Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(26)

And it would be easy to do, for while Merrick’s interview subtly corroborated Fa’s suspicion, it was far from the smoking gun that Zhi would demand. Merrick was ancient history, and Fa’s theory regarding Merrick’s source in Beijing had never seen the light of day: Zhi had ensured that. Zhi would never endorse Fa’s hunch. It would be an enormous loss of face to admit that Fa had been right all this time. And Fa’s credibility within the Ministry was nonexistent; no one would take his side over Zhi’s, even if he were foolhardy enough to go outside of regular channels again. So what to do? Fa sighed and gathered up his materials. What choice did he have? This was the job. He would take what he had to Zhi, who would summarily reject it, and that would be the end of it. No doubt retribution would follow, but he’d have done his duty; he would sleep with a clear conscience and wait for Zhi’s reprisal.

Fa rode the elevator up to Zhi’s office and considered taking the rest of the afternoon off. Get out of the city before rush hour and go fishing for a few hours to clear his head. A reward for the undignified abuse he was about to receive. It was personal with Zhi, who called him “Fa Gao” behind his back—“the cupcake.” Perhaps he should consider resigning after all. He had served the cause for twelve years; it would not be such a great humiliation for his family now. Would he really sacrifice himself to a losing battle of wills with Zhu Zhi?

Apparently he would.

Fa stuck his head in the antechamber outside Zhi’s office, where Zhi’s secretary worked. When he asked to see Zhi, she masked her surprise with a demure cough—Fa hadn’t met with Zhi in nearly four years. She replied that he would be tied up all day in the weekly operations meeting. Fa had forgotten it was a Monday. A further reminder of his ongoing humiliation, since the operations meeting had once been a staple of his calendar. Fa could guess at the meeting’s agenda. In the last twelve months, directives from Beijing had taken on increasing urgency over uncovering the identity of Zhenniao—the Poisonfeather bird.

Within the MSS, Poisonfeather was the code name for the theory that a series of well-documented leaks to the Americans was, in fact, the work of a mole within the Politburo itself. The theory had been rejected initially for political reasons but also because it lacked a shred of hard evidence. However, an influential cadre within the MSS had stubbornly championed the theory over the last eighteen months, and it was gaining traction within the organization.

Hence Zhi’s obsession with being the one to unmask the traitor. Fa himself thought it highly improbable and considered Poisonfeather an apt name for the Politburo’s hypothetical mole. After all, the Poisonfeather bird was an extinct and likely mythological bird that had supposedly populated southern China until the thirteenth century. Whereas the Politburo’s Poisonfeather bird had come into existence only in 2009. Fa chuckled at his own joke. It was as unlikely as it was . . .

The thought withered as he looked down at Charles Merrick’s magazine cover and felt the chill that sometimes accompanies insight. He did the math, trying to see how closely the chronology matched, oblivious to Zhi’s secretary.

“Fa? Fa!”

He finally heard her calling his name. “Yes?”

“He has ten minutes on Wednesday. At two.”

Fa no longer wanted an appointment with Zhi. If Merrick’s remarks really implied what he now suspected, then Zhi would take credit for it. For the honor to be his, Fa would need Merrick himself.

What would the old Guo Fa have done? Either take back your life, or you really are a worthless cupcake.

“On second thought,” he told the secretary, “I’ll just put it in an e-mail. I don’t want to waste his time.”

“What about my time? This is an embassy, Fa. I have work to do.”

But Fa was already gone.




Fa’s only friend at the embassy, or rather the only person who remained friendly toward him, was his de facto boss—Wen Bai, the agricultural minister. Wen Bai was either immune or oblivious, Fa wasn’t sure which, to Zhi’s political clout, and as long as Fa got his work done, Bai didn’t meddle in his affairs. He was a plump, congenial man with thick bifocals from another era. Fa found him in his office. His door was, quite literally, always open.

“Fa! Hello there.”

The two men made small talk for a few minutes.

“So what can I do for you?”

“I’m thinking about getting out of town for a few days.”

“Oh, that sounds nice. What about your report?”

“Check your inbox.”

“Oh, very good,” Bai said, reaching for his mouse. “Well, have a good trip, my friend. Where are you headed this time?”

Fa smiled. “I was thinking West Virginia.”

“Big fish?”

“With any luck.”





CHAPTER ELEVEN


Gibson spent two days lying to himself.

He owed the judge that much, since he’d looked him square in the eye and promised not to get involved. A few days of make-believe, pretending that he could live with it. Live with the memory of Hammond Birk cowering in that trailer doorway like a beaten dog. Knowing that the judge would die in that trailer. The man who had saved his life, pushed him to make something of himself, a voice of compassion and wisdom in a chaotic storm, would live out his days in neglect and squalor.