an excerpt from

Rock Paper Tiger

by Lisa Brackmann

Chapter 3

I call him, of course. I know I shouldn’t, but I do it anyway. I’m pretty sure I know what he wants, and I’m not going to give it to him. But I still call.

I hear that rich caramel voice in my ear. “Hey, babe.” “Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice flat. “What’s up?” “Listen, I need to talk to you. Can we meet someplace?”

I shrug. Like I don’t care. Like he can see me. “Talk to me now.”

“Don’t be like that. Look, we need to get  together.” He sounds so sincere. “It’s important.”

“I’m not signing anything, Trey—”

“I know. It’s not about that.”

I let out a breath and stare out the window, look at the knots of students walking below me, talking, laughing. A couple arm in arm, the boy with spiked green hair, the girl carrying a stuffed toy backpack. They’re so cute. The little shits.

“Okay,” I finally say.

I’m making a mistake, I’m pretty sure.

We arrange to meet in a couple hours at a pub in Henderson Center on Jianguomen Dajie, in the heart of Beijing.

I take the train, transfer to the Ring subway line, and get off at Jianguomen by the Ancient Observatory, this lopped-off pyramid of gray brick from the Ming Dynasty, now dwarfed by all the big buildings on Chang ’An Boulevard. “Vegas, with Chinese characteristics,” British John calls it—glassy high-rises with green Chinese-style roofs perched on top, like somebody put tiny party hats on the heads of awkward giants.

Fucking Trey, I think, as I walk to Henderson Center. He’s probably lying to me. I’ll meet him, and he’ll try to talk me into signing.

He keeps threatening to file without me. Go ahead, I tell him. You do that, and it’s all coming out. Every bit of it.

You wouldn’t do that, he says. It’ll hurt you as much as it’ll hurt me.

At this point in the conversation, I generally laugh. Yeah, like I have as much to lose as you do.

But I know he’s right. I’ll never tell.

I would sign, though. I’d sign if he’d get me what I keep asking him for. But he won’t, and I don’t really get why.

Let it go, Lao Zhang keeps telling me. You don’t need him. You can figure something else out. You already crossed the river; why carry the boat up the mountain? Let it go.

But I can’t.

You could do it, I always say to Trey. Talk to your friends, the ones who can pull some strings. He just looks at me with those green eyes of his that shine like some kind of gem and says: I’ve tried, babe. I’ll keep trying, I promise. But we gotta get on with our lives, don’t we?

On this one point, I guess I’d have to agree with him. We really do.

It’s not like I want to be married to him anymore.

Bar ton’s is the kind of expat place that’s pretty typical for Beijing, which is to say it looks like any chain place you’d find in the U.S.: a wooden bar with a selection of imported beer and liquor, red leatherette booths, high-def TVs playing sports. Today they’ve got a baseball game on, with promises of basketball to follow.

Trey sits in a booth by the window, taking in the view from the thirtieth floor, drinking a beer and eating fries.

I don’t like the way I feel when I see him. After everything that’s happened, I still feel it, and I can’t decide who I hate more for it: him or me.

Trey smiles when he notices me and half-rises to be polite. “Hey, Ellie,” he says. “You look good.”

Bullshit, I want to say. I’m pretty sure I don’t look good. I’m sticky with sweat from my run through Matrix and coated with the general grime of Beijing. I slip into the booth across the table from him. “Hey, Trey.”

“You have lunch? I was gonna get a burger. They make good ones here.”

“Thought you were on a health kick,” I mutter.

Trey grins and pats his gut. He’s got a bit of one, but it’s not bad. The truth is, he’s the one who looks good. His hair is buzzed close to his scalp, all the better to minimize his slowly receding hairline. He’s tan; his muscles strain the sleeves of his T-shirt. “Yeah, well, you gotta make exceptions sometimes, you know?”

I look away. I just can’t meet his eyes. “What do you want, Trey?”

“Some lunch, right now.” He raises his arm to flag down the waitress. “Xiaojie!” he shouts.

The waitress—a cute little thing who gives Trey the eye— comes over. Trey orders his burger. I’m in one of those moods where nothing sounds good and I don’t know what I want, but I figure I’d better eat something. For one thing, Trey’s paying, and I like making him pay.

“Spaghetti,” I finally decide. The Chinese invented it, right? “And a Yanjing beer.”

“No Yanjing. Have Qingdao.”

“So how you been, Ellie?” Trey asks, after my beer arrives.

“Fine. You?”

“I’m good.” He stares at me with the utmost sincerity. “I really am.”

“Glad to hear it.” And then, because I can’t help myself, I say: “So, how’s . . . what’s her name? Ping Li?”

“Li Ping,” he corrects me. In point of fact, I knew that. “Or Lily, if you like. She’s good, Ellie. Really good.”

I nod.

Trey leans forward, his green eyes glowing. “She’s come to Jesus,” he says huskily. “I feel like a part of me’s been reborn with her.”

I chug my beer. “That’s just swell, Trey.”

He shakes his head. He looks so sad. “Look, I fucked up. I could keep apologizing forever, and that’s not gonna make it up to you. You want to hate me; I get it. But don’t hold what I did against Jesus. It’s not His fault.”

While my loss of faith is not the last thing I feel like discussing, it makes the top-ten list for sure.

“Why are we talking about this? I mean, what’s Jesus got to do with . . . with anything right now?”

“Because He can help you.” Trey reaches across the table, rests his hand on mine. “I know you’re hurting. You’re in the desert, Ellie. But there’s water for you. All you have to do is drink it.”

Oh, if I only could. If I could only sink back into that warm, comfortable place, back when I could feel that glow, that love, that connection and certainty.

And the thrill. That smell of his, the wedge of his triceps, the look in his eyes.

I can’t help it. I still want him.

“You are so full of it.” I yank my hand away. “What would Jesus say about you dumping me for her? About you fucking her when you’re married to me!”

“We’re all sinners,” he says intensely. “That’s the point. And I told you what the bottom line was for me. I need to be with somebody who wants to live a Christ-centered life. And you’ve left that, Ellie. You’ve left that, and nothing I can say makes a difference. So what am I supposed to do? I can’t live without it. I just can’t.”

For a moment we stare at each other.

“Okay,” I finally say. “Okay. We’ve had this discussion how many times? You wanna live with little Miss Come to Jesus, that’s fine. You wanna get divorced, that’s fine with me too. But you know what I want, Trey. You know it. Give me what I want, and I’ll sign anything you want me to sign.”

Trey leans back in his chair. “That’s why I wanted to see you. I think I got it figured out.”

At that moment, two things happen almost at once. Two foreign men in suits approach our table. “Mr. Cooper, Mrs. Cooper,” one of them says in an American accent. They sit. And the waitress brings us our food.

“Parmasan?” she chirps.

“Hey, guys.” Trey flashes his smile at them.

I just sit there, staring at the mass of coiled noodles, which suddenly don’t look like something I much want to eat.

“Mrs. Cooper, sorry if we startled you earlier,” Suit #1 says.

I don’t say anything. I twirl a forkful of spaghetti, and I eat it. Not bad, actually. Good noodles. “Yes,” I tell the waitress. “Please bring parmesan.”

Suit #1 leans forward. He’s the younger of the duo, a wiry guy with wide eyes and an earnest expression. “We’re not here to cause you any problems.”

I take another bite of spaghetti. It tastes okay, but it’s going down like glue. “So why are you here?” I ask.

“Ellie—” Trey begins, all concerned and placating, but Suit #2 cuts him off.

“The Uighur. Hashim Abdullaabduzehim.”

I have to think about this for a moment. “Abdulla . . . ?”

“Abdullaabduzehim,” Suit #2 repeats impatiently. He’s a half dozen years older, a couple inches taller, and a whole lot bulkier than Suit #1, with heavy-rimmed glasses, a bristling mustache, and a scary edge. The bad cop, apparently.

I decide it’s best not to say anything. I focus on twirling the perfect forkful of noodles and sauce, braced against my spoon.

“You met him, right?”

Why is it so hard to get the right amount of noodles on your fork? You either end up with a few pathetic strands or half the bowl.

“I meet a lot of people,” I finally say. “So what?”

Suit #1 puts his elbows on the table and leans forward. “Mrs. Cooper, it’s very important that you tell us anything you can about Mr. Abullaabduzehim.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Abullaabduzehim is a known associate of Islamic extremists who plan to carry out attacks against American interests.”

“Against people like your former comrades-in-arms,” Suit #2 says. He sounds pissed. “If you still give a shit about them.”

I put down my fork. “You know what? Fuck you.”

“Mrs. Cooper. . . .” Suit #1 sighs. “I know you’ve had a rough time. We wouldn’t intrude on your privacy if it weren’t extremely important. Mr. Carter here. . . .”

He stares at me, those wide eyes of his suddenly seeming like a cartoon of sympathy. “Mr. Carter gets impatient.”

“Parmasan.” The waitress has returned, with a little green can of cheese. “More beer?”

“Yes, please,” says Trey.

“The Uighur,” Suit #1 continues. “He was staying with a friend of yours, Zhang Jianli. An artist of some sort, right?”

I don’t say a word.

“In Mati Village. You went to Mati Village yesterday. You spend a lot of time there.”

I drink some beer. I turn to Trey. “What have you been telling them about me?”

“It’s not him, Mrs. Cooper,” Suit #1 says. “Who is it, then?”

He smiles. “We have an interest in Mati Village. A lot of interesting people go there.”

“Listen, Ellie.” Trey gives me a look, as warm as can be, like he really cares. “You help these guys, they can help you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“They’ll set you up with a job—you won’t even have to go to work if you don’t want, but you’ll get your visa. So you can stay here after I leave, if that’s what you want.” He stares at me, and those green eyes turn hard. “’Cause I’m leaving. I’m divorcing you, and I’m gonna marry Lily, and I’m taking her home to the States with me.”

I have to blink a few times. Because for a moment—and it’s the weirdest thing—I just want to cry. I know he doesn’t love me, and I don’t love him either. He’s a shit. A total shit and a hypocrite. Why should I care what he does?

“Oh, I get it,” I say furiously. “They promised you something, didn’t they? Like a no-hassles green card for your girlfriend.”

Suit #2 slaps the table. “This is a waste of time.”

“I don’t think so,” Suit #1 says calmly. “We just need to get things back on track. I’m sure that Mrs. Cooper wants to help, and maybe we can help her with a few things.” He turns to me. “You’re receiving, what is it, a seventeen-percent disability?”

I don’t bother to ask him how he knows that. “Seems a little low.”

“That’s what they rated me,” I say.

“Those leg injuries looked pretty severe. And I don’t know why they turned you down on the PTSD. Obviously you’ve had significant adjustment problems. Working part-time in some dive bar in China—not exactly what I’d call a career choice.”

I really want to tell him to go fuck himself, but I don’t like being repetitive.

“Look,” I say, “I met a guy named Hashim, maybe for all of five minutes. The last thing I would have figured him for was a terrorist. He was just an ordinary guy. We said hello, we ate some dumplings, and that’s all I know about him.”

“And your friend, Zhang, what’s his association? Have you heard him express any anti-American sentiments, or—?”

“He’s an artist,” I say with emphasis. “He’s not political. This Hashim guy was just a friend of a friend. That’s all.”

“You’ve never heard him express any political opinions?”

“No. We don’t talk about that kind of stuff.”

“What do you talk about?” Suit #2 interjects.

“I don’t know . . . just . . . stuff. Movies. TV shows. Beijing traffic. He’s not political,” I repeat. He just likes taking in strays, I want to say. But I don’t say it, because these two already think I’m some kind of psychotic low-life.

“He’s your lover, right?” Suit #1 asks casually.

I flinch. I hate that expression, “lover.” Like this is some kind of fucking romance novel. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“I assume you know he sees other women,” Suit #1 says. I feel like I’ve been slapped.

“So?” I manage.

“Well, I wasn’t sure how close you two were.” I don’t say anything.

Suit #1 locks his eyes on mine.

“I’m sure Zhang is a great guy. But he’s gotten himself involved with some questionable people. You’d be doing him a favor if you helped us with this.”

“So, what is it you want me to do?” I finally ask. “Are you in touch with him?”

I shrug. “No.”

“But there’s a good chance he’ll contact you, isn’t there?” “What if he does? You want me to ask him about the Uighur?”

“Well, it depends,” Suit #1 says. “On what kind of relationship the two of you have. On the level of trust.”

Suit #2 snorts. “If Zhang contacts you, the main thing is, you tell us. If you can find out where he is, that’s a bonus.”

I lean back in my chair, push my fingers through my greasy hair. “And what? You’ll get me a Z visa? Up my disability? That’s a promise?”

“We’ll do what we can for you,” says Suit #1. “The more you help us, the easier it is to make the case. Being a pair of eyes for us in places like Mati . . . that could be very helpful.”

I gulp down the rest of my beer and stand up. I turn to Trey. “Tell Lily I said hi.”

“Ellie—” Trey begins.

Suit #2 stops him. “Let her go. She doesn’t want to help, it’s her loss.”

“Mrs. Cooper.” It’s Suit #1. “If you hear anything, anything at all. . . .” He holds out a business card. “Call us. It’s very important.”

I stare at his hand, at the white card, the blue logo with the letters GSC.

Global Security Concepts. The company Trey works for.

I take the card and stick it in my pants pocket. I’m not going to give him the courtesy of reading it.

“Here,” Suit #2 says abruptly, thrusting his card at me. Whatever. I take his too.

Then I leave. No way I’m paying for that lunch.

In the elevator, I lift up my hand to punch the button, and it’s shaking.