Tinseng didn’t know what he was being thanked for, but he smiled anyway. “Any time, Shan Dao,” and it felt good to say, because it was true.
In the end, Tinseng was stupid to think he’d be able to feign calm while Jinzhao prepared to meet Grodescu. He checked his watch compulsively until Chiboon asked archly whether he was waiting for something, then he slipped his hand into his pocket, keeping it in a fist. Finally, around the time he knew Jinzhao would be in Grodescu’s room, he headed back to the room to wait.
In the silence of the room, for the first time in days, Tinseng couldn’t outrun his thoughts.
He kept imagining the moment when he finally had the papers. For dramatic effect, his mind pictured it dissolving like self-immolating paper, and with it, all the fear and pain Jinzhao had lived with since showing up at Tinseng’s door. If he had the papers, he could ensure Jinzhao would never look like that again. No one would question Jinzhao’s loyalty; no one would mark him as a traitor; there would be no reason to consider him a threat better silenced. The information would simply disappear. The question, and the threat, would die a quiet death on that piece of paper. Tinseng was going to make sure of it.
When Jinzhao finally returned, Tinseng immediately knew something had gone wrong.
“What happened?”
“Your sister saw me.”
“Are you sure?” Jinzhao just looked at him. “Okay. Well, that’s . . . not great, but not the end of the world. Maybe she’ll just forget about it. Yukying’s never been a gossip; she stays out of people’s business. I’m proof of it.”
“What do I say if she asks?”
“That you were borrowing something. He’s as tall as you, almost. I don’t know, we’ll think of something. It’s not important, Yukying’s not our problem. What did Grodescu say?”
“He will meet me tomorrow. Tamariz.”
“Okay, remind me to leave notes under Yukying’s and Cheuk-Kwan’s doors. Did he seem interested in the bait?”
“Yes. Are you sure we can give it to him?”
“Oh yeah. Those codes are long blown, but he won’t know that. He accepted your location? Arrogant of him. Okay. Then I’ll start in on their room once I see them leave the ship and meet you at the beach afterward.”
“Tinseng . . .”
“It’s fine. If I don’t find them in his room tomorrow, there’s always Villefranche. Now let’s get some sleep. It’s past your bedtime.”
They changed in silence and lay in silence, and during it all Tinseng tried not to worry too loudly. Yukying was a complication, but the plan was still strong. He’d have all the time he needed to search the room, and they’d be one step closer to all of this being over.
Now. June 25, 1963. Épernay, France.
“And did any of the passengers stand out to you?” The detective in the wrinkled suit asked, pen poised over his notebook.
“Hmm, let me think.” Tinseng made a three-act play of it: reaching back in his memory, considering, ultimately shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so. Why, was there someone important?”
“And when did you meet Lucas Grodescu?”
Aha, Tinseng thought, you won’t get me that easy. “Who?”
“A passenger named Lucas Grodescu.”
“Never heard of him. Are you holding him here too?”
“Mr. Woo,” the detective said, mispronouncing the name. “It is critical that you take this seriously.”
“I’m taking it as seriously as you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You kept my sister for questioning for over an hour. I didn’t know questioning an innocent woman took so long. What was the reason?”
“We had to keep Mrs. Li longer than anticipated. She was very understanding.”
“She is, isn’t she? Whereas I,”—Tinseng tapped his fingers on the table—“I’m impatient. Disruptive, unable to focus, a nuisance to others. It’s all documented in my file. Do you have it there?” He reached for the folder on the table and laughed when the other man set his meaty hand on it. Tinseng grinned as if to say, can’t blame me for trying. “What do you have in your file? There are so many things to know about me. For example, I love leftover zha liang, I have no feeling in two of my fingertips, I’m afraid of bees . . .”
“Mr. Woo.” A thin vein of exasperation cracked through the detective’s veneer. Tinseng leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. Just a thin crack for now, but he was just warming up.
This was going to be fun.
PART THREE
HE’S A REBEL
CHAPTER SIX
Seven days ago. June 18, 1963. Lisbon, Portugal.
On the morning of the third day, they awoke anchored in Lisbon. Only Yukying and Laurence had planned to go ashore with the first group, rising early to join the other eager guests queuing for the boats. The moment they emerged outside, Yukying was struck by what they’d done: traveled thousands of miles to a completely foreign place—strangers in a strange land. The air smelled different, felt different against her skin. London had been foreign, too, but she’d been to London before, and besides, she lived in Hong Kong; the English had transplanted their way of life there, and she’d had long exposure to it. Lisbon, though, was truly unknown: she’d never met a Portuguese person before, never heard their language spoken, knew nothing except a sheet of information the cruise staff had slipped under their door during the night. The paper, which they received for every port, listed recommendations for bars, museums, cafés, cabarets, shopping centers, and casinos, as well as little tips about the region such as food specialties, wares for which the area was famous, and even the price of taxis so the tourists didn’t get too fleeced. But those were just lists, words flat on a page. They captured nothing of the spirit of the place where they’d landed. They had two days and one night to absorb as much as they could. It was a daunting, thrilling challenge, a once-in-a-lifetime experience she knew she was privileged to have.
So it rankled how little attention she was paying as she took Laurence’s hand and stepped off the boat into Portugal for the first time.
