Bamboo and blood

8

The next morning, we met in the lobby. It was so cold the staff all wore overcoats with the collars up and, if they had them, scarves. "Someone from the party will see you at ten o'clock," I said after we shook hands.

"What about the Trade Ministry?"

"It was decided you don't require anyone from the ministries. The party will do fine for your needs."

"And what are my needs?

"That is what you'll explain this morning when you meet someone from the party."

"I suppose this means you are no longer assigned to look after me. So, good-bye, Inspector, thank you for your help."

As we shook hands again, his eyes widened slightly when he felt the bill in my palm.

"You accidentally left something on the table yesterday," I said.

His hand went into his pocket. "It's not polite to refuse a present from a visitor. Every culture has that as a basic rule."

"Perhaps, but I heard somewhere to beware of Greeks bearing gifts. We don't see many Greeks," I said, "so I assumed that went for the Swiss as well."

He smiled, not the charming one.

"Maybe even Pakistanis." It didn't mean anything, or maybe it did. Pakistan was on my mind. Not on my mind, exactly, but just below the surface. Ever since my old friend the acting personnel chief had let me know that someone from Pakistan had gone to Hwadae county, I'd heard a rustling in my subconscious, something stirring, a Siberian wind blowing dead leaves along the frozen ground. Hwadae county was off-limits; we were supposed to report anyone overheard saying anything about the place. It was supposed to be a big secret that things to do with missiles went on up there, but plenty of people had relatives, who had friends, who knew former army buddies who drank too much and said something they weren't supposed to when their heads were lolling and their tongues were loose. If someone from Pakistan had gone to Hwadae, then it wasn't so far-fetched that the special section might have an unusual interest in what happened to a certain Korean woman who died in Pakistan-and something kept telling me that my first wild hunch had been completely right, it had been Pakistan. In the great wide world somewhere else, that might be a stretch. Not here, not in my little corner of reality.

Jeno didn't say anything when I mentioned Pakistanis, but the half-smile normally on his lips vanished into the cold. In that instant, he told me just what I needed to know. I left before his eyebrows slow-danced back into place.