Satori - Don Winslow [62]
Nicholai walked slowly away, out of range of the listening devices that doubtless studded the Soviet building. He could hear Leotov’s footsteps crunch on the snow, following him. He shortened his step and slowed his gait, allowing the smaller man to catch up with him.
If I have guessed right, Nicholai thought, I might become a wealthy man.
If I have guessed wrong, I will certainly be a dead one.
50
KANG SAT BACK and savored his Dragon Well tea — the finest in China, supplied only to Mao and himself — as he regarded the Tang Dynasty painting on the wall. The overall effect was sublime, so Kang was more than annoyed by the interruption.
What was that mao-tzi Voroshenin doing here after midnight?
Kang sighed and gave permission to allow him in. Then he put a smile on his face and walked out to greet his unwanted and uninvited guest.
“An unexpected pleasure,” Kang said.
Voroshenin caught the tone. “It’s urgent.”
“Apparently,” Kang said. “Please come in.”
Kang walked him into the large sitting room, which was filled not only with paintings but also with bronzes, rare ceramics, and ancient seals, all liberated from the former possessing classes. His collection of fine art was worth many thousands of yuan; his assemblage of erotica only slightly less valuable in terms of money, far more precious in the influence it purchased with Mao, a fellow enthusiast.
Had Voroshenin, the poor lonely fellow, come on some pretext to see if there was new pornography? The Russian looked at the Tang painting, a classically formed depiction of a southern mountain.
“New?” he asked.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s good.”
The mao-tzi wouldn’t know good from garbage, Kang thought. That being the case, he didn’t offer him tea — which anyway wouldn’t be appreciated — but some rice wine instead. The Russian was an incipient drunkard, it would sooner or later kill him, and Kang hoped it was sooner.
The drink having been offered and accepted, the Russian said rudely, “Quite an art collection you have here.”
Kang didn’t like the smirk on his face. “I do what I can to preserve our cultural treasures,” he said, “at least the ones not already stolen by Europeans.”
They both knew that the best collections of Chinese art were to be found in the Hermitage and the Louvre. One day, Kang thought, we shall get them all back. “You said something about an urgent matter.”
“What if,” Voroshenin said, “Liu could be linked to the Americans?”
“What if shit were gold?” Kang responded.
“What if,” Voroshenin countered, “Guibert were made to say that this arms shipment to the Viet Minh was a sham, to cover up something else?”
“Such as?”
“What if he were to confess,” Voroshenin asked, carefully selecting his words, “that the weapons were not for the Viet Minh, but were to be diverted to counterrevolutionaries in Yunnan instead?”
“Then I am very much afraid,” Kang said, “that would implicate General Liu in an imperialist plot to overthrow the People’s Republic. The Chairman would be shocked and heartbroken, of course.”
It was a delightful thought. Kang had been searching for years for a pretext to arrest Liu, one that the army and public would accept, and this dissolute Russian might just have handed it to him.
“But why would Guibert confess to something like that?” Kang asked, his eyes alight with wry amusement. Actually, he could think of a dozen reasons — “Toads Drinking,” “Monkeys Holding a Rope,” “Angel Plucking a Zither,” or perhaps some new technique that had yet to be discovered or named. “And how are the Americans involved in this?”
“Guibert,” Voroshenin answered, “is actually an American agent named Nicholai Hel.”
He told Kang what he knew of the Guiberts and of Nicholai Hel, omitting, of course, his own past with Alexandra Ivanovna.
“Do we know this for a fact?” Kang asked.
“No,” Voroshenin admitted. “But I’m reasonably sure.”
“ ‘Reasonably sure’ is not good enough,