“If the order is still in effect, we’re dead if we get caught,” Marshall said. He withdrew a piece of blank paper, then a pen, and started to write. “But not if we overturn the order on an emergency command.”
“With what?” Benedikt asked, flabbergasted. He squinted at what Marshall was writing. “A permission slip for any officer who catches us?”
“A permission slip”—Marshall finished writing with a flourish—“approved by General Shu. His stamp should be in his meeting room. Let’s go.”
Marshall was out of the room before Benedikt could even register the plan, digesting what they were trying to do. Benedikt’s ankle protested as he picked up speed too, catching up to Marshall in the long hall, winding around the house to come to the foyer.
Benedikt came to a dead stop. “Mars.”
“It’s just up there,” Marshall said. He pointed to the stairs, not noticing Benedikt’s terrified expression. “We—”
“Mars.”
Marshall jumped, then turned around and followed Benedikt’s gaze. Through the delicate archway of the foyer, the living room unfolded in front of them: the unlit fireplace, the floral vases, and General Shu, reading a newspaper on the leather couch.
“Oh,” Marshall said quietly.
General Shu laid his newspaper down. In one hand, he was holding a pistol, pointed in their direction. The other hand was gloved, matching the thick fabric of his outer coat, like he had come back inside the house without bothering to get comfortable.
“Did you think,” he said slowly, “that I wouldn’t notice my window wide open?”
“Well, you caught us.” Marshall might have been taken aback upon first sighting his father, but he recovered fast, his voice injected with grace. He walked right up to him, not faltering when his father rose, not faltering even as he walked right up to the pistol. “You promised that you would help me, help the Montagovs. So here we are.”
General Shu was watching Benedikt. Studying him.
“Your place for helping them is through official channels,” General Shu said evenly.
“This right here is an official channel. Unless, of course”—Marshall’s voice turned cold—“you lied to me.”
Silence. The ticking of the grandfather clock, its pendulum swinging left and right inside the glass casing. Slowly, General Shu set his pistol down on the table beside them.
“There is an order to the way things must work,” he said. His eyes darted to Benedikt again, some flare of irritation in the momentary glance. “We cannot make things happen just because we want it. That is tyranny.”
How fast could Benedikt reach for a weapon if he needed to? The pistol on the table mocked him—close enough for General Shu’s immediate retrieval but just far enough to give hope that it was not a threat.
“Bàba, it is just one question,” Marshall said. “If I asked for help to save my friends, are you with me or against me?”
General Shu made a dismissive noise. “There exactly is your problem. You think everything can only be good or bad, heroic or evil. I have taken you in to teach you to be a leader, and you cannot stay true to your word.”
“My word—”
General Shu pushed on. “We follow the rules that come down from command. We eradicate those who want to threaten a peaceful way of life. You are my son. You will do the same. There is no other respectable option.”
Rain clattered down around the house, the droplets seeming far away because of the hollow sound. Benedikt was almost afraid that Marshall was listening, that this pull of family and legacy was too strong to resist.
Then Marshall said, “You forget. I was not raised respectably. I was raised as a gangster.”
And before General Shu could stop him, Marshall picked up the pistol his father had set down and hit him hard across the temple.
Benedikt hurried forward, his eyes wide as Marshall caught his father and eased him back onto the couch. General Shu’s eyes were closed. His chest looked still. “Please tell me you didn’t just commit patricide.”
Marshall rolled his eyes. He put his finger under his father’s nose, confirming that General Shu was still breathing. “You don’t think I’ve perfected how to knock someone out by now?”
“I’m just saying the pistol looks a little sharp—”
“Oh my God, you are impossible.” Marshall mimed a zip across his lips, forbidding Benedikt from arguing further. “Time is ticking. Let’s find that stamp.”
Forty-Three
Do you see them?”
“No,” Roma answered, his jaw tightening. “It is our misfortune that the waterfront is so damn crowded.”
“If we had known, I would have decided on a less vague meeting point,” Juliette muttered. With a sigh, she shifted, trying to hold her arms over more of Alisa’s head, blocking off the rain. She might as well be a helpful umbrella while Roma trekked up and down the boardwalk, running reconnaissance.
This wouldn’t do. The rain was messing with their visibility; Juliette could see the protesters and strikers moving, but she couldn’t make out faces past a few feet in front of her. Roma and Juliette were in plain clothes, which let them blend in with the rest of the city, but it would be impossible for Benedikt and Marshall to sight them even if the two were already present at the waterfront. They were used to searching for Roma’s clean pressed white shirts and Juliette’s beaded dresses. Neither of those items was present today.
“Roma, it’s almost noon.”
“They’ll come,” Roma insisted. “I know they will.”
Juliette looked out onto the river, biting her lip. Along every ramp, there were boats jammed in tight capacity, making space for foreign warship after foreign warship, flags of red, white, and blue marking the sides. The foreigners had summoned them here as a threat. A reminder that they had won a war on this land once before, so they could do it again. A reminder that Shanghai could jostle up in civil unrest however much it liked, but it better settle down in due time before the foreigners got too annoyed and started using these war vessels.
“How about this?” Juliette said. She tried to wipe the rain off her brow. It was pointless when the downpour fell so fast. “I’m going to find my contact. I’ll have him at the ready and try to stall beyond noon. Soon as your cousin shows, we run.”
“Soon as he shows with Marshall,” Roma corrected. Then, seeing Juliette’s frown, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Go on. We’ll be here.”
Juliette was still worrying her teeth against her lower lip when she turned and started to pick her way along the boardwalk. The wharf she wanted was within sight—to the left of the one that Roma and Alisa were standing nearest. So long as the Montagovs didn’t move, she had them in the corner of her eye as she walked, careful not to slip on the wet surfaces.
These wharves were usually bustling with activity. Today, Juliette couldn’t tell if it was merely the ruckus on the streets that overshadowed everything or if the fishermen were too afraid to venture out.
“Da Nao.” Juliette had spotted her contact, a big-bellied man chewing on his toothpick. He stood under the awning of his tiny boat, a vessel that looked pocket-sized in comparison with the warship docked on its right. Hearing Juliette’s call, Da Nao looked up, his whole body freezing before he could finish untying his boat from the wharf.