He laid the rolled, silk scroll on his hotel bed and took a step back. The wood floor creaked. He looked down at his old, beaten leather boots and thought again about why he liked the Chinese painting. It was the utter loneliness. Yes, that is it.

The cool night winds from the long open window caressed his neck causing him to shiver. He rubbed his arms feeling tired. It had been a long day, and he knew that tomorrow would not be as peaceful as today. A foghorn then sounded into the night. He took a deep breath feeling the faint scent of the sea in the winds. He decided to rest and get ready for bed. But again, he desired to look at the painting. Slowly and carefully he unrolled the scroll and positioned it so that its rectangular shape was symmetrical to the borders of the bed. He took another step back and saw clearly why the painting had appealed to him. He felt like that small, dark figure standing at the edge of a long and thin black sandy shore before the magnificent power of crashing waterfall waves. He then stepped toward a circular table by the open window, took a short glass of anise London dry gin on the rocks, and grabbed the arm of a finely sculpted, colonial sofa chair; he pulled the chair closer to the bed, and sat down.

​Thoughts and memories began to fill his mind like faint, clattery raindrops hitting an old copper roof. He did not want to think too much, and so he kept distant from those thoughts by observing them. He smiled as he observed while staring at the painting. But soon the smile faded. He thought of her again, and with her came the not too distant events of the day.

*​*​*

He arrived to Shanghai in the evening, under dark grey clouds, by a steam locomotive from Guangzhou. Dismal and sad were his first two impressions of the bustling city.

He bought the week's issue of the North China Herald at the railway station and then hired a rickshaw man to take him to his hotel. He was unshaven, wearing a dirty, mid-length leather coat of calf suede; a Sinclair club collared shirt, wrinkled canvas field trousers, and muddied mid-calf boots. He knew that his appearance would not be appreciated in the lobby of what many considered to be the best hotel in Shanghai, but he also knew that many western guests would simply pass him off as another foreigner back in from the "bush".

When he arrived to the hotel he paid his ride, took his leather packsack, and walked up the red, carpeted steps of the main entrance. Two sleek and well-dressed Chinamen smiled, bowed, and opened the two main entrance doors. He bowed his head back to them and entered the lobby quickly able to distinguish between the American, British, French, German, Japanese, and Russian guests who were seated or standing throughout the grand Victorian room in their finest attire while speaking, observing, smoking, reading, or drinking. Many European heads turned to swiftly observe and dismiss him as some lost messenger. As for the Americans in the room, there were only two, and they were too busy drinking their whiskey to pay him much attention.

He approached the check-in desk and requested their best room; it had been too many weeks of sleeping in low-cost, filthy old guesthouses throughout southern China. He believed that he deserved a treat to feel like a gentleman again. The receptionist explained that there was one room left on the 5th floor for 14 pounds. He hadn't spent that kind of money in an entire month. Regardless, he took the room for two nights.

A Chinese servant standing beside the check-in desk offered to take his packsack, but he declined the offer and simply asked where the lift was located. "Up these steps and at the end of the hall," the receptionist replied. He thanked the receptionist, walked up the steps, and approached the liftman that was already opening the lift cage for him. "Fifth floor," he requested as he stepped into the lift.

And as the lift ascended he reviewed the newspaper article on the third page; the article detailed what two sources believed would be the new, foreign policy doctrine of the McKinley administration in regards to its increasingly aggressive approach to China. The article went on to discuss U.S. Secretary of State, John Hay, as the mastermind behind the policy and that perhaps by the end of the year the policy would be officially communicated to European nations. The lift stopped, the liftman opened the lift cage, and he walked out into a long, dark corridor. "To the end of the hall, sir," the liftman said before he closed the cage. He walked to the end of the corridor, turned to his left, and saw the door to his room. Room 502.

He entered and found the room very much to his liking: high ceiling, large windows allowing the grey light of the dreary day to illuminate the bedroom and bathroom, wood flooring, a master bed, and an oak desk against the wall facing a large hanging mirror.

He approached the central window of the bedroom and looked out at a view of the Huangpu River that was filled with the traffic of both wind and steam powered cargo ships, the Waibaidu Bridge, and the Bund, which was lined with strolling, well-dressed Europeans, various types of horse drawn vehicles, and surprisingly one Benz Patent-Motorwagen that was catching the attention of nearly everyone it passed. He then turned away from the window, dropped his packsack and newspaper on the bed, wound his watch, and decided to take a shower.

After shaving and getting dressed in fresh but wrinkled clothes he decided to take a walk. He took the stairs down to the lobby, exited the hotel, crossed the Waibaidu Bridge, and walked south along the Bund. At Nanking Road, he turned right. Now walking west, he thought, West is home. Where I belong; it had been eight years since he had been to the land of his birth.

"Excuse me, sir," a young woman began with a sweet, Cantonese accent. "But, we have a gallery on the 8th floor. Would you like to come and see it?"

She was his first tout in Shanghai. He had traveled throughout southeast Asia and had grown bitterly numb to the elaborate stories and lies he had heard day after day from touts in Yangon, Bangkok, Phnom Penh, Saigon, Hue, Ha Noi and countless other citiesand towns. But she was a woman: young, not forceful, and unaware of her seductive powers. So much does she have to learn, he thought remembering his long-ago military training days.

"It's just this way," she said pointing to the revolving entrance door of an old, colonial styled building. "Where are you from?"

Where are you from? How many times had he heard that question in the past seven months? "I'm originally from Chicago."

The girl gave a quizzical look.

"In the United States."

She nodded her head with a smile. "Where in the United States is it?"

"Well–"

"Is it near New York?" she interrupted.

"No. God, no. What an awful place. No, Chicago is on the west coast of a large lake called Michigan."

The girl smiled. It was then that he noticed her pearl earrings. He immediately thought of the women he had known in the seaport city of Valparaiso, Chile. Shaking his head slightly to rid his mind of those memories he looked into her eyes and could see that she still had very little idea of where Chicago was located.

"What kind of gallery?" he asked, changing the subject.

"We have Chinese calligraphy–do you know calligraphy?"

He nodded.

"And we have traditional Chinese paintings–and modern too."

He loved art. When he was in boarding school he had two very good friends who were artists. He did his best to encourage them. But that was now years ago. It actually feels like decades.

"Please, please come," she asked.

Deciding that it was best to take a break from the stench of horse manure, urine, and rotting waste that littered the street he nodded and said, "Yes, let's go."

She gave another smile and escorted him into the old building. Inside a small and dark entrance hall, and to their left, she pointed to an open lift expecting him to enter, but he waited for her to enter first. Pleased with his small act of kindness she walked into lift. He then followed.

The gallery was on the third floor and was simply a room that was neither large nor small. Scroll paintings were hanging on all the walls, and upright stacks of oil canvas paintings were on the floor leaning against two of the walls. There was a table in the center of the room that was covered with piles of smaller paintings; beneath the table were stacked green boxes that he assumed were used to pack the scrolls once they were bought and rolled.

"Are you an artist?" he asked.

"Yes, I am–well, I only do calligraphy."

"Oh, do you have some of your calligraphies here?"

"Yes, just over here."

She led him to the opposite side of a wall partition in the room. He then saw several hanging calligraphy paintings.

"Can you read any of them?" she asked.

"No, only bits and pieces. Like that kanji–I mean character. That means school, does it not?"

"To study. That is the meaning."

"School–to study. I was almost right."

"Yes, perhaps." She pointed to one of her paintings and explained, "This means plum and this is tea. These two characters give a peaceful sense. This calligraphy is meant to relax. Rest the mind. Do you know what this means?" she asked pointing to a large, single calligraphy that he had never seen before.

"No, I don't know what it means," he said enjoying her sweet voice and small movements.

"It means love."

"Oh," he said slightly taken aback. He then thought of the Japanese character for great liking, which was far different in appearance than the Chinese character for love. He took a good look at the individual parts that composed the character and said, "That means heart and that means friend."

"Yes," she said impressed that he could identify the individual characters that composed the entire character for love.

"But, I don't know that character."

"It means house or home."

He wanted to impress her by drawing the Japanese character for great liking and to then explain to her that it was composed of the Japanese characters for woman and child. He rehearsed in his mind what he would say; there is no greater, and purer a form of love than that between a mother and her child. But he said and did nothing.

"Where did you learn to read characters?" she asked.

"In Chicago, and later in Japan."

"In Japan?" she said with dislike in her eyes.

"I used to live there."

"Really?"

"Yes, and while I was there I learned quite a few Japanese characters."

"Chinese," she said sharply. "The Japanese stole this from us."

He had nothing to say in reply.

"Over here we have more paintings. These are more traditional," she pointed to four paintings framed on silk scrolls hanging on the wall. "Each one represents one of the four seasons: spring, summer, fall, and winter. In China, we often liken the seasons to our lives. Spring is for the child; summer is youth and strength–vitality; fall for settling down, having a family; and winter, for rest in the old age."

"Interesting."

"Yes, and here we have another four seasons, but this is more modern. The colors are more vibrant in these paintings."

"Yes, I like these very much." He took a long moment to admire the summer painting that was composed of a lively, green color. "How much is this one?"

"The summer one? Well, it is part of a set. I can't sell you only one. For all four it is 1,200 yuan."

"Oh," he said disappointed.

He then looked to a series of paintings of warriors armed with tightly pulled bows riding on horses. "I like these. Particularly this one."

"This is by a more famous painter. They are Mongolian riders hunting."

"How much is this one?"

"400 yuan."

"Oh," he said, "that isn't so bad."

"You should buy it. It's meaning is success."

He instantly thought of his deceased father and decided that he would buy it. But before declaring his decision he decided to continue looking for he wanted to spend more time with the girl. Then he saw it. It was a painting that was far different from all the others. He took a closer look and saw that the painting was of what appeared to be an enormous, cloudy sky hovering above the tiniest tree at the edge of a thin and bare cliff. It was a sad painting that was full of loneliness. "This is a tree," he said.

"No, it is of a famous Chinese poet. That crashing down above him is a waterfall–from the Yangtze River. He is walking along the edge of a sandy floor. Those tiny curved lines are birds. The poet wrote about the insignificance of himself in all the vast space of the universe. That is why he is so small and insignificant in the painting."

He was now more drawn to the painting. The story behind it was tragic. But he loved it, this painting of vast nothingness. He took a few steps away from the painting to admire it some more. He then noticed that half of it was in shadow. "Can you move it? I want to see it in the light."

"Yes," she answered as she grabbed a pole to lift the painting to then place it on a wall with more light.

He looked at the painting now in the light. The light bleached the painting. Hecould see that the painting's effect on him was enhanced when it was hanging in a dark place.

"Yes, I like it. I like it very much. But it looks better in shadow, not in the light."

Although he had made up his mind to buy the painting, along with the other for his deceased father, he wasn't prepared to leave the young girl. He quickly fished for questions to ask her and spoke:

"Are you from Shanghai?"

"Inner Mongolia ..."

"When did you leave?"

"Three years ago, ..."

"Which do you like better, Shanghai or Beijing?"

"Shanghai ..."

"Do you have brothers and sisters?"

"One younger sister ..."

"What kind of paintings–or styles–do you prefer?"

"Impressionism ..."

When he finally left the gallery, he had bought a total of three paintings. The third was for his future wife, whoever she would be. It was a traditional, Chinese landscape painting with vibrant splashes of pink for the leaves of the cherry trees. Although it could have, the painting did not remind him of Japan in the spring.

And as he took the lift down to the first floor with the girl he felt the urge to ask her out for a drink when she finished work at the gallery. But ultimately, he decided against it. He knew that in the immediate end everything that attracted him to her–her sweet voice, small movements, and smile–would lose their luster and appeal, and that he would find every reason why he did not like, or perhaps, could not stand her.

*​*​*

There was the painting on his bed. He leaned toward it from the chair; the floorboards creaked again. He took another sip of gin from the short glass in his hand savoring the taste upon his lips and pulled the painting closer toward him. Distant voices called to him. He could hear the men, their screams as gunfire hailed upon them. He gripped his drink. Dark, shadowy images of children clinging to their mothers appeared while cavalry stormed in to crush them. Swords in the gun smoke were raised to the sky reflecting the faint sun, and brought down in swift strokes to cut the innocent down. He clenched his jaw and stared. The darkly lit room began to fade, and to his dark eyes there was only the painting.

*​*​*

"Sir, would you like to come in and see some paper cuttings?"

"No, no thank you," he said in the bazaar of the Chinese quarter of Shanghai.

She approached him. He was standing on the side of the street. "Where are you from?"

"From Canada," he lied. "Toronto."

"Oh, yes. I know it. We've had many customers from there. Would you like to come in?"

"No, no. I've already bought a few paintings today."

"But, these are traditional Chinese paper cuttings–very cheap. For your girlfriend–do you have a girlfriend?"

"No," he blushed as he walked further into the street.

"You should get a Shanghai girl. They are very nice. Very good for you."

He did not reply. What does she mean I should get a Shanghai girl? Are they for sale too? he thought with a sarcastic grin.

"Why are you smiling?"

"No, nothing."

"Please, come in. Just looking. You don't have to buy anything."

"Look, I'm wasting your time. I'm not going to buy anything."

"Are you waiting for a rickshaw?" she asked finally noticing that he was standing in the street.

"No, I want to take a picture of this street," he said as he pulled out a folding pocket Kodak camera.

"Oh, go ahead. I wait."

He looked behind to make sure that no horses or horse drawn vehicles were approaching and then stepped toward the center of the street. He framed the street in a way he found pleasing to his eye, made an adjustment to the lens, took two pictures, and walked back onto the sidewalk.

"Now you can come in." She took his hand and pulled gently; he enjoyed being touched by her. He looked at her and decided to go into her shop.

"These are all handmade and unique. No two are alike."

He looked at the many works of paper cuttings that were framed on the walls. There were animals, images of Empress Dowager Cixi, as well as Chinese children in traditional dress. He could see the price tags on the pieces and agreed that the paintings were indeed cheap.

"Do you like this one?"

"Which one?"

"This one. I thought you were looking at this one?"

"Oh, no."

"Do you know its meaning?"

"No, I don't." Obviously, he thought.

"It's my favorite one; it was made by my mother. Most of these are hers. This is her shop."

"Oh," he was now intrigued.

"It is called, Love is like a Bird."

He looked at the Love is like a Bird paper cuttings and tried to understand how that meaning could be derived from it. All he saw was a young woman with flowers all around her and a white dove flying above her head.

"Do you like it?"

"Yes," he lied again.

"My mother says love is always on our minds. We may try to distract ourselves to not think about it. But in the end the thoughts of love keep coming back to us. Like a bird that we free but soon returns."

"Oh," he said. He liked the story, in fact he liked it more than the paper cuttingsitself.

"Do you want to buy it?"

She then ruined the moment for him. He found his slight attraction to her disappear in an instant. He realized that he was just another sale and decided that the story she had just explained to him was probably false.

"No. I told you that I wasn't going to buy anything." He began to walk to the door.

"We have many more. You don't need to buy anything for your girlfriend?" she rushed to say.

"I already told you," he began disappointed that she had forgotten what he had previously explained, "I don't have a girlfriend."

"I know. I didn't mean that. Your friends?" she asked eagerly.

"No," he answered and left.

And as he walked away he thought about the story and agreed that love was always on our minds.

*​*​*

The painting stared back at him. He looked and found a strong understanding with the old poet in the painting. He knew what it felt like to be completely alone, and to be reminded of it by the vast spaces found in nature: standing in a desert at night or when watching the distant setting sun dip into an unending ocean. He wondered if he would ever marry and how difficult it would be for him to settle into giving up his long-time affair with solitude.

He looked at the vastness of the waterfall that overpowered the poet in the painting. And then he thought again of her. Yes, her; still there, lingering in his mind. She was far from him, perhaps now nestled in her home in London. He didn't know her, not at all; they had only spent a couple of days together in Saigon discussing their travels through the Orient. He now felt that his mind was too old and worn to fantasize and dream about a future with her that would never be. It was then that he knew that for the rest of his journey he would be condemned to think about her. She would haunt him. Yes, she would haunt him until the end. If only there was some way to reach her.

And so, he stared at the poet in the painting, sitting alone, in room 502, in the Astor House of old Shanghai.

There was a sudden knock at the door.

He immediately shook his head of his thoughts, "Yes, who is there?" and went to his packsack that was on the floor by the bed, reached into it, and pulled out a loaded Smith & Wesson Model 3 Schofield revolver, which he had modified by attaching an optical gun sight onto the barrel.

"No need for the weapon," the voice on the other side of the door announced.

How the hell does he know I have a gun? he thought concerned that perhaps the U.S. military police had tracked him down.

"I strongly suggest that you open this door. We do not want to attract too much attention."

The voice was British. He was relieved for a moment that the man was not American. Regardless, Americans could still be there behind this individual waiting for him to open the door to rush in and grab him.

"And why should I open this door?"

"I know who you are, what you have done, and how soon the military police will be here. Believe me when I tell you this. You have no other option than to listen to what I have to offer you."

He turned to look out the window to see if he could escape.

"Do not think it. You cannot escape. There are two sharpshooters who have you within their sights so again, open the door. You have ten seconds."

He checked his revolver to confirm what he already knew, that it was loaded.

"Checking your Schofield will do you no good. Drop the weapon and open the door. Five seconds."

How does he know? He went to the desk, placed the revolver on it, and approached the door. He cracked the door open and saw a man impeccably dressed but whose face was concealed by the darkness of the hall. He was wearing a white wing tip shirt with a black silk puff tie and pearl tie tack; a red dragon vest with a silver pocket watch chain hanging from its top button; a black swallowtail coat, black pinstriped trousers, and he was holding a black Victorian top hat in his left hand.

"Winters, Nicholas Winters, I presume," he said with a smile and slight bow.

"How do you know my name?"

"May I come in?"

"Is that a question or a command?"

"I am British, Mr. Winters. Please excuse the oddity of the circumstances, but when I can, I try to be polite and courteous."

"Are you god damn joking with me?"

"Pardon me, Mr. Winters?"

"You heard what I said."

"Mr. Winters, believe me when I tell you this, we do not want to attract too much attention. Now I have asked you politely, but if need be I will enter your room by force. I suggest you let me in now."

Nicholas saw the sudden intensity in the stranger's eyes. He stepped back from the door allowing the gentlemen to step into his room.

Once he had entered into the dim light of the bedroom he turned to face Nicholas and said, "The name is Kell. And it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Nicholas then noticed that Kell was wearing what appeared to be a mechanical earpiece of tiny gears with a radio antenna the length of a toothpick sticking up from it.

"How do you know my name?"

"There is quite a lot that we know about you, Mr. Winters."

"We?"

"Yes, 'we,' but I will not explain to you who we are just yet. Time is of the essence, Mr. Winters. So, I will make this short," he then placed his Victorian top hat on the bed near the painting. "We have been tracking you since your escape from the MP prison in Manila as a favor to our American counterparts–quite an impressive escape. Our agents caught sight of you while you were in Burma and then again in French Indochina, and although there were a couple of months–here and there–when we lost track of you, for the most part you were predictable. Not a good thing, Mr. Winters, to be predictable."

Nicholas, uncomfortable, made his way toward the desk where he had placed his revolver.

"Ah ah ah, Mr. Winters. I would not do that if I were you," he smiled as he took out a pair of goggles with dark red tinted lenses from his coat pocket, put them on, rotated the lenses as if trying to focus them on something, and began scanning the room.

"What are you looking for?"

"It is none of your concern for the moment," he walked toward the circular table by the open window and poured anise London dry gin into a clean short glass. He took a moment to smell the aroma of the gin and took a sip while he looked out into the night enjoying the view of the city and its lights. "Naturally, you are here in Shanghai. And naturally you are here at the Astor Hotel," he paused to take another sip. "Your taste for luxury has remained, Mr. Winters. You were born in Chicago–1867, a post-Civil War child; and born into tremendous wealth. Your father profited greatly during the war, didn't he? Humph, well, regardless your parents were killed in the Great Chicago Fire leaving you, as sole heir to their fortune. Their loyal and most trusted manservant, a man by the name of Yao Xi Wang, raised you and placed you, as your father would have wanted, into a New York boarding school. You attended New York University, graduated and then pursued a degree in law for one year but dropped out. In your desire to see the world you joined the U.S. Navy and rapidly rose in rank to then join the Marine Corps in 1891 where your platoon was involved in combat against Chilean nationalist rebels. You were then stationed throughout the Pacific with considerable time spent in Japan before you were deployed to serve in repressing the Filipino insurrectionists in the aftermath of the Spanish-American War–"

"So what the hell do you want from me?" Nicholas, now very tense, interrupted.

"It is simple, Mr. Winters. The Americans have seized all of your bank accounts in the U.S. and we know of your three accounts in Great Britain. Work for us and gain continued access to your funds. We simply need an insider. Have you heard of the Righteous Fists of Harmony or, in the native tongue, Yìhétuán?"

​He shook his head.

​"I am disappointed, Mr. Winters."

​"Well, I just arrived this evening," he said bitterly. "And I do not feel the need to stay on top of currents events, especially events here. I'm just passing through."

​"Nothing could be farther from the truth. You will be intimately involved in the workings of this place."

​"That is only if I accept whatever you are offering."

​"We are not offering, Mr. Winters. You will do what we require of you."

​"Or what?"

​"We are," he paused to take off his goggles and placed them back in his pocket. "We are, at times, compelled to share with our American counterpart sensitive information, Mr. Winters. Your location would be greatly appreciated by the U.S. consulate. And we have two military police officers on stand-by waiting for us to ... as you Americans say, give them the okay."

​"Then call them. Have them arrest me. Take my money. Why should I do whatever it is you want me to do?"

​"Citizenship, Mr. Winters. You are a man without a country. Great Britain is there, with open arms, waiting to receive you, a lost American soul."

​"The United States is my country, sir."

​Kell began to laugh. "The United States," he continued laughing, "the United States is your country?" His face then turned gravely serious. "The moment you are discovered your country will hang you. You are a traitor to your nation, Mr. Winters–"

​"I am not! I did what was just and right–"

​"Murdering members of your company?"

​"It was not murder!" he exclaimed. "What was I supposed to do? Stand there and watch the slaughter of innocent men, women, and children?"

​"Rebellion is not a pretty thing, Mr. Winters. Of course, you Americans know all about rebellion. Your former nation was founded on it. But your nation is not what it pretends to be any longer. The United States is an empire. You have Cuba, Puerto Rico, Samoa, Hawaii, and the Philippines." He took a moment to sit down in the other colonial sofa chair by the round table. When he was comfortable he continued, "Gone are the days of republican idealism, Mr. Winters. The United States is now the perpetrator. How pathetically sad it is to see a nation constantly declaring itself as a defender of the people's right to self-government, when at the same time they are preventing such a right for the Filipino people, the Cuban people, the people of Hawaii, Samoa, et cetera. You know all about that, Mr. Winters, you have seen it for yourself.

​"But we are happy to see the U.S. align itself in such a way with the British Empire. It is inevitable, Mr. Winters. There will always be empire."

​"So what the hell does this all have to do with me?"

​"How did it feel to see so many innocent men, women, and children butchered by your countrymen?"

​"We were at war," he answered with clenched fists.

"You call that war?" he laughed again. "I call it massacre–a murderous slaughter! It has been estimated that in the province of Batangas, from a population of 300,000, that U.S. guns, disease, and famine has killed off a third of the population. So horrible is the killing that I have just learned that members of the 24th Infantry have deserted to join with the Filipino rebels to fight against the country of their birth."

"Who are you to place judgment on my country? A subject of the British crown lecturing me on the immoralities of the American empire?"

"You are right, Mr. Winters. You are quite right. We have strived to learn our lesson. Violence begets violence. Thus, it is in the interest of the crown to steer clear of conflict and war with the people of the lands we are occupying. Lives can be saved, Mr. Winters. And you can help us save those lives here, in this place. Otherwise, history may repeat itself. A case in point, what was it that provoked the Spanish-American War?"

"The destruction of the USS Maine. Two hundred and sixty-six navy men died in that explosion."

"Thus, tipping the balance among the American populace, the McKinley administration, and the Congress to finally seek war with Spain. 'Remember the Maine, to hell with Spain!' Was this not one of the many slogans among the American people pressuring their government to seek war? How convenient for the war hawks of your country to have had such an event as the sinking of the USS Maine."

"What are you getting at?"

"Come here, Mr. Winters," he stood up from the sofa chair with his drink. "Stand with me before this view."

Nicholas, suspicious, did not move.

"Come, believe me, I do not bite. Come and look at the magnificence of the scene before us."

Nicholas took a few steps toward the open window.

"There before us is the most magnificent multinational city on this side of the globe. Look how we took a sleepy, little old fishing town and turned it into this glorious site. Just look at the scene before you, Mr. Winters. There is the future of China. Trade with the outside world, advancements in technology, education, the further expansion of rail lines, factories built, jobs created. We can do all of this peacefully. But there are agents out there seeking to destroy that future; all it would take is one, singular event, and war is at hand. Just like the Maine. Lives lost. The innocent killed. Children orphaned."

Nicholas looked down for a moment as he thought of his childhood.

"In six weeks' time," Kell continued, "we will launch for all to see, here in Shanghai, a British prototype rigid airship based on stolen designs from both David Schwarz and Ferdinand Graf von Zeppelin. It is a message to the Germans that we are winning the race for air superiority. But as you can imagine there is great need among our enemies to ensure that the launch ends in failure; and failure, Mr. Winters, of an airship filled with hydrogen means an explosion. I can just see it now, this view of Shanghai at night and the destruction of a British airship crashing down into the Bund killing hundreds of onlookers.

"Who will be blamed? The British will blame the Germans and thus begins our war her. But it is not the Germans that are striving to do this, Mr. Winters. It is the Chinese. We believe that the Righteous and Harmonious Fists are planning to do this, and if they succeed then there will be war. An airship crashing down upon the Bund will end British, German, French, Russian, American, and Japanese lives. European nations and the U.S. will call for war and they will rain down upon the Chinese a hailstorm of gunfire taking everything that they desire: the coalmines, iron mines, land, waterways, et cetera. Tens of thousands of lives will be lost." Kell paused to take another sip of gin from his glass.

Nicholas contemplated Kell's words as he looked out at the night scene before him. He then took in a deep breath and asked, "And you want me to help you prevent this?"

Kell smiled and turned his head slowly to Nicholas, "Yes, of course, Mr. Winters."

"And you will provide me with British citizenship and continued access to my funds?"

"British citizenship and access to your accounts I can guarantee–"

"And I want safe passage to London after I complete my mission here," he interrupted.

"London?" Kell asked with a furrowed brow. "London," he whispered as he turned to analyze the Chinese painting on the bed. "Travel may have to wait for there is much to do here. But really, Mr. Winters, what your ambitions are in regards to your future destinations are none of my concern."

"Fine then, how is it that I can help you prevent this future war?"

"Good, Mr. Winters, good," he said with a sly grin as he placed his glass on the round table. "The Righteous and Harmonious Fists are boxers, but you know the fighting styles of this land as taught to you by your manservant, Yao Xi Wang."

"That was long ago."

"You have a sufficient understanding of Mandarin, do you not, Mr. Winters?"

He laughed, "I understand maybe twenty percent of what is said."

"You are able to read Japanese, and thus, Chinese characters."

"Yes, but no more than any novice."

"These are all fine, Mr. Winters. You see we want you to be kidnapped by this secret society and you have already, unwillingly, made contact with one who could bring you to them."

"Who?" he asked puzzled.

"The girl from the calligraphy gallery. The gallery is a front. She is there to bring in foreigners from the Astor House, gain their friendship, or love, and get whatever information she can regarding their political, military, or economic intent in Shanghai.

"She already believes you to be of very high social standing considering the room you are able to afford at this hotel."

"She knows which room I am in?"

"Yes, of course, Mr. Winters. This hotel employs so many Chinamen. They observe and report."

"And you want me to do the same, report from their end?"

"Exactly."

"And how will I report back?"

"We have the technology that will enable you to communicate with us through Morse code. But, we will get to that later. For now, we want you to report back on the obvious: their leaders, their numbers, their locations, their networks, their weapons, and so forth, but we want you to pay particular attention toward this energy source called Chi or Qi that is supposedly being utilized by the master fighters among them. If you ask me,it is silly superstition emanating from the imagination of a people feeling the adverse effects of opium. But there is concern that if these Qi masters are able to accomplish what they say they can: super human strength, skin resistant to strong cuts, bodies resistant to bullets, then their numbers could obviously overwhelm ours. Again, it is foolishness, much akin to the Ghost Dances of the Sioux Indians, but my superiors want to know more. Perhaps if this Qi energy can be harnessed it can be used to power our machines and gone are the days of steam," he quickly scoffed at the idea. "In any case, it is late, Mr. Winters. For now, we are watching you and you are safe. Rest for tomorrow there is much to discuss, and much to do."

He took his Victorian top hat from the bed and made for the door, but before he made his exit, he turned to face Nicholas and said, "Since you are now one of us, Mr. Winters, a shadow man, the name is, Vernon; Vernon George Waldegrave Kell." He bowed his head and said before he closed the door, "I bid you good night."

And as Kell made his way down the dark hall toward the lift he smiled at how easy it was to turn Nicholas to their side and whispered, "If he only knew that it was us who destroyed the Maine."

The End

~ ~ ~

Domenico Italo Composto-Hart (TheLegacyCycle) is the author of Dark Legacy: Book I – Trinity of The Legacy Cycle series. He was born and raised in Chicago, Illinois. He studied Archaeology and Anthropology at Boston University and lived in Tokyo, Japan for over three years pursuing a career as a freelance musician. He currently teaches economics for the International Baccalaureate (IB) Diploma Programme at an international high school. He lives with his wife and sons in Barcelona, Spain.