Tell Me No Lies (30 page)

He looked up as Stone lit a cigarette.

"Apparently the recent emigrees are giving the locals a run for their money, power-wise," O'Donnel said. "Like Lee. Beg, borrow, earn or steal money, and then use it to buy your way to power and respectability."

"Face," Stone said succinctly. He rubbed his jaw, testing the length of the stubble. "The Chinese didn't invent that method of getting ahead," he pointed out. "Every immigrant group has done pretty much the same thing. Including the Irish."

O'Donnel grinned. "Yeah. Old Joe Kennedy didn't do bad for himself, did he?"

"A president, an attorney general, a senator and enough money that he didn't have to count it anymore. No, old Joe didn't do bad at all." Stone yawned and checked his watch again.

"After the benevolent society reunion," continued O'Donnel, "Lindsay and Catlin went to Asian-American Imports. Two hours, more or less. They didn't buy anything."

"Did they meet anyone?"

O'Donnel made a frustrated sound. "We don't think so, but we can't be sure. Once they get off the tourist track, they're damn hard to tail."

"I'd think they would stand out."

"So do the tails, and you told us to be very sure not to tip any watchers that Lindsay is being followed."

Stone sighed and took a hard drag on his cigarette. A pretty problem, hiding a round-eye surveillance team in Chinatown. Not that Lindsay or Catlin needed to be fooled, but any surveillance by the opposition was another matter altogether. "Don't any of the local Bureau boys blend in?"

"Most of the ones who do are undercover already, working on organized crime. If we pull them, we jeopardize their cases."

"I'll talk to the director. We've got to have people who can go into Chinatown and not stick out like dams on rice."

O'Donnel carefully kept his face expressionless. The San Francisco Bureau was already unhappy about its turf being invaded by D.C. brass who explained themselves only within the most stringent need-to-know rules. If Stone started yanking local agents out of cover to work on a case that had all the earmarks of becoming a no-win political hot potato, there would be real hell to pay. But then, Stone knew that better than anyone else. If he were even considering it, the director must be camped on Stone's ass – and the President must be similarly camped on the director.

"They had lunch at a no-name Sichuan place. Or if it had a name, the tail sure as hell couldn't read it." O'Donnel looked over the notebook. "The agent who was working in close said he'd never eaten better Chinese in his life."

Stone put out his cigarette and thought of the congealed hotel food that had been his last meal. "Wonder if they do a takeout business," he muttered.

Smiling, O'Donnel continued his recital. "Nobody approached Lindsay or Catlin. Of course, they could have given their life stories to the waiter and we wouldn't have been the wiser," O'Donnel said, scanning the page quickly. "Not speaking Chinese can be a real handicap in this part of America." He began to laugh. "Oh, Jesus, I'd forgotten about that. The poor son of a bitch."

Stone listened to O'Donnel's laughter for a moment and then said, "Who?"

"The agent who was working in close. He no more speaks Chinese than I speak Gaelic. So his helpful non-English-speaking Chinese waiter goes over to Lindsay's table and enlists the pretty blonde's aid. She goes over, translates the menu for the agent and then goes back to her own table."

Throwing back his head, Stone laughed, knowing just how uncomfortable the agent must have been.

"I'll bet Catlin nearly busted something keeping a straight face," said O'Donnel, snickering.

"Lord, what a mess. I'll bet that agent – " Stone stopped, struck by something. "Lindsay did the talking? Not Catlin?" Stone asked, remembering that Catlin spoke fluent Mandarin.

"Nope. She ordered for Catlin, too. Why?"

"He speaks Mandarin as well as Chen does."

O'Donnel was still for a moment. "Interesting," he murmured. "Wonder if Lindsay knows that?"

"Let's save it for now," Stone said thoughtfully. "We can always use it if undercover fever gets to her and she forgets who she's reporting to. That lady doesn't take kindly to being misled."

"Yeah. A more unlikely undercover agent God never made." O'Donnel shrugged. "But she volunteered." He flipped over another page. "After lunch they went to Tien Sung's Garden of Serenity – that's one of those fancy import shops that looks like a museum and is priced like God's back teeth. Again, they could have talked about the overthrow of the American government for all the tails could figure out. Every so often Lindsay gave Catlin an English update. I guess the tail did everything but crawl in Catlin's shorts trying to overhear."

"I told them not to – "

"Relax, they switched off outside the restaurant. A woman did the close work for the import shop. She came on to Catlin like she was trying to pick him up."

"Maybe we'd do better wiring Catlin for sound."

"Hell of an idea, boss. Who gets to bell the cat?"

Stone grimaced. Even if Catlin stood still for it – very doubtful – wiring someone was an overrated way of eavesdropping on conversations. Half the time only garbage was transmitted. When it came down to making the final buy, maybe wiring someone would be worth the trouble. Until then it was easier to trust Lindsay to pass the word if anything useful were discovered. They weren't trying to build a case for a courtroom, after all. They were just trying to pacify the President and the Chinese government without giving away every FBI counterintelligence agent and informant between D.C. and San Francisco.

After a moment O'Donnel continued his recital. He summarized visits to three more shops, looked at his watch and said, "They should be going into Hsiang Wu's China Dream about now. Next report isn't due for an hour."

Without a word Stone looked at his watch. He wondered if the next hour would provide anything more useful than the past twenty-four.

Stone wasn't the only one wondering, but none of Catlin's impatience showed beneath his calm exterior as he walked Lindsay toward her former mentor's store. Dragged her would have been a more accurate description. After Wu's polite, devastating evasions of the previous night, she had not wanted to impose herself on him.

"I'm sure Wu has the message about my newly fallen status," Lindsay muttered rebelliously. "What good does my coming here do?"

"Wu sells bronzes, doesn't he?"

"Not the kind we're looking for!"

"You mean he doesn't touch third century inlaid – "

"You know what I meant," interrupted Lindsay, her voice low and hard.

"Is Wu known for his bronzes?"

"Of course he is! He's – "

"Then it would appear odd if we avoided him, wouldn't it?" Catlin countered. "Especially when you're so demonstrably eager to please your new lover," he added smoothly. He opened the door for Lindsay and gestured her into the shop. "After you."

Lindsay looked into the yellow-brown eyes that watched her without flinching. "Damn you," she whispered. "Do you know what this will be like for me?"

"Yes."

Catlin didn't say another word. Nor did he have to. Lindsay remembered what she had said to him in D.C.: I won't say you didn't warn me if you don't say I told you so.

The blithe words out of her past turned in Lindsay's mind like broken glass, cutting her. She wanted to object that she hadn't known what it would be like, that no words could have prepared her; but that was exactly what Catlin had told her in Washington. He had flatly stated that she was volunteering for a tour of hell. She hadn't believed him. Not really. She hadn't known that she would feel as though her life were being peeled away from her layer by layer. First her mother's death, then the nightmares, then the relentless demands of a double life she had neither the experience nor the temperament to handle gracefully.

She had hoped it would become easier, that she would adjust to the necessities of living a lie. It was getting harder, not easier. Watching Wu's reactions had been like sitting at her mother's deathbed and watching life fade with each ragged breath. In many ways Wu had been Lindsay's father, elder brother, uncle. He had taken her eager, untrained mind and shown it the fantastic world of ancient bronzes. Her gift for recognizing genuine bronzes had both amazed and oddly amused him. He had all but adopted her, arranging with her aunt for Lindsay to come and go from his home and shop as she pleased.

For Lindsay, Wu's house had been like a stable island in a stormy sea of change. When the pressures of adjusting to a new culture, a new home and a new life in America had eroded her sense of reality, she had slipped from her aunt's home to the seething, exciting, familiar sounds and smells of San Francisco's Chinatown.

She had been an exotic creature there, a white teenager who spoke Mandarin and had the protection of some of Chinatown's most powerful immigrants through her affiliation with the Chinese Christian Benevolent Society. Though she never became wholly a part of the lives around her, she had been accepted into them. That, too, was familiar, a continuation of her childhood in China.

Now Lindsay had to appear to disdain all the guidance, affection and patience that Hsiang Wu had given to her. She had to seem ungrateful and uncaring, a person to whom the sensual moment was more important than the enduring ties of loyalty and family. To a Chinese there could be no greater betrayal.

Without a word Lindsay walked past Catlin into Wu's shop.

As the bell shivered on the doorframe, announcing Lindsay's arrival, the scents and textures of her teenage years reached out to welcome her – ginseng and the imagined dust of the ages, the crisp aroma of ginger and the satin finish of ebony furniture, framed examples of calligraphy like black lightning dancing across a white silk sky. And above all there were the gracious shades of blue and green and bronze itself, ritual vessels condensed out of time and silence and man's hunger for continuity.

A young girl was washing the glass-fronted cases where the most expensive bronzes were displayed. From the back of the building came the high-pitched conversation of two young men struggling to uncrate a bulky shipment. There were several people in the store, either customers or friends of Wu, or both. One of Wu's daughters was showing a fine collection of bronze spearheads to a well-dressed man. She looked up, saw Lindsay, hesitated and then spoke rapidly to the man.

As the girl turned and vanished into the private area of the store, Lindsay tried to hide the clammy wave of sickness that was sweeping through her. May was the youngest of Wu's many daughters, too young to have been close to Lindsay. Even so, the girl's precipitate flight was like a slap in the face.

"Wu should be along soon," Catlin said, his voice low but not so soft as to ensure complete privacy.

Lindsay felt Catlin's strong fingers lacing through her own in silent reassurance that she wouldn't be alone when she confronted Wu. Unconsciously she squeezed Catlin's hand in return, accepting what small comfort his presence could bring. He turned and smiled down at her. Very carefully she avoided looking at his eyes, not wanting to see them empty of all but calculation. She needed the act, the pretense of caring and passion. It was the only warmth left in her world. She smiled blindly up at him, her eyes unfocused, unseeing. His fingers tightened almost painfully over hers.

Behind them the street door opened, making the bell shiver musically. Catlin turned, saw the casually dressed white man and looked away. Catlin had seen the same man once before, when the FBI woman had handed Catlin off half an hour ago. He was relieved that Stone was changing tails frequently, for they were highly visible; and more than once Catlin had sensed that he was being watched by someone other than the FBI. If he had been alone he would have quickly found out whether he had more than one set of tails. But he wasn't alone.

If he were right about the new watchers, he couldn't leave Lindsay by herself long enough to flush the surveillance. The game within a game had frozen him on center stage. He couldn't exit long enough to find out if the watchers belonged to Lee Tran or some unknown player.

As Catlin heard Wu's voice from the back of the shop, his hand tightened protectively on Lindsay for a moment before he tipped her face up to his and smiled like a lover into her haunted indigo eyes.

"Ready?" he murmured, nuzzling the corner of her mouth. Lindsay took a ragged breath and nodded. "Then smile," he breathed. "You're happy, remember? Passionately involved with me. Can you pretend that, or – " his hand slid up and stopped just below her breast " – do I have to go back to reasoning with your body instead of your mind?"

The warning reached through Lindsay's misery. She didn't bother to protest, because she knew that Catlin would do whatever he had to in order to get to the missing bronzes. If that meant stripping her and taking her on Wu's ebony desk, then that was what would happen.

Catlin felt Lindsay tighten beneath his hands as his words sank into her. "Don't tell me, I already know. I've known for years," he whispered. "I'm a ruthless bastard."

The bleak words went into Lindsay like slivers of ice. Her eyes focused on Catlin's. The raw desolation she saw there made her breath stop. She realized that he no more wanted her to confront Wu than she did. For a moment she felt dizzy, disoriented, as though reality had shifted unexpectedly. Catlin hated what he was doing as much as she did, but he accepted the necessity without flinching.

Abruptly she remembered what Chen Yi had called Catlin, a word that was both simple warning and complex description. "Dragon," she whispered. And then she stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

16

Catlin let the effusive Mandarin flow past him like a moonlit river, each polite apology and each polite denial of inconvenience a separate current curling darkly, creating emotional eddies that turned and gleamed in blackness. He kept his face blank, revealing nothing of his understanding of the language. But even if he had not known a single word of the exchange between Wu and Lindsay, he would have known that she was distressed. Did Wu know? Did he sense the raw misery that lay beneath her welcoming smile?

Without thinking, Catlin smoothed his fingertips slowly down Lindsay's spine, stroking her gently, trying to tell her that he understood what she was going through, that he would rather be anywhere else than right here, right now, watching her unravel the delicate fabric of memory and affection that bound her to Hsiang Wu.

It will get worse, Lindsay, Catlin thought grimly. But you don't think that it can and I'm damned if I'm going to be the bearer of more bad news. Unless it's necessary. I'll do it if I have to. And you know it.

Then, relentlessly, came the question that he couldn't ask her because it wasn't part of the act they must play.

Why did you kiss me? At the moment I was pushing you the hardest, why did you turn to me as though I – not you – were being dragged to the fire?

There was no answer but the tactile memory of her warm lips against his, the sweetness of her breath in his mouth. If she had turned on him in confusion and rage as she had last night, he would have understood it. He had expected it. What he had not expected was the baffling tenderness of her kiss. It had gone through his defenses like light through darkness, swiftly, wildly, illuminating parts of himself that he thought had died long ago.

"We're in luck, darling."

Lindsay's words penetrated Catlin's fierce inner concentration. He wondered if her fluent Mandarin apologies had softened Wu's impeccably, cruelly polite treatment of the woman he had called daughter.

"We are?" Catlin asked.

The look in his amber eyes made Lindsay pause. "Yes. Wu just got in a shipment of Huai-style bronzes."

Catlin smiled.

Lindsay flinched subtly. "If you've seen enough bronzes for today," she said, "we can come back some other time. Wu won't mind. He understands the necessities of business." What Lindsay didn't add was that it was obviously business rather than affection that kept Wu standing nearby, watching the interchange between her and Catlin. She didn't have to say it; Catlin knew that brutal truth as well as she did.

"Honey cat," said Catlin, tracing the line of Lindsay's mouth with his fingertip, "have you ever known me to turn down a chance to look at good Huai?"

"No," she said, her voice dry, thin. "I never have."

"And you never will."

Catlin looked from the sensual curve of her lower lip to the shrewd eyes of Hsiang Wu. Not for the first time, Catlin wondered what Wu was thinking, if he loathed Catlin as much as most men in Wu's position would have. If Wu felt resentment, it didn't show on his face; not by so much as a flicker of his eyelids did he reveal that the conversation meant any more to him than the distant barking of dogs.

Smiling, Catlin nodded to Wu and said very clearly. "Thank you, I'd be delighted to see what you have in the back room. And it will be in the back room, won't it? All shops like yours have them."

"Catlin!"

At Lindsay's low, scandalized cry, Catlin turned toward her. "C'mon, Lindsay," he said, his voice a careful mixture of amusement and exasperation. "You act like back rooms are a big secret. Hell, everyone has them. Have you ever been in a Chinatown shop that didn't have at least one?"

Lindsay swallowed and shook her head. It wasn't Catlin's words she had objected to as much as the baiting tone of his voice. It was as though he were angry at Wu for something. Quickly she turned toward Wu, apologetic Mandarin pouring from her lips in an invisible torrent.

"Forgive me, honorable Uncle Wu. My American client does not have the fine understanding of the Chinese in these matters. He did not mean to denigrate your esteemed bronzes."

"It is as nothing to this humble self. Be at ease, and permit your servant to direct your discerning eye toward objects of vast antiquity and beauty."

Wu's polite rejoinders faded into the small sounds he made as he led them to the back of his shop. In silence Catlin followed the shadow-thin Wu until he put a key in the lock of a door and ushered his clients inside. The room reminded Catlin of the Museum of the Asias basement workshop, except for the closed-circuit TV cameras set inconspicuously at opposite corners of the dropped ceiling. The furniture was hardy, scarred by use, and scattered with various tools. The lighting was harsh, relentless, not at all like the flattering light of the public display room. Packing cases bearing Chinese ideographs, U.S. Customs forms and official stamps from both countries lined the walls.

Two assistants were unpacking a large crate. They looked up as Wu entered. An invisible signal must have passed among the Chinese, for the assistants bowed briefly and disappeared through a different door, leaving Wu and his clients alone. Catlin watched the assistants leave and wondered what Wu was keeping back there that he didn't want his own men to see.

Wu went to a long, coffin-sized packing case. He picked up a pry-bar and began to work on the tightly nailed lid. After a moment it became apparent that his strength wasn't quite sufficient to the task.

"Allow me," said Catlin, taking the bar from Wu with a feral smile.

The Chinese looked up, startled. Catlin ignored him. With quick, controlled motions he jammed the leading edge of the bar between lid and case and levered down sharply. Nails pulled free with high, shrieking sounds, for the wood was green. Catlin sensed Wu watching him with assessing eyes, measuring the power of the male who had corrupted Lindsay. Whatever conclusions Wu reached about Catlin didn't show in Wu's opaque black eyes or in the narrow, erect body.

Catlin levered up the last row of nails and carefully removed the lid. Nails glittered in the hard light like warped steel fangs. He propped the lid against the wall, nails inward. Even as he positioned the lid, he felt disappointment replace his initial rush of excitement. The box wasn't from Xi'an. The packing material was twentieth-century Styrofoam chips, not the tangled mounds of vegetable fiber that the PRC still used.

"Does the honorable Mr. Hsiang do a lot of business with Taiwan?" asked Catlin. His words were for Lindsay, but his eyes watched Wu.

The Chinese nodded once, very slightly, and answered before Lindsay could. "The most esteemed and honorable government-in-exile understands the needs of the overseas Chinese to share in the cultural history of their lost land."

It was the first time that day that Wu had deigned to speak English. His voice was papery, wispy, yet oddly sharp.

Catlin smiled crookedly. He knew that as General Chiang had retreated across the face of China, freighter after freighter had been loaded full of China's art and shipped to the island of Taiwan. There Chiang had made his last, ambivalently triumphant, stand. The generalissimo had vainly resisted the tide of communism that had wiped out thousands of years of Chinese political tradition in much the same way as Emperor Qin's revolutionary ideas had remade China's government long, long ago. Like the feudal nobles of Qin's time caught in their beleaguered cities, the exiled Chinese Nationalists of the present sat on their fortified island and tried to deny that their tune had passed. Even worse, they tried to deny that their future consisted of bare survival dependent on the generosity of the U.S. an ally who looked covetously toward the far more massive, lucrative markets of mainland China.

"It's not surprising that you're renowned for the quality of your bronzes," said Catlin, inclining his head toward Wu in a brief nod. "It's well known that the generalissimo had excellent taste in national treasure."

Wu's head came up fractionally, proudly. "It is most kind of you to hint that this miserable self is connected to such lofty personages as the courageous and honorable leaders of the true China. However, such dazzling connections are far beyond my mundane possibilities. The unworthy objects that fill my store come from people like myself, who have found that the world of yesterday is not the world of today, and who burn much incense in the hope of a better world tomorrow."

"Exiles," summarized Catlin.

"Just so." Wu's voice was soft, almost hissing, hinting at barely restrained anger.

Lindsay made a small movement, silent protest against the currents of hostility flowing between the two men.

Wu turned away and removed a bronze from the long case. Catlin watched in silence, his only movement that of his hand smoothing Lindsay's bright hair. The motion was unconscious, an attempt to both soothe and silence her, to protect her as much as possible both from Wu's disappointment in her and his ire at Catlin.

Uneasily Lindsay glanced aside at the powerful man standing so close to her. She wondered why he was needling Wu so openly. She couldn't ask Catlin what he was doing, though. Wu was too close. She couldn't even plead with Catlin to walk more gently around the proud old man. Then she felt the sudden tightening of Catlin's hand on the back of her neck as the first bronze was revealed. She turned, and discovery pulsed softly through her body.

The mirror was exquisite, in superb condition. Its burnished bronze face was the exact color of Lindsay's hair. The surrounding rim was worked in geometric designs that sinuously suggested dragons with glowing eyes and long, deadly tails. The patina on the mirror's rim had been allowed to develop into a textured blue-green that made a sensual contrast to the polished face of the mirror itself.

Wu braced one edge of the mirror on the table and deftly reversed the oval bronze. The reverse side of the mirror was gracefully worked in the dragon motif, with inlays of copper, silver, gold and malachite. The metal inlays were intact. Both the silver and the copper were untarnished, yet showed the mellow surface that only came with age and long, loving care. The malachite inlays had a few gaps. The imperfections reassured rather than distressed Lindsay, for she had a well-developed suspicion of artifacts in flawless condition. Given the care that Chinese families lavished on their ancestral treasures, such perfection might be possible; however, it wasn't very probable.

Catlin looked away from the mirror long enough to catch Lindsay's eye. She nodded. Though Wu's expression didn't change, Catlin knew that he had caught the silent communication that assured Catlin the bronze was genuine.

"May I?" Catlin asked, reaching for the heavy mirror.

Wu relinquished it and went to a nearby cupboard. He removed a thick towel, shook it out and laid it on the table. He glanced toward Catlin. After another long look at the polished face of the mirror, Catlin lifted the bronze and very gently laid it facedown on the towel. With the changed angle of the lighting, inlays leaped to life like streamers of colored fire licking over the ancient metal. The workmanship was breathtaking, the design utterly balanced and the result fit to grace the chambers of Emperor Qin himself.

"Nice piece," said Catlin.

Neither his tone nor his face gave away what he thought of the bronze. He glanced from the mirror to the box in a hint that Wu would have to have been dead to have missed. Lindsay hoped that her own poker face was intact, but doubted it. She had no doubt that the mirror was a treasure and was sure that Wu knew it, too.

"Is the mirror sold?" Lindsay asked.

She knew that Wu had standing orders with various overseas bronze dealers. The mirror could easily be the result of a long search for one of his many special customers. She hoped that was not the case. The mirror would be a splendid addition to the museum's collection. It would also be priced just this side of outright extortion. She hoped that L. Stephen had meant it when he had turned her loose to build the museum's bronzes into the most extensive and excellent collection in the United States.

"This is not held in the name of any of my clients," said Wu. "It is but one of many excellent pieces to be surrendered to the market as the true China's fortunes are eclipsed by the rise of the mainland gangsters."

The sudden spareness of Wu's English told Catlin that the old exile was displeased by the prospect of America's deepening alliance with the People's Republic. Catlin didn't blame Wu. Taiwan was small. China was vast. Politics was the art of the possible. It was no longer possible for America to deny the massive reality of the People's Republic. That didn't make the process of adjustment any more pleasant for aging refugees like Wu, who prayed daily that they would live long enough to be buried in a China free of communism.

Catlin wondered if Wu realized that the new government of China was trying very hard to lure its skilled, English-speaking, refugee businessmen back home. Unfortunately, many of those very same businessmen were pragmatic enough to distrust the shifting ideological enthusiasms of China's government.

Silently Wu unwrapped and put on the table five more bronzes. All had various types of inlay. All were well preserved. All were of museum quality. Lindsay watched incredulously as piece after piece was unveiled. Usually such truly fine bronzes came onto the market only rarely. She wondered what disaster had struck a collector in Taiwan that so many magnificent pieces should appear all at once on the market. When word of this went out, every collector of any stature at all would descend on Wu's shop and demand a chance to bid.

She herself wanted to bid on at least four of the bronzes for the Museum of the Asias.

The eighth and ninth bronzes set off tiny warnings along Lindsay's nerve endings. There was something subtly wrong with them. She couldn't have put her instinctive response into words, but she knew that the vessels were far more modern than the others lined up on the long table.

Catlin had been watching Lindsay closely. He knew instantly that she hadn't liked the eighth and ninth bronzes. He wondered if Wu had noticed, too. Or did he already know that the bronzes were false? Had the shrewd dealer simply slipped some dross among the gold in hopes that the deception would pass unnoticed? It was an old ploy in the antiquities trade, and it was still used because it still worked.