deep breath and went back to chipping away at Yi's imperturbable exterior. "The director wasn't entirely clear as to what you expected from me."
Yi puffed on his cigarette, shielding the glowing tip from the glass with his hand, and ignored the conversational gambit.
"How many men will you need?" persisted Stone.
"I requested none."
Catlin smiled slightly. Yi was having an FBI escort shoved down his throat in exactly the same way that Yi was being shoved down Stone's throat. There were polite protestations of brotherhood and helpfulness from everyone involved and no trust at all. He doubted that Yi and the FBI would get around to dining with each other. No one on earth made spoons long enough for either side to sup comfortably from a communal pot.
"Do you have a plan?" asked Stone, lighting a cigarette of his own with curt motions that said a great deal about exasperation and self-control.
Yi made ambivalent gestures with his hand, leaving a trail of smoke like a dissolving ideograph hanging in the room.
"Well?" pressed Stone.
"I am quite well, thank you," Yi said, deliberately misunderstanding. "And you?"
Catlin spoke swiftly in Mandarin, for he sensed that Stone's patience was right up against its limit. Making an enemy of the FBI at this point in the game wouldn't help Yi at all.
"In the circuses of China, do they have signs warning people not to tease the tigers?" asked Catlin.
Yi bared his teeth in something that only a diplomat would have called a smile. "The tiger is caged."
"At the moment, yes. But there will come a time when the tiger is taken from the cage to perform for its keepers. What then, Chen Yi?"
There was silence, then a reluctant "Ah!" Yi turned to Stone and said in English, "The course we take depends on the expert who is chosen."
Silently Catlin wondered what Yi had in mind for the woman on the other side of the deceptive glass.
Stone looked from Yi to Catlin and back again. The FBI agent's eyes were like clear crystal against the heightened color of anger showing on his skin. There was a long moment in which there was no sound but that of a bronze wine vessel being shifted from one place on the table to another. Finally Stone nodded abruptly and turned back to the two-way mirror.
In silence the three of them watched while Lindsay worked her way down the line of bronzes. O'Donnel followed, asking questions about the various pieces. She worked quickly, confidently, until she came to the final piece. It was a wide, shallow bowl resting on a broad, low foot. Though hardly delicate, the bowl nonetheless gave a feeling of balanced tension rather than earthbound heaviness.
Lindsay picked up the bronze and turned it slowly in her hands.
"Something wrong?" O'Donnel asked casually, leaning his hip against the long conference table.
"A p'an like this has never been found earlier than the Chou dynasty. Yet the execution of this vessel is definitely Shang, not Chou. Monumental yet simple. The designs are less complex, less flamboyant than Chou. The piece as a whole is less leaden than most early Chou." Lindsay put down the bowl, stepped back several paces and simply looked at it.
"Another fraud?" asked O'Donnell after a long silence.
Slowly, Lindsay shook her head. "No, just a type of p'an I've never seen before, a link between the art of two long-ago dynasties." She smiled softly to herself, remembering her excitement when she had found a genuine bronze that was neither in the Huai style nor yet Han, but rather an elegant combination of the two artistic traditions. "After all," she said quietly, approaching the bowl again, "the break between dynasties is never as clean and quick as the dates in history books make it seem."
"But if you've never seen a bowl like this one before, how do you know it's not a fraud?"
For a time O'Donnel thought that Lindsay wouldn't answer, that she had attention only for the unusual bronze bowl. Finally she turned to him.
"Beyond a professional's trained
Yi puffed on his cigarette, shielding the glowing tip from the glass with his hand, and ignored the conversational gambit.
"How many men will you need?" persisted Stone.
"I requested none."
Catlin smiled slightly. Yi was having an FBI escort shoved down his throat in exactly the same way that Yi was being shoved down Stone's throat. There were polite protestations of brotherhood and helpfulness from everyone involved and no trust at all. He doubted that Yi and the FBI would get around to dining with each other. No one on earth made spoons long enough for either side to sup comfortably from a communal pot.
"Do you have a plan?" asked Stone, lighting a cigarette of his own with curt motions that said a great deal about exasperation and self-control.
Yi made ambivalent gestures with his hand, leaving a trail of smoke like a dissolving ideograph hanging in the room.
"Well?" pressed Stone.
"I am quite well, thank you," Yi said, deliberately misunderstanding. "And you?"
Catlin spoke swiftly in Mandarin, for he sensed that Stone's patience was right up against its limit. Making an enemy of the FBI at this point in the game wouldn't help Yi at all.
"In the circuses of China, do they have signs warning people not to tease the tigers?" asked Catlin.
Yi bared his teeth in something that only a diplomat would have called a smile. "The tiger is caged."
"At the moment, yes. But there will come a time when the tiger is taken from the cage to perform for its keepers. What then, Chen Yi?"
There was silence, then a reluctant "Ah!" Yi turned to Stone and said in English, "The course we take depends on the expert who is chosen."
Silently Catlin wondered what Yi had in mind for the woman on the other side of the deceptive glass.
Stone looked from Yi to Catlin and back again. The FBI agent's eyes were like clear crystal against the heightened color of anger showing on his skin. There was a long moment in which there was no sound but that of a bronze wine vessel being shifted from one place on the table to another. Finally Stone nodded abruptly and turned back to the two-way mirror.
In silence the three of them watched while Lindsay worked her way down the line of bronzes. O'Donnel followed, asking questions about the various pieces. She worked quickly, confidently, until she came to the final piece. It was a wide, shallow bowl resting on a broad, low foot. Though hardly delicate, the bowl nonetheless gave a feeling of balanced tension rather than earthbound heaviness.
Lindsay picked up the bronze and turned it slowly in her hands.
"Something wrong?" O'Donnel asked casually, leaning his hip against the long conference table.
"A p'an like this has never been found earlier than the Chou dynasty. Yet the execution of this vessel is definitely Shang, not Chou. Monumental yet simple. The designs are less complex, less flamboyant than Chou. The piece as a whole is less leaden than most early Chou." Lindsay put down the bowl, stepped back several paces and simply looked at it.
"Another fraud?" asked O'Donnell after a long silence.
Slowly, Lindsay shook her head. "No, just a type of p'an I've never seen before, a link between the art of two long-ago dynasties." She smiled softly to herself, remembering her excitement when she had found a genuine bronze that was neither in the Huai style nor yet Han, but rather an elegant combination of the two artistic traditions. "After all," she said quietly, approaching the bowl again, "the break between dynasties is never as clean and quick as the dates in history books make it seem."
"But if you've never seen a bowl like this one before, how do you know it's not a fraud?"
For a time O'Donnel thought that Lindsay wouldn't answer, that she had attention only for the unusual bronze bowl. Finally she turned to him.
"Beyond a professional's trained
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