Mistress

Chapter 29

A couple of years ago I attended a ceremony in the Grand Hall of the Chinese embassy, an immaculate limestone building in the northwest section of the capital. The room I’m escorted to now, though, is anything but grand. The walls are gray and red. The room is cramped and poorly lit and cold. The two men who take me from the limo underground are about the same size as the other goons, but not sparkling conversationalists like Frick and Frack. They don’t put their hands on me until we’re in the room, at which time they each take one of my shoulders and force me into the lone chair in the center of the room.

A door that I didn’t even know was a door opens, and two Chinese men enter. They are in suits and ties. One has a tight haircut and the other is bald. The bald guy looks like he’s spent some time in a gym. The one with the tight haircut looks softer, like a diplomat.

“Mr. Casper,” says Bald Guy.

“That’s me.”

“What is this you are saying about Jonathan Liu? You told the receptionist that he is responsible for the death of a government worker?”

I look from one of them to the other. “It was a conversation I intended to have with Jonathan Liu.”

“Mr. Liu is not here.” There is a trace of his native accent but his English is perfect.

“And you are…?” I ask.

“I am…the one asking you questions.”

“I meant, what’s your name?”

“I know what you meant. Tell me of these accusations you make against Jonathan Liu.”

I don’t know if this guy is on my side or against me. I could take a wild guess. “I’ve written an article that explains how Jonathan Liu murdered the White House liaison for CIA deputy director Craig Carney.”

Bald Guy is impassive. “And your proof is?”

“Read the article.” There is no article. Not yet. I’m nowhere in the vicinity of proving what I believe. The truth is, I’m fishing.

“There is no article,” says Bald Guy.

What is this guy, a mind reader? “Have it your way,” I say. It reminds me of those Burger King commercials from the ’70s. Great, now that stupid Hold-the-pickles-hold-the-lettuce song is in my head. But it beats the hell out of their later commercials, the ones with that freaky king character. That guy could haunt my dreams.

“Relations between our country and the United States are rather…tenuous, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Casper?”

“If you’re a fan of human rights, then yes, I’d agree.”

“Human rights.” He allows himself a small chuckle. “Mr. Liu does not represent the People’s Republic. Yet we are aware that he is a man of considerable influence. What is accused of Mr. Liu will be accused of the People’s Republic. Bombastic, ridiculous accusations will not do.”

I lean forward and one of the goons behind me takes my shoulder. “I’m an American journalist in the United States. I will print what I want. In America, we have something called a free press. You should look it up.”

Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, freedom of the press upsets us…

Bald Guy moves closer toward me. “You may be an American journalist,” he says, “but you’re not in America. Not at the moment.”

“Because you kidnapped me.”

“We did nothing of the kind. We have you signed in at the front entrance. You asked to speak with me and I’m granting you that audience.”

I let out a nervous sigh. I’m trying to play cool but I’m feeling anything but. “Listen, Reverend Moon-”

“Ah, a slur. That’s to be expected of an American. All us slant-eyed Asians are the same, yes? That’s fine, Mr. Casper. Keep thinking of yourself as morally superior while our country runs circles around yours economically. The People’s Republic is flourishing while the United States of America is sinking deeper and deeper into a hole.”

Bald Guy walks within a foot of me and leans forward, staring at me eye-to-eye. “Now, sir, before I become impatient. Tell me what you know of Jonathan Liu.”

“Diana Hotchkiss,” I say.

He nods slowly. “A tragedy.”

“He had her killed.”

“And why did he do that?”

“Read the article.”

A smile crosses his face. “There is no article. What is it going to say? That you, Mr. Casper, had a relationship with Ms. Hotchkiss? That you, Benjamin Casper, were at her condominium the night of her death?”

I do a slow burn.

“A person of interest in the death of Ms. Hotchkiss-a spurned lover who had, as you Americans say, motive and opportunity-is writing a story about her death? Would this not be considered something of a conflict of interest?”

These guys are all over this. What stone have I turned over?

Bald Guy puts his nose within a hairbreadth of mine. “There is no article,” he says.

He stands straight again and paces the room. “And if there is, it will get, shall we say, ugly for you, Benjamin Casper. Perhaps everyone will learn the interesting background of your own life. Including your childhood.”

Ben, you remember me, right? Detective Amy LaTaglia.

My dad says I’m not supposed to talk to you.

I know, Ben. So don’t. I’ll talk to you. I just wanted to let you know that we got back the fingerprint analysis. Did you know that we found fingerprints on the gun that was in your mother’s hand?

“Those records are sealed,” I hiss.

Bald Guy waves a hand. “Then perhaps it gives you a window into the resources at our disposal that we were able to access that sealed information.”

Do you want to guess whose fingerprints we found on that weapon, Ben?

My dad says I’m not supposed-

They were yours, Ben. Your fingerprints were on that gun.

“On the other hand, Benjamin, I suppose we can forget about that information if you forget about your wild and unsupported accusations against Mr. Liu.”

I lower my head and try to contain my emotions while memories cascade toward me in waves.

You’re in a lot of trouble, Ben.

You need to tell us what happened in that bathroom with your mother.

“If my accusations are so unsupported,” I say slowly, “then why am I here?”

Bald Guy lets out a hideous laugh. “Oh, Benjamin,” he says, “you were never here. And you better hope you never are.”