Free Night Heron by Adam Brookes

diplomatic families. He was able, without too much trouble, to ascertain that the famous British newspaper retained its office, yes, in this very compound, indeed at the same address it always had. And for twenty yuan and some kind words, Peanut persuaded a simple-minded girl from Anhui, a nanny for a Pakistani diplomat’s family, to describe the current occupant of the address. He was, she said, a tall red-headed Englishman, a journalist who was neighbor but one to the family for whom she worked, and who was polite to her, in good Mandarin, in the elevator. Peanut kept his expression level.
    “Does he have a name?”
    “Mang An. Something like that. I can never say their names.”
    He called the old number, gave some rubbish about a delivery, Mr. Mang An to sign. The nanny waited with him not far from the gate, just far enough that the
wujing
and the cameras would not notice. The street was flanked by a clothing warehouse, the pavement crowded with traders barking in Chinese and Russian. And after five or six minutes she pointed out the Englishman who walked out past the guard, in a tan raincoat, his breath just visible in the chill air, and stood and looked about him.
    Peanut regarded the tall figure, its slight stoop, the hands dug deep in the pockets, the red hair so strong on the eye. A restlessness to him, an angularity to the shoulders and elbows that looked awkward and strong at once. He considered for a moment waiting, but the opportunity was before him.
    Approaching the figure from the side, he started in his awful English.
    “Mr. Mang An. Journalist.”
    The Englishman turned.
    “Mr. Mang An. You speak Chinese?”
    The tall Englishman nodded.
    Peanut stood back, hands down, palms out. The Englishman was looking at him with a questioning expression, not unfriendly, but with a level intelligence that Peanut could feel. Their strange, green eyes, he thought. He spoke in Mandarin.
    “Mr. Mang An. You represent the British newspaper?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    Peanut kept his expression neutral. “I am an old friend of your newspaper.”
    “Are you? We have not met, I think.”
    “We have not met. But I will have information for you.”
    “I see. Can you tell me what it is about?”
    “Please tell your friends at the British Embassy.” He sensed the Englishman pull back.
    “I do not work with the embassy.” A harder tone, but Peanut pushed on.
    “This is very important, Mr. Mang An, whether you work with them or not. Please tell them information is coming. And also, tell them one more thing.” And then in English, “Tell them, the night heron is hunting.”
    “I do not work with the embassy, and I do not want to hear any more of what you have to say. I am going to leave now.” The Englishman turned away.
    Peanut called after him in English. “The bird, Mr. Mang An. The heron. Please tell them that.”
    But the tall red-headed Englishman was striding quickly away, towards the gate.
    Peanut watched him go, shivered, wondered what he had set in train.

6
    Beijing
    He woke long before dawn. The door to the storeroom was open, and there was Yin, silhouetted in the gloom. She shut the door and tiptoed across the concrete floor. She wore a long T-shirt, her legs bare. She bent and slipped under the quilt next to him on the threadbare little mattress. Peanut lay still, could feel her warmth. Soon her breathing was turning regular and shallow, sleep drawing her down. He nudged her.
    “Will you do something for me?”
    She smelled of some cream, something womanly.
    “I’ve been doing it all night. Let me rest.”
    “Not that.” He felt himself reddening, even in the darkness. “Not
that
, you stupid girl.” He turned away from her, their backs touching now.
    “What, then?”
    “Take me shopping.”
    They took a bus to a department store in Fangzhuang, Peanut clutching a week’s tips and something extra from Dandan Mama. Yin wore a black anorak with a fur hood. It was too bigfor her and she peered from its