NO MATTER HOW MANY times he visited Rotterdam—and his duties brought him to the great port quite frequently—the sight of the devastation wrought by the German bombers in 1940 never ceased to impress Chen Yi.
This was the purest expression of violence he had ever seen—greater even than the damage wrought by the Japanese on the city of Nanking, where he had been born twenty-six years earlier. This was the iron fist made manifest.
The entire heart of the city had been flattened; obliterated.
They had to invent a new term to describe it. Carpet bombing was the phrase used. A carpet of bombs had been laid on the old city, and with the work of restoration hardly begun, all that remained of its mediaeval heart was a ruined church; that and some other half-wrecked structures.
It was towards one of these last that Chen was making his way that evening through the grid of streets that remained like the bones of a skeleton, fleshless, devoid of the houses and shops that had once stood there, in the company of an older man whose name was Huang Wei. Coarse-featured, and boasting a crooked nose that had been broken more than once, to judge by appearances, Huang was a famous street fighter, and Chen treated him with all the deference due a Red Pole—for such was Huang’s position in the family, an enforcer in the language employed by the brotherhood of which they were both members—while privately finding him somewhat comical. But that was true of most of the old ones, the long-standing members, with their quaint titles and arcane ceremonies dating centuries back. Sometimes Chen wondered if they knew they were living in a new world now: that everything had changed since the war.
The building in question was near the edge of the devastated region and might in its day have been a warehouse of modest proportions. Still, with its walls mostly standing, it lacked only a roof, and on reaching it Chen paused to look about him. The deserted street down which they had walked was empty, as was the intersection at which they had paused. However, as they stood there a young man with jet-black hair cut close to his scalp appeared in the doorway of the ruined warehouse. He bowed his head on seeing them.
‘All is ready,’ he said.
With a glance at his companion, Chen walked past the youth, who stepped to one side and then followed him in, staying a pace or two behind so that Chen could speak to him over his shoulder.
‘Is everyone here?’
The question was superfluous. Not one of the score of men he saw standing in a circle near the centre of the warehouse would have dared to stay away. They were 49s—ordinary members only—but they had taken the oaths.
‘All are present.’
Again the young man made a slight bow. Chen turned his attention to the scene before him. Although littered with debris, the floor of the warehouse had been cleared in one area, and it was there that the group awaiting him had gathered around a man stripped to the waist who was kneeling on the floor with his head bowed and his hands tied behind his back. His flabby body was marked by several tattoos of an exotic nature which included a dragon that wound its scaly tail about his slumped back.
No words were necessary. All knew why they had been summoned there, and if what was to follow bore something of the nature of a ritual, it was designed to deliver a message. No one who witnessed it would forget what he had seen. The guilty man had stolen from the family. Money received in payment for the precious white powder they trafficked in had been held back. The betrayal of sworn oaths was gross and unforgiveable. Each of the spectators knew that he, too, might one day find himself in the same fatal predicament, and it was with this in mind that Chen spoke once more, though only in an undertone.
‘We don’t believe that Liu was working alone. One or two others might have had a hand in his scheme. Watch their faces. See which ones sweat the most.’
The youth acknowledged the words with the faintest of nods.
‘Let us begin.’
Chen turned and went back to the doorway where Huang had been waiting. The older man took off his jacket and handed it to Chen. His shirt and tie followed. Stripped to the waist, his stocky, well-muscled body bore tattoos similar to the ones marking the body of the bound man as well as two scars, one across his chest, the other close to his navel, both the result of knife slashes. Chen folded the clothes and carried them to a block of concrete which had been well dusted. Laying the garments down carefully, he picked up a woodsman’s axe, which was leaning against the block, and brought it to Huang. Although the evening was well advanced there was still enough light in the sky to bring a gleam from the polished head as Huang swung it easily from side to side, testing the weight and balance. A murmur came from the lips of the men standing in the circle. It died as Huang moved forward, approaching the kneeling man from behind, and then stepping to one side.
Measuring the distance with his eye, he lifted the weapon with both hands and then brought the edge down in one swift stroke on the neck of the kneeling man. The body bucked convulsively as his head was separated from his body and sent rolling across the cement floor. Blood spurted from the neck like a fountain. It continued to flow as the body slumped to the floor, spreading in a dark puddle that shone faintly in the last of the light. A sigh came from the lips of the watching men.
Huang handed the axe to Chen, who walked to where the head was lying. Affecting an indifference he was far from feeling—it was the first such execution he had witnessed—he picked it up by the hair and carried it to the door of the warehouse, where another square of cement stood ready. Laying the axe aside, he settled the head firmly on the block so that the face, with its lips drawn back in a last rictus of pain and shock, was clearly visible.
Huang, meanwhile, had retrieved his clothes. Taking his time, he put on his shirt and tie and donned his jacket.
Only then did he turn to the circle of men, none of whom had moved.
‘Go,’ he said. They were his first words. ‘And remember.’
• • •
‘The Deng brothers looked away when you struck the blow. I noticed they were sweating.’
Chen spoke in a toneless voice. Though careful not to show it, he had found the preceding spectacle somewhat absurd (or so he told himself, now that the initial shock had worn off) and the bloody finale overdone. Wouldn’t a bullet in the back of Liu’s head have done just as well? Couldn’t they simply have cut his throat? These old men lived in a fantasy . . . a dream of the past.
Huang grunted. ‘I will arrange for them to be watched,’ he said.
After the departure of the others, the two of them had waited alone in the warehouse for the cleaning crew to arrive. Not required to attend the execution, they were only aspirant members, Blue Lanterns, not yet initiated into the family. Chen had given them their orders. The body was to be cut up and disposed of: all except the head, which was to remain where he had placed it. All traces of blood were to be washed from the floor, which was to be liberally sprinkled with dust afterwards. They were to keep silent about what they had seen and done on pain of death.
The orders having been issued, Huang had led his assistant outside. Darkness had fallen finally, but the summer night was warm.
‘I have received instructions from Hong Kong,’ he said, speaking in English. Up till then both men had used only Cantonese. ‘There is more work to be done. I shall need an assistant. Is your passport in order?’
‘It is.’
‘Be at Amsterdam station on Tuesday, no later than a quarter to two. Bring clothes for at least a fortnight. Make sure they are suitable.’
Unsure what was meant by these last words, Chen simply bowed. The older man regarded him.
‘You are not curious to know where we are being sent?’
‘Does it matter?’ Chen knew well how to frame his reply. ‘We follow orders.’
‘A good answer.’ Huang’s slate-coloured eyes were unreadable: it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. ‘But, then, you are a clever young man . . . or so people say. I will tell you anyway. We are going to London.’