Donovans 02 - Jade Island

terrace. His running shoes made little squeaky noises on the marble floors, but he rarely noticed. His lapel pin was programmed to spread music wherever he went.
    He passed the main conference room but didn’t look in. He just crossed his fingers and hoped that Seng had finally packed up his sleazy jades. Seeing all that stone pussy spread out on the conference table had made Farmer uneasy. Screwing women was one thing. Looking up their skirts while you did it was another.
    Pale predawn light filled the sky along the east side of the terrace room. Han Seng was seated at a sleek mahogany dining table. Printouts from various international newspapers were spread in front of him. As always, Han Ju and the bodyguard were nearby. The latter two men came to their feet immediately when Farmer walked in. Seng took his time standing up.
    Farmer noted the lag. It told him that he was in for a rough negotiation. Silently he damned the Chinese trait of saying a polite yes and meaning a flat no. He wondered if he would ever learn all the Asian gradations of yes that meant Not in this lifetime, asshole.
    “Good morning, Seng,” Farmer said in English. He was one of the few people on earth who knew that Seng spoke and understood that language very well. “Sorry I couldn’t join your jade party last night. I got held up in Seattle. I trust all the arrangements were satisfactory?”
    Seng bowed slightly. Nothing in his expression showed that the party had been a bust and the host had gone to bed without the delectable Ms. Blakely to lick his turtle head.
    “Mary Margaret told me that the Chinese government has assigned you to cut a deal with me over the jade suit,” Farmer said bluntly.
    “The government of China has complimented me with their trust, yes,” Seng said. “It is a very serious matter, this theft of part of the Chinese soul. My government wishes to be sure you understand just how grave the situation is before irreversible mistakes are made.”
    Farmer managed not to sigh. Just barely. Experience had taught him that when Seng got all formal, the price went up. The more words, the higher the price.
    “You know me, Seng. If this wasn’t important—goddamn important—I’d have sent someone to negotiate for me, the way SunCo did.”
    “My government appreciates your deep concern,” Seng said, ignoring the reference to SunCo. He doubted that an American could understand the subtle, profound entanglement of family and politics in China. In some matters, SunCo was the Chinese government. In other matters, it was simply SunCo, a powerful and profitable business. And always there was the fact of guanxi, a web of connections that no Westerner could understand. “You do my government much honor by your personal presence.”
    Farmer smiled thinly. “I sure as hell do.” He hooked a mahogany side chair with his foot, flipped the chair around, straddled it, and said, “What’s on your government’s mind?”
    Seng sat again, sipped tea, and wondered if he would ever understand Westerners. Not only were the women arrogant and without manners, the men showed little grasp of ceremony and less of civility. Always in a hurry. Yet, Seng acknowledged as he carefully replaced his cup on its thin white saucer, all the Western rushing about had its uses. People who hurried were often careless.
    “We are much heartened by your offer to return the jade burial suit to its rightful and legal owners,” Seng said. “The international community of citizens shares our…”
    Without changing expression, Farmer pretty much stopped listening. He had already heard the answer to his offer: no. But unless he appeared to listen to the counteroffer, China would be insulted. That would turn a problem into a disaster.
    Five minutes later, Farmer held up his index finger. Just that. It was enough.
    Seng fell silent and waited.
    “Let me summarize,” Farmer began.
    It wasn’t a request. Still, Seng nodded agreement.
    “Your government thinks the jade burial suit is the most important cultural icon since Christ,” Farmer said, “but they won’t give me fifteen years as the exclusive purveyor of computer equipment to mainland China in order to get the suit back. They won’t even give me ten years.”
    “The point is rightful ownership,” Seng countered bluntly, “not exclusive deals for any amount of time.”
    Farmer almost smiled. It was worth pissing Seng off just to cut through the bullshit. “That may be China’s point, but