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took only seven minutes, bypassing what would have been forty minutes of congested highway traffic. He determined he likely wasn’t being followed, though video surveillance was another matter. China employed seven million closed-circuit surveillance cameras and the world’s fastest computers for face recognition. Shanghai operated half a million of those cameras.
    Knox boarded the Number 2 line and switched trains at People’s Square, arriving at a busy corner on Huaihai Middle Road. The sidewalk was jammed, a light rain falling. The colorful umbrellas moved like a dragon dance beneath an awning of plane trees, a throwback to the French Concession’s storied past when, in the mid-nineteenth century, an outlying part of the burgeoning city had been given to the French to keep the foul-smelling foreigners in their place.
    A weary Knox reached the four-star Jin Jiang Hotel with wet hair and damp jeans. He paid a discounted price in cash, part of a long-standing deal with the manager. This was not the first time he’d created a double-blind to hide his place of residence; twice before, in the thick of difficult negotiations with black market traders, he’d feared for his safety and had created a false residence at the Jin Jiang which, like all hotels, registered their guests—foreign and domestic—with local police.
    He entered his fifth-floor room—as a general precaution, he never stayed above the fifth floor of a hotel—and placed his bag on the desk, then tore back the bedding, ran the shower and dampened a bath towel to mimic a person’s use of the room. He tore the housekeeper’s V from the toilet paper roll, removed a bar of soap from its wrapping and passed it under the faucet. Poured some shampoo and conditioner from the complimentary bottles and flushed it down the toilet.
    The mirror revealed a face now permanently tanned and ruddy from the elements, juxtaposed against unnerving royal-blue irises. It was his eyes that caught the attention of women and men alike, the eyes—more so than the asymmetrical eyebrows, or the scar by his left ear, or the cleftin his chin—that gave him an air of confident stillness some mistook for hardline arrogance. This stillness had the unnerving effect of concealing the machinations of his thought process. And while there was nothing in his affect that projected menace per se, neither was one ever in doubt about his capabilities. Instead, the doubt surrounding Knox had to do with what brutal efficiencies might, if pressed, emerge from beyond his mask of calm.
    Back in the bedroom, he moved the television’s remote to the bedside, and drew the blackout curtains. One last ruffling of the pillow and he admired his work as he awaited the knock on his door. He tipped the bellman for returning his passport and slipped it into one of the jacket’s internal pockets.
    He donned a tan Tigers baseball cap, checked the hallway through the door’s peephole and left. If possible, he’d return to disturb the room for a second or third time, depending on his perception of risk.
    Soon he was back on the street in the thick of pedestrians. It took him fifteen minutes to reach the alley entrance behind 808 Changle Road. He shook off the rain and entered the Quintet guesthouse and climbed a narrow staircase to the first landing. He pushed open the door with a light knock.
    “John Knox!”
    “Ni hao ma?”
Knox said.
Hello. How are you?
    “Hen hao,”
answered Fay, Quintet’s owner and manager. She was in her late twenties, with a long, graceful neck and wide-set eyes. She wore a simple gray T-shirt and no jewelry. Knox stirred at the sight of her, pleasant memories rekindled.
    “A blind for a week?” Knox said, speaking English now. “Officially, I’m registered at the Jin Jiang.”
    “What is it this time?” she asked.
    “Jade,” he lied, not feeling right about it.
    She nodded. “You do get yourself in some binds.”
    She checked the computer. “I’ve got nothing tonight.