A poisoned accountant, a Chinese painter with an infamous Italian name, the People’s Minister of Science and Technology, his brother the Director of the Enterprise Division of the Ministry of State Security, and Harry, the art dealer who moonlights as a Secret Intelligence Service agent are the players in the search for why D. D. Greyson was poisoned by a seventeenth-century Italian cosmetic favoured by disillusioned wives.
The business of intelligence is often referred to as information gathering. A simple proposition: gather enough data so the politicians can make informed, rational decisions on things like national security, or on whether or not one of the several competing forces in the world is about to go all ballistic on your ass. But the problem is not too little information, but too much. There are cameras everywhere and facial recognition software that allows agencies to track anyone’s movement day and night. The various intelligence services have so much information at their disposal, it becomes difficult to decide what is relevant, actionable, or even real. It is the paradox of choice, paralysis of analysis, or if you prefer, the spy’s dilemma. No one knows what is real, what is noise, or what is purposeful misdirection.
And so our hero, Harry, becomes a player, not because he is particularly brave or expert in the art of manipulation or even killing, but rather because he has an imagination. He is a man who can conjure reality out of abstraction and that particular skill can be a very important asset when it comes to playing three-player Chinese checkers with competing Beijing interests.
The worlds of art and national security collide on the streets of London leaving a trail of burned paintings, dirty payoffs, dead bodies, and corrupted microchips.
Girolama’s black plastic slicker glistens in the multiple-coloured glare of neon, offering exotic delicacies designed to tantalize the hungry tourists that prowl London’s Chinatown. The rain slides off her hood as if trying to escape the inevitable. It’s an awkward time, a time when the world can’t make up its mind whether it is day or night, a time when mortality comes to mind.
She knows the place they are to meet, The Thirsty Dragon, a moderately-priced restaurant frequented by foreign visitors attracted by the kitschy Chinese interior and faded images of food that decorate the facade. Everything about the place is mediocre, not her kind of place. The food, like most western versions of Chinese fare, bears little resemblance to the authentic cuisine. More to the point, her taste favours more high-end alternatives, but the place suited her purpose, unremarkable in every aspect.
Each meeting is at a different location. Avoid patterns at all costs, that is what they told her and that is what she does. She knows better than to freelance. The Thirsty Dragon is perfect, a tourist trap where repeat diners are uncommon. Even if people do come back for a rerun of second rate cooking, the sullen, preoccupied imported Hong Kong staff wouldn’t remember them. They don’t give a damn, an attitude that seems to dominate relationships with outsiders. If you’ve ever done business with the Chinese, you know what I mean.
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Portuguese
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Already translated.
Translated by Naoya Yamagishi
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Author review: Excellent job. Very co-operative, I highly recommend. - Jerry Bader, Author and Screenwriter |
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Spanish
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Already translated.
Translated by Talía García
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