“Why was he meeting with Tseng?”
The room was dark, cold, and wet. He could hear drops of water, echoing, echoing—revealing just how deep and cavernous the place was—whatever it was.
“Guns,” said Archer, unsure if it was him speaking.
“We know.”
The hand returned to Archer’s neck. “Easy,” he heard another voice say. “The drugs will do their work. We just have to be patient.”
Archer could not turn his head to see.
“Why does Tseng need more guns? Is there a war to be fought?”
His head wasn’t clear, but he could still recognize the absurdity of the question: there is always a war to be fought.
“What is your role in this? Were you brought here to inspire the rebels?”
“I know nothing about rebels,” said Archer. He could see the environment better, but it was a small bit of clarity with a hazy ring. He was on the floor. He could see the shoes of the man addressing him as he paced back and forth.
“And what of the provinces? Is he planning on taking you out into the backcountry and using you as a symbol for inspiration? Turn some of the warlords into customers?”
“I don’t know about any of this. As far as I know Barrett was hired to bring the guns to Shanghai.” His mouth shut like a trap. Why had he said so much? It was as if someone had forced their hand through his neck and manipulated his mouth like a puppet. Where was all of this coming from—the compulsion to be forthright despite his best efforts to be evasive? “Barrett was supposed to sell the weapons to the Tseng, but his employer betrayed him.”
“You see,” the voice said, “the drug is taking effect. Give it time to work and it works well. So there are no plans of arming an insurrection?”
Archer’s jaw clenched. He initiated a swallow, but left it unfinished and kept his throat closed. But again, some invisible hand pried everything open. “No. He doesn’t have enough guns. Most of them were lost. He’s running out of sources.”
“Good,” the voice said. “Good. Is that all?”
Archer tried to look up, but his neck would not move. He felt a surge of emotion. He began to sob. “There is so much I have to tell you. I have done so many horrible things.”
“Quiet now,” the voice said. Archer felt a comforting hand on his shoulder. “This isn’t the time for that. You have done well here.”
“I wanted to hear what he had to confess,” another voice said.
“No, that’s not what this is. Go ahead and take him back.”
Archer felt something prick him between his neck and shoulders. The pain and the sobbing stopped. He floated away from that dark place. The echoes of dripping water became distant and muffled. The desire to confess left him. He had nothing more to say. He was a cloud again.
• • •
Jupiter ducked and dodged, losing the men tailing him, and eventually returned to the merchant’s compound. Something was strange. There were no guards at the open gate. Inside, the place seemed abandoned. There was no sign of Barrett or Archer. He called out the merchant’s name. No answer. He entered one of the rooms and tripped over something in the darkness. A cloud crossed the sky, allowing moonlight into the room. Wu Ping’s dead eyes reflected the pale, ghostly beam.
There was a commotion outside the merchant’s chambers. Jupiter peeked outside the window. An unconscious Archer sprawled on the ground.
• • •
Now that Archer had come to, Jupiter explained what had happened. Archer rubbed his head. “I thought I was dreaming.”
“No, it all happened. We’ve got to find Barrett.”
“Do we? Why not good riddance?”
“Do you know where you are? Look around you—dead strangers everywhere. Who knows what the hell is going on in this place? We’ve got to get out of here, and if we’re ever going to get home, we’ve got to find Barrett. He’s the only one we can trust.”
Archer nodded. “Trust the devil you know . . . isn’t that the saying?”
• • •
They wandered through the city as Archer wracked his brain for the location of that red door.
“Are you sure it was real?” asked Jupiter.
They stopped. At night, the streets were more crowded than ever. The people seemed to spin on a carousel. All the places began to look alike. “I’m certain.” He had taken no time to construct a memory castle—the details were unprotected, connecting to something ethereal. “I feel like we’re close, but I don’t know why.” He remembered euphoria, feeling weightless, feeling limitless, and then the sudden horror of falling, but nothing linked those sensations to reality. A ship waited in the harbor. It had an elaborate figurehead of a curly-haired boy with despair in his eyes, his wings disintegrating as he reached up. As the ship bobbed in the water, the boy seemed to ascend, and then descend, rise and fall, launch and fail. Archer followed the line of sight of the boy’s outstretched arm. “There.” The dark alley was a few feet away.
60
Shanghai
They opened the red door and drew their guns. The opium prevented the patrons from reacting. Archer motioned Jupiter up the stairs. As Jupiter passed one of the rooms, a fist came down on his arm, knocking his gun away. His assailant filled the width of the narrow hallway. He grabbed Jupiter, choking him as Jupiter clawed at his eyes. Archer put his gun to the man’s head and cocked it. “You hear that? I don’t know if you speak English, but that sound is universally understood.”
Archer felt the gun barrel poke his kidney. “Indeed it is,” said Mei. “It sends a message that shall not be repeated.”
Archer eased the weapon from her guard’s head. Jupiter fell to the floor, coughing. Mei took the gun from Archer. “Are you so anxious to see me again? These theatrics are not necessary.”
“Where is he?” asked Archer.
Mei smiled. “You did not come to see me, Archer? I am disappointed. Very well, I shall give you what you want.” She grabbed Archer’s face. “Isn’t that what I am here for?” She let go and said something to her guard in Chinese. “Follow him,” she said.
They followed the guard down a dark stairwell. Archer recognized the place from his dream. Barrett was bound to a chair and was being watched by two guards who stood on a wooden platform underneath two lamps.
They passed many crates, some of which were open, revealing sundry goods destined to be sold throughout the world: poorly made porcelain plates, idyllic scenes made poorly on inexpensive paper meant to duplicate the authentic silk tapestries. But most of the crates contained fishing poles and guns.
Archer looked at Jupiter.
“Your rescue attempts are not necessary.” A voice came from the shadows. “The question is not if you can rescue Barrett.” The accent was American; the man was well-dressed. Archer recognized the voice. “The question is can you rescue yourselves?”
• • •
“I am afraid your journey with Mr. Barrett has come to an end. Do you understand, Barrett?”
Barrett raised an eyebrow. “It’s Captain Barrett. Who might you be?”
The man smiled. “You can call me Mr. Smith, if you like, but my name is less important than the job I was sent to do.”
“And what job is that?”
Mr. Smith approached him. “My job is to find a customer for my weapons, and I have done that.”
Barrett laughed. “It looks like we are all family here—same aims and the same names.”
“No, Captain Barrett, I am afraid we are not family. You have caused quite a ruckus.”
“Me? I merely met a man for a drink.”
“Is that all? You did not try to sell weapons that did not belong to you?”
“What is this?” asked Barrett.
Jupiter thought he heard a tremor in Barrett’s voice. He realized he had been holding his breath. He swal
lowed hard.
Smith paced behind Barrett. “There is a bounty on your head, Captain. Clinkscales, your former employer, is quite upset with you. You sold only inferior weapons to Ten Dragons.” Smith pointed to the two men watching Barrett. “And you got a man who was very important to me killed. Tseng had Wu Ping killed because of the trouble caused by you and your master. Now, Barrett, your dream of supplying weapons to China is finished. Finished for you, and definitely for Clinkscales. He has lost.”
“But he has already sold the weapons to Tseng.”
“Tseng will have to answer for Wu Ping. That shipment will be his last. Why build a ship when you can build a factory? Why should the Chinese wait for him to gather his weapons and ship them here, when my employer shall make them here? And superior in quality, I might add. If Clinkscales wants to try and sell his weapons to other parts of the world at exorbitant amounts, then so be it. But not here.”
Barrett seemed confused. “I didn’t know.”
“It wasn’t for you to know. But since your little plan failed, we can’t have you selling what weapons you do have to any warlord with gold. Things like that cause . . . instability. Your desire to raise your stature, play at the level of men with real power, sir, I can tell you, the air is thin up there. It is easy to get winded.”
“So what now?” asked Barrett.
“I have no quarrel with you. I just had to clip your wings.”
Barrett looked over at Ten Dragons and his men—a hungry pack ready to tear him apart.
“It is time for you to leave China. I wanted to see what your intentions were, whether peasants from the hinterlands were expecting you to arm them. Now that I know that all of that is beyond your reach I am satisfied.”
“So you are just going to hand me over to them? They killed Wu Ping. If they kill me, do you really think that Clinkscales will pay them after his China dreams are dashed? What would be his incentive? How will you keep them in line then?”
Smith did not answer.
“I know when I’ve lost,” said Barrett. “There must be an alternative.”
The American looked at the man known as Ten Dragons. He nodded. Smith walked over to him.
Barrett could hear a bit of their whispered conversation. The American spoke Chinese well. The scene troubled him. It was all too familiar: two powerful men weighing their infinite options while he watched helplessly.
Smith and Ten Dragons walked over to Barrett. Ten Dragons untied him and stood him up.
“Captain Barrett, you are in luck,” said Smith. “Ten Dragons is a reasonable man. He has agreed to accept payment from me for the bounty on your head. But you still owe him for those inferior weapons you gave him. He will discuss the terms with you. Now, I must take my leave, I’m afraid. Other business awaits. It has been a pleasure.” He bowed at everyone too courteously and walked into the shadows. Barrett listened as the footsteps became faint, then heard no longer.
Ten Dragons smiled. “So, Barrett, I know you are a master of the seas, but can you sail a ship that does not exist?”
61
San Francisco
Maggie resisted the urge to scratch her chin as Fletcher painted her portrait. Once finished, it was to be placed in the office between the portraits of Dalmore and his adopted father. Her picture deviated from the usual style. She told Fletcher that she wanted to face the viewer, for whoever saw it to look her in the eye. In the background was a fireplace and above the mantle and hearth, a portrait of a smaller portrait of the late Mr. O’Connell. On either side of her were two men whose faces were cloaked in shadow.
There was a knock. “Mrs. Dalmore,” said the maid.
“Don’t move,” Fletcher said to Maggie.
“Come in,” she said.
“Ma’am, there is someone to see you. A Chinaman. I told him to wait for you by the servants’ entrance.”
“Chinese? What’s his name?”
“I am sorry,” said the maid. “I asked for it, but it seems I have already forgotten it. But he said something about a Mr. Lin.”
She dismissed Fletcher and went to meet her visitor. He wore a black suit.
“Mrs. Dalmore?”
“Yes,” said Maggie. “What can I do for you?”
“I am Tom West.” He bowed slightly. “I work for Gao Lin.”
“I see.”
“I have a matter to discuss with you,” he said.
“What sort of matter?”
“A private one. May I enter?”
She looked around to see who might be watching.
“Please come in,” she said.
“Thank you.”
She offered him a seat. “Would you like some tea?”
“Yes. I would.”
The maid served him and watched nervously.
“So what is this urgent matter, Mr. . . .”
“West. Tom West. Yes, it is strange, but I took the name of my destination.”
She was unimpressed.
“Gao Lin sends his condolences regarding Mr. Dalmore.”
“I thank him.”
“I am here to discuss an urgent situation. One Gao Lin feels you have neglected. He did not want to summon you. Out of respect for you, he wanted to give you the opportunity to resolve it yourself. Yet you have failed to do so.”
“So Mr. Lin shows his respect by sending his servant?” said Maggie.
Tom West smiled. The maid poured more tea for him. “What is your name?” He directed his question to the maid.
She looked at Maggie before answering. “Pamela—Pam. Just Pam.”
“Pam, the tea is lovely, thank you,” said Tom West.
“You’re . . . uh . . . quite welcome.”
Tom West set his tea down. “Pam, may I ask you a question?”
She looked at Maggie again. “Sure, I suppose.”
“Pam, how long have you worked here?”
She straightened her posture. “Not so long for Mrs. Dalmore, but fifteen years for the household.”
Tom West smiled. “Fifteen years. That is a long time.”
“Indeed, and I am grateful the lady continues to allow me to serve.”
“Pam, indulge me once more. If Mrs. Dalmore were to die—heaven forbid—would you then become the lady of the house?”
“Of course not. What a ridiculous notion.”
“Yes,” Tom West said. “That would be ridiculous. You see, Mrs. Dalmore, Pam has served this home for fifteen years, and when you die she won’t replace you, she will continue to serve here or somewhere else. No such fate awaits me after Gao Lin’s death. I am much more than his servant.”
“What do you want, Mr. West?”
“Gao Lin wants you to honor the agreement made between him and Mr. Dalmore. A favor was done for Mr. Dalmore. In return he was to hire Chinese workers in his shipyards and protect them from any white retaliation.”
“Mr. West, I can assure that not one Oriental has been harmed in my shipyard.”
“That is because you do not employ any Chinese in your shipyard.”
Maggie glared at Pam, who still lingered. “Pam, you can leave us now. I am certain Mr. West has had enough tea.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Dalmore.” Pam hurried away.
Maggie leaned in. “Mr. West, I do not know what arrangement you had with my late husband, but this is my business and I won’t be told who to hire. If Mr. Dalmore promised you something, feel free to dig him up and demand recompense. I have played no part in the matter.”
“On the contrary, Mrs. Dalmore, you would have no business if Gao Lin had not offered his help to Mr. Dalmore. Your late husband was drowning in debt. Gao Lin was very generous to him.”
She felt like sinking in her chair, but maintained her composure.
Tom West stood. “I was not sent here to persuade you, Mrs
. Dalmore. I was told to deliver a message. I shall leave you now that I have done so. I thank you for the tea.” He went for the door, then stopped. “What is it about this country that makes us forget how connected we truly are?”
“I don’t know,” said Maggie, “but I’ll be sure to summon you when I have an answer.”
62
Somewhere in the Pacific
They set sail, Barrett at the helm, Jupiter as first mate. The crew was a motley mix of Chinese and other races. Most were sailors who had found work on the Shanghai docks. Jupiter thought he recognized one of them, but found it painful to admit from where. He watched him go about his business on the ship. Jupiter’s mind reached back, back to the mainland, to the shores, to San Francisco and the streets of the Barbary Coast, and to a foggy night. He watched a young boy in a sordid city on a night dedicated to carousing. Jupiter emerged from the shadows and knocked him unconscious. He and Clement took him to one of the ships, where they were given twenty-five dollars for him.
He had never wondered what happened to him after that night. Jupiter had always told himself the same tale: it is better this way, at least he’ll be off the streets. Working and traveling builds character—the harder it is, the better for your soul. He never questioned if it was true.
Watching the young man on the ship, he was confronted by his actions. This was a man he had shanghaied. Was he better off? He meant to approach him and ask him the question directly, but he couldn’t move. He thought about Sonya and the boy. Suddenly, his hands seemed dirty. Surrounded by water and no place to wash them.
• • •
Barrett told them to be wary of the crew—it was still Ten Dragons’s ship after all, and Barrett did not trust its men yet. Days passed, and except for the occasional trips on deck, under the icy glances of the crew, they spent most of their time in their quarters.
It was night. The moon seemed to be keeping pace with the ship.
“I’m going up,” Archer said. “My leg’s killing me.”
The Abduction of Smith and Smith Page 22