“I’ll stay to see Father buried,” said Zhan Fu. “And considering her mood, I should probably get a hotel.”
“Nonsense,” said Dou Shu. “You are family. You will stay in your own home.”
“What about Mei Ling?”
“She’s the head of the business, now, but I’m still her elder here. You will stay. There is no more discussion.”
Zhan Fu smiled. “I might need to step out while you have that talk with her.”
Dou Shu started to say something in reply, but the sound of the front door being thrown open, along with yelling and the howling wind, brought them both to their feet. They raced inside to find the man at the door holding a white man, soaked to the bone, and bleeding on the floor.
“What is this?” Dou Shu said.
“He just appeared. Tried to get in, He said he had to talk to Wang-San.”
Zhan Fu lifted the man up and flipped him over. He was indeed shot in the side, and beaten badly. But it was the silver star on his vest that galvanized Zhan Fu to action. “Call for the doctor,” he said. “We need to lay him down. Take him, now,” he said. The servants complied, swarming over the man. They started moving toward Wang’s bedroom, and then thought better of it and took him to the back parlor, where they laid him down on the couch.
Zhan Fu said to Dou Shu, “He’s weak from blood loss. He needs food and water.”
“Yes, yes,” said Dou Shu, hurrying off.
Zhan Fu turned to the doorman and said, “Let the doctor through, but no one else. Not until we know what’s going on. Understood?”
The doorman nodded and shut the door behind him. Zhan Fu turned and saw his sister staring at him. “Well, that didn’t take long,” she said.
“He was asking for Father. Have you seen him before?”
She nodded. “They were friends, I think.”
Zhan Fu made a gesture with his hands. “Then by all means, find out what he wants. I do not want to get in the way of your business.”
She breezed by him and said, under her breath, “See that you don’t. Celestial Kid.”
Zhan Fu shook his head and followed his sister into the parlor.
Between the doctor’s return visit, Dou Shu’s ministrations of food and healing tea, and the generous slug of whisky administered before the doctor and the Wang’s house staff extracted two bullets out of the man, it was more than two hours before he was in any shape to talk. He was finally able to sit up, swearing and wheezing. His entire chest and abdomen was wrapped tightly with gauze and packed with medicine and herbs.
Mei Ling sat down in the chair opposite him. Zhan Fu hung back, standing by the door to the parlor, his arms crossed. “How do you feel?” she asked.
“No chance of my dying, unless I stop breathing because of this damn bandage,” he said. “Thank you for saving my life,” he said.
Mei Ling inclined her head, the mere hint of a bow. “I’m Wang Mei Ling. What brings you to my home?”
The man was older, his face lined and burned brown by the sun. His clothes, what was left of them, were worn and dirty. The servants gave him a silk robe to wear, as his shirt had been cut away by the doctor. His campaigner’s mustache was gray, along with his thinning hair, but his eyes were dark and bright, like cut coal. He took another drink of Dou Shu’s tea and grimaced. “I came to see your father. I understand he just passed. My condolences.”
“Thank you,” Mei Ling said, inclining her head again. Zhan Fu smiled out of the side of his mouth; she had her father’s mannerisms down pat. “Is there anything I can do in his place?”
The man reached for his riding duster and failed, falling back on the couch with a gasp. One of Mei Ling’s servants retrieved it for him. He reached into the pocket and brought forth a packet of papers. As he set the coat aside, he said, “I should introduce myself. My name’s John Cross. I’m a Texas Ranger assigned to the Special Division.”
Mei Ling allowed a smile to show on her face. “My father has spoken of you often, Mister Cross.”
“We helped each other out a few times over the years. I like to think we were friends, even though our meetings were seldom cordial. I needed his help, one last time. This time it was a favor I could return. Now, though…” He sat back and took another drink and gasped. “My God, what is in this tea?”
“It’s good for your blood,” said Dou Shu. “You must drink all of it.”
Cross squinted, seeing Dou Shu for the first time. His gaze fell on Zhan Fu and he started. “How the hell did you get here?”
Without turning her head, Mei Ling said, “He is my brother.”
Cross chuckled, and with it came another gasp, wince, and choice swear word. “That crafty old goat,” he muttered. “He never told me The Celestial Kid was his son.”
“It’s not something we’re particularly proud of,” said Mei Ling.
“I beg your pardon, Ma’am, but if that’s true, then you don’t know anything at all. Your brother is a legend and a hero.”
“Maybe to your people.”
Cross bristled. “My people? What are you talking about?”
“We simply have different ideas of what makes a legend,” she said, her voice now raised.
“Look, I understand your ways are different than mine, say. I’m not going to argue with you about that. I’d better be off,” Cross said. He tried to stand, but Dou Shu pushed him back on the couch easily. He grabbed the packet of papers and handed them to Mei Ling. She looked the papers over, slowly, paging through them.
Finally, she looked up at Cross. “I don’t understand what this has to do with The Benevolent Celestial Brotherhood.”
Cross took a breath and when he let it go, he seemed a lot older. “It’s about the Revolution. In Mexico.”
“We are not strangers to border violence,” said Mei Ling, her voice raised again. “El Paso has been the front line for as long as I can remember.”
“All right,” said Cross, waving her off. He looked past her, to Zhan Fu, and said, “You know about the Special Division, don’t you?”
Zhan Fu nodded. “I’ve heard of you, too, Mr. Cross. You are the ranger they send out when there’s something inexplicable causing trouble.”
“A very diplomatic way of putting it, Kid. Yeah, I’m the monster hunter. Trouble is, there’s not too many monster hunters left these days. So I got re-assigned to tracking down some of the rebels that jumped the border. War criminals. Now that Obregon is in charge, all of the Villanistas and Zapatistas are being rounded up by the newly formed people’s army, the Red Brigade.”
“You mean Communists.” Zhan Fu walked into the room and sat down beside his sister and ignored her scowl.
“Yeah, the Soviets are backing Obregon, and even though Washington’s pitching a fit, Obregon is courting them right back.” He gestured at the papers. “I lifted that itinerary off of one of the Jalisco brothers. These boys were agitators, troublemakers. They were passing out leaflets about the new world order, or some nonsense. Anyway, they had a meet-up with some folks, and I listened in on it for a bit, until it got to be too much. I tried to stop them, and that’s how I got shot and left for dead. Good thing I don’t kill so easy.”
Both Mei Ling and Zhan Fu shifted in their seats. Cross noticed. “Hold on, I’m coming to it,” he said. “There’s two Soviet diplomats traveling from New York City to Juarez. They passed through here yesterday. I ran across them in Amarillo, at the Jalisco brothers’ hide out. They had something with them…” He paused and finished off his tea with a grimace. “God, that’s terrible.”
Dou Shu gathered up the tea cup and refilled it. “Drink.” He sat it down next to Cross, who looked at the cup as if it contained live scorpions. Instead, Cross returned to his story. “Some former colonel in the old Carranza army, Reyes, has a big chip on his shoulder. He’s meeting up with these Soviet agents with the firm intention of raising an army and attacking El Paso and taking over Fort Bliss ‘in the name of the people,’ whatever the hell that means.”
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“More political saber rattling,” said Mei Ling. “Not our concern.”
“You are just like your father, I’ll give you that,” Cross said. His tone made it clear it was not a compliment. “Two things might make you change your mind. These Soviet diplomats have a secret weapon with them. Something that was thought to be destroyed. And they’ll be able to get that army, easy. But that’s not your concern. What is your concern is this: they intend to use the smuggling tunnels to get from Mexico to here. And this army ain’t like a bunch of peasants with rakes and sticks. They’ll kill anything in their way.” He took another drink and gasped. “They’ll take Chinatown apart before they attack Fort Bliss. Your people won’t know what’s hit them, and neither will the soldiers.”
Mei Ling looked at her Uncle and even spared a glance at Zhan Fu. “Mister Cross, even if these rebels could raise an army in so short a time, I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean by…”
Cross cut her off. “Yeah, I know, you don’t know anything about the five tunnels, named after the five elements, which were used to smuggle your people into El Paso to work the railroads.” He smiled, enjoying the look of surprise on Mei Ling’s face. “Me and your Dad used the tunnels more than once to get me across the border undetected. And the Fire Tunnel saved my life one time when I was being chased by… well, never mind. Point is, I know about the tunnels. And so do the Mexicans.”
During Cross’ explanation, Zhan Fu plucked the papers from Mei Ling’s hand. He examined them closely. It was a long letter written in Spanish, which he could not read. However, in the middle of the letter was a series of dates, times, and stops. Clearly a train schedule. The Russians had indeed crossed the border yesterday. He continued reading and came to a name that jumped out at him like a flare. He looked up at Cross and asked, “What about this secret weapon?”
Cross looked at Zhan Fu and then the papers. He nodded at Zhan Fu. “You saw the name, too, I take it?”
“What name?” asked Mei Ling.
Cross drained the tea cup again and shuddered. “Rasputin.”
Zhan Fu turned to his sister. “This is serious,” he said. “You’re going to need my help.”
* * *
Cross drank the rest of the horrible tea and ate some of the food Dou Shu brought him. The dumplings had meat in them. They were pretty good, and simple. He concentrated on those, and tried not to listen to the shouting match going on in the next room. Half of it was in Chinese, which made no sense to him. The other half was language he knew all too well in his career in law enforcement. Mei Ling was young, and she was pretty, and she certainly seemed capable of taking over for her father. But she had a mouth on her like a longshoreman.
Finally Zhan Fu burst through the door with Mei Ling trailing behind. He seemed to fill up the room with his anger. “Cross, where are they going? These diplomats?”
“There’s a party at the Governor’s mansion tonight… I think.” Cross leafed through his papers, stalling for time. “I jumped them before I could hear the details. After they shot me and left me for dead, I heard ’em say something about a reception, or something like that.”
Zhan Fu turned and was brought up short by his sister. “I suppose you intend to fight an entire army?”
Zhan Fu stared at Mei Ling, unsure of the motivation behind her sudden concern for him. “No, not the army. If I can get to Rasputin first, there won’t be an army.”
Mei Ling replied, “And if you are caught, you will bring shame upon us all and draw the gwei lo right to us. I forbid it.”
Zhan Fu smiled at his sister; at least now he knew why she was worried. “You don’t know who Rasputin is. A charismatic leader. A beguiler and an agitator. They poisoned him, shot him, strangled him, and tried to drown him. Nothing took. If he’s here, then maybe he’s trying to make these men as invincible as he is. Consider what an unkillable army would do if they laid siege to this town. To Chinatown.”
“You are not going!”
Zhan Fu lost his smile. He pointed a finger at her and said, “For the last time: I am not one of your men. You may be the head of the Brotherhood now, but you are my younger sister. Out of respect for Father, I won’t interfere with your decision in this matter, but I must act.”
“What about talking to General Pershing?” Cross asked.
Mei Ling snorted. “He’s lost his way. Ever since his family died. He won’t help you.”
Cross said, “You mean, ‘he won’t help us.’ ”
Zhan Fu said, “That settles it, then. I’m going, right now. You know what to do. I will signal you if I can.” He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.
“I never agreed to anything!” shouted Mei Ling.
Dou Shu put his hand on his niece’s shoulder and said, in Cantonese, “Your brother is not trying to take over. But he does need your help if he is going to survive.”
Mei Ling said, in Cantonese, “He is the Celestial Kid. He’s not my brother.” To Cross, she said, “You may stay until you are well enough to travel.”
Cross stood up with some effort and said, “All the same to you, Ma’am, I think I’ll try to convince General Pershing he’s in danger.” He gathered up his belongings and said to Dou Shu, “I don’t know what’s in that tea. Don’t never tell me. But it worked, whatever the hell it was.” Dou Shu beamed. To both of them, he said, “Thank you.”
As Cross left the parlor, he saw Zhan Fu at the door. His jacket and great coat were back on, as well as his black hat. He had a wrapped paper packet that he shoved into his front coat pocket. His gunbelt was on his waist, the holsters tied down. He turned to Cross. “These diplomats,” said Zhan Fu, “what do they look like?”
“You can’t miss ’em. And they’re mean as hell, too.” Cross nodded. “Be careful.”
Zhan Fu smiled, and it was the most dangerous smile Cross had ever seen in his life. “Thanks for the warning.” He opened the door and melted into the night and the cold rain.
Cross walked to the door and opened it. The stoop, and the street, was empty.
* * *
The main ball room inside the Governor’s mansion in the heart of war torn Juarez, Mexico, was full of dignitaries, ambassadors, military men, and a smattering of landed gentry. Gone were the vast, aristocratic affairs with rich wine and heavy gowns. This was a new era, and the peasant farmer was its king. For now. The assembled horde had eaten and drank their fill and were now wondering what to do. El Presidente was the guest of the governor, along with the two Cossacks from Russia, and all eyes were on them, including the man in black who was not on the guest list.
He’d come in on the last train, a mail hack, and made his way through the streets, choked with soldiers from the newly formed Red Brigade, tasked with clearing the streets on this particular night. One minute he was not there, and the next minute, he was amidst the partygoers, smiling without smiling, his great coat nearly touching the floor. Only his red and yellow embroidered vest hinted at any color on the man. He could have been an Indian with his dark, straight hair, but his skin was lighter, bronzed by the sun, but not dark. Finally, they found the word they were collectively looking for: Oriental. After that determination, they shrugged and moved on to the next topic of conversation. After all, he wasn’t the first of their kind in Juarez over the years.
He said nothing to them, choosing only to nod, smile, and shake his head when approached. The less he talked, the more curious they became about him. Eventually, the attention he initially drew dissipated and he faded back to the edges of the room, out of everyone’s immediate line of sight. No one at the party realized that the stranger was, in fact, the Celestial Kid, and they had no idea he was stalking his prey.
The Cossacks, huge bear-like men in gray uniforms with red sashes and bristle-like beards, stayed together and spoke kindly to everyone who approached them. An older gentleman in one of the regime’s military uniforms—a general—was never out of the Russians’ orbit, sometimes facilitating their next meetin
g, and sometimes politely deferring for them. In addition to his personal guard and various cabinet members, President Obregon had brought with him a special guest, a painter named Diego Rivera. Obregon had hired Rivera to paint murals on the buildings across Mexico, and much political hay was being made of this. There was a receiving line to shake the artist’s hand and get a minute of one-on-one attention from El Presidente, as was the sole purpose of the evening’s party.
Zhan Fu slipped into the line at the back and did his best to blend in. He had missed the speeches earlier, but from the tone of the conversations in the room, Obregon was intent on making good the promises from the ratified constitution adopted some three years ago. Only a few men in attendance, mostly the military men, seemed less pleased with their newly elected leader.
None of that mattered to Zhan Fu. He was fixated on the Cossacks, so much so that he almost missed his chance to be gracious to Obregon and Rivera. He shook their hands and congratulated them and wished them well, and made an exit before either of them grew too curious. Turning away from Rivera, he was now no more than six steps away from the Russians. Instead of joining the smaller second queue on the right, he slipped down between the milling throng of sycophants and local politicians to the left, and found himself behind the dignitaries. He kept walking and found a door out of sight of the ball room; a servant’s entrance. He pushed on the door and it swung open easily. It was a narrow hallway, and from the sounds at the end of the hall, ran straight to the kitchen. Zhan Fu opened the door a crack and found he had an unobstructed view of the Russians. He settled down to wait, glancing at this silver pocket watch. It was almost midnight.
The general who was attending the diplomats noticed the time, as well. He leaned between them and said something, and they immediately shook hands with everyone around them, nodding and smiling. The general said something to the group, and they laughed and waved the visitors away. As soon as the Cossacks were out of view of the group, their expressions hardened like flint. The general ushered them by the servant’s door at a brisk pace. Zhan Fu slipped out and followed.
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