"It's really you!"
The Asian woman was a little surprised, too.
After all, there were so many people named Li Bai, especially in Western countries. With only an unmarked pinyin spelling to go by—and the possibility of homophones—it was hard to tell them apart.
It wasn't until the helicopter landed and Li Bai jumped out that she could finally be sure.
"Huh? You know each other?"
Wang Ping wasn't the only one who stopped his introduction. Jamie Chen also looked at Li Bai and the woman in surprise.
"I'm a doctor, and she's my patient!"
Li Bai extended his hand without hesitation and shook the woman's.
Wang Ping, from the Chinese Consulate General in Los Angeles, was surprised but said nothing. Jamie Chen, who worked for the FBI, merely asked, "Is that so?"
"Is something wrong?"
Li Bai raised an eyebrow.
"Mr. Li, what kind of doctor are you?"
Jamie Chen spoke Chinese fluently, and the group used it to communicate, so there was no trouble understanding one another.
"Psychiatry!"
Li Bai made no secret of his specialty, nor did he need to.
The FBI's intelligence files focused mainly on America. Once outside the country, they were of little use. The CIA handled foreign intelligence; the two agencies had clearly divided responsibilities, one domestic and the other international.
Anyone who claimed the FBI had its own James Bond was smoking weed and had lost their mind. When it came to foreign affairs, the CIA took charge; for domestic affairs, the IRS. As for the FBI, all they did was bully honest people.
Jamie Chen didn't seem inclined to let the matter drop. He pressed on, "Ms. Zhou, have you ever suffered from depression?"
Zhou Xueyan, once a longtime patient in the Intensive Care Unit at Huxi City Seventh People's Hospital