Xiao Bai - French Concession

He didn’t dare to kick up a fuss. He knew Ku had a gun. He couldn’t see Ku’s hands, which were under the table. But he thought he could see his right arm moving, reaching under his linen shirt for something. He felt bloated — the dumplings had been far too oily — and there was something stuck in his throat. He tried to burp but couldn’t. He picked up his teacup, and put it down again. He had better pretend he didn’t recognize the man, he thought. But he knew he looked flustered, and he was no good at pretending. Ku would have seen him by now.

Li got up and hurried down the stairs. The waiter waved to him, and he waved back irritably — why not wave at someone else, like the man who terrified him, and detain him to give Li time to escape? He didn’t look around. He had neither the time nor the nerve. He rushed out of the teahouse and toward a narrow street on his left. The streets were almost empty. The gamblers who’d gotten there early would be on the northern end of Race Course Road, near the stables on Mohawk Road. There were several men clustered outside the public toilets in the middle of the road, so he raced into the toilets. At the door he turned to look back, and saw Ku standing outside the teahouse, looking toward the northern end of the road. He hid inside the toilets, and thought: I’m safe. His stomach ached. He opened the door to a cubicle, undid his pants, and squatted down. His heart was racing. He couldn’t shit. He kept farting. His blood ran cold.

He didn’t hear the footsteps. But suddenly someone opened the door to the cubicle, and he was blinded by light. He looked up and wanted to smile at him, but he couldn’t force a smile. He saw the knife flash, and felt something cold on his neck, as if a gust of wind were blowing straight into his lungs. He couldn’t say a thing. He saw his own blood drip onto his clothes, and onto the pants that hung around his knees. His hands relaxed, his legs crumbled, and his pants dropped all the way to his ankles. He could hear the coins jingle in them, and he only had one thought: the coins are there and I haven’t used them, so it’s still my lucky day.

The moment before he died, he recognized a familiar smell, the smell on those coins, Peach Girl’s smell. He saw a streak of gray glide past him, and thought, that’s my horse.

JULY 14, YEAR 20 OF THE REPUBLIC.

10:35 A.M.

Ku’s greatest fear had come true. He didn’t like what they were saying about him. Whatever he was, he was not an imposter. He was especially irritated by a passage in which he was said to have been caught in bed with a whore and leaped out of bed naked, when he knew he had been wearing briefs. It was Hsueh who infuriated him. He had played fair, hadn’t had him killed, and the next thing he knew, that sneak was writing about him in the papers and conniving with Lin to lure all his best people away. Those young people were the boldest operatives he had; they never left a job unfinished. Hsueh must be an undercover detective. As soon as this operation was over, he would have to be executed as an enemy of the revolution.

Ku had deliberately left the diagram on the table at the candle store. As soon as he had gotten back to the store, he had realized something was up. The three people scheduled to meet there hadn’t arrived, and they were all members of Lin’s unit. He didn’t know what the threat to them was, but the candle store was no longer safe. He ordered them all to leave. He made a sign to Park to strangle Leng, so that the neighbors wouldn’t hear a struggle. Leng had already betrayed the cell, and her presence would only endanger them. It would be best for Hsueh to think that Therese had killed her. He had originally spared Hsueh because he thought the bastard might come in useful in the future. But Hsueh too could no longer be trusted, and anyone who wasn’t going to be useful to the cell and could even harm it would have to be eliminated.

He sat in Morris Teahouse, reading the newspaper article. It made him so mad he almost lost it right there. He pressed his hands into his thighs and thought, take a deep breath. But no sooner had he calmed down than he saw that accursed reporter. He could tell the man had recognized him. What a day, one damn thing after another. He could feel anger welling up in him as he saw the idiot try to slink away.

He couldn’t just let him go. An operation was about to take place, and nothing could be allowed to disrupt it.

He finished the man off in the toilet. No one noticed. He shut the low cubicle door gently, and reached over the top of the door to lock it. His clothes were spotless — it had been a clean death. He decided not to go back to the teahouse.

Mohawk Road was crowded. The first pack of racehorses had already been led across the road and into the Race Course via a special entrance. Long lines had formed in front of the ticket offices, and Sikh policemen were patrolling the road nervously. The crowd parted narrowly to let the mounted police through. It was hot, and everywhere there were thinly clad men clutching their wallets to their bellies, to forestall pickpockets.

He went into Te-fu Alley. There was a large field with stables at the end of the alley. He had arranged to rent a stable there months ago, claiming to be a horse dealer from Chang-chia-k’o. The stables were on the first floor of the building, and there were offices upstairs. The whole place was walled off.

Park was sitting at the entrance to the first stall, with a Mauser rifle in his hands.

They were short a few people, but he decided to go ahead anyway. A roar to the east meant the first race had started. A sudden hush followed, as though the earth itself was holding its breath, and the crowd was leaning forward so that their voices became a thin stream of air that melted into the quiet. Then another wave of cheers broke. The winning horse must be making its final dash.

It’s now or never, he thought. From now on, he would be notorious and everyone would be afraid of him. Not only did the Race Course swallow huge sums of cash, it was an image of the concessions in its power, wealth, and thirst for money. It was at the heart of the concessions — it was the heart of the concessions. Today he was going to explode this heart and send the concessions into shock. The weapons he had bought from the White Russian woman were crucial to this plan. The way they penetrated their targets was a perfect metaphor for how he planned to penetrate his target and blow it to pieces.

He checked the stables to make sure that there wasn’t a single copy of that day’s paper lying around. Finding a radio in a corner, he opened the back and pulled out the thickest vacuum tube. The photographer was sitting on the sofa, with his camera and tripod lying on the floor. He nodded at the guard.

He breathed deeply and waited.

By three o’clock, it was scorching hot. Ku had asked Park to leave the truck on the corner of Rue Wagner and Rue Vouillemont. At two in the afternoon, he had heard the blast of explosions and gunfire coming from the direction of Boulevard de Montigny, to the east. The planned sham attack was already under way. He had a few people making a stir at the National Industrial Bank on Rue du Consulat. All the policemen in the French Concession would rush there, and Boulevard de Montigny would be completely barricaded. But the gunfire soon stopped. He cursed Hsueh and Lin for taking his best people — the ones he had left were worthless.

At a quarter to three, he saw a motorcade drive past. The two trucks on the end of the motorcade carried French soldiers in wide-brimmed helmets and short-sleeved military uniforms with leggings, bugles of all kinds in their hands. These soldiers were on their way to the Koukaza Gardens for the review of troops. The motorcade would be full of prominent Concession figures. They were heading to the Race Course to see the final and most important race, which would begin at three thirty. The consul, the directors of the Municipal Office, and the commanding officer of the Indo-Chinese troops would all be there for the Champagne Stakes, in the VIP box. At least he hoped they would all be there, so that his message would be unmistakable to them all: he, Ku Fu-kuang, was in Shanghai!