Forty-One

Forty-One

Celia seemed to have ended up a soldier, perusing the battleground from above. All she had ever wanted was a quietly revolving world. And she had slapped her hands over her ears, hoping that silence in her head meant silence outside too.

That would work no longer. The world had grown too loud. The city had come to a crescendo.

“Three Scarlets from the north, likely bringing more,” Celia reported. Immediately, the girl who had been idling by the balcony, in wait for her observations, ran off to report. The message would travel from house to house, building to building.

“Your note has been handled,” an incoming girl reported now, nodding to Celia. “We reached Da Nao.”

Celia nodded back, then turned her focus to the streets again. She never thought she would end up a soldier, and . . . she supposed she wasn’t. She was not among those gathering below, holding bricks and batons and weapons in wait for the gangsters and Nationalists. When the first of the fight broke out, the people only needed to resist until the city could awaken, until their numbers could pour outward and do what they had always done best: incite chaos, take to the streets, overwhelm all the higher hands trying to control them.

“Get ready,” Celia called down.

On cue, the Scarlets approached, startling upon sighting the workers already waiting outside their apartment blocks. They exchanged a glance, as if asking if they should still proceed. When their eyes lifted, sighting Celia from above, a flash of recognition seemed to register.

Celia stepped inside from the balcony.

Not a soldier, but the watching eyes.

Not a soldier, but the beating heart of resistance.

Benedikt pulled at the band on his arm, shedding it as soon as he was off the main roads. The strip of white fabric soaked into a dirty rain puddle, and he shuddered, a brief chill skating down his back.

They were all wearing it, the Scarlets with their knives and guns. Faces smeared with a bit of dirt as if that disguised them as the masses, their armbands printed with the Chinese character for “labor,” as if this was the workers’ cause firing back upon its leaders. He had wagered that he could blend among them unnoticed, and he had been right. It had only taken a quick change of clothes, and hardly any of the Scarlets on the roads stopped to consider him, even if he was running in the opposite direction.

Benedikt paused now, crouching behind a telephone post when he heard a rumble of commotion in the distance. The Concessions were open. He didn’t know when that had happened, when all the foreign soldiers had been commanded to depart their posts. For whatever reason, Route Ghisi was unguarded, and the roads—formerly blocked with sandbags and makeshift chain fences—were now cleared.

The commotion came nearer. Benedikt ducked just in time to hide from the group of Scarlets as they hurried out of the French Concession.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. The Scarlets and Nationalists had come into an agreement with the foreigners, then. The foreigners had allowed this, had known about the purge and warned their people to stay indoors. No matter how much the Nationalists proclaimed their need to retake the country, too much of this city was under the foreigners. Too many Nationalist offices and Nationalist headquarters sat on French land to risk upsetting them.

“Hurry up. Jessfield is low on reinforcements.”

Another group ran past the telephone post, and Benedikt sank lower, though the post would surely cover him from view. Only when the voices faded again did he stand, poking his head around to watch the Kuomintang men disappear from sight.

The French Concession was empty. Benedikt had never seen its early mornings so vacant, not a single vendor in sight even while the sky slowly brightened into a hazy gray. But that didn’t mean it was quiet. Sirens were shrieking all across the city, most of them coming from the south. If Benedikt took a guess, he would say they were coming from the gunboats, those floating upon the parts of the Huangpu in Nanshi.

He started to run. No use being subtle now. Each second wasted was a second closer to noon. Benedikt knew where General Shu’s house was located. His only concern was whether Marshall would be there or if the house would be inhabited at all. For all he knew, they were no longer in Shanghai. For all he knew, they were in any location across the city, outside of foreign land and far from the fighting.

“Hey!”

With a start, Benedikt turned over his shoulder, finding a group of Scarlets emerging from a narrow side street. They were dressed as he was, rifles in hand. Benedikt’s first instinct was to run, but the Concession was too wide and vast; there would be no way to lose his pursuers, not unless he could disappear into thin air.

“What?” Benedikt shouted back, as if their call was nothing more than an annoyance.

“Where are you going?” one Scarlet within the group bellowed. “Command said to congregate in Zhabei. We’ve got protesters trying to march on Second Division headquarters.”

“Oh?” Benedikt feigned ignorance. He tried to think if he even knew where the hell the Nationalists’ Second Division headquarters were. Baoshan Road? “I was not made aware. I’m running a message.”

“For?”

They were getting suspicious. Benedikt steeled his expression.

“Lord Cai is having a direct note brought to Chiang Kai-shek. He’s already mad enough about Juliette’s stunt. Do you want to be the ones to go back and explain why his note is so late?”

The Scarlets all grimaced, some more severely than others. “Go on, then,” another in the group said. Before Benedikt even moved, they were already off in a different direction, muttering among themselves about Lord Cai.

Benedikt exhaled, continuing onward with his pulse beating a racket in his chest. That had been a risk. For all he knew, Lord Cai might not have publicly announced what Juliette had done. Fate was on his side this time.

His target finally came into view. A tall wrought-iron gate, painted black. It didn’t seem like there was anyone standing guard. It didn’t seem like there was anyone keeping watch within the compound either. All Benedikt could hear were distant sirens—distant sirens and the whistling wind, whipping through his hair and obscuring his vision.

Benedikt palmed a gun and slunk around the gate. His boots came down hard on the shrubbery that surrounded the residence, rustling with every step. The ground inclined slightly uphill here, rising as the trees grew thicker, branches drooping low. In this part of the French Concession, the houses were built far apart enough that each had a garden and a long, winding driveway. Some chose enclosures to block people from looking in, while others let their flowers and shrubs be gawped at freely. When Benedikt finally found a lump of dirt tall enough to step on, he used the boost to launch himself up on the walled gate, peering over to discover not only one outer enclosure but a second fence erected just inside.

“Is this a house or a military compound?” he muttered. There seemed to be no movement between the fences. With a grunt, Benedikt swung his legs over the first wall, almost rolling right off and narrowly landing on his two feet. A twinge of pain shot up his ankle.

Please don’t be sprained. Please don’t be sprained.

He took a step forward. The pain worsened.

Oh, for crying out loud.

Half hobbling, Benedikt grabbed ahold of the second fence, shoving his left foot through one of the notches. This one was chain-linked rather than a smooth wall, but as soon as he had hauled himself halfway up, he heard voices coming near. Cursing furiously under his breath, Benedikt stuck his right foot into the fence, biting right past his screaming ankle, and scrambled over the sharp wire at the top. It was possible that he had torn a rip through the cuff of his trousers. It was possible he had scratched his arm and was leaving a trail of blood through the grass. None of it mattered enough to slow him down, afraid that he would be spotted at any moment now that he was in, hurrying along the edges of the garden.

The house loomed into view: one prominent front door, then two wings to either side of it, the second-floor balconies hanging atop its first-floor garages. Gauging by the number of shiny black cars parked outside the house, there were plenty of visitors inside.

Benedikt paused, trying to figure out his best course of action. If he listened hard, he thought he heard the steady hum of conversation from inside, which meant they were possibly hosting an early-morning function. He could hardly comprehend how. The Nationalists had just set the command for slaughter on the city. How did any of these men find the stomach to congregate together and continue with their day when their soldiers were laying waste to the people outside?

“Marshall, where the hell are you?” Benedikt whispered to the empty gardens. Carefully, hunching close to the ground, he started to make his way around the gravel paths, sticking close to the cover of the trees. Too close to the house and he feared being spotted through the large windows; too close to the fence and he feared being sighted by the patrolling soldiers. It wasn’t until he came around the back of the house that he dared straighten a little, hobbling close to the painted white walls. Somehow, he needed to find a way in. Perhaps if he stripped out of the overalls, he could pretend to be a Nationalist’s assistant and claim that—

Benedikt halted. He had passed a window, only now he doubled back, peering in more closely. There was a flag hanging over the desk inside: deep blue with a white sun. This was an office. This was General Shu’s office.

The two windowpanes were latched, but that was no problem. Benedikt retrieved his pocketknife and triggered the thin blade, sliding it right between the two panes. All he had to do was push up, and then the latch was nudged out of the way, the window hinges creaking softly when Benedikt nudged at the glass.

He almost couldn’t believe it. With care not to bring the dirt of the gardens in with him, he climbed through, wincing when he landed on the carpet. The office stayed silent—no alarm going off, no secret guard waiting in the corner. Only the flag fluttering with the slightest disturbance, dust settling over the papers on the desk and the early sunlight casting a slash across the wall. One door opposite the desk likely led out into the hallway. Another door near the flag was smaller—a storage unit.

Benedikt’s gaze caught on the desk. He hardly had the time to dawdle, yet he paused all the same, trying not to put more pressure on his ankle as he walked over and picked up the two pieces of paper left at the center.

The first was messily scribbled, its characters almost bleeding off the page in a hurry.

Intercepted this.

We’ve sent word ahead to Lord Cai.

Benedikt blinked, a bad feeling sinking into his stomach. The second piece of paper was far thinner, ink visible through the sunlight even before he unfolded it. This message was written in a much more careful hand, addressed to . . .

“Oh, no,” he muttered.

Da Nao—

Cai Junli and Roma Montagov seek safe passage with you to leave the city. You must take them onboard. Both of them. For the good of the country, for the good of the people. Please do this favor.

—Lang Selin

The Nationalists knew. The Scarlets knew. They would be assembling their forces right this moment, intent on stopping Juliette from leaving. And if they caught them, then Roma would be hauled away for execution.

Benedikt set the papers down. He had to find Marshall. They had to get out, get to the Bund, deliver the warning.

But then came the sound of footsteps down the hall. Then came the boom of voices, coming closer and closer.

They were heading for the office.

Panic set his pulse into breakneck speed. Benedikt eyed the window, calculating the time he needed to climb back out. With no time to spare, he pivoted instead for the other door in the office and opened it to find a storage room for filing cabinets—barely wide enough to let one person walk through, but long enough to leave darkness on the other end. He squeezed right in, his back pressed against the cabinets lining the walls, shoulders almost colliding with the sharp metal edges.

Click. Benedikt pulled the door after himself just as the burst of voices entered the office. They settled into the room, chairs scraping back, heavy bodies sitting down—discussing the Communists, discussing the massacre.

And then: “We have complaints from the Scarlet Gang about the Montagov kill order. Said it was dishonorable.”

Benedikt wasn’t sure if he had heard correctly. He turned rigid with surprise, listening closer. So the Scarlet Gang hadn’t been entirely on board. He didn’t know whether to respect them for voicing their concern or hate them for going through with it anyway.

With fear coating his skin like sweat, Benedikt pushed at the door as carefully as he could, allowing it to open just the barest sliver. He didn’t have a perfect idea what each high-ranking official in the Kuomintang looked like, but he recognized General Shu, if not by his resemblance to Marshall, then by the image permanently seared into his head when General Shu was taking Marshall away from him.

“Forget it,” General Shu said. “My command stands. We will never again have a chance like this for eradicating our enemies; we must take it.”

Benedikt’s fists curled by his sides, twisting at his sleeves for something to do, for some way to exert energy so he didn’t move and make noise. Since when were the White Flowers enemies to the Nationalists anyway? Dimitri had allied with the Communists, but was that enough to condemn every White Flower? If it were the Scarlets demanding the White Flowers be pulled into the purge, that was one matter, but General Shu insisting on it instead . . .

There were only four Montagovs left in the city. Unless the kill order wasn’t a strike against the White Flowers at all, but an effort to take everyone Marshall loved away from him.

Benedikt exhaled slowly. The Nationalists continued with their discussion, the smell of cigarette smoke wafting into the closet space. All the while, trying not to move a single muscle, Benedikt was trapped.