Time Snatchers (10 page)

I stop and watch them pass. Feelings begin to stir deep inside me. Strong feelings that I don’t completely understand. I push them away. Out of sight, out of mind.

“What’s the matter, Cale? Is everything okay?” Abbie says.

“Sure,” I say. “Everything’s fine.” But even as I say it, I know it’s not true.

“Why don’t I handle the check-in with Nassim,” she says, grabbing the Frederick Blackman from me. “You take a break. And maybe a shower too.”

Abbie ducks into a narrow lane. I’m not more than a couple of steps in before she vanishes. I raise my arm and sniff. Eww! She’s right. I give my wrist a tap, and the only thing I leave behind in London is my body odor.

I
land near the side entrance door of the brownstone across the street from Headquarters. My sudden arrival six inches from where she’s standing startles a tall, spiky-haired woman and her Chihuahua. The combination of the woman’s scream and the yappy dog’s bark feels like someone’s driving a spike into my ears. I generally like to land in quiet, out-of-the-way places where my arrival won’t attract attention, but what can I do? This is New York. Correction: New Beijing.

As soon as the time freeze wears off, I backpedal and mutter my apologies. But the little dog isn’t the forgiving kind. She lunges for my ankle, which I suspect is as high as the wretched thing can jump, and I spend the next minute and a half trying to shake her off.

Finally, I manage to rid myself of the ankle biter and cross the street. The mega-sized screen at the top of 181 Franklin is flashing the results from last night’s game. Boston Red Sox 8, Beijing Blue Dragons 1. I don’t see why they even bother announcing the score: no one around here gives two hoots about the Blue Dragons. If you ask a hundred New Yorkers what they like least about the Great Friendship, they’ll all say the same thing: swapping the Yankees with Beijing’s pro baseball team. No one would have objected if it had been the horrible Knicks, but the Yankees? It’s like a stab through the heart.

I pause for a moment in front of Headquarters. It’s one of those
perfect New York days: light breeze, warm but not too warm and a brilliant blue sky. I take a deep breath and fill my lungs. It amazes me sometimes how much my moods are influenced by the weather.

Then the front door opens and Frank steps out. Good-bye, perfect day.

“Hey, Caleb, what’s up?” he says.

As he walks down the steps toward me, I study his grin. When you live with someone, you get to know their facial expressions. Even at ten paces away, I can tell that this isn’t his usual “I’m better than you” smile. There’s something else to it. A slight raising of one eyebrow. A subtle flaring of the nostrils. Yes, this look says “I know something you don’t know.”

“Nice dress,” says Frank. “Been out shopping for a matching purse?”

There’s more than just the usual snicker in his little jab. He’s definitely holding back. Then it clicks in my brain.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” I say. “You changed my clothes for the London mission.”

“Are you accusing me?” he says and I immediately know from his tone of voice that my guess is right on the money.

“Accusing you?” I say. “Me? Never. You were right. I was out purse shopping. You won’t believe the choices they had. In fact I saw one that I almost got for you. It was made from porcupine skin. You just have to be a bit careful when you use the shoulder strap.”

“Very funny,” he says.

I begin to walk past him.

“Hey, not so fast.” Frank steps in front of me and puts a hand on my shoulder. I lift it off.

“If you don’t mind,” I say, “I’m in kind of a hurry.”

“Really?” he asks.

“Yeah, really,” I answer.

“So unfriendly. That’s hardly the way to speak to your roommate. Especially when he’s about to do you a favor.”

That’s precious. I can’t remember the last time Frank did me a favor. But instead I say, “You’re right. I should be friendlier. Let me see … oh, yes. Your duck last night was … ducky.”

“Thank you, Caleb. I got quite a few compliments. Abbie’s was the best, though. I’m actually going to see her now. She likes to hang with me, you know.”

It’s a good thing he can’t see past my closed mouth, because I’m grinding my teeth big-time. If I was being honest with myself, which is something I usually try to avoid, I’d have to admit that Frank’s not stretching the truth about Abbie liking to hang with him. I’ve seen it myself.

“And,” continues Frank, “here’s my favor—a heads-up that Uncle is looking for you. He wants to see you right away.”

This is rotten news. But I can’t let Frank know that he’s succeeded in making me feel miserable. I mentally flip through all my available options. I choose cagey.

“Yeah, I know,” I say, as casually as I can manage. “I’m on my way to see him right now. He needs my opinion on something.”

Bull’s-eye! There’s an immediate change in Frank’s face. Mostly around the area of his eyes. Only a moment ago they were gleaming with sheer delight at my suffering. Now they’re narrowed to slits.

“Really. What does he need your opinion on?” he asks.

“Oops,” I say. “I’m not supposed to talk about it. See you later.”

I step around him and bound up the steps. Who knows? Maybe what I said is true. Maybe Uncle really does want to pick my brain; to consult with me on a matter of national importance like what color to paint the bookshelf in the lounge. But I doubt it. It’s not his style.
There’s only one reason Uncle ever wants to meet with me one-on-one: to chew me out for something I did wrong.

“Four, please, Phoebe,” I say, as the elevator door closes.

“Hold your horses,” she answers. “First, did you notice what I’m wearing?”

I sigh and turn to the wall screen. Phoebe’s persona is dressed in a skin-tight lime green bodysuit and her head is covered by a helmet with the Timeless Treasures logo on it. The racing bib she’s wearing over her suit says 99.

“Bobsled?” I guess.

“Close,” she says. “Luge. I’m in training for the next Olympics.”

In my wildest dreams, I don’t see how a computer can compete in the luge event at the Olympic Games, but I keep the thought to myself.

“Well, good luck with that,” I say. “Can you please bring me to four?”

“Sure thing,” says Phoebe. “Regular speed or express?”

If I don’t answer, she’ll tell me anyway, so I say, “How fast is express?”

“Eighty-six miles an hour—the same as the top speed of the luge,” she says.

“And regular speed?” I ask.

“Slow as a tortoise,” she answers.

“Well, then,” I say, “I’ll take tortoise.”

“Wimp,” snaps Phoebe, and finally we begin to move.

As I step beyond the fake reception area, Nassim looks up from his crossword puzzle and says, “Uncle wants—”

“To see me. Yeah, I know,” I say. “Frank already told me. Any idea what it’s about?”

“No,” says Nassim, “he didn’t say.”

“What’s the temperature like?” I ask.

“Sunny, with a chance of late-afternoon violence,” Nassim answers.

“Great.” I’m definitely not looking forward to this. Nassim’s forecasts are usually reliable. My only hope is to get in and out before Uncle starts thundering.

“Caleb’s here, boss. Shall I bring him up?” Nassim says over his handheld. He nods once, says, “Okay,” and hangs up. “He’s ready for you.”

That makes one of us.

I follow Nassim past the lounge and the dorms. He holds the stairwell door open and the sound of my feet climbing the metal stairs echoes loudly. My heart is thudding, my palms are sweating and my stomach’s tied in a sailor’s knot. I wonder if this is how a prisoner on death row feels when he does that final walk.

It might not be so bad if Abbie was with me. At least I’d have someone to share my misery.

When Nassim waves me into Uncle’s office, I get a strong whiff of something that smells a bit like cedar, only sweeter.

My nose isn’t the only thing that’s surprised. I can’t believe my eyes. The place looks nothing like it used to. Gone are Uncle’s big walnut desk and the gold-trimmed Louis XVI visitor chairs. Also gone is the picnic painting that Frank lifted right out of Monet’s studio in 1867 France, which is a shame because I truly liked that painting. Instead, there’s a huge ink on silk showing a misted-over mountain with a pagoda perched halfway up.

There’s also a long, low table of polished mahogany and a huge wooden screen that goes almost all the way up to the ceiling. The screen is red with images of silver dragons and pink flowers. The two miniature stone lions near the doorway look a lot like the ones I saw
in Beijing. A two-foot-long bronze sculpture of a three-legged toad rounds out the décor.

The only holdover from Uncle’s old office is a small display of framed photographs on the back wall: pictures from the old days. One shows me sitting on Uncle’s lap, one pudgy hand wrapped around his neck and the other gripping a toy soldier. I must have been four or five at the time that picture was taken. Whatever happened to that toy soldier? I wonder. And whatever happened to the old Uncle?

A scraping sound brings me back to the present. Nassim is moving the wooden screen to one side, revealing a huge aquarium. My eyes detect a flash of movement. Something is definitely swimming around in there. Something big.

Uncle is turned away from me. He’s wearing a green silk
hanfu
tied with a red sash. There’s a huge silver dragon embroidered across the back of the robe, and his jeweled sword is tucked under the sash.

Since there aren’t any visitors’ chairs, I take a spot on the floor.

If all of this is meant to lull me into a relaxed state, it’s not working. In fact, my shaking legs are a dead giveaway. I press my hands down on my knees to keep them still.

Uncle finally turns to face me. As he does, his face breaks out into a huge smile.

“Ahh, Caleb.
Z
o shàng h
o!
” he says.

I have to admit there’s something special about hearing Chinese spoken with a Brooklyn accent. At least I’m guessing it’s Chinese. My translator doesn’t work inside Headquarters, so I have no idea what he just said.

“Good morning, Uncle,” I say.

“Not just a good morning. A
great
morning!” He leaps up onto
the low table between us, points his sword toward a ceiling mural of swirling stars and planets and proclaims,

It seems for a moment as if he’s going to keep going, but instead he hops off the table and looks over at me with a sad smile.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” he says, dabbing at his moist eyes with his sleeve. “Doesn’t it stir the very depths of your soul?”

“It certainly does stir things up,” I say truthfully, though it’s more my stomach than my soul.