It was Tsai’s voice on the international connection to New York, giving Gee Sin the call he knew would come. Tsai, still a 432, Gee Sin evaluated, but up and coming.

Paper Fan saw the gloomy expanse of the Wan Chai waterfront, the Mid-Levels, Mongkok, fading into the soupy mist. He held the cell phone to his left ear with his shoulder, shuffled the deck again, and spread the cards out on the countertop.

“This comes to us,” Tsai said, “from one of our sister Grass Sandals.”

There was a short burst of static over the line. Gee Sin knew some of the local chapters had recruited women into their operations.

“A woman made a donation to a temple,” Tsai continued, “in Say nga touh.”

Gee Sin understood that he meant Seattle, and asked, “Don’t women make donations all the time?”

“Yes, but not in gold,” emphasized Tsai. “They don’t usually donate gold coins.”

“A coin?” Gee Sin remembered the stolen one-ounce Pandas. “What make of coin?”

“A gold Panda.” Tsai paused. “She wasn’t sure what size.”

“But why donate a gold coin?” Gee Sin felt the pulling drifting sensation of the Vicodin. There was more breakup, clicking on the line.

“It’s an old way of thinking,” said Tsai. “From when our countrymen were refugees, during jo non, fleeing from the Japanese. Our hingdaai, brothers, converted all their paper money to gold. Because metal doesn’t burn like paper does, and gold doesn’t lose its value like government currency.”

Gee Sin gave this a moment, then asked, “Was this an older woman, then?”

“No, she fit the general profile. Thirties to forties, short to average height.”

“What else?” asked Gee Sin, the brandy rushing through his blood now.

“The monk said she prayed briefly and left.”

“Is that strange?” He caressed the deck of cards, his vision starting to blur.

“Well, it was after the Lantern Festival. Lots of people in and out of the temple. Our female cho hai there reported that the sister monk remembered that the woman didn’t sign the log-in book.”

They waited through a moment of crackling noise.

Tsai continued, “She said the woman was dressed all in black, and reminded her of a movie star in a magazine.”

“You have people in place?” Gee Sin’s words began to slur.

“We’re watching the temple,” Tsai said crisply, “with help from local 49s, Hip Ching say gow jai, fighters.”

“Where are you now?” Gee Sin heard himself asking.

“I’m preparing to go to the airport. JFK.”

Gee Sin didn’t approve of using the 49s, but advised, “Call me when you get to Say nga touh.” He hung up, and put the cell phone down.

The deck of cards beckoned him as a feeling of goodness and compassion washed over him. He squeezed the deck and smoothly flipped out the top three cards.

A King of Hearts.

A Queen of Spades.

A King of Diamonds.

He put the deck down. A black, hak, queen, trapped between a pair of blood-red kings.

Soon, Gee Sin the Paper Fan anticipated, the trail ends.

Fot Mong, Nightmare

Mona felt groggy, looking up as if in a daze, snug beneath a shiny black covering, a blanket. She was observing a candlelit ceremony of some kind, two men in robes, Buddhist-like, in front of an altar. One man wore a red sash, the other a green headband. The shadowy air was thick with incense. Chanting? But not Buddhist.

The man who was the Incense Master wore a grass sandal on his left foot and was exchanging hand signals with the gathering of new recruits.

She was almost swept away by a wave of dizziness.

She’d thought the recruits were dogs at first, obediently seated on their haunches. The murmuring sound cut abruptly to silence and she soon realized these were men on their knees, sitting back on their heels. Their faces were flickering images in the candlelight, glimpses of an ancient ritual. They were reciting an oath.

I shall not betray my brethren …

Angling for a better view, she discovered she was bound onto a black mattress, spread-eagled and naked under the covering. Like a sacrificial lamb.

I shall not betray. The penalty is death. The oaths declined to murmurs again.

Then the Incense Master held up a Ming Dynasty–type dagger, and the recruits turned their attention to her on the mattress. She saw lines of leering lecherous men, evil hock sear wui, snakeheads, rising up from their crouched postures.

They formed a long line as, to her shock, the black satin sheet that was covering her was slowly pulled away, exposing all of her in the dim shadowy light. With lolling, dripping tongues, the men resembled dogs again. Triad mongrels.

She struggled against the ties that bound her, helpless. It only excited the men more. She screamed as the first group of men surrounded her, screamed as the first engorged erection penetrated her.

Yelling, she’d jerked herself awake. She was sitting upright in her own bed, her heart pounding even in the reassuring quiet of her basement apartment. She caught her breath trying to shake the fot mong, nightmare, from her head, clutching the jade charm in her fist.

Beware, it warned, beware.

She’d already transferred half of her bank account to the Vancouver branch of the AAE bank. She’d be able to transport the remaining gold and diamonds traveling overland by bus, or else by sea, on a ferry.

Gradually, her spirit calmed, but she could not find sleep, wondering how she could advance her plans.

Thunder over Water floated to the surface of the charm, tingling at her fingertips.

Find direction, it urged, make haste to go.

Jun bay, prepare.

Carry-all

She took the razor blade from the travel sewing kit and slit open the edge where the padded lining met the hem of the jacket, a cheap black barn jacket she’d bought at the Ming Wah Mall. All the old Chinese wore the same drab discount items from the Chinese mall stores and she wanted to blend into the mix when the time came.

She spread the seam open with her fingers, popping the thread work until the opening was more than the width of her hand.

She grabbed a plastic bag from the makeshift kitchenette, a clear Ziploc bag that was large enough to hold a magazine. She neatly inserted bank documents, a paper-clipped stack of eight one-hundred-dollar bills, and a mini zip-bag containing six diamonds wrapped in wax paper. She added the little red envelope with the key to the safe deposit box, and the Social Security card identifying her as Jing Su Tong.

Pressing the air out, she zipped the plastic bag and slipped it beneath the lining of the jacket. She inserted her hand and spread the plastic flat, patting it into place. From the sewing kit, she got a needle and ran six loose loops of thread and closed the edge at lining and hem. It will be easier to open when the time comes, she thought, remembering Make haste to go.

She kept the Seattle non-driver’s license in her pocket, the photo ID describing her as Tong J. Su: 118 pounds. Twenty-eight years old. She’d memorized the numbers 2, 11, 8: all auspicious.

At the foot of her bed, the black rubber “Prago” bag was a knockoff, a zippered shoulder bag big enough to hold travel necessities, and then some. She’d also found it at Ming Wah, where cheap copies of the world’s best designs were available. Into the shoulder bag she tossed a Chinese newspaper, a senior citizen’s discount bus voucher, a souvenir Chinatown letter opener. She clipped the travel brochures from Trans World Asia together, tossing them in. She’d made advance arrangements for Vancouver, a week’s stay at the Budget Hotel near Chinatown. She’d also booked a tour, a bus shuttle from Victoria to Vancouver.

Beware, beware.

She caressed the red bangle with her thumb, urging forth luck and courage.