indicated.
Lockhart left the couple under the tree and went back through the courtyard to the gate. The sentry had taped a rope across the entrance in a halfhearted effort to dissuade others from coming inside. In the evening light, he stepped down to the bank of the canal, where two barges were moored. He lit a cigarette, his hands shaking, and tried to calm himself by imagining the scene as it had been centuries before. The temple, the shacks lining the water, a boy fishing with a rod. No towers, no six-lane highway.
Taking a piece of paper from a pocket, he examined the characters with a frown. His calligraphy had deteriorated, the feathered strokes becoming crude lines. He folded it between his fingers and set off down the towpath, around a curve to where a bridge crossed a canal. Three families sat on the deck of a restaurant, under glowing lanterns. A waiter passed out dishes at one table—pork and marrow soup, goose with sour cherry sauce,
lai niao xia
shrimp.
Lockhart crossed a passage at the side of the restaurant and into a courtyard at the rear. Two waiters smoked on a bench and one called to him.
“Not here. The other side.”
He ignored them, walking through the kitchen door. It was filledwith steam, cooks rattling pans over open flames. Every surface and tile was coated with grime. If he’d been an inspector, he’d have wanted a bribe to ignore it. He passed a tank of lethargic eels, eyes bulging, as he made his way to the chef.
“We spoke,” he said.
The man looked up from the book he was reading. He leaned back in his chair, lifting the front legs from the floor, and grabbed a set of keys from a hook on the wall behind him. Then he walked into the dining room and unlocked a door under the stairs.
At the rear of the cellar, Lockhart stooped so that his head would not knock against a stone arch. The chef swung a sack of rice to one side and reached behind it to a pile of smaller ones. He pulled a sack from halfway down and delved into his pocket for a knife, slicing the cloth so that fat grains of rice burst out. The man let a portion spill onto the floor, then lifted the bag up onto a crate. Plunging a hand inside, he pulled out a package wrapped in two Ziploc bags.
As Lockhart unsealed them, he smelled the oil that had been rubbed over the object to keep it from rusting. It was a Sig Sauer P238, dark and squat, with a fluted polymer grip. Its six-bullet magazine lay next to the weapon. Lockhart raised the weapon and pulled back the Nitron slide. Then he squeezed the trigger, releasing the pin against the chamber. The German parts clicked together smoothly, despite their time at sea.
The badge was a mystery. Mei sat at her desk at dawn trying to understand it, but she kept running into the same problem—the number on it was wrong. She had examined it painstakingly the previous evening and thought she must be making a mistake, but a night’s sleep had changed nothing. The eighteen-digit identity code printed under the girl’s image made no sense.
She gazed at the photo again. The face was so like her own, it was almost identical. The eyes were hers, the way her brow dipped to meet the top of her nose, the flow of her lips. It was more than a mirror image, for Mei’s face would be reversed in a mirror, and this was the right way around. She could have accepted that it was mistaken identity, just someone uncannily like her, but she’d seen the body in the pond. She had touched her face. This hadn’t just been her sister—it was her twin.
The number told a different story. Aside from the photo, the laminated card held three pieces of data—the woman’s name, her workplace in the Long Tan complex, and her number: T ANG LIU , B UILDING P-2, 430104199304074425. Her name was not a surprise; it might have been anything. Nor did the workplace mean much—it must be one of the buildings she’d observed through her binoculars. But the long number, that was full of information.
This was
Lockhart left the couple under the tree and went back through the courtyard to the gate. The sentry had taped a rope across the entrance in a halfhearted effort to dissuade others from coming inside. In the evening light, he stepped down to the bank of the canal, where two barges were moored. He lit a cigarette, his hands shaking, and tried to calm himself by imagining the scene as it had been centuries before. The temple, the shacks lining the water, a boy fishing with a rod. No towers, no six-lane highway.
Taking a piece of paper from a pocket, he examined the characters with a frown. His calligraphy had deteriorated, the feathered strokes becoming crude lines. He folded it between his fingers and set off down the towpath, around a curve to where a bridge crossed a canal. Three families sat on the deck of a restaurant, under glowing lanterns. A waiter passed out dishes at one table—pork and marrow soup, goose with sour cherry sauce,
lai niao xia
shrimp.
Lockhart crossed a passage at the side of the restaurant and into a courtyard at the rear. Two waiters smoked on a bench and one called to him.
“Not here. The other side.”
He ignored them, walking through the kitchen door. It was filledwith steam, cooks rattling pans over open flames. Every surface and tile was coated with grime. If he’d been an inspector, he’d have wanted a bribe to ignore it. He passed a tank of lethargic eels, eyes bulging, as he made his way to the chef.
“We spoke,” he said.
The man looked up from the book he was reading. He leaned back in his chair, lifting the front legs from the floor, and grabbed a set of keys from a hook on the wall behind him. Then he walked into the dining room and unlocked a door under the stairs.
At the rear of the cellar, Lockhart stooped so that his head would not knock against a stone arch. The chef swung a sack of rice to one side and reached behind it to a pile of smaller ones. He pulled a sack from halfway down and delved into his pocket for a knife, slicing the cloth so that fat grains of rice burst out. The man let a portion spill onto the floor, then lifted the bag up onto a crate. Plunging a hand inside, he pulled out a package wrapped in two Ziploc bags.
As Lockhart unsealed them, he smelled the oil that had been rubbed over the object to keep it from rusting. It was a Sig Sauer P238, dark and squat, with a fluted polymer grip. Its six-bullet magazine lay next to the weapon. Lockhart raised the weapon and pulled back the Nitron slide. Then he squeezed the trigger, releasing the pin against the chamber. The German parts clicked together smoothly, despite their time at sea.
The badge was a mystery. Mei sat at her desk at dawn trying to understand it, but she kept running into the same problem—the number on it was wrong. She had examined it painstakingly the previous evening and thought she must be making a mistake, but a night’s sleep had changed nothing. The eighteen-digit identity code printed under the girl’s image made no sense.
She gazed at the photo again. The face was so like her own, it was almost identical. The eyes were hers, the way her brow dipped to meet the top of her nose, the flow of her lips. It was more than a mirror image, for Mei’s face would be reversed in a mirror, and this was the right way around. She could have accepted that it was mistaken identity, just someone uncannily like her, but she’d seen the body in the pond. She had touched her face. This hadn’t just been her sister—it was her twin.
The number told a different story. Aside from the photo, the laminated card held three pieces of data—the woman’s name, her workplace in the Long Tan complex, and her number: T ANG LIU , B UILDING P-2, 430104199304074425. Her name was not a surprise; it might have been anything. Nor did the workplace mean much—it must be one of the buildings she’d observed through her binoculars. But the long number, that was full of information.
This was
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