Satori - Don Winslow [31]
It would not do to walk too confidently, so Nicholai assumed the gait and pace of a man who is slightly, albeit unconcernedly, lost. He paused at the corner of Xidan Street, pretended to consider his route, and then “decided” to turn north. His tails switched off, one lingering as he fussed with his scarf, the other coming ahead to pick up the trail.
It was enough for Nicholai to get a good look at their faces without being noticed. He dubbed one of them the Greyhound for his tall, slim build and foot speed, and the other Xiao Smiley, an ironic reference to his dour expression. To be fair, Nicholai thought, no one would be very happy to be pulled from a nice warm hotel lobby onto the freezing streets.
Nicholai upped his pace to see if the Greyhound would keep up with him, or whether there was another agent to turn him over to. The Greyhound quickened his steps, although he was careful to stay far behind Nicholai as he went through the South Gate into Beihai Park.
The park was lovely, Nicholai thought, and represented the very best of Asian landscaping art. Built around the oval of Beihai Lake, its walkways wended through graceful rows of willow trees, impeccable placements of stones, and perfectly located pavilions. Every curve offered a new perspective, and the whole thing came close to achieving the elusive quality that the Japanese called shibumi — understated elegance.
In fact, in winter the park resembled a distinguished elderly lady, spare and yet beautiful, who preserves her posture and dignity even in the knowledge of cold death. A man more verbally talented than I, Nicholai thought, might compose a poem about her.
Walking northward along the eastern edge of the lake, he came to a bridge that spanned the lake onto an island. Nicholai read the small sign that pointed toward the Jade Isle and stepped onto the gracefully arched bridge.
He paused at the apex to look over the lake and see if the Greyhound followed him. The Greyhound was smart and strode right past him, never even glancing as he continued onto the island. It was the smart move, Nicholai thought, anticipating that I will keep going onto the Jade Isle, but still allowing him to double back if I change my mind. Lazily scanning the scenery, he saw Xiao Smiley stop and linger in a pavilion near the base of the bridge.
Nicholai turned and crossed the bridge onto the Jade Isle, which was dominated by a tall white tower on a small rise in the center of the thickly wooded island. A narrow footpath flanked by trees and shrubs led up to the tower, identified by a plaque as, not surprisingly, the White Pagoda, built in 1651 to honor the visit of the Dalai Lama.
Ironic, Nicholai thought, considering that the Chinese had just invaded Tibet.
The tower itself was closed. Nicholai strolled around the base of the tower, which, with its curved lines and additional “steeple” with a gold Buddhist symbol on top, more resembled Tibetan than Chinese architecture.
He finished his circuit of the tower and then took a narrow curving path down through the trees to the southern edge of the Jade Isle, where the Bridge of Perfect Wisdom crossed back onto the main part of the park. From the bridge he noticed small docks on the islands, and others across the pond, and realized that on less inclement days one could hire a boat to access the island.
The Jade Isle has possibilities, Nicholai thought, particularly at night, but luring Voroshenin there would be a problem. Schooled in paranoia by the Stalinist purges, the Russian would not easily be lured anywhere, and if he is the chess player he is reputed to be, he will be quick to sniff out a ploy.
But it was