Warbound: Book Three of the Grimnoir Chronicles (31 page)

“Then it is time to move elsewhere, for we must do this.”

“Move? This is my home. I have fought for it my entire life. I will continue to do so, but I wish to understand what you are hoping to accomplish by committing suicide.”

Sullivan thought Zhao seemed like an earnest young soldier, but the Grimnoir in Asia were practically cut off from the rest of the world. They’d suffered so much already at the hands of the Imperium, it would be almost impossible to convince them that the Enemy was actually the greater threat. “Get me to this meeting, let me speak with your leader, and I’ll make him understand.”

Zhao’s shoulders sagged. “I do not think you realize how dire our situation is here in Shanghai, Mr. Sullivan . . . I am the leader.”

It didn’t matter that Sullivan couldn’t speak a lick of Chinese. Gangsters were the same everywhere, and Big Eared Du had a better stranglehold on Shanghai than Al Capone had on Chicago. His manner, the look on his face, the way he sat there, looking smug because he had something that somebody else needed and that gave him leverage, it was always the same with men like this. Du was a king, and the dark side of Shanghai was his kingdom. He ran the Yuesheng Greens, a criminal army nearly twenty thousand strong, and nothing big went down in this city without him having a piece of it.

The king’s table was the only thing illuminated in the vast space of the warehouse. There was a single powerful work lamp dangling over them. The smoke from Du’s cigar floated in the yellow light. He was skinny and oily, living up to his nickname with some stupidly big ears. And when he smiled, Sullivan counted three gold teeth.

The Grimnoir knights sat at one end of the table. The mobster and his lieutenants sat at the other. The rest of the warehouse was supposedly empty, but Sullivan didn’t even need to use his Power to know that there were men watching from the shadowed catwalks above and that there were probably rifles trained on their hearts the whole time. Somebody like Du didn’t take any chances. Sullivan wasn’t big on chances himself, so he used his Power just a bit in order to inspect the world around him, breaking everything down into its components, bits of mass, density, and forces . . .

Twenty
men, all bearing long bars of steel and wood. No less than six of those were pointed at the Grimnoir, braced against the railing of the catwalk above. One of them was particularly heavy, suggesting a machine gun. Even the two pretty ladies who kept on pouring them liquor and bringing odd oriental snacks had small guns hidden inside their skimpy dresses. Sullivan didn’t drink the booze or taste the little cakes. Gravity couldn’t sense poison. The small army of bodyguards was far enough away that they wouldn’t be able to overhear the conversation. Which was wise, considering that the subject of their meeting would be considered treasonous, even by crime-lord standards.

Poor Zhao was translating. The burdens of responsibility were heavy. He may have been young, but it was doubtful if he’d ever actually been a kid. Sullivan could see that now. He’d listened to the American’s plan, gotten the pertinent details, and hadn’t hesitated to make a call. He’d picked a direction and run. Keep him alive long enough to gain some experience, and he’d probably go on to accomplish great things. Problem was, with what they were up to, the odds of staying alive that long ranged from slim to none.

The leader of the Shanghai Grimnoir had, as far as Sullivan could tell, told Big Eared Du exactly what they needed him to. They didn’t need the big picture. They just needed to do their part. “I am afraid what you are asking is very dangerous.” Zhao scowled, listening as Du’s right hand man spat out a bunch of complaints. “Dangerous and very expensive.”

Lance looked over at Heinrich and nodded. Their Fade reached into one sleeve, untied a knot, and pulled out a long cloth bundle, which had been wrapped around his forearm. He tossed it onto the table. The left-hand man snatched it up, dragged it over, and unwrapped it. There were a whole lot of Grover Clevelands in there. Left-Hand Man started counting. He said something to his boss, which Zhao quickly translated. “The new American gold certificates. These are all a thousand dollars each.”

“Yeah, President Roosevelt is confiscating all our gold and giving us paper instead,” Lance explained. “But those are legit.” Zhao went ahead and translated that.

Du laughed and muttered something to Left-Hand Man. Zhao seemed puzzled. “He says that taking real money and giving you their paper money, which is only as good as they say it is, maybe your government and ours aren’t so different after all.”

“They’re all about the same thing,” Lance muttered. “Bossing folks around.”

Left-Hand Man finished his count and seemed pleased. Paper money still spent, and it was easier to move through Du’s gambling parlors, whorehouses, opium dens, and racetracks than sacks of gold. Left-Hand Man held up the money, and one of the serving girls snatched it up and disappeared back into the dark. Francis would never miss that much money, but on general principles, if Du sold them out, Heinrich could always walk through the walls of his safe house and get it all back.

This whole time, Sullivan could feel a gentle prickling in the side of his head. Sure enough, a man with Du’s kind of pull was bound to have a Reader on staff. They were subtle, but not good enough. They’d discussed this before, so Sullivan had made sure to concentrate on the big, obvious stuff. It would simply corroborate everything they said. Sure, if Du’s Reader wanted to push hard, he could come up with the rest, but that would tip their hand, and gangsters never liked to tip their hand when this kind of money was on the table.

Right-Hand Man had something to say. “Lots of pointless, polite thank-you about the money,” Zhao, knowing how relatively impatient Americans could be, skipped to the good stuff. “
But . . .
here it comes, the sort of distraction being asked for will cause a significant disruption in the city. Disruptions are bad for business and very costly to Mr. Du’s organization.”

“That’s half up front. The other half on the seventeenth, delivered once your diversion starts.” Sullivan waited for Zhao to catch up. “The diversion doesn’t start, we walk away and you don’t get paid.”

Right-Hand Man must have been the nuts-and-bolts guy of the operation. “And if this disruption spreads, there will be chaos. What happens if the rebels see it as an opportunity to strike against the occupiers? Shanghai could be in pandemonium for many days. Many days when nobody bets on the horses! If it is as bad as what happened in thirty-one, then the Japanese Navy could even shell the city again. If it is bad enough to get in the western newspapers, then the tourists will not come for the whores and opium anymore.”

Mobsters were all the same. Du wouldn’t have agreed to the meeting if he already didn’t have an angle on how their request benefited him. “And if it does get that bad, then I’m sure somebody as smart as Mr. Du will be able to come up with a list of things he’d love to accomplish while the police and army were too busy to watch him.” Lance said. “In fact, I’m sure many of his rivals might even have unfortunate accidents during a time of turmoil like that. And, of course, anything bad that happens was all the fault of some magical extremists.”

Du spoke for a time, forcefully and earnestly. Zhao snapped back a response without bothering to translate. Lance looked to Zhao, questioningly. Zhao sighed. “He said that his mother insists he get me a real job now that I am an orphan. I politely refused.”

It hadn’t sounded particularly polite. “Tell Du that family is very important to us as well, and once things are in motion, I’ll see to it that you, and anyone else he gives a damn about, has a ticket out of town and a good job in America waiting for them,” Lance said. “Tell Mr. Du that the Chairman killed my entire family, so I understand how Imperium retribution works. I’ll get your people out. It’s the least I can do.”

Zhao didn’t like it, but Sullivan’s gut instinct told him the kid translated it truthfully.

Du grinned, and it was an evil grin, not helped by the fact that his ears really were far too big for his narrow face, so he reminded Sullivan of a bat. “He says he has no love for the Chairman, may his unspeakable foulness rot in hell, and wishes you great success in your endeavors. The Chairman is bad for business and he is tired of the Japanese bossing everyone around and kidnapping his best-looking girls to be their pleasure women. Of course, he’s saying this with an inflection that suggests he expects we will fail miserably and die. He says that he has helped the Grimnoir before, and it is always a fair relationship. Of everyone he has worked with, at least we know how to keep a secret.”

Chapter 13

Toughest picture? I love making pictures but I don’t like talking about them. The toughest picture I ever filmed had to be Ice Patrol. Everyone knew the Captain Johnny Freeze radio program and it was John Wayne’s first big budget project. Two million bucks on the line, but everybody knows Iceboxes are big, strapping tough guys. Lots of frostbite on that set. Actives are controversial right now. The League picketed the studio, but the public sure loved John Wayne freezing Apaches. Got me more awards, not that those matter. Important thing is it paid the bills.

—John Ford,
Radio Interview,
1933

Free City of Shanghai

Yao Xiang
was sitting at his regular table at his favorite outdoor restaurant, enjoying his tea, passing the lovely afternoon watching the people of Shanghai go about their business, when a terrifying specter from his distant past and his current nightmares walked up and ruined his life all over again.

“Good afternoon,” the Iron Guard said in a completely nonchalant manner. “Do you mind if I join you?” It was not a request. Xiang’s throat was suddenly too dry to respond. The Iron Guard sat down across from him anyway.

The two men looked at each other for a time. Xiang tried not to let his terror show. The Iron Guard showed no emotion whatsoever. Xiang set his cup down. His hands were trembling so badly that the porcelain made quite a bit of rattling noise against the table before he was able to unclench his fingers to let it go. The Iron Guard was young, probably around the age Xiang’s sons would have been if any of them had survived the invasion. However, that relative youth was meaningless. The Iron Guard existed only as tools of war and conquest, and Xiang had personally witnessed the unspeakable violence this particular one was capable of.

“It has been a long time, Xiang.”

“You remember my name, much as I remember yours.” He let out a long sigh. “Have you come to finish me off, Iron Guard Toru?”

“I am no longer an Iron Guard.”

Toru was not wearing a uniform, but that did not mean anything. The Iron Guard often would dress in normal clothing in order to better blend in amongst their victims and targets. Today, Toru was dressed in a western suit coat, as was the current fashion among many of the younger Nipponese working in Shanghai. If one did not know better, they would never guess that beneath such ordinary garb was a series of magical brands that turned the bearer into a living weapon. “Please have mercy, Iron Guard.”

“My Mandarin must be out of practice. Do not call me Iron Guard. I have given up that title.”

The fear made it difficult to speak. “Yes. Of course.”

The proprietor was an old woman. She came over to see if Toru needed anything. Xiang knew that she, too, had been a refugee from the war in Manchuko, yet she was completely unaware that she was politely taking the order of one of the monsters who had ruthlessly slaughtered her relatives. Toru asked for tea.

When she was gone, Toru went back to looking at the street. Several minutes passed in silence, but Xiang did not dare to speak. Toru seemed lost in thought, watching the people come and go for a time. It gave Xiang plenty of time to contemplate all of the terrible ways that the Iron Guard would probably murder him.

“Tell me, Xiang. Are you still employed as a journalist?”

Xiang nodded. “I am the editor of the district newspaper . . . Is that what this is about? I print nothing that would offend the Imperium! I do not know what you have been told, but the censors have approved everything—”

Toru lifted one hand to silence him. The proprietor brought Toru’s drink. “Thank you.” She bowed and shuffled off. “I did not seek you out, Xiang. This was merely a fortunate coincidence.”

“I do not understand, Iron—” Xiang quickly lowered his head. “Forgive me. I do not understand what you mean.”

Toru nodded across the busy street. “I have been informed that unassuming building right over there is an office of the
Tokubetsu Koto Keisatsu
. I have come here to deliver a message to them.” Xiang looked at the indicated building, which was a rather bland office. He had no idea, but it would not surprise him. The secret police were everywhere. “I did not expect to see an old acquaintance. However, I should not say this was a fortunate coincidence . . .”

Xiang nodded. He would never dream of using the word
fortunate
.

Toru sipped the tea. “That is
excellent
.”

“Indeed. Yes it is,” Xiang agreed. Hopefully, if Toru was in a good mood, he would kill him quickly and not have him tortured or humiliated first.

“Yes. This is a sign.” The Iron Guard, for Xiang could never believe in such a thing as a
former
Iron Guard, stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Nothing happens by accident. It would appear that the ghost of my father has once again guided my path. As I said, I am here to deliver a message. You are a reporter.”

“I am an editor.”

“I do not care. Just as it has moved me, fate has placed you here for a reason. You will report what you see so that my message may be made clear. This is another sign from my father. I will tell you a story, and you will see that it is published.” Toru looked at him expectantly.

“What?”

“You should take notes. You will need to get this right.”

Zhao had only led them part of the way back down the smuggler’s tunnel when Lance spoke up. “Oh damn. Damn it all to hell.” He sounded distracted, which told Sullivan that part of his mind was occupied inside some other living thing.