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The entourage was a curious one: the Ghost, two armed guards and the two men in charge--Peabody from the INS and the man from the United States Department of State. They were now joined by two armed Port Authority guards, big men, nervous as squirrels, who kept their hands near their weapons as they surveyed the crowd.
The Ghost didn't exactly know what the uneasiness and firepower were all about but he supposed that there'd been death threats against him. Well, that was nothing new. He'd lived with death since the night the Four Olds murdered his family.
Footsteps behind.
"Mr. Kwan . . .Mr. Kwan!"
They turned to see a thin Chinese man in a suit walking quickly toward them. The guards drew their weapons and the approaching man stopped, eyes wide.
"It's my lawyer," the Ghost said.
"You sure?" Peabody asked.
"What do you mean, am I sure?"
Peabody nodded the man forward, frisked him despite the Ghost's protests and let him and the snakehead step to the side of the corridor. The Ghost turned his ear toward the lawyer's mouth. "Go ahead."
"The Changs and the Wus are out on bond, pending the hearing. It looks like they'll be granted asylum. The Wus are in Flushing, Queens. The Changs are back in Owls Head. The same apartment."
"And Yindao?" the Ghost whispered.
The man blinked at the crude word.
The snakehead corrected himself. "I mean the Sachs woman."
"Oh, I have her address too. And Lincoln Rhyme's. Do you want me to write them down for you?"
"No, just tell them to me slowly. I'll remember them."
After only three repetitions the Ghost had memorized them. He said, "You'll find your money in the account." No need to say how much money or which account.
The lawyer nodded and, with a glance at the Ghost's guards, turned and left.
The group continued down the corridor. Ahead of him the Ghost could see the gate, the pretty clerks behind the check-in counter. And through the window he caught a glimpse of the 747 that would soon take him west, like Monkey making his pilgrimage, at the end of which he found enlightenment and contentment.
His boarding pass was protruding from his shirt pocket. He had 10,000 yuan in his wallet. He had a U.S. government escort. He was going home, to his apartments, his women, his money.
He was free. He--
Then sudden motion . . .
Somebody was moving toward him fast and the guards were pulling him aside, their weapons coming out of their holsters again. The Ghost, gasping at the shock, thought that he was going to die. He muttered a fast prayer to his guardian, Yi the archer.
But the attacker stopped short. Breathing unsteadily, the Ghost began to laugh.
"Hello, Yindao."
She was wearing jeans, T-shirt and windbreaker, her badge around her neck. Hands on her hips, one of which rested very close to her pistol. The policewoman ignored the Ghost and glanced at the nervous, young INS agents. "You better have a damn good reason for drawing down on me."
They started to reholster their weapons but Peabody gestured for them not to.
The Ghost focused past Yindao. Behind her was a tall black man in a white suit and noisy blue shirt. The fat cop who'd arrested him in Brooklyn was here as well, as were several uniformed city policemen. But the one person in this retinue who captured his full attention was a handsome dark-haired man about the Ghost's age, sitting in a complicated, bright red wheelchair, to which his arms and legs were strapped. A trim young man--his aide or nurse--stood behind the chair.
This was, of course, Lincoln Rhyme. The Ghost studied the curious man--who'd miraculously discovered the location of the Fuzhou Dragon at sea, who'd found the Wus and the Changs and who had actually succeeded in capturing the Ghost himself. Which no other policeman in the world had ever been able to do.
Harold Peabody wiped his face with his sleeve, surveyed the situation and motioned the guards back. They put their weapons away. "What's this all about, Rhyme?"
But the man ignored him and continued to study the snakehead carefully. The Ghost felt a tickle of unease. But then he mastered the sensation. He had guanxi at the highest level. He was immune, even to the magic of Lincoln Rhyme, whom he asked bluntly, "Who exactly are you? A consultant? A private detective?"
