by Rob Wood
Cochrane frowned. “Do I look like I have wrinkles to you?”
“No. Of course not. It was just a point of interest.”
“Honestly, Purdy,” groused Cochrane. “You can ruin a perfectly romantic evening spent over fish maw and all-baloney with a reference to wrinkle removal. And you think decanting wine is all about levers, fulcrums and engineering!”
“Speaking of wine, I’d go with something imported,” continued Purdy, paying no mind to Cochrane’s needling. “The Chinese are at least a decade away from top-tier viticulture. The Great Wall product they offer here is just colored water.”
“Not to worry. I know my way around a wine list,” said Cochrane. “I’m a sucker for an oaky chardonnay.”
“Good choice. For fish maw.”
“Say, is this banter?” She raised her eyebrows quizzically.
“Absolutely,“ nodded Purdy, and they teased one another happily, chatting and digging into the fish maw soup that lay like a cloud caught in lovely, hand-painted enamel bowls. The dinner drew to a close with a platter of fresh fruit cut into exquisite boats, pagodas, and a replica of the Great Wall itself.
“Seriously, Cochrane, I am impressed that you don’t back away from anything—a near vertical rock face or a culinary challenge.”
“The Irish kids that Mama Cochrane raised were all kick-ass competitive. Nobody shrank from a challenge.”
“Giving the Navy the right answers on the Asian baddies here on the rim of the world—that’s not easy,” said Purdy appreciatively.
“No. But I’m not even in the same league as my sister. My sister is a pediatric oncologist—now that’s one tough job.” Cochrane stopped in mid thought. Thoughts of home were often difficult for her. She could decide to confide in her companion. Or not.
“Be sure to get your butt off the couch and be ready to rock and roll early in the morning, Purdy.”
“Aye aye, ma’am. Hutongs here we come.”
19
AIDING AND ABETTING
If Purdy had been tour guide on the flight deck of the Vinson, it was clearly Cochrane’s turn in old Beijing.
“Beijing’s hutongs are narrow alleyways laid out in Escher-like folds in a roughly east-west crisscross inside the Second Ring Road,” she explained. “At one time, most of Beijing lived in these alleys, behind high masonry walls that enclosed courtyards. You know, the siheyuans.”
Purdy nodded. “Siheyuan equals courtyard.”
“Because the alleys ran east-west, “Cochrane continued, “the courtyards off the hutongs could open to the south, satisfying Feng shui. There was normally a main home on the east-west axis reserved for the oldest generation. Guests and newer family members occupied the rooms running north to south off the main building.
“The thing is, some of these hutongs are so narrow a full-grown man has to inch sideways through them,” Cochrane explained to her six-foot friend. “It’s a rabbit warren in there.”
They chose to enter the hutongs from the area of the Lusongyuan Hotel—if only because that’s where most of the tourists entered.
The cab dropped them at a corner where stalls were set up cheek by jowl, selling a bewildering variety of merchandise—scrolls, fans, giant ink brushes, knock-offs of North Face outdoor clothing, Chinese pipes, old coins, luggage, imitation jade and imitation Rolexes, plus the ubiquitous Mao hats with red stars.
And what a racket! The vendors didn’t hesitate to shout out: “English! You know me. Remember me! I give you best price!”
The retail din was often punctuated by a burst of what sounded like gunfire. Purdy instinctively reached for a sidearm that wasn’t there.
Cochrane caught his arm. “Firecrackers,” she said. “Maybe somebody got married, had a baby, or passed an exam.”
Just behind the thicket of motorcycle rickshaws waiting for tourists, there was a heap of firecrackers. It was three feet deep and smoldering. When the flame reached them, the little sticks of gunpowder exploded in a staccato burst.
“Those firecrackers are everywhere—it’s a Chinese thing,” Cochrane assured Purdy, “Now relax. We might as well be tourists—and shop!” She prowled among the stalls examining old brass locks and hinges.
“What do we need those for?” scowled Purdy
“We? Don’t you sound like the unhappy husband! Am I taking you away from popping a cold one and watching the big game?”
Purdy rolled his eyes.
“I like this and I’m going to get it!” Cochrane burbled, holding up a set of exquisite glass snuff bottles that had been meticulously painted on the inside. The artist had extended a slender brush into the bottle to draw sampans, pagodas, gardens and Tang Dynasty courtesans.
“I know these are not antiques, but I love them,” said Cochrane. “Did you know that although China leads the world in cigarette smoking today, before the revolution it was illegal to smoke? The Qing Dynasty leaders allowed snuff, however, because it was thought to be a medicine, useful for treating colds and headaches. And you’d like this, my techie friend—snuff bottlers were ergonomically designed to fit snugly in the palm of the hand. You get a tactile charge just holding them. It’s sensual. You’d like it.
“What’s more, I’m going to fill these properly—with this!” She chuckled as she purchased a bottle of what was advertised as Chanel No. 5, unlikely though that seemed. She poured the contents into each of the antique perfume bottles. In each case, she stopped well short of the top.
“Cochrane—you are aiding and abetting evil.” Purdy gave her a mock scolding. “You know China just deconstructs French perfume and then mass-produces the stuff on the cheap—no patent fees, no trade duties, no . . .”
Cochrane’s attention was momentarily diverted. A little old lady plucked at her sleeve and smiled up at her like some winsome pixie. She was selling fans.
She opened one, nodding like a wooden toy. “If you like, I have bigger ones at home. One fill your whole wall!” She smiled a yellow-toothed smile.
Cochrane started to say no, then caught something familiar about the fan. “Purdy,” she said slowly and precisely. “Let’s buy a fan.”
Purdy rolled his eyes again and reached for his wallet. “Okay, girlfriend, I’ve got this.”
“No,” said Cochrane, “I mean a really big fan. One that would fill the whole wall. One that would match the scroll I received.” And she gave Purdy a look.
“You come now!” The old woman pulled at her sleeve, turned and hobbled down a hutong. Although wizened and bent, she set a good pace.
“The fan—it was nushu!” whispered Cochrane.
They followed the Chinese grandmother as she darted into successively smaller and darker alleys out of the main tourist area, until they were in a long cool stretch shaded by old gnarled persimmon trees.
Purdy looked over his shoulder repeatedly. “We are alone. I don’t know if that’s so good,” he muttered to Cochrane.
The old lady entered a siheyuan and deposited herself on a stone bench. She looked at them with watery eyes, the wispy gray hair falling over her face.
She coughed. “We are alone. And it is very good!” she said.
“That voice!” said Cochrane.
It was not a frail old lady speaking to them now.
“If you appreciated the scrolls she gave you, a visit to the hutongs and siheyuans is an indispensable part of any trip to Beijing!” The woman chuckled. “Welcome. I’ve been expecting you.”
“Lily Zhang!” said Purdy, astonished.
“A little silicone . . . a lot of experience,” she shrugged. “You wished to speak with me, Lieutenant?”
“But why the disguise?”
“Being an actress—a real actress—has its advantages. I can move about in a way that I could not as Lily Zhang. Celebrities are watched everywhere, aren’t they? And Lily Zhang is watched in particular by the PLA Security Group. They are looking for you, too.”
“Why?” asked Cochrane.
“A security officer—Co
lonel Cao Kai—seems to have a connection to the Korean the Vinson fished out of the ocean. He does not know that the man was dead when you found him. In any case, he wonders what you know about the Korean. And he intends that you learn nothing more—ever, about anything.”
“He put a contract out on us?” gasped Cochrane.
“The guys that dropped in on us on the rock in Yangshuo,” said Purdy.
“Exactly. They were thugs hired for what your American spy movies call ‘wet employment,’” smiled Zhang.
“It would be unlikely that regular security forces would draw and fire weapons so indiscriminately,” she continued. “It’s just not Chinese. And it probably means Cao did not have permission of his bureau to do it, anyway. So, he’s operating on his own—freelancing. But he does have the clout to have you taken into custody by security forces. Watch for them. They’ll be more discreet than the gang in Yangshuo. But once they have you, you won’t like the outcome.”
“We wanted to ask for your help,” said Purdy. Briefly he outlined the fear that the nuclear material could be spirited away over the mountain passes on the Xinjiang frontier—just as drugs currently were.
“Do you have the means to shut the door on this stuff?” he asked.
“Consider it done,” she said. “I will attend to that personally.”
“That will leave us free to pursue other avenues,” said Purdy.
“Good luck. Watch your backs,” counseled Zhang. “Do not go back to your hotel. They’ll have traced you by now. Any room—virtually any closed space where you are alone—should be viewed as a trap. Can you leave now, this instant? Do you have everything you need?”
Cochrane instinctively patted the Navy intel pack. “Yes.”
“I suggest you move north to Harbin,” said Zhang. “It used to be Russian. There are many still there, and you could pass for Russians, I think?” she looked at them.
Cochrane and Purdy nodded. They’d done it before, and there were Russian passports in the intel pack.
“From Harbin, it’s only an hour to Vladivostok. Make your way to the commercial docks there. You’ll find a fast boat. It’ll take you out to sea, one leg on your way to a rendezvous with your U.S.S. Vinson.”
“This boat—how will we know it?”
“It will be named for you,” smiled Zhang.
She would have said more, but suddenly they heard running footsteps and excited voices coming closer.
“No one ever comes here!” said Zhang, alarmed. “Follow me.” She ran to the courtyard wall where a square wagon on rickety wheels was pulled up. She upended the wagon.
“The body is sturdy. Stand on this. Go over the wall. It’s a big hutong there—it empties out on a main street about a mile and a half away. There you can get a cab or a bus and mingle with people. Hurry!”
Cochrane and Purdy jumped from the wagon body to the top of the wall and scrambled up.
Looking over her shoulder, Cochrane saw that the strong and stalwart figure of Lily Zhang had disappeared. A little old lady was painfully pushing her wagon toward the gate of the courtyard. It was just a glimpse.
20
NECESSITY IS . . .
Purdy and Cochrane dropped down on the other side of the courtyard wall and walked swiftly away. Cochrane leaned into Purdy, hanging on his arm. They were a couple. Just a young man and woman being tourists. Purdy laughed from time to time, turning to point out something in a siheyuan.
“Some of these places look kind of rough,” he whispered. “Like they should have a sofa outside or an old Mercury up on blocks.”
Cochrane nodded. “Anyone with means has moved out to a condo.”
As they moved west, they picked up more and more people. The little river of humanity emptied out of the alley into a main street. Where the alley met the main street, the area was lined on each side with booths, noodle shops, bicycles, motor-rickshaws, and heaps of firecrackers.
“There!” said Purdy nodding to where two beefy men in crew cuts, about 20 yards apart, were surveying the crowd. They looked like rocks in a stream, with the flow of people breaking around them. They were conspicuous because they were not bent in conversation, nor did they show any interest in the detritus of fake antiques and mass-produced souvenirs lined up on the side of the alley. In fact, they were facing the wrong way to even view these items.
“It’s the fuzz.”
“Let’s duck in here.” Purdy steered them into the shadows of an open-air noodle shop. They moved to a table mid-way back, past the front of the shop where, on one side, a steaming pot of hot water bubbled on an open fire, lit in a garbage can. A few feet opposite, a man floured and spun a rope of dough, readying noodles for the pot. Each table had a jar of communal chopsticks. A menu was chalked on a board in back of the flaming garbage can.
“Purdy, remember what Lily Zhang said about enclosed spaces? Let’s not box ourselves in. There’s only one way out here,” cautioned Cochrane.
“Too late. I think we’ve been made,” said Purdy. “Keep your head down and be ready to run.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Purdy was following one of the security men, as the man walked tentatively toward them, like a hunter who didn’t want to startle a rabbit.
“You sit here. I think I’ll order for us,” Purdy said.
Cochrane’s jaw dropped. “Oh, my God!”
Purdy approached the noodle maker and smiled, chatting in his best Putonghua. The man, out of courtesy—or maybe surprise—acquiesced to Purdy’s request and handed over the dough.
Purdy started tossing the dough up and down in his right hand like a softball. Then he twisted it to the right, stretched it and folded it in half, then repeated the movement to the left.
“Purdy, have you lost your mind?” Cochrane croaked.
The shop grew quiet. A round-eye working dough was a first-class novelty. The cop watched, too, halting by the pot of steaming noodle water.
“Working the dough like this orients the gluten fibers along the length of the rope, Cochrane,” said Purdy, “so you can make nice long noodles. . . . Head for those motor-cycle rickshaws. Be ready to run on my signal.”
He parted his hands, stretching the dough across his chest for maybe five feet, then started it rotating high in the air like a Ferris wheel.
“Now, Cochrane!”
Cochrane pushed her chair back and bolted.
As the chair scraped on the concrete floor, the cop turned to look. Purdy slammed the rope of dough, already a spray of flailing noodles, into the pot of hot water, splashing it into the cop. The cop screamed and covered his eyes. Purdy ran after Cochrane who, having scooped up a mound of smoldering firecrackers in one hand, was trying to mount a bicycle.
“Not that one, Cochrane—this one!”
Purdy planted his left foot, spun 180 degrees and arced his right boot into the face of a rickshaw driver, rocketing him off his motorcycle.
Purdy straddled the bike, opened the throttle and Cochrane tumbled into the passenger box at the back, still clutching the firecrackers. The “son of a rickshaw” roared off, skittering pebbles in its wake.
Furious, the second cop started bellowing like a crazy man— holding aloft his police card, and turning his claxon voice left and right over the crowd. A moment later about a dozen pedicabs and rickshaws were trailing Purdy and Cochrane like a swarm of bees.
“Hang on!” snapped Purdy. He swung the bike hard left, jumped the curb and shot down the sidewalk, scattering frightened pedestrians as if they had been so many dry leaves.
Unbelievably, the phalanx of crazed cabbies copied the move, hurtling down the sidewalk, jostling for the lead, screaming their lungs out.
“Their blood’s up,” muttered Purdy through clenched teeth.
One of the cabbies drove straight into a concrete planter. The flowers shivered. The pedicab bounced up, back, and smashed into three others that spun off to the side, spilling the goods in vegetable stalls in a cascade of boluses: turnips, onions, and ugly f
ruit. A restaurant window crinkled in a web of brilliant cracks, then dropped its shards in a rush that sounded like melting snow sliding off a roof.
“Well, that cut the numbers,” said Cochrane looking back. “But I’d say odds are still against us.”
“Let’s see them do this.” Purdy took a deep breath, braked hard and swung his vehicle back into the street . . . and against the flow of oncoming traffic.
“Purdy!” Cochrane screamed. “You maniac!”
She pitched violently left and then right with the skidding cab, feeling the tug at the pit of her stomach, still clutching the bundle of firecrackers that chattered and singed holes in her shirt and peppered her hands with tiny hot cinders. All she could think about was the grill of an oncoming bus that momentarily loomed in front of them, then slipped away, just as if Purdy had the remote and was changing the channel.
“You’re no match for Beijing drivers,” Purdy,” she said looking back. “They’re not giving up.”
“Don’t they know they could die?” he cursed.
“Not yet,” she said. “Hold this thing steady and slow up a little.”
“What?”
“Do it!” she ordered.
He looked in the side mirror and caught a glimpse of her. She’d fished a perfume-filled snuff bottle out of her pack and was pulling the cork with her teeth.
Cochrane shoved a smoldering firecracker into the opening and held the bottle for a moment, noting that it conformed to her palm in a most pleasing way.
“Here they come,” said Purdy, seeing the cabbies close and bunch on the left side.
Cochrane glanced once more at the exquisite scene of a river town painted in her perfume bottle then tossed it up and at their pursuers.
There was a flash, a bang, and a burst of shattered glass like a little meteor shower. Two of the lead cabbies jerked their hands to their faces. Their pedicabs slowed, swerved and smashed into oncoming traffic. Those that followed got churned into the snarl of wreckage, blaring horns, and the crunch of rumpled steel.
