Peter May - The Fourth Sacrifice

She stepped on to the bathmat and dried herself vigorously with a big soft towel, before collecting her wet hair in a hand towel and wrapping it around her head. From the wardrobe she took the black silk dressing gown embroidered with gold and red dragons that she had bought on an idle afternoon in Silk Street. It felt wonderful as she wrapped it around her nakedness, sheer and sensuous on her skin. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, the skin of her face fresh and pink. But she was shocked by how tired and lined her eyes were, shadowed, and sunk back in her skull. And, unaccountably, they were filled suddenly by tears that ran hot and salty on her cheeks. She looked quickly away from her reflection. There was little less edifying, she thought, than the sight of one’s own self-pity.

She was startled by a knock at the door, and she quickly wiped away the tears. ‘Just a minute,’ she called, and she took a couple of deep breaths.

A bellboy stood in the corridor holding an expansive bouquet of flowers. He thrust them at her. ‘For you, lady,’ he said, and hurried away before she could even think about a tip.

She carried the flowers back into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind her. She had always been scornful of those women who were suckers for flowers. Men knew exactly how to use a bouquet, or a single rose, to manipulate them. And, as far as Margaret was concerned, no one was going to manipulate her. Still, she felt an unexpected rush of pleasure. They were beautiful, a host of wonderful scents mingled in a dazzle of colour. She laid them carefully on the bed and saw the card tucked into the wrapping. For a moment she hesitated. She was not sure she wanted to know who it was from, or what it said. But curiosity quickly got the better of her and she ripped open the envelope and pulled out a small, simple card with a floral design on the front. She opened it up and, inside, in a hand she did not recognise, were the words, ‘Glad you’re still around. Pick you up at eight.’ It was signed simply, ‘Michael’.

She felt the blood physically drain from her face, and for a moment felt dizzy, and had to put a hand on the wall to steady herself. Michael was dead. How could he possibly- She stopped herself, mid-thought. Of course it wasn’t him. Her mind raced for a few seconds before she realised. Michael Zimmerman. He was the only other Michael she knew, and certainly the only Michael she knew in China. She had forgotten about his very existence. She smiled, but it was a grim smile, because she was reminded that the man she had married and lived with for seven years could still reach out and touch her, even from the grave, even now. She shivered at the thought, and then just as quickly pushed him from her mind.

Michael Zimmerman. She remembered his smiling eyes, and how she had been attracted to him. Was that only last night? Already it seemed like a lifetime ago. Pick you up at eight . She felt a tiny thrill of pleasure like the faintest glimmer of light in a very dark place.

*

‘The Ambassador was furious,’ Sophie said. She seemed very agitated.

Margaret was unimpressed. ‘Was he?’ She slipped into the back seat beside her, and the limo purred quietly out into the street.

‘He couldn’t wait. He had some engagement he couldn’t get out of.’

‘That’s a pity,’ Margaret said. ‘So why are we still going to the embassy?’

‘To see Stan and Jonathan.’ Sophie flicked her a look. ‘Jonathan gave me a hell of a dressing down for not bringing you straight back.’

‘Jesus!’ Margaret felt her hackles rising. ‘Who the hell do these people think they are? I don’t work for the US government. I’m doing them a favour, for Chrissake. We may be in the People’s Republic, but I am a citizen of the United States, a free person, and I will do what the hell I like.’ She breathed hard for a few moments, then took a long, deep breath and let the tension slip away as she exhaled.

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, then Margaret said, ‘So how come Michael Zimmerman knew I was still in Beijing?’

Sophie was caught off guard. ‘What?’

‘He sent me a bunch of flowers and a card saying he’s going to pick me up at eight tonight.’

‘Lucky you.’ There was just a hint of pique in Sophie’s voice. ‘He called before lunch. I guess I must have mentioned you’d postponed your departure to do this autopsy.’

‘And just happened to mention where I was staying, too?’

She shrugged. ‘He asked.’ She paused. ‘So where’s he taking you?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

They were kept waiting for ten minutes in the security foyer of the Chancery, under the implacable gaze of the marine behind the window. Then a harsh electronic buzz and the dull click of a lock announced the arrival of the First Secretary. He was brusque and businesslike and came through the door without so much as an acknowledgement. ‘Follow me,’ he said, and hurried out and down the steps. Margaret and Sophie exchanged looks and went after him.

‘Want to tell me where we’re going, Stan?’ Margaret asked as they walked round the side of the building. The late evening sun washed yellow across the compound.

‘To get a bite to eat. I don’t know about you, but it’s more than five hours since I ate, and I’m hungry.’

‘Well, you know, that’s funny,’ but Margaret wasn’t smiling. ‘I haven’t eaten either. Not since before I did the autopsy. You remember? The autopsy I did as a favour for you guys? By the way, thanks for the acknowledgement. It’s nice to know how much your country appreciates you.’

Stan stopped in his tracks, looked skyward for a moment, then turned, pursing his lips. ‘You are a real pain in the ass, Margaret, you know that?’

‘You bet,’ she said, and Stan found himself smiling, albeit reluctantly. Margaret added, ‘After two hours hacking about a dead body, a girl’s entitled to a shower, Stan.’

‘OK.’ He raised his hands in self-defence. ‘Point taken. And the Ambassador appreciates your efforts, Margaret. He really does. But we need to talk. This whole thing’s in danger of turning nasty. Political.’

He turned and they carried on past a long blue canopy set among a grove of trees. Embassy staff sat at tables chatting animatedly, taking their evening meals al fresco. Immediately opposite, was the canteen — a long, single-storey building. Stan headed for the door.

‘Political in what way?’ Margaret wanted to know.

‘You’ll see when you look at Yuan Tao’s file,’ Stan said, and they followed him inside, past long rows of bookshelves, to a large white board with an extensive menu scrawled up in blue felt pen. There was a clatter of crockery from the kitchens behind it. ‘Turns out the guy was born here. Didn’t go to the States till he was seventeen, just before the Cultural Revolution. Never came back. Eventually applied for and got US citizenship.’ He lifted a piece of paper and a pencil from a table in front of the menu board and thrust it at her. ‘Here. You write the number of dishes you want, the number of the dish — they’re up on the board — and the price.’ He rapidly filled out his own slip. ‘And don’t forget to put your name on it.’

Margaret glanced across at an opening leading to the bar. ‘I’d much rather have a drink,’ she said.

Stan followed her eyes and smiled. ‘Sorry, Margaret. It’s only open Friday afternoons for an extended happy hour. You can get a soft drink from the cold cabinet.’

Margaret sighed and scrutinised the board and chose sweet and sour pork, boiled rice and a Coca-Cola. ‘So he was born here,’ she said. ‘How does that make it political?’

‘There are folk back home who would like to think that the Chinese are capable of storing up their revenge for as long as it takes.’