Shanghai (58 page)

Anais Colombe nodded, then said, “Surely you know that I knew that.”

“I do, Anais. What you didn't know, but would no doubt find out, is that I am the cause of this change.”

Anais's eyes opened wide, but before she could speak Jiang produced a promissory note personally
guaranteeing all of Anais's potential losses under the new protection arrangement with Tu.

Anais looked at the note, then at Jiang. “Do you care so much for your young gangster lover that you are willing to pay this much for his approval?”

Jiang smiled. She knew that Anais would never believe that any young lover was worth the small fortune she had promised to pay the Colombe family.

“So?” Anais pried one more time.

“So,” Jiang said, “sometimes one must give in order to get.” To prove a point. To prove to Tu Yueh-sen that her word could be trusted, that her advice was good. She had promised him control of the brothel-protection rackets in the French Concession, and he now had it—and now it was time for him to take her more important advice and attack the Vrassoons' ship in the harbour. Circles within circles and schemes within schemes, she thought, and all leading back to her obligation to the Ivory Compact. If Tu Yueh-sen was the Man with a Book who could bring on the Age of the Seventy Pagodas, one of the Chosen Three had to get close to him. She had his “pillow attentions,” but it wasn't enough. She wanted Loa Wei Fen to be part of Tu's inner circle. She needed it to fulfill her obligation to the First Emperor's vision.

She suddenly noticed Anais Colombe staring at her. Had she been speaking aloud? “What?” she blurted out.

“You drank your coffee, Jiang. You never drink the coffee I offer you.”

—

Tu took a step back from the edge of the tile roof. He nodded as he said to his second in command, his head
Red Pole, “Good. We'll let the hookers discuss the new order in their businesses. Jiang will be telling the French whore that they both have to deal with me now that the French administration has withdrawn its protection.”

“How did you …?”

“Manage that?” Tu asked with a smile on his lips. “I found that French men are particularly frightened of knives, sharp knives. A few well-placed cuts—not fatal cuts—changed minds over there.” But he wasn't completely sure of that. There was something wrong. The French had given up a lot of money with barely a fight—as Jiang had told him they would.

“So the women will pay us?” the head Red Pole asked.

“Of that I have no doubt. They're just chattering now to save a little face.”

“Fine. So that's done?”

“Yes, it is,” Tu responded, although it was clear his mind was elsewhere.

“My congratulations, sir.”

Tu nodded. He scented the air and thought he detected the subtle reek of ozone—the smell of change. Finally he said, “One small victory prepares the way for a greater one.” He bit at the cuticle around his thumb and drew blood. “Are our men in position?”

“Yes, sir, they await your orders,” his head Red Pole said, clearly relishing what was about to happen.

Tu hesitated. It was a big step from protection rackets to raiding a Vrassoon opium ship. He recalled his
I Ching
reading from the previous night, then said, “To the docks.”

—

Loa Wei Fen loosened his grip on the gutter just inches below where Gangster Tu had stood and slid down the drainpipe to the street. Magically the swalto was in his hand, ready—ready to prove his worth to Tu Yueh-sen, Mountain Master of the Tong of the Righteous Hand, when he exposed himself by attacking the Vrassoons' Indiaman sailing ship—as Jiang had planned.

* * *

THE SHANGHAI HARBOUR was considered one of the most secure harbours in all of Asia. There had been mutinies and fires, but never a theft. Until that day, April 11, 1893.

The captain of the Vrassoons' ship was lighting his first cigarette of the morning. He'd just brought the ship to harbour the night before after almost three months at sea. His men were anxious to get ashore, but he'd released only a third of them because his ship was packed to the tops of its holds with chest upon chest of India's finest
Chandra
opium.

The captain scanned the activity in the harbour—hundreds of boats of all sizes moved between the large vessels and the warehouses. He put his cigarette on the rail. He was an experienced ship's captain and could read wind and currents as easily as most men read their morning paper. He also had a second sense for the approach of danger. And looking at the sudden proliferation of small junks approaching his ship, that was exactly what he sensed—just before the expertly thrown knife entered the left side of his throat, severing his carotid artery and fountaining blood onto his polished black leather boots.

Tu's assault on the Vrassoons' Indiaman sailing ship proceeded without drawing attention from the other ships at anchor in the busy harbour.

No one saw anything out of the ordinary—just Chinese men carrying mango-wood chests of opium from the great ship onto the decks of their small junks. It wasn't until much later that it occurred to a watch on a nearby ship that the junks weren't heading to the Bund wharves or the Suzu Creek docks, but rather were making their way across the Bend in the River to the Pudong.

Gangster Tu watched his plan in action. His junks were already nearing the Pudong, and the deck of the ship was littered with dead and dying European sailors and marines.

His head Red Pole stepped forward and in a confident voice announced, “The ship is completely secured. You can do with it what you please, sir.”

Tu nodded to the man as a second fleet of his hired junks approached the ship and began to offload the last of the opium cargo.

The day was going to be cool but clear. Gangster Tu took a deep breath, then strode across the deck and stood over the body of the dead
Fan Kuei
captain whose life his blade had taken. His grandmother's words came back to him. He whispered, “It begins, Grandmother. Your real revenge begins this very day.” He pushed the corpse with his foot and it rolled over. This was the first
Fan Kuei
he had killed. And he liked the feeling of it. The taste of it in his mouth.

He heard a cry from overhead and stepped aside just in time to avoid the body of a falling
Fan Kuei
sailor, who although dead still clutched his flintlock pistol in his right hand.

Tu looked up and saw to his surprise an agile man swinging down to the deck from a gallant crow's nest, gripping a halyard. Tu's hand immediately went to his knife, and he was ready to attack when the agile Han Chinese man stepped nimbly onto the deck.

“Who are you?” Tu demanded.

“No one important,” the man said, keeping his hands in plain view. “I just need to retrieve my blade.”

Tu saw the ropey sinews of the man's arms and the rock-hard shine of his eyes—then he traced the man's eyes to the swalto blade protruding from the dead European sailor's chest. “Yours?” Tu asked.

Loa Wei Fen nodded, then said, “I'll retrieve my knife and leave you to your business here.” He reached down and drew out the blade with a simple tug.

Tu stepped forward, his knife extended. “Who are you?” he asked a second time.

Loa Wei Fen sheathed his swalto blade and said softly, with a small bow of his head, “Just a man to whom you owe your life, Tu Yueh-sen.” Then, referring to the body, he added, “If you climb to the gallant crow's nest you'll see he had enough weapons to spoil whatever your plans were on this ship, and no doubt both the angle and the height necessary for a clean shot at you standing where you are now. And since he's a master gunner I assume he wouldn't have missed. Nor would the four others I killed up there.”

Tu glanced aloft. He could just make out a few arms draped over the side of the topgallant crow's nest. He turned back to Loa Wei Fen. “One more time I ask, who are you?”

“A competent soldier looking for employment and willing to prove his worth.”

“Really?” Tu snapped.

Tu's head Red Pole, who only moments before had informed him that the ship was completely secured, leaped forward and put his knife to Loa Wei Fen's throat. “Don't trust him, boss,” he said.

Tu said nothing.

The Red Pole's eyes bulged as he pressed harder at the side of Loa Wei Fen's neck, drawing a steady flow of blood.

Tu smiled, then said, “Kill him.”

Loa Wei Fen sensed the depth of the cut on his throat—not too deep. More importantly, although he hadn't seen the blade, he could tell that it was not a swalto but rather a single-sided knife. It had an ugly serration to it, but the point was not made for killing. So Loa Wei Fen knew that the head Red Pole with the bulging eyes would either cut straight back to sever his windpipe or swipe to the side to cut the artery there. Then he sensed something else—a hesitation—and he acted. With devastating speed he arched his back and bit down on the blade of the knife with his teeth before the Red Pole could move—and the rest was child's play for a fully trained assassin. Only moments later he held the Red Pole by the hair. He turned the man's face to Gangster Tu and asked, “Shall I kill him, sir?”

Tu Yueh-sen smiled and said, “No, but you can have his position.” Then he slapped the Red Pole across the face and demoted him then and there. “Let him go,” Tu ordered Loa Wei Fen.

Loa Wei Fen released his grip on the man and watched him move away, aware that he had made a life enemy—someone whom he would eventually have to kill before the man killed him.

Tu said, “Follow me, you have work to do.”

Tu watched as Loa Wei Fen butchered the few still-living members of the crew, then helped Tu set the great ship ablaze.

Later that night, after overseeing the initiation rites for Loa Wei Fen, Tu sent a message to the Carver. It read simply, “I am fully prepared for a meeting with the
Fan Kuei
Vrassoon. Set it up quickly.”

It was not the only message sent that night. Loa Wei Fen sent a simple, four-word message to Jiang. It read: “I am in place.”

* * *

AFTER SOME CONSIDERABLE NEGOTIATING, a meeting between Tu and the Vrassoons was arranged through a series of third parties. Initially Tu had refused to go to the
Fan Kuei
's office and insisted that the
Fan Kuei
come to him. This impasse was sidestepped by the suggestion that there be two meetings. The first meeting would be no more than a way to get to know each other, and the second meeting would be a real business meeting. The first meeting would be in the Vrassoon offices; the second would take place in Tu's offices by the Suzu Creek. After yet more negotiating, mostly to do with protocol, the meeting at the Vrassoons' was set for late on the following Thursday afternoon.

The Vrassoon in charge of the family business, Meyer, was the youngest of the Patriarch's sons. He ran the Paris office for years, and although he was not emotionally close to his late father, he understood the old man's business acumen and shared his religious beliefs. He was a handsome man with sharp, swarthy features and a quick temper. His personal life was just that—completely personal. Few people had ever seen
his wife, who wore a veil whenever she left the family estate. All that was known about her was that she was surprisingly plump, and of course wore a wig.

Meyer had enjoyed his time in Paris and had a grudging respect for the French and their culture. He loved their opera. But here in the Middle Kingdom he found no such solace. He quickly learned to hate the Orient, its smells, its sights, and its people—although he did admire Asian furniture, especially the Mosul carpet that covered a large portion of the centre of his office floor.

From the first, things did not go well between Vrassoon and Tu. Even gestures intended to be conciliatory were quickly taken as insults. The fact that the young Vrassoon didn't speak any of the local dialects made things worse. Both sides had brought translators, but they could not agree on exactly what was said by whom and to whom and with what intent. Both parties were quick to anger, and salacious slanders quickly filled the room, leading to dangerous silences. Tu dismissed his own translator with a wave of his hand.

The silence was uncomfortable for all present, but no one was more uncomfortable than the Vrassoon translator, who stood rigidly, still hoping to get some sort of inclination of how to proceed. Both the
Fan Kuei
and the gangster had said the most awful things to each other, and it was his job to translate the slanders honestly but somehow make them palatable. He smiled, then spoke. He did his best, but neither man was a fool and both quickly picked up on the fact that their words were being manipulated.

Gangster Tu bolted to his feet and shouted at the translator, “Tell this stupid Round-Eye that I am not to be fooled with. That I am a man to be respected.”

Before the poor translator could even open his mouth, the young head of the Vrassoon family brought his hand crashing down on his mahogany desk and snarled, “Tell this big-eared Slant that the house of Vrassoon has no need for him or his criminal friends.”

The translator turned to Gangster Tu and, after clearing his throat a few times, said, “The foolish Round-Eye wishes you to know that he has his reservations about doing business with a man with so much honour in his background as yourself.” Then he turned to Vrassoon and said, “This unfortunately immature Celestial doesn't seem to understand the nature of your position in the honourable Foreign Settlement.”

Both men thought about the translations they had been given and then ignored the translator and tried to communicate directly with each other in pidgin, the strange polyglot language that had developed in Shanghai over the years. But pidgin's extremely limited vocabulary was not designed for the races to communicate on any sort of sophisticated level. It was there to give orders and acknowledge receipt of such, and nothing else. There was only one adverb in the language, the frequently heard “Chop chop—fast, fast.”