Storm Front

“Ah, yes, Mr. Detroit. I saw your name on the press pass list,” she said, then added: “It’s very unusual.”

“Mom was an Indians fan, Dad was a Tigers fan. Those are American baseball teams.”

“Of course,” she said. “Anyhow, how can I help you?”

Storm was prepared: “We’ve heard reports that due to above average rainfall in the Yangtze region, Chinese soybean exports are expected to rise one point seven four percent in the coming quarter. Do you have someone who might be able to comment on that and also talk about the potential impact on the soy futures market?”

“I might be able to connect you with our vice minister of agriculture. He will be able to give you the kind of” — she paused to come up with a polite phrase — “highly detailed information you seem to be seeking.”

“That would be most kind of you. And forgive me for getting so excited by the soybean. Economically, it is the world’s most important bean, you know.”

“I… I was unaware of that,” she said. Their bodies had drifted closer. In her heels, she was just a few inches shorter than he. Storm couldn’t help but notice their heights were well matched for dancing. Perhaps they could do a nice tango…

Focus, Storm. Or, rather: Focus, Detroit.

“I’d be happy to tell you more about the soybean,” he said. “Someone in your position ought to be aware about it, since it was your ancestors who first cultivated it some five thousand years ago.”

“Really?” she said, like he was telling her someone had discovered a new continent or was revealing the true nature of the atom.

They drifted even closer. He could feel the heat of her body. He had become acutely aware of her eyes and, more specifically, his desire to spend an entire evening swimming in them.

“Yes, it’s true. We in the United States are relative newcomers to the plant. We’ve only been at it for three hundred years or so. And even though we’re now the world’s largest producer of soy products, we owe a great debt to your country for introducing it to us. Would you like to hear about a Chinese-American I consider the Johnny Appleseed of the soybean? I’d be happy to tell you about it, Miss…”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself,” she said, making a business card materialize from he knew not where. She handed it to him. It was done in the Western style, with the first name first. It identified her as “Ling Xi Bang, Press Secretary, Ministry of Finance.”

“What an unusual last name,” he said. “Is it pronounced ‘Zi Bang’?”

“Actually, when Mandarin is Westernized, the ‘x’ is pronounced like ‘sh,’ ” she said. “So it’s ‘She Bang.’ ”

Storm only hoped she did not notice his Adam’s apple bob up and down from his gulping. “How… how interesting,” he said.

“Almost as interesting as the soybean,” she answered in a low purr. Their faces were nearly touching.

There was, of course, absolutely nothing interesting about it. And Storm knew that. He had to tread carefully. If she was a spy — as both the agent in Room 419 and Storm’s own intuition seemed to indicate — she would be feeling out him just as surely as he was feeling out her. If she knew he was also a spy…

But no. She couldn’t. Everything about Soy Trader Weekly’s Cleveland Detroit — from his press credentials to his website — had been meticulously constructed. There was no way she was onto him. He made his move.

“Ms. Xi Bang, forgive me for being forward, but as a journalist, I always try to tell the truth. And the truth is, I’d like to take you to dinner.”

“Can we have something made from soy?” she asked.

“Tofu?”

“Perfect.”

“I find it’s excellent when drizzled in soy sauce,” he said.

“Do you think we can find a bistro nearby that would serve it to us that way?”

“I happen to know of one. I’ll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes.”

“Make it ten,” she said.

She smiled. He winked. She turned. Storm gave the button camera the sight of her shapely legs as she departed.

As soon as she was a safe distance away, Storm’s earpiece came to life. “Storm, did you really just seduce a beautiful woman by talking about soybeans?” the agent asked.

“Happens all the time,” he replied. “Just your typical story of soy meets girl.”

As Storm performed one last sweep of the Lobby, the agent in Room 419 told him that Jones’s people had confirmed what he already suspected: The name Ling Xi Bang did not appear in any of the Chinese Finance Ministry’s materials. She was, apparently, a press secretary who had never written any press releases.

“Is it possible she’s just a new employee?” Storm asked.

“Yes,” the agent said. “But it’s more possible her handlers didn’t do a very good job establishing her cover.”

“Sounds like she needs a job at Soy Trader Weekly.”

“Just be careful, Storm.”

“Right.”

“She can’t get the slightest clue of who you are. We lost an operative in Shanghai just last month to this sort of thing. The Chinese don’t play nice. The Geneva Convention is a running joke to them.”

“Right.”