Don Winslow - The Trail to Buddha_s Mirror

Wu told the driver to meet him in the hotel lot.

“Xiao Wu,” Neal said as the driver pulled away, “do they sell English books here?”

Wu said, “They only sell textbooks at the university.”

“No, I mean books in English. Novels, short stories, the dreaded nonfiction.”

Wu shuffled his foot on the sidewalk. “Perhaps.”

“Come on, Wu.”

“I am not authorized to take you there.”

“Were you ordered not to take me there?”

Wu brightened. “Noooo…”

“Wu… Wu, I haven’t had anything to read in three months. Do you know what that’s like?”

“Are you joking? Cultural Revolution?”

“So help me, Wu.”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you my best abusive words.”

“Like what?”

“Cocksucker.”

Neal watched anxiously as Wu put the compound together and a glimmer of understanding came to his eyes.

“Cocksucker,” Wu intoned, his eyes widening. “Does that mean-”

“Yup.”

Wu burst into a hysterical giggle. He repeated the word several times, each repetition sending him into a fresh paroxysm of laughter. He was bent over double on the sidewalk, oblivious to the stares of passersby, muttering “cocksucker” until he cried.

“And that is an abusive term?” he asked when he had caught his breath.

“Oh, you bet.”

“In Chinese… tsweh-tsuh.”

“Tsweh-tsuh.”

That set him off again, and his fresh hysteria set Neal off, and they both stood on the sidewalk laughing until their stomachs hurt and they couldn’t laugh anymore.

“Okay, cocksucker,” Wu said. “Let’s go to the bookstore.”

Bookstore. Bookstore. Wu might as easily have said “Paradise” or “Heaven.” Neal breathed it in as he went through the door. The smell of books, that clean paper smell, filled his nostrils and went straight to his brain. He looked around at the shelves filled with books-all in Chinese, all absolutely incomprehensible to him-and then went around touching them. He stroked their spines, and felt their covers, and examined them as if he understood their titles and could read their pages.

Wu went over to the checkout counter and had a quiet conversation with the clerk. Neal felt his heart sink when the clerk shook his head vigorously, but Wu kept talking patiently and quietly, and a few minutes later he had procured a key.

“Come on,” he said. “There are some English books in the storeroom. Try not to look so… obvious.”

Wu opened the door and Neal stepped into heaven. Hundreds of paperbacks filled some cheap metal shelves and were piled up on the floor.

“I love you, Wu.”

“Cocksucker.”

“I’ll take them all.”

“Just one. And hurry, please.”

“Cocksucker.”

They were mostly medical texts. Wu explained that there had been a medical college that had once been staffed by Americans and Canadians. But there were also some volumes of fiction. Melville’s Billy Budd, Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, and Twain’s Huckleberry Finn had found spots on the shelves amid the anatomy tests and emergency-aid manuals.

“Any Hemingway? Fitzgerald?”

“Decadent.”

Then Neal spotted a pile of books in the corner. All Penguin Classics. Goddamn, he thought, could it be? Could I get so lucky? He attacked the pile like a rat in a garbage can. Bleak House… Oliver Twist… Bleak House again. Jude the Obscure… fucking Beowulf…

Then there it was. Unbelievably, in the middle of Chengdu, capital of Sichuan Province, southwestern China… Tobias Smollett… Roderick Random. There is a God and he loves me, Neal thought. He grabbed the book before it could disappear into an opium dream.

“This is it,” he said.

“I never heard of it.”

“You will.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

“I want two books.”

“Not safe. Too obvious.”

“Please.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Have I told you about ‘motherfucker’?”

“But two is all.”

Neal took the copy of Huckleberry Finn off the shelf.

“Do you own it?” he asked.

Wu flushed. “No.”

“Please. My gift.”

“I am honored.” Wu bowed deeply and quickly. “Now let’s go.”

Wu picked up two thin Chinese books in the main room and sandwiched the English volumes between them before he brought them to the counter. He took the appropriate amount of cash from Neal’s wallet, paid the bill, and walked quickly out into the sunshine.

“Thank you so very much for the book,” he said.

“Thank you so very much for bringing me here. Is it a problem? And is the book safe for you to have?”

“I think so, now.”

Wu escorted Neal back to his room and said he would pick him up again at nine the next morning. Lest Neal have any illusions about his role, he heard the lock click with the shutting door.

The human mind is a funny thing, Neal thought. When he was lying in shackles in the Walled City, all he wanted was to get out of there. He would have given anything he had-his heart, mind, and soul-for salvation from that hellhole. When Li Lan had come, he had wept with relief and gratitude. In the long, sleepy days of his confinement he had simply given in to the care and comfort until first his body and then his mind came back.

But now his mind was back, and the funny thing was that it wasn’t happy. He had all the necessities, all the creature comforts he had longed for in Hong Kong. He was well treated, out of danger-he even had books to read-but his mind started to think about other things.

First there was Joe Graham. When Neal had left him on the San Francisco street, he had thought it would be a matter of days or weeks, not months, before he would contact his mentor. Graham must be going crazy with worry, Neal thought. If he knew Graham-and he knew Graham-the leprechaun would have dogged him to Hong Kong, maybe even tracked him as far as the Walled City, maybe even now would be making deals to try to find him and get him out. But even Graham couldn’t make this jump, couldn’t have any way of finding out that he was sitting in Chengdu with a different identity, a prop in some sort of show-and-tell game run by his jailer-hosts.

Second, what was the game? He didn’t buy this identity-wash bit for a second. They had him here for a reason, and Neal was beginning to think they were stalling before deciding just what that reason was. Maybe they were waiting for further developments, waiting for another move in the game to see which way they’d move him.

Which was the third thing that was troubling him. He had become a game piece, a passive pawn that other people moved around at their whim or will. Shit, he hadn’t done anything active since his rooftop bomber routine on Waterloo Road. They had beat him, knocked the confidence out of him, and he was just starting to recover from it. It was time to get back in the game. Time to do something to get his own life back.

With his copy of Roderick Random and a pen, he got to work. He was still working when the waiter came with his dinner tray. Having devoured the meal, he took the book with him to read while he soaked in an almost scalding bath, and then went back to work at his table. He took the book with him to bed, and woke up with it on his chest when the waiter rattled the breakfast tray.

“Are you taking him out again today?” Xao asked. He lit his second cigarette of the early morning.

“Yes, Comrade Secretary,” Peng answered. “And no surveillance appeared yesterday?” “Only our own.” “You are quite sure?”

“Yes, Comrade Secretary.”

Oh, yes, Comrade Secretary, I am quite sure. None appeared because I ordered none.

Xao inhaled the smoke and worried. On the face of it, it was good that no government surveillance had picked up their “Mr. Frazier,” but faces often lied. And young Frazier’s American friends were raising quite a fuss in Hong Kong. Why had it not reached Beijing? If it had, they would arrest Frazier as soon as he appeared above ground. We certainly trotted him around enough yesterday. Better to be safe and put Mr. Frazier on display a bit more. If the security police picked him up, there would still be time to dig Li Lan and Pendleton in deeper. If the police were truly unaware of Frazier’s true identity, then the rest of the operation could be activated.