“Then you must have other duties that are more challenging—more interesting!” Bo exclaimed, as if this were a fascinating new revelation. “But of course, it makes sense. Why else would you be here—looking at this?”
“The obvious reason. Climate change.”
“Very important in this part of America,” Bo said agreeably. “Louisiana. Texas too.” He was watching Willem carefully. “Its relevance to Houston, for example, could hardly be more obvious. Waco, on the other hand—I don’t see the connection.”
“I’ve heard of the place,” Willem allowed.
“You’ve rented a truck there!” Bo nodded at this rather large and undeniable piece of evidence. “Dodge Ram, license plate ZGL-4737.” He raised his tablet and snapped a picture.
“This tea is excellent. You brew it at eighty degrees Celsius, if I’m not mistaken.”
“It is the only proper way,” Bo said, and enjoyed a sip. “Why do you think we were not invited to this thing in Texas?”
“‘We’ meaning China?”
“Yes.”
“You’re asking me to read the mind of T.R. McHooligan?”
“As a mere social secretary I thought you might have some exceptional powers in that area.”
“You must have been a teenager once.”
“Of course.”
“When you didn’t invite a girl on a date, what was she to conclude?”
Bo shrugged. “That I didn’t fancy her?”
“Or that you didn’t know whether she would accept the invitation. She might turn you down—with the attendant loss of face.”
“So if China wishes to be invited to such events in the future, she needs to flirt with T.R. McHooligan? To make him feel more confident?”
“I am merely speculating as to the man’s possible motives. I have never even met him.”
“Perhaps he knows in advance that we will decline his invitation.”
“Perhaps.”
“And that we will do so because his plan will be bad for China, and he knows as much—so why bother inviting us in that case?”
“It means nothing to me either way if you consider T.R. to be an enemy of China, or if he feels the same way about you. Even if I were in the habit of supplying your government with intelligence, I would simply have nothing to offer in this case.”
“Well said. I see why the queen likes you. She too is perhaps underemployed.”
“She has a job.”
“Well, I’m sure that your next few days will be extremely fascinating. I envy you that and will try not to have my feelings hurt in the manner of the jilted teenager you alluded to.”
“Somehow I think that China will endure.”
“Oh, yes,” Bo said. “It will.”
During the latter part of this conversation, Willem’s phone had been vibrating with increasing frequency. Only a few people had the power to make this happen. When he had at last extricated himself from the conversation, retrieved the ERDD vest, and emptied his tea-laden bladder in a stifling portable toilet redolent
of industrial perfume, he sat down in his truck, A/C blasting, and found a string of increasingly testy messages from the queen.
> What are you doing in the Gulf of Mexico?
> Your map is out of date. Where I am it is now dry land.
> The question remains.
> Another feeler from Chinese intelligence. Will write up a report.
> Do they know where I am?
> Maybe. They know something happened in Waco.
> Are you going to drive back tonight?
> Yes, immediately.
> The Cajuns have a favor to ask of you. Can you find Port Sulphur?
> LOL that sounds relevant! Hang on . . .
Willem used the truck’s nav screen to find Port Sulphur. It was on the main channel of the Mississippi, about thirty miles downstream.
> Found it. Would you like for me to go there and pick up a truckload of sulfur?
> Sulfur is T.R.’s department. You’re to pick up a diver.
Half an hour later, Willem was there. He was a little crestfallen to find that there was no sulfur anywhere. In fact, there was hardly anything: no port facilities at all, just a fire station and two convenience stores facing off at the base of the levee. A couple of hundred yards in back of them was a faint swelling in the land, detectable only by a Dutchman, that must be what remained of the sulfur dome where they’d established the mine.
Jules （“as in Verne”） Fontaine awaited him, the only human in view. He was perched halfway up the levee on the pile of equipment cases and duffel bags that was the lot in life of a professional diver. He respectfully stood up when the white pickup truck pulled in beneath him. Debris of beer cans, Subway wrappers, and chip bags attested to the fact that Jules, by dint of youth, good genes, and an active lifestyle, could consume as many calories as he pleased with zero impact on the eminently fuckable physique on display through his tie-dyed tank top and his voluminous cargo shorts. He was neither gay nor, it seemed, particularly aware of his own