The Ghost Shift (16 page)

“Yes.”

“It had to be.” He looked blank, recalling something, and then his face folded up again.

This time, Mei reacted without thinking, stepping forward to
comfort him. But as she knelt, placing a hand on his knee, she found herself staring into the barrel of a gun. He’d brought it out in one swift movement and pointed it at her head, his hands perfectly still.

“Step back.” It sounded like a polite request, not a command backed by a semiautomatic pistol. “We have to go now.”

She obeyed him, and he led the way. Madame Zhou was waiting as they came out, Lockhart’s arm linked in Mei’s. They seemed to be walking casually, but his body was guiding her.

“Is everything well, Mr. Davies? You two have made friends, I see,” Madame Zhou called out.

Lockhart nudged Mei to prompt her. “Everything is fine. Mr. Davies is coming to help us,” she said.

“Wonderful. I’m so happy.”

He held her arm all the way to the first floor. They walked together through the lobby, smiling at the receptionist, and across the parking lot. He went to the passenger side; by the time she’d sat behind the wheel, he was cradling the gun in his lap.

“Take me there,” he said.

She pulled onto Fuzhong Road, heading for the Jinggang’ao Expressway. The traffic was bad, and they chugged along slowly, waiting for the glow of taillights to ease and the path to the city’s outskirts to clear. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him gazing at her, the way he’d done when he thought she was his daughter, before he knew. He said nothing on the way. It took them half an hour to get to the Expressway and another forty minutes on it, passing a line of apartment blocks, industrial estates, and then the blankness of rivers and marshes. Mei felt as if she ought to panic, as an armed man directed her to an isolated place, but she didn’t.

She stopped where she’d first parked, with a view down to the marshes and the cabins. Lockhart sat looking through the windshield at the waterlogged landscape, then buttoned his overcoat and stepped out, standing in the mist. As she joined him, he bent over a phone, thumbing a message.

“It was there,” she said, pointing through the mist. She could smell decay rising from the fields, the stench of chemicals or human waste.

“Show me.” He placed the gun on the car’s roof, holding it flat with the eye of the barrel staring at her.

She bent inside the Chery and pulled out a flashlight before starting down the slope to the fields. They struck out in single file along the ridge, in the same direction she’d gone with the Wolf. This time she led, hearing Lockhart’s breath behind her. The moon was hidden behind the clouds and darkness enfolded them. The leaves slapped her body. Mei felt the first twinge of worry that she might not survive—that he wouldn’t let her return to tell others about him. For a moment, she imagined herself with Lizzie, lying in the water. She’d seen him at his most vulnerable, but he’d pulled a gun on her faster than she could think.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

The only sound was their feet falling on the earth in rhythm. Then, when she thought he wouldn’t, he replied. “You’re just like Lizzie,” he said.

“Tell me about her.” She wanted to keep talking so that he would not kill her, but she also wanted to know.

“I can’t.” His voice trembled.

They had walked through the banana fields, and she saw the glint of light on the ponds. She halted. “It was near here.”

“I’m going to remember her.” She glanced sideways and saw that he’d bowed his head, putting his hands together. His face was hardly visible, just a tiny glint of light from his eyes and the luster of the gun’s handle. She could have knocked it out of his hands, but it would be sacrilege.

She bowed her head and stood next to him, until he spoke. “Goodbye, Song Mei. Don’t follow me.”

His command was so strange that she almost laughed—where could he be going in the delta at this hour? But, as she opened her mouth to respond, Lockhart walked off. Within seconds, he was thirty feet along the dike, disappearing from sight. She waited until he’d vanished, then ignored his warning and followed. There was no light or sound. She walked invisibly, by herself, her flashlight turned off so that he wouldn’t see her. As she darted between ponds, wind rippled the surface.

The sound of a diesel motor broke the silence five hundred feet ahead, and a beam struck the jetty where she had stood with the boy, looking across the fields at Long Tan. Lockhart was in the same position, bathed in light. Then a fishing boat pulled in beside him, he took one step forward from the jetty onto its deck, and it carried him into the night.

Mei turned and ran, cursing Lockhart. She had let him escape to the Pearl River, toward Hong Kong and the sea. He hadn’t needed a guide to where her sister had died—he had known already. This had been his rendezvous with Lizzie, but it had failed that evening. Tonight, the boat had waited in the delta, in case of emergency, and he had fooled her into driving him there.
How stupid could she be?

She raced back toward her car, sliding in the mud. On the edge of one field, she stopped briefly to pull her phone from her jacket and checked the signal: nothing. She ran on, leaping over a pool onto a ridge, defying the ghosts to grab her. Twice she felt her shoes sliding into the liquid and once missed her footing entirely, stumbling forward and only just keeping her balance.

Then she was out the other side and grasping for her phone. She saw a single bar and stopped, panting and stabbing at the device. Through hissing interference, it rang.

“Lai Feng? It’s Song Mei.”

“I remember.” The voice sounded low and relaxed, almost drugged. “How can I help? You need a shoulder to cry on?”

“I need your help tonight.”

“That sounds like fun.” Her voice lightened. “Where are you?”

“In Dongguan. I can pick you up.”

“I’ll get dressed.”

Mei halted by the Party compound on Dongfeng East Road forty minutes later. She had raced along the Expressway, banging a fist on the wheel in frustration at having to drive in the opposite direction
from Lockhart. Feng stood by a guard, who was cupping his hands around a flame to light her cigarette. She wore a leather skirt and red tights. Her hair was plaited, and she had a suitcase with her.

“Hey, wild thing. I got the stuff.” Her eyes widened as she looked at Mei. “Whoa. What happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Looks like you’ve been mud-wrestling.” She pointed to patches of dirt on Mei’s clothes and, licking her thumb, rubbed Mei’s cheek.

“It’s a long story.”

“Save it. I brought some clothes. I just want to say something. This is a crazy idea. Now of all times.”

“I know. I—”

“Okay, I said it. Let’s go.”

It was ninety minutes to the border, with the accelerator crammed down all the way. As they rounded the curve to the customs point, Feng pointed her to a slip road. They passed the checkpoint with a wave of their cards and came to a stop on the Hong Kong side. A young official with a shadow of a mustache sauntered over to the car and thrust out his hand for their papers. He peered at them for a long moment and returned to his cabin, still holding them.

“Bureaucrats,” Feng muttered. She took her phone and selected a Hong Kong number. “It’s me. I’m at Futian. I’m stuck. What? I was in a hurry.” She giggled. “No, we can’t have drinks tonight. I’ve got plans. None of your business. Okay, next time. Yes, I promise.” She lowered her window and shouted at the cabin, “Hey, come here.”

The young man lumbered back without their papers, looking as if he would enjoy punishing her for causing trouble with an even longer wait. “Tell him,” she said into the phone, and handed it to him.

He put it to his ear and listened for thirty seconds, then handed it back to her. Then he went back to the cabin and retrieved their papers.

“My apologies for the misunderstanding,” he said.

“Remember next time. Don’t piss me off,” Feng said.

“How did you manage that?” Mei asked as she drove through.

Feng shrugged. “Connections.”

They passed through the New Territories in silence. After a while
they came to a turn in the highway where Hong Kong Island appeared, its peak rising from the sea, and sped down the highway toward the harbor. Mei drove to Salisbury Road and stopped at the Peninsula Hotel, where a green-jacketed valet took the keys and handed her a ticket. It was midnight when they walked into the foyer, Feng wheeling the suitcase she’d brought from the compound.

“This way,” she said.

She led Mei across the lobby to the bathroom. Inside, she knelt and brought out a set of clothes. She handed them to Mei, together with a pair of high heels.

“I guessed your size. You won’t need them long.”

Mei took the package into a stall and laid it on the seat, then stripped off her things. Feng had brought stockings, a white blouse with pearl buttons, a leather skirt like hers, and a yellow jacket, with high heels that pinched Mei’s toes as she put them on. In the mirror, she still looked terrible. There was a muddy streak on her face where Feng had rubbed her thumb, and her hair was all mussed. The shadows under her eyes stood out against her pale face.

“Give me those,” Feng said. She took Mei’s clothes and folded them into the suitcase. Then she brought out a hairbrush and some clips.

“Put your hair up,” she said.

Feng pinned a purple flower into it and made Mei lean down so that she could apply mascara and a dab of red lipstick.

“You can be my escort,” Feng said.

Another woman gazed back at Mei in the mirror. They looked like two Shenzhen girls out for the night, with pouting lips and tight skirts. Mei towered above Feng in her heels and tottered as they walked into the lobby together, Feng pulling her suitcase like an off-duty air steward.

The man behind the desk gazed at them without warmth, as if politeness was more than they deserved.

“Can I help?”

Feng gave him a wide smile.

“We’re here to visit Mr. Lockhart. He’s a guest.”

“I see.”

“He wants company tonight.”

The man looked them up and down sternly. His gaze lingered on the pearl buttons of Mei’s blouse.

“It’s embarrassing,” Feng added, looking unashamed. “We’ve forgotten his room number. We want to know where to go.”

“Who should I say is calling?” he said, picking up a phone.

“It’s a surprise.” Feng said, leaning forward and clasping notes into his hand. “We need his number. That’s all.”

He glanced around and then scribbled a number on a slip of paper and handed it to her.

“Mr. Lockhart is a valued guest. We want him to have everything he desires. But don’t come back.”

They took the elevator to the twenty-third floor and walked along the thickly carpeted hallway. The only sound was the squeak of Feng’s suitcase. When they got to the room, Mei pressed the bell and rapped on the door. They waited for a long while, but there was no response.

“Watch out,” Feng said. She placed the case on the floor and brought out a plastic card attached by a strip of wires to a small box. She inserted the card in a slit by the door and pressed a button. After twenty seconds, there was a click as the lock released.

They looked at each other and laughed, the tension of the escapade releasing. Mei walked into Lockhart’s suite, tugging the suitcase. It was large and lavishly furnished in pale fabrics and lacquered wood, with a pattern of cotton tree branches painted on one wall. The windows reached to the floor, with a glittering view of the harbor. Mei stood and gazed, open-mouthed.

At the end of the lounge, a walk-through closet led to the bedroom and bathroom. The suite was so tidy that it might have been uninhabited. The bed was made, and all of the cushions were smooth. There were hardly any objects lying around—only a pad on the table with a few doodles and a couple of numbers. Mei copied them down.

In the bedroom, Feng opened drawers. Lockhart’s shirts and socks were neatly stacked, and she felt underneath for objects. There were two jackets and pants hanging in the wardrobe and little else. On the bedside table sat a thick biography of Deng Xiaoping, with a bookmark halfway through.

“Where’s his laptop?” Feng said. She took out another device with a fan-shaped scanner and walked through the suite, stopping whenever it beeped to open a drawer or cupboard. “Nothing,” she said, entering the bathroom, where Mei was looking at the toiletries. “He’s taken anything that could be useful. They’re not always this smart. I wonder where he learned?”

“Is that it? Nothing?”

“Nothing tells us something. He’s a professional.”

“So what do we do?”

“We leave. After we’ve finished.”

“I thought we had.”

“Not if he’s a professional. Go through the clothes. Take all the drawers out. Look under everything.”

Feng took a stick with a mirror on the end from her bag and twisted it. It expanded to several feet long, and she held the mirror up to examine the top of the cupboards and then went back into the lounge. Mei got down on her knees and looked under the bed, then started pulling out drawers, as she’d been told.