Free The Golden Mountain Murders by David Rotenberg Page B

course he was not an old assassin then.
    As a result of that night, the next day the Japanese executed hundreds of people in the marketplaces. But this did not deter the Guild. Every night the streets ran with Japanese blood. Every day Chinese blood flooded the ancient sewers. But eventually the Japanese backed off. They retreated to their safe zones and left the rest of the city to fend for itself.
    And so Nanking had stayed, until Japanese imperial ambitions were atom-bombed to an end.
    The old assassin sighed. He preferred a little litter – it was more Chinese.

    After Fong told Robert everything he knew about the blood trade, and Robert told Fong about his contacts in Vancouver, they ate dinner at a small Chinese restaurant upstairs from a chic clothing shop. Fong looked at the menu – pages and pages of it. “This is a Chinese restaurant?”
    “So it claims.”
    “Why don’t I recognize any of the dishes? Who’s General Tso and how does he rate a chicken? And what’s chicken and pineapple?”
    “Chicken with pineapple, no doubt.”
    “Why would anyone put chicken with pineapple?”
    “Maybe because it tastes good.”
    “Maybe because they aren’t really Chinese and just fooling you people that they are.”
    “Counterfeit Chinese restaurant, you think? Should report them to the authorities. But we’re in Alberta. They don’t actually have government ministries here. Of course if we were in Ontario there is a ministry of restaurants and rest rooms that might take an active interest. Maybe the heritage ministry? Defaming of multicultural food practices may be a federal offence . . . I’ll have to look into that.”
    A Chinese family came in – mom, dad, grandma, all the brothers and sisters. They spoke Cantonese to the proprietor. Fong looked at them — so many children. So many children for a Chinese family. He couldn’t put that together. He was about to dismiss them as not being really Chinese when the grandmother flipped over her plate and read the manufacturer’s insignia there – tinked it hard on the table to test its durability and then announced with stunning finality: “Cheap.” So they were Chinese after all.
    Across the way two young blonde-haired women spoke loudly to each other. “Are they speaking English?” Fong asked.
    “Sort of English. They’re Australians.”
    Fong listened to their conversation. They laughed like men. They were loud and aggressive like men and seemed to think the entire restaurant really ought to be privy to their conversation. “Why are they like that?” Fong asked.
    Robert looked at them for a moment. “They’re faraway from home. They’ve got to prove they belong. That they have a right to be here. That they are young and alive.”
    That sad note again. Fong noticed that Robert had moved more food around his plate than he had eaten. He had also taken two tablets of something before they began.
    Robert noticed Fong examining him. “Don’t.”
    Fong’s head snapped back as if he’d been caught looking in a woman’s open window. “Sorry.”
    “Where to next?”
    “Calgary, then we fly to Vancouver.”
    “Your handler might pick you up in Calgary.”
    “I want him to. It’s safer if Beijing is watching.” He paused, then said to himself, “I think.”

    The old assassin moved slowly down the snowcovered street and turned into an alley that he had scouted earlier. He sat on the cold pavement and drew his knees up to his chin. Then he allowed his mind to float.
    “I hurt him, Master,” Loa Wei Fen had said to him.
    He smiled and canted his head slightly.
    “But Master, he’s hurt.”
    Slowly he had nodded then turned to Loa Wei Fen, noting how his skin shone with sweat, his hairmatted – his eyes so, so beautiful. He nodded again. “You only hurt him, Loa Wei Fen.”
    “Yes, but he’s . . .”
    “. . . the enemy. We are not here to hurt an enemy. We are here to eliminate them.”
    “Master . . .”
    “Kill him, Loa Wei Fen. Do what