Peter May - The Firemaker

‘She go eat banquet.’ Lily had entered unnoticed. ‘And we late,’ she said to Margaret. For once Margaret was almost relieved to see her.

‘Banquet, huh? Quanjude Beijing Duck, by any chance?’

Margaret was taken aback. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Because everyone from the President of the United States to even a humble forensic pathologist gets the Beijing Duck treatment. Enjoy.’ He raised his glass then took a long pull at it as Lily steered Margaret down the hall.

‘You know him? ‘she asked disapprovingly.

‘No, I don’t know him. I just met him. Who is he?’

‘McCord. Everyone in Beijing know McCord. He work for Chinese government, got guanxi , big connection. And he like pay Chinese girl for…’ She broke off. Suddenly, uncharacteristically, self-conscious. ‘For… something no one else want give him.’

‘Prostitutes? He goes with prostitutes?’ Margaret was disgusted.

Lily pursed her lips. ‘And we no can touch him.’

The Quanjude Beijing Duck restaurant stood on Qianmen Dajie just south of Tiananmen Square. This was a busy commericial centre, bustling with all manner of shops still open for business. The streets were thick with early evening shoppers, and workers nipping in on their way home for sit-in or carry-out meals in the dozens of Western and Chinese fast-food joints. Off the main street ran a jumble of hutongs , choking with market stands and food stalls hanging with red lanterns, neon-lit Chinese characters projecting from every shopfront. Their BMW edged its way through the traffic, past the fast-food section of the Quanjude — duck-burgers a speciality — and turned into a tunnel lined by glass-framed poster-sized photographs of world leaders stuffing their faces with roast duck. In the carpark, Bob stood anxiously underneath the lanterns at the door, glancing at his watch. He took Margaret’s arm as she emerged from the back of the BMW and guided her hastily in through the revolving door.

‘You’re late,’ he hissed.

‘Well, that’s hardly my fault. The car picks me up, the car drops me off.’

‘Okay, okay.’ He glanced around self-consciously. The ground floor of the restaurant was packed, dozens of tables stretching off to infinity, steaming roast ducks on trolleys being wheeled to tables for carving by chefs in tall hats. ‘Now, listen, before we go up, there’s a few things you should know.’

‘Oh, I’m sure there are.’ Although still tired, she was getting her second wind now, and the vodka was having its effect.

He ignored her tone and steered her away from the door. ‘You’ll be placed on the right hand of your host — that’s Professor Jiang. Don’t sit until he indicates where. He’ll propose a toast welcoming you to Beijing. You reply with a toast thanking the generosity of your host.’ Margaret felt like a naughty child being admonished for earlier indiscretions and briefed to prevent further faux pas . Her attention wandered to a panoramic window giving on to the kitchens, where dripping ducks hung roasting inside great wood-burning ovens. ‘The meal usually comes in four courses. You let him serve you the first couple times then tell him you can manage fine from now on. You can use chopsticks, can’t you?’

She sighed. ‘Yes.’

‘Good. Well, turn them round and use the other end to serve yourself from communal plates. Oh, and it’s not considered good form for women to drink too much. So just take a sip for the toasts and then leave the rest, okay?’

Margaret nodded, but she wasn’t really listening. She was looking in a large glass case mounted on the wall at a signed photograph of George Bush with a mouthful of duck. Asked for his autograph, he had obviously scrawled his name and as an afterthought reckoned he should make some polite comment about the restaurant. ‘A superb meal. Many thanks,’ he had written. Inspirational as always, Margaret thought.

‘Another thing. Don’t talk shop unless they raise the subject. And don’t be surprised if they ask you… well, personal questions.’

She frowned her consternation. ‘What kind of personal questions?’

‘Oh, about how much you earn, how much you paid for your apartment in Chicago.’

‘None of their damned business!’

‘Jesus, Margaret, don’t tell them that. If you really don’t want to answer something, try and make a joke of it. Say something like… “I’ve promised my father to keep it a secret”.’

‘Well, that’ll have them rolling in the aisles.’ She had a peculiar sense of floating now. There was a strange air of unreality about everything.

‘We’d better go up.’

As he led her to the stairs, Margaret noticed a group of seven or eight young men sitting around a table with large half-litre glasses of beer and two ducks being carved simultaneously. There was a great deal of raucous laughter rising with clouds of cigarette smoke from the table. Oddly, Margaret thought she recognised one of the faces. An ugly square-jawed face with a flat-top crew cut. She caught the man’s eye and then remembered. It was the bad-tempered cyclist they’d had the collision with that afternoon. To her astonishment, he smiled and waved. Bob waved back, and she realised the wave hadn’t been meant for her. ‘You know him?’ she asked as they climbed the stairs.

‘Sure. He’s a graduate of the university. Way before my time. But he comes back to give occasional lectures. Li Yan. One of the bright upcoming detectives in Section One.’

‘Section One? What is that?’

‘Oh, it’s a kind of serious crime squad. Part of the Municipal Police, but it deals with the big stuff — homicides, armed robberies, that kind of thing.’ He paused. ‘Why, do you know him?’

‘No. Not really. We sort of bumped into him when we were picking you up earlier.’ She glanced back from the top of the stairs, but Li Yan was engrossed in a story being recounted loudly by a big, round-faced young man sitting next to him. There was an eruption of laughter from the table.

The upstairs of the restaurant formed a gallery overlooking the dining area below. Long green lamps dripped like tears from a high ceiling. At the far side their hosts awaited them by a large circular table. Professors Jiang, Tian and Bai, Dr Mu, Mr Cao and their respective partners, as well as Veronica, wearing the same dress she had worn in the afternoon. They went through the formal and tedious process of introduction and reintroduction. Dr Mu’s husband had long hair swept back over his collar and a wispy beard trained to a point, and seemed out of place in this gathering of clean-cut, clean-shaven faces. He gave Margaret a warm smile and produced a pack of cigarettes. He offered her one.

‘I don’t, thanks,’ she told him.

He shrugged. ‘You don’t mind if I do?’

Bob looked tense. Margaret smiled. ‘Your funeral.’

‘I am sorry?’

‘I’ve seen first hand what it does to the lungs.’

He looked slightly puzzled, but lit up anyway. Professor Jiang spoke and Veronica translated. ‘Professor Jiang say we should sit.’

The professor stood at his place and indicated the seat on his right to Margaret. She sat, he sat, and then the rest sat. So far it was all going to plan. A waitress arrived with small porcelain cups filled with a clear, evil-smelling liquor and placed one by each person. ‘ Mao tai ,’ Bob told her from the other side of the table. ‘Made from sorghum. It’s one hundred twenty proof, so take it easy.’

Professor Jiang raised his cup and proposed a lengthy toast which the laconic Veronica translated as, ‘Welcome to Beijing, welcome to the People’s University of Public Security.’ They all raised their cups and muttered, ‘ Gan bei ,’ and sipped at the liquor which was as evil-tasting as it smelled. Margaret had difficulty forcing it over, and felt it burning all the way down. Then she remembered that it was her turn, and told them that she was honoured to be there and would like to drink a toast to the generosity of their host, Professor Jiang. Veronica translated, Professor Jiang nodded, clearly satisfied, and they raised their cups again. ‘ Gan bei .’ This time, she saw, the men drained their cups in a single draught, while the women barely wet their lips. Hell, she thought, it was easier to get it over in a oner than to sip and taste the damn stuff. She tipped her head back and poured it over, banging her cup back down on the table. She thought she was going to faint. Then she thought she was going to die of asphyxiation. Her lungs refused to draw breath. All eyes were on her, her face, she was certain, bright puce, before finally she managed to suck in a breath and smile as if everything were normal. The temptation to give expression to the pain that burned all the way down to her stomach was almost, but not quite, irresistible. Dr Mu’s husband grinned wickedly and clapped his hands. ‘Bravo,’ he said. ‘Your funeral.’ Which made her laugh. And everyone else round the table laughed, too. Except for Bob, whose glare she assiduously avoided.