“Yes, and it didn’t make much sense, but—”
“It could be hours before Tinseng returns,” Shan Dao said. There was a strange look in his eyes.
“But it’s nearly one,” she said, checking her watch, “And he said he’d be back by then.”
“When is Tinseng ever on time?”
“That’s true.”
“I will wait up for Tinseng and inform him the moment he’s returned. Please,” he said, “What was the message?”
She swallowed and tried to organize her thoughts. “It didn’t make any sense after what we heard today. But, oh, Shan Dao! He knew we followed him. I don’t know if he knew all along, or when he might have seen us. And then what he said didn’t match what we’d heard. So I’m not sure if he’s trying to cover his tracks now.”
Shan Dao sat listening, unmoving.
She wrung her hands and said, “He wanted me to tell you he knows who you are, and that he knows how your mother did it. And he’s leaving for Paris tonight, and that if you don’t want Tinseng’s name added to a poem, you’ll meet him there. But it doesn’t make any sense—what does your mother have to do with it? And he called me a seditionist, I don’t . . . oh, Shan Dao. Shan Dao?” She stood and clasped his shoulder. “Are you all right? Do you need a doctor? Should I get Cheuk-Kwan?”
His no was a shocking clap of thunder. Between her blinks the storm disappeared, and his face was expressionless again, but it was too late; she could still see his expression like an after-image. She took a step back. For the second time that night, she felt terror, but this had a different name than the acrid, stinking fear from earlier. This was wild fear, untamed fear: What could make a man like Shan Dao look this afraid?
Grodescu’s mockery came back to her: just a translator and a tutor. And you believe them?
“What’s going on?” Her heart was in her throat, but she tried to channel her father at his calmest. “Shan Dao, please tell me.”
But Shan Dao had stood and looked down at her with terrifying intensity.
“Do you love Tinseng?” he asked.
“He’s my brother,” she replied, confused. “I—”
“Would you do anything for him?”
Her stomach dropped. “Shan Dao . . .”
“Would you?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Then you understand. It can’t be him. Or you. I won’t allow it.”
“I don’t understand,” she protested, scared of what she saw in Shan Dao’s face.
“You will.” He turned away. “I’m sorry. Tell Tinseng I understand why my father helped her now.”
“Why who—”
—and then the world went black.
6 “I would not miss the timing.”
7 To charge in without any thought to bodily risk.
8 For someone to be nitpicky—to care about some minor detail instead of the bigger picture.
9 “You are proud of something shameful, instead of being ashamed.”
10 “Turn your weapons of war into gifts of jade.”
PART FIVE
TOWN WITHOUT PITY
CHAPTER TWELVE
Two Days Ago. June 23, 1963. Barcelona, Spain.
Any real operative would have noticed the body first.
But his emotions had always kept him from promotion, and his thoughts as he entered the room were solely on Jinzhao, whose company he’d been eager for, his anticipation for their reunion a low fire he’d kept stoked as he’d danced with strangers through the night. Grodescu hadn’t followed or sent anyone for them, and after a bottle of champagne and seeing his brother on the dance floor, Tinseng had started to feel good. He’d anticipated their enemy, outfoxed him even. The game was still his to win or lose. As they’d walked back, far past 1:00 a.m., he’d placed bets with himself whether Jinzhao had waited up for him. He’d been eager to find out the answer.
The lack of Jinzhao waiting up—that was the first thing he noticed. The room was oddly empty, or so he thought until he approached the bed. A figure had been placed there, unnaturally slumped like a thrown doll. In the shadows it could have been anyone. Tinseng placed his hand on the switchblade in his pocket and approached slowly. He recognized her then—how could he not? Her hair glistened dark and wet, too thick to be water from the shower.
“Yukying!” As he propped her up, her head lolled and left a red smear against the pillow. “Yukying, wake up.” He needed her to wake up. “Yukying,” he tried again, shaking a little harder. Finally she stirred.
“Yingtung?” Her voice slurred as she blinked awake.
“No, jiejie, it’s me. Tinseng.”
“A-Seng,” she breathed, smiling even now. Smiling for him, the one who deserved it least in all the world.
