An hour later, the agents whisked David away from the gathering. Once he got home, he opened a beer and sat down ostensibly to watch the news, but his mind was on his conversation with Miles and Phil. Could David work with Miles again? They'd never gotten along all that well. David was born with all the things that Miles had worked hard to attain. David had lived in the city his entire life, had grown up surrounded by culture, had gone to the best schools, had fast-tracked into a partnership at the firm where-at least according to Miles-David had never quite been able to "get with the program." Of course, David saw it differently. Coming from a position of professional security, David had had little patience for either Miles's mannerisms or his compulsive desire to be respected and obeyed. Miles was as smart and savvy as anyone David had ever met, but in many ways he was still an insecure farm boy. He could truly be a friend and benefactor to someone like Keith who kowtowed to him, but David had never been able to do that. Then David had done something almost unfathomable to Miles. David had given it all up-meaning the six-, almost seven-figure salary-to go to the U.S. Attorney's Office, where he felt he could make a difference. But the door, so to speak, had obviously been left open. Miles might not have liked David, but he recognized that he was always among the top billers at the firm.

Phil especially had nailed the situation: it was time to move on. Coming back to Phillips, MacKenzie could benefit both David and the firm, and timing was everything in business. David had been further reassured when Phil had said, "The fees to our clients in China are covering the financial risk for us, so that in the unlikely event that this doesn't work out, the firm won't hold it against you and you can come back to the L.A. office. We want this to be a win-win for both parties right on down the line. We're partners."

All of this brought back to David that last dinner with Keith, who'd mentioned in passing that the partners had been talking about him. Somehow that knowledge-that link to Keith-made the offer all the more appealing. And then there was the deeper consideration: Hulan. The only way he could deal with her fears was if they were together. If he could hold her in his arms, he knew he could banish the inner demons that haunted her so.

Just then Eddie came in, sprawled out on the couch, and said, "You should do it, you know."

"What?"

"Do what they say. Get the hell out of here. Take them up on their offer."

"How did you know…?"

Eddie cocked an eyebrow. "Man, we're the FBI. You didn't think you could have a private conversation without us knowing about it, did you?"

He paused, then added, "Anyway, for what it's worth, you should go."

"How can I?"

"How can you not? Look at it this way, Stark, you've got a guy like me on your couch here and a woman waiting for you in China. That's a no-brainer from where I sit."

IF HULAN HAD BEEN IN BELTING, SHE WOULD HAVE COM-pleted all of her interviews in one day. But she was in the countryside now, where the pace was slow. Activity happened early or late in the day to avoid the brutal heat. Part of blending in meant that she would have to melt into those rhythms. So on Monday morning Hulan once again set out for the village, where she planned to stop at a cafe and strike up a casual-and hopefully informative-conversation with the owner.

With its sign in English posted on the door, the Silk Thread Cafe seemed particularly receptive to people from afar:

WELCOME DISTINGUISHED GUESTS GOOD FOOD COFFEE

It was too hot to sit on the sidewalk, so Hulan stepped inside the single room of the establishment, where several men sat clustered together at two tables. When she entered, she saw one of the men pick up a remote control and change the television channel. From Hulan's seat in the corner she could see the television, which was hung from the ceiling in one of the corners. On the screen she recognized The Three Amigos, an American movie that was very popular in China.

The proprietress took Hulan's order and soon came back with a pot of tea, a large bowl of congee, and condiments. The eating bowl and spoon were filthy and still covered with leavings from last night's dinner. Hulan poured some of the hot tea into her bowl, swirled it around, then poured the dirty tea on the floor, where others had tossed their leftover bones and gristle and had cleaned their eating utensils in the same manner.

The men seemed to forget about Hulan-either that or they decided she was unimportant-and turned the television back to CNN. Hulan was halfway through her meal when one of the men called out, "You!" It was rude, but Hulan responded nevertheless with a curt nod. "Are you looking for work?" the man asked. "No."

"Don't be shy," he said. "There is no need for that." "But I don't need work." The man scowled. "Then why are you here?" "For lunch."

"Women don't come in here for lunch," the man said, his voice filled with innuendo. The other men laughed.

Hulan chose to disregard the insinuation. "I'm not from here," she said. "I don't know your village customs."

Ignoring everything Hulan had said, the man asked, "Do you have proper work papers?"

Faced with his persistence and the curious stares of his table companions, Hulan decided to see where this would lead. "Of course," she answered. She did indeed have work and residency permits for Beijing, but not for any other village or city in China, so she added, "But not for Da Shui."

The man waved his hand dismissively. "No matter. It is a small problem easily fixed." The man pushed his chair away from the table, the legs scraping against the floor. With the other men watching, he stood, crossed to Hulan, and handed her some papers. "You can read, I hope." Hulan nodded.

"That is good but not essential," the man continued. "We"-he gestured to his companions-"we see women like you every day. Some come from close by, some come from as far away as Qinghai Province.

These days so many country people go to Beijing or Shanghai for work, but we say there's no need for that. Come here. We'll make sure you get work."

"For a fee? I have no money," Hulan said, playing along for now.

The man smiled broadly, pleased at how cleverly he'd gotten his fish to take the hook. "No cost to you. The company pays us a small token."

"What company? What's the work? I don't want to work in the fields anymore. That's why I left my village."

"It's a factory. American. They give you food. They give you a room. And the salary is very good."

"How good?"

"Five hundred yuan each month."

Hulan calculated that would be about $60 each month or about $720 U.S. a year. By American standards the pay was indecently low. By Beijing standards, where there were now all kinds of jobs with American companies, it was still quite low. In the countryside, where a peasant might hope to earn only about 300 yuan a month or just over a dollar a day-the official poverty level-it was fantastic, especially if this income was considered a second or third or even a fourth to be added to the family pot.