The Fourth Sacrifice (2 page)

Margaret followed Sophie into the carpeted hush of the Ambassador’s office. It was a big room – high ceilings, tall windows, a large polished desk facing the door, the US flag hanging limply from a pole behind it. Margaret had been in here several times, but it still intrigued her. The walls were lined with photographs of the Ambassador with the President and his family. It was said they were close friends whose friendship predated politics. There was a picture of the President at his inauguration, smiling to the heavens, an appetite whetted by the prospect of supreme power. Something to be savoured and enjoyed.

To the left was a sofa and several armchairs around a coffee table, pictures loaned from some US art gallery on the walls, Chinese chests lined up as filing cabinets. The Ambassador, in shirtsleeves, and another, younger, man wearing an immaculately tailored dark blue suit, rose to greet them.

‘Margaret,’ the Ambassador nodded curtly. He was an attractive, dark-haired man. A senator for nearly twenty years, he clearly felt more at home in the rarefied atmosphere of high politics than at this, more mundane, level of real life. ‘I think you know First Secretary Stan Palmer.’

‘Sure,’ Margaret said, and they all shook hands and sat down. The First Secretary poured them coffee from a tray that had just been brought in.

The Ambassador sat back and cast his eye curiously over Margaret. She looked tired, older than her thirty-one years, her pale blue eyes strained and dull, fair hair falling listlessly over her shoulders in big sad waves. ‘So,’ he said. ‘You’ve reached a decision.’

Margaret nodded. ‘I want to go home, Mr Ambassador.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘That’s very sudden, isn’t it?’

‘It’s been on my mind for some time.’

The First Secretary leaned forward. ‘Have you told the Chinese?’ His tone was sniffy, almost superior.

Margaret hesitated. ‘I was hoping you would do that.’

The Ambassador frowned. ‘Why? Is there a problem?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘No, I … I’ve just had enough. I just want to go home.’

‘You could have gone home ten weeks ago. You know that.’ The Ambassador’s tone was faintly accusatory. ‘After we secured your release.’

‘Sure.’ Margaret nodded. ‘It was my decision to stay on and co-operate with them. I thought it was the right thing to do at the time. I still do. But I spend night after night sitting alone in a hotel room watching CNN, and day after day being debriefed on the same old stuff. I’m tired of it. I didn’t think it would go on this long.’ She paused, a horrible thought occurring to her for the first time. ‘I
am
free to go, aren’t I?’

‘As far as I’m concerned, you are.’ The Ambassador leaned over and put a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘You’ve done more than your fair share, Margaret. More than they had any right to expect.’ He turned to the First Secretary. ‘Stan’ll tell the Chinese, won’t you, Stan?’

‘Of course, Mr Ambassador.’

But Stan was none too pleased, a fact betrayed by his demeanour as they descended the stairs. He didn’t like playing messenger boy. He ignored Sophie as if she wasn’t there – she was clearly an irrelevance – and addressed himself to Margaret. ‘So …’ he said, ‘the charges have been dropped against your Chinese policeman.’ He ran a hand back through thinning but perfectly groomed blond hair.

‘Have they?’ Margaret feigned indifference.

‘Didn’t you know?’ Stan feigned surprise.

‘For a start,’ Margaret said, tetchily, ‘he’s not
my
Chinese policeman. And the authorities have told me nothing.’

‘So you haven’t had any contact with him?’

‘No, I haven’t. Nor do I intend to.’ In spite of herself she couldn’t keep the hurt and anger out of her voice.

Stan was quick to capitalise. ‘Really? You surprise me.’ He smiled. ‘I’d heard that you and he were … well, how shall I put it? Close.’

‘Had you? I’m surprised that a man in your position would waste his time listening to gossip like that – never mind give it credence.’

‘Ah, well, that’s where you’re wrong, Margaret.’ Stan was so smooth he positively shone. ‘Gossip is the lifeblood of the embassy. I mean, without it how else would we know what was going on? After all, diplomats and politicians never tell one another the truth, now, do they?’ He shook her hand. ‘Have a good trip home.’ And he disappeared into the hushed interior of the building.

‘Prick,’ Sophie muttered.

‘Oh, you noticed?’ Margaret grinned ruefully. ‘If I’d had your talent for kicking ass I’d have practised it on him.’

‘Yeah, well he’s pretty high up my list of ass-kicking priorities, too.’ And they shared a moment of juvenile amusement – for Margaret a brief release, a breath of fresh air after weeks, months, of relentless intensity.

The marine pressed a button and the door clicked open. Sophie followed Margaret out on to the steps. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘What are you doing tonight?’

‘You mean apart from packing and watching CNN?’

‘Yeah, apart from that.’

‘Not much. But you know, I’d probably have to consult my social calendar to know for sure. Why?’

‘There’s a reception on at the Ambassador’s residence for Michael Zimmerman.’

‘Who?’

Sophie pulled a face. ‘Aw, come on, you’re kidding, right?’ Margaret shook her head. Sophie said, ‘You don’t know who Michael Zimmerman is?’

Margaret continued shaking her head. ‘Keeping asking won’t change that.’

‘Where have you been for the last five years? Don’t you ever watch television I mean, other than the news?’

‘Not in a very long time, Sophie.’ And Margaret couldn’t remember the last time she had watched anything but CNN in a Chinese hotel room. ‘So who is he?’

‘Only the most sexy man alive – at least, according to a poll of
Cosmopolitan
readers.’

‘I thought that was Mel Gibson.’

Sophie shook her head. ‘You
are
out of date.’ The rain had stopped and they walked slowly to the gatehouse. ‘Michael Zimmerman’s an archaeologist.’

‘An archaeologist?’ Margaret was taken aback. ‘That doesn’t sound very sexy to me. What is he, real life’s answer to Indiana Jones?’

Sophie smiled dreamily. ‘Well, not far off it. He’s made a whole bunch of documentary series for NBC on great archaeological finds around the world. He gets better ratings than the top cop shows.’

Margaret looked sceptical. ‘The great American public finally discovers culture. So, what’s his secret?’

Sophie shrugged. ‘There’s something about him … I don’t know, he just brings the whole thing to life.’ She paused, giving it serious thought for a moment. ‘Plus, he’s got a great ass.’

Margaret nodded seriously. ‘Well, when it comes to culture, that definitely helps.’ She went into the guardhouse and retrieved her purse and umbrella and stepped out on to the sidewalk. Sophie walked out after her. Margaret said, ‘So why’s the Ambassador holding a reception for him?’

‘It’s a pre-production party. Shooting starts tomorrow at the Ming Tombs outside Beijing. Some new documentary series on one of China’s most revered archaeologists. Some guy I never heard of. But it’s a big deal here. The Chinese have been bending over backwards to facilitate the shoot, so the Ambassador’s just doing his bit.’

‘And Zimmerman’s fronting the series?’

‘Yes. It’s his production company that’s making it.’ Sophie paused. ‘So do you want to come? I can get an invitation sent round to your hotel.’

Margaret thought about it for a moment. It wouldn’t take her long to pack, and it wouldn’t break her heart to give room service and CNN a final miss. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Why not? I can run a rule over Mr Zimmerman’s ass and see if it measures up.’

*

Margaret left Sophie at the consular section on the corner of Silk Street, grateful that the assistant RSO had had the sensitivity not to ask her the questions that everyone else she had met over the last ten weeks had asked. She pushed her way down through the narrow market lane, past great bolts of silk and racks of dressing gowns and shirts and dresses, to the six-lane Jianguomenwei Avenue that cut through the east-central city like an open wound. Here, twenty-first-century towers of glass and marble rose above the roar of traffic into the pall of pollution that hung low over the capital, and from their upturned Chinese eaves looked down on the crumbling remains of a disappearing city: the
hutongs
and
siheyuans
where street and family life bled one into the other; the real Beijing that was in danger of being swept away on the tide of financial success generated by a new devotion to the free-market economy.

She had no plan, no real notion of where she was going or what she wanted to do, other than the certain knowledge that she did not want to return to her hotel room. There was some desire in her, some need, to drink in this city for the last time, to let it wash over her, to feel its vital, vibrant life. She realised, with a dreadful ache, that she would miss it, with all its noise and pollution and traffic, its shouting, spitting, staring people, its sights and sounds and sometimes awful smells. But then she knew, too, that none of it meant anything without the man who had steered her through it, taught her to love it.

Why had he never been in touch? There was as much anger as hurt raging inside her. Not a call, not a letter. Nothing. Despite what she had led the First Secretary to believe, she had heard about Li’s release. They had told her, during one of those countless debriefings, that he had been reinstated. She had expected him to contact her. It was one of the reasons she had made no attempt to integrate with the social life of the embassy, despite umpteen invitations. Instead she had waited night after night by the phone in her hotel room for a call that never came. Once, she had phoned the offices of Section One of the Criminal Investigation Department in Dongzhimen and asked, in English, for Deputy Section Chief Li Yan. The request had caused some consternation at the other end of the line. Finally, someone speaking halting English had asked who she was, then told her that Deputy Section Chief Li was unavailable.

The No. 4 bus appeared out of the haze, and Margaret jostled with the Chinese in the queue to climb aboard and hand her five fen to the bus conductress, who scowled at her suspiciously.
Yangguizi
, foreign devils, never travelled by bus. Margaret ignored the faces turned towards her in unabashed curiosity as she clung to the overhead rail, squeezed in among all these bodies. It was extraordinary, she thought, how it was possible to feel so alone in a city of eleven million people.

She battled her way to the door and got off just past the Beijing Hotel, from where Western journalists had watched the tanks heading for their confrontation with demonstrating students in Tiananmen Square eleven years before. She crossed to the other side of East Chang’an Avenue via an underpass. This was foolish, she knew, a needless, self-inflicted pain. But still her feet carried her to the corner of Zhengyi Road, and she turned down into its tree-lined seclusion, away from the thunder of traffic on the main avenue. On her right, the compound of the Ministry of Public Security was hidden away behind a high stone wall, occupying the former home of the British Embassy. Further down, the apartment blocks provided for senior police officers rose above the still-lush green trees of early fall.

She felt sick now, and there was a lump in her throat as if something she had swallowed was stuck there. She had no difficulty identifying Li’s apartment on the second floor, the three rooms he had shared with his uncle. She smiled, remembering the night they had spent there, when they might have made love but hadn’t because she had drunk too much. And she remembered a cold, damp railway carriage in some anonymous siding in the north of the country where she had finally lain in his arms and they had declared their love. When they had returned to Beijing to reveal why three men had been murdered, and to clear Li of the accusations levelled against him by frightened men, he had told her to wait for him. He had told her he loved her. And she had waited. And waited.

She wiped the tears from her face and became aware of the security guard at the gate watching her curiously, this strange blonde-haired, blue-eyed
yangguizi
, standing weeping on the sidewalk, staring up at an anonymous apartment building. She turned quickly away. This was futile, stupid. It was history, and she was leaving in the morning. Her life was too full of pain for there to be any pleasure in looking back. She could only go forward.

A small, red taxi cruised slowly up the other side of the street. She called, and waved, and ran across the road. The taxi stopped and she jumped in. ‘
Ritan fandian
,’ she told the driver, and for a moment marvelled that he knew immediately what she meant. And then straight away felt saddened. China, its language, its people, had taken a long time getting into her soul and under her skin. And now that it had, she had no further use for it.

As the taxi headed back up towards East Chang’an Avenue, a tall broad-built Chinese man with close-cropped hair wheeled a bicycle out from the apartment compound. He was wearing an open-necked white shirt tucked into dark trousers at a narrow waist. He stopped for a moment, feeling in his pockets. Then he turned to the security guard. ‘You got any cigarettes, Feng?’

The security guard was uncomfortable. None of the other officers in the compound even spoke to him, never mind knew his name.

‘Sure, Deputy Section Chief,’ he said, taking an almost full pack from his pocket. ‘Here, have it. I’ve got plenty.’

Li took it and smiled. ‘I’ll bring you a replacement on the way back tonight.’

‘No need,’ the guard said.

Li grinned. ‘Yes there is. My uncle always told me a man with a debt is a man with a burden. See you tonight.’ And he lit a cigarette and pushed off on his bike following, oblivious, in the wake of Margaret’s taxi.

II

It was almost dark when Margaret passed through the security gate of
Yi Ban
, No. 1 building of the American Embassy on Guanghua Road, west of Ritan Park. On the right was the main administration block housing the Press Office and the Department of Cultural Affairs, a huge satellite dish oriented south-west on the lower roof. Straight ahead was the Ambassador’s residence, a plain two-storey building with a brown tile roof. It stood at the end of a paved drive bordered by immaculately kept flowerbeds and silently weeping willows. On a tall flagpole the Stars and Stripes fluttered listlessly in the gentle evening breeze. From the street Margaret had heard the sounds of traditional Chinese music drifting languidly from the direction of the residence. Now, as she approached the double red doors at the front, she could see, through a latticed wall off to her right, the musicians – three men and two women – playing on an illuminated terrace.