“You heard him: it’s in the icebox. We want addresses. Places they might keep an asset. Associates who do his wet work and where they might have safehouses. That should be written up, Paris Station has been following Grodescu for a long time. Give Julian a list, and he’ll go fetch more files. Won’t you?”
Tinseng raised an eyebrow at his one-time associate, one-time lover. Julian met the look with no expression of his own. The little weasel patted his shirt pocket, no doubt where he was keeping the slip of paper Tinseng had given to him as greeting, his side of the bargain. It was a short list, two columns: next to each last name Tinseng had written a single word, maybe a short phrase. Everyone had their vices, even Paris Station’s front desk men, supposedly chosen to be incorruptible. Perhaps Tinseng should feel guilty setting Julian loose on them, but after all, Whitehall had decided to recruit Julian in the first place after the DGSE would have nothing to do with him. Had, even after he kept having “accidents” in the field, kept him as a free agent in their stable for certain unpleasantness no real agent would ever touch. They had made their bed. Tinseng was simply ensuring they slept in it.
Besides, Julian had never been patient, or subtle. A smarter man would milk this blackmail for years. Jules would burn through it in two months and be right back where he started.
After a beat, Julian realized he wouldn’t get the reaction he hoped for. He let his hand drop from his pocket and reached into the pastry box instead.
“Whatever you say, boss,” he said, then stuffed half an egg tart in his mouth.
“Good.” Tinseng looked away. “Great. Have fun. Wake me in an hour.”
It was 4:00 p.m. when they left the tenement. Assuming Grodescu left around 3:00 a.m., he’d been in the city since 1:00 p.m. But even if Grodescu expected Tinseng to follow—and he must have—he wouldn’t unload Jinzhao on the first willing buyer. There were sides to play and a price to inflate. A meeting to arrange, as well, one that suited everyone’s paranoia and security and didn’t tip off the French. Although Tinseng had been wrong at almost every turn, he still believed he knew Lucas Grodescu’s character. Grodescu wasn’t the type to waste an advantage. While he wove his web and pulled in his prey, he’d stash Jinzhao away somewhere safe for the long-term. Tinseng was counting on that; property would be easier to find than a person, and a slowly unfolding plan would even out Tinseng’s time disadvantage.
With the names Cheuk-Kwan and Jules pulled from the file, Tinseng was fairly certain he knew where to look. But he only had one chance at this, so he flattened his hair with water from the sink, shoved a tartine into his mouth, then pushed Cheuk-Kwan out the door to take him to a place he shouldn’t know about, to see a man who didn’t technically exist.
A lot of bridges would be burned walking in and talking to one of the best informants in the city. It would almost certainly get back to MI6. It might even lose him the position waiting for him in Hong Kong.
“You’d get me a job if I need one, right?” he asked Cheuk-Kwan as they walked down the alley.
“Shouldn’t you be asking Laurence? His father would love to finally have you under his thumb.”
Tinseng made a sound of betrayal and shoved him. Cheuk-Kwan shoved back. Then they stood at the end of the alley in front of a door painted white. They looked at each other, a moment of silent synchronicity.
“Let me do the talking,” Tinseng warned. “If you mess this up, Jinzhao dies.”
Cheuk-Kwan didn’t argue. There was flint in his eyes Tinseng hadn’t seen since Cheuk-Kwan’s mother had died. He’d hoped to never see it again.
“Okay,” he breathed, then knocked on the door.
Inside, the smoke was so thick they could barely see the band on the raised platform at the other end of the room. It was better not to look too closely. In a place like this, in the middle of the day, the actors changed, but the roles were always the same: the barflies, the blackjack players, the strung-out girls, and the boys looking for someone to take them home—the addicted and the desperate, the low kind of humanity Tinseng always found alluring and strangely comforting. As if he were meant to be one of them and his soul knew it; perhaps like truly was always drawn to like.
The cigarette girls here weren’t pretty, but they smiled all the same. One young woman with green eyes flicked a lighter with a tall flame as soon as they approached. Tinseng took out a cigarette and cupped the girl’s hand, looking at her through his lashes.
“Merci,” he murmured, dropping a handful of new franc coins on her tray. Continuing in French, he asked, “Say, you haven’t seen Etienne, have you?”
“Not today,” she said with an exaggerated pout, “but I can keep you company if you like.”
Cigarette girls were the lowest rung in a club’s pecking order, and each girl was always angling for a seat at a booth to prove her hostess potential to the boss. Usually, Tinseng would have helped out and invited her to his table. She looked like a nice girl. But Jinzhao didn’t have time for him to be anything but ruthless.
“Well, I am a little lonely,” he pulled at the string of her desperation, “but I have to work before I can play, honey. You don’t want me getting in trouble, do you?”
“Never,” she drawled, playing along.
“Good girl.” He gave her a wink. “If Etienne isn’t here, is there someone else?” He made a show of thinking before dropping the bait. “Casimir isn’t around, is he?”
“Oh, yes, he just came in,” the girl said, eager to show off her knowledge. “He’s over there, in that far booth. But go ask Sammy at the bar if you can see him first.”
“Of course—we have to follow the rules, don’t we?” He winked again, and her giggle was good. Almost believable. “I’ll try to be back later,” he lied. He plucked up one of her matchbooks and slid it into his pocket as he walked away.
Cheuk-Kwan’s incredulous gaze burned the side of his face, but he ignored it, turning the matchbook over and over in his pocket, a fidget of anxiety where no one could see. He would give the matchbook to Jinzhao later, he told himself, a little souvenir from his misadventure.
“I heard names,” Cheuk-Kwan said after they’d bribed the bartender into letting them approach the booth. “Casimir? Etienne?”
“Local fixers. Both names listed as associates, but the file confirmed Casimir’s the one supplying Grodescu his muscle. I know Etienne, but not this other guy.”
Usually Tinseng had the luxury of time to get to know someone—how they worked, what motivated them. Instant rapport was not his strength; he was not good at fostering connections the way he could effortlessly see holes in a statement’s logic or ask just the right question to break open an interrogation. He could only hope his instincts would serve him well today.
“Hope he’s as easy to persuade as Etienne always is,” he added.
“We’ll make it worth his while,” Cheuk-Kwan said grimly, eyes focused ahead on the booth barely visible in the haze. Cheuk-Kwan looked ready for a brawl. A surge of gratitude made him bump his brother’s shoulder a little.
At the booth, Casimir and two cronies sat surrounded by fawning women. Tinseng didn’t waste time he didn’t have. He approached and laid down a stack of new franc bills, still wrapped in their bank ribbon.
“I’d like to buy five minutes of your time,” he said in his best French, pushing the money in front of the man in the cheap wrinkled suit.
“So desperate, then?” The man asked with a lisp. Tinseng noticed a scar splitting open his lip and part of his nose. The scar spoke of enemies made and choices survived. “Kicking your feet roughly, you don’t care what you disturb. Or is this supposed to impress me?”
“Neither. I’m simply an impatient man.” Tinseng showed his teeth. “Why waste good whiskey and girls on me, when that’s not what I’m here for?”
The man stroked his beard. “This is not the way things are done here, boy. You disrespect my hospitality.”
Tinseng spread his hands. “Why accept an apple when you know the core is rotten?”
“It’s a wonder you’re still alive, with this attitude.”
“Does Alonzo still hold court at the Savoy?” He angled the question at Cheuk-Kwan as he reached to take back the money. “Maybe he’ll want to make a quick score.”
