The Firemaker by Peter May Page A

new operational headquarters of Section One. The final stretch before the intersection with Dongzhimennei Street was heavily shaded by leaning, leafy trees, and was a deliciously cool escape from the early morning heat. Li coasted the last few hundred yards, enjoying the respite, and pulled over at the corner of Dongzhimennei. Mei Yuan greeted him with her usual ‘Hi, have you eaten?’
    And he responded with his customary ‘Yes, I have eaten’. And she began preparing his breakfast. The familiar greeting, ritually exchanged between Beijingers, had little to do with food but much to do with friendship.
    Li parked his bike and leaned against the wall, watching Mei Yuan at work. She had a round, unlined face with beautifully slanted almond eyes that sparkled with mischief. Her dark hair, showing only a trace of grey at the temples, was drawn back in a tight bun and wrapped in a green scarf. Dimples in her cheeks became like deep scars when she smiled, which was often. For the moment, her concentration was on the preparation of his jian bing on the hot plate in the replica house that stood on the back of her three-wheeled cycle. Its corrugated roof, pitched and pink, had tiny curled eaves, and sat over sliding glass screens that protected the gas hot plate and Mei Yuan’s cooking ingredients. She splashed a ladleful of watery batter over the hot plate and it sizzled as it quickly cooked and set. Then she flipped the pancake over and broke an egg on to it, spreading it thinly. Smearing this with hoi sin and a little chili, she sprinkled it with chopped spring onion and broke a large piece of deep-fried whipped egg white into its centre. She then folded it in four, wrapped it in brown paper, and handed it to Li in exchange for two yuan. She watched with satisfaction as he bit hungrily into the steaming savoury pancake. ‘Wonderful,’ he said, wiping a smear of hoi sin from the corner of his mouth. ‘If I didn’t have to share an apartment with my uncle I would marry you.’
    She laughed heartily. ‘I’m old enough to be your mother.’
    ‘But my mother never made jian bing the way you do.’
    In truth, his mother had never made jian bing . And had the world turned another way, Mei Yuan would not have had to. In another era she might, perhaps, have been a lecturer at the university, or a senior civil servant. Li inclined his head a little to catch the title of the book she had stuffed down the back of her saddle. Descartes’ Meditations . He looked at her plump little hands, scarred by a thousand tiny burns, and felt the pain of her life in his heart. A generation cursed by the twelve years of madness that was the Cultural Revolution. And yet if she had regrets, there was no hint of them in that dimpled smile and those mischievous eyes.
    She had not missed him noticing her book. ‘I’ll lend it to you when I’m finished. He was an extraordinary man.’ She smiled. ‘ I think, therefore I am .’ It would have taken her a long time to save up enough money to buy the book, so her offer to lend it to him was an extraordinary act of generosity and trust.
    ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I would like that. And I will be sure to return it to you when I have read it.’ He filled his mouth with more jian bing . ‘So. Do you have an answer?’
    She grinned. ‘The third person in the queue must have been his wife. You tried to make me think it was a man.’
    ‘No, no. I didn’t try to make you think anything. You assumed it was a man. It was only when you stopped making that assumption that you realised who she was.’
    She shook her head, still smiling. ‘Not very clever. But effective.’
    ‘So what have you got for me?’ He devoured the last of his jian bing and threw the wrapper in the bin.
    ‘Two men,’ she said. ‘And there is no ambiguity here.’ She twinkled. ‘One of them is the keeper of every book in the world, giving him access to the source of all knowledge. Knowledge is power, so this makes him a very