Disappearing on the street in Shanghai.
Previously in the novel: Leon, a novice mercenary, is foiled in kidnapping the Archbishop of Canterbury by a mysterious man in black. The man in black turns out to be David, better known as Edward the Prince of Wales. Soon to join the world of espionage is Wallis Spencer, an up-and-coming Baltimore socialite. David seduces a diplomat’s wife on a slow boat to China.
On a lower deck of the HMS Wyndemere Leon began to rouse from his sleep. By 1925 he had been on many missions for the organization but this was his first voyage to the Far East. He kept focused on creating memories to share with his mother. He could not tell anyone else in the village about his job, not even old Joe. Nor could he keep a journal of his travels. If anyone from the organization discovered he had a written record, no matter how inconsequential, he would be summarily executed. He smiled at the absurdity of it. He never knew anything to write down. For this assignment he found the necessary tickets in a pot outside his front door. First a ticket from Nassau to Panama and another from Panama to Shanghai. In China he would receive further instructions. What or from whom he did not know.
Leon glanced in the mirror and was not pleased. He looked like a clean respectable beach boy from the Bahamas, a step up from a scruffy young fisherman walking home after a long hard day on the boat in the Caribbean. Leon wanted the appearance of one of those mysterious men dressed in white linen suits, who lingered in the corners of the Nassau casinos puffing on imported cigarettes.
He could not chastise himself too much. Leon provided well for his mother and sisters. They didn’t have to be servants any more. His bank account was growing. He could afford a proper home. He had even taken a wife, a girl he had known all his life. She had laughed with him as they played in the surf. She cried with him when his father died. And now she was bearing his first child. His life of sin had been good to him. But he still wanted a white linen suit.
A day later HMS Wyndemere landed in Shanghai. A buzz from the gang plank at the other end of the liner drew his attention. Photographers held high flash powder trays and set them off at a slender elegantly dressed young man, posing at the bottom of the plank with a cigarette between his fingers. Leon looked away at the street to see a rickshaw with a coolie standing in front holding a sign, “Eleuthera.”
He walked to it, climbed in without a word, and endured a short, choppy ride to a hotel, a more respectable hotel than he was used to. That evening he ate in the proper dining room. Next to him were two older British gentlemen who had drunk more brandy than they should.
“Ambassador Chatsworth landed today,” one of them said.
“Is that so, Geoffrey?” the second replied, choking on his snifter. “What in the deuce is he doing here?”
“It’s that Shanghai Massacre mess last month.”
“Oh yes. The embassy mucked that up, didn’t they?”
“Yes, the embassy chief should be sacked,” Geoffrey announced.
“Wouldn’t that be admitting culpability? The King can’t have that, Liam.”
“I suppose you’re right, but it’s a bloody mess if you ask me.”
“You know who must be chortling over this? The damned opium overlords. As long as the government is in disarray they can do as they bloody damned please.”
Leon wiped his lips with a napkin and pushed away his plate. Perhaps that was why he was in Shanghai, to assassinate the British embassy chief to ensure continued political confusion. The waiter presented his check and moved on. Leon didn’t even look at him. When he examined the total he noticed in small letters at the bottom: “tomorrow noon marketplace.”
The sun was overhead and insufferably hot as Leon entered the bazaar. He wandered about looking at useless merchandise. The stuff sold in Freeport was better made and sold at cheaper prices. One show that caught his attention was a belly dancer. From what he could tell, under all that makeup was a Caucasian woman, skinny and not all that pretty. But she could move her hips and balance a sword on her head.
“Sir, sir,” a voice called to him. “Over here. Finest wood carvings from the Bahamas.”
Leon recognized the cue aimed at him. A toothless Chinese man extended a statue of a naked man and woman embracing. The man was too skinny and the woman’s bosom was too large. Leon waved it away, but the man pulled him closer.
“Look, look. See? Much better.”
As Leon regarded the rest of the merchandise the man slipped a small revolver in his pocket. He jerked away and walked behind a tall stack of Indian rugs. Slowly pulling the gun from his pocket, Leon read the note which stuck out of the barrel:
“Short fat bald white man in linen suit.”
This would be the day he would die. Leon knew there was no way to shoot a man in a crowded open space and escape unscathed. He hoped, at least, his mother would be properly compensated. Leon chose not to dwell upon his fate but rather chose to do his job well.
A clamor arose across the marketplace. He walked fast and with determination toward it. As Leon pushed his way through the crowd he spotted a short, fat, bald, white man in a linen suit. From the whispers around him, Leon realized this was the British embassy chief who had ordered the attack on the Shanghai students. The idle chatter he heard over dinner had been correct. With a deep breath, Leon pulled his revolver and took careful aim.
Out of nowhere a hand swooped down, knocking his gun away. An elderly Chinese man pushed him back into the crowd before storming toward the ambassador. The old man shouted a gibberish, a mishmash of Chinese dialects. The old angry man got close enough to spit on the official’s face.
“Look! Look! “A voice erupted from the crowd. “Man with gun! Look! Look!” People pointed in Leon’s direction.
The old Chinese man rushed Leon, pushing him away. “No complications!” the old man muttered.
Leon recognized the voice from years before. It wasn’t an old Chinese man. He was the man from Canterbury Castle. What was he doing there?
Police whistles blew. Uniformed Shanghai officers chased after them. As they ran by the belly dancer, she let her sword skip along the cobbled market place, causing the crowd to scatter, blocking the approach of the police.
The man grabbed the gun from Leon. “You don’t need that,” he grunted, pushing Leon down a narrow alley while he raced down the main thoroughfare.
Leon hid in the shadows and watched the man start taking off bits of his disguise until he revealed the persona of an ordinary British tourist, who leaned against a wall and lit a cigarette to watch the police run past.
That night Leon sat in the hotel dining room wondering how he would he get home. As usual his first tickets were one way. The room had been paid for one night. After he paid, he had no more cash on him. Leon berated himself for still thinking of himself as a street thug who mindlessly killed people so he could afford his next meal. He had money. He did not have to live like that anymore. He should learn to bring his own money on his assignments to deal with situations like this. A young Chinese woman dressed in a short dress flounced up and sat next to him.
“Hey, pretty boy. I give you good time.” Her hand went under the table and shoved a thick envelope between his legs.
The maître d arrived. “Excuse me, sir. She’s on her way out.”
She quickly leaned in to whisper in a completely different voice, “He’s dead. Good job.”
After the maître d dragged her off. Leon looked inside the envelope which included ship passage home and a huge stack of cash which he prudently chose not to count at that moment.