The Fourth Sacrifice (11 page)

‘It’s all right. We’ve finished,’ Margaret said, suddenly businesslike, and she brushed past Li and followed Sophie to the car.

‘Jesus,’ Sophie said, as they slipped into the back seat. ‘You hit him!’ And then she saw the tears rolling slowly down Margaret’s cheek, and she quickly turned to face forward. ‘Sorry.’

Li watched the car pull away from the kerb, and felt as if some invisible umbilical cord was dragging the inside out of him as it went.

II

They drove in silence for nearly fifteen minutes before Sophie sneaked a look at Margaret. The tears had either dried up or been brushed away. They had both been staring out of their respective windows at the traffic on the second ring road, tower blocks rising up all around them and casting lengthening shadows from west to east. ‘That was my first autopsy,’ Sophie said.

‘I’d never have guessed.’ Margaret kept her eyes fixed on the traffic.

Sophie smiled and blushed. ‘That obvious?’

Margaret relented and drew her a wan smile. ‘I’ve seen worse. At least we weren’t forced to inspect the contents of
your
stomach as well.’ Sophie grinned, and Margaret added, ‘But you’d better get used to it. It certainly won’t be your last.’

‘How do you ever get used to something like that?’ Sophie asked. ‘I mean, you must be affected by it. Surely. All these poor, dead people laid out like … like meat. Like they never had a life.’

‘You should try dealing with the living,’ Margaret said. ‘Personally I find it’s a lot less stressful working with the dead. They have no expectation that you’re going to make them better.’

And she wondered if that’s what was wrong with her. That she could be so at home with the dead: breadloafing their organs, dissecting their brains, examining the contents of their intestines, all with a detached expertise and self-confidence. And yet when it came to the living she was ill at ease, protective, defensive, aggressive. It had always been easy to blame her failed relationships on someone else. It had always been clear to her that she was not at fault. But what if she was? After all, wasn’t she the misfit, the one happier to spend time with corpses? Had all those years spent dissecting the dead stolen away her ability to relate to the living? The thought left her feeling empty and depressed. Because what lay ahead on her return to the States but more years spent in autopsy rooms? An endless conveyer belt of tragedy. A bleak, white-tiled future with nothing more to stimulate her senses than the touch of refrigerated flesh.

Sophie’s mobile phone rang, a silly electronic melody that Margaret took a moment or two to identify as ‘Scotland the Brave’. Sophie fumbled to find it in her purse.

‘Sophie Daum,’ she answered, when finally she got it to her ear. ‘Oh, hi, Jonathan. Sure. We’re just on the way back to her hotel now.’ She glanced at Margaret. ‘Well, I guess … Sure. OK, see you.’ She switched off and leaned forward to the driver. ‘Change of plan. We’re going straight to the embassy.’ She turned to Margaret. ‘The Ambassador wants to see you.’

‘Well, fuck the Ambassador,’ Margaret said, and Sophie’s eyes widened with shock. Margaret told the driver, ‘Go to the Ritan Hotel.’ Then to Sophie, ‘First thing I’m going to do is take a shower. Strange as it may seem, I prefer the scent of Fabergé to formaldehyde. Then I’m going to change into some fresh clothes. And if he still wants to talk,
then
I will see the Ambassador.’

The driver glanced back at Sophie for clarification. She hesitated a moment, then nodded. ‘I’m going to get bawled out for this,’ she told Margaret.

‘Well, bawl right back. It’s not your fault if this cranky pathologist won’t do what she’s told.’ She grinned. ‘Tell them I was scared I’d get blood on the Ambassador’s nice new carpet.’

Their car cruised past the Moskva restaurant on the south-west corner of Ritan Park, a stone’s throw away from the Ambassador’s residence, past the rows of traders in Ritan Lu and the dull gaze of the furriers squatting beside the pelts that hung on long rails opposite Margaret’s hotel. Their enthusiasm had waned in almost direct correlation to the decline of the Russian economy and a drastic drop in business. Long gone were the days when Russian traders would measure the furs they bought by how many they could squeeze into a baggage car on the night train to Moscow. Even the Russian mafia, dealing exclusively in dollars, was feeling the pinch.

Margaret stepped out of the car at the door of the hotel and leaned back in to Sophie. ‘Come for me in an hour.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Say five thirty.’ Sophie nodded, but did not look happy.

In her room, Margaret stripped off her clothes and dumped them in a laundry bag for collection by room service. The shower felt good. Hot and stimulating. She tipped her head back, eyes closed, and let the water hit her face, pouring down between her breasts in a small stream cascading from the end of her chin. She tried to banish from her mind all thoughts of the autopsy, of her last encounter with Li. The two seemed inextricably linked, a single unhappy experience. She knew, of course, that she would have to wait for the results from toxicology on the samples she had prepared before she could write her autopsy report. Twenty-four hours, forty-eight at the most, and then she could go. No looking back. The trouble was she didn’t want to look forward either.

She stepped on to the bathmat and dried herself vigorously with a big soft towel, before collecting her wet hair in a hand towel and wrapping it around her head. From the wardrobe she took the black silk dressing gown embroidered with gold and red dragons that she had bought on an idle afternoon in Silk Street. It felt wonderful as she wrapped it around her nakedness, sheer and sensuous on her skin. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, the skin of her face fresh and pink. But she was shocked by how tired and lined her eyes were, shadowed, and sunk back in her skull. And, unaccountably, they were filled suddenly by tears that ran hot and salty on her cheeks. She looked quickly away from her reflection. There was little less edifying, she thought, than the sight of one’s own self-pity.

She was startled by a knock at the door, and she quickly wiped away the tears. ‘Just a minute,’ she called, and she took a couple of deep breaths.

A bellboy stood in the corridor holding an expansive bouquet of flowers. He thrust them at her. ‘For you, lady,’ he said, and hurried away before she could even think about a tip.

She carried the flowers back into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind her. She had always been scornful of those women who were suckers for flowers. Men knew exactly how to use a bouquet, or a single rose, to manipulate them. And, as far as Margaret was concerned, no one was going to manipulate her. Still, she felt an unexpected rush of pleasure. They
were
beautiful, a host of wonderful scents mingled in a dazzle of colour. She laid them carefully on the bed and saw the card tucked into the wrapping. For a moment she hesitated. She was not sure she wanted to know who it was from, or what it said. But curiosity quickly got the better of her and she ripped open the envelope and pulled out a small, simple card with a floral design on the front. She opened it up and, inside, in a hand she did not recognise, were the words, ‘Glad you’re still around. Pick you up at eight.’ It was signed simply, ‘Michael’.

She felt the blood physically drain from her face, and for a moment felt dizzy, and had to put a hand on the wall to steady herself. Michael was dead. How could he possibly–– She stopped herself, mid-thought. Of course it wasn’t him. Her mind raced for a few seconds before she realised. Michael Zimmerman. He was the only other Michael she knew, and certainly the only Michael she knew in China. She had forgotten about his very existence. She smiled, but it was a grim smile, because she was reminded that the man she had married and lived with for seven years could still reach out and touch her, even from the grave, even now. She shivered at the thought, and then just as quickly pushed him from her mind.

Michael Zimmerman. She remembered his smiling eyes, and how she had been attracted to him. Was that only last night? Already it seemed like a lifetime ago.
Pick you up at eight
. She felt a tiny thrill of pleasure like the faintest glimmer of light in a very dark place.

*

‘The Ambassador was furious,’ Sophie said. She seemed very agitated.

Margaret was unimpressed. ‘Was he?’ She slipped into the back seat beside her, and the limo purred quietly out into the street.

‘He couldn’t wait. He had some engagement he couldn’t get out of.’

‘That’s a pity,’ Margaret said. ‘So why are we still going to the embassy?’

‘To see Stan and Jonathan.’ Sophie flicked her a look. ‘Jonathan gave me a hell of a dressing down for not bringing you straight back.’

‘Jesus!’ Margaret felt her hackles rising. ‘Who the hell do these people think they are? I don’t work for the US government. I’m doing them a favour, for Chrissake. We may be in the People’s Republic, but I am a citizen of the United States, a free person, and I will do what the hell I like.’ She breathed hard for a few moments, then took a long, deep breath and let the tension slip away as she exhaled.

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, then Margaret said, ‘So how come Michael Zimmerman knew I was still in Beijing?’

Sophie was caught off guard. ‘What?’

‘He sent me a bunch of flowers and a card saying he’s going to pick me up at eight tonight.’

‘Lucky you.’ There was just a hint of pique in Sophie’s voice. ‘He called before lunch. I guess I must have mentioned you’d postponed your departure to do this autopsy.’

‘And just happened to mention where I was staying, too?’

She shrugged. ‘He asked.’ She paused. ‘So where’s he taking you?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

They were kept waiting for ten minutes in the security foyer of the Chancery, under the implacable gaze of the marine behind the window. Then a harsh electronic buzz and the dull click of a lock announced the arrival of the First Secretary. He was brusque and businesslike and came through the door without so much as an acknowledgement. ‘Follow me,’ he said, and hurried out and down the steps. Margaret and Sophie exchanged looks and went after him.

‘Want to tell me where we’re going, Stan?’ Margaret asked as they walked round the side of the building. The late evening sun washed yellow across the compound.

‘To get a bite to eat. I don’t know about you, but it’s more than five hours since I ate, and I’m hungry.’

‘Well, you know, that’s funny,’ but Margaret wasn’t smiling. ‘I haven’t eaten either. Not since before I did the autopsy. You remember? The autopsy I did as a favour for you guys? By the way, thanks for the acknowledgement. It’s nice to know how much your country appreciates you.’

Stan stopped in his tracks, looked skyward for a moment, then turned, pursing his lips. ‘You are a real pain in the ass, Margaret, you know that?’

‘You bet,’ she said, and Stan found himself smiling, albeit reluctantly. Margaret added, ‘After two hours hacking about a dead body, a girl’s entitled to a shower, Stan.’

‘OK.’ He raised his hands in self-defence. ‘Point taken. And the Ambassador appreciates your efforts, Margaret. He really does. But we need to talk. This whole thing’s in danger of turning nasty. Political.’

He turned and they carried on past a long blue canopy set among a grove of trees. Embassy staff sat at tables chatting animatedly, taking their evening meals al fresco. Immediately opposite, was the canteen – a long, single-storey building. Stan headed for the door.

‘Political in what way?’ Margaret wanted to know.

‘You’ll see when you look at Yuan Tao’s file,’ Stan said, and they followed him inside, past long rows of bookshelves, to a large white board with an extensive menu scrawled up in blue felt pen. There was a clatter of crockery from the kitchens behind it. ‘Turns out the guy was born here. Didn’t go to the States till he was seventeen, just before the Cultural Revolution. Never came back. Eventually applied for and got US citizenship.’ He lifted a piece of paper and a pencil from a table in front of the menu board and thrust it at her. ‘Here. You write the number of dishes you want, the number of the dish – they’re up on the board – and the price.’ He rapidly filled out his own slip. ‘And don’t forget to put your name on it.’

Margaret glanced across at an opening leading to the bar. ‘I’d much rather have a drink,’ she said.

Stan followed her eyes and smiled. ‘Sorry, Margaret. It’s only open Friday afternoons for an extended happy hour. You can get a soft drink from the cold cabinet.’

Margaret sighed and scrutinised the board and chose sweet and sour pork, boiled rice and a Coca-Cola. ‘So he was born here,’ she said. ‘How does that make it political?’

‘There are folk back home who would like to think that the Chinese are capable of storing up their revenge for as long as it takes.’

‘Revenge for what?’

‘Someone like Yuan Tao might have been seen as having jumped ship,’ Stan said, ‘and then betrayed his country by going native in the States.’

Margaret was incredulous. ‘So they wait thirty-odd years for him to come back and then bump him off? You don’t really believe that, do you?’

‘Not for a minute.’ Stan shook his head. ‘But you’ve got to remember, Margaret, the right wing back in the States has been scratching about looking for another bogeyman ever since the Soviet Union turned turtle. And China’s it. The press is full of anti-China propaganda. Some of it’s pretty gross. But some of it’s pretty subtle, too. Sometimes it’s all in the tone. And then they make movies like
Seven Years in Tibet
or
Red Corner
which get the folks back home all in a rage about Chinese injustice. I mean,
Red Corner
’s an entertaining story if you like that kind of thing, but its portrayal of the Chinese justice system was just ludicrous. Laughable. Except that the Chinese authorities weren’t laughing. They banned it, and then got accused of censorship.’

Margaret followed him to a desk where a woman sat at a cash register. ‘I didn’t know you were such a champion of the Chinese, Stan.’