The American fighters suddenly banked ninety degrees and flew directly over Sunny's head, gaining alt.i.tude as they began their westward departure. The Zeroes raced behind them in chase, but in moments the American fighters had reached the outskirts of the city. Sunny knew nothing about aerial warfare, but she doubted the Zeroes could catch the Americans. At least, she hoped not.

"Those were the Flying Tigers," Jia-Li whispered in awe when the rumble of machinery finally faded.

Stories about the elite American air squadron that fought alongside the Free Chinese had been circulating in Shanghai for months, but Sunny had never heard of anyone seeing the planes anywhere near the city.

As she looked out at the burning hull of the Conte Biancamano, she was filled with a mix of sadness-this was the ship that had brought Franz to her-and optimism. Still, it was proof that the j.a.panese were vulnerable even in Shanghai. Perhaps their aggression could be countered after all?

As the minutes pa.s.sed, the sirens subsided and pedestrians reappeared on the sidewalk.

Jia-Li looked at her watch. "I am running short on time. I promised Chih-Nii I would be in early." She cleared her throat. "There are a . . . a number of ships in port this weekend."

Fighting off the image of drunken sailors pawing at her best friend, Sunny leaned forward and wrapped her in a hug. "I will see you soon, bao bei."

"And I will talk to Charlie." Jia-Li broke into a huge smile. "Perhaps he will reconsider now that the Americans have finally shown up in Shanghai."

After Jia-Li left for Frenchtown, Sunny continued southward along the Bund until she reached the Old Chinese City. During the sixteenth century, the area had been surrounded by thirty-foot-high walls to protect it from raiding j.a.panese pirates. But those pirates own the city now, she thought bitterly.

Despite the Old City's reputation as a tourist trap for Westerners in search of what they believed to be "the authentic Orient," the bustling market had been one of her favourite places to visit with her father. Its stores and stalls were a kaleidoscope of colours and sounds, offering everything from furniture to lanterns. Artisans would sit outside their stores as they worked. Jewellers fastened pieces of jade in delicate silver settings, while tailors embroidered astonishing cheongsams. Sunny used to love watching the toy makers carve gorgeous puppets from sandalwood or pine.

As Sunny stepped through the arch of the north gateway, the reality of war wiped away her nostalgia. Half the stores were boarded up or abandoned. The ones still open offered up a meagre selection of merchandise, their windows near empty. Few people were here to buy, and the once lively merchants seemed as lackl.u.s.tre as their stock. Even their sales pitches, which Sunny remembered as relentless and confident, sounded unconvincing and hollow.

Sunny hurried through the market until she reached the open square that housed the Woo Sing Ding tea house, which sat on stone pillars in the middle of a man-made lake. Two distinctive zigzag bridges connected the ornate two-hundred-year-old tea house to land on either side. She spotted Wen-Cheng sitting on a bench across from the tea house. As usual, he held a newspaper open in front of his face, but she recognized his clothing and posture. Circling the lake toward him, Sunny felt only gnawing regret.

She sat down on the far end of the bench. "How are you today, Soon Yi?" Wen-Cheng asked from behind his paper.

"Nervous," she replied tersely. "Is it necessary to meet in such public places?"

His shoulders rose and fell. "I do only as I am told."

Although the open square wasn't particularly crowded, Sunny irrationally sensed eyes on her from every direction. "Doesn't this . . . work . . . frighten you, Wen-Cheng?"

"It terrifies me." He calmly turned a page. "But it is far too late to second-guess my decision."

"I wish I could be so philosophical."

His lips creased into a slight smile. "My wife, my parents, my job, the family business-they are all gone. This is much less of a gamble for me."

"Than for me?"

"Yes." Wen-Cheng lowered his newspaper. His eyes darted over to her. "I have already lost everything I once held dear. Including you, Soon Yi."

His meaning was unmistakable. Their romance had amounted to no more than a promise, but she still remembered how desperately she had once pined for him. The recollection only compounded her guilt. "Wen-Cheng, you know that Franz and I . . ."

"I know," he said, unperturbed. "I am merely pointing out that I have less to lose than you do. I wish . . ." He hesitated. "That I had never involved you."

His tone surprised Sunny and, if she was honest, disappointed her a little, too. "It was always my choice, Wen-Cheng. Remember? I insisted."

A minute or two of pained silence pa.s.sed between them while Wen-Cheng continued to pretend to read. Sunny looked to her right and saw the old man in the Zhongshan suit limping slowly toward them. She wondered again how high the man ranked within the Resistance, or whether the organization even possessed that much structure or hierarchy. Did one cell within the Underground even know what the others were up to? Or did it all amount to a series of uncoordinated acts, no more damaging than fleas pestering a dog?

But Sunny held her tongue as the elderly man lowered himself creakily onto the bench between her and Wen-Cheng. He stared straight ahead at the rounded roofline of the tea house. "What have you learned, Soon Yi?" he asked.

Sunny spoke in short bursts, her voice hushed. She told him everything Franz had shared with her about the offices of General Nogomi and Colonel Tanaka. As she held forth, the man remained still and expressionless.

"And Colonel Kubota?" he finally asked.

Sunny shifted in her seat. "The colonel is no longer at Astor House. His office is inside the ghetto. On Muirhead Road."

"Have you been there?"

"No, but my husband has," she said, antic.i.p.ating his question. "It's a modest s.p.a.ce on the second floor."

"Do you believe you would be allowed inside his office?"

"I would have no reason to go there."

The old man's nostrils whistled as he exhaled. "Surely you can find a reason."

"I . . . I do not see the point." Sunny turned toward the man, but his gaze did not shift. "Colonel Kubota is no longer in his previous job. He has suffered a stroke. He has been demoted. Overseeing the Jewish refugees is a far lesser role."

"Soon Yi speaks the truth," Wen-Cheng said quietly. "The colonel is not the man he once was."

"That is none of your concern," the old man said, unmoved.

Sunny sat up straighter. "Are you aware that the colonel risked his life and his career to save the Jewish refugees-including my husband and stepdaughter-from extermination?"

The man showed no response. His eyelids drooped as though he might nod off in the middle of the conversation. Finally, he said, "Are you aware, Soon Yi, that Colonel Kubota lived in Shanghai among us for ten years, all the while pretending to be our friend and advocate?"

His voice was calm, but Sunny sensed rage behind his words. "No, I was not-"

"Do you know, too, that the colonel won our trust for no other purpose than to infiltrate our government and lay the groundwork for Shanghai's downfall?"

But he saved my family, Sunny thought.

"I ask you again, Soon Yi," the man said, his tone turning to stone. "Can you get inside his office?"

CHAPTER 25.

The soldiers arrived at the hospital unannounced and insisted that Franz accompany them to Colonel Kubota's office. Franz had no idea what had prompted the summons but was nonetheless eager for the opportunity to speak to Kubota again. Refugees were dying daily from cholera, typhoid fever and other diseases that could have been treated with basic supplies such as intravenous fluid. The day before, a young father had died of a ruptured appendix. Franz had been unable to operate; they had waited in vain for anaesthetic that Joey's black market contact had promised but never delivered.

Franz stepped into the colonel's office intending to appeal to Kubota's sense of compa.s.sion. But his plans evaporated when he spotted the others in the room.

Kubota sat behind his desk, resignation carved into his weary face. Ghoya paced between the desk and the window. But it was the sight of the man on the far side of the room, who stood with arms folded across chest, that froze Franz's blood.

"Thank you for coming, Dr. Adler," Kubota said with his usual politeness. "You remember Colonel Tanaka?"

If he lived to be a hundred, Franz would never forget the chief of the Kempeitai-the man who had overseen his torture at Bridge House. Sporting a fresh brush-cut and wire-rimmed gla.s.ses as thick as bottle bottoms, Tanaka wore knee-high black boots over his tan uniform and white armbands on his jacket sleeves. Franz had come to fear those markings almost as much as the red-and-black swastikas. He bowed his head. "Colonel Tanaka, Mr. Ghoya."

Tanaka did not acknowledge his presence, but Ghoya shook his head at Franz. "It's no good, Dr. Adler," the little man muttered. "No good at all."

Franz waited, but Ghoya volunteered no explanation. "I am sorry, Mr. Ghoya, what is no good?"

"The Jews. I let them-" Ghoya glanced sheepishly over to his superiors. "We let them out of the Designated Area to work in the rest of the city. I give them pa.s.ses. And how do they thank me?"

Again, Ghoya left Franz hanging. "I am not sure, sir."

"They smuggle. They smuggle!" Ghoya cried. "Jewellery, liquor, cigarettes. It does not matter. All for the money. These Jews, Dr. Adler. These Jews, they take advantage of our kindness."

Tanaka swirled his head in Ghoya's direction and scolded him in j.a.panese. Ghoya's eyes went wide and his chin dropped in deference.

Franz's throat constricted at the sound of Tanaka's shrill voice. He thought back to the squalid torture chamber in the bas.e.m.e.nt of Bridge House, and lying strapped by his head and limbs to a wooden bench. Franz could practically feel the ligatures cutting into his wrists and the foul water sloshing over his face now. He breathed deeper, fighting off the memories.

Tanaka looked over to Kubota and continued in clipped j.a.panese. Kubota nodded reluctantly before turning to Ghoya and addressing him quietly. Ghoya sputtered an obsequious reply and bowed deeply at the waist. Kubota's left hand shook on the desktop as he held out his good arm to Franz. "We did not invite you here to discuss smuggling, Dr. Adler."

"Sabotage!" Tanaka hissed in English.

Franz's shoulders tightened. Against reason, he a.s.sumed that Tanaka must already know that Charlie and Simon were hiding in Yang's home. "Excuse me, Colonel?"

"A bomb." Tanaka stabbed his finger at the window. "Right here."

"Yesterday, saboteurs detonated another bomb in Hongkew," Kubota explained. "The explosion occurred just before noon at the wharf at the foot of Muirhead Road. Two sailors died. A merchant ship was damaged."

"So close," Tanaka snapped, his eyes blazing behind his thick gla.s.ses. "Were the Jews responsible?"

"Colonel, the wharf is outside the ghet-" Franz caught himself. "Outside the Designated Area."

Tanaka's angry gaze never left Franz, but he waved dismissively in Ghoya's direction. "This one lets Jews come and go. He fusses over jewellery and cigarettes. I worry over bombs!"

Franz opened his mouth. "Colonel Tanaka, there is no-"

"You Jews hate Germans. Admit it!" Tanaka seemed to believe Franz spoke for all of Shanghai's Jews. "All you want is their defeat. So Imperial j.a.pan must also lose. You will do everything to make it so."

"Colonel, we are peaceful." Franz brought a hand to his chest. "The great emperor has given us shelter. And we are most grateful for the j.a.panese hospitality."

"So you say," Tanaka scoffed.

"No one in the Designated Area has access to explosives." Even as Franz spoke the words, he wondered if they were true. He knew of a few young hotheads, including the three Klein brothers, who were making noises about aiding the Underground. He had warned them and their parents that their reckless talk could threaten the entire community.

Tanaka smirked at Franz. "We will look ourselves."

Kubota stared down and spoke to his desktop. "I'm afraid Colonel Tanaka is correct. We will have to search the Designated Area."

Franz suddenly pictured the Kempeitai crashing through the doors of Yang's suite, catching Charlie and Simon unaware. Hiding his panic, he edged toward the door.

Tanaka suddenly sprang forward, stopping only inches from Franz's face. The hot sour breath made Franz blink. Tanaka pointed his forefinger into Franz's chest, as though poking him with a stick. "If I find anything, you answer to me."

"I . . . I . . ." Franz stammered. "There is nothing to find."

Kubota began to speak in j.a.panese, but Tanaka stopped him with the same sharp tone that he had levelled at Ghoya. Franz could see that his old ally no longer had much standing with the Kempeitai chief. Tanaka turned to Franz with a malicious grin. "If I find anything . . ." Without another word, he wheeled around and stormed out of the office.

Ghoya shuffled after him, head low. He stopped at the doorway and turned to Franz. "The smuggling will stop. It will stop. You mark my words, doctor."

Desperate to warn the others, Franz hurried for the door himself. "Colonel, if you will please excuse me."

Kubota only smiled weakly. "Circ.u.mstances have changed in Shanghai. Yours, mine, everyone's. Would you not agree, Dr. Adler?"

"I would, yes."

"No wonder the Reubens declined my offer."

"To be released from the internment camp?"

"We refer to them as 'civic a.s.sembly centres,'" Kubota said with a trace of sarcasm. "Yes, they requested not to be relocated."

That the Shanghailander couple had opted for prison camp over the relative freedom of the ghetto struck Franz as proof of just how dire the refugees' situation had become.

"Colonel Tanaka." Kubota shook his head. "His threats are never empty."

"So I have learned."

"We will not tolerate subversion in the ghetto," Kubota said mechanically.

"I would not expect you to."

Kubota looked up from his desk, his eyes burning. "I had no intention of returning here."

"I realize that."

"We j.a.panese are guilty of pride. Too much pride. I am afraid I am no exception, Dr. Adler. To come back to the city that I once viewed as home . . . like this." Franz was uncertain whether Kubota meant his diminished physical or administrative capacity, or both. "After my stroke, given the choice, I would have preferred to have never awoken."

As Franz left the bureau, he resisted the urge to run. At the ghetto checkpoint, he saw two j.a.panese soldiers flanking the refugee guard. A thin woman stood in front of them, twitching nervously, while one of the soldiers rooted through her handbag.

When he was done, the soldier returned the bag to the woman and cleared her to re-enter the ghetto. As she crossed through, Franz recognized her as Liese, the nurse who had fallen into the role of the refugee hospital's anaesthetist.

Liese seemed astonished to see him. "Herr Doktor Adler!" she gasped. "Why . . . why are you here?"

"I had a meeting with the authorities," Franz said. "And you? Why did you leave the ghetto?"

Breaking off eye contact, Liese looked acutely uncomfortable. "I hem clothes for a j.a.panese tailor in Frenchtown. Twice a week I drop off the finished clothes and collect the new ones."