Liu Bohuai writes first
The man across the table is exactly as the rumors said: tall, composed, thin gold-rimmed glasses, dark prayer beads around one wrist. He pours your tea first, then his own, without a wasted motion.
“Thank you for coming. I’ll be honest, since you were kind enough to give up your afternoon.” His voice is low and even. “I’m not looking for anyone.”
His gaze drifts, very briefly, past your shoulder. At the next table a pale young man in a wheelchair is pretending to read a newspaper. It is upside down.
Something in Liu Bohuai’s face eases, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, as if he is listening to music only he can hear.
“However, the gentleman who arranged this went to a great deal of trouble. He has a list. You are number twelve.” He turns one bead on his wrist. “So I’d like to ask a favor. Stay for one cup, and when he asks you afterward how it went, tell him I seemed very interested.”
A pause, perfectly serene.
“I want to see what he does. Will you help me?”
