Before they could even see lights, a hand covered his mouth. Tinseng’s triumph followed him into the dirt.
During the day, Grodescu’s country home was a beautiful old manse in the style of a brick farmhouse. At night, the house loomed. Its white exterior caught dusk’s shadows, shifting and elongating them up its barren walls like fingers leaving traces of crime. None of the chimneys smoked; all the shades had been pulled. The house was abandoned, as promised. Instead of feeling relief at the sight, Tinseng only felt dread.
They approached from the side with the most trees to keep cover. The lock on the kitchen door only took a minute. Tinseng and Jinzhao slipped through the kitchen into the rest of the house, easy as that. Their movement left shapes like ghosts in the silence.
Grodescu’s rooms were on the third floor, tucked into the far left corner of the new wing. It started as a library for entertaining, with clusters of tables, chairs, and small couches strategically placed around the room, expensive trinkets used as bookends on the edges of the shelves. The shelves themselves showcased a collection Tinseng couldn’t help but admire. The bastard was either cultured or very good at faking it. He walked slowly through the room, running his finger along the spines of books, plucking out one here, another there. He checked the title page of one, then slid it into his jacket; the rest he tucked under his arm. When he caught Jinzhao staring disapprovingly, he winked, then moved on to the next room.
Attached to the library was the room they wanted, a study if Tinseng had ever seen one. An imposing mahogany desk dominated the center of the room; two red leather chairs made a reading corner, and a massive sideboard sat under a window overlooking the back gardens. The bookshelves in this room held more precious volumes as well as older antiques, the kind of rarities usually kept in cases to protect from the elements. Grodescu was clearly no collector for collection’s sake but instead a man who believed in using what he owned.
After a few minutes searching behind paintings and pulling at possible trick books, Tinseng found the safe. One look was all he needed; his heart fell.
“I’m sorry, I can’t. I don’t have the expertise for this.”
Jinzhao shook his head, rejecting the apology. “She asked us to wait. We will wait.”
Tinseng nodded. They would have to wait now. And when they met Grodescu again, the safe would open, one way or another.
It was only 7:30 p.m. by Tinseng’s watch, which meant they had an hour, possibly more, to spend cramped in a narrow bathroom. Jinzhao sank to the floor, probably to do something frumpy and endearing like attempt to meditate during a stakeout. Tinseng held a book in front of his face instead.
“See, you doubted my genius, Jinzhao, but I knew we’d need entertainment. Here’s one of your favorites, and at least one of these you haven’t read before, I’m almost sure.” Jinzhao looked up at him; the naked affection made Tinseng want to take a step back. “Why are you looking at me like that? They’re just books, not . . . here,” he pushed them all into Jinzhao’s arms, then sat on the toilet’s closed seat.
“And you?” Jinzhao asked.
“Oh, I have a little something for me too.” From his jacket, Tinseng pulled Journal meiner Reise im Jahr 1769, a travelogue that had looked most likely to hold his attention.
With nothing else to do, they settled down to wait.
After Tinseng had picked up and abandoned each book at least twice, he began checking his watch. It was driving Jinzhao to distraction, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. The agitation was building like the swell of spring floods in the river. He needed time to move faster than its current glacial pace, and he needed to hear Grodescu’s voice or get any kind of confirmation that this wasn’t a trap. He’d never been able to do this part.
He checked the time again: 8:47 p.m.
As he pulled his sleeve over his watch, a door opened downstairs. Finally, he thought, and they both stood, getting their noisy rearrangement out of the way. There wasn’t room to stand side by side, and after a silent argument, Tinseng gave in and let Jinzhao stand in front of him. It felt wrong, all wrong. But this was Jinzhao’s revenge to take if he wanted. So Tinseng handed him the gun and wondered if any of the bullets would be fired tonight, and by whom.
It took almost ten more minutes for the couple to make their way upstairs.
“I want a drink,” they heard Marissa say. Tinseng tracked their movements by footfall, placing Marissa near the sideboard and Grodescu in front of his desk.
“Pour me one as well,” Grodescu said, “And then perhaps you can tell me what was so important it could not wait.”
“The woman, Yukying Li—I know where she is. And the man you want. I know where he is too.”
Tinseng tensed, and in front of him he felt Jinzhao do the same, but neither moved, both willing to trust Marissa a little while longer.
“Then tell me.”
“I want something in return.”
“Oh, yes? What? Another car?”
“My sister’s papers.”
“Please. Don’t be so tedious; I’ve had a long day.”
“Surely this is worth that. The man sounds valuable.”
“I can find him a hundred other ways. There is only one you. There must be something else that your little heart desires. If it’s your sister, she could come visit again.”
“No.” A pause. “Pardon me. I need a moment. Too much coffee today.”
“Come back in a better mood,” Grodescu called as they heard Marissa walk toward their door. “You’re the one who insisted we drive out here. You promised a pleasant evening for us.”
Tinseng crowded Jinzhao into the furthest corner and crushed himself against the wall. Marissa’s expression remained unchanged as she closed the door behind her and turned toward them. They couldn’t dare risk talking, and every movement was a risk, but Tinseng had to show her the gun.
“Signal?” he mouthed in French.
Marissa shook her head, pointed to the gun, and held out her hand. Tinseng looked at Jinzhao. Jinzhao frowned and gazed at Marissa. She met his inspection with a flat, even look. Jinzhao turned back to Tinseng and nodded.
Well, if Jinzhao said it was all right, who was Tinseng to argue? He reached over and flushed the toilet so he could whisper in her ear.
“The safety is off. There are six shots.”
Then he placed the gun in her hand.
She ran the water and tucked the gun in the pocket of her flowing skirt. The gun disappeared into the folds, its weight and outline swallowed by the fabric. Tinseng nodded approvingly. She kept one hand in her pocket as she left, shutting them in behind her. If they were quiet before, now Tinseng barely breathed.
