Don Winslow - The Trail to Buddha_s Mirror

“My name is Xiao Wu,” he said. He stuck his hand out, a gesture that looked as if it had been learned in a class.

Neal shook his hand. “Neal Carey.”

Wu’s blush turned to scarlet and he dropped his eyes to the floor.

“Frazier,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me?”

“Your name is Frazier.”

“Okay.”

Wu brightened considerably when he saw the heavily laden tray on the table.

“We are having lunch!”

“Please sit down.”

“Thank you!” He bowed slightly and took a chair.

“May I examine the food?” he asked.

“Please.”

Wu lifted the covers off the four dishes and issued oohs and aahs and other sighs of satisfaction. Neal decided that this guy didn’t get too many business lunches, if indeed that was what this was.

Wu remembered the protocol.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked.

“Very comfortable.”

“Thank you!”

Oh, you’re very welcome, Xiao Wu.

“Would you like to eat lunch?”

I live for lunch these days, Xiao Wu.

“You bet.”

Wu looked puzzled. “Was that a colloquialism?”

Neal nodded.

“Slang?” Xiao smiled broadly.

“Slang.”

“I am very interested in American language… as distinct from English language,” Wu said quietly.

“You and me both.”

“Especially American abusive language.”

“You’ve come to the right place, Xiao Wu.”

“You will teach me some?”

“Fuck yes.”

Wu giggled with unabashed enthusiasm, and repeated “Fuck yes” several times as if to memorize it. Then he uncovered a platter of hot noodles and filled Neal’s plate before he filled his own. He didn’t wait for Neal to start, however, but started right in on the noodles with his chopsticks, shoveling them down in a few smooth motions.

“I am also very interested,” he said when he was done, “in Mark Twain. Do you know Mark Twain? Huckleberry Finn? It is no longer banned, we are allowed to read it in school now.”

Swell. We’re not.

“He’s a wonderful writer.”

“Aaah. Fish.”

“Xiao Wu, who are you and what are you doing here?”

Wu’s supply of blushes held up. Direct questions are considered quite rude in China.

“I am to be your translator.”

“What for?”

“Would you like some fish?”

Okay, I’ll play.

“Sure, why not?”

“No reasons.”

“That was slang.”

“‘Sure, why not’? That means you would like to eat fish?”

“Fuck yes.”

“Fuck yes.”

Wu used his chopsticks to place some bits of flesh on Neal’s plate, and then spooned bean sauce on top. He then helped himself and concentrated on eating. Then he asked, “You would be ready to accept an important guest this afternoon?”

“Fuck yes.”

Wu started to laugh and then stopped himself and frowned. “You must not say that, though, in front of important guest.”

“Say what?”

“Fuck.”

“Okay.”

“It is very funny, though.”

“Who’s the important guest?”

“Vegetables?”

“You bet your ass.”

Wu looked startled, looked at Neal sideways, and said, “More slang.”

Neal nodded and Wu dished out the steamed vegetables-broccoli, pea pods, bamboo shoots, and water chestnuts. He ate with the dedication of a true artist.

“Wu, where are we?”

“I am authorized to tell you that.”

“Shoot.”

Wu chuckled again. “You are in Chengdu,” Wu said proudly.

Chengdu… Chengdu… Chengdu…

“Not to offend you, but where is Chengdu?”

Wu’s face clouded slightly. “Chengdu is the capital city of Sichuan Province, which is in southwest China.”

Southwest China? My, my my…

“What day is it?”

Wu quickly checked his mental list of what he was authorized to say. “June the twenty-sixth.”

Jesus H. Christ! June twenty-sixth?

“How long have I been here?”

“Two weeks,” Wu answered, then added proudly, “and change.”

Neal did some mental arithmetic. God, he thought, that means I was in that Hong Kong hellhole for over two months. Two and a half.

“And what am I doing here?”

“Soup?”

“You’re not authorized to tell me that.”

“I am not,” Wu said sadly. “And I don’t know.”

“But the important guest does?”

“This is why he is important.”

“May I have some soup, please?”

“I am honored.”

The soup was a delicate chicken broth with some vegetables. Wu pretended not to notice that Neal’s hand trembled and that he had a hard time getting the soup into his mouth.

“No fortune cookie?” Neal asked when they were finished with the meal.

“You must not make jokes in front of-”

“Important guest. Don’t worry, I won’t. It’s just that I’m enjoying speaking English. Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Wu said. He added shyly, “And I am honored. Perhaps we can later discuss Mark Twain?”

“I would enjoy that very much.”

“You must rest now.”

“That’s all I do.”

“Your guest will be here in”-he made a show of looking at his watch-“one and one half an hour.”

“An hour and a half.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Wu stood up and stuck his hand out again. They shook hands and Wu left the room. Neal heard the lock click.

Okay, he thought, I am the mysterious Mr. Frazier. It’s possible. Maybe they know something I don’t, such as my father’s name; maybe it is Frazier. You’re getting giddy. Settle down. Half an hour of conversation and you’re losing your head. Mark Twain. Fuck yes.

Okay, so you know a little more than you did this morning. You’re in Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan, southwestern China. You’re way up Nathan Road now. So? So they probably wouldn’t bring you all this way if they were just going to clean you up and turn you back. And if you’ve been taken by the intelligence service, why aren’t you in Beijing? I mean, does the CIA take defectors to Arizona? I don’t know, maybe they do. And they’ve assigned you a translator, which means they want you to talk to somebody. Or they want somebody to talk to you.

Okay, but what do you have to tell them? They already know more about Li Lan than you do, ditto with Pendleton by now…

Simms.

You can tell them about Simms.

Which brings up an interesting moral dilemma.

The important guest was right on time, almost as if he had been standing in the hallway looking at the second hand on his watch. Neal heard the same timid knock, then the door opened and Wu’s head popped in. He looked nervous.

“May we come in?”

“Of course.”

Wu held the door open for the important visitor. The important visitor was short, somewhere in his late forties, and was a few noodles shy of being chubby. The fat was really starting to show in heavy circles under his eyes. His hair was greased and combed straight back on his head. He wore a gray business suit, white shirt, red tie, and black shoes. He carried an expensive-looking attache case. His whole affect screamed “bureaucrat.”

“This is Mr. Peng,” Wu said. “Mr. Peng, this is Mr. Frazier.”

Is this where we toss a coin and I choose to receive?

“Please sit down,” Neal said.

Peng sat in one of the chairs and gestured for Neal to take the other. Wu stood behind Peng.

So much for the classless society, Neal thought.

Peng took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered one to Neal. Neal shook his head and Peng lit his cigarette, then looked over his shoulder at Wu and said, “Cha.”

Wu hustled out into the hallway. Neal heard him talking to somebody, and a minute later he returned with a waiter who carried a tray with tea, coffee, and cups.