by Fritz Galt
“Problems?” What sort of problems were there? But he knew Liang was a complex guy with many irons in the fire.
Liang moved past him to the cupboard at the back of the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” Buford asked.
“Downstairs, of course. To keep an eye on Dr. Yu.” With that, Liang pressed a palm against the back of the cupboard, and the entire unit swiveled around, revealing a secret stairway.
“Wait,” Buford called, regaining his pitiful Texas drawl. “Help me push this wheelchair.”
“You can push it yourself, you big fake.” And with that, Liang vanished into the dark recess.
Chapter 19
A gust of wind howled through the room where May and the symposium sat. Then, as if a door had been shut, the air grew still.
By lunchtime, May was dying for fresh air. She remembered the restaurant at the corner of the square. It didn’t take much effort to convince her father to take her there.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, she encountered a gentleman in a red turban. She remembered the tall, swarthy man with sunglasses who had sat in the front row. With a swift motion, he touched the top of her wrist.
“My good lady.” His head weaved left and right as he spoke. His singsong voice sounded like a bad imitation of an Indian accent. “I must advise you.”
“Is that you, Mr. Sullivan?” It was Brad’s father. Why was he at the meeting? And why the getup?
He grinned behind his waxed mustache to confirm her suspicions. But he did not drop the silly accent.
“Your arch enemy is attending the conference,” he went on under his breath. “You must keep a close watch on him. We must learn why he is here.”
“Liang? Here?” Certainly Sullivan was wrong. Liang may have tried to shoot her out of the sky the previous day, but he didn’t have the credentials to attend the conference.
Sullivan touched his eye in a quaint gesture to remind her to watch out and then stood back to let her pass.
Reeling from the encounter, she needed to clear her mind. She grabbed her father by the arm and took him out onto the square.
The previous day’s rain had left the streets damp and the air brisk and clean. It was almost too cool to sit outdoors.
But there were others dining outside, and she couldn’t bear to enter another stuffy building.
“We will sit outside,” she told a waiter.
Minutes later, she and her father were sipping onion soup. She had a good view of conference members approaching the restaurant. She watched the waiter seat Beau Buford with a young man who was already seated there, his back turned. She wouldn’t have recognized the young hunk from his lean face with the long hair, but his mannerisms looked familiar.
For that matter, there were some aspects to Buford or perhaps the way the two men interacted that gave her an odd feeling.
“Who is that man, anyway?” she asked her father, and indicated the wheelchair-bound billionaire with the fedora and shaded glasses.
Dr. Yu tipped his soup bowl up and slurped the remaining broth. Then he explained. The symposium was funded by the newcomer. Beau Buford had appeared out of the blue in late March to announce the meeting.
It had been a challenge for Yu to take up Buford’s invitation to speak, particularly since up until then Yu was no authority on the Shangri-la legend.
“He does know something about Shangri-la, though,” Yu concluded. “And he speaks like an academic.”
“I wonder what the two are up to,” May said.
“What two?”
She pointed with her heart-shaped face at the man seated across from Buford. “My guess is that’s Liang. I want to know what they’re talking about.”
“If that is so, I don’t want to be part of this.” Dr. Yu rose from his seat.
“No, we can’t leave.” She felt sorry for her father. The poor guy had been put through the wringer on numerous occasions by Liang. But Igor Sullivan, the genteel swami, had warned her that Liang was up to something important, and it was vital to know what, not run away. “Look, he isn’t trying to kill us, is he?”
“Kill us?” Yu sat down. “Do you still have the hots for that thug?”
She was insulted. “Are you kidding? No one could be more repulsive.”
“Well, I think he still lusts after you.” He indicated the young man, who had lowered his sunglasses and had turned to stare at them. It was Liang, alright. May would know that intense gaze anywhere.
She had to admit that his attention could be more disconcerting than his anger. After all, there was the uncomfortable memory of sweet, erotic nights in flight school. She had to admit that the guy possessed animal magnetism, but, she reminded herself, his heart was black and she would have nothing more to do with him.
“Brad is my only true love.”
Her father’s eyes flared. “But are you his?”
She bowed her head. She knew exactly what he meant. She and Brad could not go on living out of wedlock forever without their relationship stalling and perhaps failing. She had to admit that there was no sign of permanence besides the unwavering commitment of their hearts.
“Perhaps love is all it takes,” she said meekly.
He threw his spoon into his bowl. He had made his point.
“Guten Tag, Herr Professor,” came a voice from behind.
May turned around. A man in an acrid-smelling, old style suit bent over them. “Wo xing Fried,” he said in flawless Mandarin. His name was “Fried.”
She was entranced by the man’s ethereal nature. “Would you care to join us?”
He seemed to understand her Mandarin, but then proceeded in a mixture of German and English. “Nein, danke. I am looking forward to your speech tomorrow. Perhaps we can talk afterward.” He looked around suspiciously. “I would like to give you something very valuable. For now, please enjoy your meal.”
With that, he shuffled past and disappeared around the corner.
“You meet all kinds,” Yu said with a shrug.
“I wonder what he intends to give you.”
“Nothing more valuable than you,” Yu said with affection.
She sighed. They were a family of two. Since her youth when she had lost her mother in a boating accident on the Grand Canal, the two had shared deep intimacy that could only be felt between a father and daughter.
She would put it another way. Nothing could be more valuable than her dad.
Chapter 20
Late afternoon sunlight slanted into the Rothschild’s personal quarters where Brad stood before a mirror to smooth out a wrinkled collar. The phone rang, breaking the silence. It was station chief Robert Steele inviting him down for dinner.
“Sorry. Can’t make it,” he said. “I’ve got a hot date.”
“I don’t think you understand,” Robert said. “There’s someone here to see you.”
Brad wracked his brains. Who in Paris had access to the American Consulate and one of the most prestigious dinner tables in the city? He had to admit that he was intrigued. But nothing would keep him from his rendezvous. “Listen. Tell this person that I can drop by for hors d'oeuvres, but I’ve got other plans tonight.”
“You won’t regret it,” Robert said enigmatically, and hung up.
Brad turned his attention back to his personal appearance. Not a tall person, he nevertheless had to stoop to see his face in the mirror. His light brown hair was behaving well, although loose ends tickled the tops of his ears. Haircuts were a monthly ordeal in Beijing, and the results hardly seemed worth the effort.
His hazel eyes peered around his classically handsome nose. Was this the face of a man that one could marry?
“Hey, dreamy eyes.” Earl appeared at the doorway. “Your dad’s downstairs.”
“Huh?”
“Stop falling in love with yourself and get down there.”
So that was the guest Robert was alluding to. What was Igor doing in Paris?
He gave his collar a final tug, but th
e wrinkles remained. He whirled around and checked his pockets.
Earl was holding out some euros.
“Thanks.”
“And you wouldn’t want to forget this.” Earl handed him a small box covered in purple velvet.
The ring. Brad must have been more nervous than he thought.
“The dapper bachelor descends to the foyer.”
Downstairs, he veered for the front door before remembering the dinner meeting.
“Hi, Dad. What are you doing in town?”
But when he looked at the table, it wasn’t his father at all. A lean gentleman in a red vest and white pajamas was seated at the table.
“My mistake,” Brad said. “Sorry to disturb you.”
The city was a mind bender. First, he seemed to be trapped in an 18th and 19th Century time warp. Then such a colorful cast of characters had paraded through the Talleyrand residence, from Spanish generals to African ambassadors. Why not Gandhi?
The stranger wiped his lips and rose to his full height. “Not your mistake at all.” He extended a hand. “Good to see you again.”
“What?”
Then Brad saw through the makeup and sunglasses. “Dad?”
“In the flesh. You will forgive my turban at the table.”
Brad took his father’s hand and pumped it warmly. “Jeez, Dad, why are you dressed like this? Is it Carnival or something?”
“I was just attending a meeting of the Shangri-la Society and this was my way of fitting in.”
Brad took exception. “We aren’t all wackos, you know. Shangri-la is an historic myth and deserves to be taken seriously.”
“How seriously?” Sullivan leaned forward with a skeptical cock of the eyebrow.
“Well, exploding myths is hard work,” Brad said. “It’s difficult to show that something you don’t see doesn’t exist.”
The curled tips of Sullivan’s mustache rose with a grin. “I see your point. Now please, join me for dinner.”
Brad could hardly resist. “Just for a moment. I’ve gotta be somewhere.”
“At least eat your salad.” He sounded like the overbearing father he would like to have been. In fact, he had left Brad’s family long before he had a chance to mold Brad’s behavior.
And yet, Brad had welcomed him back as the perfect substitute for his overbearing stepfather. He fell into the seat opposite his father and stared at the plate of greens. He had no other relatives. The thought of Sullivan returning to undercover work stopped him cold.
“I have lived without a proper father for too long,” he said at last. “I don’t want you involved with fieldwork any longer.”
“Field agents are hard to come by.” Sullivan took a bite of salad.
“And so are dads.”
Sullivan lifted his wine glass to toast Brad. “Here’s to dads.”
Brad had once had two fathers. But the one sitting opposite him was his hero. Igor Sullivan could be a foreign agent for all it mattered. He was infinitely more accepting than Professor Richter, his stepfather, had been.
That brute had not only been Brad’s father figure throughout his youth, but later his college mentor. The thought was chilling.
But Richter was gone. Last he heard, Richter was facing trial in Washington. He was a shattered man, humiliated before the nation. And Brad loved it. Richter had more than made his life miserable. He had corrupted Brad’s theories and sought material gain from them, humiliating and endangering Brad in the process. In short, Richter would have stomped all over him had it not been for secret agent Igor Sullivan.
Sullivan set his glass down. “I saw Liang at the symposium today.”
“What?”
May hadn’t mentioned Liang over the phone that afternoon. What sort of danger was she in?
“Don’t worry,” Sullivan said. “Liang wasn’t out to murder her. It appears he’s friends with the man who bankrolled the symposium.”
“Buford?”
Sullivan nodded. “Odd duck.”
“Why would Liang be involved with the Shangri-la Society?”
“I don’t know, but I told May to keep an eye on him. And an eye out for danger.”
Brad rose to his feet. That did it. He would love to spend more time with his dad, but he had even more reason to see May.
“Will you be at the symposium tomorrow?” he asked his father. “I helped Dr. Yu write his speech.”
“No, this swami won’t be there. But maybe someone equally distinguished will.”
Brad winked. His dad would be there.
Chapter 21
Brad walked out of the consulate and straight into a waiting cab.
“Sixième arrondissement,” he said in his best guidebook French.
It was amazing that the driver understood.
Brad watched the golden sunlight fade over the city as they crossed the river. Such a wasted opportunity. The trip to France had been far from romantic. He hadn’t spent a single moment alone with May. But tonight things would be different.
He had thought long and hard about his options for the evening. He could take her for a dinner cruise on the river. He could take her to a show at the Moulin Rouge or Lido. They could wander through the Louvre and immerse themselves in great art. They could watch the sunset from what was left of the Eiffel Tower. He had even contemplated renting Segways for a nighttime tour.
But what he really wanted was to be alone with her, somewhere they could talk and he could pop the big question. He finally settled on a place that was simple and inexpensive. They would stroll through a park.
The only catch was Liang. Brad needed a way to sneak May out of the Chinese Embassy unnoticed. His mind replayed scenes from the movie Roman Holiday. It felt like liberating a princess for a night on the town. In the end, he would not perform the heroic deed. One of her embassy vans would take her to him.
The place he chose to meet up was the Jardin du Luxembourg. Two baguette sandwiches in hand and a diamond ring in his pocket, he entered the park by its east gate.
A stampede of joggers kicked up dirt just inside the gate. Since when did the French jog? He waited for a break in runners, then dodged onto the grounds.
He found a bench and sat down to wait. Nearby, a vendor sold ice cream. The sun reflected off the dome of the Palace de Luxembourg and bathed him in a reddish glow.
Trees were in full bloom and already losing some of their pink and white petals. Students from the nearby universities and colleges sat amid their books and papers, cramming for final exams.
Brad watched the busy sidewalk outside the park. Office workers and shopkeepers headed home for the day. Used Metro tickets fluttered underfoot. Beyond that, cars swarmed around with brisk efficiency, seldom emitting more than a squeal of brakes or a light toot on the horn. Everyone seemed in a pleasant mood.
At last, a white minivan pulled up to the gate and the door slid open.
A trim young woman in a knee-length dress and matching black hair stepped out. Sporting rose-tinted sunglasses, she stared straight ahead and moved efficiently through the crosscurrent of runners. Of all the beautiful creatures in the world, she was the one he would marry.
He waved, and she spotted him on the bench. Without breaking stride, she altered course and headed his way. Where was her smile?
He should have bought her a bunch of flowers. Instead, all he could offer was a crummy stick of bread stuffed with salami and tomatoes. He leaned forward to kiss her. A simple peck on the lips was all he got in return.
So much for the romantic mood.
“Hard day?” he asked. Then he kicked himself. The question had all the sparkle of an after-work martini.
She sat down beside him, but remained perched uneasily on the edge of the bench. “Can we work?”
“Work?”
She tried again, this time more slowly. “Walk.”
“Certainly.” He jumped to his feet. She gave a wary look in all directions.
“Do you think you were followed?”
“I always think,” she said in her abbreviated way.
Wow, she always thought she was being followed. Maybe she didn’t realize that other countries didn’t have a big brother watching.
But that didn’t keep a thug like Liang from following her. That gave him pause. Now he knew how she felt. She was even more vulnerable in the free world.
All she had to defend her were her instincts and his pair of breadsticks.
The main attraction in the park was the enormous Renaissance-style palace where the French senate met. It looked out over a terraced garden and a water basin rimmed by statues. There, families steered toy motorboats by remote control.
He and May paused to watch the cluster of boats that tried to navigate around the central fountain. Parents waited patiently while their children commanded mighty ships. Would he ever be so patient?
Would she ever want children?
The thought had never crossed his mind. Had it ever crossed hers? He might well ask himself if he had it in him to become a dad.
She seemed uneasy standing still for any length of time, so they moved on. They walked through the naked statues of famous women and French queens. She averted her gaze and grabbed him as she picked up speed. He dodged a pair of breasts just in time.
They climbed out of the garden to a field where a pair of boys played soccer. Brad selected a course that cut diagonally across the lawn. Unexpectedly, the ball rolled to May’s feet.
Interesting. He had never seen her with a ball before. How would she react? How would she treat the young boys? Was she a witch or a good sport? He had no idea, but he would take her either way.
She stopped the ball with the pointed toe of her sandal. Her cool expression didn’t change behind her tinted shades. The boys pulled up short, suddenly afraid to claim the ball.
Brad looked around uneasily. People were watching from the gravel path. Then May stepped back and launched into the ball. It flew over one boy and landed at the feet of the other. She gathered her dress and hauled toward the goal at the far end of the field. The boy wheeled around and passed the ball just out of reach of his opponent and toward May. It bounced once and she kneed it into the air just in front of her. Then she bashed it with her forehead and drilled it into the net. Thierry Henry couldn’t have done better.
