Where is she, then?
She left a few hours ago. She took her car.
Dammit! Why didn't you say -- Mr. Wang explodes out of his
chair. She could be going to meet the Hungarian! Maybe she's flying
out of the country right now! Get in touch with the airport. C.J.,
you write that message. You know what I want. Tell him this is our
last communication, you cannot speak to my daughter any more, no arguments,
this is the way it is, do not attempt to contact our family ever again.
Strong, firm. Understand? Stay here, I'll be back.
Mr. Wang all but pushes the manservant out of the room, shouting in
the man's ear the whole time. The door slides closed, followed by
a single distinct click.
Son of a bitch, C.J. says out loud. He locked me in.
With a deep sigh, he rises. Methodically, he walks along the walls
of the room, noting the books on the shelves (unremarkable, mainly
manuals and study guides for his daughter), the various bric-a-brac
(apart from the globe, nothing seems even remotely valuable). A single
window is behind the desk, large enough to pass through if he so wishes,
but he would have to knock out the screen beyond the glass.
Mr. Wang's computer is in idle mode, and he clicks the mouse to activate
it. The desktop image is one of his daughter and himself, taken a
few years before at a park, back when her glasses were of older style,
all dark frames and heavy lenses, and his hair was more plentiful.
Folders, all labeled in Chinese, technical terms he has never