Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 63, No. 11 & 12, November/December 2018

Bite of the Dragon by Martin Limón

My name is First Dragon.

I’d been living and working in Beijing for almost a year when my world collapsed. It hadn’t been easy developing a respectable private business, but I’d done it working as a bodyguard and security consultant, and by spending the long dark Beijing nights ferreting out other people’s nefarious secrets. I was a private investigator. An American P.I. working in Beijing and, as far as I knew, the first. But I was small-time: Most of my customers were either Americans or other English-speaking foreigners. I didn’t even advertise. Not only couldn’t I afford to, but I’d just as soon not have the Chinese tax collectors prying into my books. What they called “tax” was what most of us in the West would call “bribes.”

I lived in a foreigners’ hostel that I rented by the week. Once when I was having trouble making the rent, the Chinese landlady suggested I take in a roommate. So I did. His name was Oskar. He wasn’t German but was from one of the other Teutonic countries. The Netherlands, I believe. He spoke English well enough, and he and I got along, mainly because I spent so many hours away from the apartment working and didn’t have to put up with the reek of marijuana that he smoked constantly, and the strumming of his nylon-stringed Spanish guitar.

Everything was going along swimmingly, I thought, until one night the apartment was raided. When I arrived home at about three in the morning, all the lights in the hostel were on and a detective from the Chinese People’s Armed Police was waiting for me; him and about ten other uniformed cops, all glaring at me. He showed me some paraphernalia that Oskar had stuffed beneath the bathroom sink. I expected a hash pipe or a bong or maybe some wrapping papers, but instead the officer pulled out glass beakers and a water bottle filled with some sort of clear liquid. I thought I was back in chemistry class. The cop explained to me in Chinese, and then in broken English, that Oskar had been manufacturing a chemical called GhB, Gamma-Hydroxybutyrate. I guessed at first that maybe it was a laxative. Wrong again. The cop explained to me that it was sometimes called liquid ecstasy.

I explained that Oskar had been living here for less than two weeks, and since I worked long hours I knew nothing about what he did. Apparently my explanation didn’t do much good. One of the other cops snapped the handcuffs on me. Later, after we arrived at the main police station, I sat there watching a Chinese female cop fill out a small mountain of paperwork. It was only then that I realized why I was being tossed and punched around and generally treated as if I were the fetid excrement from a pile of green slime.

GhB was — from what I could gather — also known as the date rape drug.

So the Chinese cops were not only arresting a druggie, they were simultaneously protecting Chinese womanhood from the transgressions of a wanton gang of debauched foreign criminals.

Bully for them.

A few days later when the district prosecutor had me dragged into her office, I was also delighted to be informed that the manufacturing of drugs in the People’s Republic of China was a capital crime. I heard her say the si word. Si meaning “four” or its homophone, “death.” In China, the manufacture of illegal drugs was, much to my chagrin, punishable by not four years imprisonment but by death.

Oskar, of course, had decided that discretion was the better part of valor. He’d disappeared. And anyone who understands Asian culture knows that when society has been dealt a serious wrong, someone has to be punished. In this case, it would be the bird in the hand. Namely, me.

The other prisoners treated me worse than the cops. I had to kick and punch my way past three or four guys just to be allowed the privilege of entering the cement-floored toilet. There, I struggled not to gag amidst a cloud of evil gases, squatted over a filthy square hole, and dropped my contribution into a cavern of feces that must’ve been accumulating since Kublai Khan built the Forbidden City.

The food, of course, was lovely. Gruel made from what they told me was millet-laced with a plentitude of small squirming organisms. I asked for a lawyer and that caused a laugh, but when I demanded to speak to a representative from the American embassy, the smiles changed to frowns. Nevertheless, a few days later I was dragged into a small conference room, where a dapper man in a suit and wearing round-lensed glasses pulled out a handkerchief and covered his nose as I entered.

He pointed to the clipboard in front of him. “Is this you?”

I read my name and my former address at the hostel and nodded my head.

“Drug charge,” he said. “The embassy doesn’t do much about those, I’m afraid.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “The U.S. government doesn’t approve of the manufacturing of illegal drugs.”

“I didn’t manufacture illegal drugs.”

He shrugged again, more elaborately this time. “Of course not,” he said. “Still, you were living in Beijing for the last few months with no visible means of support, and you were a known denizen of some of the most notorious nightclubs in the city.”

“Part of my job,” I told him. “I’m a private investigator.”

“Let’s see your license.”

I lowered my eyes. “I hadn’t gotten around to that yet.”

“Tax avoidance?” he asked.

Tax avoidance seemed like a lot less serious charge that the manufacture of date rape drugs, so I said, “I guess you could say that.”

He shook his head. “Well, I hope you have a sympathetic judge. Were you associated with any large organization? A corporation? A university? An insurance company?”

“No. Strictly private. Personal stuff”

He wrote something on the paperwork. “Vulnerable,” he said, muttering to himself.

“What do you mean?”

He finished writing and looked up at me. “When you’re living in a foreign country, it’s best to be associated with some large and powerful organization. A school, a computer company, the U.S. military, something. Then the cops have a tendency to go easy on you. They don’t want to irritate someone above them in the hierarchy who might have connections with that powerful organization. And there’s always someone in the hierarchy who does. More often than not, they’ll leave you alone, unless of course you do something grossly criminal that they can’t overlook.”

“Like murder somebody,” I said.

The embassy guy looked slightly shocked but said, “Yes. Like murder somebody, and leave plenty of evidence. Even if you’re only a tourist, they usually won’t bother you.”

“Because the tourism industry pulls down hundreds of millions of dollars per year.”

“Now you’re getting the idea.”

“But if you’re freelance, like me, and you don’t pay taxes, the cops don’t have to worry about powerful people second-guessing them. They can use me to inflate their arrest statistics. Even though there’s no specific evidence tying me to that drug paraphernalia in my apartment.”

“Well, it was your apartment.” He waited for my denial. When he didn’t get one, he continued. “And the Chinese police look good when they pull a pusher of date rape drugs off the street.”

“I wasn’t pushing date rape drugs.”

“Of course not.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

He ignored my question and said, “By the way, how’s your visa status?”

“I was about to renew it.”

Suddenly, he looked very disappointed. “It’s overstayed?”

“Not by much. When the renewal fee came due, I didn’t have the money. Everybody told me all I’d have to do is pay a fine later.”

“Yes,” he said. “Normally.”

He pointed at the paperwork to the spot on the bottom where I should sign. All it was, really, was a form confirming that I’d been detained by the Chinese authorities and granting the embassy permission to notify concerned persons or governmental agencies of that fact. I signed. Then he slipped the clipboard back into his briefcase and snapped it shut.

“That’s it?” I asked.

“We’ll inform your next of kin.”

“My dad lives in a trailer park,” I told him, “somewhere near Salinas.”

“Your mother?”

“She hasn’t been seen in a while.”

“Well, if she contacts us, we’ll inform her as to your whereabouts.”

He stood but didn’t offer to shake hands. “By the way, if you manage to make it back to the States, don’t be surprised if you’re questioned by the DEA.”

“DEA?”

“The Drug Enforcement Agency. Trafficking in drugs is a U.S. offense, even if it’s done outside of our national jurisdiction.”

“I didn’t traffic in drugs.”

“I’m sure they’ll be happy to hear that.”

“I’ll go to another country.”

He paused. “Interpol has been notified also. Europe’s out. Most other countries, too, at least the civilized ones.” Then he swiveled on his tasseled loafers and marched toward the door.

“When will you come back?” I asked.

He stopped at the door with his fingertips on the handle. “Oh, I’m afraid that’s it. Drug case, you know. Not much the Embassy can do.”

Before he could move again, I asked, “When was the last time the Chinese executed an American?”

His eyes rolled upward. “Oh, it’s been awhile. But relations have deteriorated lately. All this business in the South China Sea.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Assertion of sovereignty,” he replied. “They claim islands, the U.S. says no. Makes the general public hopping mad.”

“So they’ll pay back the U.S. government by executing me?” I said.

“Nothing like a date rape charge to get everybody riled,” he answered.

The guard had heard enough of our chatter. He grabbed me by my soiled collar and hoisted me to my feet. The Embassy guy opened the door, stepped through, and disappeared.

A month after the embassy representative’s visit, I was pulled roughly from my cell. I hadn’t been allowed to shower in over a week and the red overalls I wore that had been filthy when they issued them had gotten worse since. So greasy and dirty that they were almost stiff. I was dragged down a long hallway and I fully expected another beating and another day-long inquisition from the prosecutor’s Torquemada. Instead, I was dragged past the interrogation room and brought into a room that I now knew to be the visitors’ lounge. It was relatively clean. It had a few vinyl chairs lined up against a long conference table. Roughly, the guard sat me down. Across from me sat a somber-faced Chinese man in a thick wool suit. It was slightly moist on the shoulders and I realized that it was winter and maybe it was snowing outside.

“What?” I said in English.

“You’re to come with me,” he answered in Chinese.

“Where?” I asked, switching to Chinese now.

“Does it matter?” he asked. You mei you shemma guanxi?

I considered the question. “No,” I said, “it doesn’t matter.” Anyplace was better than here.

Five minutes later I was standing in an administrative room near the entrance foyer. I’d been allowed to change out of my filthy overalls and into the same clothing I’d been wearing when I was arrested. I hadn’t been allowed to shower or shave but I was feeling better already; away from that fetid dungeon. The man in the wool suit signed some paperwork at the counter and then one of the guards shoved me toward him. I stumbled and almost fell but managed to maintain my footing.

“Did they return all your belongings?” he asked.

I checked my wallet and my keys and my trusty Swiss Army knife and my passport and the few renminbi bills I had folded in my pocket when I was arrested.

“Yes. Everything’s here.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

He started toward the door. I followed, through the busy entrance of the Beijing Garrison Headquarters of the People’s Armed Police, down cement steps, and into the cold, overcast winter afternoon. A vehicle was waiting for us. A four-door Hongqi sedan. The man in the wool coat motioned for me to climb in the back. I did.

Twenty minutes later we pulled up in front of a skyscraper so tall I couldn’t see the top. A doorman pulled open the doors of the sedan, and as I climbed out and passed him, he recoiled and pinched his nose. We pushed through the glass doors and headed across polished floors, straight for a glittering bank of stainless steel elevators. Apparently, one of them was private because the guy in the wool suit used a key. Once inside, he pressed the button for the highest floor: thirty-two. When the elevator door opened we walked down a long, carpeted, and very quiet hallway. At the end a mahogany door loomed. Japanese kanji embossed a brass plaque. Engraved below it was the English translation: Toranaga Enterprises.

The guy in the wool suit pressed a button. Darkness covered the peephole and then the door opened. The smell that poured through the door was lovely. A cross between boiling green tea and freshly picked lilacs. A gorgeous woman stood before me. Obviously Japanese, with thick black hair tied atop her head, she wore a blue-patterned kimono strapped tightly around her narrow waist, wooden sandals, and thick socks made of white linen. She bowed and said something in Japanese, and the guy in the wool suit motioned for me to follow her. I would’ve followed her anywhere. The door closed quietly and the geisha and I were alone. We walked down a highly polished wood-slat hallway. She sashayed prettily atop the wooden clogs, took a turn and then another, and eventually ushered me into a room filled with steam. For the next half hour I would learn how wonderful hot water and soap can feel.

An hour later, I was back in my street clothes, sitting in a waiting room in a thick leather chair. My skin tingled. Burned, really. The geisha had scrubbed me so hard with a rough glove that tiny beads of filth had emerged from my flesh like black organisms rising toward air.

A man’s voice spoke.

“Mr. Akushima will be with you in a moment.”

A trim young man in a neatly tailored suit and round-lensed glasses sat behind a desk near the windows. I figured his desk was carved from the same tree as the front door.

“Why am I here?” I asked.

“Mr. Akushima will explain.”

As I would soon find out, Toranaga Akushima was the man who owned Toranaga Enterprises, and apparently this building, and employed both this young man and the geisha who scrubbed me, not to mention the guy in the wool suit. They were just a small part of his total workforce of about five thousand employees, stationed in major cities around the world.

Why Akushima wanted to talk to me, I couldn’t quite figure.

I wasn’t kept waiting long. A buzzer sounded on the young man’s desk, he pressed a button, spoke briefly, then ushered me out of the waiting room and down another hallway. Maybe it was because there was no geisha walking in front of me but this time I was more observant. Unobtrusive security camera lenses were mounted on either end of the hallway and when we reached a large double door, the young man peered into an electronic eye. Apparently, someone or something recognized the shape of his retina and the door buzzed and popped open. I was ushered into another room furnished with a small table and two comfortable chairs and told to sit. The young man disappeared. As I waited, I stared out of a plate-glass window that should have had a magnificent view of the ancient capital city of Beijing. Instead it had a magnificent view of smog.

Five minutes later, Toranaga Akushima bounced into the room. He looked happy, smiling to himself as if he’d just pulled off some magnificent coup. He wore one of those impeccably tailored suits that every self-respecting billionaire wears. At least they do in James Bond movies. The first thing I thought was that he didn’t look Japanese. He looked Korean, his face broader, his cheekbones higher. We shook hands. At six foot two I towered over him, but this didn’t seem to intimidate him in the least. His fist was strong and he stepped a little too close to me but after establishing his right to be there, he backed off. We sat across from one another.

“Would you like some cognac?” he asked. “Or champagne? Or something else to celebrate your release?”

“Nothing,” I replied. “If I have to go back to that hellhole, I prefer to have my wits about me.”

He grinned, as if I’d just passed the first test.

“First Dragon,” he said in his barely accented English. “In Korean, Il Yong. I like it. Your mother was Korean and your father an American G.I.”

I nodded, not bothering to add anything because I figured if he’d gone to all the trouble to spring me from jail, he’d already researched my background. The truth was that my parents had planned to have a Second Dragon after me and then a Third but it hadn’t worked out that way. When I was ten years old they were divorced and for a while I lived on base with my dad and then I went to live with my mom. By then, she’d remarried to another American G.I., which is the way it is on Army bases; incestuous little communities all.

“An Army brat,” Toranaga said.

“That’s me,” I replied. I figured there weren’t any insults he could toss at me that were worse than the ones I’d been subjected to the last couple of months.

“So you’ve lived many places. And you speak Korean fluently and since you’ve come to Beijing you’ve made some strides in studying Chinese.”

“Some,” I said. “Jail helped.”

He didn’t refer to notes. “You’ve held down many different jobs — security and bodyguard work mostly — but you’ve never stayed in one place too long. Still, every employer has praised your work.”

This was easier than filling out a resume.

When I didn’t add anything he stared at me for a long moment, amused, I think, that I wasn’t babbling on. But it was my turn to talk, so I talked.

“Thank you for pulling me out of jail,” I said. He nodded. “I hope it’s permanent. Still, I must ask, Mr. Toranaga, why did you go to the trouble? Why did you bring me here?”

“You have certain qualifications I need. First of all, you have a valid American passport.” He waved his hand. “The visa business can be taken care of. And being American gives you some cachet amongst Chinese officialdom.”

“Not lately,” I said.

“No. They seem to have taken a hard line on you, but we’re looking into that. But for the most part an American passport gives you the ability to travel freely.”

Toranaga smiled. “And you used to play football.”

“Hook ’em horns,” I said.

“Pardon?”

“That’s what we used to say at the University of Texas.”

“But you quit.”

Actually, I didn’t quit. Football quit me. One of the assistant coaches was a prime jerk who made fun of the shape of my eyes one too many times. I popped him in the jaw, he fell down, and when he hit his head against the tile floor, he ended up with a pretty serious concussion. I could’ve hired a lawyer and sued the school and the team for racial discrimination, but the one lawyer I talked to told me that the area of civil rights law as it applies to Asians isn’t well defined. We negotiated with the school to drop the assault charge against me in return for me dropping a civil rights suit. They agreed. After the settlement was signed, I cleaned out my locker, gave my cleats to an African-American teammate, and caught the first flight out of Texas. It landed at SFO and while still in the airport I purchased a ticket, fell in behind a long line of Asian passengers, and boarded a 747 heading to China. I’d been here ever since.

Instead of explaining all this to Toranaga, I said, “I guess you could say that.”

“Too rough for you?”

“No. I was too rough for them.”

He studied me for a while, his eyes narrowing, and then he sat back and finally came to the point of this meeting.

“You’re desperate,” he said. “The Chinese will convict you of this date rape nonsense. That’s a foregone conclusion. Then they’ll use you as a bargaining chip. Not that the U.S. government cares what happens to a suspected drug dealer, but if they threaten to execute you — the first American citizen in decades — it will become big news. They can use that threat to bargain with the U.S. Seventh Fleet over the Spratly Islands and other Chinese claims in the South China Sea.”

“Are you offering to get me off?” I said

“Yes. For a price.”

“Which is?”

He leaned forward. “Your total allegiance.”

I squirmed in the comfortable chair. “How can you expect that? I hardly know you.”

“Yes. But we will ‘get you off’ as you said, and then you will owe me your life.”

He was right. I would owe him my life. But I felt uncomfortable with where this conversation was going. I was unsure of how to proceed. Probably because I’d never bargained for my life before.

“What if you get me off,” I said, “and I run away?”

He shrugged. “If you do, you do. But the DEA will still want to talk to you, Interpol will have you on their list, and you’ll be broke and without a job.”

Toranaga clapped his hands. A butler in livery entered, carrying a silver tray. On it was an artfully crafted porcelain jug and two handleless cups. The butler set a cup in front of us and, without asking me if I wanted any, poured two cups of tea. When the butler left the room, Toranaga leaned forward, raised his cup, and sipped. After slurping some of the hot liquid, he said, “Ginseng. You really should try it.”

I did. It was tart, like I remembered it from years ago when my mother used to make it on special occasions. She said it was good for the growth of a little boy and would protect me from all manner of disease and make me grow up big and strong. Apparently, it worked.

After drinking half of it down, I sat back and looked at him. “You already know that I have no choice,” I said.

He set his cup on the table and said, “Sure, I’ve paid good money to the Chinese and now I’ve got you by the — what do you Americans say? — the cojones. But it’s more than that. I know who your mother is. And your father. That’s why I don’t think you’ll run away. I’m Korean too. The third generation of my family to grow up in Japan. Your mother taught you the same things I was taught. About Tangun, the first man, and about his birth on Mount Paektu, and how we Koreans are the pure race, blessed by the God of the Universe.”

My mother had taught me all those things and how to pray and how to burn incense and how to visit the graves of our ancestors and how to offer sustenance to their spirits. All of it a little confusing when compared to what they were teaching me at the on-base elementary school. But I managed to live in both worlds, American and Korean, not by any virtuous trait of my character but because that’s who I am.

“And I know about your father,” Toranaga continued. “About his war record and the courage he showed.” He paused and looked me in the eye. “You come from good stock, Il-Yong. You come from the pure race and now your people need you.”

I was still leery. Lately, trusting people — like Oskar — hadn’t been going so well.

“Mr. Akushima,” I said, “what is it exactly you want me to do?”

He sipped his tea again and then set down the cup. “Simple, really,” he said. “What I want you to do should be the easiest job in the world. It’s been done so many times during human history.” His eyes twinkled as he said it. “I want you to kill someone.”

A few hours later, I found myself lurking in a dark alley behind a six-story building at two o’clock in the morning. Rats scurried through trash and on the main road the occasional People’s Armed Police car cruised by. Normally, I would’ve cursed my luck to have such a job, but instead I was almost giddy with delight. Compared to where I’d been living, this rancidsmelling alley was like a botanical garden. Toranaga-san had sprung me from jail. For that I was grateful. In return, he expected me to assassinate a certain Japanese crime boss by the name of Katayama. Commit murder or rot in prison. When he’d put the proposition so boldly, I didn’t have much choice but to agree.

I’d been given a Smith and Wesson .38 special and told that Katayama spent most of his time here on the sixth floor of this building in a nightclub restricted solely to Japanese clients. The name of the club was something about a floating moon goddess but there were no signs because Japanese in Beijing — even bosses of ruthless Yakuza crime families — keep a low profile. People still remember the Japanese invasion of China before and during World War II, and the government propaganda machine makes sure they don’t forget.

The back door creaked open. A petite young woman tiptoed out into the dark night. A sumo wrestler in a suit watched her until she reached the end of the alleyway and then he closed the door.

I popped out of hiding and followed.

As I followed, I wondered how I could get out of this. Murdering Katayama would either land me back in jail, with no way out this time, or I would become a wholly owned subsidiary of Toranaga Enterprises. More than that really. I’d become his personal slave.

Besides, there was the morality question. I’m not a killer. I’m a nice guy. In the Boy Scouts, I used to help old ladies across the street. Of course they used to look at me funny, wondering what race I was, but a few of them even tipped me a nickel. Sometimes a quarter. I pushed these thoughts out of my mind, hunched my shoulders, and concentrated on following the woman. I’d go through the motions of gathering information and figuring out a way of assassinating Katayama. When the moment came to actually pull the trigger, I’d have to make a decision. What it would be, I wasn’t sure yet.

Our path led us gradually downhill. I sniffed the air. Fish. In a couple of blocks we’d reach the open-air fish market. Before we did, my quarry turned into a dark opening that led into one of Beijing’s hutongs. Narrow-laned mazes lined by walls protecting homes, punctuated by the occasional open-fronted business but always teeming with vibrant life. The real lifeblood of this ancient city. But the hutongs of Beijing, once so omnipresent, were being torn down and replaced by high-rise buildings at a terrifying rate. What was difficult about hutongs, from a P.I.’s point of view, was that you had to stay close to the person you were tailing or you risked losing them in the canvas-covered catacombs.

I hurried forward, closing the distance between us, so close now that I could hear her high heels clicking on cobblestone. I followed her around one bend and then another, and when I turned a corner, there she was, staring at me. One hand placed on her left hip, head canted. She said, “Ni gan shemma?” What the hell are you doing?

I smiled sheepishly. “Duibuqi,” I said. I’m sorry.

In the dim light from a distant bulb, she studied me, looking me up and down. Finally, she said, “You mei you qian?” Do you have money?

“You,” I replied and pulled out the small wad of renminbi in my pocket.

She snatched the bills out of my hand, licked her thumb, and counted them. When she was finished she stuffed them in her purse and said, “Hao le.” Good enough.

She turned and walked away. I followed. More closely this time.

Her name was Meilan, Beautiful Plum Blossom.

She wasn’t all that beautiful but certainly attractive, with a voluptuous figure that set her apart from many of the wasp-waisted hostesses who plied their trade in the Beijing nightclub district. In the morning Meilan fried some youtiao, large bread sticks, and we ate those with two bowls of chok, rice gruel. She asked me about myself and I told her that my mother was Korean and my father American and a few other things and then I asked about her. Specifically, how long she’d been working in that Japanese nightclub.

“It’s good money,” she said defensively.

I nodded. She pulled out a pack of Great Wall cigarettes, lit up, and started talking. I let her. Somewhere in her dissertation, she mentioned Katayama.

“Do you think he’d give me a job?” I asked.

“Doing what?”

“Security.” I flexed my right bicep.

She snorted. “He has security. Those big Japanese guys. What would he want you for?”

“He must have to deal with foreigners sometimes. I speak English. That would come in handy.”

She blew a huge puff of smoke toward the ceiling.

“If I could talk to him,” I said, “if I could see him, I believe he’d give me a job.”

“You’re that hard up, huh?”

I nodded.

She shook her head. “They’ll never let you into the nightclub. That’s their sacred place.”

“So how?” I asked.

She thought about it, studied my face, and then grinned. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”

I raised two fingers of my right hand and said in English, “Scout’s honor.”

She laughed, stubbed out her cigarette, and said, “He’s spending the weekend at Xuanwu Lake.”

“Where’s that?”

“Nanjing.”

The southern capital, about seven hundred miles south of here.

“We’re flying down in his private jet.”

“‘We?’”

“Me and a few of the other girls.” She pretended to act bored. “I’ve been there before. He has a villa right on the shore. It’s called Qilung-lou.” The Chamber of the Seven Dragons.

I grabbed her hand. “Will you introduce me?”

She recoiled at my touch. “No way. Katayama is very jealous. If he finds out I know a foreign devil, he’d kick me out on my rear.”

I pretended to be crestfallen. She took pity on me.

“Every night, about midnight, he takes a swim in the lake. Thinks it’s good for his constitution. Be on the beach about then, bump into him, start talking. He likes boldness.”

“Won’t his bodyguards stop me?”

She thought about this. “Yes. Unless you catch his interest right away.”

With both hands, I picked up my bowl and slurped down the last of my rice gruel. “The problem is,” I said, “I don’t have train fare.”

“Oh, shit,” she said angrily. But she walked back into her bedroom, returned with her purse, and plopped the small wad of renminbi I’d given her back on the table. “Here,” she said. “And don’t bother me about this anymore.”

I grinned and kissed her hand. She pulled away and said something rude, laughing as she did so.

Actually, Toranaga-san had given me plenty of money to operate with: U.S. dollars, renminbi, and even some Japanese yen. I kept it neatly folded in the money belt I wore around my waist. I felt guilty about fooling Meilan like that but I had no choice but to prey on her sympathy in order to wheedle information out of her.

The bullet train had me in Nanjing after a little more than five hours. I dozed for a while and awoke with a start, expecting to be in my filthy jail cell. Instead, I sat in a leather seat in an air-conditioned passenger car. It was late Friday afternoon when we pulled into Nanjing Station. Now all I had to do was find Xuanwu Lake and the Chamber of the Seven Dragons. After that, I wasn’t sure what the hell I was going to do.

A low wall surrounded the villa. Inside, Japanese music was being played. Old-fashioned stuff. I recognized the song “Sukiyaki” by Kyu Sakamoto. Meilan had told me that Katayama reminded her of a grandfather. A brutal grandfather but a grandfather nevertheless.

Shouts drifted from the house. Shrill women’s voices, then deep male barks. The front door opened and footsteps pounded through the small garden. I shifted position to get a better look. A woman was being escorted out. Meilan. I could tell by her height and her full figure and the occasional flash of ambient light on her face. Before they reached one of the cars parked out front, Meilan crouched and refused to go any farther. Two men yanked her upright and then the sound of a palm slapping flesh echoed down the deserted roadway. She screeched at the man but they grabbed her, shoved her inside, and slammed the door.

Had they discovered her relationship with me?

No time to ponder such things now. I had to act or very likely it would soon become too late to act. I ran toward the dirt road that paralleled the shoreline. I’d seen it on my way in, a wooden cart used by some local farmer to transport vegetables. I pulled it out of the ditch beside the road, manhandled it up onto the blacktop, and swung it sideways to block the road. Less than a minute later, headlights approached, driving fast. When the driver saw the cart blocking his way, he screeched to a halt. The two men inside the car hesitated a minute, glancing around, but saw nothing. I was hidden behind a hedgerow nearby. The man on the passenger side, cursing, climbed out of the car.

As he was wrestling the cart out of the roadway, I approached the driver’s side of the car and stuck the business end of the Smith and Wesson through the open window. In Chinese, I told the driver to turn off the engine and hand me the keys. Cursing softly, he refused at first. I stuck the barrel of the .38 special deeper into his ear. Still murmuring, he pulled the key out of the ignition and handed it to me. Meanwhile, his comrade had rolled the vegetable cart down into the ditch on the far side of the road. He turned, dusting his hands off, and that’s when he noticed me. I pointed the pistol at him and ordered him to come closer.

Meilan had squirmed out of the car already and she was crying and stomping her feet in a rage.

“They were going to kill me,” she said. “Because of you.”

I didn’t have time to discuss things with her Instead, we found some rope in the trunk and, using my Swiss Army knife, I cut off three-foot lengths. I kept them covered while Meilan tied their hands behind their backs. Then I marched them toward the lake and positioned them near a sturdy tree and told them to lie on their backs. I instructed Meilan to pull off their pants. She used the trousers to tie them both in a sitting position with their backs to a tree.

“Do you know how to drive?” I asked Meilan.

She shook her head negatively.

“Then hold this.” She was frightened but I coached her on how to hold the weapon and where to point it and how to pull the trigger. Then I ran back to the road and drove the car into the ditch behind the hedgerow on the opposite side of the road.

When I returned, tears were running down Meilan’s face but she held the gun steady and for the first time I realized that her face was covered with bruises. I took the gun away from her.

“Who did that to you?” I asked.

“Katayama,” she said, spitting out the word.

“And what were these men going to do to you?”

“They were going to take me to the Crouching Tiger Triad and sell me.”

“Sell you?”

“Yes. They have a brothel. It’s for poor men. If you don’t comply with everything they want, they tie you to a bed.”

“Because they found out about me?”

“Not you exactly. I mentioned to one of the other girls that I’d met a cute guy. She turned rat on me.”

“That’s all Katayama needed to know to sell you into sex slavery?”

She lowered her head. “I told you. He’s jealous. He’s done it to other girls.”

Without thinking, I said, “How can you stay with a man like that?”

Angrily, she said, “Do you think I have a choice? I was brought here from Sichuan Province. Not the city but the country. An ancient village. My family had nothing. They didn’t even own the land we worked.”

I checked the rope to make sure the two thugs were tied securely. I didn’t have anything to use as a gag to keep them quiet so I took off my socks and stuffed one in each mouth. They weren’t happy about it and their eyes blazed hatred.

Then I coaxed Meilan to the shore and told her I was sorry. She pouted but didn’t start shouting again. On the far side of Xuanwu Lake, a full moon sat low above distant hills.

“There are five small islands in this lake,” I told her. “There’s one just beyond the pier.”

“Yes. That’s the one Katayama swims to. Not all the way. About halfway there, he turns around and comes back.”

“Do any of his men swim with him?”

“No. They stand on the pier. There’s a speedboat there they can use if he gets in trouble. But he’s proud. Claims he’ll never need their help. Even though he’s old, he likes to brag that he’s as strong as a young man.”

“Is he?”

She shrugged. “He thinks he is.” Then she grabbed my arm. “What are you going to do?”

“You stay here,” I told her. “Keep the gun pointed at these two men. If they try to run away, shoot them. I’ll be back shortly after midnight.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going for a swim,” I told her.

My bill with Toranaga Akushima had to be paid. Assassination in cold blood wasn’t my thing. Not normally. But when I considered what Katayama was about to do to Meilan — and what he would do to me once he found out that I’d thwarted his plans — my cold blood had been put on a slow boil. About a half mile down the lake, I found a small boat. Making sure no one was watching, I untied it from its mooring, hopped in, and rowed it out into the center of Xuanwu Lake, heading for the small island near Katayama’s pier. A half hour before midnight, I pulled the boat up on shore and I sat there hidden in the tree line, waiting. Hoping that Katayama remained faithful to his workout regimen.

At midnight, a white-haired man with three thugs behind him paraded out to the edge of the pier. He handed his towel to one of his underlings and I saw him there, waving his arms in the air, taking deep breaths, touching his toes with his fingertips. When he was fully limbered up, Katayama stepped toward the edge of the pier, raised his hands over his head, and dived into the cold water.

I’d found a log with a few leafy branches still on it. I shoved it smoothly into the water and paddled forward, watching Katayama’s rhythmic stroke in the moonlight, gliding toward him like a ravenous crocodile. And I was ravenous. I wasn’t going back to that Chinese prison for nothing or nobody. And I wasn’t going to stand by while innocent young women like Meilan were abused and utilized by these arrogant pricks as if they were so many toy dolls.

At the midpoint, Katayama spotted the log floating toward him. Apparently, he thought the same thing I did. It would be a good thing to hold onto to give yourself a little rest. My nose and the upper half of my head were well hidden behind the thickest part of the branches but when he was a few feet away I silently took a deep breath and dropped beneath the water.

The lake was murky and green but a few streaks of moonlight allowed me to spot the shadow of Katayama’s spindly legs kicking toward the log. When I was only a few feet from him, I dived toward the depths and as I did so, I grabbed his ankle. He went down easily.

What I was hoping was that the jerk downward would be so unexpected that he wouldn’t have time to draw in breath. And if he tried, he’d likely swallow lake water on the way down. Apparently, I was right. Immediately, he started to kick violently. After we’d lowered into the water about six more feet, I pulled myself back up along his flailing body, as if climbing a ladder, until I found his shoulders and then his head. He fought and scratched and punched but the water kept his blows from having any real effect. My breath was giving out too so I exhaled slowly and allowed us to rise, but just far enough until I popped my head above water and took a huge, delicious breath of air. Katayama struggled with the strength of a man who’s dying and despite my best efforts the top of his gray head broke the surface, but I regained my balance and before he could rise a few inches farther and take a breath, I shoved the top of his skull back below the water.

He reached toward me, trying to grab something but finding only cold, smooth flesh. His struggling slowed, became weak, like the old man that he was. And then he lay still, floating listlessly about six feet below the waterline. I waited, went up for a breath, and lowered myself again.

Slowly, the Japanese mobster known as Katayama floated toward the depths of the ancient lake known as Xuanwu.

As I shivered on the shore, Meilan helped me put my clothes back on. We left the two thugs where they were and ran back to the car. I started the engine, drove back up on the road, and we sped away. With hands still shaking, I switched the heater on full blast. Around a bend, we crossed a flat plain and then rose up toward a ridge of hills. At the crest, we spotted the distant lights of the ancient southern capital known as Nanjing.

Meilan handed the gun back to me. I set it next to the gearshift between us.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked.

“With you,” she said.

I nodded and kept driving.