Actually, this wasn’t difficult for him at all. Although he was young, he had a knack for these kinds of things, almost like a natural-born schemer. He took a deep breath, because after all, he was a bit afraid—if he started using these little tricks on the other party, would they suddenly get angry? Still, he decided to resist.

　　Eric Bennett touched his own face, then looked up. “I can agree to your terms, but you must first agree to one thing. Only if you agree to this can I believe you’re sincere.”

　　Henry Foster smiled and gestured for him to go ahead.

　　Eric Bennett paused. He needed to propose a request that the other party would absolutely refuse, but under the current circumstances, it would seem perfectly reasonable. That way, he could throw the problem back at the other person. If the other party really was, as he claimed, averse to using violence, then this demand would make it impossible for him to persist, and Eric Bennett would have a solid excuse to stand firm. If the other party was just pretending to be polite, Eric Bennett would be able to tell right away and could prepare a response in advance. He thought for a moment, then said, word by word, “I want to know the purpose behind your request. Only then will I go with you.”

　　After speaking, he looked into Henry Foster’s eyes. He knew he’d be able to catch any change in that instant, and use it to sense the other’s emotions.

　　Unexpectedly, as soon as he finished, Henry Foster didn’t even hesitate and nodded directly. “Sure, that’s no problem.”

　　“No problem?” That can’t be right!

　　“Do you really think we’re the kind of people who are vicious and have some unspeakable agenda?” Henry Foster took a drag on his cigarette. “I can tell you my purpose right now—I could even put it on the front page of a newspaper. But even if I tell you, you might not believe me. However, let me make this clear: once I tell you, you have to come with me. You can’t back out.”

　　Eric Bennett looked at Henry Foster, suddenly realizing that the other might be bluffing, betting that he wouldn’t dare to listen—because once Henry Foster spoke, he’d have no reason to refuse.

　　So, Eric Bennett nodded. “Go ahead.”

　　Henry Foster took another hard drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out and said, “Do you know that deep in the Badain Jaran Desert, there’s a place called Gutongjing?”

　　Eric Bennett shook his head. Henry Foster continued, “That’s our destination this time. I’m going there to solve a question that’s been on my mind.”

　　Then, Henry Foster spent half an hour explaining his purpose—or rather, the origin of the question in his heart. What he described sounded to Eric Bennett like something that could only happen in a novel, but Henry Foster spoke without the slightest hesitation, so it definitely wasn’t made up on the spot.

　　Eric Bennett still tried to catch a flaw in the story, hoping to prove the other was lying. But he realized that if the other was lying, the lie must have been meticulously crafted and rehearsed countless times.

　　Indeed, as Henry Foster said, if they had to prepare so many schemes just to get him to go to the desert, then Henry Foster and his group really had too much time on their hands. So, either Henry Foster was someone who couldn’t be judged by logic, or he really was telling the truth.

Sand Sea I: Phantom Shadows in the Desert

Chapter 9: Henry Foster’s Story (Part 1)

　　The events took place on a sunny afternoon, in a Tibetan-style café by a river in Jiangnan. At that time, Henry Foster’s identity was not that of a tomb raider, but of a photographer named Edward Sullivan. Of course, this was just a disguise to get into some archaeological projects, though he had indeed spent a long time learning photography for this purpose.

　　The café was called “Kekexili.” The walls were covered with Tibetan-style tapestries and drapes, with prayer wheels and several half-human-height Vajra statues inlaid into the walls. In the corner stood a large gilded incense burner, from which Tibetan incense wafted gently. The place was saturated with Tibetan atmosphere, both visually and in scent.

　　However, Henry Foster didn’t particularly like it here. Outside the window was the canal park along the Jiangnan riverbank, where you could see Han-style wooden buildings with flying eaves. Sitting in a Tibetan-style café while looking out at Han dynasty eaves made him feel very uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because, as a photographer, he had an almost obsessive demand for stylistic harmony.

　　But clearly, the host of this gathering didn’t mind the incongruity.

　　It was a gathering of seven people: two veteran critics, a publisher, a female writer, Henry Foster, and two journalists—all considered local social elites. The meeting had been scheduled two months in advance, mainly to plan for the female writer’s upcoming new book about the desert. In this era, writing was no longer a solitary endeavor; often, as soon as a writer began, all sorts of planning and publicity would already be underway. In fact, two months earlier, when she went to the Badain Jaran for inspiration, it was even hyped as a news story.

　　The gathering started at nine in the morning and rambled on into the afternoon. Henry Foster actually had no idea what they were really talking about. Publishers, writers, journalists, photographers—they were all unreliable people, and the conversation would drift a thousand miles away at any moment.

　　He didn’t participate much in the discussion. First, his job was simple, and those plans had little to do with him; he was just there as an observer. Second, for a long time, his attention was focused on the female writer, because there was something unusual about her.