Foul Lady Fortune

Seagreen Press closed for a few days while the police surveyed the alley out back and cleared the bodies. When Rosalind returned to the office, she was jittery, impatience raging in every part of her body. She hated inactivity; she’d rank it first on a list of useless ways to be spending her time.

“You’ll have a meeting with Ambassador Deoka in ten minutes,” Jiemin told her when she sat down at her desk, morning sunlight drawn across her chair. “I have stock to manage, so you must report in for me.”

Sometimes, Rosalind wondered whether she would still work as an operative when—if—the country eventually settled into peace. Or maybe she would end up chasing some other life-and-death route. Maybe she had developed a compulsion for fixing broken things. National anger fueled every operative, but the crack that it drew in each of them seemed to grow longer for some and shorter for others. Broken things called to broken things, tried to slot their shards together in the hopes that they would fit. If the country wasn’t crumbling anymore, what suitability did she have for its care?

Rosalind nodded. “I can do that. What am I reporting on?”

Maybe that was why she had been so drawn to Dimitri Voronin. And afterward, even if the city hadn’t almost fallen, even if Rosalind hadn’t lost so many of those she loved, even without a single iota of motivation, maybe she was always supposed to become this foul killing thing by nature of her being.

“Here. Let me find it. I’ve got everything ordered for you already.”

Jiemin bent down to rummage through his drawers. Rosalind waited patiently, eyeing the other notes on his desk.

It would do good to interact with Deoka more. In their time away from the office, she and Orion had put their heads together and debated the names on their lists to confirm what accusations they were giving to the Nationalists. She had been surprised at how easily they agreed on each point, but it made sense. This had been their joint effort, after all. Each name was only jotted down after a brief meeting of their eyes and a minuscule nod of Rosalind’s approval to Orion or vice versa.

“All that’s left is finding out who is actually dirtying their hands doing the killings,” Orion had said the night before, putting the pen down.

“And confirming that Deoka is the mastermind,” Rosalind added—at the very least, the assigned mastermind with instructions from his government. It was easy to make the call based on what they observed. Finding the evidence that would stand up in a court of law was harder.

“Which one first?” Orion asked. Without hesitation, he turned sideways along the couch and dropped his head into her lap, looking up at her. Rosalind only sighed. At this point, she was so used to him nudging into her personal space that she didn’t mind anymore.

“Both at once,” Rosalind returned, reaching for a lock of his hair. She had meant to give it a firm tug in an attempt to irritate him, but instead she found herself wrapping the lock around her finger, curious if the curl would hold.

“Information anywhere it will come,” Orion said. “I like it. There’s the plan, then.”

Now, across the department, the Orion outside of her memory gave her a wave as her wandering attention caught his gaze, that same lock of dark hair falling forward. He blew her a kiss. She ignored him.

They needed to meet with Silas soon and push their intelligence together. He had been busy while Seagreen went under. After reporting the alley bodies to the police under his auxiliary undercover identity, he had stayed with them to siphon information about the newest killings, which meant no contact until the coast was clear lest he be exposed.

Six whole bodies, Rosalind thought with a shiver. Without a handler giving them direction, their only option was to put their group thinking to work. What had changed? The killer had certainly been littering bodies here and there without caution, but this was a mass hit—and in the French Concession, no less. Had Dao Feng’s attack not been mimicry after all? Was he simply the beginning of an altered modus operandi?

“I do appreciate your flexibility,” Jiemin said, drawing Rosalind’s thoughts back to the present. “All you youthful workers”—he finally found the right pile of paper in his drawers—“you live to make me look withered and decrepit.”

Rosalind eyed him. “How old are you, exactly?”

“Eighteen.”

Rosalind extended her hand to receive the papers. “I’m older than you. Watch your back before I steal your job and get paid more.”

Jiemin didn’t look humored—he only gave her the papers and swayed back into his chair as if he needed to seriously consider whether Rosalind would steal his job.

“It is the way of the world,” he sighed beneath his breath.

Rosalind shuffled through the pile absently, familiarizing herself with what she was reporting in on. Five minutes passed, and when she glanced at the clock again, her eyes swiveled back to Jiemin, who had started writing something by hand. In English, too, if she wasn’t mistaken.

Subtly, Rosalind inched forward in her seat.

“Jiemin,” she said, resuming conversation. “Will you be at the function? The one at Cathay Hotel?”

He didn’t look up as he responded. “Quite unlikely.”

“Why not?” Rosalind tilted her head, trying to read the text script. Dear Bosses…

Jiemin suddenly folded the paper into thirds. Damn. He had already finished writing. “Why skip an exhausting social function?” He put the letter in an envelope, then shuddered with revulsion. “I have better ways to waste time than climbing the corporate ladder.”

“Don’t be such a spoilsport.” She leaned in his direction, pretending to give him a jolly thump on the arm. There was some likelihood she could catch hints of the letter if it slipped from his grasp…. “You’re not alone in your distaste for the corporate world. The rest of us simply know how to take advantage of small joys when they arise. There will be free food.”

Unfortunately, Jiemin was already sealing the envelope, smoothing down the vertical length until it was laid flat.

“All the world’s a stage,” Jiemin said plainly. “And all the people merely players. While I admire how others choose to perform their piece, I have a different exit and entrance.”

He started to write the address. An ordinary name, an ordinary street, Zhouzhuang Town, Kunshan City, Jiangsu Province…

Hold on, Rosalind thought suddenly, backtracking several mental paces. Zhouzhuang? Why did that sound familiar?

“You should get going.” Jiemin’s voice coming again almost startled her. “You’re expected on the hour.”

“Of course,” Rosalind said. She got out of her chair, her thoughts still moving at breakneck speed. For a fleeting moment, she latched on to something that Celia might have once said to her, and the connection snapped into place. Celia was in Zhouzhuang often. Rosalind didn’t know why.

The meeting with Deoka went quickly. Perhaps it was because half of her was zoned out, but the ambassador didn’t seem to notice. She reported in; he gave her her tasks. There was nothing to indicate that he suspected her or that their mission was at risk of being compromised.

“Anything else?” Ambassador Deoka asked.

Just as Rosalind was set to take the dismissal, an item in the corner caught her attention, and her eyes leveled on the mysterious crate again. It looked the same as last time. Out of place amid the otherwise refined decoration and certainly out of place as far as task delineation went, because why would Ambassador Deoka himself need to be receiving the newspapers being shipped in? That was production’s job.

“I was wondering whether our report on the fundraiser was to your satisfaction?” she asked, buying time. Maybe if she looked closer at the shipping label…

“It was perfectly fine,” Deoka replied. “You may return to work.”

Rosalind bowed her head, then exited the office. There was no point inciting suspicion by trying to get at the crate when it wouldn’t offer answers.

In the middle of the corridor, though, Rosalind stopped suddenly, her heels squeaking on the wooden flooring. But it was a different crate from the one she had seen last time, wasn’t it? Even though she had been too far away to read the text on this one, she realized the shipping label had been pasted onto the side instead of the top.

Seeing Jiemin write that letter had given her an idea. Instead of returning to the production department, she took the stairwell down to the first floor and walked into the mail room.

“Mrs. Mu,” Tejas said in greeting when she entered. “What can I help you with?”

Rosalind blinked. “Don’t you work upstairs?”

“I take shifts wherever needed, so I’m here today.” He wheeled his chair along the desk, then laced his fingers together. “The company tries to avoid unnecessary extra hires.”

“Fair enough,” Rosalind muttered. She cleared her throat. “Can I see the logs of all shipments going in and out? We have a problem up in production, and I need to track where a package is coming from.”

Tejas turned in his chair, glancing at the first shelf in view. “I would have to go rummaging for anything past June—”

“From June until now,” Rosalind interrupted.

With a thoughtful noise, Tejas stood up, wandering deeper into the mail room. He shuffled around for a few minutes—moving packages readied to be shipped out and packages readied for internal distribution across Seagreen—before returning with a clipboard.

“This should do, I believe.”

“Thank you,” Rosalind said gratefully, taking the clipboard. She flipped open the first page and scanned down the logs, focusing on the incoming packages. A prickling sensation was starting at her fingertips. A hum across her nerves, right at the precipice between knowing she was onto something and not quite realizing what that something was yet.

It was easy to search the deliverer’s line for the same address she had seen on the shipping label the first time: Warehouse 34, Hei Long Road, Taicang. Each time, Ambassador Deoka was noted as the recipient of the shipment. They were relatively frequent deliveries too. The same line was logged every week or so.

Rosalind didn’t know what to do with that information. While Tejas got distracted by something clattering at the back—a package that hadn’t been balanced well enough on its shelf—Rosalind stood there by the doorway, gnawing on the inside of her cheeks. There was something here. She knew it.

She traced a finger along the entire registry on one of the crates. Warehouse 34. 19 September. 13.59 lb.

Rosalind stopped. She tapped that column, her attention zeroing in on the crate’s weight. It was a rather specific number. When she looked at the other crates, they were all the same.

Rosalind started to look at the outgoing logs instead. She didn’t search for a familiar location. She ran her finger down the boxes that marked how much each package weighed and found more that were the very same number. Nothing would have identified those entries as the very same crates that came into Seagreen Press if not for the weight.

Which meant, sometime after the crates came in, they always went back out. All to an address in the International Settlement near the major commercial district: 286 Burkill Road. Seagreen Press was an intermediary for whatever was in those crates, and she was willing to bet it wasn’t just newspapers.

Rosalind set the clipboard down just as Tejas was returning from the back of the mail room. Her heart was pounding against her ribs, close to tipping out of her body and landing with a splat on the floor.

“You found the problem?” Tejas asked, taking the clipboard back.

“Yet to be determined,” Rosalind replied. “But I certainly found something of note.”

Many streets away, nearer to the heart of the city, Phoebe was pulling Silas out of his car, insistent on having backup. They had parked beside a stall selling flowers. The seller inched forward, ready to advertise a bouquet, but he seemed to decide against it and darted back in fright as soon as he sighted Phoebe singlehandedly yank a boy from his seat, her earrings clinking on either side of her head with her vigorous movement.

“Come on,” she commanded. “I need you to keep watch.”

“Phoebe, this is a bad idea.” Silas pushed his glasses up, peering at the apartment building half a block down. “I can’t believe we’ve been driving around these few days as a stakeout. I really believed you were curious about observing architecture!” He tried to stand his ground. “Orion is reckless putting you up to this.”

“He isn’t putting me up to anything. I offered.” Phoebe clasped her hands together, her silk gloves gliding against each other. “Please, please, please, come with me. I would be ever so afraid, breaking into an apartment by myself.”

After so many days of fruitless driving, Phoebe had accepted that there was no chance she would fulfill her mission that way. It was time to get her hands dirty. She had promised Orion she would find intelligence for him.

“Can’t I convince you to partake in a different outing instead?” Silas pleaded. “I’ll buy you cake. Or pastries? You like pastries.”

“No! We have to do this.” Phoebe separated her clasped hands, clutching at her skirts instead. “Do you want to watch me beg?”

“Phoebe—”

“So help me, I’ll get on my knees right in the middle of the street, and then you will have to answer for my virtue—”

“Fine, fine,” Silas hurried to say, unable to withstand her theatrics. There were two red blots deepening on his cheeks. “Let’s go.”

Phoebe beamed, her manner switching to happiness in the blink of an eye. The apartment building across from Peach Lily Palace had its entranceway tucked between a shoe shop and a dance studio, leading up a narrow set of stairs. They approached the door cautiously, but no one was around to keep watch or stand guard. Phoebe supposed that was to be expected around these parts. She clattered up, Silas following shortly behind. On the first landing, there was an old man—another resident—squatting by a metal basin to shine his shoes.

“Hello,” Phoebe said, stopping in front of him. “Is there a Liza… uh—” She cut herself off, racking her head for what Liza’s full name was. Orion had told her. She knew he had.

“Yelizaveta Romanovna,” Silas supplied into her ear at a whisper.

“Yelizaveta Romanovna!” Phoebe repeated. She cast Silas a brief, grateful look. “Is there a Yelizaveta Romanovna here?”

“The Ivanova girl?” the man grunted. “Upstairs. So damn noisy all the time.”

“Thank you.” Phoebe skittered around the man and resumed her climbing. When Silas didn’t immediately follow, she turned over her shoulder and gestured for him to hurry. Hesitantly, he circled around the man too, taking the steps two at a time to catch up.

“Phoebe,” he said. “What if she’s home?”

“Unlikely,” Phoebe replied. “Once the Municipal Police discovered she was missing from her cell, they surely would be sending regular inspections to her apartment to see if they could catch her here. She wouldn’t risk coming back. In fact…” When Phoebe came upon the door on the third floor—the only door on the third floor—she reached out with her gloved hands and turned the handle. It opened easily. “I was betting they wouldn’t lock up after looking around, either.”

Silas looked increasingly worried. “I thought you said Orion sent you here to find Liza.”

“He did. But I think there are better ways to get answers.”

Phoebe nudged open the door, entering the apartment. The first thing she noticed was the shabby flooring, squeaking upon her entrance as if the panels had once suffered water damage. The walls looked lumpy and thick, painted over and over again with each new occupant. Behind her, Silas winced with every step they took past the door, looking like he wanted to call the police on her himself.

“Stand guard, would you?” Phoebe instructed. She was already browsing the small space, eyes scanning the shelves and the compartment above the bed. “Yell if you hear anyone coming.”

Silas, heeding instruction, stood sentry by the door, though his whole disposition twitched with nervousness. Left to her own devices, Phoebe trailed a finger along Liza’s desk. An inkpot. A poetry collection. A bulging picture frame that did not contain a photograph but instead a Russian magazine with a title that Phoebe couldn’t read.

She picked it up. “How strange—”

“Come on, put that down.”

Phoebe whirled around with a scream. By the door, Silas also spun, startled by the noise. Somehow, Liza was standing in the room, her arms folded.

“Silas, I said to watch the door!” Phoebe shrieked.

“I was!” he claimed. “I was standing right here!”

Phoebe took a step back, her legs knocking into the desk. Her eyes were wide on Liza. “Oh my God, you’re a ghost.”

Liza burst into laughter. “No.” She pointed to the wardrobe. “I was in there. But you should see the looks on your faces.”

With the wardrobe door open now, Phoebe caught sight of pillows and papers strewn inside, where Liza had clearly made herself comfortable. There was no way that Liza was in there constantly, but it did give her a hidey-hole in the event that officers came poking around the apartment again.

Slowly, Phoebe’s heart started to return to its normal rate. By the door, Silas looked like he still needed medical attention. His eyes stayed pinned on her, silently entreating that they leave while knowing that Phoebe would dig her heels in if he actually said anything aloud. Smartly, he remained quiet.

“You find too much joy in this,” Phoebe huffed to Liza.

Liza waved her fingers. “Set that down. Did your brother send you?”

Phoebe put the frame down. She frowned. “Why does everyone say that? Maybe I’m just a busybody.”

“Maybe you should put your busybody antics to real use instead of sniffing around people like me.” Liza jumped onto her bed, crossing her legs. “Wu Xielian, close the door, please.”

Silas didn’t hesitate for a second. He closed the door, both hands braced upon it even after there was a click.

Liza splayed herself on her sheets. She looked like a starfish, her hair acting as an extra limb that stuck straight up. “I suppose you’re here to get a progress report, then. I’ve been entering different liaison stations all week, rummaging around their information. Nothing of note so far, but there’s one more prominent location.”

Phoebe was a little taken aback. She hadn’t expected Liza to communicate so easily.

By the door, Silas cleared his throat. He asked, “Se Zhong Road?”

It clicked. Liza was trying to figure Silas out. As far as she had been told, he was an agent on her side, and yet it looked as if he had remained mum to their superiors about all these occurrences among the Nationalists.

“Indeed,” Liza said. She bounced on the mattress again, tumbling off the side and returning to her feet. “You’re familiar with it?”

Silas seemed to sense the trap. He swiveled a glance at Phoebe, stuck between two acts: either pretend that Phoebe knew about his alleged betrayal, or look concerned that Phoebe was about to catch on. He opted for neither. He only kept his expression neutral.

“I wouldn’t say familiar with it. I’ve heard some things.”

“That works nicely then.” Liza reached under her bed, tucking something into her hand. “Do you two want to help?”

Phoebe and Silas both stared at her, unable to believe what they were hearing. Then:

“Really?” Phoebe asked, at the same time that Silas said, “Absolutely not.”

Phoebe turned to Silas, her gaze pleading. “Silas—”

“Stop that,” he protested, holding his hand up to cover her large eyes from him. “We are not aiding this!”

“We need to know what happened to Dao Feng!” She hurried in front of him, taking ahold of his wrists. “We need to know if it was a domestic hit. We need to know why my brother was attacked. He’s in danger! How can we sit back and do nothing?”

“We’re not doing nothing,” Silas insisted. He gestured toward Liza. “A skilled agent is at work on it.”

Liza grinned happily, taking the compliment.

“Silas,” Phoebe whined.

“Phoebe!”

Liza snorted off to the side, muttering something about being glad she would never have a lover’s spat. Overhearing her, Silas turned even redder than before.

“We have to,” Phoebe insisted again, ignoring Liza. “Please?”

A second passed. Silas was working through intense internal conflict.

“Fine,” he sighed eventually. “Only because you’re just going to do it alone if I refuse.” He turned to Liza. “What are we to do? Stand watch?”

“Oh, no.” With a flourish, Liza revealed what was in her hand—a box of matches—then tossed it at Silas. “You’re handling the explosives.”