Endgame: The Calling (26 page)

“When?” Jago asks, maybe a little too eagerly.

“Slow down, Paco,” Sarah says with a smile. “Soon.”

“No, what I mean is—before we get on a plane?”

Sarah curls her lips. “If it’s easy, but not at the expense of getting the hell out of China. It’s too damn hot here.”

Jago nods in agreement. He puts his hand out his window, letting the warm air pass over it, and thinks about the best ways to comb for chips. They’ll want to be thorough. . . .

Sarah clears her throat. “So. Where should we go?”

Jago looks at her. “Italy, right? It was Cheng Cheng’s last wish that we find his buddy.”

“Maybe, but I’ve been thinking about my clue. At first I thought the numbers were coded letters, but they’re not. They’re just numbers.”

“Meaning?”

“I think they’re coordinates. But they’re jumbled. I need some time.”

“We need to leave, though.”

“I say we fly somewhere between here and Italy. And then stay off the grid the rest of the way. Stay out of airports and off plane manifests, even with aliases.”

Jago runs through lists in his head. Names, places, connections. “How’s Iraq sound to you?” he asks.

“Iraq?”

“I have a line member in Mosul who can help us. He can get anything—and believe me, anything is gettable in Iraq. We can take a day or two. If you still need to tinker with your clue, you can do it in peace there.”

Sarah looks at Jago. “Well, then, I guess we’re going to Iraq.”

Xi’an Xianyang International Airport, Terminal 2, China

Christopher arrives at the airport.

Sarah could be here.
If Kala is leaving China, then it stands to reason the other Players are on their way out as well.

He doesn’t see Kala, but he’s not worried about it. He knows he’ll see her eventually.

Sarah could be waiting in line right now.

He gets his boarding pass at the desk. Doesn’t check any bags.

Buying a ticket.

He walks along the glass windows toward security.

Or is she already dead? Am I chasing a ghost?

He doesn’t look outside. He’s leaving Xi’an, and he won’t return, so why bother looking at that which he is turning his back on?

No, I’d know if she were dead; I’d feel it somehow.

He walks through the airport, loses himself in the sounds, the smells, the crowd. He doesn’t notice the couple stepping away from the ticket counter, walking easily, hand in hand, trying to look as though they had nothing to do with what is being called a terrorist attack at the Terracotta Army only 132 minutes ago.

Christopher reaches the screening area, turns his back on China. And without knowing how close he is, he turns his back on his love, the object of his pursuit, his best friend, the girl of his dreams, Sarah Alopay.

Liu Residence, Unregistered Belowground Property, Tongyuanzhen, Gaoling County, Xi’an, China

Chiyoko wakes from a bucolic dream with a start. The smelling salts are sour, harsh, painful. Her head throbs.

What happened?

An Liu leans over her.

An Liu the maniac.

Yes, it comes back: the Star Chamber, the Olmec and the Cahokian, the explosion.

The disk.

She wonders if they made it out alive. If An Liu has the disk, or if he even knows about it. If the disk is still buried down there, with the Olmec and the Cahokian, then she must go back for it. She knows what it holds and where it leads. She needs that disk. Now.

Chiyoko tries to stand, but her head is too heavy. An watches her closely, not making any move to help her.

She gives herself over to her disorientation and weariness. She concentrates her rattled chi and wills herself to forget the disk and be in the present.

Be here, and everything will work out.

Be here.

She rises to her elbows and looks at An.

Something about him is different.

He puts out his hands in a conciliatory gesture and says, “Wait, please” in Mandarin.

An has decided not to kill Chiyoko and drink her blood or tan her skin and wear it. That would be foolish, for it might not work. This—her, alive, in his presence—is what works. So this is how he has decided to play it.

This is his Endgame now.

“I won’t hurt you, I promise,” he says, and Chiyoko can see he is telling the truth. “And you can leave whenever you want. I promise that too.” That, however, is a lie, which she can also see.

She will have to be careful about this one. He is a delicate little madman.

She is in a small bedroom in a concrete building. The room is spare; there’s a chair, a small table, a pitcher of ice water, and a plastic cup. On one wall hangs a curling poster of an ancient gingko tree in the yellowing throes of autumn. On another a dirty window with bars on it. On a 3rd a wall-mounted air conditioner. Not many escape options.

The open door, six feet from the foot of the bed, is metal and has three deadbolts on it. The deadbolts are on the outside of the door. She is to be kept here; there is no question in her mind.

She cannot be kept here. There is no time. The disk must be recovered.

“How do you feel?” An asks.

Chiyoko tilts her head back and forth.
So-so,
the gesture says.

“You were hurt. You hit your head and I stitched a deep cut on your neck.” Chiyoko touches the patch of gauze taped to her skin. “I was afraid you’d had a concussion, but your eyes have not dilated and your breathing and pulse are regular. I brought you away from that place.”

He doesn’t usually talk this much, but these are the most effortless words An can ever remember speaking.

Chiyoko mimes for something to write with.

“Of course,” An says, and goes to the table. He hands her a pad of paper and a red crayon.

She won’t be able to stab him with a crayon. He is smart, cautious. Chiyoko will have to be smarter.

Thank you,
she writes effortlessly in Mandarin.

An risks a smile. “You’re welcome.”

Where?

“My place.”

Xi’an?

He considers his answer. “Yes.”

My stuff?

“In my room. Safe.”

Why am I here?

An looks at her, not sure how to explain. Chiyoko impatiently taps the crayon on the pad of paper.

“Because . . .” An looks away, nervous.

Chiyoko taps the crayon on the question again. Red smudges form over the word
why
.

“Because you make me feel good.”

Chiyoko gives him a quizzical look. And that’s when she realizes what is different about him. When she remembers the pause in their fight at the hardware store. What he said about feeling whole, and young.

Your stutter,
she writes.

An nods. “I have stuttered since I was a small boy. I have stutters and tics and they torment me. But not anymore.”

An meets Chiyoko’s eyes. There is gratitude in his look, but also something else. Something passionate and possessive. Chiyoko isn’t yet sure how to play this. This boy thinks she has cured his twitching. She decides to play dumb, gesturing to herself and cocking her head confusedly.

“Yes, you. I’m different near you. Healed.”

Chiyoko is expressionless. He has just put himself at an incredible disadvantage. She decides that she must break him to pieces. Quickly. And then put him back together.

The first part will be tricky.

The second easy.

I want my things,
she writes, shoving the pad at him.

An shakes his head. Chiyoko stares at him for a moment, brings the pad back down to her lap. She takes her time with the next sentence, writing as clearly as she can with the crayon.

I will not be your prisoner.

An shakes his head again. “I don’t want you to be. We can do this together.”

He means Endgame. Chiyoko has to resist the urge to roll her eyes. She does not do alliances. She is a loner. A soloist.

Chiyoko pretends to think this over. Writes,
Is this all you do?

She mimes pulling the pin out of a grenade, lobs it, and then makes an explosion with her hands.

“Confusion. Disruption. Death,” An says. “It’s all I
need
to do.”

Is it?
she writes.

An gives her a puzzled look, as if the answer were obvious. “That’s what Endgame is. Uncertainty and death.”

Chiyoko takes a moment before writing,
Is that what you were taught?

An shudders almost imperceptibly, his tic shooting through him for a millisecond. She has hit on something. She reaches out and squeezes his hand, tapping the question insistently.

“N-n-n-n-none of your business,” he blurts, ashamed, and storms away.

Chiyoko drops the pad and crayon in her lap and claps hard. An freezes before reaching the door. He turns to her, his eyes downcast like a scolded dog’s. Chiyoko swings her legs over the side of the bed. She puts some weight on her feet. She feels good. She can run if she has to. But she’s not ready to fight. Not yet.

She writes something. An watches. When she is finished, she holds up the pad and taps it with two fingers. An comes back to her and she gives him the pad.

I won’t hurt you. I promise.

His words. Turned back on him.

An reads the words over and over again. No one has ever made that promise to An without breaking it. Without their words being a trick. But because it is Chiyoko—beautiful, gentle, powerful Chiyoko—he believes.

For the first time that he can remember, he believes that something good is actually good. Not, as is usually the case, that something bad is good. Like carnage, death, the meteorites, a well-placed bomb, a body blown to bits, blood on hands or walls or faces. Those are good things, and everything else is lies.

It is a strange feeling.

“Can you walk?” he asks quietly.

Chiyoko nods.

An holds out his hand. “Let me show you around.”

Chiyoko takes his hand.

And in that moment she knows that by mending some little part of him, tearing him into pieces will be as simple as winning a game of skill with a small child. All she has to do now is pretend to love him, and he’ll let down his guard, and she’ll be able to leave.

But before she can do that, she needs to find her things. Her bag with the watch and the glasses that show her whether the Olmec, Jago Tlaloc, has perished, or if he has lived through the day to Play on.

Play on.

Xi’an Xianyang International Airport, Terminal 2, China

Jago and Sarah get lucky. A flight is leaving for Delhi in an hour, where they can make a quick connection for a flight to Abu Dhabi. A two-hour layover and then a straight shot into northern Iraq. The total flying time is under 19 hours, which is remarkable for this part of the world.

They book their tickets using fake passports—hers Canadian, his Portuguese—and credit cards under the same fake names. They fight off nerves as they pass through security, worried that the authorities will have tipped off all agencies to be on the lookout for a pair of foreigners who terrorized the Terracotta Army complex. Going through the detectors, they worry that some unseen chip will set off an alarm, but both pass through without incident.

After security and passport control, they have 15 minutes to make the flight. They don’t have time to hit the restroom, get a bottle of water, look for reading material. Which is why Sarah walks right by a newspaper stand without bothering to look, without seeing that standing there, behind a rack of magazines, is Christopher.

“Come on, honey, we have to hurry!” Jago says, playing up the couple thing even more.

“I’m coming!” Sarah says impatiently, going along with it. “And you know I hate it when you call me honey, cupcake.”

Christopher hears the people speaking English as they scramble down the concourse, wonders who they are, where they’re going, if they’re happy, if they’re in love the way he’s in love.

He doesn’t even recognize her voice.

Who loseth to God as man to man

Shall win at the turn of the game.