Whitmore greeted Zhang Wei with a smile that was polished to perfection, the kind he had learned as a child and used on everyone from housekeepers to ambassadors. It reached his eyes in shape but not in substance, and his hands stayed clasped behind his back as though he were allowing himself to be led rather than following.
"Of course," he said, and his voice carried a warmth that was carefully measured to mean nothing at all.
They moved toward the elevators, and the lobby opened around them in broad lines of marble and glass. The ceiling rose high above, catching the light and sending it back down in a way that made the space feel both grand and exposed. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, Beijing lay stretched out in a haze of steel and movement.
Cavendish let his gaze move slowly across it all. He kept his voice low enough to sound private, but not so low that it wouldn't carry.
"Not bad," he said, glancing at Whitmore as they walked. "For Beijing."
