Typhoon (34 page)

The phone rang beside the bed. Joe was shaken from his semi-hypnotic state and tore off the headphones, as if somebody had burst into the room.

“Joe?”

It was Megan. He looked at his watch. “Are you OK?”

“Did I wake you?”

He stopped the playback. “No. It’s almost two. What’s happening? Are you all right?”

“I can’t sleep,” she said.

He was still under the spell of the recording, yet the prospect of seeing her again was immediately enticing. He was thirsty and stood up off the bed. “I’m wide awake,” he said. “Do you want to come over?”

“Would that be OK?”

They had spent two of the previous three nights together, always at the hotel, always sleeping late into the morning. Increasingly, Joe was living on London time. That was what Shanghai did to you. “I have to check out tomorrow,” he said. “I have to move into my new apartment. But I’d love to see you.”

I have often wondered if Joe had Megan vetted. He was never prepared to say. When a spy meets a strange girl in a strange restaurant, and that girl turns out to be as forthcoming as Megan, the spy has a right to feel suspicious. Why was she calling him at two o’clock in the morning? Why was it so important to Megan that they spend the night together? Joe was certain that she was legitimate, but as soon as he had hung up the phone, he removed the CD from the laptop and placed it in the small black safe located in the main wardrobe of his room. Afterwards, switching on the hot water in both the bath and shower, he created a room of steam to defeat the hotel fire alarm and burned the pages of Waterfield’s report in the sink.

You could never be too careful. You never knew who you were dealing with.

Joe checked out
the following morning.

His two-bedroomed apartment was part of a colonial art-deco complex set back from a dusty, tree-lined avenue in the heart of the French Concession. The contrast with the bustle and noise of Nanjing Road was stark: in Joe’s new neighbourhood, traffic was more subdued and there was scarcely a high-rise in sight. The pace of life also slowed to a crawl: two blocks from his front door a carpenter sold lutes and handmade violins. All along the street middle-aged Chinese men played
majiang
and slumbered through long afternoons in the backs of wooden carts. From the window of his new kitchen Joe could hear birdsong and neighbourhood conversations. He was within walking distance of several small European-style cafés, as well as the Shanghai Library, the Ding Xiang Gardens and—more by accident than design—the main building of the Consulate General of the United States of America. The apartment was already fully furnished, with shelves of paperback books, broadband wireless internet, IKEA pictures on the walls and spices in the cupboards. Joe didn’t need to buy sheets or pillows, lightbulbs or soap: everything was already in place. It must have felt like stepping into another person’s life.

Two days after checking out of the hotel he went shopping for groceries in Xiangyang Market. It was raining heavily and Joe was carrying an umbrella as well as a briefcase full of documents from Quayler. The market, which has since been razed to the ground to make way for a shopping centre, was a crowded sea of stalls protected only by flimsy tarpaulin coverings which dripped water onto the ground. Butchers in white chef’s hats took meat cleavers to joints of pork and chicken and failed to meet Joe’s eye when he paid for them. At a vegetable stall he bought radishes and husks of white corn, beetroot for homemade borscht, as well as mangoes, bananas and apples to eat for breakfast. One of the pleasures of renting the flat was the opportunity he now had to prepare and cook his own food; from vast hessian sacks at the perimeter of the market Joe scooped dried mushrooms and black beans, nuts and rice, planning to host a flat-warming dinner party to which he would invite Tom and Megan and their friends. Weighed down with plastic bags, he eventually walked out onto Huaihai Road at about six o’clock, in the hopeless aspiration of hailing a cab. Every other shopper had the same idea. It was as if all of Shanghai was sheltering from the tropical rain beneath the eaves and awnings on the street. As the thick wet traffic fizzed past, Joe swore under his breath and knew that it would be hours before he saw a vacant taxi.

Sixty metres away, Miles Coolidge emerged from a branch of the Lawson’s con ve nience store carrying a rucksack in which he had placed a box of Camel cigarettes, a bar of Hershey’s chocolate, some aspirin and a packet of Style condoms. He had heard rumours of Joe Lennox’s presence in Shanghai from two sources: a friend at the United States embassy in London who had attended his leaving party at Vauxhall Cross, and a young Chinese corporate lawyer who happened to mention that she had bumped into “a really interesting guy called Joe” at a bi-weekly meeting of the British Chamber of Commerce. The lawyer, who worked part-time for Microsoft—and full-time trying to fend off the advances of Miles Coolidge—was unable to recall anything about Joe’s profession except that he “was a chemist or something.” Miles had eventually discovered that Joe was staying at the Ritz-Carlton, only to be informed twenty-four hours earlier that Mr. Lennox had checked out, leaving no forwarding address. It was a measure of how busy Miles was that he had given little further thought to Joe’s whereabouts until he glimpsed the tall, slim figure, weighed down by plastic bags, sheltering under an umbrella on the opposite side of Huaihai Road.

Sixty seconds later, the bottom of his trousers soaked with rain and grime, Joe was preparing to trudge home when he felt a presence behind him, a hand on his back, then a head popping up under his umbrella like a jack-in-the-box.

“You just never know who you’re gonna run into in this town.”

Miles was just as Zhao Jian had described, just as he had looked in the photos: thickset and shaven headed, only now with a heavy black beard that aged in white streaks around the neck and ears. This was it; the moment London had been waiting for. Joe had rehearsed dialogue for their first chance encounter, but he was so taken aback that it was three or four seconds before he was able to remember his lines.

“Jesus Christ. Miles. I didn’t recognize you with the beard. What the fuck are you doing here?”

The umbrella had fallen to one side and the warm rain was drenching his face. It ran through the tangle of Miles’s beard; it glistened the teeth of his grin.

“I was gonna ask you the same question.”

“I live here.”

“Well I do too.”

They stepped off the street for shelter and found themselves in a dumpling restaurant that smelled of rain and spilled vinegar. A huddle of pedestrians were gathered in the entrance but Miles barged through them like a commuter running late for a train. Joe could see that he had no choice but to join him and followed the American to a table at the back of the restaurant.

“You got time to talk, right?”

“Of course.”

The table was constructed out of moulded orange plastic. A waitress in a navy blue apron came over and Miles said, “Just tea,” without looking at her. Joe put his bags on the floor and tried to work out what was happening. Had Miles been following him? Was this just coincidence? It was impossible to tell.

“I’m trying to remember how I feel about you,” he said, which was the first of the lines he had rehearsed. Miles, taking off his jacket, said, “Cute,” and threw it on the chair beside him. Joe stared at his stomach, fat as an empathy belly, full of booze and lunches, and felt an immediate, visceral hatred of the man who had betrayed him. As he had long suspected, these first instincts were purely personal; they had nothing to do with the operation. He tried to arrange his face so that it would not reflect his anger and picked at a scratch on the table. He was forced to concede that Miles’s beard gave his face a certain rugged grandeur, but the eyes had gone. Age had beaten the truth out of them: they were now just sockets of greed and lies.

“So you live here?”

Either man might have asked the question but Joe got there first. Miles nodded as he wiped a paper napkin over the dome of his head. He was staring at Joe, as if relieved that a long wait was over.

“That’s right. I’m in software now,” he said. “A free marketeer. You?”

“Pharmaceuticals.”

“Oh come on.” Miles laughed and shook his head, as if Joe had blundered the lie.

“Seriously. I got out six months ago.”

“Pharmaceuticals? It’s cover, Joe. Come on. You can tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I’m serious.” He looked around at the neighbouring tables, suggesting with his eyes that Miles was being childish. He wondered if Shahpour had shown him his card, or whether the rumours had filtered through from Grosvenor Square. Perhaps the whole thing really was just coincidence and every one of his carefully laid plans in Shanghai had proved pointless. “I got sick of working for an organization in thrall to a bunch of corrupt neocons, so I handed in my notice. If that makes you feel bad, I apologize. It’s not personal.”

Miles reared back in his seat. “Why would I give a shit?”

“I’m glad you don’t.”

There was a pause while Miles seemed to contemplate the philosophical implications of what Joe had told him. Finally, shaking his head, he said, “Seriously? You resigned out of moral disgust?” as if ethical behaviour should be anathema to men of their calling.

“People do braver things every day.”

It looked as though Miles believed him, because a glint of guilt briefly flashed across his eyes. Joe had always been the principled one. The competitive rage of Hong Kong would soon return, because even marrying Isabella had not been enough.

“What about you?” Joe asked.

“What about me?”

“Why did you leave?”

The waitress set a pot of Lipton’s tea on the table, looked quickly at Joe and walked away. Miles sniffed. “Why do you think?” he said.

“Money?”

“You got it.”

Simultaneously they reached for cigarettes: Joe for a packet of Zhong Nan Hai, Miles for a soft pack of Camel Filters. Joe’s pulse had settled now. He was able to relax and concentrate on the strategy he had put together with Waterfield.

“So what does ‘software’ mean?”

“I guess it means the same as ‘pharmaceuticals.’ ”

What Joe had not anticipated was the abrasiveness of the conversation. Either Miles was working to a prepared script of his own, hoping to catch Joe off balance, or the years had rendered him even blunter and more aggressive than before.

“So you’re not in computers? You’re still working for the government?”

Miles ran a hand over his beard, acting as if Joe was being slow on the uptake. “Like I told you, man. I’m legitimate. I work ninety-hour weeks on software piracy. I travelled 100,000 miles last year trying to make sure Windows Vista doesn’t develop a single-fold eyelid when we finally release in Asia.”

Joe couldn’t help but laugh. The lies. The casual racism. He poured the tea and rested his cigarette in a burn-scarred ashtray.

“Do you miss it?”

Miles lurched forward. “Like pussy, man,” he whispered. “Like pussy.”

Joe disguised another wave of consternation in a gentle, smiling shake of the head. A part of him had always admired Miles’s sheer effrontery—brazenly lying about his work, about Linda, his mistress, about his marriage—yet the reply had been an implied insult to which he wanted to respond in kind.

“Speaking of which, how is Isabella?”

Miles sniffed again, pinned like an insect on his indiscretions. It had been a long time since anybody had challenged his natural authority.

“Oh she’s great,” he replied. “Why? You wanna meet up with her?”

Joe remembered the last time that he had seen the pair of them together, sitting on a sofa at a party in Causeway Bay. He had walked into the room and Isabella had immediately turned away, pretending to hold a conversation with the woman to her left. They had been separated for two months at that point and Joe had watched Isabella’s hand link into Miles’s arm, playing with the strap of his watch. Afterwards, out on a balcony, he had deliberately started an argument which had ended with both Miles and Isabella leaving the party. Those were the worst times and the humiliation of that period still ran through him like acid in the stomach.

“Sure. It would be great to see her.”

“Dinner?” Miles suggested immediately.

Joe suspected that this was pre-ordained. Miles would want to maintain as much control over Joe as possible, to shunt him around town until he knew exactly what he was dealing with. Joe had planned to decline any initial invitation from Miles under the pretence of leaving Shanghai on Quayler business, but he was aware that he had several bags of fresh food resting at his feet and that such a tactic would now be impossible.

“Dinner sounds great.”

“What about tomorrow? I know Izzy’s free. I can get us a table at M on the Bund. She’d get a kick out of seeing you.”

A kick? He had forgotten Miles’s seemingly effortless slights and condescensions. He was acting as though Joe had been a mere footnote in the long narrative of Isabella’s life. The rain was starting to ease off on Huaihai and he listened to the sound of the crawling traffic, to horns, the squeal of brakes.

“Fine,” he said. “I’d like that.” M on the Bund was a rooftop restaurant with views over the Huangpu and prices to match. Though he had imagined the circumstances of their reunion for seven long years, in that moment Joe had no conception of how he would react to seeing Isabella after such a span of time. What would he say? How would she behave? Why was he agreeing to meet both of them at the same time?

“You gotta cellphone?”

“Of course.”

Miles was sipping his tea. He knew, as well as anyone, how much the separation had cost Joe in terms of his happiness and self-esteem and appeared to be enjoying his discomfort. Joe, realizing that he had been handed an opportunity, lifted his briefcase onto the table, flipped the catches and swivelled it towards Miles so that it was possible for him to view the contents. He looked quickly at his face and noted the eagerness with which the American scanned the leather interior.