Ying Ning had been followed before of course — often in fact. She sometimes wondered why she hadn’t been picked off by an over-enthusiastic young Communist cadre with a gun, given her notoriety. Still, China had laws. The Gong An would catch her and put her on trial one day. It wouldn't last long, but yes, she would get her day in court.
Today it was different. Usually they worked in teams of three — two men and one woman, all in their late twenties, all average-looking. Average height, average build, all fit from their training in the Gong An’s schools of martial arts. Today it was just one guy. He was much taller than average and easy to spot. She led him through the crowds into the Du Fu Park, where Sichuan’s humidity and greenery still held the upper hand over Chengdu’s concrete. The park was like a jungle, peppered with old-style Chinese pavilions, picturesque bridges and ponds of koi carp, their well-fed muzzles plopping lazily in and out of the water. There are worse places to be followed.
At first she’d thought it might be Stone tracking her through the streets, given his height, but now she could turn and peer at a distance through the trees, she could see it was not. It was a white Western man, but if anything taller still than Stone. He loped through the forest like the yeti, with long brown hair in a ponytail and a scruffy red bandana around his head.
Ying Ning walked off down one of the forest paths and stopped once more, checking behind her. He was coming the same way for sure. What did he want? Ying Ning was used to the attentions of the Gong An. It was sufficient with the Gong An just to get away. In China there were plenty of crowds to blend into, plenty of scooters and bikes to “borrow” if she needed to. This was different, because she needed to know what this guy behind her was up to. She needed to ID him as Stone had asked her. She retraced her steps while he was out of view for a few seconds, then cut off into the trees, her staccato tip-toe steps making barely a rustle in the undergrowth. She crouched on her haunches, still on tiptoe, then rose to pass silently out onto the tiled path only twenty metres behind the man.
Now she could see him. Five centimeters taller than Stone, she guessed, and bigger in the shoulders, just as Stone had said he would be. He was wearing heavy boots, which scraped on the path as he ambled along untidily. He also had on a heavy leather jacket, like he was some kind of biker. It must be killing him in this humidity. She followed him with silent, velvet steps for another fifty metres, before the big lunk realised he’d lost her. He stood there, his long arms dangling in simian fashion, and looked around him, peering obviously through the trees for Ying Ning’s spiky hair and fox-like face.
Inevitably he turned, and when he did, Ying Ning was standing behind him in her skinny black jeans and black T-shirt, a hand placed questioningly on an angular hip. She was looking directly into his Aviator sunglasses.