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in the depths of his unconscious, as if reacting to a sight or a smell.
    The air was densely perfumed with shouted Shanghainese, a language wholly different from either the broader, almost languid Cantonese or the spiky, more formal Mandarin. A dialect of Northern Wu Chinese, it used to be largely unintelligible to inhabitants of Beijing and its surrounds. Nowadays, however, the younger entrepreneurial inhabitants of Shanghai often peppered their speech with Mandarin terms. In this largest of China’s cities, the dialect among its over twenty-three million inhabitants had thus become the lingua franca of commerce, of quick wit, of youthful spirit, of the future.
    Once English and Dutch trading houses lined the Bund, the city’s famed harborside. Now beyond the promenade rose architectural marvels that formed the futuristic skyline of a post-modern city straight out of a science-fiction film. Bourne took public transportation to the edge of the old French Concession, then walked to Yu Yuan Road. The restaurant, a beautifully restored three-story villa, had been set for his rendezvous with Wei-Wei, the Director’s agent in place.
    Bourne was shown to the table reserved for Wei-Wei. It was on the second-floor veranda, which ran the entire length of the villa. From there he overlooked the tiny, immaculate garden, gently shaded by its central persimmon tree, and could see everyone who entered or exited the restaurant.
    While he waited, he ordered smoked carp and slices of pork belly in a Shanghainese sauce that promised to be both pungent and slightly sweet.
    He was almost finished with his meal when the hostess arrived, apologized profusely for interrupting his lunch, and with an elegant bow handed him a small, square envelope. Bourne looked around, noted nothing untoward, and slit open the envelope. On a small sheet of paper, folded in half, was a hastily written note.
    Detained unavoidably by business. Please come to my apartment . There followed an address telling Bourne that Wei-Wei lived in an area of the large Huangpu district, a warren of tumbledown buildings, across the river from the Bund, whose shoulders seemed the only thing keeping their neighbors from crumbling into rubble.
    Finished with his meal, Bourne threw some bills onto the table and left. On his way down the narrow wooden stairs to the garden entrance, he spotted a sleek-looking Shanghainese man in a gray suit, polished loafers, and an unnatural interest in him. The Shanghainese had been in the garden, a pot of tea on the small octagonal table at which he sat. Bourne had noticed him because he never took a sip of the tea the waitress had poured for him. When he wasn’t looking at Bourne out of the corner of his eye, he was contemplating his nails, which were shining as if lacquered.
    The man rose just after Bourne walked past and went languorously after him as if he had all the time in the world. Bourne headed east, toward the rustling treetops of Zhongshan Park. He passed by the brilliant flower displays and under the ornate triple arches. When he entered the park the modern city seemed to fade away, replaced by graceful tree-lined walks, where couples and the elderly strolled; playful fountains, filled with giant colored fish spouting water, and human-size bubbles, surrounded by happy children; and dynastic pavilions, rising like storks from placid lakes.
    Bourne headed toward the largest of the pavilions, drifting into the crowds of tour groups. Attaching himself to a group of Swedes, he began talking to two sisters, pointing out the peculiarities of the families who had once lived in pavilions like these. The girls were soon giggling and asking for more stories. By this time, Bourne had come to the attention of the girls’ parents. He introduced himself as a visiting professor of comparative linguistics, and proceeded to enchant the family by speaking in Shanghainese and then translating what he had said into Swedish and then English.
    When the father