China Box

2

2Raising a hand with the index finger pointed at my heart, the battered Dane growled, “Kathryn.”

The sound hit me like a jab to the chest. Holger was the only person left alive who used my given name.

I hardened my sore heart.

When Holger began a conversation that way, a command would follow.

Though not immediately. The crafty old spymaster took his time getting to that point.

Moving closer, Holger added, “I see you need a beer.”

“No beer,” I retorted.

I corrected the man’s unchanged view of me.

“In this climate,” I continued, “quinine and Vitamin C are essential. You can order me a Blue Sapphire and Schweppes with an extra twist of lime. I’d enjoy a friendly drink with you. But you have to stop the Kathryn business.”

Frowning, he settled noisily into the chair across from me. He turned his face toward the bar and raised that imperious hand again.

Samarjit had reappeared and his round face was split by a smile that showed more gleaming white teeth than usual. Perhaps the sound of me sparring with Holger amused my friend.

“I’d like a pint of your best India Pale Ale,” Holger called to him. “And bring Miss Collins her usual.”

I laughed. “This your idea of slipping unnoticed into the local scene? Dressing and drinking and acting proper like a pukka sahib?”

I’d lifted the term for a nose-in-the-air European from my reading.

“Perhaps I am a little out of date.” Holger gave me a gentle smile. “Casey.”

“Better.” I smiled approval.

I liked how my nickname sounded in Holger’s clipped Danish-accented English.

And I liked that he’d done as I asked. Perhaps he’d mellowed.

The bartender strolled over. He wore a pristine white Eton jacket, the link closure embedded in the softness of his jolly belly.

My parasol-topped gin-and-tonic looked particularly appealing on the silver salver he balanced on one open palm.

Samarjit’s sleeve cuff fell back as he placed our glasses on the table. The warm brown skin on his hands continued up his pudgy arms and matched his smooth cheeks. His grin made those cheeks rounder.

Winking one dark eye at me, he set a gleaming bowl of cocktail peanuts on the table, closer to me than to Holger.

After a short night and a long day spent caring for others, Samarjit’s kindness felt like a caress.

As he slipped quietly away, I raised my glass to Holger. “Thanks.”

“You are most welcome.” He returned the salute, raising a pint glass filled with tawny liquid.

A beautiful sight. India Pale Ale had been among my favorites. The taste had many memories attached. I no longer ordered it.

I swallowed a satisfying mouthful of my G&T and eyed my visitor.

The dress shirt beneath his suit jacket was so thin, its color appeared more flesh than white and his clip-on bowtie was askew.

Holger had been a colonel in the Danish army when we last worked together. The military spit-and-polish was missing. He wasn’t traveling on official business.

“What brings you to Dhaka?” I asked.

“I have a pressing matter I must discuss with you.” He shrugged. “You didn’t answer my calls or my email. I had no choice.”

I dropped a shoulder, half-heartedly mimicking his shrug. “I’ve been busy.”

“I can see that.” He waved a bony hand to take in the club. “Pleasant place.”

To Holger, pleasant was a synonym for dull.

“Suits me.” I sampled the nuts, salt and oil perfectly balancing my drink’s tart fizziness.

“I’m sure your life is more exciting,” I continued. “Denmark is having so much fun jabbing pointy sticks at the Russian bear. Your former prime minister has NATO forces massed on Putin’s borders.”

“Our man has stopped playing soldier,” Holger said. “Hopefully, the new General Secretary has a better grasp of history.”

“He hasn’t demonstrated it yet.” My laugh was sour. “That recent NATO exercise in Latvia—what’d they call it? Operation Saber Rattling?”

“Operation Saber Strike.” Holger cupped his beer glass in both hands and stared at it gloomily. “Rattling would be more accurate. I had no part in its planning.”

“Of course not.” I stared pointedly at the liver spots dotting the backs of his hands. “At your age, surely you’re retired from the Danish Defence Intelligence Service?”

“Technically. Though I still consult with them.” He glanced at me. “At the moment, the operation of greater concern to me is Fox Hunt.”

I read the English-language press online every day. I understood the reference, but Holger’s hint made no sense.

Western intelligence services had no obvious reason to track Operation Fox Hunt. A team of Chinese law enforcement agents had spread out across the globe to hunt down and repatriate former Chinese officials who’d absconded with government funds.

I couldn’t imagine how this manhunt connected me and Holger.

“Why should I be interested in Fox Hunt?” I asked.

“Because of this policewoman.”

He pulled out a smartphone, punched up a photo, and passed it over.

The shot captured a woman in her late twenties. She wore ultra-tight black running shorts, the kind made from miracle fabric and touted as second-skin-fit. Calf muscles bulged in her tan legs and her gray low-top sneakers matched a close-fitting tank top.

The bib pinned to her midriff was dark-blue and the white number had five digits. She ran on pavement edged by a long looping chain draped between ornamental posts. A marina, perhaps, the chain to prevent passersby from falling into the seawater five feet below.

Behind the runner loomed the Golden Gate Bridge, rust-red against a charcoal sky.

The woman’s slender legs were extended, her arms balancing her stride. Racing in what might be last summer’s San Francisco Marathon, she radiated energy.

I studied her. Long black hair snagged back in a ponytail, smooth skin slick with sweat, lips parted. No classic beauty, but prominent cheekbones made her face striking.

Looking at her made the back of my neck itch. I was no runner. I was always intrigued by people who’d mastered skills I hadn’t.

I tightened my grip on the phone to stop myself from scratching. I didn’t want Holger to note my interest.

“In the West,” he continued, “she calls herself May Lee. She’s one of the hunters.”

I raised my glass and clinked the lonely cubes to signal I needed a refill. My eyes on the bar, I asked, “What’s May Lee done to interest you?”

“She’s taken certain actions to which I do not wish to draw official attention.”

“Official attention from whom?” I asked idly.

When he didn’t answer, I moved my gaze from the bar to him.

Holger’s faded gray eyes were trained on me. He’d told me all he thought I needed to know. He expected I’d work out the rest.

I couldn’t resist the challenge.

“May Lee took those actions while in the US. You want someone there to stop her. But you can’t proceed via your usual channels. You need an American who can help you informally.”

I shoved the phone to his side of the table. “Sorry, I can’t point you toward anyone. I’m too far out of the loop. I don’t know who’s doing what back home.”

“I doubt you are as poorly-informed as you claim. Though I see one development has escaped your notice.” He used his index finger to push the phone back to me.

“Click down one,” he said.

I had to look at his next picture.

The shot was of the same woman. She was clear-eyed, dry-skinned, glossy black hair loose and framing those elegant cheekbones. This time the Transamerica pyramid was the backdrop and the sun was shining.

The twenty-nine-year-old white male standing beside her was a head taller. He’d tilted his face to look down at May Lee. The sunlight set his thick red hair aflame.

His expression was so tender, my eyes filled with tears.

My godson had fallen in love with a foreign agent.

I brushed the teardrops away with my knuckles and looked up at Holger.

He’d hooked me. I expected to see triumph on his face.

All I found was compassion.

“I have to talk to him,” I whispered. “Tell him how much trouble he’s in.”

“Yes,” Holger murmured. “This is a subject on which you speak with authority.”

“Too much authority,” I agreed. “I’ll have to break Woody’s heart.”

I fumbled a hanky out of my pocket and blew my nose.

Holger was meticulous. He wouldn’t have assumed I’d take his bait. But he’d be prepared if I did.

Lifting my chin, I met his gaze.

“Tell me how you want me to do this.”