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Lincoln Rhyme
345 Central Park West
New York, NY 10022
He flagged down the waitress and asked her a question.
Something about Li seemed to scare her and warn that she shouldn't help this man. But a second glance at his face must've told her that it would be worse to say no to him. She nodded and, eyes down, gave him what Li thought were excellent directions to the street known as Central Park West.
Chapter Twelve
"You look better," Amelia Sachs said. "How are you feeling?"
John Sung motioned her into the apartment. "Very sore," he said, and closing the door, joined her in the living room. He walked slowly and winced occasionally. An understandable consequence of having been shot, she supposed.
The apartment that his immigration lawyer had arranged for him to stay in was a dingy place on the Bowery, two dark rooms, containing mismatched, damaged furniture. Directly below, on the first floor, was a Chinese restaurant. The smell of sour oil and garlic permeated the place.
A compact man, with a few stray gray hairs, Sung walked hunched over from the wound. Watching his unsteady gait, she felt a poignant sympathy for him. In his life in China, as a doctor, presumably he would have enjoyed some respect from his patients and--even though he was a dissident--may have had some prestige. But here Sung had nothing. She wondered what he was going to do for a living--drive a taxi, work in a restaurant?
"I'll make tea," he said.
"No, that's all right," she said. "I can't stay long."
"I'm making some for myself anyway." There was no separate kitchen but a stove, a half-size refrigerator and a rust-stained sink lined one wall of the living room. He put a cheap kettle on the sputtering flame and took a box of Lipton from the cabinet over the sink. He smelled it and gave a curious smile.
"Not what you're used to?" she asked.
"I'll go shopping later," he said ruefully.
Sachs asked, "The INS let you out on bond?"
Sung nodded. "I've formally petitioned for asylum. My lawyer tells me that most people try for it but don't qualify. But I spent two years in a reeducation camp. And I've published articles attacking Beijing for human rights violations. We downloaded some as evidence. The examining officer wouldn't guarantee anything but he said there's a good case for asylum."
"When's the hearing?" she asked.
"Next month."
Sachs watched his hands as he took two cups from the cupboard and carefully washed, dried and arranged them on a tray. There was something ceremonial about the way he did this. He tore open the bags of tea and put them in a ceramic pot and poured the hot water over them then whisked the brew with a spoon.
All for a cup of mass-market Lipton . . .
He carried the pot and cups into the living r
oom, sat stiffly. He poured two cups and offered one to her. She rose to help him. She took the cup from his hands, which she found to be soft but very strong.
"Is there any word on the others?" he asked.
"They're in Manhattan somewhere, we think. We found a truck they stole abandoned not far from here. I'd like to ask you about them."
"Of course. What can I tell you?"
"Anything that you know. Names, descriptions . . .anything."
Sung brought the tea to his lips and took a very small sip. "There were two families--the Changs and the Wus--and a few other people who escaped. I don't remember their names. Some crewmen got off the ship too. Chang tried to save them--he was steering our raft--but the Ghost shot them."
Sachs tried her tea. It seemed to taste very different from the grocery-store beverage she was used to. My imagination, she told herself.
Sung continued. "The crew was decent to us. Before we left I heard bad rumors about the crews on the smuggling ships. But on the Dragon they treated us okay, gave us fresh water and food."
