Xiao Bai - French Concession

He was clearly her enemy. He must have drawn the police there. Perhaps he was an informer. But she could not imagine how he could have found the meeting point on Rue Amiral Bayle unless he had seen her leave the safe house. They had been right, then, when they told her she was instantly recognizable. She had to get in touch with Ku. This was an emergency, and she must report it to the cell right away.

The next longtang led to Rue Lafayette. She stepped out of the longtang and waited impatiently for the Vietnamese policeman to turn the sign so she could cross the street. A fence painted black stood beneath the parasol tree, and behind it she could see the shrubbery inside the Koukaza Gardens, the sunlight glittering on grass behind the wooden lattice gates. The telephone booth lay to the west of the gates.

Two gangs of French urchins were fighting for control of the booth. When its hinged door swung into one tousled blond head, the boy collapsed next to the telephone booth, and the children scattered immediately. The old man who sold telephone tokens sat inside the booth, observing them impassively.

Only when Leng walked right up to the booth did the fallen warrior let out a loud cry, leap up, and scamper in the direction of the park gates.

The street was quiet, except for the breeze rustling the leaves of the parasol tree. Leng had no money. She had not brought her handbag, and she did not have a single cent on her.

Later, Hsueh would tell her that she had been standing in the telephone booth looking frantic, like a bird trapped in a cage.

And there he was, smiling through the windows of the telephone booth, just as he had smiled at her not too long ago at Wu-sung-k’ou, when the early morning sun was shining and there was a breeze on deck.

“I saw you on the ship.”

He opened the spring-hinged door, poking his head in to speak to her.

Leng thought it best to deny this. “What ship? I don’t know you.”

“Sure you don’t. But I can give you this.”

He retracted his head and held a telephone token against the window with his finger, making it slide up and down the glass.

She swung the door open and walked out. Yesterday’s dew hung on the thick beams of the fence. He cut her off at the gate.

“Who are you and why are you following me?” Leng said loudly while a couple two feet away walked into the park, one after another. The young man turned to look at her, unmoved. Clearly he had his own troubles and no time for anyone else’s, or why would he be in the park so early in the morning? Leng caught a glimpse of a red tassel out of the corner of her eye. The Vietnamese policeman was standing at a pavilion by the gate and yawning. The sunlight glinted off the wet grass roof of the wood and brick Romanesque pavilion. The policeman took an interest in them and began to meander over.

She panicked. Should she scream? Her photograph was in all the newspapers. In fact, it was probably in the police files and pinned on the wall of the police station with photos of all the other suspects. She turned around and walked into the park. She was furious that they hadn’t given her a pistol. If she had one, she would shoot him dead right now, she fumed.

It was a Sunday, and the park was bustling with visitors. She paid no attention to the people strolling about; it was the policemen she was worried about. The Vietnamese and Chinese policemen kept appearing from the wide path that ran north-south through the park, and a small policeman rode along on horseback, fully armed. His line of sight stretched from the south to the north gate of the park.

And the man was still walking two steps behind her.

JUNE 14, YEAR 20 OF THE REPUBLIC.

10:12 A.M.

Hsueh did not lack the imagination that Sarly was always saying a good agent had to have. Not that Sarly gave him much advice about intelligence work when they met that afternoon. He was nostalgic for the war, for muddy trenches, for the smell of burned grass mingled with the deep earthy scent of the fields after rain. So he spent most of the afternoon reminiscing about the trenches and his friendship with Hsueh’s father, whom he referred to as Pierre, and whose photographs lay on the table. Anything I do for you, I’m doing for Pierre (may he rest in peace), he said. The Concession Police always needs new blood, and of course — Lieutenant Sarly had always valued patrilineage — you are French.

“To be a good agent, you must use your imagination,” said Lieutenant Sarly. “The facts won’t just present themselves to you — all you’ve got are a couple of clues and your imagination. The sergeants each have dozens of agents working under them, and the inspectors have even bigger teams. But you will be different. You’ll report directly to me.”

He had been terrified when Therese pointed her pistol at him that day, and had consequently told her a boatload of lies. In retrospect, he realized that a woman who sold explosives to Communists and the Green Gang could not possibly have been fooled by his amateurish excuses. That night he began to suspect it was only a matter of time before someone blew his cover. Therese would question Mr. Ku the way she had questioned him, and between them they would soon work out that Hsueh had been causing trouble for them. Then they would come for him. They could batter the door down while he was fast asleep, they could ambush him at the end of a dark alley, they could even surprise him in the steamy public baths, and hold his head under the hot murky water to drown him.

In the middle of the night, he suddenly broke out in a cold sweat. He began to figure how much time he had left to escape. Therese would tell Zung about her suspicions, and then, like a zigzagging billiard ball, this story about an inquisitive young good-for-nothing would reach the ears of the two young men he followed in the cab, and Mr. Ku himself.

On the other hand, things were also going well for him now that he had become a police investigator with secret privileges. He was anxious to prove himself. Lieutenant Sarly wanted him to locate the dark longtang to which he had followed a Hong Kong businessman and a couple of other men, who then suddenly disappeared.

He used to make up stories to satisfy Inspector Maron, tell him whatever he thought he could get away with. But Hsueh was moved by Lieutenant Sarly’s determination to honor his friendship with Hsueh’s father, and he agreed to take a police squad to the apartment on Rue Amiral Bayle. When Maron started mobilizing his men, however, Hsueh began to have second thoughts. He still held a grudge against Maron, and he didn’t want him getting all the credit for this case. He was gratified to realize that he would not be able to pinpoint the exact location of the apartment anyway, since all the longtangs on that street looked more or less the same.

Early that morning, he paced back and forth from one end of Rue Amiral Bayle to the other. Even the ordinarily composed Inspector Maron grew impatient. He had a few of his men set up a roadblock and frisk pedestrians. This was an old police trick: turn up the heat and flush out anyone who looks nervous.

He saw the woman stop in her tracks. A young man in a white linen suit was waiting by the police roadblock. Hsueh recognized him immediately as his old friend from Bendigo.

When chaos broke out, the woman did not stop to find out what was happening like other people on the street. She turned and began to walk away quickly, slipping past the police blockade. She tried to follow the young man, and he watched her lose her mark.