The Interior Page 10

  “It was nothing really, just dinner.” Here again was another half-truth, but he just didn’t want to cover this material again.

  “Did he talk about work, the firm?”

  “I suppose.” David shrugged. “We talked a little about Tartan and Knight.”

  “He was working with me on the acquisition. We’ve been working on the deal for a year. The firm’s been consumed with it.”

  Miles loved to discuss business. David, relieved by the change in focus, accommodated him. “From what I’ve read, I’m surprised Knight would sell.”

  “It came as a surprise to me too when I got the call from Henry saying he wanted to sell and did I think Tartan would be interested. Of course, Randall Craig was interested and made an offer right away. That was a year ago.”

  “You must be slipping,” David needled good-naturedly.

  “It wasn’t me. It was that damn Henry Knight. He’s one strange bird. He doesn’t like to use attorneys, and he only hires accountants on an as-needed basis.”

  “Is he covering up something?”

  “No, he’s just eccentric. But look, eccentric or not, he built his company himself. He was already rich. Soon he’ll be filthy rich.”

  David had a father who sounded a lot like Henry Knight, so he knew that eccentricity could be charming and irritating at the same time. David also knew from his experiences at the U.S. Attorney’s Office that such men were not immune to the temptations of crime. Instead of committing a crime himself, had Keith found some problem in the Knight records? Was there a mistake in the deal? Is that what had so worried him? Or had he discovered some irregularities, something that might involve a federal investigation? If so, why not tell Miles? Or, if it was really bad, why not go straight to the U.S. Attorney’s Office, the FBI, or the SEC himself?

  “What was Keith working on exactly?” David inquired.

  “You know, doing the due diligence, gathering together the various representations and warranties for the SEC and FTC. It was just the usual antitrust and securities formalities.”

  David lowered his voice even though they were alone. “What about those accusations in the Times this morning?”

  “All lies.” Miles’s eyes flashed angrily. “That reporter made that stuff up and has been able to get away with it for months by throwing in the word alleged here and there.”

  “For months? I didn’t know it was going on at all.”

  “It wasn’t something the firm or Keith advertised. Fortunately Jenner’s stories were always buried deep in the business section.”

  “And Keith never came to you with any concerns?”

  “Oh, he was concerned, all right. Wouldn’t you be? What that woman wrote was totally unfounded.” Miles shook his head sadly. “When I think of how tortured Keith was…Certainly you must have noticed how upset he was.”

  “I did, as a matter of fact. I wish he’d explained—”

  “He didn’t like to talk about it. As unfounded as those articles were, they were deeply embarrassing to him.”

  “The death of his girlfriend couldn’t have helped matters. Did you know her?”

  “No, she didn’t live here. Her death was a tough break for Keith. Well, there’s no point dwelling on it now.” He paused, then said, “Ah, here’s Phil.”

  “Have you asked him yet?” Phil inquired.

  “No,” Miles answered. “I was waiting for you.”

  “Good,” Phil said, smiling warmly at David, “because I want you to know that this proposal comes from all of us at the firm. Go ahead, Miles.”

  David waited, listening.

  “We’ve all watched your progress at the U.S. Attorney’s Office,” Miles began. “You’ve done some amazing work in China and certainly with the triads. We’re all proud of you for that.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m going to lay our cards on the table,” Miles continued. “We’d like you to come back to the firm and open an office in China.” He held up a hand to keep David from speaking. “We’ve got a lot of work over there even without the Tartan business. We’re subbing it out to lawyers in Beijing. Remember Nixon Chen, who came over from China to train with us all those years ago?”

  “Not only do I remember him, but I had lunch with him about three months ago.”

  “He does a lot of our China work, and he bills at rates almost as high as ours,” Phil said. “We’re giving him hundreds of thousands in legal fees each year. The firm’s thinking is, why should we give Nixon all that work? We’ve been wanting to open a branch office in Beijing for quite some time, but we needed the right person to get it up and running.”

  “And you think I’m that person?”

  Phil stared earnestly at David. “Look, you’re a litigator, but a lot of your cases have involved big companies with complex financials, so you’ve become quite a good corporate lawyer too.”

  David hadn’t thought of his career this way before, but it made perfect sense.

  “But you bring something more to the equation,” Miles picked up. “The Chinese care about guanxi—connections. Nixon’s a Red Prince, so his connections are impeccable. But you also have some pretty interesting connections—with the Ministry of Public Security…”

  “If you’re thinking about Hulan, forget it. She’s happy where she is.”

  “I didn’t mention her name. You did. We haven’t asked Hulan to open the office. We’re asking you.”

  David shook his head. “Thanks, but I like what I do too.”

  “We’re prepared to make a substantial offer,” Miles said. “Just name your price.”

  “Money’s never mattered to me.”

  “I know that, and if you want our offer to take that into consideration, I’m sure we can oblige.” Seeing the look on David’s face, Miles grinned triumphantly, as if he’d caught a witness in a lie. “I knew it,” he said. “We never would have gotten this far in the conversation if you weren’t just a little bit intrigued. So do us a favor. Think about it and come see us tomorrow.”

  “All right, but don’t count on anything.”

  Miles smiled, gloated, convinced he’d achieved victory, then looked back toward his waiting guests. “I bet Mary Elizabeth’s wondering where I am. You mind if we head back?”

  As the three men slowly walked along the path leading to the pool, David said, “I’m not saying I’ll do it, but what kind of time frame are we talking about?”

  “The visa won’t be a problem,” Miles said. “The Chinese know you and you’ve been there before. We’d love to get you on a plane to Beijing by the end of the week.”

  “Jesus! What’s the rush?”

  Miles stopped. “Frankly I thought you’d be in a hurry. You’ll be safe in China. And”—Miles allowed himself a small smile—“you could be reunited with Hulan.”

  “Actually,” Phil interjected, “we’ve been thinking about this for a long time. We have a window of opportunity in China. We’ve thought about talking to other attorneys, but you know how long it takes to integrate a lateral hire into a firm like ours. You already know us, and we know you. Really the only way we can go ahead in a timely fashion is with someone we know. That’s why you’ve always been our first choice, but you weren’t going to leave the U.S. Attorney’s Office in the middle of the Rising Phoenix cases. Those trials are done now, and let’s face it, David, it’s time for you to move on. So I say, if we’re going to act, let’s do it fast. All the work’s been done on the Knight deal. All we need now are the signatures. So, let’s get you in there in time to deal with the last-minute logistics and to meet all of Tartan’s top players. That will smooth the transition and put you in prime position to continue handling Tartan’s China business. But again, for that to work, we need to move quickly.”

  “Do you think the others will want me back after what happened with Keith?”

  Phil momentarily dropped his friendly senior-statesman demeanor. “I mean no disrespect to the dead. What happened was bad luck. But let’s face fact
s. Keith was a mediocre lawyer who barely got enough votes to make partner. You’ve got real talent. We’ve known that for a long time.”

  “Still—”

  “Let me put it to you another way,” Miles interrupted. “There’s lots of money to be made in China. The lawyers of Phillips, MacKenzie & Stout might as well be the ones to make it.” Registering David’s shocked expression, Miles held his hands palms up. “For once in your life try to divorce yourself from your so-called good intentions. You’ve done your time, you’ve given back to the community and all that. Now you should think about what’s best for you. And Hulan.”

  An hour later, the agents whisked David away from the gathering. Once he got home, he opened a beer and sat down ostensibly to watch the news, but his mind was on his conversation with Miles and Phil. Could David work with Miles again? They’d never gotten along all that well. David was born with all the things that Miles had worked hard to attain. David had lived in the city his entire life, had grown up surrounded by culture, had gone to the best schools, had fast-tracked into a partnership at the firm where—at least according to Miles—David had never quite been able to “get with the program.” Of course, David saw it differently. Coming from a position of professional security, David had had little patience for either Miles’s mannerisms or his compulsive desire to be respected and obeyed. Miles was as smart and savvy as anyone David had ever met, but in many ways he was still an insecure farm boy. He could truly be a friend and benefactor to someone like Keith who kowtowed to him, but David had never been able to do that. Then David had done something almost unfathomable to Miles. David had given it all up—meaning the six-, almost seven-figure salary—to go to the U.S. Attorney’s Office, where he felt he could make a difference. But the door, so to speak, had obviously been left open. Miles might not have liked David, but he recognized that he was always among the top billers at the firm.

  Phil especially had nailed the situation: it was time to move on. Coming back to Phillips, MacKenzie could benefit both David and the firm, and timing was everything in business. David had been further reassured when Phil had said, “The fees to our clients in China are covering the financial risk for us, so that in the unlikely event that this doesn’t work out, the firm won’t hold it against you and you can come back to the L.A. office. We want this to be a win-win for both parties right on down the line. We’re partners.”

  All of this brought back to David that last dinner with Keith, who’d mentioned in passing that the partners had been talking about him. Somehow that knowledge—that link to Keith—made the offer all the more appealing. And then there was the deeper consideration: Hulan. The only way he could deal with her fears was if they were together. If he could hold her in his arms, he knew he could banish the inner demons that haunted her so.

  Just then Eddie came in, sprawled out on the couch, and said, “You should do it, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Do what they say. Get the hell out of here. Take them up on their offer.”

  “How did you know…?”

  Eddie cocked an eyebrow. “Man, we’re the FBI. You didn’t think you could have a private conversation without us knowing about it, did you?” He paused, then added, “Anyway, for what it’s worth, you should go.”

  “How can I?”

  “How can you not? Look at it this way, Stark, you’ve got a guy like me on your couch here and a woman waiting for you in China. That’s a no-brainer from where I sit.”

  6

  IF HULAN HAD BEEN IN BEIJING, SHE WOULD HAVE COMPLETED all of her interviews in one day. But she was in the countryside now, where the pace was slow. Activity happened early or late in the day to avoid the brutal heat. Part of blending in meant that she would have to melt into those rhythms. So on Monday morning Hulan once again set out for the village, where she planned to stop at a café and strike up a casual—and hopefully informative—conversation with the owner.

  With its sign in English posted on the door, the Silk Thread Café seemed particularly receptive to people from afar:

  WELCOME DISTINGUISH

  ED GUESTS

  GOOD FOOD

  COFFEE

  It was too hot to sit on the sidewalk, so Hulan stepped inside the single room of the establishment, where several men sat clustered together at two tables. When she entered, she saw one of the men pick up a remote control and change the television channel. From Hulan’s seat in the corner she could see the television, which was hung from the ceiling in one of the corners. On the screen she recognized The Three Amigos, an American movie that was very popular in China.

  The proprietress took Hulan’s order and soon came back with a pot of tea, a large bowl of congee, and condiments. The eating bowl and spoon were filthy and still covered with leavings from last night’s dinner. Hulan poured some of the hot tea into her bowl, swirled it around, then poured the dirty tea on the floor, where others had tossed their leftover bones and gristle and had cleaned their eating utensils in the same manner.

  The men seemed to forget about Hulan—either that or they decided she was unimportant—and turned the television back to CNN. Hulan was halfway through her meal when one of the men called out, “You!”

  It was rude, but Hulan responded nevertheless with a curt nod.

  “Are you looking for work?” the man asked.

  “No.”

  “Don’t be shy,” he said. “There is no need for that.”

  “But I don’t need work.”

  The man scowled. “Then why are you here?”

  “For lunch.”

  “Women don’t come in here for lunch,” the man said, his voice filled with innuendo. The other men laughed.

  Hulan chose to disregard the insinuation. “I’m not from here,” she said. “I don’t know your village customs.”

  Ignoring everything Hulan had said, the man asked, “Do you have proper work papers?”

  Faced with his persistence and the curious stares of his table companions, Hulan decided to see where this would lead. “Of course,” she answered. She did indeed have work and residency permits for Beijing, but not for any other village or city in China, so she added, “But not for Da Shui.”

  The man waved his hand dismissively. “No matter. It is a small problem easily fixed.” The man pushed his chair away from the table, the legs scraping against the floor. With the other men watching, he stood, crossed to Hulan, and handed her some papers. “You can read, I hope.”

  Hulan nodded.

  “That is good but not essential,” the man continued. “We”—he gestured to his companions—” we see women like you every day. Some come from close by, some come from as far away as Qinghai Province. These days so many country people go to Beijing or Shanghai for work, but we say there’s no need for that. Come here. We’ll make sure you get work.”

  “For a fee? I have no money,” Hulan said, playing along for now.

  The man smiled broadly, pleased at how cleverly he’d gotten his fish to take the hook. “No cost to you. The company pays us a small token.”

  “What company? What’s the work? I don’t want to work in the fields anymore. That’s why I left my village.”

  “It’s a factory. American. They give you food. They give you a room. And the salary is very good.”

  “How good?”

  “Five hundred yuan each month.”

  Hulan calculated that would be about $60 each month or about $720 U.S. a year. By American standards the pay was indecently low. By Beijing standards, where there were now all kinds of jobs with American companies, it was still quite low. In the countryside, where a peasant might hope to earn only about 300 yuan a month or just over a dollar a day—the official poverty level—it was fantastic, especially if this income was considered a second or third or even a fourth to be added to the family pot.

  “When can you start?” the man asked.

  Hulan studied the contract. It appeared straightforward.

  As if reading her thoughts
, the man said, “Take it. Read it. Come back tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. We’ll be here.” Then the man went back to his table.

  Hulan finished her meal, paid her bill, and left the café. As she walked out of town, she felt the oppression not only of the heat but also of Da Shui itself. Yesterday’s visit with Tsai Bing and Siang had been disconcerting. The people at the Public Security Bureau had been rude. The villagers and the Silk Thread’s proprietress had been closed-mouthed. But none of them had been as disturbing as the men in the café. On this day, as Hulan followed her investigative custom of stepping back and back again from the scene of a crime, she found no answers, only more questions. The main question that now played in her mind was the role of the Knight factory. Miaoshan had worked there. The men of the town made no pretense of hiding the fact that they were earning some sort of kickback from Knight by placing women—with or without proper papers—at that factory.

  Just as Hulan had a method for looking at a crime scene, she also had routines for getting questions answered. One was direct, the other circuitous. To ease her mind, she would have to follow both. This afternoon she would make an “official” visit to the Knight factory. Tomorrow she would go back to the café, sign her contract, and see what happened. The idea that either of these plans might be dangerous to her or her baby did not enter her mind.

  An hour later, wearing a simple linen dress and a light jacket, Hulan took the bus back to Taiyuan. From the bus stop she hailed a taxi and rode to the Shanxi Grand Hotel, where she arranged for a car and driver for the day. An hour after that she was back on the expressway.

  Eventually the driver turned off the main road and followed signs decorated with cartoon figures of what Hulan assumed were Sam & His Friends. The car made one last turn, and the Knight factory rose up stark and white against the sky. In the traditional Chinese manner, a high wall protected the entire compound. The driver stopped at the guardhouse. Hulan introduced herself and opened her MPS credentials. The guard paled, stepped back inside his shelter, and made a call. A moment later the gate lifted, and the car pulled into the compound.