“Doesn’t really matter; the result will be the same. But my gut says Soviets.”
“Is that who you work for?”
“Ugh! I’m insulted!”
“Well, how would I know?”
“You should know me better than that! Besides, don’t think that way; I’m retired now. Officially. A brief but shining career.”
“Hmmph. Anything else I need to know? Any little details that might’ve slipped your mind? Your name’s still Tinseng, right?”
Tinseng snorted. “You think I’ve been lying since we met? We were six.”
“Don’t act like that isn’t something you would’ve done back then.”
The loudspeaker announced their final stop in Paris. Tinseng considered reiterating how serious this was; they were joking now, and he didn’t know if Cheuk-Kwan really understood the severity of the situation. When he caught Cheuk-Kwan’s gaze, he let his expression speak for him. Let the dark thoughts creep into his periphery; felt the weight of the gun strapped to his side. There would be death today. That was inevitable. It was his mission to ensure it was no one he loved. He let that thought fully surface and Cheuk-Kwan stared for a long moment, taking in the change. Then he nodded.
“Okay,” his brother said. “Where to first?”
A spy who said they’d retired was a liar.
Even though Tinseng had signed his resignation papers, even though he’d told Jinzhao he was out, even though he was taking the job in Hong Kong, even though he’d just told Cheuk-Kwan he’d hung up his spook hat, those had only ever been half-truths. You could never really let go once they’d burrowed the paranoia under the skin.
When he’d left Paris a little over a week ago, he’d never intended to return. He’d said his goodbyes, absolutely confident he’d never see any of those people again. Julian—there was someone he thought he’d gladly left behind. Then why hadn’t he thrown away the man’s number? He knew why. Of the few replies he’d received in answer to the telegrams he’d sent in Barcelona, it had been Julian he’d most hoped would reply. He was the most useful connection Tinseng still had, and the one he had been most reluctant to contact. Tinseng had finished the goddamned chapter, the sordid page turned. Now here he was in this unwilling epilogue, a scene that had no purpose—except to bleed.
Just outside the train station, they queued for much-needed coffee. Tinseng also bought a box of pastries, ignoring a confused Cheuk-Kwan insisting he wasn’t hungry. Box in hand, Tinseng hailed a taxi to take them across town. The streets narrowed and trash accumulated as they drove away from tourists and into the neighborhoods Tinseng used to frequent.
“What a charming place,” Cheuk-Kwan drawled as the taxi dropped them in front of a tenement. Tinseng continued ignoring him as they walked up four flights of stairs.
“Don’t react to anything,” was the only warning he gave before he pounded on the door. After a few moments he knocked again, insistent, with the fist of the law. They heard a yell from the apartment and then the door flew open. A disheveled Frenchman stood on the other side, last night’s hangover evident on his collar. A scar bisected his hairline, which Tinseng knew the man loved for the toughness of it, but no number of scars could hide the provincial air that still clung to him. The sun had permanently stained and wrinkled his skin, his wiry frame left over from a boy who’d grown up hungry, his hunched back from a childhood combing through garbage on the beach when the tide was low. The man scowled until he saw who stood in the hall. When his gaze fell on Tinseng, a light came to his eyes—nothing good promised.
“Wow. I thought your telegram was a joke,” the man said in French as Tinseng shouldered past him. “Thought you said I’d never see you again. And who’s this? New toy? Are we gonna break him? Can I play with h—”
“Touch him and lose another finger,” Tinseng said without turning around. “I mean it, Jules. Did you follow my instructions?” he asked in English for Cheuk-Kwan’s sake.
“The telegram messenger was so annoying,” Julian drawled, ignoring the English and keeping to French. “I’m thinking of loosening his bike spokes. He’s afraid of me, though, so that’s something.”
Tinseng ignored the prattle. “Did you get what I wanted?”
“What do I get if I did?” Julian asked.
Your life, Tinseng nearly snarled, but that wasn’t how their game was played. Instead, he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, torn from his notebook, and offered it between two fingers. Julian snatched at it, betraying his eagerness; when he read it, his smile widened.
“Naughty, Mr. Wu, very naughty. What would your superiors think of you giving me this information?”
“They’re not my superiors anymore, are they?” Tinseng placed the bakery box on the grimy table. Julian grinned.
“And you’re feeding me? Oh, you are desperate. It looks good on you, darling.”
“Don’t.”
Julian shrugged and sat on the floor, folding his legs under the table and tucking into the pastries offered.
“What the fuck is happening?” Cheuk-Kwan intoned next to Tinseng as they stood above the other man.
“I needed a lead, fast. He doesn’t sleep. I knew the telegram would reach him.”
“Who is he?”
“No one you want to remember.”
“I’m hurt,” Julian placed a hand over his heart. He’d followed their conversation with shifting eyes, two marbles rolling in their sunken bowls. Already most of a croissant had disappeared past yellow teeth. “Didn’t he tell you who I was? Who he was? He’s a legend. I learned so much from him. But who wouldn’t learn from—”
“Jules, do you want to die?” Tinseng asked in saccharine French.
“At your hand? You know I do.” The other man leaned back against the couch, the long line of his body a twisted knife. He had a sharp, satisfied look, as though his glee had cut its way out of his mouth. It was pathetic.
Tinseng’s exhaustion hit him then, inexorable as the horizon swallowing the sun.
“We’re staying here. I’m sleeping. Cheuk-Kwan, watch this one. Read the file.”
“What file?”
“Julian, where’s the file?”
“In the icebox,” the man on the floor sang. Cheuk-Kwan threw Tinseng such a look of long-suffering he had to laugh.
