Marcia King-Gamble - Meet Phoenix

Nah, best not to go there. Damon had his own agenda.

And I had mine.

“What do you mean there’s been a holdup on the project? Why didn’t anyone call me?” I asked Xiong Jing, our project manager, when I met with him in the lobby the next morning.

“These things happen, madam. You are to enjoy your stay at the hotel until you hear otherwise.”

I was ready to go to work. A delay would mean my bonus was in jeopardy, the one I’d foolishly agreed to split. Turning my brown-eyed gaze on Xiong Jing, I said, “I’m Phoenix, not madam. I’d appreciate it if you’d remember that.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “As you wish.”

Xiong Jing, our project manager, was an Oxford-educated man in his late thirties. I’d disliked him on sight and I got the feeling the sentiment was mutual. There was something about the way he refused to look me in the eye.

His behavior hadn’t fazed Damon one bit. He’d shrugged, dismissing the man’s aloof body language as a cultural thing. But I thought there was more to it than that. I was certain Xiong Jing disliked females and black females at that.

So why hadn’t he told me there was a problem last evening when he’d called and arranged this meeting?

I studied the elaborate chandelier in the hotel lobby and prayed for patience—not one of my better virtues. That little problem had cost me an assignment or two.

I’d convinced my travel companions to sleep in, reminding them that this might be their one night in the lap of luxury. Future accommodations would be at the monastery in refurbished monks’ and nuns’ cells. Luxuries such as comfortable beds didn’t come with that territory.

“I can arrange tours of our beautiful city for you and your group, madam,” Xiong Jing offered, his eyes not quite meeting mine.

“Why don’t you just tell me what’s happening?” I asked, trying my best to tamp down on my irritation. What I really wanted to do was reach over, grab the man’s chin, and force him to look at me.

“Security’s been increased around the monastery,” Xiong Jing answered through an almost-closed mouth. “Rumor has it there was a bomb threat.”

“I guess it would make some serious statement, blowing up the Deprung Monastery where the Maitreya is being housed.”

He didn’t seem that perturbed at the thought. “We live in an era of terrorism,” Xiong Jing said. “The discovery of Maitreya—considered ‘the future’—is bound to cause unrest. If you have political or social changes there are always disbelievers. Humans will sacrifice themselves for the cause.”

Was there a hidden meaning behind this? I didn’t have time to interpret double entendres, if that’s what it was. I’d reflect on Xiong Jing’s words later.

“So what do we do?” I asked. “Sit at this hotel and twiddle our thumbs until you contact us?”

“Madam, you can, or you can go on one of our tours and learn something about my country. That might be the smart thing to do until things calm down.”

I didn’t like his tone or the implication that I knew very little about his country. I also didn’t like it that he was perfectly accepting of the delay.

“Surely there’s someone else I can talk to,” I fumed. “Where is Liu Bangfu, the Minister of Religion and Culture? Will he not be meeting with us?”

“The minister is busy dealing with the police and such,” Xiong Jing responded smoothly. “I promised him I would take very good care of you. And I will.”

I took a step toward the smarmy project manager. A muscle in his jaw flickered. He stepped back, keeping an acceptable space between us. He probably wasn’t used to anyone getting in his face, especially a woman.

“Why don’t you take me to the police?” I asked, softening my tone a bit. “I’d like to hear what they’re doing about this bomb threat.”

“Madam, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Phe, are you badgering our project manager?” Damon’s amused voice came from behind me.

I turned to find him only feet away, so close I could smell the combination of body heat and musk, his characteristic scent. He’d been jogging. His silver-streaked curls were plastered to his head and sweat trickled down his solar plexus. In some ways, I’d once thought he was the best-looking man I knew. I still did.

Raising a corded arm, Damon took a swig from a foam cup he was carrying.

I shot him a disgusted look and turned my attention back to Xiong Jing.

“Don’t let her bully you,” Damon said, trying to be the peacemaker and buddying up to the man.

“Stay out of this.”

Xiong Jing, happy to have an ally, chuckled. “Ms. Phoenix is in no way bullying me. She has been most gracious.” He was comfortable with his own gender. He repeated to Damon what he’d just told me.

Damon pumped both arms in the air. “A small reprieve, a chance to go sightseeing. Buddha is good. And so is this magnificent hotel.” Grabbing my elbow, he attempted to propel me along. “Chica, you and I are going out on the town. I’ll even spring for breakfast.”

“I’ve had breakfast,” I snarled. “I need to find the Minister of Religion and Culture.”

“Find him later.” Damon made a production of sniffing under his armpits. “Turning me down, Phe? I guess I do need a shower.”

Despite my earlier irritation with him I laughed. He really was pitiful. Pitiful but funny. It was one of the things I had liked about him. He pretty much took everything in stride.

Besides, having Damon with us might come in useful after all. I was slowly finding out that being a female in this male-dominated city, dubbed the Roof of the World, was not going to be a picnic.

Two hours later after breakfast and leaving Damon to sightsee solo, I was seated in a crumbling old Tibetan building on the east side of Lhasa. Xiong Jing, who reluctantly agreed to accompany me here, paced the austere waiting room of the minister’s office. The expression on his face was inscrutable. Three puny miniature golden yaks, encased in glass, were considered decoration.

Tossing aside the newspaper I’d been pretending to read, I approached a petite secretary who was hunting and pecking on an old typewriter.

She was Chinese, and took her duties seriously, guarding the Minister of Religion and Culture like a zealous Foo Dog. So far she’d managed to keep me at bay by insisting Liu Bangfu was still meeting with the chief of police. The typewriter she banged on I hadn’t seen the likes of in years. No fancy technology here.

The secretary looked up nervously when I approached.

I drummed my fingers on her ancient desk and stared her down.

“Yes, madam?”

“I’m giving the minister another five minutes then I’m going in,” I said.

Scooting her chair back a safe distance, she squeaked, “Mr. Bangfu has given me strict orders that he is not to be interrupted.”

I straightened my five-foot-nine-inch frame. “Please remind him that I’ve been waiting here almost an hour,” I said, leaning in closer. She seemed to shrink.

Xiong Jing was still pacing. He darted worried looks at me. Judging by his mottled complexion, he would have preferred to be anywhere but here.

“I’m counting to ten, then I’m going in,” I said, beginning to count softly.

The frightened secretary picked up the receiver but hesitated before inserting a finger into the rotary dial.

Grabbing the receiver from her, I announced, “Ten,” and planted it back into its cradle. Leaving her openmouthed, I stalked by her and wended my way down a long corridor. Heels thudded behind me as Xiong Jing followed.

I stuck my head into the first open door and called, “Hello, sorry to interrupt. I’ve been waiting outside for quite some time.”