book.”
Burbank pointed to his glass. I poured him another whisky. He was unflustered. He was supposed to be. Agents got upset. The drill was to radiate calm and assurance, to reassure them, to set their minds at ease, to suggest but never say that a vast, powerful, invisible force was looking out for them every minute of the day and night, and you were personally making sure that the force would keep them from harm no matter what.
“Enough trivia,” Burbank said. “What exactly have you been up to since the last time we met?”
With some omissions and some additions, I told him what I have already told you. As usual, he paid rapt attention. You could almost see the 1s and 0s, or whatever binary code the human brain employs, combining into data and speeding to their various destinations inside the vault of Burbank’s bony skull.
“It sounds like things are working out pretty much as we hoped,” he said. “Do you agree?”
“I see no sign of progress, but maybe I’m too close to it. It’s not easy to know what Chen Qi and friends are up to. It’s tricky enough, keeping a grip on your sanity, locked up in a tower with a bunch of people to whom you look and smell like an ape.”
“You believe that’s really the way they feel?”
“The Chinese are racists like everyone else, only more so,” I said. “They see nothing wrong with it. I overhear remarks. I see the looks on faces. I know how I smell to them because they let me know.”
Burbank was examining me with a new look on his face “Beware paranoia,” he said.
He was telling me? Burbank was director of paranoia for the most hated intelligence service in the world. He lived and breathed paranoia. He was Headquarters’s therapist, never dismissing the possibility, nursing the hope that his worst suspicions might turn out to be justified. The reality was, Burbank would have been a pretty poor chief of counterintelligence if he wasn’t paranoid.
He refused a third whisky. I didn’t ask if he was hungry. It was early still, and remembering the tofu sandwich, I guessed he wouldn’t be much interested in what my stepfather’s ghost had to offer. For long moments, he seemed lost in thought. Then he said, “You didn’t mention getting laid.”
“Should I?” I asked.
“Everything is relevant. For example, are you still screwing that wild woman you met on the Bund?”
I said, “No, but I miss her. She was good for the mission. She taught me Mandarin. Also weiqi. You advised me to concentrate on both.”
“Then you and I have reason to be grateful to her. Her name again?”
“Mei.”
“Surname?”
“I have no idea.”
“Why not?”
“As you know, we exchanged no personal information.”
“Just secretions.”
I said, “That’s disgusting.”
Burbank said, “What word would you choose to describe an agent under discipline and deep cover who slept with a foreign woman for two and a half years and never officially reported that fact to Headquarters?”
“Discreet. I thought you must be running her. Now I’m even more suspicious.”
“You are?”
With a smile (“I’m joking!”) I said, “If I never mentioned her, how would you know about her?”
“Many matters come to my attention.” Burbank waved a hand—weakness noted, subject closed, sin locked in the appropriate safe. Let’s move on.
“So what are you doing for poontang now?” he asked.
“For what?”
“Pussy—pardon the twentieth-century slang. This wild woman is not welcome in the tower, I assume.”
“I have never seen her there. Or anywhere else since I got back to Shanghai. As you know, because I have reported it, I now sleep with a somewhat more conventional female.”
“The Wellesley girl? The one who works for Chen Qi?”
“Yes.”
“Was provided by Chen Qi?”
“That’s my assumption, unless you know otherwise.”
“Have you chosen the next bedfellow?” Burbank asked.
“I didn’t choose the other two,” I said. “I’m hoping for
Burbank pointed to his glass. I poured him another whisky. He was unflustered. He was supposed to be. Agents got upset. The drill was to radiate calm and assurance, to reassure them, to set their minds at ease, to suggest but never say that a vast, powerful, invisible force was looking out for them every minute of the day and night, and you were personally making sure that the force would keep them from harm no matter what.
“Enough trivia,” Burbank said. “What exactly have you been up to since the last time we met?”
With some omissions and some additions, I told him what I have already told you. As usual, he paid rapt attention. You could almost see the 1s and 0s, or whatever binary code the human brain employs, combining into data and speeding to their various destinations inside the vault of Burbank’s bony skull.
“It sounds like things are working out pretty much as we hoped,” he said. “Do you agree?”
“I see no sign of progress, but maybe I’m too close to it. It’s not easy to know what Chen Qi and friends are up to. It’s tricky enough, keeping a grip on your sanity, locked up in a tower with a bunch of people to whom you look and smell like an ape.”
“You believe that’s really the way they feel?”
“The Chinese are racists like everyone else, only more so,” I said. “They see nothing wrong with it. I overhear remarks. I see the looks on faces. I know how I smell to them because they let me know.”
Burbank was examining me with a new look on his face “Beware paranoia,” he said.
He was telling me? Burbank was director of paranoia for the most hated intelligence service in the world. He lived and breathed paranoia. He was Headquarters’s therapist, never dismissing the possibility, nursing the hope that his worst suspicions might turn out to be justified. The reality was, Burbank would have been a pretty poor chief of counterintelligence if he wasn’t paranoid.
He refused a third whisky. I didn’t ask if he was hungry. It was early still, and remembering the tofu sandwich, I guessed he wouldn’t be much interested in what my stepfather’s ghost had to offer. For long moments, he seemed lost in thought. Then he said, “You didn’t mention getting laid.”
“Should I?” I asked.
“Everything is relevant. For example, are you still screwing that wild woman you met on the Bund?”
I said, “No, but I miss her. She was good for the mission. She taught me Mandarin. Also weiqi. You advised me to concentrate on both.”
“Then you and I have reason to be grateful to her. Her name again?”
“Mei.”
“Surname?”
“I have no idea.”
“Why not?”
“As you know, we exchanged no personal information.”
“Just secretions.”
I said, “That’s disgusting.”
Burbank said, “What word would you choose to describe an agent under discipline and deep cover who slept with a foreign woman for two and a half years and never officially reported that fact to Headquarters?”
“Discreet. I thought you must be running her. Now I’m even more suspicious.”
“You are?”
With a smile (“I’m joking!”) I said, “If I never mentioned her, how would you know about her?”
“Many matters come to my attention.” Burbank waved a hand—weakness noted, subject closed, sin locked in the appropriate safe. Let’s move on.
“So what are you doing for poontang now?” he asked.
“For what?”
“Pussy—pardon the twentieth-century slang. This wild woman is not welcome in the tower, I assume.”
“I have never seen her there. Or anywhere else since I got back to Shanghai. As you know, because I have reported it, I now sleep with a somewhat more conventional female.”
“The Wellesley girl? The one who works for Chen Qi?”
“Yes.”
“Was provided by Chen Qi?”
“That’s my assumption, unless you know otherwise.”
“Have you chosen the next bedfellow?” Burbank asked.
“I didn’t choose the other two,” I said. “I’m hoping for
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