“You’d be out of your mind to sing this in China.” He tossed his dark curls away from his face and his chicken-like neck showed bulging veins. “They’ll cart your ass off the stage in a straightjacket. And they’ll chop off my fingers. They have those miniature guillotines for musical directors who are disobedient.”

“I want to do this,” she said in a quiet voice. “I have to.”

“Not when I’m around. I’ve got a wife, kids and a girlfriend to go back to. And the MTV Awards in December, the American Music Awards in January, and the Grammys in February. Don’t fuck it up for me.”

It was three o’clock by the time Nola was shown into the anteroom of Ambassador Ashford’s office, anticipation and dread at war within her.

His male secretary, a bespectacled, clean-cut generation-Xer with private-school diction, was quiet as Nola sat down on the couch and flipped through a copy of Newsweek.

“Do you have any of Daniel Chen’s books?” she asked.

“I have his Washington Post op-ed piece from last month.” He rummaged through files, then photocopied it for her. Crimson spread up his cheeks as he handed her the pages. “You’re one of my favorite singers. Whenever I need to give a present, I buy one of your albums.”

“Thanks.” She flashed him a smile and asked for his name and address. She glanced at the note he handed her. “Christopher, I’ll have my next CD sent to you.” “Flower Babies” would be the first song on the album. She could see the cover photograph: a baby’s cheek being nibbled by a rat.

The door to Ashford’s office opened. He shook hands with two Chinese men, then turned to Nola, a wide grin on his face. “Nola, you look lovely. As always.” With his hand on her shoulders, he led her into his office.

The spacious room with picture windows had built-in mahogany bookcases and a carved Chinese-style, sumptuous desk, its hefty size in proportion to its owner. The blue in the Chinese rug was repeated in the gathered curtains and reminded Nola of the Oval Office. The American flag hung limply from its pole behind the desk. The smell of tobacco, faux masculinity, dulled the elegance.

“Thank you again for the party last night,” she said.

“Where’s Wade?” Ashford asked. In daylight, his fleshy cheeks showed a miniature road map of red veins. He walked toward the seating area, where magnificent yellow lilies with no scent had been set in the fireplace.

“He’s busy moving the set to Shanghai,” she said, and sat down. From above the mantel, President John Corwith’s eyes followed her. They were kind, sympathetic.