Foul Lady Fortune

In the morning, Rosalind stirred her coffee tiredly, poking her nose around the break room cupboards. She spotted a carton of milk near the back, but it took only one sniff to know it was sour. Yuck. Only Westerners were going to change these out, and there weren’t enough of them here to use the communal spaces. At least the office provided milk to begin with. She gathered that most of her Chinese and Japanese colleagues weren’t accustomed to drinking it like she was, pouring a generous dollop into her coffee every morning as a pretentious Parisian twelve-year-old. Tea leaves, on the other hand, were well stocked in every cupboard, from fresh tins to freeze-dried packets.

With a grimace, she dumped the sour milk into the sink. The liquid swirled and swirled, draining down the metal basin. Rosalind would have wasted another minute merely staring at the hypnotic motion if she had not heard footsteps heading her way. She tossed the carton. Turned around with a completely changed demeanor, then picked up her mug, taking a sip right as Alisa Montagova walked in.

“Hello,” Rosalind greeted cheerily.

Alisa stopped in her step. She glanced over her shoulder, a look of utter fear crossing her face. “What?”

“I was saying hello. I cannot say hello?”

“Not like that. What happened?”

Rosalind supposed there was no point beating around the bush about it. “Did you tell your superiors that I had a copy of your file?”

“No, of course not,” Alisa answered at once, reaching to open a cupboard. She fetched a pink mug with cat ears on the rim. “I don’t have a death wish.”

“Did they say anything at all about Nationalist agents at your workplace?”

Now Alisa’s frown was growing deeper. “I imagine my superiors know the Kuomintang are installed here too,” she said, “but my job is to keep an eye on what missives reach Japanese officials. I’m to stay one step ahead of Japanese interference in Party affairs, not aid our civil war. There’s no reason to mention it. In fact, it’s dangerous to give me information in case I’m captured.”

Rosalind leaned against the counter, thinking. She believed that. There was no reason Alisa would report more than she needed to.

“Someone robbed me of my file copy last night,” Rosalind explained, dropping her voice. The corridors outside allowed for eavesdroppers, so she needed to be careful. “No less than half an hour later, my handler was hit by the chemical killings, and I saw the same mysterious person lingering nearby.”

Alisa took the information in coolly, but a little notch appeared between her eyebrows, like a crescent moon.

“Is he dead?”

Rosalind shook her head. “He survived, but he has not awoken.” She clinked her little spoon against the side of her mug. “I wonder if it was a mimicry. If it was a Communist hit, not Japanese.”

That was what she had spent last night mulling over. Why had the same attacker appeared once to steal the file and again as Dao Feng lay unconscious in the alley? The Japanese didn’t know that Rosalind had taken it. Their spy networks were not good enough to have heard it by some whisper—that much she was certain. On the other hand, the Communist spy networks were good enough for the task to have leaked.

Either that, or a Nationalist had done it.

“There’s no way it was us,” Alisa stated without hesitation. “We wouldn’t be foolish enough to go after your handler. Do you think we would risk active warfare within the city? Our numbers are low enough as it is.”

“But I cannot think of any other explanation,” Rosalind returned. “It is not hard to mimic the chemical killings—we know that from experience.”

Dao Feng had been targeted in French territory. Just as Alisa had left Tong Zilin’s body on Thibet Road, in the International Settlement. It did not fit the modus operandi of the other attacks: those bodies were littered across Chinese jurisdiction, targeting the nameless and masses.

“He’s in the hospital?” Alisa asked.

Rosalind nodded, setting her mug in the sink.

“Then that means there are real doctors looking at his injuries. Doctors who can see it is chemicals that tried to kill him, not a mere pinprick made on his arm as our mimicry was. Come on, Miss Lang. Use your head.”

Alisa did not pour herself any coffee. She dug into the very back of the cupboards and pulled out a box of orange juice instead. She looked content with her explanation; Rosalind was still chewing on the thought.

“Can you do some digging?”

Alisa paused, her orange juice midpour. “I beg your pardon?”

“Around the Communists,” Rosalind clarified. “Find out if it was your people that plucked the file copy from me.”

“Da ladno,” Alisa muttered under her breath. “Absolutely not. I’m not sticking out my neck like that.”

“It could be linked to the killings across Shanghai. Don’t you want to put a stop to it? To innocent people dying on the streets?”

“Sure,” Alisa answered plainly. “But you just said you think your handler’s attempted killing was mimicry.”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m looking for answers anywhere I can.”

Alisa took a deep drink from her mug. With her cheeks puffed out, she shook her head vigorously. “Forget it,” she said after gulping the juice down. “I’m not turning double agent for you.”

“I’m not asking you to turn double agent. I just want a little investigating.”

“Are you going to pay me?”

“Pay you? You are definitely not lacking any money.”

“Ummm… you don’t know that. My brother could have been an extravagant jewelry buyer who blew through the family budget years ago.”

Rosalind massaged her temples. “Alisa Montagova, I swear to God—”

A loud shout rang through the second level. At once, both Rosalind and Alisa exchanged a frown, then hurried into the corridor to see what the disturbance was. A commotion came from the stairwell; then a host of uniformed police constables appeared in view, proceeding onto the third floor.

“Oh, no,” Rosalind muttered, hurrying away.

“Hey, wait,” Alisa hissed. “Where are you going?”

Rosalind didn’t respond. She hastened up the stairs right after the clump of constables, pausing by the department doors in time to see the uniformed inspector stop by Jiemin’s desk, declaring, “We’re going to need to question your department. We’re investigating the murder of one Tong Zilin.”

Gasps shot through the office cubicles. While muttering and whispering began among her colleagues, Rosalind observed the inspector carefully, then ran her eyes along the constables that had accompanied him. The Shanghai Municipal Police used to be deeply infiltrated by Scarlet payoffs and bribes; even with the Scarlets merged with the Nationalists, old habits died hard. The police force was still run by guānxì and underhanded exchanges all through the International Settlement. Most constables were simply lazy men holding a title, turning a blind eye to businessmen and keeping the city in line just well enough for its politicians to hold the stage and its foreigners to profit. What did they care about justice? They only wanted cases closed so they could go home.

“What is going on?” Deoka appeared at the doors of the department, his hands behind his back. Rosalind inclined her head and moved aside, though Deoka hardly noticed her presence as he walked past. “We don’t look kindly upon disturbances….”

“It shall not take long, Ambassador,” the inspector replied. “We have evidence that suggests Mr. Tong’s colleagues were the last people to see him alive. It may help us put together what happened.”

A quiet smattering of footsteps sounded up the stairs. Alisa had arrived too, coming onto the third floor to witness the scene. With the more the inspector talked, the more the whole department shifted in their seats. Rosalind saw glances exchanged and shaking hands steadied in laps. She saw terror upon parted lips and noses twitching in distaste. Which reactions were markers of guilt? Which of the faces before her were shocked because they had been partners-in-crime with Tong Zilin while passing on instructions from above, resting easy at night thinking there would be no consequences and now doubting what had been certain?

“All right,” Deoka said, extending an arm to welcome the constables toward the cubicles. “So long as you do not disturb our work.”

Rosalind took a step forward, catching the inspector’s attention. Out of her periphery, she saw Orion shoot to his feet, concerned that she was about to do something rash. And he didn’t even know that she was the one who’d killed Zilin—what little faith he had in her.

“Mr. Tong is dead?” Rosalind gasped, feigning shock. “Why, I saw him just that night with—” She turned around, eyes landing on Alisa and lifting her hand to her mouth as if she needed to stop herself from speaking.

The inspector nudged two of his constables out of his way, coming nearer.

“Go on.”

“Oh, I’m not sure…”

Alisa marched in Rosalind’s direction, her eyes wide. “What are you doing—”

“Please,” the inspector prompted, “do continue.”

Rosalind skittered a step away from Alisa, her arms tightening around herself. “Well, I thought I saw Liza Ivanova talking to Tong Zilin outside of Peach Lily Palace. It must have been some days ago. But that couldn’t possibly have anything to do with his death, right?”

From the cubicles, Orion was visibly trying to catch her attention, trying to figure out what she was doing. And Alisa—Alisa was so taken aback that she said nothing. She could only stare at Rosalind with her jaw agape, thrown by the betrayal. They both knew that Zilin’s body would have been found outside Peach Lily Palace, which was not public information. Throwing that little tidbit around was as good as being caught red-handed.

The inspector was already moving, waving a few of the constables along. “Liza Ivanova, if you could come back to the station with us and answer a few questions, that would be ideal. Ambassador, I don’t think we need to have any conversations here after all.”

“What—” Alisa resisted for the briefest second when the constables started to lead her away, but she must have figured it was better to seem scared and cooperative. As the inspector walked toward the door, pausing to give Deoka his farewell, Alisa glanced back once more, her brows furrowed in sheer stupefaction. It was her word against Rosalind’s now, Alisa seemed to realize. She resolved her expression into blankness, following the police out.

The department remained idle for a long moment. Then Deoka clapped his hands. “Back to work! Come on!”

At the front desk, Jiemin turned back to his book. At the cubicles, the assistants took their seats once more and the interpreters ducked their heads into their sheets, scrambling to look occupied while Deoka walked past them to exit the main department and return to his office. Only Orion scraped his chair back, coming to Rosalind and putting an arm around her to give her an embrace, pretending she needed the reassurance. In reality, he was using the maneuver to put his mouth against her ear and whisper, “Why did you do that?”

“Tell the truth?” Rosalind murmured into his neck.

“No.” Orion’s grip tightened on her shoulders. “Tell me the truth, darling. Who is Liza Ivanova?”

Rosalind tipped her head up, a small, scheming smile twitching at her lip. “She’s working for the Communists.” From outside the windows of Seagreen Press, there was the loud bang of a car door closing. “But I think we can give her a push to bring her into our task.”

Phoebe twirled in front of her full-length mirror, tilting her head to get another angle on her long skirt. This belt didn’t fit perfectly, but her other one was silver, and she wasn’t going to match silver with the gold hem. Maybe she would get another but in green. Or perhaps pale pink. Or maybe…

The phone rang downstairs. She heard Ah Dou’s slippers shuffle along the second-floor landing as he hurried to the living room. Phoebe continued rummaging through her closet, trying to complete her outfit for tonight. She rarely associated with her schoolmates, given her horrible academy attendance, but she heard they would be at Park Hotel after nine, and she loved making appearances. Dip in and dip out, let them see how she was flourishing without contributing any more information to add to gossip. Her father called her naive when she insisted she wouldn’t need those ties. He always said the city was run by those who knew the right people and those who held information on the right people—even if she didn’t care to learn in school, she needed to go if only so her cohort would remember her name.

It was the only way she could make something of herself, allegedly. Phoebe didn’t know how much she believed that, but she did want to make something of herself. So she supposed she would keep those social circles running outside the academy.

“Phone for you, Miss Hong.”

Phoebe hurried to her bedroom door, opening it to find Ah Dou standing patiently. “For me?”

Ah Dou nodded. “Careful with the floor. It’s a little slippery.”

“You clean too often,” Phoebe said, breezing by him. “Take some more rest!”

Her sock-clad feet were light on the stairs, hurrying down with nary a sound. She was always refusing to wear her slippers, which was probably what encouraged Ah Dou to clean so often, else she would be turning all her white socks gray. Obviously he was the one who would have to deal with that when it came to laundry day, so his precautionary measures were understandable. Despite Ah Dou’s warning about the clean floors, she still almost slipped near the living room table, narrowly catching herself by grabbing onto the phone cord.

“Hullo?”

“Stop answering the phone in English. How many times have I told you that?”

Phoebe rolled her eyes, tipping backward onto the couch and tugging the cord over. She dragged her legs up, resting her chin on her knees while she propped the receiver against her ear.

“If Father’s colleagues want to gossip about our upbringing, they can do so freely,” Phoebe replied. “What can I help you with, gēge?”

Orion, on the other side of the line, breathed a sigh. “I have a favor to ask of you. I would do it myself, but Janie and I must attend a fundraiser for Seagreen tonight and fill in for the writing staff.”

“Ooh.” Phoebe perked up, thudding her feet back onto the floor and adjusting her skirt. “Do tell. Shall I accost a politician? Seduce a pretty girl? Decode a telegram?”

“I worry about what goes on in that mind of yours.” There was a rustle on Orion’s end, then a feminine voice snapping at him. Phoebe made a little smile, guessing it was Janie telling her brother off. As he deserved.

“Tell Janie I say hello,” Phoebe said.

The rustling stopped, bringing Orion’s attention back to the phone. “Janie already thinks I’m enough of a menace without you adding fuel to the fire. Be ready at the door in half an hour. Silas is picking you up to begin the operation.”

“Operation!” Phoebe crowed, her excitement rising. “You still haven’t told me what I’m doing. If you build this up as a whole thing and it turns out I’m only fetching some package…”

Orion sighed again. The sound was almost loud enough to be a groan. “It’s your lucky day, mèimei. How do you feel about taking part in a jail break?”