Peter May - The Fourth Sacrifice

A young woman with cropped hair approached Margaret hopefully. ‘CD lom?’ she said. ‘CD music? Looka, looka, I have new ones.’

Margaret shook her head and hurried by. A very thin young man in a dark suit and white shirt with no tie approached. ‘Shanja dollah?’

‘No!’ Margaret snapped at him, and stepped briskly away along Xiushuibie Street. There was no point in delaying any further. Past the Consular Section of the Bulgarian Embassy, the US Commercial Section, she stopped outside the gate of San Ban , No. 3 Building of the American Embassy. The Chancery. She pushed open the door of the gatehouse and found herself facing a scowling Chinese security guard.

‘Margaret Campbell,’ she said. ‘I have an appointment with the Ambassador.’

*

An unsmiling marine in dress uniform watched her from behind the glass booth just inside the front door of the Chancery. A young Asian woman appeared at the door to her left and it clicked open to the accompaniment of a long electronic buzz. She smiled at Margaret. ‘Come on through,’ she said. Margaret entered and heard the door shut behind her as the woman held out her hand. ‘Hi. I’m Sophie Daum. I’ll be looking after you for the next while.’

‘Will you?’ Margaret looked at her suspiciously. Small, short dark hair, beautifully slanted eyes, sharp but not unattractive features, she barely looked old enough to be out of high school. ‘What happened to the Regional Security Officer?’

‘Oh, Jon Dakers is pretty well tied up these days. I’m the new assistant RSO.’

‘You don’t have a very oriental name for a Chinese-American.’

‘Vietnamese-American,’ Sophie corrected her. ‘And I was adopted by a very old-fashioned, old-money family from California.’ She led Margaret up a flight of stairs lined with pictures of previous ambassadors to China. ‘I guess you probably think I look too young for the job. Everybody does.’ She was trying to sound bright, but Margaret detected more than a hint of weariness in her voice.

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘You look at least old enough to be in the second grade.’ She glanced across at the girl and saw that her smile had frozen on her face, and she immediately regretted the jibe. ‘I’m sorry. You caught me on a bad day.’

Sophie stopped and turned on the stair. ‘Look, Dr Campbell,’ she said, the smile gone, the eyes suddenly cold and hard. ‘I’m being polite here. But I’m twenty-three years old. I got a degree in criminology, and I’m straight off the security staff of the Secretary for Defense. I got a black belt in tai kwondo , and I could kick your ass all the way down the stairs. I don’t need your bad days, I got enough of my own.’

‘Hey,’ Margaret held up her hands. ‘I believe you. Sounds like you’ve got enough bad days to make up a whole week. PMS can be a real bitch.’

And to her surprise, Sophie’s face broke into a reluctant grin. ‘Yeah, OK, maybe I got that coming. But it’s PCS I’m suffering from, not PMS. Post China stress. You know? I’ve been here a month and all I’ve heard is I don’t look old enough to be out of high school. It’s bad enough when I get it from the guys without the women turning on me, too.’

‘And how many of the guys have you threatened to kick down the stairs?’

‘Oh, just you,’ Sophie said breezily.

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

Sophie grinned, a rapport established, and opened French doors into the Ambassador’s outer office. To their right, the secretary to the Deputy Chief of Mission was talking on the telephone. To their left, the Ambassador’s secretary’s desk was empty. She was just emerging from the inner sanctum.

‘Oh, hi.’ She held the door open. ‘Go straight on through. The Ambassador’s expecting you.’

Margaret followed Sophie into the carpeted hush of the Ambassador’s office. It was a big room — high ceilings, tall windows, a large polished desk facing the door, the US flag hanging limply from a pole behind it. Margaret had been in here several times, but it still intrigued her. The walls were lined with photographs of the Ambassador with the President and his family. It was said they were close friends whose friendship predated politics. There was a picture of the President at his inauguration, smiling to the heavens, an appetite whetted by the prospect of supreme power. Something to be savoured and enjoyed.

To the left was a sofa and several armchairs around a coffee table, pictures loaned from some US art gallery on the walls, Chinese chests lined up as filing cabinets. The Ambassador, in shirtsleeves, and another, younger, man wearing an immaculately tailored dark blue suit, rose to greet them.

‘Margaret,’ the Ambassador nodded curtly. He was an attractive, dark-haired man. A senator for nearly twenty years, he clearly felt more at home in the rarefied atmosphere of high politics than at this, more mundane, level of real life. ‘I think you know First Secretary Stan Palmer.’

‘Sure,’ Margaret said, and they all shook hands and sat down. The First Secretary poured them coffee from a tray that had just been brought in.

The Ambassador sat back and cast his eye curiously over Margaret. She looked tired, older than her thirty-one years, her pale blue eyes strained and dull, fair hair falling listlessly over her shoulders in big sad waves. ‘So,’ he said. ‘You’ve reached a decision.’

Margaret nodded. ‘I want to go home, Mr Ambassador.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘That’s very sudden, isn’t it?’

‘It’s been on my mind for some time.’

The First Secretary leaned forward. ‘Have you told the Chinese?’ His tone was sniffy, almost superior.

Margaret hesitated. ‘I was hoping you would do that.’

The Ambassador frowned. ‘Why? Is there a problem?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘No, I … I’ve just had enough. I just want to go home.’

‘You could have gone home ten weeks ago. You know that.’ The Ambassador’s tone was faintly accusatory. ‘After we secured your release.’

‘Sure.’ Margaret nodded. ‘It was my decision to stay on and co-operate with them. I thought it was the right thing to do at the time. I still do. But I spend night after night sitting alone in a hotel room watching CNN, and day after day being debriefed on the same old stuff. I’m tired of it. I didn’t think it would go on this long.’ She paused, a horrible thought occurring to her for the first time. ‘I am free to go, aren’t I?’

‘As far as I’m concerned, you are.’ The Ambassador leaned over and put a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘You’ve done more than your fair share, Margaret. More than they had any right to expect.’ He turned to the First Secretary. ‘Stan’ll tell the Chinese, won’t you, Stan?’

‘Of course, Mr Ambassador.’

But Stan was none too pleased, a fact betrayed by his demeanour as they descended the stairs. He didn’t like playing messenger boy. He ignored Sophie as if she wasn’t there — she was clearly an irrelevance — and addressed himself to Margaret. ‘So …’ he said, ‘the charges have been dropped against your Chinese policeman.’ He ran a hand back through thinning but perfectly groomed blond hair.

‘Have they?’ Margaret feigned indifference.

‘Didn’t you know?’ Stan feigned surprise.

‘For a start,’ Margaret said, tetchily, ‘he’s not my Chinese policeman. And the authorities have told me nothing.’

‘So you haven’t had any contact with him?’

‘No, I haven’t. Nor do I intend to.’ In spite of herself she couldn’t keep the hurt and anger out of her voice.

Stan was quick to capitalise. ‘Really? You surprise me.’ He smiled. ‘I’d heard that you and he were … well, how shall I put it? Close.’