’am? Is this the Lavin-Paulson home at 3631 Chesterbrook. My records show that—”

  “They’re inside!” she whispered frantically. “They’re coming up the stairs.”

  Rachel would never be a docile victim. She set the phone on the counter and searched for a weapon, any weapon. She grabbed the hair dryer with one hand, a heavy silver brush—an antique with a formidable handle—with the other.

  She stepped into the bath, leaning on the damp tiles as she crouched expectantly. Over the crackle of the 911 operator’s voice coming from her cell on the counter, she could hear a distant siren. She switched off the noisy phone. Her mind was surging, searching for an escape. Her knees were moist, sweat mixing with steam.

  “Touch that door and I’ll blow your fucking head off!” she shouted into the silence. She could hear the floorboards squeak, then someone’s footsteps scuffling away from the other side of the door. “I’ve got a gun in here and I know how to use it!”

  The cell phone rang, startling her before she snatched it. She cradled the hair dryer under one arm, her eyes still intent on the locked door.

  “Mrs. Paulson, do you hear me?” The 911 operator was shouting in her ear. “We have units in your—”

  “They’re in my damn bedroom!”

  “Hello? You in there, Ms. Paulson?” The voice from outside was deep, and quite close. “Open up.”

  She stopped her breathing a moment and, ignoring the telephone, considered her options.

  “Is the intruder in sight?” said the voice beyond the door.

  She spit out a response: “Who are you?”

  “Arlington County Police. Are you being held?”

  There was another voice at the bedroom doorway now—softer and younger. There were sirens approaching fast down the street. “Got you covered, Mike. We’re clear downstairs.”

  “Ms. Paulson. Can you open the door? Please put down your gun and show us your hands!”

  Her eyes were darting about as she thought. It took another few seconds for a clear picture to emerge from her confusion, for her to comprehend.

  She sank to the edge of the tub and sat, slowly setting down her chosen weapons as she began to shake. She gathered herself and spoke into the phone: “Operator, what are the names of the officers in my house?” She could make out the squawk of walkie-talkies in the foyer and her bedroom.

  “Ms. Paulson! Put down your weapon.” The voice behind the door was all business now. “Come out with your hands up. Please!”

  “Greer and Paschetti,” the operator said.

  Rachel closed her eyes very tight. She could hear more shouts outside on the lawn.

  “The officers are
in the house with the pass key your husband gave Arlington Police.” The operator was insistent now. “They were coming back over to drop off the key when they saw some suspicious activity and heard screams inside—”

  “Officers?” Rachel called through the door. “What are your names?”

  “Officer Paschetti and Officer Greer. Arlington Police. Now please put down your weapon and we’ll secure the residence.”

  How much dignity could she muster? She waited as long as she could. “Guys, uh, I don’t know how to say this. . .”

  “Come out with your hands clear!” The voice had grown stern. “You sure you’re alone?”

  “Yeah,” she said, trying to compose herself at the door, “and, uh, two things.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, first, I lied. I don’t have a gun in here.”

  “Just come out. We’ve got the door covered.”

  “And, uh, second, the, uh, the towels are all in the laundry. So, if you’d grab me a robe from the closet, please, I’m afraid I’m buck naked.” Then—what else to do?—she opened the door and strode purposefully out, palms pointed skyward.

  The uniformed officers were locked in identical Police Academy firing stances, deployed about her bedroom with their guns drawn. Officer Greer, the one she suspected she had seen at the den window, stepped forward tentatively. There was a terrycloth robe in his left hand.

  It was several hours later, after a couple of Coors Lights and a long Monopoly game with Jamie, before her nerves began to settle. She followed the boy around, sitting at his elbow until he finished his science homework, and shampooing his hair when he bathed.

  “You sure you’re OK, Mom?” the boy asked. He scrunched up his nose, his head cocked, as he searched for some clue, still suspicious after her bland reassurance.

  She struggled mightily to suppress the scenes of the day—the cops, the humiliating scene in the bedroom. She labored to expunge it all, to bury it in the file of Embarrassing Moments Never to be Relived.

  She was still addled later in the evening, after Jamie was asleep. She finally settled into bed after ten and began to read the morning’s Post. Pathetic, she thought as she lay in an oversize tee-shirt. Big Washington expert and I haven’t even read the local section news. It was happening more often these days. She’d begun once more to live in fear of being found out, ignorant of some crucial development, exposed for her failure to stay on top of the game. Maybe she was a fraud.