The man moved fast for someone so clearly drunk, setting his hand on top of the stack before Tinseng could pull it away. “I didn’t say I wasn’t interested.”
Tinseng placed his hands on the table and leaned forward. “So earn it.”
“Tell me what all the fuss is about, then.”
“Something hot. A lot of men needed quickly. A telegram early this morning, perhaps from Barcelona.”
“I see.” Casimir laughed and leaned back against the creaking leather. “You’re a poodle picking a fight with a panther. I do not make a habit of getting on the bad side of panthers.”
Agitation hummed under his skin. He shoved it down. Patience, Tinseng reminded himself. “All I need is an address. A neighborhood, even. If I’m caught, who knows how I got that information? It could have been a hundred ways.” He set down another stack of money. “If I succeed, you won’t have to worry about that particular panther anymore. His absence might leave some interesting opportunities for growth.”
“Hmm.” The man took a sip of his drink, taking his time. Tinseng dug his nails into his palm and kept his face placid. “I may have heard something this afternoon.” His eyes flickered to the money. Tinseng sighed and added a third stack. Casimir reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small notebook and pencil. He scribbled down an address and set it on the table, a finger pinning it down. Tinseng lifted his hand off the cash and picked up the torn paper.
“Now, if you don’t mind,” Casimir said, “You’re ruining my aperitif and you’re blocking my view of the band. You can find your way to the door.”
Tinseng turned to leave, his hand on Cheuk-Kwan’s shoulder.
“Hey.” For the first time Cheuk-Kwan spoke. He had to use English, not able to follow the French. “Your piano needs tuning,” he told Casimir, clearly needing to get in a parting shot. “And your trumpet player’s shit.”
“Eh? Qu’a t’il dit?” Casimir asked the crony next to him.
A laugh tripped out of Tinseng, as startled as anyone else by his brother’s recklessness but delighted in it. “He really is,” he agreed, still laughing, hurrying them away before they were thrown out.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Two Days Ago. June 23, 1963. Paris, France.
Telling his brother the truth about Jinzhao had been a risk, but he was glad now he’d done it. Partially, he was pleasantly surprised at how well Cheuk-Kwan adapted to the situation. Straightforward action seemed to suit him, to bring out a side of him Tinseng hadn’t seen since they’d been back in Yichang. They hadn’t felt this close in years. Mostly, though, he was glad because he had no idea how he would have explained this next part.
The address led them down, in the way every city had an up and a down; not in geography but in atmosphere, the compass of acceptable and criminal, acknowledged and invisible, contributor and burden. Down they drove until they were deposited into an industrial stretch dotted with evidence of becoming a new immigrant neighborhood. A few restaurants, snatches of language as they scouted the area, the occasional flag hung in a window—it all spoke of something new emerging from old soil. Of writing to neighbors and cousins telling them to make the journey, there was something here for them: a job or a bed or a nice single boy with a grocer’s salary. The threadbare hope of leaving home and praying what awaited you would be better. Tinseng thought of fleeing China for Hong Kong, leaving Hong Kong for Paris. They would have to fight, the quiet residents of this new community. He wished them more luck than he’d had. But they’d have help tonight. Rotten things should be excised. He was only too happy to cut it clean.
So then it was only a matter of staking out the place. The building itself was a standalone three-story on the corner. There were flats on the second and third floors; they watched an elderly couple enter, and a woman in her thirties leave. The first floor was their target. In the window hung a sign marking it as the satellite location of a construction company. A man left from the front door to smoke a cigarette. Tinseng watched, cataloging everything he could; he had been trained in this a little, though it was never his area of expertise. Thankfully, these men were hardly government-trained. They were hired muscle barely able to think past their noses. Tinseng hadn’t been able to help scoffing as they’d scouted around the building earlier; even Cheuk-Kwan had said under his breath, “Not very careful, are they?” when they’d noticed the blinds half-drawn on a window. Watching the man now, he saw no sign of intelligence; he looked like one of his punches could knock Tinseng out cold, but they probably wouldn’t be discussing Nietzsche. The man threw his cigarette on the ground, scrubbed his hand over his shaved head, and walked back inside.
Around the back, there were concrete stairs in the back leading down to a cellar. In all, they would have to cover the first floor and basement, two exits, four windows. From the half-drawn blinds they caught sight of their smoker and another man in gray slacks and a vest. Two on the first floor, possibly more. An unknown number in the basement. So many unknowns. No one would call this an ideal situation. In one of those, he would have a team watch this spot for days to learn their patterns, ready to intercept if they tried to move the asset. Tinseng didn’t have a team, or time. This would have to be a smash and grab.
“You cover the back,” Tinseng murmured from their spot across the street. “I’m going in the front.”
“No fucking way,” Cheuk-Kwan protested. “I’m coming with you.”
“And if they hustle Jinzhao out of the cellar door we saw?”
“So we both go in the front, I rush the basement, and you sweep the first floor.”
Tinseng tried not to lose his patience. “We don’t have time to argue. I wouldn’t tell you how to diagnose a patient. You have to listen to me on this. I know what I’m doing.” He didn’t, not really, but Cheuk-Kwan didn’t need to know that.
They glared at each other until Cheuk-Kwan ground out, “I hate your plan.”
“Got a better one?”
Cheuk-Kwan’s mulish silence answered for him. Tinseng handed him a Walther PPK from the canvas bag Julian had supplied them with.
“Don’t use this unless you absolutely have to; I don’t know how clean it is.” Jules would find it hilarious to use a dirty gun to connect two unrelated crimes; he liked playing those kinds of games with the police. But Jules was going to get caught one day—wanted to be caught some day—and Tinseng planned to stay a free man.
There were a few other details to cover: code words, when to flee, rendezvous points, how to reach Yukying if they were blown. Then Tinseng ran out of ways to ensure Cheuk-Kwan came out of this alive, and all he had left was to stand and watch as his brother walked away with his precious heart beating in his chest. He hated his plan too. But it had to be done.
Gripping the duffel tightly, Tinseng put his brother out of his mind. He counted to 200 slowly as they’d agreed—three minutes for Cheuk-Kwan to walk around back and situate himself. Then Tinseng started in on the door. Amateurs, he scoffed to himself as he examined the lock: He could kick it down if he really wanted, but he preferred the element of surprise and so set to work with the lockpicks Julian had packed. This must be a temporary spot, not usually used to keep assets. Grodescu probably didn’t trade in human assets often; it was far messier than paper or film. They’d gotten lucky catching the man so unprepared. He thanked gods he didn’t believe in that Grodescu had to rush this job, then thanked himself for being the reason Grodescu was worried. After a minute’s tense labor, the lock clicked.
Tinseng put away the tools and pulled out his knife. He checked the street one last time then slowly turned the handle and moved inside like slow-rolling smoke.
He’d be like fire tonight—the kind that sparked while the family slept. He’d spread from room to room, silent and unforgiving, and then he’d kill them all in their beds.
A flash of a knife in the dark made quick work of the man on guard at the front, dead before he could stand from his stool. Tinseng caught the body and guided it to the floor. From his crouch, he took in the rest of the layout. There was a doorway with a hanging curtain separating the storefront from the back room; music from the radio drifted out from the other side.
Tinseng slipped off his shoes and tiptoed to the curtain. In the sliver between the fabric, Tinseng saw a man at the table, head down, more interested in his dinner than his job or his life. Tinseng used came up silently from behind to cover the man’s mouth and slit his throat deep enough to turn his scream into a gurgle.
Tinseng watched the body long enough to ensure he wouldn’t catch a nasty ambush later. Distantly, he hoped Cheuk-Kwan never saw this. But standing here, at a table with a dread feast and no witnesses to watch him gorge, he wondered if this wasn’t who he was always supposed to be. It was what they’d wanted him to become, certainly. Their bright future for him: a war for the soul of the world, with men in faraway rooms telling nobodies like him to pull the trigger. “For queen and country,” they had liked to say, but Tinseng was reminded of another mantra: “the most farsighted, the most self-sacrificing, the most resolute.”
A raised voice from the street brought him back. There was no reason to think of either side anymore. He was on his own side with Jinzhao, whose voice whispered in his mind: He who attains to sincerity chooses the good and firmly holds it fast.
He walked over to the basement door and took a deep breath. He thought about getting Cheuk-Kwan, then thought about Cheuk-Kwan walking past two dead bodies. Just him, then, but that was okay. Whatever lurked down there, he would handle it. He slid his gun from its holster and hoped Jinzhao could forgive him for not choosing the good.
He opened the door to darkness. Only the dimmest light illuminated the depth of the basement. There was a light switch at the top of the stairs. Perfect, he thought, and flipped on the lights to blind the men sitting in the dark. With his knife and gun held one over the other, he surged down the stairs.
“Que t’a-t-on dit sur le fait d’éteindre la lumière?” A man snapped, expecting one of his companions. Then he saw Tinseng. “Ey, who—”
Tinseng threw the knife first, catching the man reaching for the gun on the table. A second man, the speaker, scrambled for the gun in his holster, but Tinseng shot him. The bullet caught the arm. Tinseng shot again and got him through the chest. The man swayed, then fell.
The first man had recovered from the knife in his shoulder and shot at Tinseng. Tinseng dodged as air stirred next to his head. He ran forward, shooting as he charged. The man flinched, not expecting his attacker to run at him. The hesitation cost his life: Tinseng shot twice in a row and hit once. One was enough.
