Busted Flush

There was mystery, too, that caught at Hei-lian’s mind like a cat claw snagged in the skin of her arm: though her face was unlined and lovely, Sprout, close-up, looked to be on the cusp of middle age. Perhaps not much younger than Hei-lian’s forty-one years. She actually looked older than her father did.

Yet, Guoanbu knew, the Radical had aged normally since bursting on the world like a car bomb over a decade before.

Chen had panned around to catch President-for-Life Dr. Kitengi Nshombo and his sister Alicia, flanked by Leopard Society men in dark suits, leopard-skin fezzes, and their inevitable aviator shades, advancing to welcome the homecoming heroes. The president was a head shorter than his sister, handsome in an austere way. In his heavy-framed glasses he looked a little bit like Malcolm X, but scaled down, concentrated, with skin almost as dark and hard-looking as obsidian.

Dr. Nshombo gave a short speech in French, the official language of the People’s Paradise. Though she understood it perfectly Hei-lian tuned it out: boilerplate.

Alicia enfolded Tom to her vast bosom. “Mokèlé-mbèmbé, you have struck a mighty blow for revolutionary justice everywhere!”

Chen caught Hei-lian’s eyes and rolled his.

“There is good news, Tom, my friend,” the president said as they walked toward limousines waiting to carry them to the palace. He said “my friend” as if barely familiar with the words. They were probably almost true. No one quite knew how the Africa-for-Africans ideologue with the charisma of a plank of wood and the white-skinned global guerrilla idol had formed their partnership. But there was no question it had proven highly profitable for both.

And soon it will profit China, Hei-lian thought. She felt . . . as close to happy as she ever did.

“What’s that?” Tom asked. He spoke French with an outlandish American accent that Hei-lian suspected was part of his act. He walked hand in hand with his daughter, who took all the fuss surrounding her daddy in stride. She was used to it.

At least she’s a well-behaved thing, Hei-lian thought.

“A delegation of UN aces are on their way from New York, Tom, cher,” said Alicia, beaming from behind her glasses as if announcing the advent of Santa Claus. She acted as her brother’s right hand. She was also head of the Leopard Society, which among other things constituted the secret police. “They’re going to investigate whether to intervene—to help us free the oppressed people of the Delta from Nigerian and British imperialism.”

“The Committee dudes?” Tom flashed that grin of his.

“Indeed,” the president said. “Your video from the Delta has stirred outrage worldwide. The UN at last heeds the calls for action.”

He flicked a look at Hei-lian. As usual his face was expressionless. A warm flush ran from her stomach to her cheeks. Our video, she thought. That in itself was a victory for the PRC.

The president’s Mercedes limousine waited with top defiantly open, in contrast to the bulletproof carapaces beneath which most world leaders cowered to “meet” their subjects. “Wait one,” said Weathers.

If the delay annoyed Nshombo he gave no sign. He seldom did. If you managed to annoy him, you found out about it from Alicia.

A medical crew was about to load Dolores Michel into a nearby ambulance. Weathers walked up to her in that long-legged swagger of his. Hei-lian gestured her crew along and followed.

The girl was conscious. Even Hei-lian winced at that. Her face was ashen green and streamed with sweat. But her eyes were clear.

The Angel of Mercy. That was what the Information Ministry man told the CCTV team to call Dolores.

Bloodless lips moved. She seemed to be praying repetitively. Hei-lian recognized it. Her father had been a priest, albeit of a different confession.

“You really gonna heal up, there, girl?” Weathers asked. Dolores’s eyes met his. She actually tried to smile. She managed a nod.

“You did a great thing back there in the Delta,” he said. Bending down he kissed her forehead. “When you get up you’ll be a heroine to the whole friggin’ world.”

“Tell me a little about yourself, Dolores,” the Chinese woman said.

Dolores sat in a wheelchair in the vast rose garden on the presidential palace grounds. It was the day after their return from Nigeria. Because of the need for strong light to shoot by they couldn’t be in shade. The high hedges were gloriously colored, but they also cut off any breezes that might have relieved the oven heat. And the concentrated fragrance made her woozy.

Despite all that, Dolores felt much better. She only wished she weren’t so afraid of the reporter. Though totally old, maybe even over forty, she was quite lovely in an alien, austere way. Certainly she moved with the grace of a jungle cat.

The gaggle of Chinese men filming and recording her didn’t help put her at ease. But she had been ordered to do this for the People’s Paradise.