Rogue Angel: Forbidden City

by Alex Archer

  "Please, call me Annja."

  Michelle inclined her head. "Annja." She looked at her father with mild rebuke. "If I'd known Miss Creed was coming, I could have ordered rolls and coffee."

  "Thanks," Annja replied, "but I just had breakfast before I got here. And your father didn't know I was coming. I surprised him."

  "I see." Michelle looked at her. "Is there anything we can do for you?"

  "We need one of my books." Harry Kim stood by the counter but unconsciously arranged a stack of novels, tidying them.

  Michelle turned to the shelves behind the counter and took down a hardcover book. "Don't tell me my father is punishing you with one of his books. He's shameless."

  "My daughter went to the University of Southern California to study fine art," Harry Kim said, "and even with her degree, she doesn't appreciate talent as much as she should."

  "So you say." Michelle put the coffee-table-sized book on the counter between them.

  "I do say." Harry Kim leafed through the book. "Miss Creed has brought an interesting picture this morning." He put the photo on the countertop.

  "What's this?" Michelle picked it up and examined it. "Wait. Is this that cursed belt plaque you wrote about?"

  In answer, Harry Kim triumphantly turned the book around for Annja's inspection. The book lay open to a page that showed a black-and-white photograph of five Chinese men wearing dungarees, suspenders, boots, and ragged shirts in front of a hole in the earth that had a wooden sign over it. The wooden sign had Chinese characters on it and the outline of a striking tiger that looked similar to the one on the belt plaque.

  "This is Ban Zexu." Kim tapped a finger on the second man from the left.

  Annja placed her backpack on the floor and took out a jeweler's loupe to examine the photograph. Upon better observation, she determined that the tiger image was remarkably similar to the one she'd found.

  Ban Zexu looked very young. His face was grim and hard, like there'd been little in his life to smile about.

  Annja read the text beside the picture and found Ban Zexu's name listed there. "What do you know about Ban Zexu?"

  Mr. Kim shrugged. "There's not much to tell. He came from a small town outside of Shanghai in the 1870s and came to Gold Mountain. That's what they called California."

  "How do you know about him?"

  "He's not the only one whose history I'm familiar with." Kim tapped other faces in the photograph. "I know the histories of these three men, as well." He pointed to the youngest of the five. "This man's name is Kim Chonghuan. He was my great-grandfather. He traveled to America from Hong Kong, which was – at that time – occupied by a number of British merchants and soldiers. In Hong Kong he learned to speak and write English while working for a newspaperman. Back in those days, journalists wrote long and involved stories, not like the small pieces these days."

  "That was the only medium they had at that time to reach audiences," Annja said.

  "I know." Kim gestured toward a wall filled with audiobooks and DVDs. "So much of today's culture is preserved on digital medium."

  "It is the twenty-first century," Michelle said.

  Kim waved his daughter's comment away. "Too many people trust that medium too much. I've read books about bombs that may potentially be used in the next world war. Or even used in limited engagements. Electomagnetic pulse bombs. They supposedly won't harm humans, but they will destroy computer and car engines and other things electrical in nature. Do you realize how much might be lost that we've entrusted to the care of digital media?"

  It was a terrible thought. As much as Annja loved emerging technology, she loved books more. There was something about the heft of them, the smell and solidness of them, that lent authority and permanence. She'd seen manuscripts that were hundreds of years old, handwritten books on paper that remained white and pristine.

  "Anyway, enough gloom and doom." Kim smiled. "Let's talk about curses."

  ****

  Michelle insisted on going around the corner to the pastry shop and getting some coffee and rolls after her father's discussion pushed past the book he'd written to the books his great-grandfather had written. Harry Kim had left the shop for a time himself to get other books. He returned carrying a box filled with journals and letters.

  "When he learned the English language, my great-grandfather chose to practice every chance he got. After all, the United States was going to be his adoptive country." Kim leafed through an old hardbound journal covered in neat handwriting with occasional illustrations. "He also learned the craft of reporting from the English journalist."

  Annja turned the pages of the book. "This is amazing. Has anyone else seen these books?"

  "Everybody," Michelle assured her, "who has eyes has seen the books. Dad has taken them to university professors and to reporters."

  "Several of my ancestor's writings have been published in various journals and periodicals," Kim said. "Bits and pieces about local history or customs that people have found interesting." He shrugged. "I don't think Kim Chonghuan would believed his work would be published like this, but I also choose to believe he would have been proud."

  "I think you're right." Annja stopped at a photo of ships in a harbor. Several of the vessels listed at their anchorages, but a few others had been hauled on shore and bore hand-lettered signs advertising lodging or food. A careful notation beneath the illustration read San Francisco, 1851.

  "You've heard about the ships, haven't you?" Kim asked. "How they were abandoned in the harbor when the crews ran off to the gold fields?"

  "Yes."

  "Entrepreneurs pulled some of those ships onto the shore and turned them into hotels and restaurants. Kim Chonghuan was fascinated by that. It was the first thing he saw upon his arrival. Two of the books he wrote are about those days in San Francisco. One before he left for the gold fields and one after."

  "Ban Zexu was killed in a fire." Annja took a bite of cinnamon roll.

  "I know." Kim searched through the box of books and took out a burgundy covered one. "Kim Chonghuan was there. He himself almost died. That incident, when the white miners killed Ban Zexu and the others, made my great-grandfather return to San Francisco. He became a cobbler and an investor in other businesses. For a while, he lived quite well."

  Kim laid the burgundy book on the table he'd appropriated in the back of the book store. He flipped through the pages carefully.

  Annja had her own hardbound journal out and was taking notes. Most of them didn't have anything to do with the Scythian belt plaque, but they were interesting tidbits she intended to follow up.

  "Ah." Kim trailed a finger lightly down the page. "This is where Kim Chonghuan first met Ban Zexu." He turned the book around so that Annja could read the section for herself.

  February 25, 1872

  While at market this morning, I met a man new to America. My heart went out to him, because I hadn't seen a more bedraggled specimen in years. He wore homespun cotton pants and shirt that I knew had come from China. He carried a cloth bag that I was certain – and later found out – held all his personal belongings. He didn't have much. From the timid way he comported himself, I knew that he had no friends and no English.

  Times had been hard in San Francisco. The American people were never kind or giving to the Chinese as a general rule. One of the most distressing things I found, though, was that my own people had turned hard-hearted toward the newcomers, as well. If a new arrival didn't have family or friends in California, things went very hard for him. They would lie to new immigrants and steal from them, as well.

  Even though my own situation was distressing, I couldn't leave such a sad fellow to his own devices. I went to him and talked to him. He seemed at once very relieved and thankful.

  When he told me he had no prospects and had come to California to get wealthy digging for gold, I wanted to laugh at him and hug him at the same time. I've seen so many, American and Chinese alike, who come to this place thinking exactly that. Most are easily
discouraged, but many – as I sensed in Ban Zexu, for that was his name – were truly desperate.

  The entry continued, relating the events that Kim Chonghuan and his new charge took part in the rest of the day.

  "Did Ban have the belt plaque with him then?" Annja asked.

  Kim nodded and turned the pages of the journal. He pointed to another section.

  March 3, 1872

  My new partner, Ban Zexu, has had a hard time adjusting to life in San Francisco. Things move too quickly here for him. Twice, I have saved him from being run down in the muddy streets by stevedores whipping their horses unmercifully. Sometimes he doesn't even seem to see the things that are in front of him because he is concentrating so much on looking back over his shoulder. He has the air of a hunted man, but I know of several who barely escaped the wrath of the British, French, and Americans in Shanghai. I have heard their stories, and after a while they all begin to sound the same. San Francisco is rife with men who were outlaws one day and gold miners the next but this is a far better place than China these days. I only regret that my children will not be born in the country of my own birth, for I have decided not to go back.

  Today, after too much liquor – which seems to be a weakness of his – Ban Zexu revealed to me a thing of beauty he claims has been in his family for hundreds of years. It is a belt plaque, like one of those worn by the emperor's guards. I believe it is a merit of honor. Ban Zexu tells me that one of his ancestors once did a courageous act for Emperor Ling of the Han Dynasty. When I ask him what this courageous act was, he refuses to tell me. I know Ban Zexu has sometime stretched the truth, but I don't know if that is the case now or if he is for some reason embarrassed.

  I have sketched to the best of my ability the belt plaque Ban Zexu protects. Regrettably, because of the confidence I have extended to my new friend, I have been unable to pursue this matter among my colleagues who might know more of its origins.

  Annja studied the drawing on the opposite page. Kim Chonghuan had been meticulous and faithful in his rendering.

  "I would say that the sketch there is a good match for the photograph you showed me," Harry Kim said.

  "So would I." Annja took another bite of her roll.

  A bookshop customer entered and Michelle tended to her, pointing out some new acquisitions. She was an elderly woman. From the way Michelle took care of her, Annja assumed the woman was a regular patron.

  "Kim Chonghuan was much intrigued by the belt plaque," Harry Kim said.

  Aren't we all? Annja thought.

  "He uncovered part of the story from another man who also saw the belt plaque." Harry Kim turned to another journal entry.

  July 5, 1872

  Last night I got a glimpse of the secret that Ban Zexu carries with him, though I am ashamed because I have broken – at least in part – the promise I made to him. Ma Bian, one of the old men who aided me when I first came to this country, was speaking with me this evening.

  We often talk in the cool of the night about things we have seen and heard about. I have found my friend to be very knowledgeable about many matters.

  We also drank, which was why I was more talkative and less mindful of promises that I had made than I normally would have been. In this talk I brought up the belt plaque design. Worse yet, I sketched it out for him on a piece of paper.

  Ma Bian didn't recognize the design, but he recognized the kind of artwork. He said the Chinese didn't invent it, that it was first used by people he called the Scythians. Ma Bian said those people traded with our ancestors and they made the style part of our culture. I didn't disagree with my good friend because he knows a great deal about such matters, for he invests in artwork and jewelry. But I doubted that someone else had invented that look because it has been part of the China I have always known.

  The part that troubles me is the small insignia in the upper left corner of the belt plaque. Ma Bian said that the upside down fish signifies –

  Breaking away from the journal entry, Annja studied the drawing that Kim Chonghuan had sketched. After a moment, she spotted the hourglass shape of the fish she hadn't noticed. It was upside down.

  Anticipating her next move, Harry Kim slid the photograph over to her.

  Annja took her jeweler's loupe from her backpack and studied the picture. It took her a moment to find the engraving. Dirt filled in some of the lines.

  "The fish?" Harry Kim asked.

  "Yes." Annja removed the loupe, wishing she had the belt plaque in front of her. She groaned mentally. She'd been so intent on confirming that the piece was of Scythian design that she hadn't noticed the fish. To be fair, though, the lines were dim and almost invisible. Maybe they'd almost faded from the time Kim Chonghuan had seen the belt plaque.

  "In China, fish are believed to bring good luck," Kim said.

  "I know." Annja compared her photograph and the drawing in the journal.

  "But placed as that one is, upside down in a state of death, I would believe it does not," Kim continued.

  "I agree." Annja turned her attention back to the journal.

  – a curse. He said that what I had drawn had a curse put on it.

  I asked him who would put a curse on such an object. Ma Bian had no answer for me. He said he would have to know more about the object, but that he believed it was the work of a thieves' guild. I didn't ask him how he came by such knowledge, only accepted that Ma Bian would be the one most likely to know such things.

  I have to ask myself why Ban Zexu would choose to carry around a cursed belt plaque. I don't know if I will ever get the answer.

  Annja finished reading the journal entry and closed the book. "Your great-grandfather never found out anything more about the belt plaque?"

  Harry Kim shook his head. "No, and it has always puzzled me since I first read these books. I've tried to research that drawing, but without luck. I've researched the upside down fish, but not been able to substantiate where it might have come from."

  "The fish could have been added at a later date." Annja surveyed the photograph. "The engraving looks different."

  "It is different. A different artist made the fish. I know enough about such things to know that." Harry Kim sipped his hot tea. "There are a few other mentions of the piece throughout my great-grandfather's journals, and more information about Ban Zexu. My ancestor believed it was the curse on the belt plaque that killed his friend."

  "If it was cursed, why didn't Ban Zexu simply get rid of it?" Annja didn't believe in curses. But, since she'd had the sword she'd found she was less certain to simply discount mystical things.

  "Perhaps he tried," Harry Kim suggested. "Perhaps part of the curse was that if he did get rid of the belt plaque, his bad luck would be worse." He shrugged. "I don't know. I know in those journals, my great-grandfather mentioned that there were times when Ban Zexu was in debt from gambling and took beatings rather than give up the belt plaque. In fact, one of them had men who took the belt plaque from Ban Zexu only to return it the following day."

  Annja thought about that, finding herself even more curious about the history of the piece. "There was writing on the back of the belt plaque."

  Harry Kim shook his head. "I did not know about that."

  Annja reached into her backpack and brought out a photo she'd printed of the back of the belt plaque. "I have a picture of it."

  Excitement shone in Harry Kim's eyes.

  Annja understood the old man's emotion.

  "May I?" Harry Kim held out a hand for the photograph.

  Chapter 8

  Before she had legally changed her name to Kelly Swan then buried that under a number of aliases, she had first been Kelly Suen. Her father had given her an English name at her mother's request, and he had sent her off to be educated at American schools because her mother had believed that was where her daughter would thrive.

  Kelly had blossomed in the United States, becoming much more than she would have if she'd remained in Shanghai. Her mother had lived to see her gr
aduate college, but not to see that she hadn't chosen to become a teacher as her mother had hoped. Kelly's life, as the old Chinese curse went, had been interesting, to say the least.

  She had graduated six years earlier. Her life had changed several times during those intervening years.

  But this morning she'd returned to Shanghai on a redeye flight into Pudong International Airport. The rental car was an extravagance. She knew when her father saw the car he would roll his eyes and complain about the needless expenditure of money when she could have taken the bus into the Bund and a taxi from there.

  It didn't matter that she had the money. Only that she had spent it foolishly. He prided himself on his own thriftiness, and any time she told him he was being too tight-fisted, he only pointed out that it was his thriftiness that had allowed her to go to college in a foreign country. He always conveniently forgot about the grants she'd qualified for and the work she'd undertaken on her own behalf to make ends meet.

  Still, she longed to see her father. It had been three years since she'd last seen him. The time had slipped away. As she got closer, the guilt seemed overwhelming.

  ****

  Kelly had to make one stop before driving to her father's house. The stop was downtown, only a few blocks off Nanjing Road

  . During business hours, the shops burgeoned with tourists and buyers, and the sidewalks were filled with a constant stream of pedestrians.

  She left the car in a parking lot and went to a fourth-floor walkup. The building housed small businesses and criminal enterprises. She was more familiar with criminals than she'd ever have believed possible. In her line of work, they were known as assets. She'd gotten the name of this particular asset from one of the few contacts she still trusted.

  Kelly knocked on the door as she'd been told – three times, then twice, then four. The effort seemed simple and ridiculous to someone used to working with cutting-edge technology, but it was effective in circles where buyer and seller never met before an arrangement was made. The man she was meeting ran a strict cash-and-carry business.