Beautiful Ghosts (47 page)

Corbett didn’t reply. “I’m dead. Talk in the morning. Sheets on your bed are clean enough. Sleep well. Tomorrow you make new American friends,” he added before disappearing into his room, in a tone that almost sounded bitter.

But Shan did not sleep well. He sat on the bed for several minutes, staring at it, trying to remember when he had last slept on a real bed, with bed linens, then took the extra blanket folded at the bottom of the bed and lay on the floor between the bed and the window, tossing and turning, dozing for a few minutes at a time, each time waking, sometimes gripped in the awful, surreal fear that came with nightmares, though never remembering what he had dreamt. Wrapping the blanket around him, he found his way downstairs in the dark, moving silently through the rooms, feeling like a trespasser, wondering how one person could use so much space, discovering a porch off the kitchen, without walls but with a partial roof that kept the rain off half the porch. It was elevated, above a garage that opened from the rear of the house, so that Shan found himself among the tops of conifer trees, looking downhill toward a large body of water, perhaps half a mile away. It had the feel of being in a mountain cave overlooking a lake, though what he at first took to be stars reflecting off the water he soon realized were the lights of houses on the far side of the water. Rain came and went in rapid cycles, strong showers one minute, fading to mist the next.

On the kitchen table he found a short narrow glass holding dozens of toothpicks. He counted out sixty-four of the little sticks, saw a candle in a tin holder, and gently lifted it from the sill. It was attached to an electric cord. He turned the little round switch in the wire and the candle flickered. He studied it in confusion, watching the little filament that jumped back and forth to simulate a flame. Like many things American, it made little sense to him. If someone wanted a candle, they should have a candle, which would be much less expensive than a dim electric lamp made to look like a candle. His father had promised Shan a trip to America, and had begun teaching him things about the country. Sometimes, his father had once told him, Americans did things just to show they could be done.

Shan set the electric candle back on the sill then stepped back outside. He sat cross-legged upon the planks, under the flickering candlelight in the window above him. Emotion kept swirling around the calm place he sought. Despair, exhaustion, helplessness. He was a frail boat cut from its anchor. He forced himself to sit without moving for a long time, his eyes on the water at first, then vaguely on the distance beyond, blinking only when the rain started again, closing his eyes until it stopped, then gazing at the dim, grey horizon once more.

When he was aware again, the clouds were much higher, most of the lights on the far shore extinguished. He stared at the little sticks in his hand, gradually remembering where he was. Then he tossed the sticks on the planks in front of him and divided them into three random groups, picked up the first group and began counting it, using the centuries-old method to build the tetragrams that in the Tao tradition were used to invoke verses of the Tao te Ching. It was never as random as it seemed, his grandfather had always told Shan, for the sticks, like the thrower, obeyed a certain destiny. After several minutes he had built a tetra-gram of two lines of two segments over a line of three segments, and a bottom line of two segments. It indicated chapter forty-four in the charts that he had committed to memory as a boy. He whispered the words toward the water:

The stronger the attachments

The greater the cost

The more that is hoarded

The deeper the loss

The words left him feeling empty. He gazed into the cool, dark mist. In the distance there were sometimes engines and horns, then the call of gulls.

Eventually he became aware of stirring in the kitchen. Rain still fell but the sky over the lake had become a brighter grey, with pink in the clouds. The door cracked open a moment and an acrid, nutty aroma wafted toward him. Coffee, Shan realized. Corbett emerged with two steaming mugs. To his relief the mug extended to him contained strong black tea.

“You never used your bed,” Corbett said, staring out over the water.

“I used one of your blankets on the floor.”

“Dammit, Shan, it’s no sin to be comfortable.” Corbett’s voice was strangely tentative.

“I like this porch,” Shan said, uncertain why his own tone sounded apologetic.

“It belonged to my great-aunt. The house I mean, and a cottage on one of the islands north of here, way up by Canada, a little place on the water, full of flowers this time of year. She died a year after my divorce and left them to me. Otherwise I’d be in some one-room apartment, which was all I had left when my wife…” He turned away, looking back toward the water. “Dawa and Lokesh and I passed a lake in the night on the way back to Zhoka. A little one, high in the mountains, with the moon reflecting off it. It reminded me of here somehow. Lokesh said we had to stop and offer prayers to the water deities. Now whenever I look at the bay I’ll probably wonder about its deities.”

*   *   *

Corbett’s mood lightened as he drove Shan through town, speaking of the wet, hilly city, passing beneath a strange giant tower with a saucer top he called the Needle, along the waterfront, then into the parking lot of an old granite building that had the appearance of a fortress. Shan silently followed him up the stairs and through a security station, unable to focus on their task because of the alien sights that greeted him at every step. A woman’s naked leg had been painted down the length of a city bus, with some words about love he did not understand. A huge sculpture of a purple fish hung over a door. An elevated train on a single rail passed above a man sleeping, almost naked, in a metal shopping cart. The somber men in uniforms at the security gate had skin the color of rich chocolate.

Corbett kept speaking to Shan as they entered the FBI offices on the fourth floor, talking more quietly than usual, about the city and its weather, about the ubiquitous ferries, about the mountains nearby, until Shan realized Corbett wanted an excuse not to look about the office, not to look back at the staff who looked up from their cubicles as he and Shan entered a large central chamber crammed with desks, each holding a computer workstation. Some of those at the computers looked up and did not take their eyes from Corbett as he led Shan through the room, others glanced and turned away with something like a wince.

Corbett deposited Shan in a small conference room without windows, with nothing but a large table with a plastic top, plastic chairs with thin, lumpy upholstery, and a small, battered wooden stand bearing a telephone and a phone book, whose pages were all yellow. After a few minutes alone Shan lifted the heavy book and set it before him, opening it randomly. P
ET
O
DOR
P
ROBLEM
? asked the first entry he read. L
ET
U
S
E
XECUTE
Y
OUR
A
FFAIR
, the next said. He read it several times, not understanding. He leaned over the book, intrigued, confused, leafing through the pages. They were all about economic activity, though he understood fewer than half the categories. He was trying to decipher a huge ad that read A
CRES OF
RVs when Corbett walked in with his two assistants and a third, sour-looking man who nodded coolly at Shan. A red tie hung over his plump belly. He carried a thin file which he dropped onto the table.

“Mr. Yun—” the man with the red tie began.

“Shan,” Corbett corrected him. “His family name is the first name.”

The man did not acknowledge Corbett, but started over. “Mr. Shan, I fear that Agent Corbett acted precipitously, in bringing you from China on American taxpayer money. I was on vacation and could not be consulted. The way I understand things is that he expects to resolve the theft of artifacts from our Mr. Dolan by finding some old plaster painting. He says you and he are certain that the Dolan artifacts were shipped to China, though I can’t see why they need more Chinese art in China.” He paused, as if expecting laughter.

“Tibetan,” Corbett muttered. “They were Tibetan.”

The man ignored him. “He seems to think you are some kind of magician. Chinese supercop, I guess,” he said, examining Shan with a skeptical air.

Shan forced himself not to glance at Corbett. He had not told his superior any of the details of their investigation, had not presented Shan as a witness. “Precipitously?” Shan asked in a slow voice. “I do not understand this word.”

The senior agent cut his eyes impatiently at Corbett and sighed. “No doubt you wanted to see America. I accept that you are one of the leading investigators in your country.” The man paused as he looked at Shan’s cheap clothing and scarred, rough hands. “I’m sure,” he continued in a more tentative voice, “we can find some souvenirs. We have paperweights and pins for important visitors. Somebody can arrange a tour of our crime lab perhaps, have you meet the Chinese consul. This is an American crime. Thank you for your interest.”

Again Shan had to struggle not to look at Corbett.

“Are you aware that another murder connected to the Dolan theft was committed in China?” Shan asked in an earnest tone. “Three days ago.”

“Another?” the man threw an angry glance at Corbett. “There was not a first one. If a Chinese killed a Chinese, that’s not for the FBI.”

“British. She was one of the thieves at the Dolan mansion.”

“You don’t know that.”

“She admitted it,” Shan said.

“Killed by an accomplice then.”

“No doubt,” Shan agreed.

“Good work,” the senior agent said. “Dolan will be pleased.” He threw another frown at Corbett. “I had to hear this from the Chinese?”

“So you would feel good about spending all that taxpayer money,” Corbett shot back.

“It was a crime on Chinese soil,” Shan said.

“Right,” the man replied, confusion crossing his face for the first time. He pulled his eyes from Shan then pushed the file across the table to Corbett. “While you were gone the boys came up with this, an art dealer who did work for Dolan. I agree. He’s the best candidate for the inside connection.” The stout man nodded at Shan and left the room. He had never sat, never introduced himself to Shan.

Bailey, the agent with Chinese features, gaped at Shan with a wide grin and jabbed a finger toward Corbett. “Somebody’s been hosed,” he said in a loud whisper, and his young partner laughed.

Corbett glanced at the file then pushed it toward Shan, with something like mischief in his eyes. The label said Adrian Croft.

“It’s been three days since I told you it was Croft’s office on the phone giving instructions to kill Elizabeth McDowell. I don’t need to look at the file,” he said to Bailey. “Just talk to me.”

Bailey eased the file away from Shan, opened it, began holding up papers. “He’s listed on two of Ming’s expeditions, both in Inner Mongolia,” he explained, holding up a fax document, then lifting another memo below. “Croft Antiquities was paid as a consultant, big bucks, on several museum projects funded by Dolan, and on the construction of Dolan’s private exhibition space. McDowell was working for the company as a consultant. Did all the appraisals on his collections. The office where that call was made is half a mile from here. The firm is an expert on Asian art, and how to sell it.”

“Do you have a list of all those who were on Ming’s expeditions?” Shan asked.

“Sure,” Bailey replied. “They market them to rich tourists.”

Shan quickly scanned the papers Bailey handed him. “Dolan’s name appears on none of these.” He looked at Corbett.

“But we know he was on those trips,” Corbett told his assistant. “We saw the photos.” He glanced back at Shan’s grin and grimaced. “Son of a bitch.” His assistants hung their heads as if embarrassed. “Social security,” Corbett said. “Customs Bureau. Immigration Service. Internal Revenue. Go.”

Corbett watched as the two men hurried out of the room, then slowly rose, gathered the file, and gestured for Shan to follow. As they left he paused to lean over the desk of the silver-haired receptionist. “If he asks, we’ve gone to meet the Chinese consul. And the mayor. Key to the city and all that.”

They drove under a grey sky to the far side of the water Shan had seen from Corbett’s house. Lake Union, Corbett called it. As they drove slowly along the western shore, Shan asked Corbett to pause a moment for him to watch a plane with pontoons underneath ascend from the water.

“Where do they go?” Shan asked.

“Islands. Away,” Corbett said, and watched with Shan as the plane disappeared into the low clouds.

They passed a large brick building perhaps eight stories high that had the appearance of an old warehouse but which housed offices. Corbett pointed to a corner window on the top floor, overlooking the water. “Croft Antiquities,” he said, then pulled into a parking lot and found a space facing the building.

After a quarter hour they walked across the road and followed a car into the garage beneath the building. The parking slots were painted with the names of people or businesses. Croft Antiquities had three spaces, two with the company name, one labeled Adrian Croft.

“Security cameras,” Corbett observed, pointing to long black boxes mounted near the top of several concrete pillars. “Some quality time for the boys,” he added, then, seeing the inquiry in Shan’s eyes, explained. “We’ll get the surveillance tapes. See who’s been parking in this ghost’s personal space. Then there’s always the office manager to interview if we can find her.”

“You know her?”

“Picture in the file. She’s part Chinese.”

They sat in a small café on the ground floor, drinking tea. Shan tried to watch the front door but found himself staring at the seaplanes that kept disappearing into the clouds. To away. He would like to be in some place away, where people did not lie or steal or kill, or pretend to be ghosts. Gendun had wanted him to go away, to his retreat cave. But a few hours on the Dalai Lama’s birthday had changed everything.