by Todd Downing
“Meninas?” The barkeep studied Fogarty then added, “Pardon me, Señor, your Portuguese is excellent but it is not, I think, your native tongue. The action you seek, it is female companionship?”
“No, Portuguese isn’t. Ladies aren’t what I had in mind. I’m more interested in an import-export situation. Perhaps I could speak to Señor Bruxos” Felix wasn’t sure whether it was the import-export or the Mr. Bruxos that did it but the bartender backed away and nodded slightly to a door just beyond the end of the bar.
Felix nodded and said “Obrigado, mantenha a dinheiro restante.”
“Sure, I’ll keep the change, you won’t need it where you’re headed,” the bartender responded in English.
Beyond the door was a store room with cases of liquor of all descriptions stacked nearly to the ceiling along each wall. There was no Prohibition in Shanghai, of course, so this was palatable stuff, not the paint stripping hooch being peddled in the United States. A hallway illuminated by a single bulb hanging from a dangerous-looking fixture lay ahead. There were three doors, one on either side of the hall and a wider one with brackets for hunks of lumber to barricade access at the back. Felix, with the bartender’s words resonating in his head, grabbed a couple of bottles of vodka and quietly made his way toward the hall. Carefully he poured about half a bottle to douse the floor and a few stacked boxes on either side down the length then, using the dangling bulb wire, tied the second bottle just above the light. He found the wooden barricades and set them just outside the last door, confirming it led to an alley behind the club. He yanked his tie loose and spilled a little vodka on his shirt. With his escape route prepared—should he need it—he knocked on the door to the left.
“O que?” rumbled a sullen voice from the other side.
“Señor Cardoso?”
“Si. O que?” the voice repeated.
“Eu sou Felix Fogarty. Posso entrar?”
“Please, yes, Mr. Fogarty. Do come in.”
The office was claustrophobic. Cluttered with file cabinets with paperwork overflowing. Invoices and receipts stacked on the desk and crammed into empty liquor crates. Behind the desk sat the only occupant of the room. A man in his fifties, Felix guessed, who had clearly had a few Sidecars too many in his life. His olive skin had the sallow cast of dissolution to it and his generous nose was covered with a network of broken capillaries. His eyes revealed a jaundice that hinted at a failing liver. In the ash tray next to him smoldered the sodden remains of a Cubano Perfecto cigar.
“I believe you have something for me to look at,” Felix began.
“Indeed, and glad to be rid of it I will be.”
“Let’s get started then, shall we?”
# # #
The previous Monday afternoon.
“What do you mean, ‘it’s missing’?” There was an ominous rumble to Ernst Hummel’s voice.
“Well, Mein Kapitan, the technicians secured the blueprints in the safe Saturday evening and when they returned on Monday they seemed to be gone.”
The Captain rose to his full height, which at five foot ten still towered over the slight Chinese man before him. His piercing blue eyes seemed to bore holes through the skull, so the lesser man shrank back from the rage emanating from his superior.
“They are either missing or they are not,” he intoned. “Why wasn’t I informed immediately?”
“Song Li was in Hong Kong and you had not yet docked. We know how sensitive the project is, and thought it wise to wait until a personal report could be conveyed.” Wong Lu sneaked a peak at the Silver Star officer to judge his reaction.
“I will presume a thorough search was initiated and interrogations conducted.”
“Yes, of course. In fact the last interrogation is underway now. Would you care to join in?”
The Black Dog nodded and followed his laboratory chief to the warehouse. Two hours of screaming and bloodletting later, he had the information he wanted and was driven back to the river, where his sleek gunboat was taking on supplies.
# # #
Wednesday evening.
“Surround the building. No one enters or leaves until we have made our recovery.” Captain Hummel’s voice crackled over the radio. He wanted no excuses, and no mistakes. The blueprints had to be recovered and twenty of his crack marines were heavily armed and spread out, choking off traffic from the neighboring streets and taking up positions overlooking every angle of the Club Lusitano. A couple exiting the club were grabbed roughly and searched then hustled off down the esplanade. One of the doorman offered resistance and was cudgeled into submission with a rifle butt. Looking at the dots on the screen in front of him the captain was satisfied with the disposition of his men and he signaled them to proceed.
Inside the tiny office, one of the dozen or so blueprints was spread out on the desk. A jar of Maraschino cherries held down one corner, Senor Cardoso another while Felix had his left hand sliding along the lines depicting circuitry. He was mentally calculating the effect of a machine built based on these specifications. Suddenly a wall-mounted red light bulb blinked on and Cardoso blanched.
“Trouble out front, best you should go.” He slid open a desk drawer and hauled out a 9 mm Luger. “Georg gave this to me himself.”
Gunfire erupted in what Felix judged to be the foyer so he rolled up the blueprint and stuffed it back into the round leather tube with the others. Cardoso flung the office door open and stepped into the hallway and was instantly cut down in a hail of machine gun fire. An errant round shattered both the vodka bottle and the light bulb plunging the hall into flaming semi-darkness, lit only by the eerie blue glow of burning alcohol quickly building to a conflagration. Seizing the opportunity, Fogarty darted into the hallway, tossing the remaining vodka bottle behind him. He crashed through the exit so hard that he sent the two Silver Star marines sprawling, their rifles skittering away. Sprinting down the alley, he spotted an automobile. He threw the blueprint case in the seat, made a quick spark adjustment, and pushed the starter button. The engine sprang to life, and Felix was speeding down the alley as the first fusillade of gunfire whizzed by his head. Rounding the corner, he rammed a marine who flopped lifeless to the ground. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed as though the man was dissolving with a puff of smoke. Gotta get my eyes checked, that can’t be real, he thought.
Slashing down The Bund at breakneck speed, Fogarty was really beginning to appreciate the 1926 Bentley Super Sport Boattail under him. Sedan chairs and rickshaws scattered haphazardly like dry leaves in the wind. They were dodging each other with passengers and runners disappearing to whatever safe haven they could find. It made it unlikely he would achieve it’s one hundred mile per hour top speed, but the bullets chattering from an MP-18 submachine gun behind him were creating a cascade of stone chips from the as-yet-unfinished Palace Hotel. With grim determination he mashed the throttle to the floor.
Colorful, brightly-lit buildings along the Shanghai waterfront of the Wangpoo River to his left flashed by as bullets pocked holes in the windscreen, coach and tuxedo jacket he was wearing. Whoa! That’s much too close for comfort! Thankfully, the colloidal coating prevented the glass from exploding in a shower of shards, but the AEGIS boy wonder noticed with alarm he had a much bigger problem at hand: the back of the car was on fire. They must have tracer rounds in the magazine! Searching the waterfront ahead he spotted something that gave him an idea. Half a block later, he yanked on the brake lever, slowing enough to leap and roll away. Jumping to his feet, he galloped to a nearby motorcycle, noting with approval that it was a British made ABC, and kicked it to life. Felix sped away from the river down Avenue Edward VII. Glancing back, he could see the Bentley fully engulfed in flames and wondered briefly if AEGIS would foot the bill for a stolen car. And motorcycle. And possibly the Shanghai Club at the end of the pier that was now aflame.
For a moment, he thought he had lost his pursuers, and he slowed to maneuver a pair of goggles dangling from the handlebars onto his head, wrestling the bl
ueprint case rescued from the car into a manageable position. As one eye got protection and the other had a lens across half an eyeball, a streak like fireworks crossed in front of him and exploded on the tarmac—then another.
Damn, speed seekers! This must be Astrum Argentum.
He wheeled the bike down a side street before they could get him bracketed and made for Chinese City. If he could make it there, he could disappear in the tangle of streets and alleys and try to figure out what was going on.
# # #
“Let him go. We have ten thousand eyes in there. We will know his every move.”
Smoothing his black uniform in the livery of a captain of the Silver Star, with its distinctive four point insignia, the speaker sat back from the screen of the tracking device. He was aboard the Pistris Argentum, tied to Pootung dock on the opposite side of the river. His given name was Ernst Hummel, but among the Silver Star rank and file, he was known as Schwarzhund, the Black Dog.
# # #
Felix throttled back the motorcycle and threaded his way through a maze of winding paths and alleys. At six foot three, wearing a tuxedo with a bullet hole, an unruly mop of shocking coppery hair and emerald eyes, he knew he had to get off the streets fast. Melting into the crowd was clearly not an option. After a dozen or so twists and turns, he stopped the bike and leaned it against a hut. He walked another couple of what passed for blocks, drawing curious stares from nearly everyone. The only way to hide a sore thumb is in a bunch of other sore thumbs.
Finally, he spotted what he was looking for and ducked inside a ramshackle three story building in the characteristic ornate style of the Chinese. Red and black lacquer peeled from the facade. Once inside, he was enveloped in thick clouds of smoke. Opium, he judged. In the den, all were equal: Asian, European, African, man or woman. Money was the equalizer here. He worked his way through several rooms, barely noted by most of the drug hazed occupants. One set of eyes did take notice, though. When he leaned over and whispered into the ear of an ancient Chinese man, a hidden door in the wall behind slid silently open, just enough to let him slip through. Down a narrow staircase, Fogarty descended several switchback flights, until finally he reached a tunnel stretching out of sight in the distance. Electric bulbs glowed dimly about every hundred feet as far as he could see. Boy, I hope nobody turns out the lights.
The staircase and the first fifty feet of the tunnel were contemporary to the building above, but beyond that it got lower and more ancient, carved by and for people nearly two feet shorter than he. Increasingly hunched in his passage, his back was beginning to ache mercilessly as he clutched the blueprints. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he reached a fork, and after a short stop to read the characters on a scrap of wood pointing down one shaft, he continued about a hundred feet, where another staircase led him back up toward street level.
Just beyond the sight line, another shadowy figure glided silently behind.
Fogarty peered through the peephole, and so far as he could tell, the coast was clear. He gingerly turned the handle and winced as the hinges squeaked while he opened the door. He stepped through and quickly closed the door behind him, strode across the room, and stepped into the main lobby of the Ecole Militaire de Shanghai. No longer a military school, it was mostly short-term boarding, and was used by AEGIS as a safe-house for agents in transit, seeking to maintain a low profile. Felix knew he had a few minutes before he expected all hell to break loose, so he ducked into the wardrobe locker to change from his tuxedo into something less conspicuous. And easier to run in. After that, he planned a short stop at the armory. He was at least going to be able to shoot back.
# # #
His pursuer had stopped at the fork in the tunnel, well aware of where it led, and equally aware that she couldn’t follow him. Instead the ebon-haired woman drifted down the tunnel and up a set of stairs that opened to an alley two blocks away. Stepping out with confidence, the lissome figure strode down the alley to the main boulevard. She was three blocks now from the edge of the Chinese City and, hailing a rickshaw, she ordered the runner to head as fast as possible to the dockside nearest the Pistris Argentum.
# # #
Slightly surprised that the building hadn’t been overrun by Silver Star agents, Felix had taken a moment to grab a sandwich from the mess hall, and was now clad in tropical-weight khaki slacks, a lightweight white shirt, and sporting a brand new pair of Superga Cotu 2750s, the newest Italian footwear fad on the local tennis courts. Perfect for running at top speed should the need arise. Topping off this ensemble was a Montecristi Panama hat. And while he hoped these changes made it less likely to attract attention in the evening, there wasn’t anything he could do about his height or hair color. Taking a huge bite out his ham and cheese, he slung the blueprint case over his shoulder, and checked the reassuring holster in the small of his back and headed out the main entrance of the Ecolé into the Shanghai night.
# # #
This seems too easy, Felix thought, but the AEGIS boy wonder hailed a pedicab nonetheless and settled into the seat. He gave the runner his destination, resting uneasily as he scrutinized every moving thing along the path. It is too easy! He’s going the wrong way. It had taken a few blocks to be certain, but he knew for sure it was not the direction he had called for. He yelled at the runner, but instead of changing course, he sped up, turning a corner and suddenly dropping the cab. He tumbled away in a crab-crawl toward the walkway. Fogarty sprang from the seat and grabbed his gun, whipping it into position to fire from a crouch. From the corner of his eye, he detected movement to his left and swung that way, slipping the safety off in the process. He saw a young Chinese boy with some sort of tube up to his mouth. It was the last thing he remembered before he blacked out.
# # #
Wherever he was, Felix wished the room would quit spinning. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton bolls, complete with the razor-like seed coatings and the weevils. That he seemed to have no control of his muscles was also worrisome.
“It’s Martian Red. We added a paralytic.”
Hmmm, female voice.
“Pretty potent drug. It will pass this time. After a second and third time...well, you won’t really care.”
A bucket of cold water was dumped on his head, which served to at least inform him of which way was up, and that he seemed to be bound to a chair. How cliché. I think I saw this in a Charlie Chan picture. The Chinese Parrot, maybe. Trying to speak resulted in an inarticulate grunt followed by a moan and then another blackout.
“He’s not ready. We’ll need to give him another hour or so before we try again.”
The Black Dog scowled, brushing away an imaginary crumb from his uniform tunic. He pulled it down, smoothing away any slight wrinkle that may have appeared. “Mr. Crowley is not a patient man. Nor is he forgiving of failure. This had better work, Song Li, and it better work soon.”
“No one has ever resisted this treatment successfully, Captain. It will work, I assure you.”
The officer deepened his scowl, turned and left the room. Well, Mr. Fogarty. It’s your head or mine, and I rather like mine right where it is.
# # #
“I trust you are feeling better, Mr. Fogarty. Oh yes, we know your name. And your mission.” Song Li’s voice was silky smooth, with hint of sensuality.
“Where am I?” Felix had a fair idea of where that might be, but he was playing for time while his vision cleared and his throbbing headache subsided.
“That really isn’t relevant, but I offer a trade. I will tell you where you are. In exchange, you tell me where you hid the blueprints you stole.”
“I didn’t steal anything. Nor did I hide anything.”
“Mr. Fogarty...”
“Please, call me Felix.”
“Very well, Felix. I am sure you realize by now that your situation is perilous, and that your life hangs in the balance.”
Slowly Felix lifted his head, flexing his neck side to side, and brought his focus to the woman befo
re him. She was black-haired, slight of figure, but alluring in a shimmering yellow cheongsam sheath dress with a lotus flower motif, which was slit down the left leg. In a word, she was a dish. Two burly guards flanked a door behind her. They wore the same uniforms and carried the same MP-18 machine guns he had seen on his assailants at the Club Lusitano, and up close he confirmed they were definitely Silver Star. She was right, his position was indeed dire.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Miss…”
“So sorry, I am Song Li. Major Song Li, most recently of the disastrous campaign of Comrade Mao Zedung. But I am a survivor, and now I serve the Silver Star. And that service requires that I recover what you…appropriated.”
“That is a lovely uniform you are wearing.”
Instantly a leather riding crop slashed across his face, drawing blood. She stepped closer and used the butt of the crop to lift his chin.
“Don’t be fooled. I can and will do what is necessary. Now, I will ask again politely. Where are the blueprints?”
Felix deliberately licked the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth and did his best to look dejected and defeated. He took a moment to make a full assessment of his situation. He was seated about eight feet from the door. Song Li was directly in front of him within arms reach, and the guards flanked the door, which meant the guy on the hinge side of the door was out of position. Crucially, though he was tied to the chair, his legs were free.
“The blueprints are lost,” he replied.
“Lost? What do you mean?”
“Burned. I burned them.”
“You what?!” She had a look of incredulity on her face. “That is ridiculous. Why would you do such a thing?”
“Simple enough. If I can’t have them, no one can.” This was a calculated risk, because if she believed him they would have no reason to keep him alive. She leaned over, placing her face inches from his own, staring intently into his eyes.