Wei Lai woke very early — partly because today they would meet the pirates, people who had dominated global media headlines but were rarely seen in person.

Countless Western journalists had descended on the region hunting for sensational stories, but with the situation in Somalia too dangerous, they’d been forced to wait on the sidelines in neighboring Kenya, then offer high prices to purchase pirate stories.

This had even spawned another new industry: many Kenyan swindlers would dress in rags, disguise themselves as pirates, collect payment from those journalists, and deliver dramatic accounts of their blood-soaked, savage lives on the high seas — when in reality, some of them had never once laid eyes on the ocean.

The other half of the reason was…

He had to let the goat loose before the villagers got up. Otherwise there would be no way to explain himself — who would believe he’d tied up a goat for any reason other than slaughtering it for meat?

The goat had somehow managed to sleep in its half-slumped, half-suspended state. When Wei Lai untied it, it woke and blinked in absolute bewilderment.

Goats are born with old, weathered faces. The more Wei Lai looked at it, the more irritated he got. He reached out and shoved its head sideways: “Get lost. Don’t let me see you again. You’d better forget everything that happened last night, or I’ll butcher you.”

Probably because it had been bound all night and its front legs had gone stiff, the goat lay on the ground for quite some time before it finally got up and walked away, its steps deliberate and measured, its two haunches rising and falling with each stride, its tail giving one little wave.

How could it possibly forget? Research had shown that mammals have excellent memories — goats included. Not only could they identify individual human faces, but some of their memories could persist for up to two years.

It would often look back on this languid, intoxicating spring evening.

Damn — tied up for a whole night.

Cen Jin hadn’t slept much longer either.

Though she had been speaking all along with a casual air — not such a big deal, just one ship — now that the moment had arrived, it was impossible not to take it seriously. After all, this was the world’s largest oil tanker, the highest ransom ever demanded, and pirates described by media around the world as “the most dangerous.”

She finished washing up, ate some dried rations, and went into the tent to change clothes.

Wei Lai boiled water with a folding-handle titanium bowl, tore open a packet of instant coffee, waited until the water was nearly ready, then ripped the top off completely and poured it all in, gave it a stir with a spoon, and set it aside to cool.

In this near-primitive village — a place that could never be fully rid of the smell of brine and goat — the scent of coffee rising in faint tendrils struck him as thrilling and somehow romantic.

Cen Jin came out — light-colored jeans that reached her ankles, a white short-sleeved shirt. Compared to the past few days, she had dressed slightly more conservatively.

She apparently also knew to tone down her femininity in front of the pirates. It was odd, though — why had she originally packed a full five evening gowns? Where had she been planning to wear them?

She pointed to the open duffel bag beside Wei Lai: “Everything the ship should have — we don’t need to bring much. Three to five days of changes of clothes will do. Put it all in my bag. Your bag doesn’t need to come — leave it in the van.”

Santos had said before that no one in the village stole from anyone — which was why there were no doors and no locks. Theft had occurred, on the rarest of occasions, once or twice — all the work of goats.

Cen Jin sat down on the ground, took out her gold rectangular lipstick case, and twisted it open.

The casing gleamed gold-bright and could serve as a mirror. The lipstick itself had gone soft out of shape; she dabbed a little onto her fingertip and gently patted it onto her lips.

Wei Lai watched, transfixed.

From the very first time he’d seen her, he’d thought she looked like a high-contrast black-and-white photograph — and the red of her lips and the cinnabar mark by her collarbone were as though someone had dipped a finger in vermilion and touched color onto the photograph.

Cinnabar?

He looked more carefully and realized she was indeed wearing that collarbone chain strung with garnet stones — she had worn it all this time, through all the changes of the journey, changes of clothes, and the complete transformation of their relationship. Only this necklace had never come off.

It must have a special significance. Who had given it to her?

Cen Jin sensed his gaze. The gold tube tilted, and the small golden mirror surface caught his eyes: “What are you looking at?”

Wei Lai didn’t look away: “The lipstick color is beautiful.”

It suited her — a deep wine red, not heavy, making her skin look porcelain-pale by contrast.

Wei Lai thought the color itself was sensual: the heat of red and the suppression of black, simultaneously unrestrained and controlled.

Cen Jin said: “My other lipstick shades are lovelier. Unfortunately, someone removed them from my case and set them to one side.”

Wei Lai corrected her: “That was politely lifting them out and carefully setting them aside. Not removing.”

The coffee had cooled enough. Without an extra cup, he took a sheet of white wax paper and rolled it into a cone, folded the tip at an angle to slow the drip, and poured the coffee in, then handed it to Cen Jin.

He’d just drink the rest straight from the bowl — no need for formalities.

She took it, finished it quickly, and handed the paper cone back.

He’d been about to toss it — wax paper was useful that way, biodegradable, short-term resistant to heat and moisture, could be folded into cups, bowls, and little dishes, practical and weightless.

Something stirred in his chest.

He nudged the paper cone lightly: along the outer rim of the opening, there was a faint wine-red lip print, clear enough to make out the fine lines.

Cen Jin wasn’t looking at him — she was touching up her makeup.

Wei Lai set the paper cone carefully on the dangling handle of the duffel bag. It was too unsteady and kept tipping, and then a breeze caught it at just the right moment — and it tumbled into the wide-open gap of the bag.

It fell in on its own. Nothing to do with me.

He looked at Cen Jin: “Can I ask you something?”

“Do you ever not ask questions?”

“I can’t help it — you’re the one who told me to write down my observations about you every day. The more clearly I ask, the more honestly I can write.”

“Have you even written anything?”

Still composing himself.

“…When it’s time to deliver, I won’t short-change you.”

“What is it this time?”

“That—” Wei Lai gestured toward her neck, “—the necklace. Does it have a story behind it?”

Cen Jin paused mid-motion.

The sun had come up, casting light on the gold tube in her hand, a blaze of brilliant brightness — so bright he couldn’t make out her expression.

“Yes. But I won’t tell you.”

That’s fine. Wei Lai felt he had enough patience: every question had an answer, and it would surface at the right moment. Force the hook too soon, no matter how tempting the bait, and the fish wouldn’t bite.

“Then a different question — was it given by a man?”

“No. I bought it myself.”

He said: “Oh.”

He let the tone drag out. Something loosened quietly in his chest.

He walked over to the van, found his cigarettes, lit one: Ke Ke Shu had provided them — probably the cheapest brand in Sudan, modestly packaged, tobacco smoke especially heavy.

He didn’t care. He drew a slow lungful and exhaled, a wall of smoke gathering before him.

Not given by a man. Good.

Though exactly what was good about it, he couldn’t quite say — once negotiations ended, he’d have to clear out promptly as well.

The smoke thinned and scattered, and through it, two figures came walking down the end of the dirt road.

Wei Lai narrowed his eyes slightly.

Two people, both tall and lean, dark-skinned, wearing open-collared printed shirts and black baggy shorts, heads wrapped in white T-shirts. One of them wore sunglasses. The other…

Was carrying a gun.

AK-pattern, assault rifle, barrel dark and gleaming. The gun shifted slightly up and down with his walking. Wei Lai’s spine instinctively straightened, and his throat worked in an almost imperceptible swallow.

The atmosphere of the little fishing village changed.

It should have been a noisy morning, just like yesterday — cooking smoke rising everywhere, children heading out to wash the little goats, fishermen patching torn nets.

But at some point, the village road had emptied of everyone but the goats wandering aimlessly.

Every shack had people inside. Not one person stepped out. Eyes filled with fear glinted through the gaps between the shack walls; the occasional glance across the clearing landed on another pair of eyes under the blazing sun, and both pairs shrank back.

Yesterday he’d spoken with Santos about the pirates.

Santos had said: “The pirates — we know about them. All the coastal villages do.”

“The Somali pirates are the famous ones, but they’re far from here. They won’t come this way. Besides, what is there to rob from a fishing village?”

“When we go out to sea, we run into them once in a while. Sometimes they’re aggressive and seize the whole boat; sometimes they only take the cargo…”

“What we fear most is them storming into the village with guns. Fortunately, nothing like that has happened in many years…”

The two men came closer. Their intent was clear, their target obvious — only this shack had a van parked outside, and a stranger standing in front of it.

The person they were looking for was the stranger.

Wei Lai said in a low voice: “Cen Jin?”

He didn’t need to remind her. She was already standing behind him.

She said: “They… are here.”

…

The two men stopped a few meters away.

Wei Lai could feel his own near-invisibility: both of them were staring only at Cen Jin, their expressions strange, looking her up and down with open unfriendliness.

Then one spoke: “She’s the negotiator?”

The voice was blunt.

Wei Lai answered for her: “Yes.”

“Then let’s go.”

Not a single wasted word. Wei Lai almost laughed: “We haven’t finished packing.”

“Then hurry up.”

Were all pirates this terse? Or was it that their English was too limited, so they kept it minimal?

He did the last bit of packing, opened the gear bag — inside was what Ke Ke Shu had equipped him with. The pistol was a Desert Eagle; held up against the other man’s AK, it was laughably outmatched…

He had just picked it up and was about to tuck it into the back of his waistband when he heard the sound of a bolt being pulled back beside his ear. The one with the gun brought it level, barrel nearly pressed to his ear, and shouted: “No gun!”

Wei Lai said: “Hey. Hey. Calm down.”

He hooked the pistol on one finger, slowly raised both hands in surrender, then stood up straight and turned around.

He looked at Cen Jin first and said: “Get behind me.”

Cen Jin stepped over. The one with the gun seemed very tense — his eyes were fierce, the barrel pressed right up against Wei Lai’s ribs.

Wei Lai looked at him, tone even: “I’m a bodyguard. There’s no such thing as a bodyguard without a weapon.”

The man in sunglasses came over, grabbed the barrel and pulled it away, directing the gun away from Wei Lai’s body.

He said: “Gun cannot come onto our ship. You are negotiating. Negotiators must be peaceful. No guns.”

Ridiculous — you came to negotiate too, yet you’re armed. And you’re pointing it at me.

Wei Lai swallowed the fire rising in him, paused, and smiled: “Fine.”

He flicked his wrist lightly and let the Desert Eagle spin away into the sand a few meters off: “No gun then.”

The one with the gun didn’t relax. He stretched out a foot, kicked the pistol over, stomped on it, then quickly picked it up and jammed it into his own waistband.

Wei Lai slowly lowered both hands: “May I continue packing?”

“Pack. Be quick.”

Wei Lai cursed under his breath, hoisted the bag and shook it out, lowering his voice: “Hu Sha at least should have told his men in advance that you saved his life. They should show some courtesy when they meet you. It seems Hu Sha is not especially the grateful type.”

Cen Jin said nothing, then quietly: “No gun — is that all right?”

Wei Lai’s brow furrowed: “I don’t want to alarm you, but this is the worst case — it’s dangerous…”

Cen Jin’s hand hanging at her side involuntarily tightened into a fist.

Wei Lai took it all in without showing it.

He pulled the bag zip closed with a thud, slammed the van door shut.

Then suddenly laughed, and said: “Never mind. I was joking. No weapon on me… those are all my weapons now. If I want to use them, I will — saves me the trouble of carrying my own.”

“Once we’re on the ship, if a fight breaks out, keep your eyes wide open. Don’t miss a single move I make… then you’ll know what a top-tier bodyguard looks like.”