The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [240]
“Nin hao, lao bin liang. Li mama hao ma?”
The woman shook her head. “Bu, ta hai shi lao yang zi, shen ti bu hao.”
“Qing li Dai wo xiang ta wen an. Qing gei wo yi bei Wu Long cha hao ma?”
The woman walked away, returning with a ceramic pot from which she poured a minuscule cup of tea. She placed the cup in front of Nora.
“You speak Chinese?” Nora asked Pendergast.
“A little Mandarin. I confess to speaking Cantonese somewhat more fluently.”
Nora fell silent. Somehow, she was not surprised.
“King’s Tea of Osmanthus Oolong,” said Pendergast, nodding toward her cup. “One of the finest in the world. From bushes grown on the sunny sides of the mountains, new shoots gathered only in the spring.”
Nora picked up the cup. A delicate aroma rose to her nostrils. She took a sip, tasting a complex blend of green tea and other exquisitely delicate flavors.
“Very nice,” she said, putting down the cup.
“Indeed.” Pendergast glanced at her for a moment. Then he spoke again in Mandarin, and the woman filled up a bag, weighed it, and sealed it, scribbling a price on the plastic wrapping. She handed it to Nora.
“For me?” Nora asked.
Pendergast nodded.
“I don’t want any gifts from you.”
“Please take it. It’s excellent for the digestion. As well as being a superb antioxidant.”
Nora took it irritably, then saw the price. “Wait a minute, this is two hundred dollars?”
“It will last three or four months,” said Pendergast. “A small price when one considers—”
“Look,” said Nora, setting down the bag. “Mr. Pendergast, I came here to tell you that I can’t work for you anymore. My career at the Museum is at stake. A bag of tea isn’t going to change my mind, even if it is two hundred bucks.”
Pendergast listened attentively, his head slightly bowed.
“They implied—and the implication was very clear—that I wasn’t to work with you anymore. I like what I do. I keep this up, I’ll lose my job. I already lost one job when the Lloyd Museum closed down. I can’t afford to lose another. I need this job.”
Pendergast nodded.
“Brisbane and Collopy gave me the money I need for my carbon dates. I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me now. I can’t spare the time.”
Pendergast waited, still listening.
“What do you need me for, anyway? I’m an archaeologist, and there’s no longer any site to investigate. You’ve got a copy of the letter. You’re FBI. You must have dozens of specialists at your beck and call.”
Pendergast remained silent as Nora took a sip of tea. The cup rattled loudly in the saucer when she replaced it.
“So,” she said. “Now that’s settled.”
Now Pendergast spoke. “Mary Greene lived a few blocks from here, down on Water Street. Number 16. The house is still there. It’s a five-minute walk.”
Nora looked at him, eyebrows narrowing in surprise. It had never occurred to her how close they were to Mary Greene’s neighborhood. She recalled the note, written in blood. Mary Greene had known she was going to die. Her want had been simple: not to die in complete anonymity.
Pendergast gently took her arm. “Come,” he said.
She did not shrug him off. He spoke again to the shopkeeper, took the tea with a slight bow, and in a moment they were outside on the crowded street. They walked down Mott, crossing first Bayard, then Chatham Square, entering into a maze of dark narrow streets abutting the East River. The noise and bustle of Chinatown gave way to the silence of industrial buildings. The sun had set, leaving a glow in the sky that barely outlined the tops of the buildings. Reaching Catherine Street, they turned southeast. Nora glanced over curiously as they passed Henry and the site of Moegen-Fairhaven’s new residential tower. The excavation was much bigger now; massive foundations and stem walls rose out of the gloom, rebar popping like reeds from the freshly poured concrete. Nothing was left of the old coal tunnel.
Another few minutes, and they were on Water Street. Old manufacturing buildings, warehouses, and decrepit tenements lined the street. Beyond, the East River moved