Part 17 (1/2)

The American fighters suddenly banked ninety degrees and flew directly over Sunny's head, gaining alt.i.tude as they began their westward departure. The Zeroes raced behind them in chase, but in moments the American fighters had reached the outskirts of the city. Sunny knew nothing about aerial warfare, but she doubted the Zeroes could catch the Americans. At least, she hoped not.

”Those were the Flying Tigers,” Jia-Li whispered in awe when the rumble of machinery finally faded.

Stories about the elite American air squadron that fought alongside the Free Chinese had been circulating in Shanghai for months, but Sunny had never heard of anyone seeing the planes anywhere near the city.

As she looked out at the burning hull of the Conte Biancamano, she was filled with a mix of sadness-this was the s.h.i.+p that had brought Franz to her-and optimism. Still, it was proof that the j.a.panese were vulnerable even in Shanghai. Perhaps their aggression could be countered after all?

As the minutes pa.s.sed, the sirens subsided and pedestrians reappeared on the sidewalk.

Jia-Li looked at her watch. ”I am running short on time. I promised Chih-Nii I would be in early.” She cleared her throat. ”There are a . . . a number of s.h.i.+ps in port this weekend.”

Fighting off the image of drunken sailors pawing at her best friend, Sunny leaned forward and wrapped her in a hug. ”I will see you soon, bao bei.”

”And I will talk to Charlie.” Jia-Li broke into a huge smile. ”Perhaps he will reconsider now that the Americans have finally shown up in Shanghai.”

After Jia-Li left for Frenchtown, Sunny continued southward along the Bund until she reached the Old Chinese City. During the sixteenth century, the area had been surrounded by thirty-foot-high walls to protect it from raiding j.a.panese pirates. But those pirates own the city now, she thought bitterly.

Despite the Old City's reputation as a tourist trap for Westerners in search of what they believed to be ”the authentic Orient,” the bustling market had been one of her favourite places to visit with her father. Its stores and stalls were a kaleidoscope of colours and sounds, offering everything from furniture to lanterns. Artisans would sit outside their stores as they worked. Jewellers fastened pieces of jade in delicate silver settings, while tailors embroidered astonis.h.i.+ng cheongsams. Sunny used to love watching the toy makers carve gorgeous puppets from sandalwood or pine.

As Sunny stepped through the arch of the north gateway, the reality of war wiped away her nostalgia. Half the stores were boarded up or abandoned. The ones still open offered up a meagre selection of merchandise, their windows near empty. Few people were here to buy, and the once lively merchants seemed as lackl.u.s.tre as their stock. Even their sales pitches, which Sunny remembered as relentless and confident, sounded unconvincing and hollow.

Sunny hurried through the market until she reached the open square that housed the Woo Sing Ding tea house, which sat on stone pillars in the middle of a man-made lake. Two distinctive zigzag bridges connected the ornate two-hundred-year-old tea house to land on either side. She spotted Wen-Cheng sitting on a bench across from the tea house. As usual, he held a newspaper open in front of his face, but she recognized his clothing and posture. Circling the lake toward him, Sunny felt only gnawing regret.

She sat down on the far end of the bench. ”How are you today, Soon Yi?” Wen-Cheng asked from behind his paper.

”Nervous,” she replied tersely. ”Is it necessary to meet in such public places?”

His shoulders rose and fell. ”I do only as I am told.”

Although the open square wasn't particularly crowded, Sunny irrationally sensed eyes on her from every direction. ”Doesn't this . . . work . . . frighten you, Wen-Cheng?”

”It terrifies me.” He calmly turned a page. ”But it is far too late to second-guess my decision.”

”I wish I could be so philosophical.”

His lips creased into a slight smile. ”My wife, my parents, my job, the family business-they are all gone. This is much less of a gamble for me.”

”Than for me?”

”Yes.” Wen-Cheng lowered his newspaper. His eyes darted over to her. ”I have already lost everything I once held dear. Including you, Soon Yi.”

His meaning was unmistakable. Their romance had amounted to no more than a promise, but she still remembered how desperately she had once pined for him. The recollection only compounded her guilt. ”Wen-Cheng, you know that Franz and I . . .”

”I know,” he said, unperturbed. ”I am merely pointing out that I have less to lose than you do. I wish . . .” He hesitated. ”That I had never involved you.”

His tone surprised Sunny and, if she was honest, disappointed her a little, too. ”It was always my choice, Wen-Cheng. Remember? I insisted.”

A minute or two of pained silence pa.s.sed between them while Wen-Cheng continued to pretend to read. Sunny looked to her right and saw the old man in the Zhongshan suit limping slowly toward them. She wondered again how high the man ranked within the Resistance, or whether the organization even possessed that much structure or hierarchy. Did one cell within the Underground even know what the others were up to? Or did it all amount to a series of uncoordinated acts, no more damaging than fleas pestering a dog?

But Sunny held her tongue as the elderly man lowered himself creakily onto the bench between her and Wen-Cheng. He stared straight ahead at the rounded roofline of the tea house. ”What have you learned, Soon Yi?” he asked.

Sunny spoke in short bursts, her voice hushed. She told him everything Franz had shared with her about the offices of General Nogomi and Colonel Tanaka. As she held forth, the man remained still and expressionless.

”And Colonel Kubota?” he finally asked.

Sunny s.h.i.+fted in her seat. ”The colonel is no longer at Astor House. His office is inside the ghetto. On Muirhead Road.”

”Have you been there?”

”No, but my husband has,” she said, antic.i.p.ating his question. ”It's a modest s.p.a.ce on the second floor.”

”Do you believe you would be allowed inside his office?”

”I would have no reason to go there.”

The old man's nostrils whistled as he exhaled. ”Surely you can find a reason.”

”I . . . I do not see the point.” Sunny turned toward the man, but his gaze did not s.h.i.+ft. ”Colonel Kubota is no longer in his previous job. He has suffered a stroke. He has been demoted. Overseeing the Jewish refugees is a far lesser role.”

”Soon Yi speaks the truth,” Wen-Cheng said quietly. ”The colonel is not the man he once was.”

”That is none of your concern,” the old man said, unmoved.

Sunny sat up straighter. ”Are you aware that the colonel risked his life and his career to save the Jewish refugees-including my husband and stepdaughter-from extermination?”

The man showed no response. His eyelids drooped as though he might nod off in the middle of the conversation. Finally, he said, ”Are you aware, Soon Yi, that Colonel Kubota lived in Shanghai among us for ten years, all the while pretending to be our friend and advocate?”

His voice was calm, but Sunny sensed rage behind his words. ”No, I was not-”

”Do you know, too, that the colonel won our trust for no other purpose than to infiltrate our government and lay the groundwork for Shanghai's downfall?”

But he saved my family, Sunny thought.

”I ask you again, Soon Yi,” the man said, his tone turning to stone. ”Can you get inside his office?”

CHAPTER 25.

The soldiers arrived at the hospital unannounced and insisted that Franz accompany them to Colonel Kubota's office. Franz had no idea what had prompted the summons but was nonetheless eager for the opportunity to speak to Kubota again. Refugees were dying daily from cholera, typhoid fever and other diseases that could have been treated with basic supplies such as intravenous fluid. The day before, a young father had died of a ruptured appendix. Franz had been unable to operate; they had waited in vain for anaesthetic that Joey's black market contact had promised but never delivered.

Franz stepped into the colonel's office intending to appeal to Kubota's sense of compa.s.sion. But his plans evaporated when he spotted the others in the room.

Kubota sat behind his desk, resignation carved into his weary face. Ghoya paced between the desk and the window. But it was the sight of the man on the far side of the room, who stood with arms folded across chest, that froze Franz's blood.

”Thank you for coming, Dr. Adler,” Kubota said with his usual politeness. ”You remember Colonel Tanaka?”