22 Foster Crowe sat in his tent. He smoked a pipe made of birch wood, made strong with layers of lacquer, and allowed the tobacco to drift into the tent cloth over his head. He only smoked when he was worried—which was almost never—but lately he’d been smoking his pipe every night.
Sucking on the juicy tobacco, he sat and thought.
The man from whom he had stolen the journal was named Wu Chiang. As Foster studied the journal, that name appeared multiple times, and he deduced that Wu Chiang had been born in China, lived in Europe for decades, and only recently settled in Ceylon.
He’d been poring over many books and documents for an entire week in an attempt to decipher the journal, which contained a host of diagrams and formulas and many passages written in other languages—Latin, German, French, and even Chinese. The diagrams depicted detailed plans for devices and instruments designed for two things only—death or destruction.
The bubonic plague that stretched across Europe and killed over six million people in the fourteenth century.
The Gatling gun that was now dramatically changing how wars were fought.
Deadly gases that could kill with just one whiff.
Instruments of torture made popular during the Spanish Inquisition.
He read the names of people he assumed were agents intent on spreading this evil—these instruments, inventions, and philosophies. Some of the yellowed pages dated back nearly five hundred years, kept intact by the use of some kind of preservative. None of the names were familiar to him, so he assumed these agents worked in the background manipulating others.
Even the philosophies written down in the journal took on an incredibly evil tone. The general philosophy was that only a select few in the world were allowed to rule, and everyone else must be forced to bow down to them. The writings placed an emphasis on selfishness over thinking or caring for others.
The journal went on to state that the world was there for man to rule; man could choose to protect or to destroy the world. All animals and everything found in nature only existed to serve mankind, therefore the destruction of nature was deemed acceptable. These writings taught that man was inherently meant to be ruled, and to be ruled one way only—through ruthlessness and brutality. Especially repugnant was the view that all wild animals were vile and should be vanquished. That only mankind was civilized—anything else was considered to be uncivilized and unworthy of respect or sustainability.
Most disturbingly, the journal sketched out a kind of blueprint on how to create fear and insecurity in people. How to turn them against others, with the goal of having them become utterly obedient and subservient to one master. In chilling detail, the journal described exactly how to turn people into monsters who would kill and destroy without a second thought.
Foster wiped his eyes in disbelief at what he was reading. This was a master plan for self-destruction, either through war or through the decimation of the world and its natural surroundings.
The journal began to speak of modern times. He wrote down the names and dates of politicians and countries. Some of the sentences didn’t made sense. Words like “civil unrest,” “conspiracy,” and “civilian manipulation.”
When it suddenly all fit together.
This evil plan had been in formation for decades.
Foster could see it right in front of him.
Many countries were mentioned, but Germany above all others.
There was a map to create a world war unlike any the world had ever seen. It would make other wars look like mere skirmishes.
A war that could mean tens of millions of deaths.
Foster created a timeline and it all made sense.
It was ingenious.
After considering his options, he decided what must be done. He did not know when he might encounter Wu Chiang again, so he decided he must be killed as soon as possible. He sensed that Wu Chiang was as great a threat to the Red Hand as had ever walked the earth.
He had no choice but to go. He would leave by himself the following morning and return to the temple. He always hunted his foes by himself, as nobody else in camp was near his equal in martial arts, and he didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else’s death.
A voice came from outside asking to enter the tent. Foster put the journal in his top desk drawer and told the person to enter.
“A bit of tea, sir?”
It was Melgrave, a faithful servant to Foster. Melgrave was of Serbian descent—tall, old, and always wore a tuxedo. In fact, Foster could not recall one instance where Melgrave had not been dressed in a tuxedo.
“That would be perfect Melgrave, please set it down,” Foster answered and motioned for Melgrave to put the tray on his desk. Melgrave obediently followed his instructions and placed the brown bamboo tray on the large desk. Adding a generous amount of black tea leaves to a small porcelain cup, Melgrave slowly drew a stream of water over the leaves, filling the cup to the brim, and allowing the tea leaves to begin soaking and releasing their flavor. Ceylon produced the best tea leaves in the world, and Foster had taken a liking to three or four cups of tea a day.
Just his one small cup instantly filled the tent with the pleasant aroma of freshly brewed tea and it brought a bit of relief to Foster.
“Hold on Melgrave, I’m going to fetch some biscuits from my other quarters,” he said and stood up to leave the tent.
“Very well, sir,” Melgrave replied while continuing to stir the tea.
Foster exited the tent into the Ceylon night and headed over to a small wagon where he kept many of his personal items and found a package of butter cookies that had arrived just that day from Australia. Foster dearly missed the comforts of home and it had taken this parcel almost two months to finally reach him. In it he found boxes and boxes of butter cookies, blackberry jam, toffee, and a host of other treats not available in Ceylon.
Grabbing the cookies, he suddenly felt a twinge in his neck. A sudden feeling of foreboding came over him. He tried to ignore it, but the feeling was so powerful, he had to sit down and take deep breaths for a few moments to regain his composure. Locking the door to the wagon behind him, he had a most awful feeling as he walked back to his tent.
Upon opening his tent flap, he suddenly understood the cause of his pain and the menacing feeling he’d had.
On the ground was Melgrave, spread out on his stomach, with a broken teacup at his lips.
“Melgrave!” he screamed and rushed to his side. Putting his right index finger to his neck, Foster felt no movement where Melgrave’s pulse should have been. Turning him over, he straddled his body and began pumping up and down on his chest in an effort to revive him. He quickly began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
He continued for two full minutes, but it was useless.
Melgrave was dead.
Looking at the broken teacup, it was obvious what had killed him.
Someone had poisoned the tea and had intended it for Foster. Melgrave probably tasted it to ensure it had steeped properly, as he usually did for Foster.
That simple act of generosity had cost Melgrave his life.
The poison used must have been odorless and colorless and powerful enough to kill a grown man in a matter of seconds after just one sip. Only an advanced apothecary could have concocted such a poison.
Thoughts began rushing through Foster’s head as he leapt to his desk and opened the top drawer.
The journal was gone!
Stolen!
Whoever had tried to poison him had stolen the journal and made off with it before finishing the job on Foster.
Wu Chiang was onto Foster and his circus.
They were no longer anonymous.