“Perhaps next time,” said Sarah.

Wu had a laugh like the bark of a seal. He looked at Rakkim. “A brilliant student, but she seemed to delight in flaunting proper procedure. Always going her own way.”

“I’m shocked,” said Rakkim.

Another laugh from Wu, and then his expression slumped. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Professor Dougan, but I am unable to help you determine the origin of the medallion. There are tens of thousands of small villages in China, and each one of them takes pride in minting their own medallion to celebrate the yearly plum festival.”

“No apology necessary,” said Sarah, trying to hide her disappointment. “I didn’t realize the enormity of the request.”

Wu clung to the arms of the reading chair. “I did what I could. The medallion commemorated the 2015 plum festival, the year of the sheep. The workmanship is crude, but that’s part of its charm to collectors. I assume that’s where you got it?”

“Yes,” said Sarah.

“The collector had no idea what village it came from?”

“No,” said Sarah.

Wu nodded. “The slogans on your medallion, longevity and prosperity, are a common hallmark of such items, I’m afraid. From the style of the ideograms, I would guess that it came from Sandouping, Yichang, or perhaps the Hubei province, but again, that is a lot of ground. China is vast.” He lowered his eyes. “I deeply apologize.”

Sarah clasped her hands in gratitude. Those three areas were all in the vicinity of the Three Gorges Dam, and the date, 2015, was the year the other bombs had been detonated. She stood up, bowed. “Professor, we appreciate your help.”

“Very little help.” Wu struggled to get to his feet. “A retired professor enjoys nothing more than to be called upon by a favorite pupil.” His eyes sparkled. “Other than sharing lunch with her and her companion.”

Rakkim helped him up. “Thank you again, sir.”

“I wish you could have waited,” said Wu, walking them to the door. “I still haven’t heard from Master Zhao.”

Rakkim stopped. “You forwarded the photos of the medallion?”

“Of course. When I realized my own poor knowledge was insufficient-”

“We asked you not to do that, Professor.” Sarah felt Rakkim’s tension, his eagerness to leave. He had been the one who had insisted they drop in on Wu unannounced.

“I thought…well, often collectors have been known to import historical objects without permission, but this is of such recent origin…” Wu looked from one to the other. “I was trying to help.”

“How many people did you send the photos to?” said Rakkim.

“Six.” Wu grimaced. “Including my son, Harry Wu, adjunct professor at the University of Chicago, who could not be bothered.” He caught himself. “I hope I have not caused a problem. Master Zhao may still be of use to you. He is quite knowledgeable.”

“There is no problem at all, Professor,” said Sarah. “May you be well.”

Rakkim lightly clasped Wu’s hand, felt the man tremble. “Professor, Sarah and I would like to invite you for dim sum a month from now. The fourteenth. That’s a Tuesday too.” Rakkim smiled. “We’ll see if Madam Chen’s spring rolls are as good as you say. We’ll meet you at the King Street Café at one P.M. on the fourteenth.”

“Wonderful!” said Wu, beaming. “I’ll bring my appetite, if you bring yours.”

The two of them were driving away before Sarah spoke. “I doubt that the six people Wu contacted will be in touch with the Old One.”

“They don’t need to. The Old One probably has all kinds of triggers scattered throughout the academic world. Computers, databases…A keyword in a query, that’s all it takes.”

Sarah cursed quietly, then stopped. “That’s why you made the lunch date.”

Rakkim nodded. “This way, if Darwin comes calling, he’ll want to keep the professor alive.” He checked the rearview. “If things go right, by next month the Old One will have other priorities.”

“Thank you, Rikki.”

“Yeah.”

“There’s another way we can find out what village the medallion came from. You’re not going to like it though.”

Rakkim laughed. “Why, is it dangerous?”

Her eyes were bright. “Worse.”

CHAPTER 57

“Ambassador, may I present Sarah Dougan and her escort, Rakkim Epps,” said Soliman bin-Saud.

Ambassador Kuhn nodded to Sarah, then Rakkim. “Welcome to our tiny bit of Switzerland.” He was a short, round man with an upward-curling, waxed mustache and watery blue eyes. An ornate red jacket with gold piping and full-cut black trousers gave him the appearance of an overfed bird. He gave a wan smile to bin-Saud. “A pleasure to see you, Soliman. Pity your esteemed father could not join us.”

Bin-Saud plucked a canapé from a tray offered by a liveried waiter, nibbled at foie gras wrapped in rose petals. Bin-Saud was a handsome Arab with a perfumed, square-cut beard, dark eyes, and lips that were too soft. “Matters of state called. I’m sure you understand.” He took another canapé from the hovering waiter, offered it to Sarah, holding it just above her lips. “You must try it, darling.”

Sarah took one from the tray. “Ummm, it is good. Rakkim?”

Rakkim waved the waiter away.

“Forgive my guest’s impertinence, Ambassador,” said bin-Saud. “Mr. Epps is Fedayeen, and as you know, they are creatures of simple pleasures.”

“Oh, my, yes, fearsome beasts from what I’ve heard.” The ambassador studied Rakkim. “Can you really kill a man with one finger?”

Rakkim reached out too quickly for the ambassador to react, twisted the left tip of his mustache. “There, that’s better.”

The ambassador stepped back, eyes wide. “Come…come with me, Soliman. You really should sample the hummingbird in aspic.” Kuhn nodded to Sarah and Rakkim. “Please enjoy yourselves.”

Sarah watched the ambassador and Soliman make their way across the room. The ambassador glanced back once, hurried on. She pretended she hadn’t enjoyed what Rakkim had done.

The party was crowded with perhaps three hundred guests, laughing and eating and drinking, ambassadors and diplomatic staff from almost every embassy in the capital of Seattle. Nigerians and East Africans in a blaze of color, Brazilians and Argentineans in Western formal attire, Swedes and Norwegians, and Australians, some Sarah recognized from past events she had attended with Redbeard, but plenty of new faces. Though they had no formal diplomatic relations, there was even a representative from the Bible Belt, an older man with a mane of gray hair, wearing a black frock coat like a country preacher.

“Soliman looked happy to see you tonight,” said Rakkim. “You don’t meet many Saudis who kiss ladies on the hand. And so elegant. How many pounds of emeralds do you think were sewn into the hem of his robe?”

A waiter offered alcoholic and nonalcoholic champagne. Sarah opted for non. He didn’t.

“Soliman did me a favor inviting us to come here tonight,” said Sarah, sipping her drink. The bubbles tickled. “When his father finds out, he’ll get in trouble, because his father thinks the Swiss are libertines. Besides, would you rather we went to Redbeard for help?”

“I just don’t like him.”

“That’s okay, he doesn’t like you either.”

Bin-Saud’s father was right about the Swiss: they were libertines. Decadent and agnostic and rich beyond counting. Strictly neutral for the last six hundred years, they dealt with every government regardless of politics or religion, and they made money from them all. The Swiss had no allies, no enemies-they only had clients. A string quartet played Mozart, making sure that no one’s sensibilities would be offended. The party featured trays of crab and prawns and caviar for the Chinese and Russians and South Americans, trays of halal delicacies for the faithful. Everyone got to partake of the euphoria generators in the air-conditioning, the microscopic mist of neurotransmitters and pheromones, a boon to relaxation and feelings of intimacy.