Читать книгу The Color of Jadeite - Eric D. Goodman - Страница 11

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Mysterious Things of Beauty

It was dark behind the tinted windows of the sedan, but it got even darker when the goons strapped a blindfold around my head. I knew better than to put up a fight and instead relaxed, allowing my body to memorize the turns so I could replicate the route later if needed. It’s a habit.

The trip was short, maybe five or six minutes. I was blind as a bat, so my new dinner dates escorted me not-so-gently out of the sedan, through the revolving door of what must have been a Chinatown office building, and into an elevator—a big freight elevator by the sound of the old creaky gate. Padded, I noted as I leaned against a wall, meaning it wouldn’t be easy to knock a thug’s head against it with any effect. As we lifted slowly (this must have been one of the older office buildings), I breathed deeply, remaining relaxed but alert. We got off the elevator, and they led me into a room that stunk like a cheap buffet.

A new gentleman’s voice sputtered something in Chinese, and the blindfold was removed. Flanking my back and two sides were my three traveling companions. In front of me, the usual suspects: General Tso’s chicken, sweet and sour pork, sesame chicken, lo mein, fried wontons, egg drop soup, and the likes (or dislikes, as in my case).

At the far end of the round table sat a thin man dressed in what looked like a custom-fit suit that probably didn’t come from Filene’s Basement or even Nordstrom. He stood from his chair and extended his arms, as though showcasing the food between us.

“Welcome, Mr. Allan,” the thin man said.

I took a seat across from him. “Friends call me Clive. But you can, too.”

He smirked, said something in Chinese, and our three mutual friends joined us at the table. This Chinese kingpin was as thin as bamboo, unlike his three stooges. He hid behind large Ray-Bans, even though the room was barely lit, and the windows were shaded as to not reveal our location. His black hair was slicked back and salted with a touch of gray.

“Hungry?” he asked.

Definitely not for this. “I was enjoying some handmade noodles when your hoods took me for a ride.”

“I think you’re hungry for more than noodles, Mr. Allan. And I have what you crave.”

“I seriously doubt that.” The only thing I was hungry for was the woman I’d spotted in the noodle joint. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t pitch it. Dr. Charlie Wang. I’m a businessman with interests here in America … as well as in my homeland.”

“And what, exactly, interests you, Charlie?”

“Mysterious things of beauty, same as you.”

“Why all the drama? You could’ve just asked me to tea if you wanted to discuss paintings or porcelain.”

He put his head back and laughed. “Please, help yourself. You can’t go wrong with the chicken.”

I eyed the food, suddenly ravenous. I spooned out a healthy portion of broccoli, white rice on the side, and forked some into my mouth. “Let’s cut to the chase, Charlie.” I talked with my mouth full to annoy him. “Why am I here? And don’t tell me it’s to talk art.”

“I know all about you, Clive Allan. You have a reputation for digging things up that are lost.” Charlie poured himself some green tea from a cast-iron pot. “You haven’t tried the chicken.”

“If you knew all about me,” I said, stuffing a clump of rice in my mouth, “you’d know I’m a vegetarian.”

“So sorry.” He snapped his finger and a timid waitress shuffled in. He barked at her and she swiftly removed the meat dishes. His voice became gentle again as he turned back to me. “There is something I need you to dig up in Beijing.”

“In Beijing?” I gulped some ice water. “There’re plenty of private eyes in China. Get one of them and you won’t have to pay airfare, which probably costs a fortune. What is it these days, a couple grand?”

“A lot more when you fly by private jet.” Charlie forced a smile. “But money is not an object. The object is an artifact of great importance.”

“Artifact?” I poured myself a cup of green tea from the cast-iron pot. “What kind of fossil are you looking for?” I picked a tea leaf from my tongue. “I’m a PI, not an archeologist.”

“Try it,” Charlie said, examining my face.

“What, archeology?”

“The tea leaves. The best quality green tea has leaves so delicate and delicious that you can eat them like a luscious salad.”

With a scowl, I put the tea leaf back in my mouth and chewed. It had a slightly sweet taste. “Not bad.”

“You see, Clive, sometimes it pays to try new things.”

“What is it, exactly, that you want me to dig up?”

“It’s a priceless Imperial artifact from the Ming dynasty.”

The assignment, like the tea leaves, had a new and unfamiliar—but by no means unpleasant—flavor. The lingering taste left me wanting a little more. “You think it’s worth sending me all the way to China?”

Charlie smiled. “Certainly.”

I mused over my catalog of handy quotes. Why try to come off as wise myself when I can use the words of much wiser men? This time, I decided on Dostoyevsky. “Taking a new step, uttering a new word, is what people fear most.”

“I seek neither crime nor punishment here,” Charlie volleyed. “Only to unbury an item of historical significance.”

The Crime and Punishment line took me by surprise. “A Chinaman who knows Dostoyevsky? I’m impressed. But why me? Why not one of a hundred other private eyes already in China?”

“I, too, am impressed,” Charlie said. “My own investigators may have failed to tell me you’re a vegetarian, but I do know enough about you to know you can’t resist a puzzle, a challenge, a mystery. And I know that you have an interest in Chinese art and history yourself.”

“What would make you say that?”

“Your frequent trips to museums. Library book checkouts and bookstore purchases. I’m sure Imperial China is but one of many interests. But interest is there, and that—along with your illustrious career as an investigator—makes you the best man for the job.”

I poured myself another cup of tea, this time heavier on the tea leaves. Did this guy know more than he was letting on? “If you want to convince me to drop everything and dig to China, you’re going to have to tell me a little more about what it is you want me to find.”

Charlie smiled. “I believe you’ll find plenty to like in China. But allow me to be more specific. I want you to find a jadeite tablet that belonged to Emperor Xuande.”

I felt a rush to the head as I put down my cup of tea. “Which Xuande?”

Charlie took off his Ray-Bans. “Fascinating that you know there was more than one. The Emperor Xuande we’re concerned with was born Zhu Zhangi and was the oldest son of Emperor Hongxi. He was the fifth Emperor of the Ming dynasty.”

I nodded. “He ruled around 1425 to 1435, I believe.”

Wang put his shades back on. “You know your Imperial history.”

I shrugged. “Some.” I wasn’t sure whether this kingpin realized how right I was for the job. Sure, I knew the jadeite tablet. A lifetime ago, when I was just coming into adulthood and stumbling around my first serious relationship, the jadeite tablet was something I heard a lot about—something I thought I’d actually see with my own eyes one day. For the past forty years or so, I’d considered it merely a thing of the past. Now, it looked like the past had found me.

“Obviously you’re my man, meat eater or not.” Charlie Wang motioned for the waitress, and she came with a steaming pot of water and some green tea leaves and went to work on a new pot.

Watching her, I barely noticed that Wang had pulled a red folder from the chair next to him and was opening it. “Four times your usual day rate for every day you’re on the job, including today. No need to update your passport or get a visa; my connections have taken care of everything. You’ll fly out of Logan tomorrow morning at nine on my private jet. Accommodations are set up at a five star in Beijing. You’ll be picked up by a driver at the airport and taken to your hotel to rest before meeting with your partner in Tiananmen Square the following morning at ten.” He closed the folder, placed it on the glass lazy Susan, and rotated it around until it rested directly before me. “Your itinerary, along with a two-week advance, and some petty cash. In Chinese currency, of course. Additional funds will be deposited into your bank account as you progress. You’ll be able to access your account from China at any bank or hotel lobby, so money will not be an object. Once the tablet is recovered, you can expect a seven-figure bonus. No need to provide your banking information; we have it. Are the terms acceptable?”

It’s hard for a PI to say no to a good puzzle, harder still to say no to such a hefty advance, and damn near impossible to not be motivated by a seven-figure promise. And the thought of finding the hidden treasure that used to fuel exciting conversations with a woman I loved decades ago sweetened the ding pot. Still, I had a vivid vision of rotting away in a Chinese prison, struggling with a phrase book while Dr. Charlie Wang dispatched another PI to find out what the hell had become of me and his precious artifact. Or maybe just the artifact.

All the same, I wanted to find that jadeite tablet—probably as much as Wang did. Was it possible that I could actually look upon the very item that infatuated the love of my life all that time ago, her talking about it as though the tablet were part of a fairy tale or Chinese folklore? Was the thrill of finding Xuande’s jadeite tablet worth the risk of poking around Communist China with fake documentation?

Yes.

Before I had the chance to accept the assignment, a ruckus erupted from downstairs, followed by lots of staccato yelling, and then giant, Western-sized feet pounding up the stairs. The doors to the dining room flew open and in burst Salvador and Mackenzie. Salvador held a gun at the ready.

“Get up!” Salvador yelled. When Wang’s stooges reached for their shoulder holsters, Mackenzie cried, “Drop your weapons!” Three guns dropped to the floor.

“Calm down,” I said.

Sweat beaded on Mackenzie’s brow as she looked uneasily in the general direction of the Chinese men, then at Salvador’s weapon. She said, “I ran into Salvador, who was running after you. Said you could use a little help.”

Salvador nodded, sweat pouring down his face. His gun—which I could now see was plastic—was pointed at Charlie’s head.

I asked, “Why didn’t you just call the police?”

Salvador shrugged. “You’re a private eye. We didn’t know what you might be into here.”

I smirked. “Everything’s fine, just put those down.” Before they realize you’re frauds and shoot you, I thought.

Salvador holstered his plastic weapon. “We got your back, Clive.” Mackenzie rolled her eyes as she realized she’d let Salvador make a fool of us all.

Charlie Wang remained unfazed during the raid, tapping the tips of his fingers together. He motioned toward the red folder. “As I was asking before we were interrupted, do you accept my offer?”

“With some minor adjustments,” I said.

“Oh?”

Mackenzie pulled Salvador out of the room to chew him out about his bad choices. “If Mark found out you were carrying, he’d have you in prison for violating parole!”

“It’s a squirt gun!” Salvador moped. “That ain’t no crime!”

“Did you take too much of your Valium?” Mackenzie asked. “Because I’m thinking you must be high to charge into a room of armed kidnappers with a squirt gun.”

Standing across the table from Dr. Charlie Wang, I smiled at him and picked up the red folder. “We’re going to need two more hotel rooms in Beijing.”