I’m aware she’s asking why she can’t be present for my phone call, but I’m determined to play dumb. She doesn’t look happy about it. Still, she turns around and heads into the boutique. I step away, find a relatively quiet corner under a tree, and dial Adam on the secure line. The phone barely rings once.
“What’s the update?” Adam asks.
“It’s our music box. But the buyer’s listed as anonymous.”
There’s a brief silence on the other end, then Adam says in a heavy voice, “If it was Kurt Ozzi who bought the music box in May…”
“And if he found a key hidden inside it,” I jump in, “then he had no reason to chase after my brother and Princess Eugenie in June.”
“True,” Adam agrees. “But Kurt is unpredictable. He could’ve been securing spares, just in case, or?—”
“Or it wasn’t him who bought the music box,” I cut him off, needing to believe it. “It’s possible, right? Maybe this anonymous buyer is your average Joe with money and good taste.”
“I’ll have our best hackers dig into the auction house’s IT system.”
“Good idea,” I say.
“They’ll get it done.”
The tightness in my chest doesn’t ease. “How long?”
“Anywhere between one and twenty-four hours,” he estimates. “In the meantime, stay on alert.”
We hang up, and I take a moment to compose myself. The street is too bright and noisy. People with shopping bags strollby, oblivious to my plight. It’s hard to reconcile their casualjoie de vivrewith the bleakness that my country is staring at. If Kurt had outwitted MESS before his heart attack forced him to take a break from corruption, then we’re truly and irreparably screwed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
LAURA
Shanghai is overwhelming, but Antoine is so lost in thought he hasn’t noticed. He’s been like this ever since we landed about forty minutes ago. The cab weaves through a city that’s bigger and bolder than Chengdu in every way. The sheer scale of things is enough to inspire awe. Shanghai has a population of thirty million, which is twice that of Chengdu. Oddly, it feels roomier. Where Chengdu is covered with a muggy blanket of smog, Shanghai is airy, no doubt thanks to its location on the coast.
But what impresses me most about this city is the skyscrapers stretching like silver needles to the sky. I’ve lived all my life in vertically capped Paris. When I traveled on vacation, it would be to historic cities across Europe, except for “provincial” Chengdu. To me, a skyscraper looks like something built by an alien civilization.
I steal a look at Antoine who’s sitting beside me. He hides his emotions well. But by now I’ve learned to pick up on the little signs—the way he grips his phone, the set of his jaw, the tightness at his mouth…
He’s been like this ever since Jie confessed she’d sold the music box. After we left Chengdu Poly Auctions, Antoinewithdrew to a quiet spot to phone someone. An hour later, as we were ordering our lunch, he received a call. Again, he stepped out to answer it. When he came back, he announced that we were flying to Shanghai because his “friend” had cracked the auction house’s system and found the buyer’s name: Xiang Wu. A successful lawyer based in Shanghai, Wu is the new owner of the music box that had been sitting on my grandma’s shelf for decades, unnoticed and unappreciated.
Well, except by Jie.
The cab jolts over a pothole, and I grab the edge of the seat. Antoine scrolls on his phone, probably reading up on Xiang Wu or something equally productive. I, on the other hand, am unable to focus. There are too many questions crowding my head. What if Wu is out of town?What if he refuses to show us the music box?
What’s our end goal here, anyway?To take a picture of ourselves holding the box and email it to Pedro as proof that we found it and passed his secret challenge?
I’m about to ask Antoine when the driver announces, “Here we are.”
He points his chin at a glass-and-steel office building and pulls up. Antoine pays. We enter the vast lobby. The air smells of freshly cut flowers. Could be from the enormous arrangement on the front desk or a banal air freshener.
As Antoine approaches the receptionist, he wraps his hand around mine.
“We have an appointment with Mr. Wu of Wu & Associates,” Antoine says in English.
The receptionist, a young woman with a headset glued to her ear, flashes a dazzling smile. “Of course.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Bellay,” Antoine adds.
She picks up the phone and murmurs into it.
“We have an appointment?” I whisper to Antoine.
