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“Fake Beijing Police identification,” Zhang Daiyu revealed, and I frowned.
That was definitely beyond our permitted activities in China, but the situation was sufficiently desperate for us to be flexible about interpreting the law.
Liu Bao was glad-handed and had his back patted by many people as he walked around the room. It made me wonder how many of Beijing’s rich and powerful knew about his background as a street criminal. Would they have cared or was money the great absolver?
On-screen, he made a beeline across the room for a guy who could only be American. He had carefully combed, wispy blond hair and was carrying a few extra pounds beneath his tux. There was a Stars and Stripes pin fixed to his lapel.
Liu Bao greeted him warmly, and the two men smiled as they engaged in friendly chatter together.
“Do we know who that is?” I asked.
Zhang Daiyu shook her head. “We can find out.”
“Looks like they are friends,” I remarked.
“I’ll ask Hua to find out who the American is.”
Her phone rang as she was texting the request and she answered. She listened for a short while before hanging up.
“Interesting,” she said, and I was immediately intrigued. “That was a friend I’ve been trying to speak to ever since you followed that man to Guoanbu headquarters.”
She put her noodles down, untouched, and got to her feet.
“Come on,” she said. “We need to go. She wants to meet us tonight.”
CHAPTER 57
WE TOOK A taxi to the park in front of the Temple of Heaven, one of a series of former imperial halls set in beautifully landscaped parkland. Zhang Daiyu told me the place was popular with kung fu and tai chi schools in the morning, but it was virtually deserted when we arrived at 9:45 p.m. We headed for a circular three-tier pagoda.
“This is the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvest,” Zhang Daiyu said as we approached.
“Your friend obviously has a good sense of irony,” I remarked. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Ma Fen and she works for the Guoanbu.”
“Chinese State Security?” I asked, and Zhang Daiyu nodded.
“If she’s caught talking to us it would mean prison for her,” she said.
I wondered why her friend would risk her liberty and life for our investigation.
We hurried across the park toward the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvest. As we drew closer I could see the bottom tier of the pagoda was painted deep red and the upper levels dark blue. The building was set on a mound lined with balustraded terraces. We had no need to make the climb though. I saw a tiny lone figure at the foot of the terraces, near the steps to the grand hall.
Ma Fen couldn’t have been more than five feet two, and she was so thin I thought I might lose sight of her if she turned sideways on. Despite her slightness, there wasn’t a hint of weakness about her. Even in the dark her eyes shone with intelligence and determination.
Zhang Daiyu and Ma Fen exchanged a warm greeting then the intelligence officer turned to me.
“Mr. Morgan. It’s an honor and a pleasure.”
“Nice to meet you, Officer Ma,” I replied.
“Call me Fen, please,” she told me. “Some people say you’re a criminal. Others say you’re dangerous.”
“What do you say?” I asked.
“I think you’re a hero. I read about what you did in Moscow. That was no easy thing. And now you are here in Beijing. Causing trouble. Liu Bao and his friends want you very badly.”
“That’s flattering, I guess,” I replied.
