Never Again

Praise for books by Nobel Peace Prize finalist

R. J. Rummel "26th in a Random House poll on the best nonfiction book of the 20th Century." Random House (Modern Library) ". . . the most important .. . in the history of international relations." John Norton Moore, Professor of Law and Director, Center for National Security Law, former Chairman of the Board of Directors of the U. S. Institute of Peace ". . . among the most exciting . . . in years." Jim Powell ". . . most comprehensive . . . I have ever encountered . . . illuminating . . . ." Storm Russell "One more home run . . . ." Bruce Russett, Professor of International Relations ". . . has profoundly affected my political and social views." Lurner B Williams ". . . truly brilliant . . . ought to be mandatory reading." Robert F. Turner, Professor of Law, former President of U.S. Institute of Peace ". . . highly recommend . . . ." Cutting Edge "We all walk a little taller by climbing on the shoulders of Rummel's work." Irving Louis Horowitz, Professor Of Sociology. ". . . everyone in leadership should read and understand . . . ." DivinePrinciple.com

". . .exciting . . . pushes aside all the theories, propaganda, and wishful thinking . . . . " www.alphane.com " . . . world's foremost authority on the phenomenon of 'democide.'" American Opinion Publishing ". . . excellent . . . ." Brian Carnell ". . . bound to be become a standard work . . . . " James Leo Ray, Professor of Political Science ". . . major intellectual accomplishment . . .will be cited far into the next century" Jack Vincent, Professor of Political Science." ". . . most important . . . required reading . . . . " thewizardofuz (Amazon.com) ". . . valuable perspective . . . . " R.W. Rasband ". . . offers a desperately needed perspective . . . . " Andrew Johnstone ". . . eloquent . . . very important . . . . " Doug Vaughn ". . . should be required reading . . .shocking and sobering . . . . " Sugi Sorensen

NEVER AGAIN Book 1

WAR & DEMOCIDE NEVER AGAIN R.J. RUMMEL

Llumina Press

© Copyright 2004 R. J. Rummel All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher. Requests for permission to make copies of any part of this work should be mailed to Permissions Department, Llumina Press, PO BOX 772246, CORAL SPRINGS, FL 33077-2246 ISBN: 1-59526-301-2 Printed in the United States of America by Llumina Press

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Rummel, R. J. (Rudolph J.), 1932War & democide : never happen / R.J. Rummel. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1-59526-301-2 (hc. : alk. paper) -- ISBN 1-59526-300-4 (pbk. : alk. paper) I. Title: War and democide. II. Title. PS3568.U447W37 2004 813'.6--dc22 2003027418

Relevant books by R.J. Rummel Understanding Conflict and War (five volumes) Lethal Politics: Soviet Genocide and Mass Murder since 1917 China’s Bloody Century: Genocide and Mass Murder since 1900 Democide: Nazi Genocide and Mass Murder Death By Government Statistics of Democide. Power Kills: Democracy as a Method of Nonviolence Saving Lives, Enriching Life: Freedom as a Right and a Moral Good (online book)

Pray tell, my brother, Why do dictators kill and make war? For glory, for things, for beliefs, out of hatred; For power. Yes, but more because they can.

Acknowledgements I owe many thanks to the thorough evaluation, many helpful suggestions, and careful editing of Marg Gilks. I also owe much to my daughter Dawn Rummel, who in her many helpful suggestions for improving the novel hit just the right buttons. I also am indebted to the many visitors to my website at www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/ who commented on or questioned the material there. They often had an impact on this novel. Thanks to Nicholas Gordon for the use of his poem, "Souls Do Not Disintegrate and Die," in the Epilogue. And foremost, is my wife Grace. She made this novel possible. Without her, I could not have written it. A kiss, sweetheart. To be sure, this is a book of fiction. Although some characters may in name and position bear a striking resemblance to historical figures, they are fictional. Nonetheless, I must say that whatever errors of fictional facts exist are mine, and wholly mine.

Foreword Love is one of our greatest mysteries and the greatest reward that we can receive and give to others. It comes in many forms: love for our children and they for us; love for another person; love for our pets and the unconditional love they give us; our love for humankind; and our love of our country. This is a story of the love between a man and a woman, and their love for humanity. It may make you laugh; it may make you happy— possibly even elated. It may make you sad. It may make you tear up, as I did frequently when I wrote it. All this is part of the aura of love, and we all have experienced it. While love is a mystery, there is something in human relations that is not. It was known to the ancients, but has to be relearned by each generation, sometimes disastrously. It is the enemy of love, and this book follows the intimate and international struggle between the two. Someday in the future, two people may undertake a mission such as the one you will read about here. If they do, I hope that they will understand this insidious, subversive, almost invisible enemy they will have to fight—an enemy against which they may have no protection. What is it? Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it? Many of the sub-stories you will read here, such as that of the Cambodian woman Tor, the Chinese woman Gu, and the German Ludger are false in the names of the characters themselves, but generally true in the background war, genocide, and mass murder. If you wish to read more about these events, you can visit my web site at www.hawaii.edu/powerkills. R.J. Rummel [email protected]

Chapter 1

J

oy had a body to die for. That’s why the deaths of over 200,000,000 people—the vast majority murdered—never happened. Joy’s body . . . and the roar of a 110-story building collapsing before my eyes. Just thinking about it brings back the suffocating stench of death . . . God, how could I, an ordinary Ph.D. in history from Yale, have ever smelled death? It began with good advice. New Ph.D. in hand, I was lucky to get a tenure-track assistant professorship to teach at Indiana University. I was on my way. Do my research, publish a book or two and some articles, keep my relations with the lovelies on campus discreet, and tenure—academic heaven— would be mine. I’d learned from my graduate advisor at Yale how the academic game was played. Publish, yes. But also get to know the greats in the field. Mingle with them, carry their books, show devotion to their ideas, attend their presentations, and ask softball questions that make them look good. Then, as flowers attract bees to produce honey, they’d help get my books and articles published, and help me win research grants. And where else does one meet such esteemed individuals than at conferences and seminars held by the central organizations of one’s field of study? I took this advice to heart. Only two weeks into the Fall semester at Indiana University, my department chairman, Sam Palmerton, approved an invitation for me to participate in a democratic peace seminar held by the International Studies Association at Rutgers. I no longer recall what happened there. I surely played the game and showed my stuff, but it’s all been squeezed into an infinitesimally small point of memory by what followed. After the seminar, I delayed my flight out until noon the next day— September 11—so I could visit my cousin, Pete Baxter. Pete was a bond broker for Tucker Brokerage in the World Trade Center, North Tower. He was managing $43,000 in bonds that I had inherited, and I

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wanted to discuss selling my bonds and moving into stocks. Besides, this was an opportunity to see him for the first time in years. That morning, I took the PATH train from New Jersey to the World Trade Center. I arrived at 8:50 a.m. and hopped on the escalator up to the concourse. I found the area empty of people; spooky, to see a public place so still and quiet. I looked around; for the first time, I noticed the smoke hanging in the air. It smelled sour. The air felt sticky. Empty shoes lay scattered over the floor. My heart began to pound. Something was very wrong. “Get out! Run!” I whirled to see a policeman gesturing frantically towards the concourse doors. Without thinking, I obeyed. Outside, the street was littered with glass, concrete, and papers of all kinds. Still more papers floated down from above. The stink of burning things and gasoline hung in the air. I couldn’t run, but had to step over and around the debris. I almost tripped over what I initially thought was a side of beef. As I dodged it, I realized it was a naked torso without arms or legs. I was too dazed to do anything but register the mangled torso and automatically look for its sex, without absorbing it at all. Further on, I passed a large tire and then a woman’s delicate hand with a wedding ring on one finger. It was severed at the wrist, lying palm upward, fingers slightly curled. Not one of the polished fingernails was broken. The owner would be happy about that. The stupid thought flitted across my mind like the CNN Headline news items that pass across the TV screen. By the time I got across the street, I felt sick and weak. Several people stood there, looking up at the tower. Some of them held their hands over their mouths—either because of the stench or out of horror; I didn’t know. I leaned against a building and finally started thinking again. Yes— Jesus!—I’d seen a naked torso. A man’s. And I did see a woman’s severed hand. God, I thought, what is going on? Finally, I followed the gazes of the people standing around me. Clouds of smoke billowed from an inferno visible through a gaping hole in the tower, somewhere around the 90th floor. I stared. I couldn’t imagine what had happened. Above the flames, men and women stood at the windows. Some stood on the sills of broken windows with smoke rolling out from be-

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hind them. Suddenly, a man jumped from a window and twisted in the air as he fell more than ninety floors. A collective gasp of horror burst from the crowd around me. Another person jumped. And another. One landed nearby with a wet plunk. I leaned over and vomited. When I straightened, wiping my mouth, my eyes rose on their own to the burning building. Oh my God, I realized, my cousin is above the flames. My hand trembled as I took out my cell phone and called my cousin. I was surprised when he answered immediately. He asked quickly, “Honey?” “No,” I responded, “this is John. I was about to come up when I saw the fire. What happened?” “A plane hit the building. I can’t get Julie. She’s not at work yet. Look, I’m going to try to keep calling her, but I don’t know how long—” I heard muffled coughing “—I think I’m going to die. I can’t get the door open, and smoke is coming in through a large crack in the wall. It’s hot. Too hot. I’m sitting under my desk. I can’t breathe.” He paused; for a moment, I thought something had happened to him. Then he said softly, “Please John, if I can’t get to her, tell her I love her . . . I love our children. I want her to be happy, to find someone—” more coughing “—who will make her and our children happy. Tell her that, John. Tell her that . . . ahh . . . we will meet again in heaven. . . . Goodbye.” The connection ended with a click. Tears filled my eyes. Heart thudding, I unconsciously shook the cell phone and beat it against my trembling hand. It was as dead as my cousin would be soon, I knew. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a low flying jet. Its engines grew to a scream. I jerked my gaze upward, and watched the plane fly into the South Tower. It disappeared inside for a half-second, and then the near and opposite sides of the building erupted in a huge red and yellow mushroom cloud of burning aircraft fuel and debris. Except for emergency personnel, people on the street tore their eyes away from the horrible sight and fled. Police and firemen tried to help the wounded, but there were too many. I saw one woman stumbling along, her hair melted to her head. Her clothes had been burned off her body, and skin hung from her arms. I rushed over, lifted her, and carried her to an ambulance.

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“Thank you,” she managed to say. Patches of her skin still clung to my arms and I tasted the stench of burned flesh when I resumed my flight. I’d only gone fifty feet or so when the sight of a bloody woman sitting on the curb stopped me. Slivers of glass glittered in her hair and on her shoulders. A little boy, probably her son, tried to stanch with his shirt the blood streaming from myriad small cuts on her head and shoulders. Before I got to her, a fireman whisked her up in his arms and rushed her down the street to a police car as the boy held onto her dangling hand. As I fled amid this bloody horror, I heard a loud rumbling sound. I stopped and turned, just in time to witness the South Tower collapse in on itself. A tidal wave of concrete dust, paper, chunks of the building, and other debris billowed between the buildings and churned down the street. It was like a Hollywood spectacular with the best special effects. Except it was real. I was in it. I ran. I tripped over a concrete slab, scrambled to my feet, but too late— the cloud swallowed me. I heard pieces of concrete and steel hitting cars, but it was so dark I couldn’t see anything. My nose filled with the stinking dust, soot, and ash; my lungs and throat were full of the stuff. It coated my body. It tasted like white glue and felt like gritty sand when I rubbed my face to clear my eyes and nose. I slowed to a crawl, moving ahead carefully. I almost tripped over a young girl who fell down ahead of me. As I helped her up, I made out the dark lines of blood streaking through the thick gray ash covering her face. Before I could do anything to help her, she vanished. I threw off my coat, took off my shirt, and wrapped part of it over my nose so that I could breathe through it. Fortunately, there was just enough light for me to see that the people at Chase Plaza II had opened their doors so that those near the building could escape the cloud. I stumbled through the opening. Inside was heaven. In stark contrast, those who had fled inside looked like war refugees. Thoroughly covered in gray soot and dust, red eyes standing out like those of zombies emerging from their graves, we all splashed bottled water and soda on our faces and guzzled still more, trying to clear our throats. Like many others, I puked black soot until only spasmodic dry heaves remained. After an hour, the cloud had dissipated into a gray mist. I ventured outside and joined a procession of haggard looking people escaping

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across the Brooklyn Bridge. Some cried, leaving lines of wet skin showing on their sooty faces. Some stumbled along in shock. Others, injured, dribbled spots of blood into the inches of accumulated fallout. Some of the injured streamed trails of blood behind them I came upon a young boy with a compound fracture of his right arm. Sooty white bone showed through his flesh. I helped him across the bridge and to a police car. One older man, a small step at a time, tried to carry two briefcases while dragging a third through the fallout. A woman plastered in gray concrete dust and soot took his bags in her arms and helped him across the bridge. She turned him over to emergency aid workers. Somewhere along the way to Pete’s house in Queens, a motorist offered me a ride; somewhere else, I was able to wash my face and hair. Still, when I arrived at the house, I looked like a creature from Hell in a grade B horror movie. Pete’s young daughter Betty opened the door when I rang the bell and screamed when she saw me. Pete’s wife Julie came running, recognized me, and dragged me into the house. The living room was full of friends, many crying or with wet eyes. Faces were drawn and haggard. No one talked. Some held hands. Two TVs tuned to different channels blared the news about the attack on the Towers. I smelled coffee. Julie’s face was drawn, her eyes red, and her cheeks tear-streaked. I couldn’t even think to say hello. I just blurted out to Julie in a voice I didn’t recognize, “Did Pete get through to you?” “Yes. I was on the phone with him when the tower came down. His voice was cut off and then I only heard static.” Sobbing now, she continued. “We saw it. We saw it and he’s not dead. I know he’s not dead.” Immediately, her friends rushed over and enveloped her in their arms. Pete’s little daughter Betty began to cry hysterically, and his son Paul tried to comfort her with tears in his own eyes. I went to them, pulled them into my gray, sooty arms, and hugged them to me. I could do nothing but make soothing sounds and give them human comfort. I stayed over that night and wouldn’t abandon Julie and the children all the next day. I called Sam, who understood why I couldn’t make it back to Indiana and my classes. One of the other professors would take over for me, he said. “We’re all horrified,” Sam exclaimed. “Of course we understand. It’s terrible, just terrible.” I could not return if I wanted to, since all commercial flights were grounded for the next four days. Full commercial air service was not available for many days more.

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Pete remained missing. Having seen the collapse of the tower, I held no hope for his survival. Julie at first refused to escape to her parents’ home in Toledo, despite their pleas for her and the children to stay with them. She wanted to remain in Queens, in case Pete was found. She filled out a missing person form and included a sample of hair from his hairbrush for DNA tests. Julie, like the rest of us, volunteered to help in the search for survivors. We stood in a chain of volunteers among the collapsed wreckage and passed debris from person to person to trucks in order to clear the way to search for survivors. In a few days, we were no longer needed. Hope had dimmed. On Monday, September 17, a full week after the attack, Julie’s friends and I persuaded her to depart for Toledo on a morning train. That afternoon I caught a flight to Chicago, and took a bus from there to Bloomington, Indiana, and my faculty apartment.

aaa The terrorists made one serious mistake when they destroyed the World Trade Towers. Timing. A week earlier, a week later would have made a universe of difference. I wouldn’t have been here.

Chapter 2

H

ard to believe now that the very first words I heard from Joy would eventually end in my ultimate horror. I was an ordinary new assistant professor living an ordinary academic life. And gorgeous Joy? She was just my student. Or, so I thought. Thinking back on my academic life is like looking at a photograph of me when I was four years old. I can’t believe I was so young, that I knew so little, that I’ve changed so much since. Or that I would contract the death of people and kill some with my own hand. That time when I was a professor has become ethereal, like a half-recalled dream. Except for the last class lecture. The last class lecture of my life. The time when Joy shot into my life with a question that set up all the events to follow. I’d returned from New York to resume teaching the Fall semester of 2001 at Indiana University—my “History of Democracy and Violence” class, wasn’t it? Still so far in the future. I’d had difficulty getting the course in the curriculum, since I was a new professor and it was an odd course. But Sam had published research on the topic himself, so he wrote a long justification to the Dean. He pointed out that democratic peace was now well established in historical and international relations studies, and it was about time that undergraduate students became acquainted with it. Not really persuaded, the Dean nevertheless had agreed to allow the course for one semester, its future approval conditional upon enrollment and student evaluations. Amazing, isn’t it? If the Dean had said no, Joy would not have taken a class from me. And the history of the world would be as different as life from death. As I organized my notes for my final lecture of the semester, I worried over the same questions I’d asked myself when I began the class: How can I make my students feel in their gut what ten million or one hundred million bodies mean in human terms—that people died in ag-

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ony, often for nothing but their ethnicity, religion, or political views, or to meet a death quota enforced by their rulers? This frustrated me. I didn’t know how to convey the true horrors without making the students ill and turning them off. I wanted to show them that there was hope, that by fostering democratic freedom throughout the world, we could end war and the terrorism, genocide, and mass murder we call democide. I decided to tell them a story about a student—someone like them; someone with whom they could relate. I knew well the reports of Chinese refugees, including former Red Guards that escaped from China during its killing purge called the “Cultural Revolution.” I’d studied this period of Chinese history in detail. So my story, though fictional, was accurate in background. There were rumors among former Red Guards about such a girl. Well, in my hot and stuffy classroom I gave my final lecture. I began with something I thought would get their attention. “Even after the most painful physical torture, facing execution afterwards, people can die with a smile,” I said. When I felt every eye upon me, I told the rest of the story:

aaa As an aspiring chemist attending a university in Shanghai, Chen Ying was a very serious student. Although attractive, she shunned boys in favor of studying in her room—her solitary home except for classes and trips to the library or chemistry laboratory. Her dedication to science made her suspect. While she attended classes, Red Guards invaded her room and rampaged through it looking for evidence incriminating her as anticommunist, pro-Western—a capitalist-roader. They found all they needed: physics and chemistry books in English, and her diary. The diary damned her; it contained critical remarks she’d foolishly written about the Communist Party. Security police arrested Chen Ying as she left her chemistry class, and took her to the municipal jail. There, teenage Red Guards tortured her for the names of the accomplices aiding her in spying on the Communist Party. A young girl, no more than sixteen years old, in a Red Guard uniform grunted as she forced the large butterfly screw on the thumb crusher another quarter turn. Chen Ying screamed hoarsely and jerked

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her head, spraying tears and mucus around her as tremors wracked her body. Slivers of bone glinted white in the ruin of her other thumb, which the Red Guard had already mashed into a bloody pulp. Two boys held her down and took turns yelling at her, “Confess. You are a spy. Who do you spy for?” Pain was her universe. She shuddered and quaked with it. It made her dizzy and nauseous. It had made her release her bowels and she squirmed in her own waste. Twice already she had vomited. One of the boys had cupped a rag in the vomit and smeared it over her face. Between the shouted demands of the boys and her screams, she could hear bone cracking in her left thumb. She struggled to remember that name, just that one name, that’s all she now desired. But the excruciating pain of the thumb crusher destroyed all Chen Ying’s thoughts, thwarted all memory. Then the agony leveled off and receded slightly. Impossible agony now became unbearable pain as somehow her body fed her system enough endorphins. And just at the edge of her mind, almost within her grasp, it was there. She fought to pull that name through the pain. A new burst of pain drove it away; desperate, she tried to change her focus to chemical formulas. She only could recall H2O—water. Agonizing seconds seemed minutes. She thought of CO2 for carbon dioxide, and bore down mentally. She battled the excruciating, burning pain. She struggled to imagine pushing the waves of pain aside with her hands to give her mind space to remember. It was coming. There—the more complex formula for glucose. Then it almost escaped her in a new wave of pain. She caught it— C6H12O6. Out of nowhere, the name she sought popped into her mind. “Stop!” she cried. “I will . . . confess.” The girl at her side stopped turning the screw on the thumb crusher. Gasping for breath, Chen Ying tried to get the name out before her pain submerged it. “Zhao Jin,” she whispered. Her voice broke on the last name. “I am . . . the . . . concubine of Zhao Jin.” The girl looked shocked. Both boys leaned forward, staring at Chen Ying. One said, “Zhao Jin? You screw Zhao Jin?” “Yes, I . . . spy . . . for him.” Now more strongly, she said, “That barrel of pig shit . . . said he would . . . protect me.” “You lie,” the girl said, without conviction. “Ask him. Why . . . would I lie? Nothing . . . can save me . . . I’ll soon die.”

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The Red Guards said nothing more. The girl’s blood-flecked hands flew to unscrew the thumb crusher. She tossed it on a shelf with other torture instruments. Then she and the two boys left without a glance back. Chen Ying waited for the inevitable. The pain lessened, and she was able to think. She imagined the results of her victory as she prepared herself for death. A few minutes later, two uniformed policemen came in and lifted her by her arms. She screamed as the movement in her thumbs sent new waves of agony through her body. They force-marched her out to a small yard enclosed by high concrete walls. One of the policemen forced her to her knees and pushed her head forward. The other took out his handgun and shot her in the back of the head. There was the beginning of a smile on her face as it hit the dirt. The next day, security officials invaded the home of Zhao Jin, the leader of the Maoist faction of Red Guards in Shanghai. A thorough search discovered a Japanese camera, an American radio, and a Western pornographic photograph. Security police arrested and tortured Zhao Jin, but he would not confess. Nonetheless, the items found in his home made Zhao Jin’s guilt clear. A week after police arrested him, they forced Zhao Jin to hang a large sign from his neck that proclaimed “I am a capitalist spy.” A cordon of security police led him to the Shanghai Workers’ Stadium. All along the way, people screamed at him and pelted him with stones, broken pieces of wood, and any other debris they could pick up. Finally, at the stadium, before a crowd numbering in the tens of thousands that the Maoists had gathered for this event, all beating the air with their little red Mao books and hollering revolutionary slogans, security police shot Zhao Jin to death. Three days later, officials went to the home of Chen Ying’s mother. They told her that they had executed her daughter as a spy, and that the bullet was a waste of government money. The cost of the bullet, they said, was five fen—about three cents. Officials demanded she pay for the bullet the police had shot through the back of her daughter's head.

aaa I finished the story in a hushed classroom. As my gaze swept the room, it touched on Joy, seated in the back, and I saw her wiping her eyes. She was the only student so affected.

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I used the story as a launching pad for my general conclusions of the semester. I gestured, making figures in the air to shape my points. I paced back and forth, every so often writing a crucial word on the blackboard. I slapped my hand on the podium for emphasis. I was an actor playing out my truths. I yelled, “Something like 174 million people were murdered in the twentieth century by governments.” Moving my hand around in a circle, I yelled louder, “That many corpses, laid head to toe, would circle the earth about four times.” I drew a straight line in the air as though underlining this, and exclaimed even louder, “Four times!” I leaned forward, one hand on my hip, and swept the classroom with the other hand. I dropped my voice to a conversational level. “That’s a conservative estimate. The number murdered might even be as many as 340 million.” I let that sink in. After ten seconds, I said softly into the silence, “This does not even count the nearly forty million killed in combat in all the domestic and foreign wars over the same period.” I briefly reviewed the details of these murders and wars, and referred to Chen Ying’s story. I paused. I scanned the faces before me. I stood still, except for my hands, which I brought to my chest and then swept outward. As I did, I said, emphasizing each word, “This need not be. There is hope and a solution. Democracies do not make war on each other and, as a historian, I say bluntly . . .” and now I wagged my finger as though each word was at the end of it “. . . they . . . never . . . have.” I took two steps to the podium and folded my hands on top. In a low voice I asked, “But what about genocide and mass murder, what we call democide—murder by government?” I waited as though I expected a student to throw me the answer. None did. They knew my lecturing style by now. I deserted the podium and stepped as close to the front row of students as I could get. Leaning forward, pointing with both fingers toward the class, I answered, “Democracies not only don’t make war on each other, modern democracies, with their civil rights and political liberties, commit almost no domestic democide.” Now for the final questions of the semester. I returned to the podium, leaned over it with my hand on each edge, and asked, “Is democracy a practical solution? “Yes,” I answered. “Democratization is practical and in fact is being aided by many current democracies.”

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I hesitated, as though making a paragraph break. “Is it desirable for reasons other than ending war and democide? Yes, it is desired by all those enslaved by autocracies around the world.” Now, a longer hesitation for the most important point of all. I looked over the class before I asked, “Is universalizing democratic freedom possible? Yes. Oh, yes. If we work to foster universal democracy, we can do it.” I stopped. My hands dropped. Nothing remained. I was sweating, my armpits beneath my brown corduroy coat were wet, and I think I smelled. Voice almost breaking, I ended with a simple, “Thank you.” As a professional, I’d studied this subject since I was an undergraduate at Yale. I was a teacher teaching my specialty, but this was the first time I’d tried to communicate this horror, and humanity’s hope, to students, and I came close to choking up. No use. I could see open disbelief on the faces of the students I had failed to reach. The same incredulity I saw whenever I mentioned this to my colleagues, other than Sam. Many politicians had visited the university that semester, and I was often invited to a “look the new boy over” dinner or cocktail party with them. But, just mentioning that democracy could end war, genocide, terrorism, and mass murder by governments earned me a polite look, a “how interesting” response, and a change of subject. One hostess, a sociology professor’s wife, gave me a stern look and a surreptitious shake of her head when I broached the subject at her dinner table. There was mild applause when I finished my lecture. The students rapidly departed, some seeming to flee. Surely due to the overheated classroom, I told myself. For most, this was the last class of the semester. Joy, however—whom I’d noticed from the beginning of the semester because of her outstanding beauty—came up to me after class. She always sat in the back and never asked questions. However, she had received an A from me on all my quizzes, the midterm, and her first term paper on the Cambodian democide. I presumed from her name, Joy Phim, that she was perhaps of southeast Asian descent, and her light olive skin and the long black hair she wore tied in a ponytail seemed to confirm this. “Professor Banks,” Joy said in a soft, feminine voice. She stood about five feet, eight inches tall to my six feet, so she tipped her head up as she talked to me. From this new angle, I admired her beautifully oval face and the full lips that she lightly emphasized with lipstick. “I

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am very impressed with your course. My mother also likes it very much—she also did the reading you assigned. We often discussed these readings far into the night.” Joy looked at me reflectively for a moment with her remarkable black eyes. They were large, almond-shaped, fringed with long black eyelashes, and tipped up at the corners. Her eyes and her voice . . . I could never just observe her voice and her eyes. They always attacked me with their declaration, “I am woman. I am feminine.” I melt now, thinking of them. Joy said, “My mother would like to meet you. She hopes that you will be the guest of honor at her dinner party.” That’s when I saw her look of anticipation, of eagerness peeking out from the aura of calm she projected. Surprised by her invitation, I answered reflexively, “No, I can’t do that. You’re my student and I have yet to read and grade your final term paper and give you a grade for the course. I’m sorry. It would be wrong for me to accept such an invitation from a student.” “I understand,” she said without any hint of disappointment. “I will explain to my mother, and I am sure that she will consider inviting you after all the grades are in. Goodbye, and thanks for the excellent class.” With that, she turned about gracefully and glided out of the classroom. I couldn’t help noticing how well her denims outlined her sexy rear end. Clever of her to wear those tight jeans. With them, she laid the cornerstone for my lust—lust that she soon would build into a towering edifice. I immediately regretted my “no,” but I had no choice. Even if I had not considered it wrong, another student might if he had received a low grade and heard about the dinner party and the probable A that Joy would get. This was in fact the grade I gave her for the course a week later. Joy wrote a first-rate term paper on the Vietnamese boat people—those who, in the aftermath of the Vietnam War, had tried to escape persecution and death in Vietnam. They generally had sailed unseaworthy scows, large rowboats, and coastal fishing vessels into the deep ocean, attempting to reach China, the Philippines, or Indonesia. Joy put this incredible suicidal exodus in context, and estimated that about 500,000 boat people had probably drowned or were killed by pirates. I thought this was close to the truth. I didn’t know at the time that her parents had been among the victims.

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aaa A day after I posted the grades in my class, I got a call from a woman with an Asian accent. “Are you Professor Banks?” she asked. “Yes,” I said. “Can I help you?” “You are Joy Phim’s professor, yes?” “Yes.” “I am her mother, Tor Phim. My daughter says that you could not eat dinner with us because you had yet to give her a final grade in your class. She now has her grade. So I repeat my invitation to dinner at my house with some friends.” “Thank you, but I am—” “Please. It is very important to meet you and talk. I will give you five thousand dollars to come to my dinner. If you agree, I will send the check now so that you will get it before my dinner. Okay?” I was stunned. Who was I to get such money? If I were a retired president, famous star, or athlete, yes. But I was unknown outside Indiana University, its students, and a small group of colleagues. “But you don’t understand,” I said, feeling lame. “If I were to accept your offer, I could never again let your daughter be my student.” “That’s okay. She has quit school now.” “What?” I blurted. “She’s an excellent student. She can’t drop out!” “She has. Anyway, come to my dinner to find out why.” “Okay, give me some time to think about it.” “You must decide soon. There are many people invited who must come from far away, and the scheduling is difficult. I need one week’s notice.” “Thank you, Mrs. Phim. I will call you. Please give me your phone number.” After I got the number, I hung up and sat back in thought. Is this a joke? I wondered. So much money for so little. Maybe it’s a con game. I went to my computer, opened the Google search engine, and looked up “Phim.” I got over 35,000 results. So much for that. I called the secretary to the Dean of Students, and after identifying myself, explained, “I’m about to write a good recommendation for a student of mine, but I want to be sure she hasn’t had any problems in other courses or with the administration. Could you just check the name of Joy Phim for me?” “Fin?” “No, P.H.I.M.”

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“Just a moment, please.” I heard her computer keys clicking, and she soon came back on the line. “She is an unclassified student and was only taking your course. In fact, she has taken no other courses here.” “Thanks. Bye.” I knew from my class enrollment sheet that Joy was unclassified, but I didn’t realize she was taking only my course. Over the next two days, my mind kept coming back to her: Why just my course? Why would she quit, or transfer? And what prompted her to do so? I must admit that my questions were often punctuated by images of her beautiful face and her sexily filled jeans. The third day after Mrs. Phim’s phone call, a check for five thousand dollars arrived, drawn on the account of Nguon Industries. After staring at the check, holding it up to the light, examining it closely, and smelling it, I settled down. With the clue in hand, I returned to my computer. I brought up Google on my browser and input “Nguon Industries.” This time Google responded to my search with a few thousand possible matches, but each of the first ten or so seemed to reference some product or other of Nguon Industries. I located their home page, and was surprised to discover a privately owned conglomerate. Its home page listed shipbuilding, imports and exports, oil drilling, and electronics. It also linked to a page listing their top executives, and there she was—Tor Phim, President. My curiosity got the better of me. I called the number Tor Phim had given me. A male voice asked, “Can I help you?” “My name is John Banks. Mrs. Tor Phim is expecting my call.” “Yes, thank you. She said you would be calling. I must shift your call to another line. Please be patient.” The line clicked a few times, an operator spoke in a foreign language, and soon I heard, “Hello, Professor Banks. Thank you for calling. Do you hear me okay? I am in Seoul, Korea.” “Yes, fine,” I blurted, taken aback. “Did you get the money?” “Yes, thank you.” “Will you come?” “Yes. When will the dinner be held?” “I will set a date. What is convenient for you?”

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Since I planned to spend my Christmas vacation researching a book I was writing, my schedule was flexible until class began in January. “Any time before Spring semester is okay,” I said. “Good. I will let you know. Goodbye.”

aaa A few days later, Joy knocked on the frame of my always open office door. “Hello Professor,” she said, “remember me?” “Of course; come in.” I recognized her voice, in spite of the sultry tone. I didn’t see her at first. My gray metal desk faced a wall, and the door was behind me. I never liked talking to students over a desk. I swiveled in my cushioned office chair, stood up as she came in, and stood staring for some seconds until I got a grip on myself. Joy smiled at me coquettishly, but for the moment it was lost on me. I was staggered by her sheer beauty. Joy’s shiny black hair cascaded down over both her shoulders and brushed her waist. Her bangs fell across her forehead like a curtain drawn aside to reveal large, bright eyes and a flawless complexion. Gone were the student’s backpack and jeans. Now she wore a tight blouse, open at the collar to expose a golden choker, and a taupe skirt complemented her light olive-colored skin and showed off her long legs. She carried a light, fur lined coat over one arm. Her lipstick seemed brighter; redder, I noticed. And what a perfume she wore! Light; not overdone; just a hint of gardenia. Must have been a hundred dollars an ounce. Joy exuded a heady mixture of Asian femininity and sexuality. If she’d been a photo in some fashion magazine, I’d have scissored it out and hung it in constant view. Weeks later I realized that she had selected her clothes and had made herself up to make me lust for her. Perfectly done. Perfectly achieved. Ah, so typical. There was laughter in her eyes as she broke through my breathless silence with, “I’m glad that you will be joining us for dinner. It is now tentatively planned for Friday, January 4. Is that okay with you?” “No problem,” I said. “Classes don’t begin until the next week.” “You will be picked up at 5:30. Where is your home?” “I live in a faculty apartment.” My hand trembled as I wrote my address on a sheet of paper. I hoped she didn’t notice the paper shaking

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when I handed it to her. At least I can control my voice, I observed wryly as I said, “I’ll be waiting at the entrance at 5:30.” “Good. I could not find your dissertation in the library. Do you keep a copy of it, and drafts of any other writing projects, that I can duplicate? I’m sure my mother and her guests would like to look at them.” “Sure,” I responded. Glad for the excuse to regain control of my hormones, I wheeled—or so it seemed to me, although perhaps it was more of a gentle turn—and pulled my prize possession from the bookcase. “Here’s my dissertation,” I said, only to be overcome again when my gaze returned to her. “Because you were such a good student,” I stammered, feeling self-conscious, “I trust you, but please bring it back to me when you’re done.” I lifted a pile of papers from my desk. “And here’s the first draft of my untitled book on genocide and mass murder in the twentieth century, minus the chapter I’m working on. Please excuse all the markings on the draft, but that’s the way I work—I can’t write and edit these things on the computer.” Even as I handed the manuscript to Joy, I couldn’t believe I was doing this. Never before had I given a draft in this condition to a student. If she’d asked, the keys to my Toyota MR2 were hers to borrow also. I was that mesmerized. “Thank you, Professor,” Joy said, wrapping shapely arms around the dissertation and manuscript. “I’m sure my mother will be pleased. Bye.” She flashed a smile dipped in honey, and then she was gone. I just stared at the empty doorway in disbelief. I’d read about reactions like mine and thought they were all hyperbole. Yet there I stood, a well-educated professional, knocked off my feet by a young woman. I refused to believe it was love at first sight. More like throbbing lust, I told myself. I even thought I smelled horny. No matter what I chose to call it, I couldn’t get her off my mind ever again. Never. When I returned from lunch the next day, I found a note in my mailbox that a package was waiting for me. I retrieved my dissertation and the manuscript Joy borrowed and tore open her accompanying note: Dear Professor Banks: Thank you and I trust you will find everything in order. Looking forward to seeing you at the dinner on January 4. Joy Phim

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I reread the note, inordinately pleased by her small courtesy. I studied the neat, feminine handwriting as though it held some hidden meaning. Finally, I said to myself, “John, you stupid ass, you let yourself be caught.” I felt my mouth stretching into a grin. “What’s stupid about it? It’s . . . ” I looked for the word. “Wow!”

Chapter 3

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h, that limousine ride. The beginning of my education about this woman who would dominate my life ever after. I ask myself now, “If I knew then what I know now, would I jump screaming from the limo, rush back to my apartment, and barricade the door?” Would I have allowed myself to become an executioner, a murderer? To play god? To be a crusher or creator of governments? To become Joy’s lover? Joy’s lover, of course. As to the rest, well, it went along with the territory, didn’t it? I reached the front door of my faculty apartments at 5:30. It was more than being anal about punctuality. I couldn’t wait to see Joy again. A white stretch limousine with opaque rear windows drove up. Joy sat next to the driver. She waved at me and got out of the car while the driver stepped around the limousine and opened the rear door. Although it was cold out, she wore no coat. With her jet-black hair cascading down her back and over her shoulders, she looked as much a work of art as she had in my office. Joy motioned me into the limousine, but my eyes seemed pinned on her face. “Hello,” I managed to say. “After you.” I followed her into the warm limousine and we took seats on either side of a small table. I squeezed out of my coat and let it hang over the back of the soft white leather seat. I couldn’t keep my eyes from roving over the luxurious interior as the driver raised the partition between us and the driver’s compartment and the limo purred into motion. A little drink bar was tucked into a corner behind the front seat, and the blank screen of a small television occupied the other corner. I now knew how rich her mother was, but knowing was different from seeing and feeling, and here I sat in this incredible limousine. While she was alive, my mother made enough money from tennis for us to live a middle-class lifestyle, and there was my dead father’s pen-

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sion. After her death, her insurance, and the pension, along with some part-time work on my part, put me through college. Wealth of this magnitude amazed me. Joy smiled at my expression. “Isn’t this limo something? We used to live in California before moving to New York ten years ago, and in both places I was always taken to school and picked up afterwards in a limo like this. Some of the boys teased me about it, and started trying to trip me, pull up my skirt, or steal my books. So I beat each one of them up, and then they kept away, far away, from me. One husky boy tried to ambush me several times. Each time, I took it easy on him, until I got fed up and broke one of his legs.” “You broke his leg?” I repeated, stunned. Joy nodded matter-of-factly. “His father sued my mother and the school, but she put a private investigator on him. In weeks, her lawyer met his lawyer and threatened to divulge his affairs. He dropped the case.” This hit me like a brick. Here she was, this beauty I knew only as a student sitting in the back of my class, revealing in her very first conversation with me that she’d beaten up on boys who bothered her, and broken a boy’s leg. On purpose. Joy sat looking at me with large almond eyes that shone with anticipation. She was enjoying herself. I had to break the silence, but what could I say? I let the words fall out, hoping they would be intelligent. “Miss Phim—” “Please, call me Joy.” “Okay, I’m John—unless you take another class from me,” I hastened to reply. Then I forgot what I was about to say, and lamely asked, “Oh yes—why will you be quitting school? Or are you transferring?” “I will let my mother tell you about that. She has everything planned.” My eyebrows climbed of their own accord when I thought of her words of a moment before. I got up the nerve to ask, “How could you beat up all those boys?” Her chin lifted. Looking at me as though I were going to challenge her to a duel, she explained, “I’ve been trained in martial arts since I was four, by the best teachers in karate and judo. I’m also a weapons expert, above all with the knife.” As surprised, disconcerted, and confused as I was, she might as well have said she was a man. I felt like I’d sat down in the middle of a

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spy thriller—a lot was going on in the movie, the cinematography and directing were great, but I didn’t know the plot or who were the good or the bad guys. I brushed my hand through my hair. “Why are you telling me this . . . Joy?” “Because you must know. And you must believe.” “What?” Joy ignored my exclamation and slid into the seat next to me. “Punch me as hard and as fast as you can,” she said. Was my whole evening going to be one shock or surprise after another? “You’re kidding. I won’t do that.” “I guarantee you, you won’t lay a fist on me, and I’ll be in a position to kill you, if I want.” This is so ridiculous, I thought, and threw a half-hearted punch at her shoulder. Joy caught my fist in her left hand, even though the angle was awkward for her, and commented, “I could have parried that when I was five. Come on, John, go for it.” I threw another punch with more force behind it. She also caught it easily. Joy stuck her tongue out at me! “Weakling, weakling,” she teased. “John is a powder puff.” I still hesitated. So she took a sheet of paper from a pocket behind the front seat, wrote something on it, and handed it to me. “I absolve Professor John Banks of all responsibility for any injury I may incur as a result of my request that he punch me as hard as he can,” I read aloud. She’d signed it “Joy Phim.” Well, she’d asked for it. I swung a powerhouse right at her forehead. I still couldn’t bring myself to aim at her nose or chin. Joy moved her head aside so fast, I swear I saw it blur. With her left hand, she caught my fist where her head had been, cupped it, and let her hand roll over her shoulder with it. And tickled me under my chin with the fingers of her right hand. “These fingers would kill you if this were for real,” she said in a bland voice. More silence as I digested that. I tried to calm my swirling emotions. “What’s going on here?” “You must get to know me and my special . . . skills,” she responded, with a curiously sensual emphasis on the last word. “And don’t ask why you must know me. You will find out tonight.”

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Now I know, years later, that this was also an ego thing with her. She just had to show me what she could do. And if she couldn’t show me, she’d drop hints—in her sensual emphasis of “skills.” “How old are you?” I asked, with some exasperation overlaying my awe. “I’m twenty-five.” “I thought you were much younger,” I said. I’d always found it difficult to tell the ages of Asian students. Some looked as though they hardly belonged in high school, not to mention university. I hastened to move onto more familiar ground. “What is your major?” “I took only your class,” she countered. “Well, you should take more classes and major in something, if you want a degree.” “I don’t need more degrees. I got a B.A. in political science at Berkeley four years ago, and an M.A. in computer sciences in another two years at Princeton.” I couldn’t believe my ears. “Political science? Computer sciences? My God, Joy, why were you in my class?” “My mother wanted a firsthand account of your interpretation of the democratic peace.” She laughed and put a finger on her lush lips. “Be patient. You will soon find out everything. But, I want to tell you about my mother before you meet her. Please listen carefully. Her story will tell you why I must do what I will.” “What is that?” I asked in exasperation. “Be patient and listen, John!” That was the first of a million commands she would give me. I never got used to it. She leaned forward and solemnly looked into my eyes, as though she could pass through them into my heart. “Live this story, John. I want you to feel the agony of what my mother went through. I want you to know it deep inside where you keep your empathy, your compassion, your love. No, not your mind, John, not your thoughts. Don’t think. Relax your mind and just listen. You must feel this. Then, you will understand better what is to happen this evening.” She sat upright, brushed her hand against her eyes“My mother, Tor Phim, once lived with her husband, Nguon Theary, in Phnom Penh, Cambodia,” Joy began.aaa April of 1975 was a happy day for Tor as she waited for Nguon beneath the torn awning on the ramshackle building where they lived. The war was now over. After successive retreats, General Lon Nol could no longer even defend Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia, against the Khmer Rouge guerrillas. The Cambodian Army had de-

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clared a cease-fire and laid down its arms. Soon afterward, the government conceded defeat and opened Phnom Penh to the Khmer Rouge and their leader, Pol Pot. An army of 68,000 guerrillas achieved victory for a communist party of 14,000 members against an army of about 200,000 men. Naturally petite, Tor was skinny from lack of food—a common problem in Phnom Penh at that time. Her face was still round, though— “Just,” Nguon always told her, “as I like it.” She had kept her black hair cut short to keep it out of the way as she worked in her cousin’s small restaurant. On this day, she wore an orange blouse and a beige sarong. Nguon was teaching, but she was sure he had heard the news about the great victory. No doubt he would cancel class and join her to welcome the guerrilla soldiers. They were supposed to arrive within the hour. Tor heard people celebrating all around her. Many intellectuals and middle-class Cambodians, disgusted with the everyday corruption of the government, were willing to try anything that brought change, even communism. Tor was no less happy. She was already thinking about bringing her own mother from the northeast, where she had been trapped by the war. There Nguon was, all smiles as he approached her in his common black shorts. He took her hands and, looking into her eyes, said, “My dearest one. During all these years of war we prayed to Buddha for peace, and now it’s here. The world will change today. What a great moment.” They walked to Sisowath Quay down which they expected the major force of Khmer Rouge to come on their way to the Royal palace. Many people were out on the streets, laughing, talking, all waiting. Almost every other building had white material—clothes, sheets, or towels—hung from windows or poles. A low rumble grew into the mechanical roar of trucks. Everyone stopped whatever they were doing and looked toward the approaching noise. Down Sisowath Quay came the Khmer Rouge. Those soldiers in the vanguard rode in trucks and vehicles of all descriptions. Behind those, squads of guerrilla soldiers walked in single file down the center of the street. They carried an assortment of weapons. No guerrilla seemed older than eighteen. All wore black, pajama-like uniforms, sandals made from strips of tires and inner tubes, and black Chinese caps.

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Each soldier had wound a red-checkered headscarf around his cap or neck. None of them smiled or looked at the crowds of people lining the roads. Some of the people cheered and clapped, but most just smiled and waited to see what the victorious guerrillas would do next. After watching for a while, Tor commented, “They are so young. How could they defeat the army?” “Well, they did,” Nguon responded. “Let’s go back to our place. I’ve seen enough.” Tor and Nguon ambled back to their apartment climbed the worn steps and walked down the dim, unpainted hallway to their room. Although almost too excited to eat, they thought it best to get something into their stomachs before what surely would be an evening of celebration. As they ate some reheated rice and fruit and a little leftover ham Tor had saved from the restaurant, they discussed what they would do once the city settled down. Shots echoed out on the street as they were cleaning up. Tor and Nguon rushed over to the small window and peered out. They saw people moving past their building, their faces creased with confusion. They were looking around and glancing often over their shoulders. Waving their guns and yelling, several Khmer Rouge soldiers pointed in the direction the people were moving. Tor gasped. “What’s going on? I thought the war was over.” “I don’t know,” Nguon replied. “Maybe some Lon Nol soldiers don’t want it to end. I’m going out to take a look as soon as we finish here.” But when they finished cleaning up a few minutes later, the noise from the street had increased greatly. Babies cried; car horns blared; people yelled constantly. Nguon and Tor exchanged an anxious glance. They decided to take a look outside, but when they reached the street they couldn’t believe their eyes. A mass of people of all descriptions, packed almost shoulder-toshoulder, moved in the direction the soldiers indicated. Like a stream around boulders, the crowd eddied around the spots where the guerrilla soldiers stood yelling. Here and there, a crowded car, small truck, or motor scooter crawled along in the flow of humanity. Tor glimpsed several motorbikes loaded down with possessions. “Move, move. Get out,” the Khmer Rouge soldiers shouted, waving their rifles. Standing on their steps, Tor looked up the road in the direction all

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these people were coming from, and saw a body lying on the walkway two buildings down. Another body lay a little further away. Everyone in the crowd avoided them, creating little eddies of their own in the stream of people. A black-clad soldier with a red scarf around his neck rushed up, pointed an AK-47 at them, and screeched in the high, thin rasp of a teenage boy, “You must leave this evil place. Go now!” He couldn’t be over fifteen years old, Tor thought. Nguon didn’t understand. “Go where? Why?” “Go! Go! Out of the city. Now!” he screamed at them, even louder. Tor was scared now. Her voice trembled when she asked, “But can’t we get something to take with us? It will take just a—” Nguon grabbed her hand and jerked her off the steps. He pulled Tor down the side of the crowded road. They were jostled and pushed by people and bumped by the heavy suitcases a few people carried. A short distance down the crowded walkway, Nguon, who was tall for a Cambodian, looked back. Not seeing any soldiers nearby, he pulled Tor into an alley with him. “What are you doing?” she asked between gulps of air. She’d begun to shake. “Don’t say anything,” Nguon urged, putting his finger on her lips. Still gripping her hand, he pulled her with him as he cautiously rushed down the narrow, trash-filled alley. When he came to an intersecting alley, he peeked around the corner. “No soldiers,” he murmured, and turned the corner with Tor still in tow. Several old people milled around in the alley, asking about all the noise and what was going on. Nguon ignored them. Within minutes they reached the rear of their building without seeing any soldiers. Obviously, the soldiers were stretched thin in trying to cover all the alleys, roads, and buildings in Phnom Penh. He guessed, however, that the soldiers would began to search these buildings soon. A small step at a time, Nguon entered the building through the rear entrance, peering down the hallway to make sure there were no soldiers inside. He motioned for Tor to follow him, and they rushed to their room. The hallway was deserted—others had also gone out to investigate the noise in the street. Once they were inside, Nguon allowed his own fear to show. Looking at Tor, he said quickly, “I think that kid was going to shoot us. I don’t understand it, but I think we should prepare for the worst and get away before they search the building.”

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“Where are they sending us?” “I don’t know, but hurry now, let’s pack what we might need. Pack food, of course, and blankets, clothes, and the money we’ve hidden.” Tor walked to the corner of the room and pulled out from under a glass topped rattan table a large, battered French suitcase that had been in her family for two generations. “No, no,” Nguon said, stopping her. “That’s too clumsy. Just two bags, one for each of us, and not too hard to carry.” Tor fetched her wicker shopping bag from their small closet and Nguon picked up the school bag he used to carry books and papers, and they began to fill them. Just in case they lost a bag, they split the rice and fruit between them, and each took a small bottle of drinking water. They also divided between them their family heirlooms and their other few valuables. Tor kissed her old gold locket containing a photograph of her mother and father, then tucked it into the side of her bag where she wouldn’t accidentally pull it out. She also threw in a box of tissues. Nguon looked around, stood thinking for a moment, and chided himself, “I almost forgot.” He took an old Cambodian tourist brochure from a drawer in their one cabinet, tore out the map inside, and put it in his bag. He stepped over to the sink they had used for everything from washing dishes to their bodies, picked up an old Japanese chef’s knife and handed it to Tor. “Wrap this in some of your old clothes and hide it in the bottom of your bag,” he told her. He picked up a six-inch French carving knife, wrapped it, and deposited it in his own bag. “Okay, let’s . . . ” Nguon trailed off as they heard more shots. Tor rushed over to look out the window. “No, they can’t be doing this!” she exclaimed. Here and there in the stream of people, invalids were being pushed in wheelchairs. Others staggered along on crutches. People pushed hospital beds with their loved ones still in them. Tor saw an intravenous tube stuck in the arm of one of the invalids. The tube was connected to a bottle hanging from a pole being wheeled along beside the bed by a woman who was probably a relative. “The soldiers must also be emptying the hospitals,” Nguon said. “We can’t do anything about it. Let’s go.” They hurried down the hallway and paused on the stairs to look both ways before plunging into the moving mass of people. Teenage soldiers stood at the intersections they came to, waving their rifles or AK-47s to split the human mass onto the different roads.

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After hours of slow movement, tired from being jostled along and from carrying their bags, Tor and Nguon reached the countryside. But there was no stopping. Along the way, they continued to see the bodies of those the soldiers had shot. The crowd was thinning out as older people or those burdened with heavy suitcases or many children fell behind. Suddenly, Tor and Nguon saw two of the black-clad soldiers who had been standing nearby pull a boy out of the procession. He looked about fourteen years old; no older, it appeared, than the soldiers grabbing him. He wore shorts, a blue shirt much too big for him, and army boots that were much too large—the tops of the boots came almost to his knees. He surely had stuffed stockings or tissue into the toes so that he could wear them. “You’re an enemy soldier,” one of the Khmer Rouge soldiers yelled, eyes blazing. “No, I’m not!” the boy cried, eyes big, fear in his voice. “Where’d you get those boots?” the other soldier screamed at the boy. “They’re his dad’s,” his mother protested, rushing up to stand beside the boy and bowing up and down to the soldiers, her hands clasped in front of her as if praying. “My dad’s,” the boy whimpered. “Your father was shit,” yelled the first soldier. He aimed his rifle at the boy and shot him in the stomach. The shock of the bullet sent the boy sprawling backwards. He and his mother screamed simultaneously. The boy lay, clutching his stomach. The soldier reached down and dragged the dying boy away from his mother, who had fallen on her knees by her son and was trying to put her arms around him. The soldier pulled off the boy’s boots, tied their shoelaces together, and swung them over his shoulder. He shot the sobbing mother in the head. No one in the crowd, including Tor and Nguon, did or said anything. Each knew to do so could mean death. Tor started to cry, but Nguon pulled her away from the scene as fast as he could. As night fell, the soldiers allowed people to find places to rest in the nearby hills and fields. Everyone tried to form groups of family members, friends, or just acquaintances, as long as it was someone. A few older men moved from group to group, asking for water, food, or ciga-

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rettes. The evacuation had caught them when they were away from home. They had brought nothing with them. The soldiers offered no food, nothing. The Khmer Rouge had not stocked any food, water, or medicine, and provided no aid stations along the evacuation routes. The soldiers abandoned the sick to die or recover on their own. The infirm were forced to find help from other evacuees, or fall out of the crowd and risk being shot. On some evacuation routes, there was no food until the evacuees reached the villages where the Khmer Rouge almost randomly settled them. Those without food starved unless they could find, steal, or beg food along the way. In the rest area, people were using a slight depression nearby to relieve themselves. There was no privacy, but no one looked anyway. Tor and Nguon took turns visiting the depression, while the other watched their bags. Afterwards they sat by a tree on a slight knoll, making sure they were upwind from the depression. Tor opened her bag. She was now very glad for it, although it had grown so heavy to carry that her arms ached. Nguon had tried to take it from her and carry it with his own, but she wouldn’t let him. She took out a white sheet, stood up, and spread it on the ground beside them. She sat down on it and motioned for Nguon to join her. She pulled chopsticks and a bowl of leftover cold rice from his bag, and set these down between them while she lifted two bananas and some grapes out of her bag. They ate their feast in silence and washed it down with some of their water. When they finished eating, Tor said, almost in a whisper, “Dearest, I don’t understand any of this.” “Neither do I,” Nguon replied. “There were rumors of the Khmer Rouge evacuating towns that they controlled before the war ended, forcing everyone to be peasants in the fields, and shooting former government officials and all captured officers. We all thought that was government propaganda.” “What are they going to do with us?” Tor wondered aloud, putting her arms around her knees and looking at a squad of soldiers passing by in the dim light. For a moment Nguon looked at the soldiers too. He turned his back on them, shook his head, and admitted, “I don’t know, honey. If we don’t rest and sleep, however, they won’t need to do anything to us.” He pulled a blanket out of his bag and lay down, pulling her down with him. She snuggled up to him as he covered both of them with the blanket.

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aaa In the morning, as Nguon was putting his blanket away, a Khmer Rouge soldier, a boy with an old American M-1 rifle, strode up and pointed to Nguon’s wrist. “I want to see your watch,” he demanded. Without a word, Nguon took it off and handed it over. The boy looked at it, held it up to the sky, held it to his ear, smiled, and put it on his wrist. The band was much too large for the boy’s skinny wrist, and the watch dangled. He stretched the band and pulled it up his arm over his black shirtsleeve until it fit, just below his elbow. Looking at it happily, he strode off. Tor later learned that the Khmer Rouge had evacuated everyone in Phnom Penh—between two and three million inhabitants and refugees. They evacuated all the cities and towns they occupied after their victory. The wealthy or middle-class citizens who had tried to ride out in cars soon abandoned them, or the Khmer Rouge soldiers seized and destroyed the vehicles. They also soon confiscated loaded motor scooters or bicycles. The vast multitude of pitiful urbanites and refugees had only possessed their feet, like Tor and Nguon. They formed straggling, trudging columns that extended for miles, like a fatal migration of lemmings. The soldiers killed anyone who disobeyed their orders. They killed anyone who withheld any items the soldiers wanted. There was no law, no rules, no order except the soldier’s commands, demands, and whims. Day after day, Tor and Nguon plodded along the narrow roads and trails, crowded together in the jumble of humanity that flowed out of Phnom Penh. The Khmer Rouge had told them that the evacuation was for a few days. This had been a lie. To minimize disorder, Nguon guessed. Aside from the outright killing by the Khmer Rouge soldiers, the arduous evacuation, the lack of food and medical facilities, exposure, and sheer fatigue and emotional stress soon took its toll. Babies, young children, old people; the already sick, injured, and infirm died along the way. A medical doctor named Vann Hay, evacuated with all the rest, told them he saw a dead child every two hundred meters. Tor and Nguon trudged for eleven days, and at each village along the way, the soldiers chose a dozen or so evacuees to accompany a Khmer Rouge village chief. Sometimes a village fed those that were to continue; sometimes they came across a store along the road and the

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soldiers allowed them to take whatever food was there. They ate their fill at one small Buddhist temple stocked with military rations. Finally, they reached a small village that Nguon thought was near the much larger village of Phum Knol. He’d stolen glances at his map to keep track of where they were. Phum Knol was northwest of Phnom Penh, on the edge of the Chuor Phnum Kravanh Mountains. These were low mountains with many passes through them to Thailand. The village was a simple clearing in the forest, with several dozen huts on both sides of a single lane, and a cleared area for planting. They could see the bent backs of peasants tending the crops. Tor and Nguon and eleven other people were the last group to be settled. There were three older men, two young women, and two other couples, one with two children whom Tor had befriended. When the soldiers led them into the village there was no one around except the fat village chief, Theng Pech. He stood, dressed in the usual black, baggy, pajama-like clothes, waiting for them with his pudgy arms across his chest and his short legs spread apart. The soldiers led the group to stand before him, and moved off at a distance to watch. Frowning, his lips puckered, Pech studied each of them. When he finished, he scowled. “Are there any doctors among you?” Everyone looked blank. “Any lawyers, former government officials, or soldiers?” Still, no one said a word. Along the evacuation routes, all had seen what happened to those admitting any such profession, or even contact with them. They were either shot where they stood, begging for mercy, or they were taken into a field with their families and one by one beaten in the head with a hoe until dead. “Any teachers?” Nguon said not a word. Tor gasped out an emphatic, “No,” under her breath. Teachers, lawyers, and other professionals, according to the Khmer Rouge, had been contaminated by Western influence, and were therefore to be exterminated. Cambodia had received its independence from France twenty-two years before, but the French corruption, the Khmer Rouge believed, still permeated the professions. They sometimes even exterminated those with college educations. Pech moved among them, stopping before several of the men to demand they tell him about their jobs. One said he couldn’t find work; another claimed he was a cook. One naive fellow said that he was a court clerk.

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Pech leaned forward. Spittle flew from his mouth as he hissed, “You are a counter-revolutionary. You worked against the people.” “I wasn’t a government official!” the unfortunate man protested, “I was just a clerk!” Pech’s voice rose to a scream. “You die!” He waved to the soldiers and pointed at the man, who had fallen to his knees, shaking, clasped hands rapidly moving up and down, pleading, “I did nothing. A clerk. Only a clerk. I love the revolution.” Two soldiers came up on either side of him and lifted him by his armpits. They dragged him, crying, into the nearby forest. Minutes later, those in the village heard screams and loud thumps. Then silence. Pech strode up to Nguon and tilted his head to look up at him with a questioning expression. “What did you do?” “I worked in a vegetable and fruit stand,” he lied. “Did you own it?” Pech asked suspiciously. “No. I hate capitalists,” Nguon responded. “Show me your hands,” Pech demanded with a black look. Nguon held out his hands and Pech bent over to study his fingers and palms—searching for a soldier’s blisters or calluses, Nguon explained to Tor later. Not satisfied, Pech ordered, “Take off your shirt.” Tor was shaking now with fear, and could hardly stand as Nguon took off his shirt. “Bend over,” Pech demanded. When Nguon obeyed, Pech knit his brows as he studied both of Nguon’s shoulders, looking for any discoloration, thickening of the skin, or marks that indicated Nguon had recently carried a pack, rifle, or machine gun on his shoulder and thus had been a soldier for the former evil government. “If there had been the slightest suggestion of this,” Nguon told Tor, “I’d be a dead man.” Pech flipped his hand at Nguon for him to put his shirt on. Without a word he turned away and strode to the front of the group. Tor let out her breath and, blinking back tears, tried to grab Nguon’s hand. He shook his head in warning and put a finger to his lips, indicating the watching soldiers with his eyes. Pech motioned for the group to spread out in front of him. When their shuffling stopped, he began his little welcoming speech. “You are here to work for the revolution. You will learn to farm from the peasants, and through your work in the great soil of Cambo-

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dia, your thoughts will be purged of the evil capitalist and Western influences that pollute your minds. Here you will be reborn as true sons and daughters of our land.” Pech glared at them all, as though daring them to show unhappiness or unwillingness. He continued. “Okay, here are the rules. The married among you will get a hut to yourselves. The rest of you will all live in the large hut you see behind me. You will all turn over any utensils, food, pots, knives, and anything else you possess, except for your clothes and blankets. We are all communists here and all equal. We share everything.” Pech stopped, folded his arms across his chest, and again looked at each of them in turn. He now harangued them. “There will be no talking without permission, except between married couples, and only in their hut. You cannot leave the village without a pass, and when you go to work it must be in groups of no less than five, with a guard. There is no money. We will provide you with everything you need. We do not allow you to pick fruit in the woods without permission. If we give it, all that you pick you must turn over to the village.” Someone behind Tor shifted uncomfortably. Pech paused and glared at the culprit for a moment before continuing. “You will always eat together, never privately. You will work from 6 AM to 8 PM. After work, you will spend no more than thirty minutes eating, so that you can attend our reeducation lectures and learn about our great revolution. We allow no radios and no letter or note writing. “If you disobey any of these rules, we will execute you.”

aaa The work was exhausting. Nguon’s hands were always bloody and when he straightened, he clutched his back. Tor was in no better condition. They all were growing weak from insufficient food. All that they produced from the fields and picked in the woods was trucked away, except for a small portion. They dared not complain. One day, while working in the field, Tor saw the boy Yann collapse and sprawl on the ground. Possibly he died before he hit the ground. Possibly he was on the brink of death. Possibly malnutrition or some disease caused it. No one knew anymore why people died. They were all in such poor condition that a simple cold was often lethal. Chek shrieked when she saw her son fall and, her hands reaching for him, dashed to where his skinny body lay stretched across his hoe.

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She threw herself on the ground next to him and cuddled his limp head on her lap. After a moment she realized that he was dead. Wrenching sobs shook her whole body as she bent over him, rocking back and forth. A soldier wearing the inevitable Chinese cap and the red scarf around his neck had been watching all this. He rushed over with his rifle, lifted Chek by the arm, and tried to drag her away. At first she would not release Yann, but Tor ran over and tenderly took the boy from her arms. By that time, Chek realized the danger she was in and let the soldier take her through the village to Pech. Three days later, when the soldier was out of hearing, with silent tears streaming down her cheeks, Chek shared with Tor what happened next: In a high-pitched voice the soldier told Pech, “Her son died, and she bawled over him, crazy-like.” “I couldn’t help my tears, even in front of Pech,” Chek said, “but I collected myself enough to bow to him. I clasped my hands in front of me subserviently. I’d seen what happened to one of the women who broke down in tears of fatigue while digging an irrigation ditch. She would not or could not pick up her shovel, even when the guard yelled at her to get back to work. The guard reported her and Pech accused her of being a counter-revolutionary. You remember it, Tor? A soldier dragged her into the woods, and in minutes returned alone.” Chek wiped her tears away so the soldier wouldn’t see them. “Pech hates anyone who is unenthusiastic for the revolution.” When Tor nodded, she continued. “I was so scared when Pech asked angrily, ‘Why are you crying? You think more of your son than of the revolution. You’re a fucking antirevolutionary. You cry just because your son died. The revolution means chicken shit to you.’” Chek stopped to look around to make sure they weren’t observed. Tears still flowed, and she wiped at them with the back of her hand. “I knew, Tor,” she whispered, “that I would soon join my son in death unless I did the right thing. I had learned over the months how this horrible Angka—organization—works. “I shook my head, trying to stop crying over Yann. I was afraid my voice would give me away to Pech, but it grew firmer as I spoke. I told Pech, ‘I’m ashamed, that’s why I cry. The revolution is now deprived of my son. I know . . . that he’d have grown up to be . . . a strong communist.’ I looked Pech in the eye—I itched to scratch them out with my

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fingernails, Tor, but what could I do? —and I added, ‘Maybe even a good village chief, like you.’ “Pech snorted, ‘You lie,’ but his voice lacked confidence. “‘No, no, no,’ I asserted. ‘I love the revolution.’” Chek’s voice was a hiss of hatred as she told Tor, “I would shit on the revolution, and I almost said that, but I didn’t want to die. I wanted to do something, anything, for my dead son. Even if all I could do was live, so I could remember his life. “Pech’s brow furrowed, and he squinted at me for a few minutes. He turned to the soldier standing nearby, holding his rifle pointed in my general direction. ‘Has she shown any other counter-revolutionary behavior?’ Pech asked him. “The soldier responded with clear reluctance, ‘No.’ “‘Has she been a good worker?’ “‘Well . . . ’ “‘Answer me!’ Pech roared. “‘Yes,’ the soldier barked, almost coming to attention. “‘Okay.’ Pech looked back to me. I still held my half bow. He told me, ‘Go back to work and we will take care of your son’s body. I warn you: I’ll be watching you. Go.’ “And that’s when I returned to the field.” Chek stopped for a moment and looked down at her callused and dirty hands. As Tor had listened to Chek, she remembered how she had felt when watching Chek come back. She had seen Chek will herself not to look at her son’s body, now lying alone in the dirt. Tor had cried inside. She had ached to put her arms around Chek, to comfort her, but had known it might mean her own death. Chek looked at Tor again, but her gaze was turned inward at her private horror. Her eyes were wet. She picked up where she had left off. “When I got back to my place in the field, my tears returned, and with my back to Pech and the soldier, I let them fall. The pain, Tor! The pain of passing by Yann’s body without saying goodbye, without kissing him one last time, without caressing his beautiful cheeks, was almost too much for me. My stomach knotted, and I thought I would vomit. The aching pressure of containing my grief had built behind my eyes until a throbbing headache made thought almost impossible. I felt I would collapse, but I made it past my son’s body.” Tor nodded in silent sympathy. She again remembered Chek’s effort, had seen the woman lurch past her son’s body, then catch herself from stumbling outright.

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Chek drew a tremulous breath and finished in a flat voice, “I took up my hoe and returned to work.”

aaa Weeks later, Tor saw Chek’s body dangling in the woods. She’d taken a vine and hung herself. That night, when Pech’s spies would not see her, Tor wept. She realized then she could not long survive herself. Chek’s death was the reason she later agreed with Nguon to attempt an ill-prepared and hasty escape from the village and Cambodia when he said they must flee or die. What had done it for him was the sheer horror of Mey Samoeun’s murder. Also evacuated from Phnom Penh, Mey was an agricultural scientist and college teacher. He kept this a secret from everyone, but he forgot himself during one of the reeducation lectures on the great agricultural revolution wrought by Pol Pot, and the Khmer Rouge “breakthrough innovations in irrigation.” Mey, who had became a close friend of Nguon, whispered, “Pure crap.” He then explained why he knew so much about it. Nguon, of course, returned the favor and admitted he taught as well. Later, as Mey worked in the field, he couldn’t help displaying a deep knowledge of plants and soil. The soldiers noted this and informed Pech. During one mealtime, Pech approached the branch table where Mey was eating and leaned over to look at him. “I hear you are a good man in the field,” he said briskly. Mey didn’t know what to say. Pech stared at him for about ten seconds, as though expecting him to confess to a plot to overthrow the Khmer Rouge. Then he gave him a grisly smile and ordered, “Every day, starting tomorrow, from 9 to 11 AM you will teach the kids what you know about farming. We will pick the kids out. They are the ones still too young to do the revolution’s great work.” Trembling, Mey started to breathe again. He began teaching the next day and seemed to enjoy the children. A month later a squad of soldiers stopped at the village to rest, and happened to pass by Mey’s outdoor class. One of the soldiers halted so suddenly that the one behind him almost bumped into him. The soldier

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stared at Mey. Then he hurried over to a peasant feeding the village chickens, and demanded to know where the chief was. The peasant pointed out his hut. The soldier cast another look over his shoulder at Mey, who was unaware of the attention, and strode to the chief’s hut. “Comrade Chief,” he had yelled outside the entrance, then disappeared inside. Several minutes later, the chief came out with the soldier, who now pointed his AK-47 in Mey’s direction. His mouth a thin line, his eyes narrowed to slits, Pech stalked up to Mey’s class. Waving his hands in the air, he roared, “Stop. Mey, come here.” Looking at the soldier, Pech demanded loudly, “Is this him?” “Yes,” the soldier snapped, now looking frightened himself. “I was a student in his class. I heard he did work for the government.” “You’re a spy,” Pech yelled at Mey. “No, I’m not. I did no more than help the government protect mango from midge and weevil.” “You’re a spy,” Pech spat. He motioned to the soldier. “Take him and tie him to that post in front of my hut.” The soldier moved behind Mey and poked him in the back with his gun. Using it as a prod, he forced Mey over to the post, where he made Mey sit down and then he picked up a nearby rope and tied him fast by wrapping it around his torso, arms, and the post. Pech ignored May the rest of the day and through the evening. No one could approach him for fear for their own life. As Nguon worked in the field, he asked various people, “What happened to Mey?” One of them was the peasant who’d been feeding the chickens and heard everything. He relayed it all to Nguon. When everyone was released from work for the day and the reeducation lecture was over, Nguon sat for hours in the door of their hut, looking down the line of huts to where Mey was tied. Tor tried to get him to sleep, but he wouldn't even respond to her. She found him still there in the morning, lying on his side, asleep. At mid-morning the next day, Pech called together all the peasants and evacuees and took them to a flowering shower tree that grew behind the huts. They stood beneath masses of beautiful bright flowers in shades ranging from pale red to white. Birdsong filled the air around them. The sun had not yet burned away the delightful morning smell of growing things—of life. A few white puffs of clouds dared to intrude on the rich blue of the sky. The air was dry and comfortable. A gentle breeze played across the downcast faces of those waiting by the tree.

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It was a great morning, a gorgeous spot. Mey was still tied to the post, now with soldiers standing on either side of him. Pech, dressed in his usual black uniform, glowered at them all and waved an American military .45 caliber handgun at Mey. Nobody had seen the handgun before. “The CIA and KGB are working to overthrow our glorious revolution,” he bellowed. “Their shitty spies are everywhere. There are also agents of hated and corrupt capitalists at work among us. Now watch and you will see what we do to these counter-revolutionaries.” He raised his gun and fired a shot into the sky. The two soldiers guarding Mey untied him from the post, then retied his hands when he staggered to his feet. He was too weak to walk. They half carried him to the tree. A soldier threw a long rope knotted into a noose over a lower branch. Mey did not protest or move when the soldiers dragged him over to the noose, tied his feet, and placed the noose around his neck. He said not a word. A soldier had entered one of the huts. Now he emerged with six of the children Mey had been teaching. Soldiers led them to the tree and instructed them to line up by the long end of the rope that fell along the ground from the tree limb. They were too solemn and quiet for young children, and seemed confused. A soldier picked up the rope and put it in their hands. Although the soldier had probably spent some time early in the morning instructing them, he still had to make tugging motions several times before the children would pull on the rope. Looking back and forth between the rope and the soldier, the children pulled halfheartedly on the rope, yelling, “Bad teacher. Bad teacher.” They pulled Mey off his feet and he hung a few feet above the ground, his tied legs jerking back and forth. The children released the rope, and Mey fell to the earth in a shower of flowers knocked loose from the shaken branch. Encouraged by the soldier, the children picked up the rope and tugged with more vigor, walking backwards several feet, pulling Mey off his feet and above the ground a second time. They still chanted, “Bad teacher, bad teacher.” The soldier motioned the children on several more times, until Mey was dead. By then, the children were enjoying the new game. And the ground around Mey was carpeted with flowers. Nguon watched, his face frozen in grief. Tor was terrified that he

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would do or say something. She got as close to him as she could and tried to hold his hand, but it was stiff, ice-cold, and unresponsive. When the hanging was over, Nguon rushed back to their work on the irrigation ditch. Tor hurried after him. He worked silently, with single-minded determination, for the rest of the day. He ate nothing at the evening meal. He said nothing during the re-education lecture, or afterwards. Finally, back in their hut, he whispered to Tor so that none of Pech’s spies could hear, “We are escaping tonight.” “But dearest,” Tor whispered, “can we? We’re not ready.” Nguon looked at her with tears in his eyes, his face revealing the misery he had been holding within him all day. “We must. I can’t promise that if we stay another day, I won’t say or do something that will get us both killed. All I think about is grabbing a gun from one of the soldiers and shooting him, and finding and killing that fucking bastard Pech. I would then die happily, but the soldiers would also kill you, my love.” With the image of Chek hanging from a vine still fresh in her mind, Tor touched a finger to Nguon’s tightly compressed lips and whispered, “We’ll go. Let’s get ready.” They’d been planning to escape, though not this soon. They’d been stockpiling food and supplies, but couldn’t hide them in the hut, for Pech’s spies occasionally searched their hut while they were working. They had bartered for a raincoat, wrapped everything in that, and hid it in a pile of rocks beneath the thick trunk of a leaning tree, where it was protected from all but the worst rainstorms. Now, they put in their bags the few items they kept in their hut. They waited. The night was warm and low clouds hid the moon. It felt like rain was coming. Her body shaking, Tor wiped sweat from her forehead and listened to the night sounds, breathing deeply to soothe her rapid heartbeat and, perhaps for the last time, to capture the sweet smell of plumeria flowers nearby. Nguon was so still, so quiet next to her. When she took his hand, she could feel his heartbeat through it. She knew he was trying to think through their escape. She knew he also feared this would be their last night alive. Around one or two o’clock in the morning—without lantern, flashlight, or matches, without food or water, without much hope—they fled. Their night vision was good, and Nguon knew the direction they

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must go. They felt their way carefully through the woods, following certain trees and bushes whose locations they’d memorized to bring them to the rocks and their store. They quickly put everything in their bags and pushed on. “By dawn,” Nguon whispered, “we must be far away from here.” He led the way through the woods, relying on his memory and landmarks to find the road away from their village. They hurried along the road until the sky began to lighten. Then they moved far enough into the gloom of the woods that soldiers would not see them from the road. When it got light enough, Nguon was able to determine the direction the sun traveled by the moss on the rocks and trees. He led them west, toward Thailand. They traveled this way for several days, wending through the woods and sleeping in them during the day, treading the narrow roads and paths during the night, their eyes scouring the darkness in every direction for patrols. They gave Phum Knol and several smaller villages a wide berth. At last they reached the wide pass through the mountains to Boi Russey, the last small town before Thailand, and part of a line of Khmer Rouge outposts whose patrols sought to catch those trying to escape from Cambodia.

aaa After they had passed the village of Boi Russey, they were caught in a rainstorm. Nguon slipped on a mossy rock, and as he fell his foot slid under another rock, breaking his ankle. He couldn’t muffle his scream of pain. Behind him Tor also cried out. She rushed over and knelt by Nguon’s leg. Her wet hair fell over her face as she studied his foot. It was bent at a right angle and twisted backwards. She covered her mouth, but could not prevent a gasp from escaping. Bracing himself on his elbows, Nguon looked at his foot for a moment. “Give me some cloth.” “Why?” Tor cried. “Please,” Nguon said in a voice tight with pain. Tor got up and leaned over her bag to protect the contents from the rain as she pulled out an old blouse. She handed it to Nguon. He took it, folded it into a thick roll, and told her through gritted teeth, “I’m going to put this in my mouth and bite down on it. When I do, don’t wait. Straighten out my foot.” He chomped down hard on the cloth and motioned to his foot. Tor

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leaned over, sheltering the broken ankle from the rain with her body. She gripped it and with a jerk twisted it back to its normal position. Tor heard the broken bones grinding against each other. Nguon groaned as his body heaved. Shaking with sobs, Tor looked up at Nguon as he tried to control his pain. After some moments, he gasped, “Get me a straight, thick stick.” Tor got up and staggered over the unfamiliar ground in the drizzling rain, searching for a fallen branch. Finding one, she returned to her bag, pulled out her knife, and cleaned the branch of leaves and twigs. Knowing why Nguon wanted it, she cut the branch into a twofoot length, placed it beside Nguon’s broken ankle, and took a shirt out of his bag. She cut it into strips, and placed them beside the stick. She had been able to stop crying, but still her voice broke when she told him, “Put my blouse back in your mouth, dearest.” He gripped it with his teeth again, and closed his eyes. Tor placed the branch against his broken ankle. It came almost up to his knee. She took off his floppy slipper, held the branch against his leg, and wound the strips of cloth until she was sure the leg couldn’t move. The most difficult step was securing the limp foot to the branch, but she did this by winding the strips around and under the foot, and then around the branch. She was gasping for breath when she finished. Nguon took the rolled blouse out of his mouth. His face was drained of blood, his eyes full of pain. He wheezed, “See if you can find something I can use as a crutch.” Tor searched the woods nearby for a long, solid branch with another branch protruding from it at nearly a right angle. It must fit under his armpit to support his weight. She found nothing on the ground, and she was about to climb a tree to cut off a useful branch when she heard voices in the distance. She scampered back to Nguon, who had also heard the voices. They were indistinct, but getting louder. Suddenly, a few clear words made plain that this was a Khmer Rouge patrol. They were tracking them. Nguon tried to sit up, but fell back. He pointed to their bags and whispered urgently, “Go, go, take the bags and go west.” He pointed in the direction they had been headed “Quick. Go.” “No, I can’t desert you. No dearest, we will die together.” Gritting his teeth, he managed to raise himself on his elbow, and tried to push her away. “You must not die. You must tell people about

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the horror here. All the deaths and killing. Go. Make it never happen again.” He pushed her again, weakly. Her eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth in terror. She could hear the soldiers in the distance, moving through the forest toward them. Tor looked at her loving husband for the last time. She tried to fill her memory with his beautiful face. Too soon, too quick, the approaching voices broke the spell. “Goodbye, my dearest husband,” she said tenderly, but the words felt ripped out of her. “I will never forget you, and I will never forgive. I love you.” She slipped into the forest. About fifteen minutes later, she was sure she heard a shot. She stopped, leaned her head against a tree, and silently sobbed, “Yes, my dearest, I will never forget you. And I will join you as soon as I can.” Her commitment calmed her enough to move on. She noted where the sun was through the haze of rain clouds, and pointed herself west.

aaa For days, Tor trudged through the forest. She was lost, but knew one thing—west, she must head west, always west. The sun was her guide. When it was cloudy, she determined west by where the moss grew the thickest on the tree trunks. She thought of Chek, of Mey, but most of all, of Nguon and their happy, loving life together. Only thus could she distract herself from her awful physical pain. She was bleeding from numerous thorn scratches on her bare legs, and her skin was bruised all over from falling on rocks and tripping over roots. Her slippers had fallen apart and she now limped along barefoot, her feet bleeding from blisters and cuts. Tor stopped at a little stream to wash herself, soak her battered feet, and eat the last grains of rice and some fruit she had picked. She was bone-weary, and the cold water was a blessed relief. She thought she’d shed all the tears humanly possible, but when she saw her reflection in a little pool the stream created, she broke down in sobs again. She tried to gather her strength. She must survive for the sake of her husband. He had told her to survive, to “make it never happen again.” Tor wiped her tears and placed Nguon’s six-inch carving knife close by, as she had done whenever she stopped. She pushed her tortured feet deeper into the cool water. At that moment, from the edge of the forest, she heard, “Who are you?”

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Her heart thumping, almost dizzy with fear, she slowly raised her eyes toward the voice and saw a Khmer Rouge soldier no more that fifteen feet away. He probably was part of a patrol and had decided to stop at the stream for a drink. He held an American M-16 carbine on his shoulder. A combat knife hung from his American military belt, and grenades were attached to his bandoleer. He was a skinny kid, no more than eighteen years old, she thought. For a moment, she sat stunned, rocking with the rapid beat of her heart. Then from deep inside, her most basic instinct told her what to do. No thought was needed. She took two deep breaths and painted a smile on her face. Without saying a word, she rose and turned full toward him. Eyes vampish, she swept her hair back from her face, then slowly unbuttoned and removed her blouse. She wore nothing underneath, and she bent forward to let her breasts shake a little. A moment later she straightened and took off her shorts and panties. Turning her body away from the boy soldier, she bent over to place her shorts on the stone beside her knife, at the same time lifting the knife and holding it so that her right wrist hid the blade. As she intended, the boy saw Tor’s genitals as she bent over. When she stood up and turned toward the boy, his eyes were round and his face was flushed. Naked, she glided toward him, murmuring huskily, “I want you. I want to fuck. Fuck me.” The boy stood frozen in place as he ogled her breasts and pubic hair. Quite probably, given the strict rules against sex imposed upon the Khmer Rouge soldiers, he was a virgin who had never seen a naked woman so close before. She approached him and put his hand on her breast, and then dropped her left hand to rub his swollen crotch. The boy soldier reached between her legs, and she lifted her free hand with the hidden knife as if to slip her arm around his neck. She sliced deep into his throat, cutting the carotid artery, and quickly dodged the spurting blood. The boy grabbed his throat. Blood gushed between his fingers. He gurgled, dropped to his knees, and toppled over. Tor scrambled for her clothes, bundled them under her arm, and shook her knife in the stream to wash it. She picked up her bag, then rushed back to the boy’s body and pulled the carbine from under him. Now armed, she continued west. She stopped to dress only when safely away from the dead boy and the patrol.

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aaa Three torturous, never-ending days later, after climbing and descending a series of wooded hills, weakened by lack of food, with leaden legs and her feet a bloody mess, she staggered down an incline toward a level area of bushes and grass. Partly delirious, she muttered over and over, like a Buddhist mantra, “I will survive. I will live. I promised him. I must survive . . .” Tor heard a motor. She stopped, swaying, and silently screamed, “No, no, please, no. Not them. Not after I’ve come so far.” She could barely lift her head to look death in the face. She stared. There! There—a good road, running parallel to the hills. And on it, she saw a man riding by on a bicycle. And another one, riding from the opposite direction. She stumbled toward a patch of tall grass, hoping it would hide her movements as, one small step at a time, she approached the road. She stared as a motor scooter driven by a woman in a flowing blue dress passed along the road. Then an American car. She was in Thailand! Tor tried to stand straight. Swaying with the effort, she looked back at the mountains as if through a wet window. She planted her bleeding feet, gripped the carbine by its barrel, and swung it forward, hurling it back toward Cambodia. She fell as she released it, and buried her face in the grass, inhaling the smell of growing grass and rich earth—of Thailand. She kissed the ground. She twisted onto her back, looked up at the cloudy sky, and croaked, “We made it, dearest. You are here,” and she touched her chest. “Here in my heart forever, my husband.” Tor sat up and pulled her bag to her. She had consolidated what she could from Nguon’s bag, and saved from it a photograph of them that Nguon always kept with him. She took it out, laid it on her lap, sought for the locket she would not barter, and set that beside the photo. Then she took out her knife, wiped her tears away, and cut her and Nguon’s faces out of the photograph. After making sure Nguon’s face fit the locket, she folded her face underneath that of Nguon’s, and trimmed the sides to fit within the locket. She opened it and inserted the result over her parents’ picture. She looked at Nguon’s face for a few moments, kissed it, closed the locket, put the chain over her head, and let the locket fall down above her heart.

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“Now, my dearest, you are here,” and she put her right hand over the locket and her heart. Her legs were almost too cramped with fatigue to move as she struggled to stand up. Putting one bloody foot in front of the other, she hobbled toward the passing vehicles.

Chapter 4

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ears streaked Joy’s face when she finished her story about her mother. “She is my hero, John. If I am half as brave as she was, I will be proud. I will die happy.” Joy was as brave. She didn’t die happy. I was embarrassed by the story of her mother. This was a heroic story, but no different from what I had read in many Cambodian refugee reports. Hearing it in all its graphic detail from this exotic woman, whom I was only now getting to know, was like having a stranger I’d just met in a bar telling me an intimate family secret. I would be intrigued, but at the same time I would want to say, “You shouldn’t be telling me this.” And now she was crying. I turned toward Joy and held my hand out, palm up, in a conciliatory gesture. “Okay, Joy, I’m very impressed by your mother, but really, why are you telling . . .” I trailed off as the limo came to a stop. Saved from making even more of an ass of myself, I thought. I’d been so entranced with her and overcome by all I’d heard that I didn’t realize we had driven up to a farmhouse. I looked at my watch. We’d been driving for almost an hour. We must be well outside of Bloomington, I thought, although I didn’t know where we might be. Joy quickly collected herself and brushed the tears from her face with a sweep of her hands. The driver got out and opened my door. I noticed for the first time the elderly Asian lady waiting on the walkway to the house. She had gray hair, cut short and held back from the side of her face with ornate jade hair combs. She wore a white blouse tucked into a tan skirt. Like Joy, she wore no coat. Before Joy could introduce us, she came up to me and reached out to shake my hand. Smiling, she said in a still youthful and sweet voice, “Welcome to dinner, Dr. Banks. I am Joy’s mother, Tor Phim.” Her warm black eyes looked deep into my own. While Joy had overwhelmed me with her beauty and accomplishments, her mother impressed me with the force of her charismatic presence. No wonder she was president of a huge conglomerate, I

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thought. It was a moment before I gathered my poise enough to respond with, “It is my pleasure to meet the mother of one of my best students.” “Oh yes,” she said with a smile and twinkling eyes, “she takes after me.” With that she led the way into the farmhouse. I knew then where Joy got her humbleness. The farmhouse contained three rooms on its lower floor, with a very large dining room open to the living room, in which all the furniture had been moved against the walls. A fire blazed in the stone fireplace. A huge round oak table in the middle of this great open space had a dozen conference chairs pulled up to it. Almost as many people stood by the door and around the table. “Hello,” Tor said to the room, then waved a hand at me. “This is Dr. John Banks.” I waved self-consciously, saying, “Just John, please.” Tor took my coat and then led me up to a stunning, middle-aged Asian lady dressed in a blue suit. “This beautiful lady is Dr. Gu Yaping.” “Call me Gu,” she said, smiling. “She is a physicist and owns Peng Magnetics and Propulsion,” Tor added. “Joy did computer work for her before she took your class.” She moved on to an older man who stood tall and straight, despite a huge pot belly. He covered that with loose-fitting slacks and a long sport shirt he let hang out. “This handsome guy is Dr. Ludger Schmidt. He is an electronics engineer and president of World Enterprises, based in Switzerland.” I was startled. Schmidt’s company was considered one of the top ten electronics companies in the world, with holdings in all major industrial countries. I knew of it because I’d inherited stocks in the company that my mother had bought on the New York exchange. Its share price had gone up every year since. Tor Phim continued to introduce me around the room. Almost everyone present was a president or owner of their own company, or the director or president of an institute or center. I felt very much out of my league. I was so tongue-tied that, after the first few introductions, I only mumbled, “Hello, nice to meetcha.” Joy’s mother sensed my discomfort. She said with an encouraging smile, “We all use first names here. Relax. We’re all informal.” Then she led me to the table and motioned for me to sit down. Joy sat next to me and Tor took a seat across the table. As the rest of the

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company also sat down, she said, “I know it’s customary for people to mingle and chat before dinner, but we want to get the meal finished so that we can all talk with you, John. You will find that we are unusual people in more ways than our dinner customs.” Servers brought tea and soup—a lusty broth with eggs, pork, soy sauce, and what I thought were bamboo shoots. “I have the meal catered,” Tor said. “It is a simple meal. When the caterers leave, we’ll talk business. Now, enjoy.” She motioned toward the soup. I thought for a moment that this would be it for the meal, but after we finished our soup, more food was put on the table. It was a good thing I liked Asian restaurants, or I would never have identified what we were eating. The main dish was marinated beef with lime sauce and a lot of pepper, served over jasmine rice. It was delicious. There was banana rice pudding for dessert. Conversation during the meal focused on world events: the possibility of an Arab oil boycott; the likelihood of another war between Israel and her neighbors; a new outbreak of terrorism against the United States after its military attack on Afghanistan; and whether former President Clinton would ever run for another office. “Like, for mayor of New York?” someone quipped. Joy was quiet during the meal, but a thin black man with a narrow face and large eyes who sat on my right leaned toward me and said, “I’m Dr. Laurent Nkongoli. Tor introduced us, but you probably can’t remember me in that crowd of names in your head.” He paused and smiled. “I’m head of medical research at the Samoeun Institute of Medicine that Tor started in New York.” Oh yes, what a story Laurent had to tell. A month later, when I had a chance to talk with him about his former life as a doctor in Rwanda, I learned about the infamous Rwandan genocide from him firsthand. He and his nephew had barely escaped with their lives. I remember well what he told me:

aaa At the beginning of the genocide in April of 1994, Laurent’s nephew, Seth Sendashonga, was a student at the National University of Rwanda in Butare. There was some concern among Tutsi students and faculty at the university about massacres of Tutsi unleashed by the

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Rwandan Armed Forces in Kigali, the capital. But by Rwandan standards, that was a long distance away. Few worried about it. So all were taken by surprise when, on the morning of April 10, the Hutu Interahamwe paramilitary militia and Hutu Army soldiers surrounded the university. Once assured that no one could escape, the head of the militia, Stanislas Munyakazi, passed out lists of the Tutu and moderate Hutu students and professors who must be murdered. Each name had a building and a dorm room or office number designated next to it. Consulting the list, squads of three men each entered the buildings and searched from room to room. Soon, Hutu professors and students whose sympathies lay with those instigating the massacre joined the squads and helped identify those to be killed. They took up machetes themselves and joined the search, using their knowledge of the campus to seek out possible hiding places. Larger squads broke into the classrooms where classes were in session and forced Tutsi professors and students out of the classrooms, marching them through the building and into the university parking lot, where a large group of militia waited. The militia had the greatest trouble in the university’s Leopold Library. Most had never seen the inside of a library and were unaware of the maze of book stacks. When they discovered that these provided an ideal hiding place and started to search them, they lost themselves in the winding, narrow aisles between the stacks. This delay saved Seth. He was then a gangly young Tutsi who wanted to be a doctor like his Uncle Laurent, and work at Butare Hospital. Seth was in his second year of premedical courses. He’d been looking for a United Nations book of world health statistics in the Government Documents section on the first floor of the library when he heard shots fired in the parking lot. He rushed over to join other students who were staring out the windows. They could see the parking lot, the trucks parked there, and the militia and some soldiers moving around—all armed. Several large objects lay on the ground. They looked like bodies. Seth opened his eyes wide and gasped. One of the students at the window called to another, “What’s going on?” “I don’t know.” But Seth knew. His parents had heard about the genocide in the capital, but Laurent’s cousin, who was in the local Butare government, had said that this was a minor outbreak by Hutu extremists, and not to worry. Nonetheless, they’d told Seth to take a knife with him when he went to school.

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Most of the students at the window looked like Hutu. As soon as Seth realized what was happening, he backed away, whirled, and tore back through the stacks. In his haste to escape, he bounced and pushed off one shelf after another, until his flight was marked by the sound of falling books. He slammed out the rear fire escape door into the dumpster area behind Florence Hall and dashed across the pavement to the dumpster. Panting, he looked into it. No good. It was barely large enough for him to hide in. He would be trapped if the militia searched this area, which they were sure to do. So far he had kept his backpack with him. With his heart pounding against his ribs, he knelt and opened it and tossed aside his books and notes, leaving his knife, water, and the lunch his mother had made for him. He pulled out the nine-inch knife. Sunlight trembled along the length of its blade. He swung the pack over one shoulder so that he could easily drop it, if the need arose. Hugging the building’s wall, knife in one hand, he crept on shaking legs around the corner of the building and into a narrow lane between it and the library. This led to the woods that bordered the parking lot. His body had known. His instincts had carried him this far. Now his laggard mind caught up. As he slowly crept along, he suddenly realized how very near death he was, as close as if he were about to stumble into a pride of hungry lions. He knew that if even one militiaman or soldier with a rifle came into the lane, he was dead. His whole body started shuddering with the hammering of his heart. He had a hard time getting his breath; he almost fell away from the wall. But it was keep moving or die. He glimpsed a sliver of the parking lot at the end of the lane. He slowed. Now he could see two militiamen with guns standing at the edge of the lot, obviously stationed there to prevent anyone escaping the massacre. Seth didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until it came out in a wheeze when he realized he was in shadow between the buildings, and the militiamen had not seen him. Little by little, Seth slinked backwards until the parking lot was out of sight, and then he lay down and sprawled in the lane as though he had been shot. He kept his right hand with the knife in it tucked under his stomach so that he could rapidly pull it out, and he partly covered his head and one eye with his backpack. Trembling, his stomach knotted, he waited. Now he heard distant screams and cries, gunshots, yells, and cheers—the rumbling symphony of mass murder. A slight breeze car-

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ried the acrid odor of gunpowder, the unforgettable smell of blood, and the stench of human excrement evacuated in death or deathly fear. The cries and shouts, the gunshots and screams grew louder—they came from the parking lot now. Seth slowly inched himself forward so he could see whether the commotion would cover his escape. The two militiamen had joined others who were shooting and hacking with their machetes at a group of men and boys. The militia showed no mercy. Some seemed to enjoy the Tutsis’ pain, and cut open their stomachs or hacked off their legs or arms so that they bled to death in agony. Within minutes all the male victims were on the ground, some writhing in pain and covered with blood, some moaning. Part of Seth’s view of this slaughter had been obscured by a large group of female students and older women the militia had separated from the males. Now they turned on the females, who were huddled together, screaming and crying. A few fell to their knees, begging for mercy. One woman cried, “Please, kill me fast. Now. No torture. Please.” The militia leader shouldered his way through the militiamen. Seth recognized him from photos he’d seen: Stanislas Munyakazi. He stopped in front of the women and held up his hands for quiet. The women sobbed even louder. Stanislas waited a few moments and then smiled at the militiamen now standing on both sides of him. Then he turned his flat face back to the women and bellowed, “Do you want to live?” The crying stopped in mid-sob. All that Seth heard now were the moans of the dying men and boys and muffled shots from inside the buildings nearby. The women all stared at Stanislas. “Very, very good,” he barked. Smiling even more broadly, he added, “Strip. Everything. Or die.” Some hesitated; some immediately began to take off their clothes and drop them on the ground. Some stood dazed, unable to believe what was happening. Stanislas reached over and took a machete out of the hand of the militiaman standing next to him. He walked up to a young student no more than eighteen. She just stood there, unmoving; head lifted high, lips pressed together, she unblinkingly looked Stanislas in the eye. He grabbed her by her blouse, pulled her to him, and then stepped aside and tripped her so that she would fall in front of him. Gripping the machete with both hands, he hacked off one of her arms. Without pausing, he stepped over her quivering form and amputated the other.

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He next cut large slices out of her legs and her back, until she no longer twitched and squirmed in the large pool of blood that had poured out around her. She had not made a sound. When he finished he turned, panting, back to the group of women. All were now naked. The militiamen leered at them, making obscene jokes and laughing. Two trucks drove up. Stanislas ordered the women into the trucks. Seth knew what that meant. The trucks would take the women to the militia camp, where they would be the militia’s sex slaves before being killed. The naked females lined up behind the trucks and began climbing into them, fully displaying their genitals. Seth saw his chance. The militiamen were getting their jollies, ogling the women. They had forgotten about guarding against anyone escaping. Seth stood up shakily. He jammed the knife up his sleeve, accidentally cutting his arm, swung his pack onto his shoulder, and hurried on wobbly legs past the lot and into the woods. Once the trees hid him, he dropped to the ground and beat his fist on it in relief. He waited there until he caught his breath, then clambered to his feet and ran along a path, heading for Butare Hospital. When Seth reached the hospital all seemed peaceful, with the usual bustle of patients around the entrance. He hurried into the hospital and up to the surgical department where Laurent worked. A nurse told him, “Dr. Laurent is in surgery, performing a mastectomy. We don’t expect him out for a half-hour or so.” Seth scribbled a note, folded it, and asked the nurse, “Please be sure to give this to Doctor Nkongoli when he finishes surgery. “ Then, still trembling uncontrollably, Seth went to the waiting room. Less than ten minutes later, the public address system came on. After some initial background noise and the murmur of voices, a firm voice announced clearly, “Government authorities have ordered all Hutu doctors to come to the hospital entrance immediately. Turn over whatever you are doing to your assistants. This is an emergency.” With a feeling of déjà vu, Seth frantically searched for a window that provided a view of the entrance. He rushed in and out of several rooms in his search, muttering apologies when he found them occupied, and attracting an angry nurse, who trailed behind trying to stop him. Finally he found a window overlooking the hospital’s parking lot. One quick look out was enough. Stanislas Munyakazi and his militia and a few soldiers were motioning the doctors coming out of the entrance to gather around him.

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Seth pointed this out to the nurse, and slowly opened the window while trying to remain in the shadows. Stanislas had a loud voice, as Seth already knew, and he was yelling his loudest at the doctors. “The Tutsi are foreigners,” he shouted. “They are really white men from the North, again trying to take over our country. For the future of Rwanda, and to protect our women and children, you must kill all the Tutsi doctors, nurses, and patients in the hospital. You have no choice. Kill them or we will kill you.” Stanislas slowly turned to look each doctor in the eyes. “Understand?” he asked in a normal voice. No one spoke. “Okay,” Stanislas barked, and pointed to a truck behind the doctors. “We have weapons in that truck for you—machetes and some axes. Get your weapons and do immediately what you must.” The nurse disappeared. Seth had heard enough. He rushed back to the waiting room, snatched his pack from the chair where he’d left it, and scampered down the hallway, past alarmed nurses, to the surgery. Grabbing a startled nurse by the arm, he breathlessly demanded, “Which surgery is Doctor Nkongoli in?” Eyebrows raised, the nurse propped one hand on her hip and pointed to the second door down the hallway. As he rushed off, he yelled at her over his shoulder, “Get out. Hutu are killing all Tutsi.” He shoved open the door and burst into the outer surgery just as Laurent was washing up. “We’ve got to get out,” Seth cried. “They’re killing all Tutsi here.”

aaa “Who?” Laurent asked, regarding Seth. Laurent could tell he was on the verge of panic, so he spoke calmly and continued to wash his hands, hoping to relax his nephew. “Hutu doctors and militia. I heard the order.” Laurent held his dripping hands in front of him as he stared at Seth. When he saw how frightened usually calm Seth was, he realized they had to act quickly, or die. Laurent dashed to the supply closet, jerked open the door, and grabbed a white coat and surgical hat. Then he ran back into the surgery room, where the patient was just being wheeled out and the nurses were cleaning up. He screamed at them, “Get out. All Tutsis are being murdered.” No one had ever heard him yell like that. They all disappeared in a flash.

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With Seth hugging his shadow, Laurent quickly looked under the operating room table and sighed in relief when he saw the amputated breast still in the disposal box. He seized it and wiped it over the white coat and cap he held, then over the front of his own coat, mask, and hat, adding to the bloodstains picked up during surgery. Laurent also picked up a surgical knife and made sure it was bloody, as well. Ah, yes, he thought. He dragged the blood receptacle from beneath the operating table, plunged a rag into it, and shook the rag over his shoes and the bottom of his coat, splattering both with blood. Laurent motioned Seth over and handed him the coat, mask, and cap. Seth donned the garments, putting the bloody coat on over his backpack. Laurent then splattered the blood on the lower part of Seth’s coat and shoes. “Do you have a weapon?” Laurent asked. Seth wordlessly showed him his knife. Laurent made it as bloody as the surgical knife. “Now, hunch down and bulk up so that you don’t look so tall and thin, and it’s simple,” Laurent lied. “We just look like we’re seeking and killing Tutsi.” They suddenly heard muffled screams and gunshots, even through the wall of the outer surgery room. Looking in the direction of the sound, Seth’s voice broke with fear as he asked quickly, “Won’t the Hutu doctors . . . recognize you?” “No, not if I stay close behind you and have my bloody mask on. Let’s go. Quick!” They rapidly exited the surgery room, carrying their bloody knifes as though ready to carve someone up, and dashed down the hallway to the stairs. As they passed the recovery room, they heard patients yelling at them, “What’s happening? What’s going on?” They kept going, knowing that there was no hope for those patients. The militia and Hutu allies would kill all who looked like Tutsi, and any Hutu who objected to the killing. As Seth and Laurent started down the stairs, two militiamen were on their way up. When they saw Seth with Laurent behind him, they stopped and pointed their guns. Seth smiled and waved his bloody knife, as though saying, “Look what we’ve done.” One of the militiamen, seeing all the blood, laughed and yelled up the stairs, “Good hunting, eh?”

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Seth’s hand holding the knife shook wildly; to the militiamen, it must have seemed he was waving in agreement. He almost stumbled down the stairs, with Laurent following. They brushed past the two militiamen. On the first floor, Laurent directed Seth to the emergency entrance. They passed the bodies of patients and visitors scattered along the hallway. Soldiers bent over some, searching for valuables. A doctor came out of a room with a bloody fire axe in his hand. When he looked at them, Seth waved his knife in greeting. The doctor smiled grimly, and then went into the coffee shop. They made it to the emergency room, where several doctors and nurses were sprawled on the gore-slick floor. An emergency patient lay on a bloody gurney, where she had been hacked to death. An ambulance attendant was searching the pockets of a dead doctor for money. Seeing that, Laurent’s mouth set in a grim line, and he narrowed his eyes. He looked around. No one else was alive. He walked up behind the attendant, who looked over his shoulder at him. Seeing Laurent’s bloody scalpel, the attendant turned back to his search. Laurent bent over the attendant and grated out, “Find anything?” As the attendant was about to answer, Laurent suddenly straddled him, put his left hand under his chin, jerked his head back, and slit his throat with surgical expertise. Laurent felt no horror, no remorse—nothing— as he did so. To him, it was an execution. Justice had been served. At that moment, a doctor in a bloody white coat, gore-smeared machete in hand, came in from the hallway. He looked around, saw all the bodies, smiled and waved, and strode back out. The blood pouring out of the attendant as he squirmed on the floor in his death throes further sickened Seth. He looked ready to retch, and his legs about to buckle in on themselves; he cast his gaze desperately around the room, seeking something to lean on. Laurent grabbed his arm and, partly supporting him, walked them both out the emergency entrance. A soldier stood guard over an ambulance backed into the emergency parking area. They headed toward him. Seth managed to calm himself enough to join Laurent in waving at the soldier as they approached. Feigning a south Rwandan accent, Laurent commented casually to the soldier, “Good show.” He then asked, “Do you have a cigarette?” The soldier, a typical southern Hutu with round face and bulky build, rested his Vektor assault rifle in his left hand, butt against his

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wide hip, while reaching into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. He handed a pack of Cameos to Laurent, who took a cigarette out and handed the pack back. “I’m terribly sorry,” Laurent said, “but I lost my matches while killing Tutsi. Do you have a match?” The soldier laughed. “Of course. Here.” He rested his rifle against the ambulance, took out his matches and, holding the matchbook in one hand, lit a match with the other. He held it out to the cigarette in Laurent’s mouth. At that moment, Laurent drove his scalpel into the soldier’s solar plexus and up into his heart. With only a groan, the man dropped the matches, clutched his chest, and fell onto his side, dead. Motioning Seth to follow, Laurent entered the ambulance and got behind the steering wheel. The keys were still in the ignition. He started the engine, put the ambulance in gear, and accelerated as fast as he could out of the emergency lot. They hurtled down a short lane onto a major road. Suddenly they heard shots nearby. Glass shattered, slicing into the side of Seth’s face. Two holes appeared in his door’s window about where his head would have been, if it had not been pushed forward by his backpack between him and the seat. More bullets thunked through the side of the ambulance and shot out the other side. They’d surprised a squad of militia stationed along the road to prevent anyone from escaping in their car. Before the militiamen could aim well, Laurent accelerated the ambulance out of range. “Where are we going?” Seth barely managed to get out, wiping his cuts with the sleeve of his bloody coat. “We’re heading to our border with Zaire. We should make it in about two hours, if the militia doesn’t call ahead. But I doubt they will. We’re just two Tutsi, and they are in a hurry to kill hundreds of thousands of us. I don’t think they’ll take the time away from their more important work.” “What about your wife and my parents?” “We prepared for this genocide, although we doubted it would reach us. We made arrangements with Hutu friends to hide your parents and my wife until we can sneak them out of the country.” “But, how will they know to hide?” Laurent told him, “Prompted by the death of our president and the genocide of Tutsi and moderate Hutu in the capital, I arranged a phone signal. Every day, I called my wife when I got to the hospital, at noon,

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and at five o’clock. If she’d still received no call half an hour after these times, they were to take what we had already packed and seek refuge with our Hutu friends.” He reached over from his driver’s seat and patted Seth on the leg. “Don’t worry, these are good Hutu I have known almost my whole life.” About a mile before the border and outside of the Rwandan town of Bukavu, Laurent pulled the ambulance off the road and they concealed it. Then they walked into the wild forest that covered a good part of the Zaire and Rwanda in that region. They found a little clearing deep in the forest, where they could rest and wait safely. Seth took off his bloody coat and his backpack, and then joined Laurent where he sat with his back against a tree. “I guess I should eat,” Seth mumbled. “Breakfast was a long time ago.” He opened his pack, his hands no longer shaking like tree limbs in a storm, but only trembling, and took out the water and his lunch. Then he must have realized that he wasn’t hungry at all, because he offered his lunch of fruit and chicken to Laurent. He declined, saying, “Save it. We’ll probably need it before we find other Tutsi in Zaire. They shouldn’t be far, however. I understand that there is a large Tutsi refugee camp about two miles west of the border. But I need the water.” Laurent dozed off and on until after midnight; Seth just stared into the darkness. They met no one on their walk into the Zaire. The night sky was clear of clouds, and they steered by the stars when they could see them through the forest canopy. They found many little paths worn by those who had preceded them. Without really knowing it, they crossed into the Zaire within an hour and kept to their westerly course. By midday, they found the Tutsi refugee camp and safety. There, they later learned that 170 Tutsi doctors, nurses, and patients in all were slaughtered in Butare Hospital. They never found out how many were murdered at the university.

Chapter 5

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ad I known Laurent’s story earlier, I might have forgiven his putting a memory-wiping drug in my tea during Tor’s dinner party. Actually, I did forgive him. As we ate side by side at the huge table, he waved a hand at the other guests, all engrossed in their conversations. “Let’s leave them to current events,” he said to me. “I wonder, Professor; how many people do you think died in the Black Plague in the middle of the fourteenth century?” Unsure where he was going with this, I replied, “About one-quarter of the European population—and about a third of those deaths were in England, I believe.” He nodded. Knowing his prestigious medical position, I asked him, “Do you think such a catastrophic plague could ever befall the modern world?” He smiled and replied, “I believe science and world health services have now made that impossible.” He hesitated a moment, considering what he was about to say. As he thought, he pushed his plate away. It looked as though it had been washed, he had so thoroughly finished off his meal. He put his right elbow on the table and turned toward me, gesturing with the other hand as he looked directly into my eyes and asked, “Was not the Black Plague like what you call democide in the twentieth century?” He raised his brows as if in inquiry, but he didn’t wait for my reply; instead he brought his fist down on his leg for emphasis and continued with, “Haven’t more people been murdered in cold blood by their governments in the twentieth century than died in the plague in the fourteenth century?” If I had only known his background, I would have answered with a reference to Rwanda. And what a discussion we could have had! I knew nothing about him then, so I responded in general. “Yes, but billions more people lived in the twentieth century than did in the Middle Ages. It’s strange, however, that the history books pay more attention

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to that ancient pandemic than they do to the mass murder of human beings during our lifetime.” Laurent nodded, and sighed. “You say about 174 million human beings, in fact. Right, Professor?” “Yes,” I replied, surprised that he knew my estimate. I looked askance at Joy. “You’ve been talking out of class,” I accused her with a grin. Joy just smiled in return. Discussion continued as the caterers cleaned up, leaving behind only a slight aroma from the delicious meal we’d eaten. After they bundled everything out of the house and said their good-byes, Joy’s mother went into the kitchen they had just vacated. “What’s Mrs. Phim—ah, Tor—doing?” I whispered to Joy as Tor came out of the kitchen and climbed the stairs to the upper floor. “Making sure we’re alone,” Joy replied. “She’s checked the kitchen, now she’ll make sure the bedrooms and bathroom are empty.” I looked around the table. Everyone sat husbanding their thoughts, waiting for Tor’s return. “Okay,” she declared as she rejoined us at the table and sat down. “The Survivor’s Benevolent Society is in session.” With that, she lifted an old-fashioned gold locket from around her neck, kissed it lovingly, and gently rested it on the table in front of her. Remembering what Joy had told me about it in the limo, I stared at the locket. Such a sad history embedded in a simple ornament. Tor interrupted my maudlin thoughts. Looking around the table, she announced, “As you know, several members could not make it here. They will follow along on the conference phone.” Ludger retrieved a round, black, conference phone from a side table behind him, placed it in the center of the table, and spread five wireless mics evenly around the table. After an initial flurry of greetings to and from the phone, Tor said in a sad voice, “I must report that Nebojsa Spahovic died yesterday of his injuries from the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. Even with the best medical help, we could not save him. He never came out of his coma.” She looked at me and explained, “He was a survivor of the Bosnian ethnic cleansing, and a member of our Society. He had business in the North Tower and was walking toward it when the hijacked commercial jet flew full-throttle into the building. He was injured by falling debris.” She looked around the table. “I wish to remember our good friend with a minute of silence.”

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I bowed my head with the others. I didn’t know this fellow, but I had my own dead to mourn, and my own horrible experience to remember. After a minute, Tor looked up. “He will be with us in spirit, I know,” she said softly, and then her voice grew firmer. “Okay, let’s move on. I am the head of the Society this year, but . . . ” She looked at me. “I will ask Gu Yaping to speak to you, John, on behalf of the Society. She speaks better English, and she is a scientist.” I studied Gu. She was a Chinese woman in her late fifties or early sixties with a lively expression on her round, still unlined face. Her double-lidded black eyes were slightly slanted, like Joy’s. Her hair was cut short and, though black, I suspected she dyed it. I knew nothing about her at the time and now wish I had. I would have been even more impressed by her words.

aaa Days later, Joy told me about Gu’s horrible experience in China. Because of my own historical interests in China, during the following weeks I asked Gu many questions about what happened. In return I told her my story about Chen Ying, to see if she thought it as credible as I did. She said it was not only credible, but she knew a woman whose daughter had been murdered in that way. “My experience occurred at that time, too,” she told me. “When Mao Tse-tung launched his so-called Cultural Revolution in China, it was nothing less than a bloody civil war between the Maoist faction and that of Liu Shao-ch’i. It killed upwards of ten million Chinese and threw the country into a period of terror, mass murder, and pitched battles.” I knew much of this from my own studies, but I wanted to hear it from her. She continued, “Mao’s supporters mobilized secondary school kids, university students, and other young people into what the Maoists called the Red Guards. These youths beat up and killed people they thought to be bourgeois or counter-revolutionaries. They invaded homes at will, ransacking belongings while seeking proof of subversive activities. Just a shortwave radio, just some Western music, just foreign language publications, even photographs branded residents as traitors. This meant their death.” In another conversation, I asked, “What about your being a scientist? Didn’t that make you suspect?”

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For the first time I saw her emotionally animated. She couldn’t sit still, but leaned towards me for emphasis and then sat back to gesture with her hands. She almost spit them out. “Intellectuals and scientists? We were all suspected of being counter-revolutionaries, rightists, capitalist-roaders, or spies for the West. Under such a heavy load of suspicion, it’s a wonder we weren’t all wiped out. Many of us died.” She stopped and tried to calm herself down. She took a cigarette out of a pack of Virginia Slims and lit it with her lighter. She settled back in her task chair and crossed her legs while she puffed on it for a few minutes, then waved the cigarette at me. “It's like a nightmare. I now find it hard to believe myself. But all I have to do is look at my husband’s old photograph and . . . Well, to go on. “The Maoists considered the scientists they allowed to survive much too dangerous to govern or direct important agencies, universities, hospitals, scientific centers, or technology institutes. Maoists believed it better to put reliable party hacks or fanatical radicals in such positions, despite their ignorance, rather than risk subversion.” She shook her head in disbelief over her memories, her shortblack hair swirling against her cheeks. “Mao even believed he knew how many intellectuals and scientists were bourgeois sympathizers or counter-revolutionaries—about 10 percent. So the command went down to all Maoist Party officials: Purge 10 percent of these employees.” In several weeks, I learned her personal story well. Gu’s husband was one of those scientists purged. When I heard this from her, in my usual tactless way, I asked, “How did you find out what happened to him?” The question didn’t bother her. She replied, “I secretly questioned friends in the Institute of Sciences in Shanghai where he’d worked, and even some acquaintances close to its director who were sympathetic. I took a great risk—one word from any of these people to the director or his assistants and I would be dead. But I had to know why my husband was murdered. I just had to know.” She paused. “I needed to know my husband’s story—all of it.” Another cigarette came out of the ever-present pack of Virginia Slims. Then she said, “I found out that Wu Zhen, the director of the institute, received the order to purge 10 percent of his workers as rightist or counter-revolutionaries, and dutifully put two of his communist cadre to work on a list of those to be purged.”

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Gu laughed derisively. “Wu Zhen was short, fat, and balding, and tried to conceal his bare head by combing his few remaining wisps of hair over the top of his head. To contain his big pot, he always wore his gray Party uniform two sizes too big. While it did contain his bloated stomach, it hung loosely elsewhere on his body, as though from a hook. His face was round and flat, and his tiny eyes never seemed to open wider than slits.” The laughter died when she added, biting off her words one by one, “He was a fanatic—an ignorant radical. But, he was a follower of Mao, and that was enough to get that stupid man appointed as director.” She stopped to think for a moment, and then continued in a harsh voice, “I imagined him propping his feet up on his rosewood desk while he looked over the names on the list of workers he received from his assistants. Each entry included a short summary of each person’s file. A check mark in the margin beside a name indicated that this person was recommended for purging. At the bottom of the list, some ambitious assistant had totaled the number of check marks, divided this by the number of people employed, and multiplied the result by one hundred to calculate the percentage. It came out to almost 10.6 percent. “Wu Zhen accepted every check mark, and at the bottom of the last page he penned the order that each of these employees was to be fired as a probable counter-revolutionary before their names were reported to the security police. He set the discharge date for the following Monday so that the institute could find replacements, warned that secrecy must be maintained until then, and then stamped his seal on it.” The corners of her mouth turned up slightly in a grimace masquerading as a lopsided smile. “Now for the really crazy part. One of Wu Zhen’s assistants told me that he read Tales of the Plum Flower Society, a popular Chinese spy thriller, over the following weekend. It was a wholly fictional account of a spy network in the Academy of Sciences run by the hated Chiang Kai-shek—” Ever the historian, I stupidly interrupted. “He was the former President of China who fought the communists for two decades. He fled to Taiwan with his government when the communists won the civil war against him in 1949.” Startled, she focused her eyes on me with some difficulty. Then, in a tone that put me in my place, she replied simply, “Yes . . . John.” She leaned back while keeping her eyes focused on me, as though watching a puppy who might pee on a clean rug. “Anyway, in that novel, clever communist security agents discovered the spies and cap-

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tured them, of course. The chief spy’s name was Peng Jiamu, and unfortunately, this was also the name of a real scientist—” her voice broke “—my dearest husband.” She took a moment to collect herself. No tears. Her face just turned to steel. “He was a scientist in the institute. His name had not been among those to be purged. “Incredibly, Wu Zhen did not believe the book was fiction and thought that my husband was the same fictional Peng in the spy thriller. So, along with all those on his purge list, that brainless bastard, that fanatic Wu Zhen had my husband and another 165 scientists at the institute arrested. Arrested as spies. A death sentence! “Well, you know how that worked,” she said, then quickly added, as though I would interrupt again and tell her, “security police invaded the homes of all these people. Owning a radio, a camera, or knowing a foreign language was believed proof of spying. If none of this so-called evidence was found, the security police tried to beat a confession out of the suspects, often killing them. Anticipating this fate, some of those arrested committed suicide. Some even before their arrest, when they heard rumors about what was going on.” Gu shifted position. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and I’d swear I could hear the steel around them cracking. She reached for her purse and took out her pack of cigarettes, held it for a moment, and then tossed the pack back in and dropped her purse next to her chair. “What I am going to tell you, John, I have only told to those very close to me. Joy and Tor, of course, and a few others. I want you to hear it also, because you are an historian of these tragedies, and because you may die for us, for me.” She then told me of her personal horror, much of which I had already heard from Joy. Since she can no longer contradict me, I can say with abandon that I’m repeating Gu’s story with the exact precision that only a brilliant historian like I could exercise:

aaa I was not at home when police arrested my husband, Peng. As I approached our home on my bicycle after shopping, I saw him, handcuffed, being pushed into one of two police cars. I knew immediately that I would probably never see him again. All the scientists at the institute understood that arrest was a possibility. As scientists, they had interacted with foreigners, had read

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foreign publications, and therefore were always in danger of having such normal activities misunderstood or misinterpreted by the Red Guards. Peng and I had prepared, as had so many others, for such an eventuality. I quickly pedaled my bicycle past the police cars and down a side street. I could hardly steer it, I was shaking so much. My feet shuddered off the pedals several times. My breath caught in my throat; my stomach knotted. The devastating thought, Peng, my poor, dear husband Peng, kept beating in my mind. I could barely see through the tears that stung my eyes. I wonder now how I stayed upright on my bike and didn’t crash into the police cars or a tree. I knew if I did, the police would discover who I was and arrest me. The Red Guards often jailed whole families. I steered the wobbly bike around a corner, around another corner, and into some bushes. I dragged it behind the bushes and fell on the ground, beating the earth with my fists, and sobbed into the dirt for my husband and our lives, now totally destroyed. Maybe an hour or two later, emotionally and physically exhausted, I used the bottom of my dress to clean by face and wipe my eyes. I ignored the food that had fallen out of the bike’s rear basket. I knew what I had to do. I headed for my cousin’s small dim sum restaurant on Yunnan Lu Road. There, I hid my bicycle in the rear among the garbage cans. I entered through the back door. My cousin, Ding Xiaoshuang, was in the kitchen preparing meals with another cook. He was too skinny to look like a cook—cooking made him lose all taste for food, he said. Lack of a good chief’s fat might cast suspicion on the quality of his food, but his friendly, outgoing nature compensated for that. About every fifteen minutes he toured the restaurant, asking customers how they were, what their children were doing, and how they liked his dim sum. He always suggested his custard tarts as a treat. Ding looked at me without surprise when I came in the back door. This was one of the signals we had planned if Red Guards, soldiers, or some other faction arrested one or the other of us. Otherwise, I would have come in the front door of the restaurant. No doubt my eyes were puffy and red. “Hello, cousin,” Ding said, as mindful of his cook working nearby as I was in hiding my face from him. Moving towards the stairs to his apartment above the restaurant,

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Ding added, “I have that present for Peng you wanted me to get. Come on upstairs and I’ll give it to you.” I had so far not said a word. I followed Ding up the stairs. We moved towards the room at the front, where Ding’s cook and the waitresses hustling in and out of the kitchen would be least likely to hear us. He put both his arms around me, and I quietly wept into his chest. He just held me tight and rubbed my back with one hand. He had never seen my tears before. He knew what would cause them. He didn’t hurry me, but he risked arousing his cook’s suspicion, so I knew I had to stop. I fought for control. Peng and I had been married for only a year. I had met him at a conference at the institute, where I had served as a lab assistant. I had a degree in physics and had participated in experiments on magnetic propulsion, his chief area of research. I found Peng, with his tall, athletic build and his strong Manchurian features, handsome; he often attracted the stares and smiles of strangers when we ambled down the street— although he claimed they were admiring my willowy figure. After we were married, we tried to reduce the risk of arrest. Only Peng worked at the institute, and we cleared our home of everything foreign. We concealed as much as possible from those at the institute the fact that we were married—as I mentioned, whole families were often arrested—and that both of us spoke and read English. As I pulled back from my cousin and rubbed my eyes to clear them, Ding asked me in a subdued voice, “What do you want to do now? I haven’t touched what you and Peng prepared. Do you want to flee to Hong Kong?” Wearily, I answered, “No. I first want to be sure about what happened to Peng.” Ding had to lean forward to hear me. I tried to raise my voice but only increased its quaver. “This might only be a warning or harassing arrest, and he might be home within a week or so.” More firmly, I added, “I must find out. Can I hide here until I do?” Ding hesitated. He took my hand and held it in both of his. “I think I can find out for you. You know my dim sum is famous,” he whispered proudly, “and I get many prison guards with their families coming here to eat. When one of them gave a party for his son’s graduation, I offered to cater it. There were over one hundred relatives, friends, and their families there. The food was sumptuous, I must admit, and I gave him a big cut on the cost. Now I can get my payment, yes?”

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“How often does that guard eat here?” “About once every one or two weeks, and I think he was here about a week ago.” I didn’t have to think about that. I wanted to know. Absolutely. “Then I’ll wait. I’m leaving now, so that no one gets suspicious. I’ll come back after you close at . . . when, eleven?” “Right.” He took a rag out of his back pocket and carefully wiped my face with it, and leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. “Be careful, now. Oh, here, take this package and make believe it’s the present I mentioned.” I straightened up and went down the stairs first. At the bottom, I turned and yelled up with false cheer, “Thanks cousin, Peng will really like this.” I headed for the waterfront on my bike, where I could bury myself and my heartbreak among the crowds. Ding met me at the back door when I returned that night. “Peng’s dead,” he told me, reaching to hold me. “I’m sorry.” I’d known it was coming. Now it was real. I staggered under the blow of his words, and sagged into his arms. “You have to escape,” Ding continued. “Go to Hong Kong.” Through his contacts in the Shanghai harbor market where he often bought fish for his restaurant, Ding knew a fishmonger named Wen who dealt with freighter captains that could be bribed. Much later, in his room, when I had stopped sobbing, he tore a small piece from a sheet of rice paper on his worktable and scribbled a message on it. He brought it back to me and, pressing it gently into my hand, said, “Give this to Wen. If the police stop you before you see him, you can easily swallow and digest it.” I sought Wen first thing in the morning. He was easy enough to find. He sold tuna filets at the market in the third stall nearest the dock. After looking over several filets, I asked Wen for one. When I paid him, I included the note. He took it with the money and placed it in the bottom of his moneybox, so that only he could read it. Closing the box, he told me to come back at 4:30, when he could give me a special deal on fish. When I returned at the appointed time, a thin young boy stood with Wen. When Wen saw me approaching, he said something to the boy, who then moved from behind the fish table. As he brushed by me, he whispered, “Follow me.” I followed him through the market crowd, out onto the Shanghai docks, and into Dadong Warehouse through a small side door. I found

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myself in a small room that smelled of long-dead fish and rotting wood. Rope, hooks, canvas, and bags of all descriptions were heaped in corners and against two walls. The place was so dirty that I halted and flinched back as I entered. The boy spoke for the first time since we’d left the market. “Turn around and face the door and be still.” He studied me for a moment, eyes curious. He twitched his shoulders as though shrugging, turned, and swiftly disappeared out the door. I could hear muffled sounds from the warehouse and occasional yells from dockworkers outside. An engine roared in the distance. I was beginning to worry about Wen setting me up to be kidnapped into the Chinese sex trade. This sometimes happened on the docks. A door opened and closed on the other side of the room. Softly at first, then louder, I heard footsteps approaching behind me. As the person drew closer, I heard heavy breathing. The person stopped. The breathing got louder. I twitched my nose at the added stench. I jumped at a sudden, unpleasant sound. “Name?” a man’s voice rasped in the most awful Chinese. I thought I recognized a Portuguese accent. “Gu . . . Gu Yaping,” I said, trying to keep my voice firm. “Got jewel?” the voice grated. “Yes.” In the emergency store that Ding had hidden for us, Peng and I had included most of our family jewels, especially several antique jade rings and miniature ivory statues left to us when our parents died. The items were worth thousands of dollars on the black market. “Give me.” I spun around and saw an older Caucasian man in a dark blue coat with two stripes on each sleeve. He wore an officer’s cap with salttarnished, fake gold braid. His face was barely visible, but its red complexion and his bulbous nose could not be missed. “No,” I said, speaking pidgin Chinese, “you get when go on ship.” The man asked, “You go Hong Kong?” “Yes.” “You fuck on ship?” I gasped. I felt my face get hot. I suddenly shivered in the warm room. The man stared at my hips, trying to imagine me naked, I guessed. He then unhurriedly raised his eyes to my blouse, apparently judging my hidden breasts. I wore a shapeless white blouse and it hung loosely over my gray slacks. I had done my best to hide my femininity, not

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only out of traditional modesty in public, but so as not to invite any propositions in the docks, where many prostitutes worked their trade. But, I couldn’t hide everything. I forced myself to stand still, stop trembling, and endure his lusty inspection. I had to. I was not dumb. I knew that, once aboard his ship, he could take my jewels, kill me, and throw my body in the Huangpu River as the ship traveled to the sea. All that would keep him interested in keeping me alive would be sex and the promise of more sex. Now blushing at what I must do, I lowered my head a little and looked at him demurely out of the corner of my eye. I whispered, “Yes.” “Do now. Take off clothes.” Well, I thought, what choice do I have? This was not going to be a strip tease. I promptly set a personal speed record in taking off my clothes, and let them fall anywhere. I stood naked with a straight back, head high, looking into his eyes, willing my knees not to shake. He probed me with his eyes, hurriedly took off his coat, tossed it on the dirty floor, and motioned me to lie down on it. As hasty as he was to gratify his lust, I was more anxious to get this over with. I dropped down and spread my legs, turning my head away from him. He did nothing more than pop the buttons on his trousers to spring his erection free and fall on top of me. Straightaway he tried to enter me, but I was too dry. It was painful. I motioned for him to stop. I might have had more success in halting the charge of a bull. I had to grab his shaft in one hand to get him to stop long enough for me to spit on the fingers of my other hand and moisten his penis as best I could. Then I guided him into me. As he vigorously pumped back and forth, my body jerked in unison. It was nothing to me but forced physical exertion, but I knew to save my life I had to fake pleasure. I moaned and put my legs around his back and moved my hips in rhythm with his. Fortunately, the time he took to ejaculate was almost shorter than it took to pronounce the word. I had to rush to lower my legs, reach between them, and pull his quivering penis out. I slid down and managed to put it in my mouth a second before he came. Damned if I’ll get pregnant, I thought, spitting everything out. Afterwards, he lay on me and stroked my breasts. Finally, getting his breath, he murmured, “Good.” I pitied this man’s frustrated girlfriends. He got up, helped me to my feet, and again devoured my naked body with his eyes for a few minutes. Finally, he picked up his coat,

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shook the dirt off it, and motioned for me to get dressed. While watching me cover myself, he said, “Go to Longwu Port dock by Longwu Road. At 1 AM. You know?” I felt sick and dirty. My tears seemed to have a will of their own. I struggled not to show them, but I felt one escape down the side of my face. “Yes,” I whispered. “What?” “Yes, I be there,” I said, more loudly than I’d intended. The man disappeared without another word.

aaa When the Portuguese freighter Bartholomeu Dias docked in Hong Kong, among the many boxes unloaded was one labeled “Toys” in Chinese. Customs passed the box, as did a British inspector who beat on three sides of the box with his baton to make sure it was full and not hiding a refugee. A small truck picked up the box and took it to the bustling market on Tung Choi Street. There, two men unloaded the heavy box in front of a small women’s dress shop and lugged it through the front door and into the rear, where they dropped it on the floor with a loud thunk. The owner of the shop, Wu Jin, a thin man in his thirties whose thick, black-framed glasses dominated his face, signed for the delivery, and then impatiently waited on two women in the shop. When they left, Wu closed and locked the front door, then rushed into the rear. He pried open the box, flung aside the toys and stuffed animals inside, and then saw me. I was curled up in the box, my chin touching my knees. I turned my head slowly and looked up at him with what must have been weary, red-rimmed eyes. Suffering and fatigue had etched years onto my face, I’m sure. I whispered huskily, “Hello, third cousin. I see you got Ding’s message.” I tried to get out of the container, but fell back. Wu bent over me and, with a grunt, lifted me out. I moaned and put a hand over my abused crotch as he carried me over to a Chinese low chest and set me down on it. I must have lost ten pounds. Weakly bracing myself with my hands to stay upright, I looked over at the container and saw the label. “Toys from China,” I murmured. Yes, I thought, how appropriate. I had been a sex toy for half the ship. But I’m alive.

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My hand trembled when I raised it to my lips. I kissed the palm, then tilted my head back and blew the kiss toward the ceiling. That’s for you, my sweetest. I made it and I will never forget you and what was done. Please now, rest in peace.

Chapter 6

I

waited for Gu to explain this incredible dinner party. Especially, why I was here with all these company presidents and institute or center directors. And for which I had been paid five thousand dollars. Just like somebody important. There was a dripping faucet somewhere and the old farmhouse creaked in the increasing cold outside. It was getting warm in the room from all the people, and stuffy. The breath of one of the attendees was rasping loud enough to hear; another coughed. I leaned forward in my chair, glanced at Joy, and saw her looking at me with the same concerned, wide-eyed, “is that a letter from the IRS?” look I would get to know so well. I gave her a counter “you’re guilty of something?” gape that I would, over the following years, turn into an art form. That done, I gave Gu all my attention. Her gaze piercing in its solemnity, her mouth firm, Gu peered deep into my eyes. If she hadn’t folded her hands on the table, I almost would have believed she was reaching through my eyes to imprint what she was going to say on my brain. She spoke directly to me: “Now, John, you should realize first that we know all about you.” The words crawled up my spine. With what seemed an audible twang, I swear, she broke eye contact with me to nod to a younger, well-dressed woman whose name I had forgotten. The woman rose from the table, went behind her to a large, rich leather case leaning against the wall, and pulled out a sheaf of letter-size papers. As she placed them neatly before me, Gu continued. “We all have seen these reports, and have discussed their contents in detail. Take a minute to look at them. They should contain nothing that is new to you.” I looked at the small stack before me, read “Parents of John Banks” on the top report, then I lifted it to read with wide eyes the titles of those underneath: “Early School Years,” “University Years,” “Friends,” and “Love Affairs.” Holy Christ, five separate reports, each

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on some aspect of my life. I sat stunned and bewildered. Love affairs? Jesus. I was a healthy young male and made much of my years of teenage discovery. I found to my advantage that girls and even older women easily liked me. I snuck a glance at Joy, who was focused on the bare table before her and seemed amused by something. She must have read this stuff. Shit. In growing anger fueled by increasing embarrassment, I flipped through their executive summaries and paused to scan some of the details, especially in “Love Affairs.” More creaking from the farmhouse. A dining room chair scraped on the floor, and someone near me was audibly flipping through some papers. I felt hot. Scowling at what I saw in the reports, I looked up at Gu, my eyes throwing daggers at her—this is the way I hoped I looked, but I had no practice. I did ball my fists, however, and half-rose from my chair to lean on the table. I exclaimed, “What the hell—” Gu held up her hand, smiled warmly, motioned me to sit down. Women who smiled at my anger like that always had the upper hand. I would melt, and Joy found this secret out in one day, I’m sure. Maybe that’s already in these damn reports, I thought. Given the power of these people around me, they probably know how many times I piss a day. Shit. Gu said gently, her eyes still boring into mine, “We had to know whether you were the right person for our proposal. All will be explained. First, however, we must be assured of absolute secrecy. Most people would not believe what we do, but were many nondemocratic governments to find out about our plans, they would try to assassinate us and all our associates.” She hesitated and looked questioningly at Laurent, who nodded. She continued. “To ensure our secrecy remains intact, Laurent put a tasteless drug in your tea. It will activate in about three hours, and cause you to forget everything about today. Without an antidote, you will wake up in your bed with a note from Joy on your desk, telling you that this dinner was cancelled and that Joy had to leave for New York unexpectedly. If you commit yourself to us, we will give you the antidote to that drug, and you will remember everything.” “I don’t understand any of this!” I protested loudly, fuming. “You have violated my privacy.” Joy put her hand on my balled fist and said softly, “You will understand. Please listen.”

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“Shit,” I muttered, drawing again on my extensive sailor’s vocabulary. But I sat back, put my clenched fists in my lap, took a deep breath, and nodded at Gu.

aaa “We are a secret society,” she explained, “formed with only two purposes. We want to . . . ” She paused, and her face sagged with a great sorrow when she saw Tor pick up her locket from the table and hold it in both hands. Gu seemed to assure herself that Tor was okay without special comforting, and continued after a moment, keeping an eye on her. “We want to remember all the people who were murdered by one horrible government, terrorist group, or another—especially our loved ones. We are all survivors, except for the few children of survivors who have joined us in remembrance of their parents’ agony and dedication to our cause.” She glanced at Joy. “We are survivors of the Holocaust, the Rwandan Great Genocide, the genocide in East Pakistan—now Bangladesh—and the mass murders in China, Cambodia, Chile, Mexico, and the Soviet Union. We, in this room and on the conference phone, are survivors of the murder of well over 100 million human beings. You, of all people, John, should know this toll. What did you teach? That around 174 million people, as a best estimate, were murdered in the twentieth century. Correct?” I nodded, not appeased. “We not only wish to remember the dead and through our Society build a testament to their souls, we also want to ensure that no human beings ever suffer this again. But not just ‘never again.’ We want it to be ‘never happened.’” Murmurs of assent rippled around the table and over the conference phone. “You, John,” and she pointed a finger at me that trembled with the force of her emotion, “are the instrument of this.” I am? I thought. That kicked their violation of my privacy from my consciousness. None of this made any sense, but I held my tongue and listened as Tor held her locket in one hand and waved her other one at those around the table as she declared, “Collectively, we are rich beyond your imagination, John. Together, through our companies, we control over a trillion dollars worldwide, all built and accumulated with only the goals of our secret society in mind and immediately available for the Society to draw on.”

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She motioned toward an older man with a ruddy complexion, who wore a pinstripe suit. “Jimmy Wilson, the father of Ed, here, was the founder of our Society. Jimmy lost an arm in the First World War, but survived its horrors to dedicate his life to ending that killing machine, war. He came to the United States, where he thought his chances of getting a college degree would be better. He was right. He got a joint degree at Columbia University in business and economics. After he graduated, he worked at the Standard Chartered Bank of Britain and invested every penny he could save in the stock market. Less than ten years after his graduation, with the help of several investors who had faith in him, he launched Bank Britannica in London. He made his first million by the age of thirty-four. “Jimmy used half of that million to secretly set up our society. Through his financial and political contacts, he sought out other, likeminded survivors who would commit themselves absolutely to the Survivor’s Benevolent Society. The Society’s growth had to be each member’s first priority, even above nation, clan, and family.” Gu added, “Jimmy died in 1961, and his son Ed has carried on his work.” She gave Ed a partial salute before continuing. “The Society has always had a low membership, never more than two dozen members. But, size never mattered so much as our collective wealth and specialties. When survivors committed themselves to us, we discussed with them the best industry in which to seek wealth for us, if they were suited to that. For others, we helped determine the best science or profession to pursue, and the best personal specialty—physics, chemistry, medicine, banking, construction, and so on. Once a survivor decided how to personally contribute to our effort, all of us secretly gave the survivor our maximum support, using our wealth and network of contacts to multiply the level of their success and in turn build our combined wealth.” Gu sighed, her face downcast. “We have been in existence for seventy-two years. At first, our Society concentrated on helping to develop the League of Nations and promote international law. Our consultants strongly believed then that peace and nonviolence lay in developing the international institutions of law and world government. Members of the Society were bitterly disappointed at the unwillingness of the League to do anything about the mass murders perpetrated by Stalin in the 1930s, the invasion and colonization of Manchuria by the Japanese, and the outbreak of the Second World War.”

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Ed broke in. “My father was devastated by this war. Under his leadership, the Society had already distributed vast sums of money to peace groups, international law institutes, and peace-oriented politicians. Neville Chamberlain, the prime minister of Great Britain who tried to avoid war by making a critical peace agreement with Hitler at Munich, would not have risen to power without the Society’s secret funding to his supporters and the favorable media.” Ed shook his head sadly. “My father was devastated by this failure to prevent world war from happening again, and by its horrors, which even exceeded those of the war he had survived. He withdrew from active participation in the Society, although he continued to bestow his wealth on it.” A very old man with a cane propped against the table beside him leaned forward, and Ed paused. I recalled the earlier introductions; this was Viktor Pynzenyk, a mathematician and the owner of Yana Electronics. Viktor’s age clearly showed in his tremulous voice when he took up the story about the Society’s attempts to prevent war. I had been listening avidly. As an historian, I was mesmerized by what I was hearing. And I was testing it against my own knowledge. I wanted to know how credible these people were. As an historian? Ah, yes, I did say that. I learned in later years that Joy would become upset by my frequent use of “as an historian” in my arguments with her. But, as I would point out, she used “as a trained warrior” just as often against me. What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, or something like that. Well, anyway, I listened carefully as Viktor said, “I took over the Society after World War II. We decided to act more democratically, and rotate the chairmen . . . chairpersonship every year.” Tor and Gu both smiled at that slip, and Joy gave him a little wave of appreciation. She would. Viktor continued. “We also completely revised our approach. We decided to concentrate on finding a technology to help us fight war and democide—your term, John—and to seek a new international strategy. Clearly, international organizations and law didn’t work to prevent war and mass murder.” He bent over, covered his mouth, and coughed. He waited a few moments to gather strength to go on. Gu was about to say something, but Viktor waved his hand to stop her.

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His voice raspy with effort, he resumed. “We thought the best route would be improving global communications and travel so that people would get to know each other through radio and television, and meet each other and share cultures. So we put billions of dollars into inventions that would facilitate this. You use the Internet, of course, but did you know that the Society’s secret funding at the right time to the right people accelerated development of the desktop computer and the Internet by a decade? Our people built on this with inventions of their own. We also contributed to the rapid progress of commercial jet travel. Our members bought up a significant share of the outstanding stock in key industries, so we were able to steer research and product development in the most useful direction.” His voice was growing weaker, but he seemed determined to finish. Tor looked concerned, and Gu was on the edge of her seat. For some reason I did not yet know, this was very important to him. Indeed, I found out later that he felt this was his last meeting, and he wanted to be involved in what he believed would be the culmination of something he had worked for all his adult life. He was clearly drawing upon the last of his strength to finish what he wanted to say. “We shifted our focus to aiding diplomacy and weapons development among major powers to create a balance of power, especially a balance of terror, among the nuclear powers. While these policies were successful, and played a role in the collapse of the Soviet Union, there were still the Korean and Vietnam Wars, many wars elsewhere, and even more mass murder than there’d been before World War II. And there has been state-sponsored terrorism, the latest being the September 11 attack on the United States. Rapid communication, diplomacy, and maintaining a balance of power only seemed to prevent another world war—no mean achievement—but it did not end war, genocide, and mass murder.” Laurent added grimly, “Yes, look at the Rwandan genocide I saw firsthand. That was less than ten years ago.” “Yes, that’s why we are here,” Ed said, giving Laurent a look filled with compassion. “So we . . . rethought our strategy again,” Viktor said so softly that I unconsciously leaned forward to make sure I heard him. “Twenty years ago, one of our members was alerted to research on war that suggested the answer we sought.” What he was about to say lent his voice new strength. “The finding was that democracies do not make war on each other. Of course, if cor-

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rect, this would mean that we should promote democracy. We distributed secret funds to encourage more research, and the original findings were replicated. Equally important, researchers also found that modern democracies that guarantee civil and political rights, what are often called liberal democracies, commit no domestic democide. Democratic freedom seemed to be the solution.” He coughed again, and his face got red. He put his hand up to his forehead and Laurent rushed around the table to him and immediately took out his stethoscope and listened to his heart. Laurent looked at Tor. “I’m going to take him to the bedroom. I think he should lay down and rest.” Poor Viktor. He had lost his family in the Ukrainian famine and almost starved to death himself. That horrible experience had taken its toll on his health. The Ukrainian famine had been another one of my historical interests. Later, when I sought him out to ask him about it, he responded willingly and bluntly. It was why he was a member of the Society, after all. “We were starving to death,” he told me. “My father, Petro Pynzenyk, was powerless to do anything about it, which made him very angry. I remember him shaking his feeble fist in the air and yelling to my mother Olena, ‘How could he do this to us? How could he starve us to death? God, why? What have we done to him?’ “My mother wouldn’t answer. Skeletal and weak with hunger, she could no longer leave their bed.” Joy had heard about Viktor’s experience from Tor, and she heard it again in more detail from me as, of course, I perfectly remembered it from what he told me.

aaa Drought had brought famine to the Ukraine. But this famine was nothing compared to what Stalin, the absolute dictator of the communist Soviet Union, or USSR, was doing. He had launched a total blockade that prevented any food from getting into that Soviet republic. The communist cadre even searched travelers to the Ukraine to make sure they carried no food with them. According to Stalin’s fanatical communist reasoning, Ukrainian peasant nationalism was a danger to his power that had to be subdued. The peasants also had strongly resisted giving up their homes, farms,

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and livestock to be collectivized into factory farms. Stalin’s weapon against such stubbornness and nationalism was starvation. He sent the communist cadre, activists, and security forces into the region to enforce his own man-made famine. Petro Pynzenyk’s anguished outbursts against Stalin would almost exhaust him. He had been a handsome man in his youth, taller than most other peasants, with a round, open face and a strong brow. Even when age had grayed his hair, he had been well muscled, as heavy farm workers usually were. Now his ribs showed and his stomach was caved in; his arms and legs had grown bony, their muscles raped by his body for sustenance. Viktor remembered watching him pry the soles off his shoes and then drop them into a pot of boiling water hanging in the fireplace. “Maybe they’ll add some flavor to the tree bark,” he rasped. It seemed that he could no longer say anything normally. He was nonpolitical, tried to stay out of trouble, and did what the local communist functionaries asked. Except that, with all his being, he dreaded the demand he knew would soon come from Kiev—that he give up his one-acre farm and small home to collectivization. His father had worked all his life to develop and build this small farm. Petro did not want to give it up, but if he resisted, the communists would shoot him and his family. Viktor was fourteen at the time. He spent the days hunting alone, because Petro, much to his shame, had grown too weak to join him. With a long-handled net, Viktor tried to catch any animals he saw around the village or in the unplowed fields, even former pets that the communists had missed when they came through, shooting them and stuffing the dead ones in sacks to be carried or trucked away. They’d also taken all the livestock, and had gone house to house looking for food, even seizing warm bread off the tables. When they learned that the villagers had started catching birds to eat, the communists again came through, shooting the birds out of the trees and bagging their little bodies. When they came to the Pynzenyk home, they poked around the grounds outside the house with long rods, searching for buried food. They thus found the seeds Viktor’s mother had hidden by the pump, which they’d planned to use for planting if they survived. Finally, as much as he didn’t want to believe it, Viktor realized they would not survive much longer.

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One late afternoon when Viktor returned empty-handed to their house, he was just pulling the door shut behind him when he heard a distant scream. Alarmed but too weak to move himself, Petro waved Viktor outside to find out what was happening. Petro and Olena waited in tense silence as Viktor left the house. Viktor could tell they were scared. He followed the sound of the screams, which were soon punctuated by loud moans and gasps for breath. When Viktor discovered what had caused the screams, he vomited up what liquid lay in his empty stomach. Sickened, revolted, he ran home and lay by his house and wept until too exhausted to cry anymore. Finally, he staggered inside. He pushed the door shut behind him and stood there, swaying as if cornered. He could only gape at his parents, his mouth working. He started crying again, fighting to gulp air into his lungs, but dreading the news he had to tell his parents. “What is it?” Petro demanded weakly. Viktor ran over to his mother’s bed and threw himself down beside her, his whole body shaking. Olena put her bony arm around him, murmured some soothing words, and waited. Finally, still trembling, Viktor blurted, “They ate her.” “Ate who?” asked his father. “Yana.” “Yana? What are you talking about?” His mother looked from Viktor to Petro in confusion. Viktor calmed down enough to explain, although tears still flowed. “Little Yana down the road. She went missing, and her father searched the woods and finally checked that crazy man Taran’s house on the other side of the stream. She was . . . ” “What, Viktor?” “She was . . . cut up in his . . . in his food pot. Her father grabbed a shovel and killed Taran and his mother with it.” Viktor’s stomach heaved at the memory, but nothing would come up. He whimpered, “She was such a fun little girl. She was always laughing and trying to trip me. She would make believe I was a horse.” “My Holy God in Heaven,” Petro groaned. “I had heard this was going on, but in our village? No, God, I can’t believe it.” Olena could only close her eyes and let the tears flow. The days went slowly by, each a torment of hunger. Petro also grew too weak to leave his bed. Viktor continued to hunt, and captured some rats in the field. With the head of one he saved from the pot, he actually

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caught a starving dog whose own hunger had overcome its natural fear. His parents always gave him the largest part of any catch. They wanted Viktor to live to remember them, and what had happened. Olena died two weeks later, and Petro the following week. With the death of his father, Viktor gave up all hope. He was lying on their bed, just waiting for the end, when Stalin ordered the release of grain from the military warehouses. Local officials soon started going from village to village, looking for survivors. When they came to Viktor’s house, they knocked on the door. Receiving no response, they entered and, one told him later, were nearly overcome by the smell of urine, feces, and death. They found Viktor almost dead, lying next to the rotting corpses of his mother and father on a pile of filthy blankets. Viktor was not the first one they’d seen in this condition; they knew what to do. He was carried outside and propped on the ground to be spoon-fed thin soup. Unlike all but a few in his village, Viktor survived. Five million Ukrainians did not. Even this did not satisfy Stalin. He decided that the core Ukrainian culture had to be destroyed. And who was at the heart of this culture? The blind traveling musicians, who played and sang the classical Ukrainian music and folk tunes, and recounted tales of Ukrainian heroes. So, Stalin had communist officials call all the folk musicians together for a festival, and then had them all shot to death.

Chapter 7 Claims that time travel is impossible in principle have been shown to be in error by an Israeli researcher. Amos Ori, of the Technion-Israel Institute of Technology, in Haifa, has found a flaw in the argument put forward recently by Stephen Hawking, of Cambridge University, claiming to rule out any possibility of time travel. This is the latest twist in a story that began in the late 1980s, when Kip Thorne and colleagues at the California Institute of Technology suggested that, although there might be considerable practical difficulties in constructing a time machine, there is nothing in the laws of physics as understood at present to forbid this. —— John Gribbin epunix.biols.susx.ac.uk/home/John_Gribbin/welcome.htm

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aurent helped Viktor from the table, and supported him as they made their way to the bedroom. At the foot of the stairs, Viktor looked back at me, smiled wanly, and whispered loud enough for me to hear, “Say yes, young man. I’m counting on you. We all are.” As Viktor had spoken of democracy I had leaned forward, trying to absorb every word. This, finally, was something I understood. But Viktor’s parting comment thundered in my mind. What am I supposed to do, anyway? Jesus, what do these people want? After Viktor left, Gu leaned forward to add to what Viktor had said. “At about the same time—” Viktor’s concluding summary flashed in my mind. Ever the teacher, even in this environment, I automatically held up my hand and blurted,

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“You know, this idea about the democratic peace goes back to the philosopher, Immanuel Kant.” Then I noticed Gu waiting, and I felt my face heat with embarrassment. “I—pardon me.” “Thank you, John,” Gu said with a smile. “We value your knowledge, but let me finish.” I nodded and sat back, suddenly eager to have everyone’s eyes return to Gu. “Now, according to Einstein’s general theory of relativity, physical matter warps space-time,” she said. “My labs began testing a possible time displacement. By distorting space-time enough, we felt we could create a path—a worm hole— to a specified time in the past.” I shifted in my chair, suddenly uncomfortable. I had no idea where this was going, but it seemed to be straight out of a science fiction movie. “Using a complex system of high powered laser beams, we did succeeded in sufficiently distorting space-time to send an object back in time. In our first experiments, with the expenditure of incredible amounts of energy, we displaced a tiny object to milliseconds in the past. As the work of our physicists continued, we sent objects back further and further in time while decreasing the amount of energy required. By the mid-1990s we could count the time travel in years and the energy required as that for a small town.” “Time travel?” I sat back and crossed my arms. I could feel Joy’s eyes on me, but I didn’t look her way. I felt as though she’d betrayed me. She’d brought me to a meeting of lunatics. “Yes,” Gu said, as though surprised by my slow comprehension. “What does this have to do with democratic peace?” I demanded. I was a brash young fellow in those years. Not the mellow, savoir-faire man I am now. Gu held up her hands. “Please, John, be patient. Let me finish.” Did I have a choice? I had no idea where I was, and no way back except the limousine that had brought me. I sighed and nodded, but I didn’t try to hide my skepticism. Satisfied, Gu resumed. “Granted, what we’d accomplished up to that point was all relatively useless, but then, through the mathematical work of Gertrude Zawtoki, we determined how to relocate objects in space while sending them back in time.” I decided to humor her. “That’s fine, in theory,” I said, “but wouldn’t this ‘relocation,’ as you call it, change the future—or even the present, as we know it? Could we not irrevocably alter the natural order

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of things so that, say, lizards become the dominant species on Earth? Who knows what changes an object from the future suddenly appearing in a past environment would cause?” I inwardly smiled at my cleverness. I glanced at Joy. She didn’t look impressed. Gu replied, “It all depends on how much of a causal impact the object has. If the object is very small and enters a very stable environment, such as a desert, it has little impact. However, if we send a person to live in the past, there will, of course, not only be an effect on the environment, but on the society that person contacts. By our best theory, we create a parallel universe. We have not found a way to test this directly, but our indirect tests imply that the theory is correct.” Ludger Schmidt, the electronics engineer and president of World Enterprises, had remained silent so far. Now, his eyes alight, he waved one hand at me as he leaned forward and pointed out, “We have carried out sixteen time travel experiments. We have sent bigger and bigger objects further and further into the past. We have recently sent living things, John, including rats and a monkey.” In his excitement, his voice rose and his gestures became more agitated. “The monkey we named Hero—” Just what I thought. They’re up to monkey business. I was so pleased with my pun I missed some of what Ludger was saying. “—to 1900 in a sealed, waterproof capsule, with enough battery light inside for a month. We also included enough food and water to enable Hero to survive for that time, and had him fully wired to gauge his survival of the time travel and its short-term effects. We also assured him a peaceful death. After a month, a skin injector taped to him gave him enough morphine to make his end very happy. “We sent Hero’s capsule to the bottom of Lake Superior off of Two Harbors, Minnesota. There were no earthquakes in that region we could find in the records, and of course, no hurricanes to roil up the bottom. The outside of the capsule was sterilized to minimize impact on the environment and it was small. The object created no parallel universe, since ninety-nine years later we were able to recover it. Inside was the evidence that the capsule had landed in 1900 and Hero had survived for his allotted time.” Here was Ludger speaking about a monkey named Hero, when I found out weeks later that he was himself a true hero during the Holocaust. One of the big reasons I got into the study of democide in history was the horror of the Holocaust that I discovered as a student. I

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couldn’t believe that any government would systematically exterminate millions of human beings simply because of their ethnicity and religion. Unbelievable. I had to study it. I did. This led to the historical study of other genocides, and from that to mass murder by governments, and finally to the study of war itself. Days after the dinner party, Joy told me about Ludger. He had been a German citizen and policeman at the time of the Holocaust, and further, one of those detailed to murder Jews in Poland. I just had to hear his story from him. This is what he told me over a huge stein of Sprecher Black Bavarian beer.

aaa As a member of Lübeck’s Reserve Police Battalion 17, I was ordered to prepare for an assignment in Poland. I was told that we had an important mission there for the Fatherland, that we’d be involved in the final solution of the Jewish problem. Our battalion of 314 men was split up into companies and trucked separately to different camps. When members of my undersized Third Company reached their temporary barracks, a converted brick dairy barn near the Polish town of Plock, we were ordered outside to listen as Oberleutnant Hans Schaefer gave us an orientational speech. Standing stiffly, the heels of his boots touching each other, his officer’s cap square on his head, Schaefer began in a loud monotone, “Congratulations on being chosen for the work you are about to do, and welcome to Plock. You are here in the service of the Third Reich and the Fuehrer. It would take too many soldiers from the front lines to do this glorious work, and so you policemen are to replace them. “Now, Jews from Plock will be collected from their homes at daybreak tomorrow and trucked to a field about a mile from here. You will be taken to the field after breakfast and calisthenics. There, you will take the Jews one by one into the adjacent woods, make them lie down on their stomachs, and shoot each in the back of the head.” The oberleutnant abruptly stopped and looked at us, as though expecting a sudden outcry. Hearing none, he resumed, his voice taking on a sermon-like tone. “I know that this will be hard; I know that you may see these people as human beings. But, they are not. They are . . . ” Suddenly changing tone, he spit, “Vermin, cockroaches!” He punctuated the words by violently swinging one fist into his other hand. “And

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you are pest exterminators. You will be cleansing not only Germany of their filth, but the world.” Another beat of his fist accompanied the last word. He settled himself, and put both hands behind him. His boots had not moved a millimeter so far. Again he spoke, “I recognize the personal strain this will place on each of you, however. You have been trained as policemen, to protect and save lives. Only those of us who are privileged to participate in this work will ever know what this will cost you emotionally, but that is your challenge and your heroism.” He paused and scanned our faces. “If you cannot do this work, if you are psychologically or emotionally unable to, then you may stay here, cleaning the barracks and helping the cooks, until we are finished. Nothing will be done to you. There will be no mark on your record. “Now, Doctor Alfred Helmut will show you how to carry out your task.” The doctor had been standing nonchalantly off to the side with a large pad and a portable painter’s easel, which he now carried to the front of our group and set up. He put the pad on the easel. On the front page he had drawn an outline of the back of a human torso and head. He took a red crayon from his pocket and drew a small circle to indicate the precise point on the back of the head where a bullet would kill a person immediately. Then he took out a blue crayon and drew a rough picture of the barrel of a rifle with its bayonet attached. He stood back to look at his drawing critically, and after a moment he nodded at it. He then partly turned to us, pointed with one unwavering finger to where the bayonet was pointed in the drawing, and announced, as though declaring the winner of a lottery, “Here!” He jabbed his finger closer to the spot. “Here you must aim the point of your bayonet. Then you can sight along it for the perfect shot into the back of the head.” Looking self-satisfied, the doctor stood beside his pad, looked at us, and waited for questions. When none came, the oberleutnant asked, “Are there any questions?” Some of the policemen stared at the ground; others into the distance. Metal clanked on metal as one policeman shifted his position. Nearby tree branches rustled in the pleasant northern breeze. “Okay, you men know what to do for the Fatherland.” The oberleutnant put his hands behind him again, and nodded to Unteroffizier— Sergeant—Rudolph Hermann.

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Hermann saluted the oberleutnant and immediately ordered, “Dismissed.” All of us were quiet as we headed into the dank barracks and found our bunks. I felt nauseous and my head ached from anxiety. I sat on my bunk with my head in my hands. My skin felt flushed. I could feel my heart beating rapidly. I can’t do this, I thought. But I must. If I don’t, they will all think I’m a coward. A Jew-lover. God in Heaven, what can I do? There were a few idle conversations going on, but most of the men ignored each other and avoided meeting anyone’s eyes. There was none of the usual banter. I pulled a newspaper I’d brought from home out of my pack, stretched out on my bunk, crinkled the paper more than necessary just for the distracting sound, and pretended to read. Tomorrow I will be murdering Jews, I thought in disbelief. The Nazis say they are vermin, cockroaches, and subhumans. Even so, why kill them? Why not force them out of Poland or wherever they are? Send them to Africa or somewhere like that. Or put them in ghettos. From what I’ve seen, they prefer to live together anyway. But, to kill women and children? I didn’t get to sleep until it was almost light. By then I had convinced myself that I could do it. Early morning crawled by in a haze. Roll call, calisthenics, breakfast, and a few mumbled exchanges with the others. Then we received extra ammunition and clambered onto the trucks for the bumpy ride to the field outside of Plock. I peered out the back of the truck as it slowed. There they were in the bright morning sun—the Jews. A few old men, old women, young women with children and babies. The last of the trucks that had brought them were just exiting the field by another road in a haze of exhaust fumes. I gripped my rifle and got out of the truck with the other fully uniformed, helmeted policemen. Ukrainian Auxiliary Police guards around the Polish Jews began to organize them into ten columns, with about five feet between each. The Jews behaved as though they were at some civil function. They obeyed quietly. There were no screams. The only yelling came from the guards. Only the children were noisy, sometimes trying to talk to their mothers or to each other. Some of the babies cried. The policemen lined up in front of Oberleutnant Schaefer, who stood now with his chest thrust out and, as usual, with the heels of his

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well-shined boots together and his officer’s cap squarely on this head. He held a typed page of instructions in one hand. Like the others, I stared at the oberleutnant as though only he existed, even ignoring the Unteroffizier, who stood beside him. Nobody looked at the Jews. “First, are there any of you who cannot do this?” Oberleutnant Schaefer asked. He waited a few moments. I heard the trucks that had brought us driving off in their own cloud of fumes. “Okay,” Schaefer continued, “here is the way we will do this.” He paused to consult his instructions, and then barked, “There are twenty of you, so count off beginning on my left.” He pointed at the first man. We counted off to twenty. “Now,” said the oberleutnant, “those numbered eleven to twenty form a second line, eleven behind the first man, twelve behind the second, and so on. Go!” When our two lines had formed and we stood awaiting further instructions, the oberleutnant glanced at his instruction sheet again, then said, “The men numbered one and eleven will take Jews from the first column on my left.” He turned, swung out his arm, and pointed to the appropriate column. “Men numbered two and twelve will take Jews from the next column, and so on. Keep the mothers and their children and babies together. Once you deal with the mother, the children will present no problem. “You will take your Jews into the woods, down that path behind you. Unteroffizier Hermann will be along the path. He will point to the area in the woods where you are to take your Jew. Once you are assigned an area, pick your spot and do your work. When you are finished, come back out and pick the next Jew from the same column. Any questions?” One of the policemen put up his hand, and when the oberleutnant looked sharply at him, he asked, “W-what will happen to the bodies?” The oberleutnant looked confused for a moment. He looked at his instructions. A baby somewhere among the Jews started crying loudly. I heard its mother trying to hush and comfort it. I couldn’t look away from the oberleutnant. He finally said, “There is a small concentration camp a short distance from here. A Jew work crew will be marched here from the camp. They will dig a pit, drag all the bodies from the woods into it, and close it up. More questions?” He scanned the policemen ranked before him. “No? Then for the Fatherland, do your duty.”

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aaa Third in the first row, I moved stiffly toward a woman in the third column. She was perhaps in her middle thirties, with curly black hair that stuck out from her head and fell in a tangle to a shawl around her shoulders. She wore a shapeless blue dress, beneath which showed what might have been her slip. She appeared to have been suddenly roused from her sleep and forced to dress hurriedly. She was pleasant looking, with a square face, high forehead, and small eyes. I grabbed her arm and said, “Gekommen—Come.” I pulled her toward the woods. She looked up at me with an entirely blank face and walked with me toward the path. I couldn’t believe this was happening. This woman was so willing to go with me. She must be afraid. She must fear death. Is it that she doesn’t know? Maybe she thinks I’m just going to rape her, I thought. I was shaking. Could she feel it through my hand on her arm? We reached Unteroffizier Hermann, who pointed to a patch of grass well into the woods on the right. I heard the first rifle shot when we reached the assigned spot. It startled me. I heard another shot as I pointed to a small grassy area between a bush of white flowers and a tree. My hand now visibly trembled. I gestured for her to lie down. She lay down on her back. I motioned for her to turn over. When she did, all I could see of her head was her black hair. At that moment, I heard somebody nearby. I looked to the left and saw a girl stretched out on her stomach. One of my fellow policemen had his rifle’s bayonet pointed at the back of her head. The scene seemed frozen in time, a still picture. It will be in my mind always. No day goes by that the image doesn’t appear to me, sometimes when I get up in the morning; sometimes before bed; sometimes in my nightmares. Even while I’m trying to make love it will flash into my mind, which immediately destroys all passion. Then the rifle jerked just as I heard the shot, and blood and brain tissue splattered from the girl’s head. I looked back at the woman on the ground in front of me. I already had my rifle’s bayonet pointed at her head and she still had not made a sound. I stood there for minutes, unable to move, unable to pull the trigger, barely able to breathe. When I did, I smelled gunpowder on the breeze, and something else I hadn’t smelled before. Maybe it was the smell of death, emanating from its executioners and their victims.

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I heard more shots, but still I could not pull the trigger. Finally, I patted her shoulder. She turned her head and looked up at me with empty eyes. I think she was already dead, but for the physical act. I collapsed next to her, pulled her into my arms, and cried, rocking my whole body. My tears seemed pulled from deep inside me, from my soul. At first, the woman just hung in my arms as though also physically dead. Then she slowly put her arms around my shoulders and held me as well, without a sound, with no tears of her own. She pushed away after a couple of minutes, looked at the tears in my eyes, and for a brief moment her eyes came alive. In one quick motion of her hand, she removed her shawl. She wiped my tears away with it, and then shoved it inside my coat. I heard another shot nearby. Neuberger, a fellow policeman, came over and grabbed my sleeve and shook it. He hissed, “What are you doing, Schmidt?” I gently released the woman and she turned to lay back on her stomach. I got up in a daze. Without looking at Neuberger, holding the rifle listlessly in one hand, I plodded away, heading back to the field. I heard a shot behind me as I passed by Unteroffizier Hermann. I saw Oberleutnant Schaefer chatting with an officer of the auxiliary guard company that had brought the Jews to the field. They watched the progress of the cleansing operation while they spoke. I approached the oberleutnant, saluted, weakly apologized for interrupting him, and asked, “May I be excused, sir? I don’t feel well.” The other officer looked away. Oberleutnant Schaefer gave me a steely look for what seemed like minutes, and finally ordered in a cold voice, “Stand at attention here until we’re all done with our work.” The other policemen stared at me as each emerged from the woods to get another Jew. Shots from the woods were almost continuous, some muffled, some sharp. The light breeze carried the gun smoke into the field, and with it again the hint of death. Everything went as smoothly as it did for a Berlin speech by Hitler. There were no voices, no screams, no yells. It was like a silent movie with the offstage piano music replaced by staccato rifle shots. After a while there were no more Jews left in the field, and our trucks returned and parked near me. With a sharp motion of his hand, the oberleutnant released me to join the others as they clambered into the trucks. No one spoke with me as we returned; no one looked at me.

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In the barracks, no one came near me. I just lay on my bunk staring at the ceiling, the image of the girl I had seen shot mixed in my mind with that of the woman who wiped away my tears. An orderly came in, silently strode up to me, and gave me several papers. One was an order for me to be trucked to the local train station, another was an order for my passage to Lübeck, and the third was my pass. I was to depart within the hour. Back home, I was reassigned to a police battalion largely made up of old and middle-aged men exempt from “exterminating vermin,” and from the front lines. I never got a promotion, of course. Word went around that I was unpatriotic, so many of the townspeople shunned my family. I survived the war, saved all the money I could, and with my police contacts, played the black market for American dollars. Four years after that day in the woods near Plock, I calmly walked into the law office of former Oberleutnant Hans Schaefer. Without a word to his secretary, I opened the door to his inner office and approached the astonished Schaefer, just as I had approached him in that unforgettable field, years ago. He was sitting at his huge mahogany desk, eyebrows arched, small eyes round and staring, his thin lips slightly parted, surprised by the unannounced intrusion. On seeing me, he put both hands palm down on top of his desk as though about to push his corpulent body up. Before he could rise fully, I strode quickly behind him, jerked his head back, and sliced into his throat with my old bayonet. Blood spurted. I pulled the still gasping Schaefer onto the floor. When he was finally still, I rolled his body face up. From my pocket, I pulled the shawl I had carried with me since that murdered Jewish woman had given it to me. I draped it over Schaefer’s open, unseeing eyes.

Chapter 8

L

udger was about to add some last detail to his description of their experiments with the monkey Hero, but Gu interjected with, “He’s too modest. We had one more experiment to carry out, and that was with a human—him.” She pointed at Ludger. “He volunteered to be sent one year into the past in order to test the effect on a human. We felt that one year was enough to gauge the effects that were of interest to us. However, we had to do this in a way that would prevent the inadvertent creation of a parallel universe—or at least, not create one that would cause Ludger to disappear from ours. So we rigged what looked like a small diving chamber, which had just enough room inside for Ludger to lie down. We wired him as we had Hero. He remained awake for one week, and then took a special drug that Laurent invented. It put Ludger into suspended animation until we could open the chamber, over eleven months later. We followed this experiment with every possible test of his body and mind, and determined that he’d survived without any physical or mental change.” Tor looked at Ludger. “Say something, Ludger, that will convince John that you were unaffected.” “Er, has Lincoln died yet?” We all laughed. Getting serious, Ludger described his feelings. “During the time travel I felt an overall tingling, as if my body were waking up from a long sleep. Other than that, I felt fine, and spent my week testing my body for negative reactions and catching up on my research.” He smiled at me—which made me uncomfortable. He seemed to be trying to reassure me. “It’s seldom that we can find a week free from commitments anymore. And after my capsule was hauled up to our ship and I was awakened, I felt as though I’d had no more than a rare, really good night’s sleep.” “I thought it wasn’t possible for a person to travel into the past and coexist with himself in the same universe,” I countered. “At least, that’s what science fiction novelists would have us believe.”

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Without hesitation, Gu asserted, “They are wrong. The mathematics on this is clear, and to be sure, we redid the complex equations up, down, and sideways until we were absolutely certain that our friend Ludger could do this. And now we have the empirical proof. The secret is in the isolation of the two Ludgers from each other. What was impossible was for them to meet and shake hands with themselves in the same universe.” “That’s nice to know,” I said, “but what does all of this have to do with me?” After all the talk about watertight capsules, I did not like where this was going. What did they intend to do to me? “Okay John,” Gu said. “You now know that we can send people back in time, possibly as far back as 1900. This may or may not be a great discovery for humanity, but we don’t intend to announce it. It is, however, of the greatest importance to us. This is where you come in.” Finally. What took them so long? I stole a glance at Joy. She had been sitting there, next to me, silent throughout. Now that I know her so well, I’m sure she was just enjoying the big build up, anticipating the clashing cymbals of the announcement, and waiting for my shock. In her mind, I’m sure, Maurice Ravel’s Bolero had been playing; she probably imagined the music ending at just this moment.

aaa And it was that dramatic. Or I recall it that way, anyway. Gu speared her forefinger toward me. She sat on the edge of her chair, leaning forward across the table. Tor stared at me, nervously folding and unfolding a sheet from her notes. The others had their eyes fixed on me. I glanced at Laurent, who was looking at me as if he’d just found cancer in the x-ray he was examining. Jesus, what do they want me to do? “We investigated not only your background,” Gu said, “but also the backgrounds of all the major researchers and professors working on or teaching about democratic peace. We have selected you for our plan because you are young, athletic, unmarried, committed to and very knowledgeable of the democratic peace, and a historian who understands the historical context—” Should I bow? “—And your parents are dead.” She paused, and then said quietly, “There is nothing really keeping you in this universe, John.”

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Before I could protest, Tor added, “And we’ve determined, from investigating your love affairs and friends, that you have good character. You are very trustworthy. You have the best profile for what we want to do.” She glanced from me to Joy. Get on with it, damn it. “Mother, Gu, let me tell him the rest,” Joy said. Both nodded. I didn’t know Joy well yet, except for that crazy introduction in the limo on the way here. And she had been so quiet through all this that I’d wondered why she was here, except maybe to fetch—or, I thought suspiciously—to lure me here. Joy turned in her chair to face me. She gave me her dynamite smile, folded her hands, ladylike, on her lap, and slightly leaned toward me. Her manner suggested that what she was going to say, in spite of it being in front of everybody, was between us. I noticed her delicate perfume for the first time since we arrived. “The idea is that you and I will be . . .” The “you and I” startled me and I bumped the table with my elbow as I moved in my seat to look directly at her. “. . . Sent back to sometime around 1900 to implement the democratic peace. You, John, will provide the political and historical guidance. I . . .” Joy tilted her head and looked at me demurely out of the corner of her single lidded, almond eyes “. . . will provide the muscle, the weapons expertise, the computer skills and . . . other skills as needed.” I was being vamped. And I was entranced by every second of it. Joy continued. “We’d like to include others with the necessary specialties, but we can’t. We simply don’t have the energy capacity to send more than two people, and even that is stretching our available energy resources to maximum. “Once there, our purpose will be to democratize the world and, based on what you and other democratic peace researchers have told us about history, to thus prevent the wars, genocides, and mass murders that have destroyed so many millions of people.” She can’t be serious. I was flabbergasted, to put it mildly. I must have sat there for several minutes with my mouth open. All I could finally utter was, “You’re kidding, aren’t you?” “No,” several around the table said at once. “Even if your crazy notion of a time machine was workable, how could just two of us do this?” I blurted.

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“With the stick and carrot,” Tor offered. “You kill political mass murderers before they get into power; you provide the necessary wealth and incentives to help democracy grow.” “What?” I exploded. “Murder people? I would never do that!” This was too much. This scared me. I wanted to get up and run from this group of maniacs. Well, from all except Joy. Joy gave me that smile again. I felt like telling her to stop it. Her smile and what I was hearing were like huge cymbals clashing my thoughts between them. She read my face. “Cool down and think about this,” she said, resting her hand lightly on my shoulder. To my surprise, the gesture had an immediate calming effect. “You know what these Stalins, Maos, Hitlers, Pol Pots and others like them have done. You know what war is— the mass slaughter of soldiers and millions of civilians, all at the command of some dictator who sits in his palace or mansion moving his soldiers around on the battlefield as though they were pawns. Why should these monsters not be assassinated, John?” I shook my head. “We’d never get away with it, for one thing.” “If there were an international court of justice that could try them for crimes of war and crimes against humanity, would they not get the death penalty, as many Nazis and high-ranking Japanese military leaders did after World War II? Why should we wait until they have committed the horrors we know they will commit? Should we not save tens of millions, probably hundreds of millions of lives by assassinating these criminals beforehand?” Now I wondered who was the student and who the teacher. There was a certain morbid logic to it all. “But . . . murder!” “This is what we plan to do,” Gu said, as though I hadn’t said a thing. “Besides sending you two, we will also send capsules with weapons, ammunition, communications and medical equipment, and personal items like the clothes and toiletries you will need initially. To fund your effort, we will also send counterfeit American dollars, detectable only with today’s technology; diamonds and other precious stones; and nineteenth century gold coins and bars. In all, this will be worth about two billion in current dollars.” Her hands painted the air, accompanying her description. “You will also have two Macintosh G4 laptop computers with batteries we have engineered to last thirty-six hours, and we will include two alcoholfueled electrical generators. We will include informational CDs con-

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taining, among other things, a distillation of relevant news from all the major newspapers from 1900 on and, most important, the daily New York Stock Market closing quotations.” Gu lowered her hands. She gave me a smile, one as different from Joy’s as a friend’s is from a lover’s. “You see, we have tried to think of everything, and have spent decades working out the technology. There is much more to tell you, but you should now have enough information to make a decision. What questions do you have, John?” My mind filled with a million questions, all fighting, bumping, and scraping against each other to come out first. I was speechless for minutes, I’m sure, as I tried to grasp the most important of them. Finally, I just let my mouth do the choosing. “Why should I do this?” I asked. Joy answered, “Because you want to prevent all the killing you know about: the over 200 million killed in war or by democide. Because you want to create a peaceful world, and because you believe in democratic freedom.” I sat there. Boy, did she know how to get to me, as she always would. Joy was right, but I couldn’t get my mind to work on it. All this was too much. “How can I believe this stuff about a time machine?” I finally asked. “We knew you would ask,” Gu said. She got up, slipped into one of the bedrooms, and came out with a machine that looked like a microwave oven. A heavy black cord looped out of the back of it. She then wheeled out of the same bedroom a bulky transformer, with a similarly thick electrical cord stretching out behind it. “Is the connection to the electric meter set up with the extension?” she asked Ludger. When he nodded, she disappeared into the kitchen with the transformer cord connector in her hand. In moments she was back. She plugged the microwave-like box into the transformer and set the box on the table. “Can I have your wallet for this experiment?” she asked me. I pulled it out of my pocket and gave it to her. “Now,” she said, “I’m going to send this back fifteen seconds in time, and send it under your chair. First, I have to get the precise coordinates.” She pulled two gadgets from her pockets. “One measures the farmhouse floor’s correct height above sea level,” Joy whispered in explanation as Gu held up the devices, appar-

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ently taking the measurements, “and the other measures, via the positioning satellites, the spatial coordinates of the chair.” “More than fifteen seconds has passed,” Gu announced when she was done, “so there will be no problem concerning your wallet coexisting in one place simultaneously if we are a little off. Moreover, the possibility of creating a parallel universe in this brief timeframe, with this insignificant object, is minimal.” Now, opening the door of the box, she placed my wallet inside. She closed the door, very carefully turned five dials on top of the box, and asked Ludger to double check their settings. He did so, referring to a typed sheet he held, and nodded. Gu pressed several buttons. “Ready?” she asked. When I murmured, “Yes,” she unlocked a toggle switch and flipped it. There was a loud humming noise, then all the lights in the house went out for a few seconds and came back on when the humming stopped. Gu bowed towards me and asked, “Would the honorable gentleman check beneath his chair?” I leaned down and peered under my chair. There was my wallet. It was not even warm when I picked it up, and I found my credit cards and money undisturbed inside. That kicked my mind into functioning again. I was convinced. And excited. “I don’t understand—why only two of us? You have a time machine. If I understand your explanation correctly, you can always program it to send more people back to the same day and year. Why not find and train more people, even if it takes a decade or so? Whenever they are ready, you could send them back in time to arrive when Joy and I do.” Quickly I added, “If I go.” A member answered from the conference phone, “Our technology had to be developed in large laboratories, and no matter how tight our security, no matter how well trained in secrecy our scientists and engineers, there are secretaries, accountants, builders, and many others involved at one level or another. Word of some of our inventions has leaked out, particularly that of the time machine. We’ve learned that the Chinese and American governments are trying to locate the machine. There are too many people involved to keep this hidden for long, when the huge intelligence agencies of these countries are searching for it.” Tor jumped in with, “You see, its huge sudden drain on power will announced its location to those searching for it. After we send you and

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Joy and the equipment capsules into the past, we must destroy the time machine, the materials and equipment we used to construct it, and all our scientific notes.” “Why?” I blurted. “This is an incredible invention for all humanity.” “You don’t understand,” Ed replied. “Like the atomic bomb, once a few countries have it, others will soon, as well. Can you imagine what Saddam Hussein, absolute dictator over Iraq, would do with it?” “And the Chinese Communist Party?” Gu added. “If we can send you and Joy back to end this scourge that afflicts humanity, the leaders of these murderous regimes can use it to go back in time and kill all their rivals, or make sure their particular religion or ideology triumphs.” I suddenly realized something else, and a chill settled between my shoulder blades. “Then how will we return, if you destroy the machine?” I asked. “We won’t,” Joy responded matter-of-factly. “We will have to live out our lives in the past.” Staggered by this, I sat there looking from one face to another. Everyone around the table met my gaze with understanding in their eyes. Gu finally said in low voice, “This is a one-way trip. We have not discovered how to reverse the time loop and travel to the future. The basic problem is that the changes you will introduce in the physical and social environment of the time will create a parallel universe. You will reside in that parallel universe, not this one. We have not found a way to move from one parallel universe to another.” “We would be stranded in time.” I surprised myself with how calm my voice sounded. “Yes,” Joy said. Tor whispered, “I will lose my loving daughter.” I looked at Tor. Her eyes glistened in a drawn face, and her lower lip trembled almost imperceptibly. I don’t think she realized she had spoken out loud. When she saw Gu looking at her with great sympathy, Tor shook her head as though to clear it, and looked at her watch. She said hastily, her voice wavering, “We have less than an hour before we must give you the antidote, John, or you will lose all memory of tonight.” To give Tor time to collect herself, I was sure, Gu spoke up. “If you agree, you will undergo three months of intensive training in martial arts, emergency medical aid, proper use of our weapons and equipment,

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and business management. That is all the time we dare risk before we destroy the time machine and all that goes with it.” “Business management?” I echoed. Gu nodded. “With our instructions, you will be able to set up an import and export company that will give you all the cover you need for making international contacts and transferring money into foreign hands.” She paused, then said simply, “That’s it, John.” “You have maybe forty-five minutes to make your decision,” Tor said. “We are sorry we cannot give you more time, but you know too many of our secrets, and we must watch you until you make your decision. If you have any questions, we are here to answer them. If you want to go outside with Joy and talk, you can.” They were finished. Gu rose and went over to Tor. She put her arm about the other woman’s shoulders, and touched her head to hers. I got up and headed for the door on shaking legs. I needed air and room to think. Joy followed me and got my coat and her own. She handed me mine wordlessly, her fine black eyebrows drawn down in great concern. We went outside together. There was some snow on the ground, and a cold moon was out and almost full, with the Milky Way spreading a wide path of stars across the sky. I watched as Joy fluffed out her hair so that part of it fell over the front and sides of her coat. In this cold light her beauty looked ethereal. We sauntered down the walk to the driveway, and then she stopped. I ambled on a step before I realized she wasn’t with me. I turned and looked at her. “John,” Joy said in a soft voice, her breath puffing out small white clouds in the cold air. “I want you to make your decision as freely as possible. It’s your life, and you will have to give up all this.” She waved her hand at our surroundings. “But you and I, John, have the chance to create a universe in which genocide, mass murder, terrorism, and wars don’t exist, where everyone will live under democratic freedom, and where everyone is guaranteed human rights.” But then she slightly covered what seemed at the time gross hyperbole. “We may well fail. We may only partially succeed. But, we also may fully succeed. Is not just the possibility worth it?” She paused, looked down at the ground, and then lifted her face to look up at the sky. Finally she looked directly at me. Her eyes were wide black pools with, I swear, the moon and stars reflected in them. In

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a voice now so soft I could hardly hear it, she said, “And there will only be you and me, John.” Again she hesitated, and then moved a step closer. In this cold air, her delicate perfume was supercharging her pheromones. I couldn’t believe I was getting aroused. This was not the time. I took a mental cold shower, easy enough in this temperature. She added in a voice softer still, “I will be your . . . partner in all this.” Joy was so clever; yet, too subtle. I’m not often this dense when it comes to sexual clues, but I was still so dumbfounded by all that I had heard from the others and the decision I had to make, and I was so overcome by Joy, that I hadn’t caught the implications of this arrangement. “I think you’re very beautiful, and I . . . am attracted to you, but don’t you think this is . . . presumptuous?” Holy Christ, I said that? I thought. Where did that word come from? I could feel my face warming in the cold night air. I mentally ripped my head off and bounced it like a basketball. Jesus. Joy spoke louder now. “Look at it frankly, John. We will have to live in this new universe until we die. We cannot marry others because of our work and the secrets we’ll have. We are both young adults with lively hormones. We can make temporary arrangements with others, but that has its own dangers. No, John, it has to be you and me. And this was one of the things that the Society had in mind in choosing you. Our compatibility was one of the top criteria. If the Society couldn’t find a compatible partner, I would have done this time travel mission alone—even if the possibility of success were small.” She stopped, looked down, and then added in a lower voice, “But we found you, and you matched me intellectually; we’re close in age, we’re both heterosexual, and to be honest, John, you attracted me within the first few days of your class.” Again, her delicious scent wafted toward me. How the Hell did she time that? I wondered. I put my hand in my pocket and pinched myself. How many times in one short evening can someone be stunned, shocked, surprised, amazed? I now felt all of these at once. I stood there looking at this most desirable woman, this intelligent person, who was offering herself to me. No. That was degrading her. She was saying that, given our situation, if I accepted the Society’s offer, our intimacy would be natural, not contrived or used as a bribe. Joy raised her eyes and looked into mine, searching for my answer. I finally broke my paralysis. My legs felt like stilts as I moved off the walk and sat down—dropped—onto the snow. Joy sat next to me,

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drew up her knees inside her coat, and put her arms around them. She tilted her head up and looked at the cold stars. I tried to organize my thoughts, tried to form a mental list of pros and cons, with each given a plus or minus of one to five points. I started off with the possibility of ending war—five points. Ending democide and terrorism got five points. Losing this present and all its personal comforts—minus four points. Giving up the teaching I loved—minus four points. Murdering people, no matter how many people they would murder in their future—minus five points. The personal risks involved—minus three points. Joy? I looked at her. She was so damn beautiful—and impressive. I suspected I was already in love with her. And I wanted her. Okay, five points. Let’s see, I calculated. That adds up to minus one point. Shit, I never did like this system. When it came down to it, there were only two things that really moved me at that moment. I still had vivid images in my mind of the terrorists hitting the World Trade Center, and the horrors I saw afterward. The death of my cousin. The devastation of his family. I would do almost anything, just to prevent that from ever happening. The second thing was Joy. Well, this stupid decision-making system did one thing. It made me realize what I wanted. “Yes,” I said, then again in a firmer voice, “yes. I want to do this. Boy, do I want to do this. And thanks to you and the Society for giving me hope for a better world—at least one better world.” I got up, leaned over and extended my hand to Joy. But she jumped up and hugged me, kissed me, and exclaimed, “Thank you, thank you!” Then she calmed down, straightened out her clothes, and took my hand. We walked hand in hand back to the farmhouse, where Laurent waited in the doorway. I gave him a thumbs-up. Laurent grinned and pulled out a syringe containing the antidote. Joy was so smart. She had played my normal male lust like a violin. But that doesn’t matter. Really. The feelings I already had for her would only deepen over the years into an all consuming love. No matter what happened between us. No matter the horrors to come. How can I say this without sounding corny? I can’t. I’ll just say it: She became my life. She filled my heart. And I never regretted the unqualified love I gave her. Not once. Not for a second. Not even when I . . . No, I can’t mention that yet.

Chapter 9

J

oy’s unbelievable body was my shadow while I settled my affairs in Bloomington. It kept me in perpetual arousal so that I wouldn’t change my mind about the mission. And I knew it was available, if I only made the move. Incredibly, amazingly, I didn’t. There was, of course, the possibility that she was also with me to answer any questions I had about our coming partnership and mission. I didn’t believe it. The day after I made my decision to join Joy on this mission to the past, I wrote my letter of resignation from the University of Indiana. I apologized for the short notice, but explained that I had terminal cancer and only a few months to live, and could not have finished the upcoming semester anyway. That last was the truth—once I traveled into the past, I would be gone forever from this world. I also spent the next two days, all the Society would allow me before training, settling my accounts. As Joy accompanied me everywhere, she carried a change of clothes and toiletries in her student’s backpack. The first evening, before going to sleep at my apartment, we had a long talk about ourselves and our hopes and dreams. I now felt almost relaxed with Joy—as much as a man can be with his sexual fantasy. She was frank and without airs. I had no feeling that she was trying to play games anymore or make herself anything other than what she was. What I did feel was an electricity between us that opened me up to her. I told her about my parents and what the death of my mother meant to me, how I had cried when she died, and that sometimes, I still caressed her picture. My father had seldom been home, I revealed, but when he was, he tried to make up for his absence. But I always had the feeling that he was hiding his real self from me—that inside him was a different person that he could not show me. He had exuded an inner strength and a quality of leadership that I always hoped to emulate. I told her about the baseball games and tennis matches he’d taken me to, and his pride in my mother’s achievements on the tennis court. I told her about how the tennis pros treated me as a mascot, and even al-

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lowed me in the women’s locker room, where seeing partly-dressed pros sometimes embarrassed me. I admitted that I’d seen the famous Jane Smith come out of the showers naked. She’d seen my red face and laughed. My mother apologized profusely, but Smith reminded her that I was only a little boy. I asked Joy about her father. “I’m adopted,” she said. “My parents were Sino-Vietnamese, I think. No one really knows. I believe they tried leaving Vietnam in 1979 on a rickety boat, to escape persecution. Maybe there were other families on the boat, but I was about three at the time and remember nothing about it. My guess is that they were trying to reach the Philippines or Indonesia, and somewhere along the way, pirates attacked the boat. I don’t know what happened. Somehow the pirates missed me. Perhaps I was asleep and covered by blankets or something, and the pirates didn’t see me. When Filipino fishermen found the boat off Cabra Island, I was alone, sunburned, and near death. “A Filipino reporter happened to be doing a story on the Lubang Islands, of which Cabra is a part, and heard about me—a child that fishermen had found alone on a sinking boat and taken to the local hospital. He wrote a story that got carried in the Manila Bulletin. The New York Times then picked up the story.” “That’s incredible,” I said. “You never found out anything about your parents?” “No. After the pirates searched the boat for valuables they probably killed everyone except for hidden me, since that was their pattern. They only kidnapped the young and pretty girls. “Now, do you remember what I told you about my mother escaping from the Khmer Rouge and Cambodia?” “Of course.” Joy mentioned again how her mother had to leave Nguon to be killed by the Khmer Rouge. Tears rolled down her cheeks. And she cried over her mother’s bravery in facing the Khmer Rouge soldier who would have killed her. When Joy retold the moment when her mother reached Thailand and threw the soldier’s rifle back toward Cambodia, she mimicked the motion with her arms and almost knocked me over. “I’m sorry,” she said. “No,” I responded quickly, “I’m sorry about what she had to go through. I’ve been impressed by your mother ever since you told me her story.”

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For a few moments we stared at one another, both deeply touched by the story, and then she finished with, “Mom settled briefly in a Cambodian refugee camp, but because she had studied English as a second language in school, and had the valuables and body to bribe officials, she survived where many died.” “She told you all this?” I blurted. “Yes,” Joy said. “You must understand, John. In these situations, a woman has only two things she can use to survive—her body and her jewelry. If she has neither jewelry nor looks, she is often dead.” When she told me of her mother using her body to survive, I could only nod. I didn’t know why this embarrassed me. I knew all this from my research and had taught it, but I had only book knowledge—I had yet to hear Gu’s story. Hearing this firsthand from a young woman who was talking about her mother—a woman I knew—struck home in a way it had not before. “She got on the quota for resettlement in the United States. Once here, she worked as a translator for the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, who was trying to handle the hundreds of thousands of Boat People from Vietnam. Through her work she met Gu, who was a volunteer translator for refugees from China. My mother impressed Gu, who then had her secretly investigated by the Society. Satisfied by the result, Gu sounded her out on the aims of the Society without revealing the Society’s existence. When Mom took off her locket, showed her the picture of Nguon and whispered in a firm voice, ‘This was my husband and I loved him deeply. He will always live in my heart. I don’t want him to have died in vain,’ that’s when Gu put her arms around Mom and said warmly in her ear, ‘Dear Tor, I want to introduce you to the Survivor’s Benevolent Society.’ “As a member of the Society and with its assistance, Mom bought a bankrupt Asian import company, which she built into the Nguon Industries you know today. Soon after she bought the firm, she read about my survival in The New York Times, and persuaded the Society to help her bring me into the United States. They did. I heard that, when an airline official placed me in Mom’s arms at the San Francisco airport, she cuddled me, kissed me on the forehead, and cried. She says that she fell in love with me immediately, that she thought of me as the child she would have had with Nguon. That’s why she named me Joy.” Joy smiled and her eyes grew distant for a moment, in recollection. Then, eyes bright, she smiled at me. “After she became my mother in

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heart and soul, she formally adopted me when she got her American citizenship the next year.” I quietly absorbed all of this, and then it occurred to me to ask the question that had been bothering me about her since I agreed to this mission.

Chapter 10

A

s incredulously as one would ask a beautiful and feminine prostitute, “How the devil did you get into this business?” I asked Joy, “What is all this about your training in martial arts and weapons?” She shrugged. “A few months after Mom took me in, she started me on simple agility exercises to give my body flexibility—such as this.” She rose and stood in front of the futon sofa where we had been talking. With an impish smile, she bent over backwards, put her arms around her legs, and touched the back of her legs with the back of her head. I gaped. I had seen this before in Chinese acrobatic shows, but I’d never known a person who could do it. Still holding the position, she lifted her left leg until it was straight up in the air, her toes pointed to the ceiling. There she was, almost one straight, vertical line, with her back held against her lower leg. Then she rolled her torso toward the upraised leg, and somehow gained enough momentum to end up standing on the formerly raised foot, with her torso now straight up, her back still held against her leg. In one smooth movement, she brought her leg down and stood there facing me for a moment, looking normal. Joy bowed, waved her hand at me with a flourish, and exclaimed, “Ta da.” Then she sat back down. Laughing, I said, “What else can you do?” Seeing the look she gave me, I hastened to add, “Joke, joke.” I was lucky. At that time I didn’t know what that look presaged. Joy chuckled and continued her story. “After she adopted me Mom hired the best martial arts and weapons experts to train me in a gradual program—I was very young and my bones were still soft, so we couldn’t progress too quickly, but it was really the best time to begin. I saw it as so much fun, and eagerly awaited every session. Mom did the same warm up exercises with me before breakfast every day, which I enjoyed. She also took the same training, but always in a different room and from different sensei. Only in my teens did the fatigue and repeti-

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tion of training begin to bore me. My senseis were clever about this; they brought in boys they’d been training. They were usually older, taller, and weighed more than I did. “My sensei would let the boys loose on me. Sometimes I lost, but none of the boys were as limber as I was, and their training had started much later. So I could beat the boys most of the time. In one case a big brute of a boy got so mad at me, he came at me with all his strength. My sensei at the time stood back to see what I would do, and to defend myself I broke the boy’s arm and knocked him unconscious. Another sensei took the boy to the hospital, and my sensei did nothing more than show me where my movements and anticipation had been wrong.” I muffled my exclamation of surprise without much success. She flashed me a look of amusement, one brow raised in silent query. “Why were you getting all this training?” I asked. Then I recalled her mother’s horrible time in Cambodia, and looked at Joy, this gorgeous young woman beside me, imagining her as a pretty child blossoming into an adult beauty. “Aside from wanting you to be able to protect yourself against the predators of this world,” I added. “Did she plan, even back then, to send you on this mission?” “Not this mission exactly, of course,” she replied. “But Mom told me that her work was very dangerous and secretive, and made me promise with all the love in my heart never to say anything about it to anyone outside the Society. As her daughter, there was a possibility that I would need all the skills I was learning in order to protect myself or other people. She reminded me of her awful experience, and said that, although we live in one of the most stable democracies in the world, a coup or defeat in war could put a dangerous dictatorship in power, and I would need such skills to survive.”

aaa Joy paused and looked directly into my eyes, as if trying to determine how I would react to what she planned to say next. “Because you are a westerner, John, what I am now going to tell you may embarrass you,” she said slowly. “It will surprise you. I would not tell this to anyone but my lover, because he would find out anyway.” My chest tightened. I imagined some terrible secret. “What—” Joy put her finger up to my lips to hush me, and continued. “In Asia, people consider sex a natural function and a learned skill. It is not furtive, pornographic, or indecent. It is something to be celebrated, and

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in some parts of Asia there are festivals where little statues of the erect penis are presented to young girls to celebrate their fertility.” I could feel my face heating up and my heart beginning to thud in my chest. This was surprising, and not what I could hear from this passionately desirable woman without it arousing my emotions. “There is a custom in Asia among wealthy and middle-class families, ”she was saying. “They have their young boys and girls trained in the arts of love, so that they are well prepared for marriage or for the girls being concubines. When I reached the age of seventeen, when my hormones were beginning to distract me, Mom enrolled me in the secret Three Pillows Art Academy in Chinatown. The Academy taught me how to prevent pregnancy, the delicacies of male and female anatomy, and the Eastern erotic and sexual arts. I was deflowered, of course, and taught the arts of love by male and female instructors.” She was right. Now I was embarrassed, and I couldn’t keep my voice from sounding hoarse as I asked, “Did you make love?” I must have blushed rose red with that asinine question, for I felt as though I was leaning against a hot stove in winter, and I wanted to take out my tongue, nail it to a wall, and whip it. Jesus! The corners of Joy’s mouth tipped upward, but she puckered her lips—it must have been a supreme effort for her not to guffaw outright. As it was, she still had to respond, “How else does one learn, except by experience?” Immediately realizing its implications, she reconsidered what she had admitted. Now she looked at me with a worried expression. “John, it was just training, all physical, nothing of the heart or soul. It was like masturbating, only learning to do it well.” My face must have turned a deeper red, perhaps shading toward violet, and it felt as though I had my head in an oven. Joy looked even more concerned. I was hopeless, mind-wiped. I asked in a feeble voice, “Have you made love since?” “John, I’m twenty-five.” She must have realized at that point that she should never had admitted this to me, because she took my hand and said sincerely, “Until now, I have never met a man or woman that I’ve truly wanted to make love to. You know what I mean?” With that she changed the direction of my thoughts, all right. She said “until now.” Until now. It rang in my head. That’s right. She will

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be my life companion, and she has already hinted that we would be sexual mates—this beautiful woman, this incredible person—and me. I was suddenly overcome by what she intimated, although such an intimate relationship had been made clear before I agreed to this mission. I just couldn’t believe it. I looked at her. She had released my hand, drawn her legs up onto the sofa, and was looking out the window at the night sky. She had let her long hair down, and it covered half her face. Her chin was up as usual, and her pert nose was silhouetted against the lamp glowing behind her. Her natural scent delighted my nose. She was clearly waiting to see what I would do or say. I wanted to make love to Joy at that moment, but I couldn’t. It was all so sudden, all of it—learning about the time machine, agreeing to travel back to 1906, the loss of everything I knew in this world, and Joy—Joy, who would be mine. I looked at her. “Don’t misunderstand,” I said. “Now I want you more than anything. I want to be your first real partner. I want to make love to you. But I can’t right now. I’m too overcome by everything that has happened to me since I agreed to be your partner. I’ve got to collect myself. I feel like somebody who has won a 100 million dollar lottery.” More like I’ve taken a shot of Novocain in the balls. I rose. “You take the bedroom,” I said. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.” This was our first battle, and Joy won the sofa—only because I didn’t feel much like fighting, you see. I couldn’t have beaten a hen sitting on her eggs. I really was overcome with all I had learned, and by what I soon was going to do. So I warned her, “You win this one, but when I really fight seriously, you haven’t got a chance.” Joy replied sweetly, “Of course,” and then added, placing particular emphasis on the last word, “you are the man.” She was half undressed when I brought a pillow, sheet, and blanket for her. I threw the stuff on the sofa, mumbled a fast “good night,” and escaped to my bedroom. It took me about three hours to fall asleep, and I spent some of that time kicking myself for not taking advantage of the opportunity that pounded on my door with a sledgehammer. All I needed to do was open it and, as she put it, “Ta da.” Ah, tomorrow night, I kept repeating to myself. With that arousing thought, I finally went to sleep.

Chapter 11

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oy was a flirt. And she had a temper. Her flirting, my stupid jealousy, and her temper—the perfect catalysts for nuclear warfare. But I had yet to learn that. Early the next day I kept thinking, This is the day. This evening I’ll show her that red-blooded males do not need schooling in the erotic arts. They come naturally. Around mid-morning, we went to see my lawyer, Pete Sawyer, about writing my will. Joy came into the office with me. This was the first of what would be uncounted office visits we would make together the rest of our lives, often armed with enough hardware to defeat a regiment. I introduced her as my research assistant. Pete took a long look at Joy. She was dressed in her usual jeans and loose sweatshirt with sleeves rolled up, and her hair in a long ponytail. She looked coyly at him. I hadn’t dated a million girls not to recognize that look. She was flirting with him. I was dumbfounded. Pete finally said hello, and much later, when we were bending over his office desk to look at the will he had drafted, he whispered to me, “Where did you find her? Are there more for me?” “Sorry,” I whispered in return, “she was a robotic experiment that went bad. So I got her at a discount.” He gaped at me, then caught himself and laughed. He elbowed me and murmured, “Hot stuff, huh?” I’m sure he would not believe how true that was. When he added, “She likes me,” I said nothing. In my will, I turned all my assets over to the Society. I explained to Pete that I had only a short time to live and would probably commit suicide in a private place when the pain became unbearable. I put all this in writing for him so that, upon the one-year anniversary of my disappearance—the minimum period of time that had to pass before the state declared me dead, even with my written declaration—he could disburse to the Society what he got from selling my car and the jewelry I’d inherited, my meager savings, and my stocks and bonds. Pete was sorrowful to learn I was dying, tried to comfort me, asked me to come to his home to share dinner and drinks. He invited Joy along.

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Ah-hah. Joy looked at me and shook her head ever so slightly and I refused, explaining that I simply had too much to do before catching the plane out the next day. “Where are you going?” he asked. “Around the world to see the sights, if you know what I mean. Bangkok, of course.” I smiled in mock resignation. Pete nodded sadly, and then said, “My sincerest best wishes for your trip. I hope, by some miracle, that you recover.” As we were going out the door, Pete called, “And it was pleasant meeting you, Joy. If ever I can be of help to you, let me know. Really.” Joy smiled much too sweetly and replied pleasantly, “Why, thank you, Pete. I will.” Like hell. Now, so many years later, it’s hard to understand my agitation, coming only two days after our limousine ride and my first conversation with Joy. But I already saw her as my intimate partner-to-be, and I was feeling the first stirrings of the love for her—not passion, but love—that would grow to encompass—no, to command—my life. I had committed my existence to being her partner and intimate. I was giving up everything for our mission. And Joy clearly liked me; she’d unmistakably invited me to make love to her the evening before. In short, she was my territory. I wasn’t unreasonable. I had no right to question her. She had every right to be sweet and flirt with whomever she wanted. But, damn it, she had made it clear she would be mine . . . I go on. As a one-time professor, I make these human situations too complex. Put simply, I was bugged. I was jealous. I held it in until that evening. When Joy commented in passing that Pete was a very nice person, it came out like an unintentional fart: “Why don’t you cancel our partnership and take him instead?” We were eating pizza at Mother Bear’s in Bloomington. It’s the home of Indiana University and a college town. As a result, it’s hard to go out anywhere without mixing with former students or faculty. Fortunately, I didn’t recognize anyone there, for in spite of the fact that I asked her the question in a calm, even voice, several people at nearby tables suddenly looked at us. Telepathy, obviously. Joy rewarded their attention. She gave me that look, really that look for the first time, and it was like being devirginated. The first time, one never forgets.

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She stiffened and sat back, the pizza slice she’d been about to chew a bite out of hanging in her hand halfway to her mouth. As her narrowed eyes blistered me, she spoke in a tone that froze my Coke. “You get this straight. Now,” she said, enunciating her words so carefully that an idiot would understand. “You will never own me. If I want to flirt with the Devil, you have nothing, zip, zero to say about it. You understand that?” She dropped her slice on the tin, and then pushed the pizza tin with the remaining pizza onto my lap. Unfortunately the Coke was between my lap and the tin. It landed square where it was least desired. So this was what incontinence felt like. Joy rose and drew herself up to her full height. She was about to stalk out when she noticed that the pizza tin was still right side up, angled half on my lap and half on the table, with the melting ice from the Coke beneath it. To show me that she was entirely rational and not emotional about this, she flipped the tin upside down. Her departing words were, “Maybe I will.” I felt my face flame with embarrassment as people looked at me and smirked and laughed. Suavely, I motioned over the waitress, who had been watching events unfold. She came with a towel, but I waved it away with an elegant motion and said, “Doggie bag, please.” Now, this unladylike act of Joy’s was another first, but not the last. When she was unreasonably angry with me, my lap became the repository of many things over the years. Unfortunately, they were usually wet and hot. I don’t think much of Freud’s psychological theories and all that, but I must say, there seemed to be something Freudian about her choice of my anatomy. In a loving and peaceful moment between us, I once dared to bring this up. “Why my damn lap?” I asked nicely. “That’s bitchy, you know” “Because it’s there for when you act bastardly, you know,” was all she would say. Freud vindicated. Anyway, when Joy left me in the pizza parlor she had no place to go, other than to rent a hotel room. She waited outside by my MR2, her back turned to me. I carried the doggie bag in one hand and unlocked her side of the car with the other. I opened the door for her. The walking glacier got in without looking at me or saying a word. Before entering on my side, I shook bits of pizza off the front of my pants. I couldn’t do anything about them being wet

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with Coke. I got in and, since it was winter in Bloomington and still colder inside the car, I turned the heater on full force. I knew it couldn’t handle the arctic cold, but I had to do something to keep my pants from freezing to my anatomy. I tossed the doggie bag onto her lap and she looked at it like there was a snake inside. When we got to my place, Joy followed me up to my apartment and went in first when I opened the door. So far, so good. She sat in the easy chair by the sofa this time, probably so I couldn’t sit next to her. I got a Samuel Adams Beer for each of us, and she took it when I handed it to her. Better. I offered her a slice of cold pizza. She just raised an eyebrow and compressed her lips. Very good. She was melting. Emboldened, I asked, “What were we talking about before that meteor hit Mother Bear’s?” Muffled music came through the walls from the neighbors down the hall. A car roared by outside and a truck rumbled by in the opposite direction. After drinking half her beer, she looked at me neither defiantly nor apologetically and asked, “Do you understand what I said?” “Yes. You are your own person and nobody owns you and you can flirt with whomever you please. Do I have it down correctly?” Joy nodded. I wasn’t angry, but the flirt thing had gotten to me. I responded in my invariably nice voice with, “And same for me. If I want twenty mistresses and have forty-one children by them, that is my business. Nobody owns me. Right?” Now, this woman had as many looks as there are Alaskan snowflakes, and now I saw another one. This time Joy tilted her head, partially opened her lips, widened her eyes, and let a twinkle show in them. “If you’re so stupid, go ahead. I would think this one woman,” and she bowed her head and rested the bottom of her beer bottle on top, “would be enough to drive you crazy. Think of what twenty like me would do to you. Could your lap and . . . other things . . . take it?” And she laughed and I laughed, but inside I thought, Whew. I’m not going to dominate this one. “Any pizza left?” she asked.

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I bit off the “Say please” before it came out, and handed her the last piece, which was a little sodden with my spilled Coke. She ate it nonetheless, with a barely perceptible smile on her face. Her eyes never left me. She finished the pizza and took a last drink of her beer before setting it down on the coffee table. She wiped her hands on a napkin, then went into my kitchen. She emerged with a damp towel and asked me to stand up. Then she started to rub the tomato sauce and melted cheese off the front of my pants with the towel. I didn’t know whether this was a lead-up to the best of all apologies, or if she was raw innocence manifest. No. I knew better. She knew exactly what she was doing. And she was arousing me. I didn’t want to make love like this, not at her instigation. She was not going to dominate me like this. It would be at my choice of time and preliminaries. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her over to the sofa to sit on it. As she looked at me in surprise and, I’m sure, with respect, I took the rag from her and cleaned up my pants as best I could. Afterwards, I got another beer for Joy and joined her on the coach. She sat quietly drinking. More traffic noise, and now a kid was crying somewhere. I put my feet on the teak coffee table and wiggled my toes inside my shoes. Finally, to get a conversation going, I asked her, “When did you learn about the time machine?” “When I was eighteen,” she replied. “After I sensed the excitement in the air at our Society meetings. That was the year the Society formally admitted me, and Mom described the Society’s purposes and reiterated the background of most everyone in it. I learned about the horror those people went through.”

aaa I had asked the right question. Joy’s face and eyes softened, and she seemed to be gathering herself to tell me something heartfelt and very emotional. She put her hand on my arm, and I felt instant warmth. In a compassionate voice, she continued. “ I have to tell you that I cried that night, when I heard in more detail what had happened to Gu and all the others. Mom also made sure I read all about what the Society intended to do, and why. The why, John! The why, I couldn’t get out of my mind.”

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Joy leaned forward, suddenly intense. “Let me tell you about Gu and what life in China was like for her.” She hesitated, then went on. “Her experience played a role in my decision to accept this mission.” Then she told me about the Red Guards and the death of Gu’s husband, which I would hear about again from Gu herself in several weeks. Joy got especially emotional when she described what Gu had given up to flee to Hong Kong. “Her body, her honor, her pride, her decency. Do you know what these mean to a woman? Everything.” Joy pressed her lips firmly together, and her wide almond eyes gazed intently into mine. She was speaking from her heart and soul, and I could tell that she had more she wanted to tell me. She withdrew her hand from my arm, and I immediately felt its absence. She sat with both hands folded tightly on her lap for a few moments. Then she leaned toward me again and when she spoke, her voice was still weighed down with sorrow and compassion. “Not only my mom’s and Gu’s experiences persuaded me to participate in this mission. What happened to Laurent and his nephew Seth in Rwanda, and the experiences of others in the Society, whose stories were no less horrible, also influenced my decision. I loved and respected these people I’d come to know through the Society. I had grown up with many of them; they were like aunts and uncles to me. Gu was my godmother. I heard and reheard their stories over the years. I knew in my heart that I had to volunteer for this one-way mission. “I want you to understand this, John.” She clasped her hands together. A tear welled in her eye and spilled over to run down her cheek. “This is a mission of love for me. If it weren’t, I could never decide to leave my mother for the rest of our lives.” Again, she brought up the horror that her mother had experienced, only touching on the worst parts. Then she went into Laurent’s and Seth’s story of the Rwandan genocide. Afterward she leaned back on the sofa and the intensity went out of her. In a more relaxed voice she said, “I think now you will understand why I made the decision I did. When Mom told me about their experiments with time travel, she was very excited and said the latest tests had worked. She said that they now could send two people back into the past. ‘Who will go and what will they do?’ I asked her. “She told me about the mission as the Society saw it, and the difficulty they were having in finding the right people to carry it out. It was dangerous, the risk of failure great, and so much depended on the peo-

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ple who were sent to carry it out and their willingness to go. There was no way of bringing them back. They would forever disappear into the past. “That night, after Mom told me that, I couldn’t sleep. I thought of the people in the Society who had devoted their lives and wealth to its purpose.” The intense feeling that fueled what she was about to say furrowed Joy’s brow and narrowed her eyes. Her voice rocked with that emotion; her hands bounced in agitation on her lap. “I thought about my mother’s great loss of Nguon and how she would never marry again. And her locket—oh, her locket!—that she would kiss and sometimes shed a tear over. I thought of Gu and the death of her husband, Peng, and that she would never marry again, either. “John, I got to know these people in the Society, and it is heartbreaking to see what good people they are, how devoted and loving they are, and yet know that they could not suffer any greater horror, any greater pain, than that already inflicted on them with the loss of their loved ones, and what they saw done to others. And of all these others, the ones that most stuck in my mind and heart were the Jewish woman who wiped Ludger’s tears away before she was killed; and that proud young Tutsi woman, that very proud Tutsi woman who refused to strip—to bow—to that beast that chopped her up, or to give him the pleasure of hearing her agony.” Joy paused and wiped at her eyes with the back of one toughened but still womanly hand. “I thought of the true parents that I never knew, and what they might have had to go through—their suffering. I then saw quite clearly that I had to do whatever was necessary to ensure the success of the Society’s plans. By morning, it was perfectly clear to me. I had survived on that empty boat for a purpose, and that was to make sure this mission of the Society, of my people, was successful. I knew I could do it. Mom had prepared me well.” She had leaned very close to me, looking into my eyes. Hers were large and sparkled in the lamplight with unshed tears. When she blinked, I reached up and wiped at two tears that trickled down her cheeks. She shook her head and continued. “The next morning, while Mom and I were putting on our jogging clothes, I said simply, ‘I will be one of the two to go back in time.’ “Mom didn’t move. She sat frozen for minutes, and then she started to cry. She looked at me and misery painted its lines on her face. Her

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lips trembled and her face contorted in a mother’s ultimate anguish. She let the black words fall between us: ‘I know.’” Now Joy was openly crying, and I put my arm around her and caressed her back. Joy pressed on. “You see, John, she knew there could be no other choice. I was the most prepared and the most capable, and there was too much at stake to risk a second choice. We knew the other person would be a man, for at that time, only men had the historical reputations the Society demanded for this mission. So partnering this participant with a young, healthy woman was desirable. If it weren’t me, we’d have to go outside the Society for both candidates, which was too risky.” She stopped and pulled back and stared intently down at her lap for several seconds, composing herself, steeling herself against what she said next. “My mother and I knew that when I entered the time machine, no matter what happened at the other end of time, we would never see each other again,” she murmured, then looked up at me. “I can’t tell you how much this amazing and loving woman means to me. I will never forget her. She will always be here,” and she put her hand over her heart, “I will always miss her here.” Joy broke down in huge sobs, and for the first time this woman who had mastered martial arts and weapons, this young woman who was incredibly expert and poised, this woman whose angry looks could sear buffalo hide or freeze oxygen out of the air, this woman who could publicly dump pizza on my lap, and this woman who calmly invited me to make love to her—seemed just a very fragile and distraught young lady. I pulled her to me, put both arms around her, and held her tightly while she cried against my chest. I thought of my life and the death of my parents and how easy it was for me to leave it all to travel to the past. Clearly, in this we shared an unequal burden. Silently I promised her to do my best to lessen her loss in some way, although I knew I could never overcome it. I could say nothing then to ease the emotional pain she was already anticipating. I just held her. Soon, her sobs turned to whimpers, and she slowly quieted. Finally, she pushed herself away and said, wiping her wet face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, “One has to do what one has to do, if I may invent a saying.” I went into the bedroom and brought out a box of tissues for her. She wiped her eyes, and sat silently for some minutes.

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Finally, she sat up straight and looked at me. “Thanks for the chest, I needed that,” she said with a lopsided smile, and added, “There is another thing I wanted to mention to you, since you and I will be partners. Once I decided that I would be going in the time machine, the Society knew it was very important that the second person and I be compatible. Our mission could succeed even if the two of us hated each other, but that would make things very . . . ah, how should I put it . . . complex. The Society considered compatibility of paramount importance, as I mentioned when you were deciding whether or not to join me. “That’s why I attended your class, John—to find out for the Society what you believed, and to see whether you were right for me. And you are. I am attracted to you, and your compassion and understanding just now—” she smiled a little self-consciously, and gestured absently at the box of tissues “—cinched it for me. You and I will make great partners, John.” She suddenly buffeted me with a tossed cushion, taking me totally off guard. “Now I’m going to sleep. Get off my bed.” She pushed me off the sofa with her foot. “See you in the morning.” “Good night,” I said, “and . . . if you feel like crying again, let me cry with you.” I went into the bedroom and left the door open, just in case Joy would need comforting again. In bed, in the dark, alone, I thought of her coming loss of her mother, forever. I thought of how I would have felt if, while my mother were alive, I’d had to make a decision to be separated from her forever. I thought of Tor’s and Gu’s loss of their loved ones. I could not help it. It got to me. The tears rolled out of my eyes, and I cried quietly into my pillow so that Joy would not hear.

Chapter 12

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orgeous Joy was as available to me as some hungry hooker. Tomorrow night would be it, I told myself. After our flight the next day, I would make my move. All I needed to do was say, “Let’s make love.” Just like that. And she would get naked, and I would get naked, and whammo. No more emotional Novocain. I now had been hit with Joy and her mother’s background and we had cried it out. All had been said. So, tomorrow night! It’s not that I was preoccupied with sex. I was—had been—a professor, a man of the mind and intellect. I just wanted what was coming to me, that’s all. I finished with what I had to do in Bloomington the morning of the third day, and we flew to the Society’s home base in Silicone Valley for our training. This would also be our departure point when we traveled back in time. We had to transfer planes in Chicago and Dulles before landing at San Jose International Airport. Joy’s mother had bought us first-class tickets. Always the gentleman, I let Joy sit at the window. I knew this was my last plane ride in this world, and since I was going back to about 1900—we had yet to determine the exact time—I’d probably never see the land from the sky again. So, shortly after we took off on the first leg of our trip, I occasionally left her to take a vacant seat at the window across the aisle and stare down at the houses, buildings, roads, and towns; and eventually the hills, desert, irrigation patterns on the otherwise barren earth, and the straight, narrow roads that traversed the nothingness. I was leaving all this—all this that would flower out of the past in which I would soon live. Some things would never change, however. The clouds. The way they looked at eye level entranced me, and I just let my eyes feast on them, one after another in all their blossoming and billowing, white and gray, and black and thundering beauty. I tried to paste it all in my memory forever. Joy, it seemed to me, was doing the same thing. She was also hunched over her seat window, staring down at the land below or at the

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clouds, hardly moving. At one point, the stewardess, who had noticed my movement between seats, leaned over her and asked, “Is everything okay?” Joy paused for a moment, and then said, “He’s mean. He won’t make love to me here on the seat. He won’t let me join the Mile High Club—you know, for those who have made love at 5,280 feet or more.” Startled, the stewardess shot upright, shaking her head as though she had a bug in her hair. Then she leaned toward Joy again and offered, “Honey, we have a little private place to the rear of the galley that you could use.” She smiled at Joy. “We sometimes use it ourselves.” “Thanks,” Joy said, waving her hand airily. “We’ll use the aisle if the seat gets uncomfortable. That is, if I can persuade him.” “No, you can’t do that,” the stewardess exclaimed, and then realized Joy was laughing. “Okay,” she said, “you got me.” When our plane landed and we passed the stewardess on our way out, she elbowed the steward standing next to her and laughingly pointed to Joy and me. “Joy, what’s with the stewardess?” I asked. “Tell you about it later,” Joy said. And when she did, I got a good laugh out of it. I told her, “You’re a pixie, you know.” “Get used to it,” Joy said, fluffing my hair. Another side of her revealed. A limousine met us at the airport and took us to a large, warehouselike building on Saratoga Ave. There was not a window in the building that I could see. The limousine driver called ahead, so her mother met us at the entrance. “Hello, you two,” Tor greeted us. “I hope that everything went well.” “Yes,” Joy responded for both of us, and kissed her. They hugged each other for a long moment, and then Joy took my hand and said, “Come on in.” It was late evening, and with plane and airport time, the trip had taken about eight hours. We were tired and must have shown it, for once we got inside, her mother said, “We will start the training in the morning after a tour of the classrooms. You two have a good sleep.” And she showed us to our rooms, which were side by side. I thanked Tor, waved good night to Joy, and entered a sparsely furnished room with a huge bed, a side easy chair and table, a cabinet against the wall, and a closet with clothes hanging inside. I looked at

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some of the clothes, most of which were for exercise. Some were oldfashioned suits, with funny hats on a shelf above them. They were clearly for our time travel. I had almost nothing to unpack, so I undressed and went to bed, exhausted. My new life was beginning. But, lying in bed, all I could think of was Joy. Three days had passed since the limousine ride and, each night since, she’d been available to me. Yet, no whammo. Jesus. What’s the matter with me? I wondered. I’ve had more action on first dates with women less willing. At first, that is. I smiled. Tomorrow night will be it. Right now I’m blasted. For once I can go to sleep without being aroused. Sighing with weariness and anticipation, I soon fell asleep.

Chapter 13

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onight is it, I thought, sitting on the toilet the next morning after being awakened at a horribly early hour. I was as aroused as a teenage boy seeing his first porno movie. I could smell the sex, taste it, feel it. I had to take a fast cold shower just so I could pee. The training the Society put me through beginning that morning was the most intensive and extensive I had ever had. So this is what Marine basic training is like, I thought only halfway through that day. We got up at 5 AM for a five-mile run—correction, a five-mile run, jog, walk, and stumble. That was just the first three miles. This torture was followed by half an hour of calisthenics, and another half hour of weight training. Then after a fifteen-minute breakfast of juice, fruit, and cereal—Joy helped me lift the heavy spoon to my mouth—we were off to one kind of training after another. Except for breaks to eat lunch and dinner, we kept going until 9 PM. I was too tired that first evening to do anything but collapse across my bed, still dressed, and instantly fall into a deep sleep. I didn’t even think of sex. I don’t think a troupe of naked Joys dancing the cancan around my bed would have aroused even infinitesimal interest.

aaa Joy already had much of the training I was given, so she must have been taking refresher courses. She also underwent new training, as I recall, such as writing the advanced computer programs that we might need. She had an M.A. in computer sciences, so she already was thoroughly familiar with computers and their programming languages. But the laptop computers we would have available to us were special, Joy told me, and the Society’s computer engineers had written a variant of triple C, mixed with a new language called Solo, to make the best use of them. Institute instructors were also training her in the care and treatment of wounds, broken bones, and all the diseases we might contract despite the thousands of shots we must have received.

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“My arms feel like goddamn pincushions,” I yelled at Joy one day. “Don’t be a sissy,” she yelled back.

aaa We usually trained separately, but for the martial arts, Joy was my sensei. I never, absolutely never, got used to this. It was not right. It was against nature, evolution, human rights, the balance between male and female among all mammals, and the Declaration of Independence, for this madly desirable woman—four inches shorter than me, about fifty pounds lighter, smaller muscled, much thinner at the waist, possessed of smaller hands and tiny feet—to be teaching me, a man, how to fight. Jeez! Before our first martial arts session the second day, Joy had carefully laid out my clothes. “Proper clothes; proper attitude,” she informed me. Since I will be teaching you karate jutsu and judo, with my improvements, you should learn the related Japanese. She pointed to my new clothes. Those are your gi—uniform.” She picked the white pants and held them out for me to put on. I did so and asked, “Why are they so baggy? I don’t like that.” “Those pants are called hakama, and they are baggy so that I can grab and throw you.” “By the pants?” She only smiled as she handed me a white, collarless shirt. “This is your uwagi.” It was also white and made of heavy cotton, fell to my mid-thigh, had a 3/4 th length sleeve, and a rear vent. Then she passed me a white, cotton canvas belt to tie around my . . . uwagi. As she held it out disdainfully in two fingers, she said, “Your obi.” Joy dressed in similar clothes. Except that she also wore a bright red headband and a black satin obi. She had wound her hair into a knot for this first time, a rare hairstyle for her. Normally, she braided her hair or put it in a ponytail. I guessed that, during this first session, she was afraid I would accidentally pull her hair out by the roots. Our training room was large, with two adjacent mirrored walls. It was fully matted, except for several feet in front of the entrance, which were tiled. We stood in the center of a mat in the center of the room, I had a fair idea that a black belt meant she has advanced skills in her martial arts, but I wanted to ask anyway. I pointed to it and raised my eyebrows.

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“The obi means I can bend a steel rod with the flick of my hand and kick a hole in reinforced concrete.” “Then why do I have a white belt?” “White is for stupid beginners who couldn’t kick their way out of a wet paper bag,” she kindly informed me. “But you can’t jump the tallest building in a single bound, can you?” I asked nicely. She grabbed me by the uwagi, and threw me over her shoulder. I landed three feet in front of her. Dusting off her hands, she replied, “I won’t need to, will I?” To start the training, Joy said, “This is my dojo and I am your sensei. When you first come in you are supposed to pause at the entrance and bow to the dojo, then bow to me as a black belt. You begin your instructions with a bow to me as your sensei; when I ask you to show me what you have learned, you bow to me before and after you do so; and you bow to me when the session is over. I gaped at her. She was enjoying this, I knew. She continued as though our relationship didn’t hang in the balance. “However, there is too little time and too much for you to learn. Anyway, I don’t believe in all the formalities of the Japanese dojo, like giving you the command ‘Sensei ni rei’—bow to your teacher. But I do think that we should bow to each other before we start. It is like a handshake. Just recognition of me as your sensei and you as my student. Do you know how to bow?” “Sure.” I bowed my head at the neck, looked up at her through my eyebrows, and may have twitched both shoulders down an inch or so. Her turn to gape. She waved her hand back and forth in front of her face for a moment, as though battling noxious fumes. “And I volunteered for this,” she murmured. She brought her hand down to her hip. “Now, when you bow you should face me, hands down, palms to your side with your fingers close to your buttocks. You then bow at the waist at an angle of about 30 degrees, and hold it for about a second. The deeper the bow and the longer you hold it, the more respect you show. However, it should never be more the 45 degrees or less than 20 degrees.” She showed me with a bow. “Wasn’t that only about 20 degrees?” “Yes, stupid first time students only get 20 degrees.”

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Then I remembered, “Weren’t you supposed to bow before you just threw me?” “No,” Joy replied, “that was not training; that was what is known as ‘Woman putting man in place.’” Ignoring such an absurdity, I tried to make a joke. I said huffily, “I bow like that to no one. Especially a woman, and particularly, to my partner-to-be, who will be my equal.” I guess she didn’t see my smile. Joy retorted, “I see,” and glided out of the room. Not angrily. Just with a nice, graceful stride out the door, which didn’t slam. It just clicked when she shut it. “I’ll be damned,” I exclaimed. I stood where she had left me. I felt like I’d just put out my hand to shake hands with a stranger, and he’d ignored it Okay, if Joy was going to take this so seriously, so was I. I didn’t move; I refused to sit down; I would not leave. Not even when the polar icecaps melted. “Well, my lovely warrior,” I told the room, “you’re not going to dominate me.” After an hour my stance got tiresome and I shifted my weight from leg to leg, thought about our mission, thought a lot about Joy, and even invented practical jokes on her, imagining how I would carry them out. I laughed out loud at some of the best. I stood through the rest of the morning. Through lunch. Halfway into the afternoon. I missed several other classes, and since no one checked up on me, Joy must have excused me with my other instructors. No doubt she told them about my admirable manliness. My legs were beginning to tremble. Maybe she’d feel sorry for me when all my blood collected in my legs and my brain, so deprived, went dead. I didn’t think she would notice. Then I started thinking of how I could get even with her for what she was putting me through. I had it: No meal with rice, which she ate in nine out of ten meals. Never rice. Always potatoes—mashed, fried, scalloped, hashed. Everyday, potatoes. That would get her. I started to think of how I could arrange this, doubtless with the sympathetic support of her mother, when Joy opened the door and walked into the room as if she had left it only a moment ago. Not a word. She stopped in front of me and waited, hiding well her great respect for my willpower and independence, I was sure. I was going to fire off a snide

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comment, but I thought better of it. What the hell, this is for my benefit and that of the mission. I’m a reasonable fellow. And I showed her. So, I bowed about 15 degrees. Remembering my samurai movies, I said while bent at the waist, “My name is John Banks. I am from Bloomington, Illinois, and my lord is . . . President Bush.” Even if I were on the rack, my bones being pulled out of their sockets, I was not going to say “Joy Phim.” Without a smile, her face inscrutable, she stepped to my side and adjusted my bow to about 30 degrees. Then she bowed to me, twenty degrees I was sure, and said, “Good enough for the first time.” I don’t know who won that one. But I felt good about it. Maybe because I finally moved my legs and got the blood flowing back to my brain. With barely a hesitation, Joy went on. “Now, John, the second thing you have to learn is the initial ready stance. There are many stances, such as the cat, hour-glass, and rooted stances, and one flashes from one to another depending on what your opponent does and what you want to do to him. However, there is a starting stance I want you to learn.” “Yes, boss.” She narrowed her eyes for a moment, but continued. “Stand up straight and movie your right foot until your feet are shoulder width apart.” I did so. “Right foot, John, not left.” “But I end up the same way.” She mumbled something I couldn’t hear, sighed, and rubbed her nose. After a moment, she went on, “Now, slightly bend your knees, and lightly close your hands about six inches from your body, heart height. Keep your eyes focused straight ahead and square your shoulders.” She adjusted my stance, and stood back. “Your shoulders slope like a horses ass. Square them like this.” She showed me. As she squared her shoulders, her breasts pushed out her uwagi and reminded me what I was missing. I’m afraid I began to put more than my hands in front of me. To distract her I squared my shoulders. She stood back, put one lower arm across her stomach, supported the elbow of the other arm on that, and rested her chin on her hand. Ah, I thought, another look: the thinker.

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She decided to continue. I didn’t want to think of the alternatives she might have considered. “The third thing you have to learn is ukemi—falling safely. You have to learn how to fall down, forward, sideways, and backwards, and to land such that you roll with your fall and finish with your body standing, alert, in a ready stance. Can you remember all those words?” Wow. Sarcasm, too. “Let me see you fall,” she said. I dropped onto my knees and then rolled over them onto the mat. Joy gawked at me, and I swear she looked up at the ceiling for a moment, apparently seeking spiritual support. “That was a flop, John. Thrown wet clothes flop better than that. Watch me.” Then she fell forward, headfirst toward the mat. She turned her head under so her shoulder rolled into first contact with the mat, her weight and forward, momentum carrying her into a crouch, left leg forward, feet parallel and a little more than a shoulder width apart, and her fists out in front of her body with knuckles down. “Half-moon stance,” she said. “It’s good for attack and defense.” Next she demonstrated the sideways and backwards falls, always immediately coming erect and in different stances in one easy motion. I had not appreciated before how smoothly she moved. Like a ballet dancer—incredibly agile, with everything moving in rhythm. I was impressed, but I said, “Well, give me a couple of hours and I can do that.” Joy had a stance unknown to even the most arcane martial arts when I said things like that. She would stand on her right leg with that hip thrust out and her right arm hanging down across her hip, while her left leg would be loosely bent at the knee, her left hand on that hip. She’d tilt her head and her face would take on an expression of disbelief, as if to say, “So, you were beamed up to an alien spaceship to make love to an alien female, huh?” It was a whole body look. It was lovely. And it never failed to break me up. I burst out laughing. She put a “humor him” smile on her face and said, “We’ll see, won’t we?” The rest of that session, every minute of it, I did nothing but practice falling and getting up in one motion. That night I flopped—yes, flopped like wet clothes—onto my bed, exhausted. I was asleep before my imagination could conjure up an image of Joy’s naked body. I was sentient long enough, however, to think,

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tomorrow. It must have been habit. I’m not sure I even knew what it meant. Nor did I realize it was New Year’s Eve.

Chapter 14

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onight.” I intoned my mantra as I got out of bed the next day, my muscles complaining at the strain of walking across the room to the toilet. There was no break for New Year’s Day. “No time for it, “ Joy told me. These people were as serious as generals involved in a military campaign. Our second training session began with me standing in front of Joy for five minutes while she looked at me as though waiting for grass to grow, saying nothing. I’d begun to feel like we were two cool gunslingers in a high-noon standoff when a balloon containing a light bulb popped into being above my head—she was waiting for my bow. I did so. Joy bowed back, although not as deeply, since she was the sensei. For the whole session, Joy continued her instruction on how to fall. I threw myself at the mat, executed nice trajectories through the air, and rolled to a standing, ready position. Near the end of the session, she started to grab my uwagi and throw me in one direction or another. Even when thrown by another person, she wanted me to hit the mat properly and roll to my feet—ready, I began to fear, to be thrown again. I can still hear Joy almost yelling in exasperation, “Roll, roll, John! Shot deer do it better.” Or, “Jesus, John, is that a ready position or are you taking a piss?” Now, I had been a college teacher. I knew how to teach. She was no teacher. She had the skills, but not the manner. Were it not for the mission, and that I was falling ever more deeply in love with her each day, and our mission—of course—I would have told her to do the anatomically impossible. I rebelled in my own way, with comments like “You’re jealous that I’m learning so much faster than you did,” or my favorite, “Look, I’m going to take that tongue of yours, rip it out, and stuff it down your throat.” I accompanied it with a mean stare. I only used that one once.

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She responded by stepping back and giving me the whole-body incredulous look. She added a neat raised brow. And she broke me up. It was maybe ten minutes before I could get back to training. Seeing her standing unmoving, unsmiling, watching me roll on the mat with laughter, only made it worse. I think she actually let up on the verbal harassment for a while, however. That night, I was again almost too tired to think. But I was able to sit on the bed and get under the covers before falling asleep. I was too tired, but Joy was in shape and full of energy. I couldn’t understand how she could put off making love to me. I’d just lay on my back and reverse-whammo. My last thought was, I’m going to wake Joy up an hour before our run tomorrow for vigorous, extracurricular warm-up exercises.

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he next morning I hit the snooze button on my alarm too many times and finally woke to Joy pounding on my door. I almost missed my run, jog, walk, stumble. I didn’t have time to think “Tonight” until I was regarding my breakfast of cereal and a banana. I left the banana and ate my cereal. I refused to watch Joy eat her banana. The male body can only stand so much punishment. That third session, I bowed right away. Joy looked at my bow critically, bowed back, and we got right into the training. She began to teach me simple contact moves, like a shoulder throw of an opponent. First, she said, “From here on in, you must have confidence in my teaching.” She went to the phone on the wall of our practice room, dialed three numbers, waited, and then said, “We’re ready for Tiny.” The door opened a minute later, and a large man came in. He must have been about six feet, two inches tall, and weighed perhaps two hundred pounds. He looked Slavic, with a square chin, small eyes, and high forehead. He had more the muscular build of a swimmer than a weight lifter, and moved lightly on his feet as he joined us. Joy introduced us and said laconically that Tiny was a brown belt in karate. She then asked me to stand against the wall, out of the way. “John, don’t interfere no matter what you see. I don’t have to tie you down to make sure of that, do I?” “No,” I said, my curiosity clear in my voice. “I will be a concrete statue.” Tiny strode to the center of the mats and she glided after him. He rotated like a tank to face her, she stopped, and they bowed to each other. I’m sure she smirked in my direction. She took up a ready stance I hadn’t seen before. She stood almost sidewise to him, with her hands loosely on her hips, and her knees lightly bent, center of gravity slightly to the rear. She told me later this was her big opponent stance, and was called back stance. Tiny stood low to the mat, lower body angled, knees slightly bent, fists in front chest high. Joy looked like a little girl play-acting in front of a wrestler. David and Goliath immediately came to mind.

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They seemed rock solid for a moment, each looking into the other’s eyes. Each automatically calculated the other’s body language at the subconscious level, where all one’s training and experience resides—at the level of what Zen proponents call Self Two. Tiny suddenly threw a right hand to Joy’s cheek, and Joy blocked it with her left as though washing a window with it, stepped inside his right arm and grabbed Tiny's left hand, pivoted and spun his heavy weight around while bending his hand back and with that leverage she dropped him to he mat; he rolled up and feinted forward, and then twisted his body to his left to grab and throw her, but she did a left step past him and, slapping her right hand to his groin, she released a right front kick to his face; then took a right, then a left step to Tiny’s right side and grabbed his right wrist with her right hand while her left hand gripped under his elbow, and stepping back she dropped her right foot onto his right knee while keeping the pressure on his elbow. Locking his wrist close to her body, she dropped him again. He fell heavily, but twisted on the mat and bounced up trying to chop Joy’s neck as she moved under his hand, fell to the mat twisting her legs around, and thrust one foot against his hip while throwing the other across his legs to trip him, and as he fell he turned his shoulder to the mat to roll up again into a ready stance, facing her. She had taken another stance, a cat stance she later told me. It looked like Tiny wouldn’t make the first move this time, and would wait her out until nighttime, if necessary. Joy was not the waiting type. In an eye blink, she skipped to the right and, as Tiny covered that with a leg thrust, she leaped to the left; and as Tiny changed direction to cover that, she bounded back to the right, caught his arm in the direction it was moving, and twisted him to the mat. Again he was up, and this time increased his distance from Joy by about a foot, clearly hoping to use the added space to react to this small demon. After a few minutes of staring into his eyes while in what she called a half-moon stance, she dropped one hand to her side, appeared to relax, and crooked a finger at Tiny, motioning for him to approach her. He raised his thick eyebrows and questioned her with his eyes. Satisfied, he approached her slowly, still keeping his hands ready. Joy smiled at him. He further relaxed his guard and approached closer. She leaped headfirst to the mat on his right, angled her body while bringing up her legs, pushed off the mat with her hands, and got a side scissors lock on Tiny’s head with her legs to spin him forward to

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the mat, her legs still around his throat; and as he tried to twist out of the lock and grab her foot, she used her incredible limberness to get a backwards arm lock on his arm, grabbed hold of his little finger, and twisted it as far back as it would go against his wrist. With the locks on his throat and arm and the painful strain on his finger, she had him, and he knew it. She gradually released him, and they got up, bowed to each other, and Tiny left without a word. I clapped. Joy gave me a dirty look. I gather that violated her dojo code. “Okay, do you believe?” Joy asked me. “Yes, but what if you lost? You’d never have convinced me, then.” “I couldn’t lose to him. He’s only a brown belt, while I’m a seventh-degree black belt in karate and sixth-degree in judo.” I supposed I should be impressed, but I decided to make sure. “How many degrees are there?” “For the schools in which I trained, ten in judo and nine in karate.” “Why both karate and judo? Why not concentrate on achieving the highest degree in one?” “I have trained for battle, not for sparring or tournaments. Karate is good for punching, blocking, and kicking; judo for grappling, locks, and throws. A specialist in only one is vulnerable to the other. Someday my life, and maybe yours John,” she said looking at me askance, “may depend on my skills in both.” What about the other martial arts?” Her eyes lighted up. Leaning toward me, she answered rapidly, “Oh, there are hundreds of variants, but I’ve tried to learn the basic moves of the oldest and most important, like Shaolin kung fu, tae kwon do, and t’ai chi ch’uan, while learning both the hard external and soft internal styles.” I shouldn’t have asked and changed the subject. “Wasn’t that little trick of yours dirty, ungentlemanly?” Deflated, she leaned back. “You mean seeming to relax and beckoning Tiny to approach with my finger?” “Yes.” “I’m not a gentleman,” she said. “Let that ruse be a warning to you. In combat you never let your guard down. Not even if your opponent sits down, takes a newspaper from their back pocket, and starts reading it. Paranoia is the best defense.” “When do you let your guard down, then?” “When your opponent is down and incapacitated. Dead is best.”

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“Okay,” I said, and then added, “There is a small chance you would’ve lost—even small probabilities can happen. Then you would have been human.” “John. Understand this. I would not have lost,” she said, as definitely as stating that the earth orbits the sun. This was another side to Joy that often drove me up the wall and caused some fights between us in the years to come, no matter how well-founded her confidence—her ego: “I wouldn’t lose; I can’t miss; I will guard you, don’t worry; Here, I can do it.” It was hard enough to live with a person of her many skills without the neon sign her ego erected. I had the occasional sweet moment. Or, so I thought. Once, many years later, I heard grunting in our kitchen. Before I could investigate, Joy emerged with a large jar in her hand. She held it out to me. One should enshrine such sweet moments; they come so seldom in life. I knew instantly what this meant to me, to our life together, to the balance of power between us, to the universe. She was about to say something when I held up one gallant hand to shush her, took the jar, and intoned, “No problem.” I clasped the lid in an unbreakable grip, anchored the jar in my iron left hand, held it near my pelvis to get the most leverage, and hunched over the jar. I put every once of power I had into twisting that lid. It’s simple, I thought. Either the jar or me; either the lid comes off or I break my arm. This was my moment. I grunted loudly. My face contorted with effort. The lid came loose with a sucking sound. I straightened with an utterly bland expression so as not to rub in my triumph, and handed the jar back to Joy. No flourish. I was a good sport. She stared at me. One eyebrow rose. Her eyes glittered, and the corners of her mouth twitched with a suppressed grin. She broke the stare to glance down at the jar in her hand for a moment before looking back at me, her chin now quivering with hidden laughter. Poor sport. Finally, she waved in front of my nose the spoon that I hadn’t seen in her other hand, and pointed out in a voice so sweet it would make sugared cinnamon seem bitter, “I had loosened the lid, my he-man. I just wanted you to taste the jam.” For the rest of the day she looked like somebody recovering from laughing gas. I must have looked like I’d had root canal surgery. There were other incidents fueled by her ego. In a moment of irritation, I once told Joy in my customary pleasant tone, “You may be able to do all those things, but I can stand up to pee in the toilet.”

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Joy got into that one hand on her hip look and stared at me for a long moment. Then she turned and strode into the bathroom. She waited until I followed her in, lifted her dress, took down her favorite white cotton panties, thrust our her pelvis, and peed. She got it in the toilet; I’ll give her that much credit, but I noticed she also dribbled down her leg and on her panties. “You dribbled,” I commented pleasantly, pointing to her leg. Joy suddenly turned and pissed on my leg before I could move. “So I did,” she said. She had purposely kept ammunition in reserve. Still, I won that one. Ah, sweet moments . . . Joy, screeching in the kitchen. I rushed in to see her wielding a broom at the dish shelves, her face twisted with loathing. I stopped dead in my tracks. I thought the Devil must be emerging from between the shelves, like a genie from a bottle. “What the hell?” I yelled, scared. And God, I thought, if it’s doing this to her, then I’m ready for a diaper. “A spider, a giant spider!” she sputtered, pointing at the shelves with one shaking finger while holding the broom at a protective angle with her other hand. “A spider?” “Get it out of there, John.” Well. Hahaha. I kept that to myself—a survival instinct. This was one of the greatest moments in our relationship. I nonchalantly walked over to the shelves and started taking one plate down at a time, turning each plate over in my hands, hoping the spider would run up my arm in full view of sissy Joy. After several dishes, there it was, pressing its back into a corner of the shelves. A typical wolf spider with a palm-sized leg spread. I reached in, over the first two legs it had raised for protection, and grasped the cowering thing by the back, between its legs. I held it out toward Joy. All its legs were spread defensively wide. “Is this it?” Joy stood at the kitchen entrance holding with two hands the broom in front of her at about a 30 degree angle, one leg a little in front of her—a typical samurai swordsman’s defensive posture. Now, I’m a merciful fellow. I could have tossed it at her to see how good she was with the broom. I could have put it on the floor, just for the entertainment value when it scuttled toward her. I contented myself with asking, every syllable a profound question mark, “So, why didn’t you chop it flat with your warrior hand?”

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“Get that fucking thing out of here, John!” What? No “dearest”? I told her to open the back door. She cautiously obeyed, then leaped aside, still holding the broom in front of her. I took the poor, frightened spider outside and released it. When I came back in, Joy asked, “What did you do with it?” “I let it go.” “Huh? You didn’t kill it? It’s going to come back in.” In life, each man is fated to have one moment that is totally his, a moment for which there is no identifying date or time, a moment that he will always relish and recall to lighten his darkest moments. This was mine. When Joy got overbearing or her ego was out in bright lights and loud music, I would think of the heavenly words I uttered in response: “Baby, I’ll protect you.”

Chapter 16

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ur lovemaking had to happen, and this was the day. But in no way had I anticipated or planned it. We just slid into it, so to speak. After Joy’s merciless dominance over Tiny and her mammoth display of ego, she asked, “Ready for your instruction?” “Here I am.” Like I could say no. Joy then proceeded to throw me over her shoulder several times, pointing out the mistakes in my fall each time. She grabbed me in various places—the arm, the chest, and once by the crotch—and threw me over her shoulder, hip, or back, each time naming the technique, such as the ashi guruma—foot wheel, ippon seoinage—one arm shoulder throw, and harai goshi—sweeping hip throw. Seeing her strength and agility with Tiny was one thing. Experiencing it was another. Here was this little woman, no more that five feet, eight inches tall to my six feet; 130 pounds to my 180 pounds, and she swung me to the mats as if I were a bag of clothes. Sweating and aching, I finally asked, “How the hell do you do that? Even if we were the same size, I would have twice as much muscle as you.” “It’s physics—a matter of using the opponent’s weight and direction of movement against him, and then letting nature take its course. It’s being able to center my strength rather than diffusing it. And, very importantly, it’s readiness for action, anticipation of an opponent’s moves, being able to reflexively counter each and every move, and speed.” “And how do you do all that?” “Here,” Joy said. “Let’s work on you throwing me, and I’ll introduce you to the basics.” She let me throw her to the mat, each time bouncing up to her feet. Then she said, “Now grab me here,” and pointed to her chest. “Throw me this way.” She demonstrated a throw with her arms, then gripped the clothes on my chest in her fists, rotated her body, and tossed me over her hip. “That was the hane goshi—spring hip throw. Now, you do it.”

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I hesitated and looked at Joy’s chest. Then I grabbed her near her underarms and tried to throw her. After all, she was a woman. And I am a gentleman, unlike her. Anyway, she resisted, and I could hardly move her. “On the chest, John.” Joy patted her breasts. I hesitated again. “I see,” she said, and pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I’m going to have to get you over this hump.” Joy came over to me, undid her black belt, and pulled off her uwagi. She had on a black athletic bra, which she pulled off over her head. It was all very matter-of-fact. I stood there, my heart thumping, jaw bumping my toes, gawking at her with eyes that must have been as round as dinner plates. She had pert breasts that, once released from her bra, stuck out firmly. “Here,” Joy said, “feel them and get used to them so that you won’t be shy about touching me.” She picked up my hand and rubbed it over her firm breasts. Standing there like an idiot, with my hand on her breast, I felt what the pre-modern novels used to intimate as a stirring in my loins. I mean, of course. Jesus! Joy looked down at my hakama and sighed. Still holding my hand on her breast, she pulled down her hakama with her other hand, and then her white cotton panties. She kicked them away and stood erect with her pelvis thrust forward. She took my other hand and placed it on her crotch. “Don’t be embarrassed,” she said, looking up at me. I let my hot hand rest there. I was now so passionately aroused that my hakama looked as though they had a pistol in them, pointed at her. “Feel,” Joy said, “know what I am like all over.” Her hand remained over mine on her crotch. With an ardor of its own—I was beyond thought, a quivering jellyfish in a sea of mad desire— my fingers went into her and started stroking her clitoris. I could see I had aroused her also, and I began to caress her stiff nipple with my other hand. Joy looked at me with half-closed eyes, her face flushed, and then she took her hand off mine and pushed it against my throbbing erection. “Let’s do it,” she meowed. I stripped off my uwagi while she swiftly undid my draw strings and jerked my hakama down. Then she gently lifted my shorts over my erection, and held it for a moment. “Hmmm,” she murmured, “I’ve wanted you for months.”

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“Wait, I don’t have a rubber,” I blurted, still finding in me somewhere a molecule of sanity. “Don’t worry, I’ve had an operation in preparation for our mission,” she purred, turning those ordinary words into an erotic song. At that moment she could have made a doctor’s diagnosis of cancer sound intimate and bursting with sexual promise. Joy released me and bent over to spread her clothes on the mat. I was practically shaking with hot passion and almost mounted her then. But that fleeting second of opportunity passed, and she was reclining on the mat. I somehow got down beside her and lustily devoured her beautiful face and body. Breasts just right—not too large, not too small. Small waist and nicely shaped hips and thighs. I’d already noticed her long legs. A million times. I could tell she admired my body as I did hers, and we both began to stroke and caress each other. Then she kissed me deeply, moving her tongue inside my mouth, and I reciprocated until she pulled a little away and groaned, “Come inside.” And I did. Unbelievable. Those times in the evening, when we could have bathed together and made love in a clean bed and didn’t, paled; now, here, in mid-afternoon, on gym mats in a training room with mirrors, in sight of anybody who happened to walk in, our sweaty bodies joined for the first time in lovemaking. I know what it was. Joy just couldn’t resist my body any longer. I had never made love to a woman like this. Her athleticism, physical skills, and training in sex showed immediately. She was not only able to grip my erection with the muscles around her vagina, but she was also able to ripple them so that, even if I were not thrusting back and forth, it was almost as if she was masturbating me. I tried to hold back my ejaculation, tried to think of being marooned on an iceberg, of being immersed in a bathtub full of ice or, better, of being in an airplane as it spiraled down to crash, but I was so aroused my stupid mind wouldn’t work. I came within a minute or so. At the same moment, to my joyful surprise, she turned rigid, shuddered, and with a loud cry had her own orgasm. Instead of releasing me, Joy held me within her with her vaginal muscles, and kept me aroused. Without a break we went at it again, and this time we were both able to play around with the rhythm. After a couple of minutes, she arched her body up and, holding me within her with her muscles, she bent her head under her, doubled at the waist, and

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put her head under her buttocks. She then twisted her torso and took my testicles into her mouth. The sensation was incredible. While still in her I put my thumb on her clitoris and diddled it rapidly. I soon exploded inside her as she tightly wrapped her legs around me and pressed me in even deeper. Another shuddering orgasm sent a shriek between her lips. I felt as though I had turned inside out. I tried to slowly bring us both down from paradise and caressed and fondled her until we finally untangled ourselves. Joy said, “I’m going to love you,” and then she cuddled up to me. I was so satiated that I could hardly speak. In a very husky voice, I finally asked her, “Was having me touch you part of my training, or was it . . . hormones?” “Don’t know, do you,” Joy said as huskily. “Don’t let this spoil you. Back to real training tomorrow.” “Excuse me,” I said, “but do you mean this isn’t training?” We both had a good laugh. Thinking back on that, I now believe Joy held her tongue. She had been trained in the erotic arts and surely must have realized that, in this also, I needed schooling. But if she had said something like, “I’m still training you, but in a different skill,” it would have been my prostrate operation. I’m sure that it would have taken months and all her training in the erotic arts to undo the psychic damage. Apparently her sexual training also included dealing with the male ego and associated malfunctions. It was done. The first time was over. It was better than I imagined it would be in my wildest fantasy, and I was now so besotted with Joy that I made “Tonight” a permanent morning mantra.

aaa When we had dinner that evening in the building’s cafeteria, Tor joined us at the table. She took a long look at Joy’s rosy cheeks and my “I’ve been to heaven” expression, smiled to herself, and touched her locket. Then she asked softly, “So, how was the . . . training?” “Very good, Mother. John is learning fast.” “Yes. Well . . . very good,” Tor said, and her face lit up as she smiled at me. Tor turned to her food, moving her fork idly as the smile disappeared from her face. She seemed lost in memories. Then, eyes focused on another place and time, she put her fork down and briefly held her locket.

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Joy looked at me and gently shook her head, asking me not to break her mother’s reverie. Finally, Tor seemed to jerk into an awareness of our presence. She released her locket and looked at us, saying, “Ah, yes, well, I’ve got to tell you about your minor operations, planned for tomorrow. You will each have a transmitter implanted in your throat and a receiver in the bone behind your ear. This system will be powered by your body’s own electrical grid, and will never need replacement. Each implant will be cushioned against jarring. It will survive all but a hard and direct blow. It will operate on shortwave for about eight thousand miles, and even further if sunspots are quiet. Your body is the antenna. You toggle on the transmitter by saying ‘KK,’ which are letters unusual enough that you would not say them accidentally. Once turned on, the transmitter is voice activated and will transmit what you say, even in a whisper. You also toggle it off with a ‘KK.’ This will keep you two in touch.” She smiled directly at Joy this time.

aaa What a meal, what a day, and what an evening! That night, Joy came to my room and we made love in privacy with clean bodies on clean sheets, on a soft bed, before falling asleep in each other’s arms. I did miss the mirrors, though. She showed me some new tricks. But if I had to read the Kama Sutra, the Japanese Pillow Book, and every other love book I could find, I was determined that some evening, I would surprise her with tricks of my own. I really never did get around to that, but after a few years I didn’t care. And it didn’t matter. The next day, Joy moved her things into my room. From then on, we shared everything, including toothpaste. Everyone knew about our togetherness. They surely expected it. Members of the Society constantly asked questions about how we were getting along together. After all, our togetherness was the crux of their plans. I wondered sometimes if my room was bugged, given how important Joy’s and my relationship was to the Society. Were it bugged, they would have known that Drill Sergeant Joy Phim and her new recruit John Banks were doing fine. More than fine, as a matter of fact.

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y training progressed to weapons. And, I must admit, Joy’s shooting skill and her training of me would save our lives. But that was in the future. At this time all I could do was sigh, knowing my little beauty would be my trainer in this, also. I was fated to be under her command. But, being the healthy male that I am, we had some real fights over it in years to come. First, however, we underwent our surgical modifications to implant the communication devices. We had to practice with them, and we even spared a little time in bed together to do so. It was fun, especially when we left them on during our session of mattress polo. We stopped that, however, when Joy discovered through her mother’s embarrassed hints that the Society’s engineers had a receiver tuned to our communicators for testing and adjustment purposes. Yeah. Sure. During the following weeks, the weapons training was added to my martial arts regime. Joy taught me how to handle a person attacking me with a gun or knife. She tried to pound into me that, even if unarmed, utilizing speed, proper movement, and surprise against someone with a weapon could leave me the victor. She showed me that shoes could be deadly against a gun. Pencils, pens, and even fingers could also be lethal weapons, if thrust straight up where the chin meets the throat, or deep into the eyes, for example. Joy brought a weapon resembling a gun to one session. I learned that it fired a laser beam instead of bullets. The laser, she said, showed where the bullet would hit, were it a real gun. It burned a small hole in clothing and left a burn blister on the skin. “Here, use it as though it were a gun,” she said, handing it to me. Then she put on a protective face cover similar to what welders used, walked about ten feet away, and said, “Okay, shoot me.” I had anticipated this. Even before the sound of her voice faded, I whipped up the gun and fired a “shot” at her chest. In a zigzagging movement too fast for me to react to—a movement I never learned well, as Joy would tell me on a fateful day, far in our future together

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she appeared beside me and executed a simulated karate chop to the wrist of my hand that held the gun. “I could also have killed you,” Joy said, “with a chop to the base of your nose, between your eyes, to drive the soft bone there into your brain; or to the switch in your neck that controls the blood through your carotid arteries to your brain. The point of this is to show you that human beings have slow reaction times to unexpected stimuli. Let me show you again.” Joy now positioned me a foot behind her with the gun pointed at her back. “Tell me to get my hands up.” I waited a full minute as she stood in front of me, her hands hanging loosely at her sides. I was ready to shoot the laser at the slightest movement. Finally I said, “Hands up.” I sensed her moving immediately, but before I could pull the trigger, she had twisted her torso out and down, while her leg kicked backwards to tickle my throat. “I’m impressed,” I said. “If I ever run across someone like you, I’ll use a machine gun at one hundred feet.” Joy smiled and said demurely, “You won’t need to. I’ll be there.” Her damn ego again.

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ssassinations, bribery, frame-ups, buy-offs, and lobbying. Such was the Society’s idea of how to create a peaceful universe. We all called it The Plan. I didn’t like the idea of assassination then. Now I hate the word, fervently. We should have been honest and called it what it is—murder. Even at the height of my mad desire for Joy, I couldn’t forget about the mission. How could I, with my obscene 5 AM to 9 PM workout and training schedule? As the training progressed, we frequently met with Tor and other members of the Society to draw up a tentative plan of action. As they pointed out, it was better to do the planning now, with the historical resources presently available, than to try to when we arrived in the distant past. When the Society realized that a time machine was possible and when they knew Joy would be one of the two going back in time, they began work on The Plan. Gu told me, “This was a list of major events and episodes related to your mission, the major people involved, and those you will have to support, bribe, or assassinate.” I felt the Society naively put too much emphasis on assassinations. I tried to reason with them. I argued, “Much could be accomplished without murdering people.” “No, John,” Laurent insisted, with Ludger nodding at his side. “You will have to assassinate these people. You cannot doubt their ability to achieve power and kill, as we’ve seen them do in this universe. Anyway,” he added dismissively, “they don’t deserve to live.” Tor insisted also. Gu tried to put it logically: “If you assassinate them, John, and you’re wrong, nothing is lost except their evil lives. But if you don’t assassinate them and they go on to take power and kill tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, and maybe millions, you have defeated the mission.” I didn’t push it after that. In the end, once we went back in time, that question was in our hands and not the Society’s. It would be between Joy and I, and I could handle her. Ha. Now who had the ego?

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The hardest decision was where in time, exactly, we should travel. I learned that the planners had first wanted to go back many centuries, but they were dreaming. The world then was not ready, the conditions not ripe; we would kill people for naught. For after we dutifully fulfilled our mission, history would close in after we died. It would be like sticking one’s finger in a puddle. Pull it out and the water closes in where the finger had been as though it was never there. The question was, then, when? At that time I was twenty-six and Joy, twenty-five. We were limited by our normal life span, if we survived to old age—a relatively short time in which to change a whole world. We had to decide on the period of time that would allow us to be most effective. We agreed that the twentieth century, close to its beginning, was the best. That would enable us to start with Mexico. I went through the great mass of historical material that the Society had collected for these early years and suggested 1905 or 1906. This would give us a couple of years to build up our proposed company, establish offices in the relevant countries, and set up an infrastructure to do what we intended. To facilitate The Plan, we would land in the past with gold, gems, and old currency worth two billion in year 2003 dollars. In 1906 this wealth would be worth about 38 billion dollars that we could use for bribery and other purposes. Such money had to distributed carefully if we were to avoid discovery and arrest. I felt that the Society was overly optimistic in many respects and whenever I had time available between training sessions, I worked on The Plan. The Society finally chose San Francisco after the great earthquake and fire of April 1906. Through contemporary street maps and real estate and court documents that had survived the fire, they found an old warehouse near the corner of 8th and Hooper Street whose owner had gone bankrupt because of the fire. The warehouse remained unoccupied until 1908, when a court had it torn down. We would send our supply capsules through time to arrive inside the warehouse with plenty of lead-time, and Joy and I would follow to land there in November. We could then buy the warehouse and use it as a temporary office until we established our company and rented or bought office space. This part of the plan worked flawlessly, with one glitch no one had imagined. “Why San Francisco and not New York?” I asked at one point. Gu gave me the answer. “Joy is not Caucasian. She is Asian, and would be conspicuous in New York. Her ethnicity could cause problems for both of you. San Francisco was more of a cosmopolitan city, even in 1906.”

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The Society had done insufficient research on this. In 1906, top San Francisco politicians, labor unions, and the mayor were adamantly antioriental. At the center of this was a corrupt city administration that used in particular the fear of Japanese and oriental immigration to divert criticism from their own activities. When I brought this up, Gu replied, “Fortunately, Joy does not look Japanese.” I wondered how many Caucasians would make that distinction. Joy shrugged over the whole question. Gu added, “Anyway, it would be unwise even there for you to behave as a married couple. We thought of making Joy your servant, which the upper class and politicians you will be dealing with would immediately understand, but Joy would have none of it.” I looked at her and said laughingly, “Hey, that would be great.” “In your dreams,” she said, laughing also. Gu joined the laughter. “Your mother didn’t think it would fly, either,” she said. “The best solution to many problems you will have initially, including Joy’s lack of a good Asian girl’s deference to men, is the import and export company you will create. It will allow you to hire people from many countries. You’ll establish overseas contacts around the world, and Joy can be explained as your translator and assistant. If you need a formal title for Joy, you can make her your assistant for Asian trade. Those who get to know you two will make of your relationship what they will, given your similar ages and clear . . . friendship . . . but such relationships were not unheard of during that age.” With the date of our arrival settled, the Society started filling the supply capsules with what we would need so that they could send them as soon as possible, rather than wait for a time close to our departure date. Then they would be in 1906 and ready for us if we had to suddenly depart early. Joy and I studied the manners and customs of the time. Despite its importance in women’s fashions in 1906, she absolutely refused to wear a corset. At one point she said to Tor quite firmly, “Look, Mom, I will wear a long dress down to my shoes, and I’ll wear those ugly pointed shoes, pile my hair on top of my head, and wear a ridiculous hat. I will carry an umbrella to protect my delicate female skin from the awful sun. But, I will not wear a corset.” “Since you and John will often be seen together, they might think you are an Asian prostitute or concubine,” Tor said.

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“Especially with your stomach flopping around,” I stupidly added. Joy punched me in the shoulder and warned, “That is just a foretaste of what I’m gong to do to you later, when my mother is not here to restrain me.” Faking fear, I put my hands up and pulled back. Ignoring this, Joy asked me, “Would my not wearing a corset affect our mission?” “I don’t think so,” I said. “That’s an imponderable that could work either way. I suggest you dress the way you want.” And as her face lit up I added, “Within the parameters of the age.” And I couldn’t help adding, “Woman, you will have to show me the deference I merit as a male. It’s the custom of the time.” Joy scowled, and gave me raspberry. It was another of her looks. I decided to start tabulating them, just to keep track. I would need a huge spreadsheet.

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hree months of extensive training, the Society planned for me. Ha! What a laugh. In five incredibly short weeks, hardly enough time for me to learn which end of a rifle to shoot from—I didn’t, Joy would claim—the world ended. Abruptly. Forever. By then, Joy had worked on my basics enough to her utter frustration that she decided to try teaching me something different—specific techniques such as the “back elbow strike” and “circular knife-hand strike.” On that impossible day, she had thrown me on the mat for the thousandth time. I had just bounced up in an excellent position to make my butterfly kick when the gym phone rang, interrupting her laughter. It emitted two short, piercing beeps followed by one long one—the first two signaling an intrusion into the building, and the long beep instructing us to go to the room next to the time travel machine. Joy swallowed her laugh abruptly, looked at me with worried eyes to make sure I understood the alarm, and, posthaste, headed for the door with me an inch from her heels. We rushed down the hallway to the indicated room, and met Tor at its door. I was shocked at her appearance. The wrinkles in her face were now deep, obvious, and downcast; her eyes were wide and wet; her lips trembled. “I’m sorry, my dearest.” She spoke to Joy so quickly that her words ran together. “I wanted to give you such a send off that we would never forget. I’m sorry. You must leave now.” Tears began flowing down her cheeks. She swiftly brushed them away and fought to compose herself. She swallowed, took a fast breath, and battled her emotions to slow down her words. “The FBI has a warrant to search our building; they claim we’re hiding unregistered weapons here, and manufacturing dope. Our contact at FBI headquarters said that a fully armed SWAT team is on its way. They are really after our time machine. We will not fight them. So go. Go now!” Tears again streaked down her face. “Won’t they get the time machine equipment and specifications anyway?” I blurted, as though there was time for a question and answer session.

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“No,” Tor snapped, violently waving us into the room. “Everything will self-destruct the moment you land in the past.” Suddenly, banging and loud shouts echoed down the hallway. We rushed into the time machine room, which was really just a huge space with thick black cables snaking from one bulky machine to another. All this resembled the layout for the old-fashioned mainframe computers of the 1970s, except for the vault-like cubicle in the center and the recessed, glass-enclosed operating booths around the perimeter. In them, scientists stood behind their equipment consoles, frantically waving us into the cubicle. Inside it, we could see our time capsule with its small door open. Beyond that door lay darkness; a past world waiting for our entry. “Go, my dearest, go.” Tor pushed us, stumbling, across the cablestrewn floor toward the cubicle. At the open door of the capsule, I grabbed Tor by the shoulders and kissed her wet cheek. “Thanks,” I said, wanting to express what I felt so intensely in spite of my growing fear, “I will always remember you.” Then I rushed into the capsule to leave Joy her very last moment with her mother. They hugged each other tightly, swaying back and forth, Tor kissing Joy’s cheeks and forehead, smoothing her hair with one hand. Tor cried openly; Joy shook with sobs. The outer door flew open. Black-clad men wearing helmets and bulletproof vests rushed into the outer room, yelling, “Freeze! Nobody move!” They swung the muzzles of their rifles back and forth, covering the whole area. Tor threw her arms aside to release Joy from her hug. I reached out and grabbed Joy’s uwagi and jerked her into the capsule. “Goodbye, Mom, I will never forget you! I love you,” she screamed. Tor yelled, “Safe journey, my daughter,” and slammed the capsule door. Before it closed, I saw something fly into the capsule, but it was forgotten as I lunged to lock the door from the inside. A light went on in the capsule. Joy was leaning against the door, almost doubled over with wrenching sobs. I took hold of her shaking shoulders and gently guided her onto the capsule’s narrow seat. She sat with her head almost between her knees, sobbing into her cupped hands. Before I could seat myself, however, the capsule made a sound like a sports car starting up in first gear, pedal to the floor. I instinctively

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braced myself with my hands against the ceiling and one wall. The sound soon verged on being painful, and I knew, were we able to see outside, that we’d see the sun moving from west to east, the moon reversing its course, water running up the mountain streams, people walking backwards, cars extricating themselves from accidents, airplanes seeming to land tail first, rats shooting out of cat’s mouths as the cat leapt backwards and the rat scurried away in reverse, and lovers, their eyes blazing with desire, moving apart and putting on their clothes. All this, moving faster and faster until the day spun into night and then the days flickered by as light, dark, light, dark, and light dark lightdark, lightdarklightdark . . . light dark, light, dark, and the roar dropped to a whine and then gradually disappeared, just like a sports car coming to a slow stop. I now heard only Joy’s anguished weeping and my heart beating rapidly in my ears. We had arrived. Somewhere. Sometime. Except for my racing heart, I felt nothing amiss. I put my hands to my cheeks and rubbed my eyes. I felt my clothes and moved my toes. I hadn’t changed. I hadn’t turned into a lizard. I wondered if, in spite of the sound, the machine really hadn’t worked, that I had only imagined that it did, and we were still back in Silicone Valley with the FBI SWAT team waiting for us to open the door. I looked at Joy. She still had her face buried in her hands; her whole body shuddered with her sobs. I was about to console her and try to prepare her to face the guns that would be pointed at us upon opening the door, when I glanced at the display panel that recorded the reverse passage of time. I gaped at the words. San Francisco. November 14, 1906, 2:51 AM

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y God, spun out of my whirling thoughts. We have made it. Just like that. My breath hung in my throat. I unconsciously reached out and banged the display with my hand. It didn’t change. Holy shit, we’re really, really in the past. An oxygen supply fed into the capsule from a grate in the wall; this was good for thirty-six hours, in case of an unexpected delay. We also had water and synthetic food for five days, and a little workman’s toilet behind another door. The Society had tried to think of everything. They’d missed one thing, however—how the permanent separation from her mother would affect Joy. Joy had seemed so strong, so controlled, so certain, and so emotionally prepared that I could not believe the Joy I saw now. As cramped as the capsule was, I tried to kneel before her and hug her. I felt her pain, and Tor’s. I had gotten to know Tor and her profound love for her dead husband, and now Tor had just lost a daughter she loved no less. As a person, there were few who could match her commitment, her deep, abiding love, and her humanity. I, too, grieved over the loss of this amazing woman from my life. But my grief was infinitesimal compared to Joy’s. “I knew I . . . would lose her . . . forever,” she said between shuddering sobs. “I knew it would be worse . . . than . . . death between us. I prepared myself; I tried to cry the loss out beforehand, so I could do this cold. But, I . . . didn’t know. John, I didn’t know it would really feel like this!” Joy threw her arms about me and I held her tight, unsuccessfully trying to blink back the tears in my own eyes. I held her head to my chest; I stroked her back and caressed her head. I didn’t care for how long. We were in no hurry. My love for Joy deepened in the years that followed. There were many times when I felt very close to her, when she filled my heart to bursting with love for her. Yet, at that time, in the capsule when we first arrived, I felt a tenderness, a capacity for caring and gentleness that I’ve never again felt to such a degree. Gone from my mind were

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the steely look, the warrior, the hard-driving sensei—all those sides of her. Here she was simply a devastated young woman, a woman in emotional pain, my woman, my love. My own tears dripped off my chin and onto her head and shoulder. I cried at the loss of Tor from my own life, but mainly I cried for Joy. Her sobs gradually abated and she finally sat up, sniffled, pulled up my uwagi—still sweaty from our martial arts session—and wiped her face and eyes. She looked up at me and wiped away my own tears with her hand. “Okay, John,” she managed to say, “I’m okay now. We have arrived in . . . the New Universe . . . haven’t we?” “Yes,” I replied. “Are you ready to see it?” “Let’s go,” she said, and she pushed herself out of my arms and stood up. I reached over to the door, but my hand paused halfway. I’d just seen the locket lying on the floor. “Wait,” I said, and reached down and picked it up. I thought it was Tor’s locket, but then I realized that the gold chain was much finer, with delicate, interlocking links, and the locket itself was heart-shaped instead of oval. I handed it to her. “This must be for you.” Joy took it in both hands, held it to her heart, and then opened the locket. Inside, her smiling mother sent a kiss with her hand. On the other side was a group picture of the Society members, with her mother in the middle, and Gu standing next to her. She kissed both pictures, closed the locket, and put the chain around her neck. And started sobbing again. I held her, stroked her back and hair, and waited. She soon got control of herself, and this time used her own uwagi to wipe her red eyes. Then she looked at me with her chin up, though her eyes were still teary, and said in a firm voice, waving at the door, “Shall we?”

aaa I unlocked the door and opened it. It was dark outside, the only illumination the light from inside the capsule that spilled out onto a dirty wooden floor. I wrinkled my nose at the sudden smell of rotted and burnt wood mixed with a hint of ozone. Smoke from the San Francisco fire must have permeated these old buildings. The air felt heavy, as though weighed down with dust. I got the two flashlights that were hooked on the wall next to the display, handed one to Joy, and stepped out.

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“Here we are,” I said to Joy. “Shouldn’t we say something dramatic, like ‘One step for mankind’?” Her grieving eyes turned toward me. “You said it,” she said. “I said what?” “Something for the ages.” “What?” She was beginning to put her anguish behind her. I saw the barest hint of a grin at the corner of her mouth. “You said, ‘Here we are.’ That’s as dramatic as you get.” “Oh, yeah, “ I responded, feeling my own mood lightening, “those are words for the ages, aren’t they? Too bad they’ll never go into a new edition of The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations.” From details highlighted in the flashlight’s beam, I could see we were in the deserted warehouse we had targeted. As I moved the beam around I spotted much smaller capsules across the floor from us. “Thank God, the Society was able to send all the capsules before the emergency. Jesus, it would have been horrible without those supplies.” I shivered. I think it was from the chilly air. It was November, after all. As I continued shifting the light around, I caught sudden motion in one corner. I focused the beam there and saw small eyes reflecting back the light. Rats. Funny, with all the planning, no one had thought of rats greeting our arrival. Then I looked closer at the distant capsules and saw old, broken chairs, a table, rumpled blankets, and piles of clothes next to one of them. There were also empty boxes and various objects strewn about. Probably some stuff left here when the place was vacated, I thought. I barely whispered, “KK, testing,” to see whether our communicators worked. “Got you,” she whispered in return. “Great. We’ve got to get some sleep before dawn. If we keep using the flashlights, the light may spill outside through some opening and attract attention.” “Okay. KK,” she whispered in return, toggling the communicator off. I took Joy’s hand and we ambled over to the supply capsules. We had all the time in the world. The capsules were all color coded, so we knew which ones to look for to get warm blankets, a little tent, and an air mattress—all sent to us for our first nights here. I punched in the proper code to unlock the capsule door, then I reached inside to switch off the hidden self-destruct device before it got to its ten second limit

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and activated. We pulled out what we needed, and I set up the small tent to keep the rats away from us. I put two blankets inside along with the air mattress, and tugged the tab that inflated it. I pulled Joy inside the tent and down onto the mattress beside me. She snuggled against me, and finally said, “Hello, my dearest. Here we are.” “Here we are sweetheart, to use those most memorable words for the ages again.” I heard scurrying sounds in the warehouse, and muffled clanking from outside. I knew from my study of the old San Francisco maps that nearby Hooper Street connected with busy 7th Avenue. It led north to Market Street, and from streets leading off it to the city’s devastated market and financial centers now under reconstruction. Maybe farmers were starting to bring their produce to the markets before they opened. The sounds helped me grasp this new reality, as did the smell and uncomfortable feel to the air. We were in 1906. Here, in San Francisco. In 1906. I pinched myself, and it hurt. I smelled my underarms and they stunk from sweat. I wasn’t dreaming. This had to be real. But I still couldn’t believe it. I’ll have to go along with this fantasy, I told myself, and see what happens. Joy had been deep in her own thoughts. Her brow furrowed with sudden worry, she broke into mine to ask, “What do you think happened to my mother and the others?” I rested my hand on her shoulder and squeezed it tenderly to give her reassurance. “From what I know, there were no illegal drugs in the building and no weapons other than the registered ones we used for training. The Society suspected this might happen. Remember? After the Society loaded and sent the supply capsules, they would have removed from the building or destroyed anything illegal or questionable. The FBI will find nothing incriminating. It’s not illegal for the Society to destroy its own equipment, such as the time machine and everything associated with it.” “So you think they’re okay?” she asked, her lower lip beginning to tremble. I nodded, took her chin in my fingers, and tilted her head so I could peer directly into her eyes. “I’d guess that, within twenty-four hours, they will have a hundred lawyers—no, a thousand—working on taking the government to court on this, and fighting any arrests. Not even the Justice Department—especially with all the demands on its budget— can match the single-minded application of resources that the Society

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has at its disposal. It would make the suit against Microsoft by the Justice Department look like a suit against a Mom and Pop corner store. So don’t worry, honey. Tor, Gu, and all the others will do fine.” Joy took my hand from her chin and held it in both of hers for a moment while looking at me. Her face had firmed, but her eyes now held a deeper sadness. She idly caressed the back of my hand and said softly, her words almost floating in the heavy, still air, “It is so sad that they will never know whether we were successful or not. All that planning, all that preparation, all that wealth, all that hope, all that dedication and love, and they will never know. My mom will never know. She will never know whether I lived or died. That’s worse than knowing I had died.” Her eyes were wet again and she was choking up. I gently caressed her cheeks with the back of my fingers. Even as focused as I was on her sadness, I felt pleasure at the smooth feel of her warm skin, and her scent. She’d never worn perfume again, after her mother’s dinner party. No need. She had reeled me in, gaffed me, and hauled me into her boat. I hadn’t even flopped around or gasped for air. I happily accepted my capture. She didn’t need perfume anyway. When we were close, I discovered she had her own arousing, womanly aroma. I was still focused, but only with the right side of my brain. As usual, my logical and rational left side was paralyzed around Joy. I moved to rub her back, and pointed out, my right brain speaking, “Neither will the people here in this New Universe ever know what they missed. We will succeed, you know. Our mission will be successful.” I had to pump her up. But now that we were here, actually in the past, I didn’t believe it. At all. Awed by the strange warehouse, the new smell of history, the sleeping presence outside of San Francisco of old, and by the immeasurably huge, global mission we were about to undertake, I thought we would fail miserably and soon be dead trying. I began to shiver again and this time I knew it was not from the air. I hastily removed my hand from Joy, and finally said in a low voice that surprised me with its steadiness, “Well, it’s up to us now to do a good job.” Joy nodded, but I saw that her eyes were falling closed. Only one small tear had escaped. My eyelids felt heavy, too. Although our body clocks, tuned to the world we’d left, would put us at late afternoon, we were emotionally exhausted. I lifted one end of the blanket and covered both of us, then left my arm around Joy. I buried my head in her hair, breathing in its life. I let my eyelids fall shut. As I drifted off, my last

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thought was, I’m going to wake up safe and sound in Bloomington, Indiana. Joy, my wife and former student, will be making breakfast, and I’ll have to eat hurriedly to make my classes. Soon, we both slept. The world was about to change, radically, irrevocably, forever. And we both with it.

Chapter 21

I

would never have guessed what the new day of this New Universe would bring. I woke with a start. I felt Joy snuggled into my shoulder, her arm around my arm, her leg tightly wrapped around my leg. I raised my head and looked around. We were in a tent, and dim light showed through the tent opening. Yes. By God. We were in a tent! No. It can’t be. I must have dreamed it. We can’t be here. I slowly unwound myself from Joy and she murmured something without waking up. I let her sleep while I crept out of the tent and looked around. The light was filtering through broken boards and holes in the upper reaches of the warehouse to fall in bars over the roof of our tent. There, over to one side was our time capsule, and near the tent were the supply capsules. God damn, we actually are here. It was not a dream. Stunned by the truth of this, I sat down on the dirty floor and looked from tent to capsules to time machine and back. Well, so we’re here. Now what? We have the world before us, a world to revolutionize, and how do I start? I guess the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. Hey, maybe in this new world people will remember that as one of my originals. I glanced at my watch. It was still set on the Old Universe’s time. I’d have to check our capsule to see what time it was here, now. Then I remembered. My Omega watch was too advanced for this age—men didn’t even wear wristwatches. They considered them sissy. I took the first step of our new life. And a second. A third. See, it’s easy. Only 997 steps to go, I thought when I stood before our supply capsule. We had left it open. I consulted the diagram on the inside of the door, then searched the capsule for toiletries, some clothes for me, and other personal stuff. I found my 1905 Hamilton pocket watch on a 14-karat solid gold chain, wound it up, and changed the time to match that on the capsule’s time locator panel.

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There was so much to do just to fit into this age, I knew, and we had so much time to do it in—years before we embarked on the activities and murders that would put us at risk—that I let my mind wander. I felt dirty; I still had on my clothes from our training session. I wanted to shower. I understood, however, that people never bathed here more than once a week or two, and some just once a month. Bathing was more work here than it had been in my Old Universe. There would rarely be running hot water available. Possibly we would have to heat pots of hot water over a wood burning range, and then pour a pot at a time into a cast iron tub. I sighed and shrugged. If we smelled, it would hardly draw attention. Except from Joy. She always sniffed my shirts and said, “It smells. Change your shirt,” or simply, “You smell.” I kept telling her, “Me man. Me smell.” And she would respond, “Me woman. Take a bath, and we’ll see how manly you are. Not before.” There in the warehouse, I looked through my new 1906 wardrobe. The Society had put much thought into how we should dress before we became publicly rich and successful. They’d decided that lower middle-class would probably draw the least attention. So, soon enough, I had out a blue Irish wool sweater, wool dickey, cassimere pants, and a golf cap—much the contemporary rage—that would identify me as just above the working class. As I got into my trousers, I heard a door squeak open, and a ray of sunlight fell across the floor. I froze. Three young men sauntered in the side door, carrying boxes in their hands. They immediately saw me. They stopped, talked excitedly among themselves for several seconds, then slowly swaggered toward me, the biggest of them in the lead. “Hey,” he said when he was about ten feet away, “who are you? Whatcha doing in our building?” Then one of the others pointed to the open door on the capsule, and exclaimed, “Look, he got it open. How’d he do that?” He turned a speculative eye on me. “We tried everything. Not even a sledge hammer would make a dent in it.” “What’s inside?” the big man asked, and strode towards the capsule. Before he reached the opening, I slammed the capsule door shut. “What’s the big idea?” he yelled, and motioned the other two to circle to either side of me.

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They had paid no attention to the tent, but Joy had been awakened by the voices and surely guessed what was going on. She stuck her head out of the tent with a friendly greeting: “Hi guys, want to have some fun?” She spoke seductively. Oh boy, I’m going to enjoy this, I thought. Joy’s hair was tussled, much of it hanging across her face in strands, and she still had on her martial arts practice clothes. Even so, she looked beautiful, and all three of the men stopped dead to stare at her. “What have we here?” the big man drawled. “You’ve been having a good time, eh?” He leered at me. “Come on, boys.” Joy motioned to them. “I’m yours. Who’s first?” She scrambled out of the tent, stood up, and shoved her locket inside her uwagi. Then she spread and slightly bent her legs, the left one forward. She sought the perfect balance with her toes and let her hands hang loosely on her sides. This was new. I had not seen this ready stance in our practice sessions. Now, though, she was deadly serious, and not about to give any warning by taking a more conventional stance. All three of the men converged on her, the big one a little in front, his arms reaching for her. When they were about five feet away, Joy moved. In one swift, continuous motion, she stepped toward the one on her right and chopped his temple, and as he went down headfirst, she pivoted on her left foot and swung her right foot up into the throat of the big man; and with her back thus partly turned to the man on the left, she chopped backward into his groin. Three seconds. Maybe less. I was awed. I had never seen her in serious action before. The three men writhed on the ground, groaning. One lay doubled over with both hands on his groin. The big one made strangled noises and his mouth gaped open like that of a goldfish as he tried to catch his breath. The third one held his head. Blood trickled from his nose. “Now, will you guys behave?” Joy asked pleasantly, brushing her hair back with her hand. By way of an answer, the one with the bleeding nose yelled, “Bitch.” He slid a knife from his sock, jumped to his feet, and lunged for Joy, swinging the knife in an upward thrust. I had been enjoying the entertainment, but when I saw the knife I tried to body block the man from the side. I was too far away, and missed. I did a shoulder roll off the floor to a crouching ready position, as Joy had taught me. I needn’t have bothered.

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Joy simply waited until the thrusting knife almost reached her, then swept it to the side with a left handed swipe block, and with a front snap kick she knocked him to the floor. As he snarled at her and tried to get up with the knife, she chopped his wrist, forcing him to drop it. She swiftly moved around him, straddled his back, grabbed the wrist she had chopped, and twisted it way up behind his back. She grasped his thumb and bent it toward his abused wrist until he screamed. “Give up?” Joy asked nicely. “Bitch,” he snarled again. “Say that again and I will break your thumb and wrist. Now, give up?” The man muttered something in Spanish. Joy applied more pressure. He screeched, “Si, okay, okay!” The two other men on the floor had not made a move. They watched the whole episode, eyes huge, mouths gaping open. The smaller of the two licked his lips. “Jesus, who are you?” the big man said in a strangled voice. Joy let up on the knife wielder’s thumb, but still held his arm behind him as he stood up. She pushed him over to the two men on the floor as she released him and said sweetly, “Join your friends.” He had no choice.

aaa As Joy watched over them, I retrieved a rope from one of the capsules. I cut the rope into short sections with the knife that had ended up on the floor, and loosely tied the hands of the three guys behind them, and their feet together. We had a little struggle with the one she had kicked in the groin. He was still doubled over and refused to remove his hands from his groin, but we finally persuaded him to let us sit him up and tie his hands behind his back. I could see that they were getting even more scared. One of them finally asked, “What are you going to do with us?” “Well now,” I said, “that depends on you, doesn’t it? We can kill you. We can cut your tongues out and let you die here from starvation and thirst. Or, you can cooperate with us and tell us about yourselves. If we think you’re lying, we can inflict a little pain. My assistant, here, loves to do that to men, don’t you?” I cocked a brow at Joy, and handed the knife to her.

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“Yes,” she said, and demonstrated by gliding over and pressing the point of the knife against the big guy’s crotch, “and this is my favorite spot.” A horrified expression flashed across the man’s face, and he tried to squirm backwards. My God, I thought, you have as many sides as a diamond. Aloud I said, “Tell us, men, one at a time. Who are you and what are you doing here?” The one Joy had chopped in the groin seemed to be in less pain. He responded first. “I’m Dolphy Docker. I’ve been out of work since the fire. So many horses died that nobody needs a stableman anymore. My mother died from something she caught during the fire. I got no father. He left my mother when I was four years old.” “Dolphy? What kind of name is that?” “My friends call me that. I don’t like people using my first name.” “Which is?” I prompted. “Adolph,” he muttered. “Where were your parents from?” “Germany.” “Sie sprechen Deutsch—you speak German?” “Ja,” he responded in German, “my mother hardly knew any English.” “What part of Germany?” I asked in German. “Munich.” “How old are you?” “Neunzehn—Nineteen,” he replied. I returned to English. “What are you doing in our warehouse?” He looked surprised. “You own this?” “Yes,” I said. It was only a partial lie, since we would be buying the building. “We live here.” His gaze wandered to the capsules. “What are those things?” he asked, nodding to the capsules. “We import and export goods, and those are where we store them. They are constructed to be extremely strong, so that people like you can’t get into them.” Dolphy looked satisfied with that. I turned to the big man. “Your turn,” I said. His throat was still hurting him, but he eyed me belligerently and croaked faintly, “Who is that Chink?” He indicated Joy by tipping his head towards her, eyes still on me.

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Not for the first time, I saw Joy angry. Her eyes glittered dangerously, and I’d seen that look before, directed at me. I held up my hand to her to forestall whatever she had in mind, not that it would make much difference. “You know,” I said to the fellow, “you just called this young assistant of mine a bad name.” “She is a Chink, isn’t she?” “No. To you, she is Miss Phim. Let me hear you ask the question properly.” He began to look stubborn, and then he stared at the knife Joy moved through the air in a little circle, its point toward him. She glared malevolently as though eager to emasculate him. “Who is that . . . Miss . . . Phim?” he stammered, eyes still on the tip of the knife. “Very good. She is my translator and assistant. Now you will say, ‘Nice to meet you, Miss Phim.’” His friends were smirking. He scowled up at me, shot a look back at Joy and the knife, and finally growled, “Nice to meet you . . . Miss Phim.” Joy bowed slightly and responded sweetly, “My pleasure.” “Why are you dressed like a boy?” he asked her, curiosity obviously overcoming any prejudices. I answered before she could respond. “I work my assistants. She sometimes has to carry or load boxes, and she can do so more easily dressed like that. Okay, tell us about yourself.” “Alex Reeves. My friends call me Hands because I’m good at catching a baseball. I played for the San Francisco Seals as a catcher, you know. It’s a minor-league team in the Pacific Coast League, but I would have made the big leagues if I hadn’t broken my arm when a horse threw me. It didn’t set right. Had to give up baseball, but that’s all I know. No more jobs here for people like me.” “Can’t your parents help you?” I asked. “You kidding?” He chuckled sardonically. “They’re in Chicago. They were always beating me up. When I was thirteen I ran away from home, and rode the rails to here.” “Where were your parents from?” I asked. “My father was part Cherokee. My mother? I don’t know. She never talked about it.” Then, anticipating me, he said, “I’m twentytwo”

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I turned to the third fellow, the knife wielder, whose nose had stopped bleeding. Blood glittered in his little mustache, and he was developing a greenish-blue bruise on his temple over one beady eye, which still watered. He had a long, thin face that matched the rest of him. His black hair, which had been neatly slicked back when he entered the warehouse, had fallen forward over his forehead in one long clump. “My name is Sal Garcia,” he supplied quickly. “I live with my uncle. My family is from Mexico.” “Your uncle? What about your parents?” “My mother was a whore, okay?” he said defensively. “She got sick and died when I was eight, and I don’t know who my father was. I was born here in a cardboard box; my uncle told me. I do odd jobs. Got something you want done, you see me. You understand?” “Yes,” I said. “You speak Spanish?” “Sí—Yes,” and he added in Spanish, “I am twenty years old.” “You fellows relax now,” I said. “Don’t go anywhere. My assistant and I need to talk.”

aaa We walked over to one of the capsules, out of earshot. “We have three choices,” I said. “We can kill them. We can let them go free but try to frighten them into silence about this warehouse and us, first. Or we can hire them.” I added, “Now, clearly, we can’t trust them.” Then I insisted, “But killing them is really not an option, either. If we start killing helpless young men, then we are on a slippery slide. You know how I feel about this. We’ll be killing enough people as it is. And please, none of your warrior cr . . . stuff, okay?” Joy opened her eyes wide in astonishment, and then narrowed them and pursed her lips, and I thought we were going to have another argument about it. She was insulted. “John—” Oh, oh, I thought. When she starts with ‘John,’ it’s bad. “Do you really think my warrior code would dictate murdering these helpless young men? Is that what you think of me? Even if they were a risk to our mission, do you think I would murder them? And how? Stomp over and slice off their heads with a samurai sword?” She folded her arms across her chest, stuck her chin out, and her glare turned to molten steel. “We don’t have a samurai sword.”

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“John!” I was wrong and I was really sorry. “I’m wrong and I’m really sorry, sweetheart. I know you wouldn’t murder them. It’s just that the knowledge that you’re a warrior sometimes short-circuits my mind.” I took her hand. “You are a very honorable woman and I love that as a part of you.” She looked at me, the lines of her face shifted, and her eyes began to sparkle. I could see the molten steel flowing away. She squeezed my hand. I wisely moved on. “Two of these guys speak a second language, and the big one looks useful. I’d like to hire them, but we really can’t trust them, can we?” I looked back at the guys, and added, “I have an idea. Laurent gave us a variety of drugs, medicine, and medical solutions. We can inject them with a harmless saline solution, and then tell them it’s a slow-acting poison that lodges in their thyroid and, to prevent it from finally killing them, they need a pill once every month. No pill, they die. We can make the pill one of our vitamins. Vitamin C should be harmless enough.” “Clever,” Joy said, now relaxed enough to banter. “Did you think of that yourself?” “My usual brilliance,” I responded, smiling. “One thing, though. Since they will look on me as the boss—which I am,” I grinned at her sudden frown, “I can’t let them think I’m weaker than you. I’ve got to challenge them. This is a manly thing, especially during this age.” My grin widened. “You stand back and don’t interfere. Do I have to tie you down to assure that?” Joy laughed. “You’re on your own, big boy.” She headed for the capsule that contained our medical supplies, while I retrieved some of our counterfeit pre-1906 American currency. Soon, she came back with three syringes and antiseptic pads, and I had a pocket full of fake money. We walked over to the three men, who had been closely watching us. I stood in front of them, hands behind my back, back straight, rocking slightly back and forth. I had a mental image of a drill sergeant I had seen in some movie. I narrowed my eyes, pursed my lips, and looked at each of them one by one. That put them in their place. Having established the scene, I snarled, “Now, we want to keep everything here a secret, and that makes what we should do with you three a difficult question. We can kill you.”

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At that, the guys looked at Joy, who still held the knife. Dolphy began to shake, and opened his mouth to plead with me, but I held up my hand toward Joy as though warning back an attack dog, and switched to a normal voice. “Or, we can hire you. We need workers. Our business used to be in New York, and we are new to San Francisco. Will you work for us?” “Yes,” Hands said immediately. “How much we get paid?” asked Sal. Ed Wilson, the Society’s banker, had carefully looked into all aspects of the 1906 economy, and especially that on the West Coast. He’d told me that the average wage per week was about thirteen dollars. “We start you off at two dollars per day,” I replied. “And we want you to start today.” Hands asked, “How many hours a week? Fifty-five? Sixty?” “No, eight hours a day, five days a week,” I said, as I broke out of my stance, took out my roll of bills, and flipped off the fake money. “Here is your day’s pay.” I laid two dollars in front of each of them, and then stepped back. “Okay?” Hands said “Yes” again, and Sal said, “Sí.” “Wow,” Dolphy said, that’s a good wage for so few hours.” I at first thought he was sarcastic, and then recalled from Ed’s briefing that the average worker labored 59 hours a week. Moving on, I pointed to Joy and said, “You are now working for me. As our new workers, you will allow Miss Phim to give each of you an inoculation. I untied their hands, and as they rubbed their wrists I commanded, “Take off your coats and shirts and bare your left shoulder.” After they did so with some difficulty, their ankles still being tied, Joy stepped over, handed me the knife, and approached the young men. She swabbed their shoulders with antiseptic, and injected each with the saline solution, pausing to clean off the needle with alcohol each time. Although the guys looked concerned as they watched what she did, they didn’t resist. “What is this for?” Hands asked. Returning to my stance, I answered, “You can hardly expect us to trust you until we get to know you, right? You might take off with our costly imports when we’re not looking, and spread the word about what we have here. So . . . ” I let that hang there for a few moments while rocking on my feet. Then I continued. “We have given you a very slowacting poison. It will kill you unless we give you an antidote in one

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month. Until we can trust you, each antidote will also contain a new infusion of the poison.” This is silly, I thought, but what do they know? “Until we can trust you fully, you will have to come to Miss Phim or me every month for your antidote. This is a secret poison from China, so don’t think you can find a doctor here who will have an antidote.” I stopped and smiled at them. They looked sick. Sal rubbed at the injection site. “Why did you do this? We did nothing to you.” “Didn’t you try to knife my assistant?” I reminded him. Raising my voice, I added, “Haven’t you been using my warehouse and perhaps stealing things to bring here? Our trust will have to be earned.” I looked at them expectantly. “Any questions about the poison?” They just stared at me. Dolphy looked as though he wanted to vomit. Now I had one more thing to do with them.

aaa “Untie their feet,” I ordered Joy, which earned a surreptitious evileye glance from her as she walked over with the knife and cut off the ropes. They rose shakily to their feet. “I want you to do a few exercises to get your blood moving and stretch your muscles. Now, remember, you are working for me. So do what I say, which is to do as I do.” I bent over and touched my toes, did some jumping jacks and several other exercises, until I felt that they’d had enough and could not complain that they weren’t ready. I took out a counterfeit one hundred dollar bill and waved it in front of them. They gawked at it. They’d probably never seen a bill that large before. I placed it on the floor between my feet and said, “The first one of you that picks up that bill can keep it. But, you’ve got to get past me first.” “KK. John, what are you doing?” Joy whispered over our communicator. “Don’t you dare interfere,” I whispered into the communicator. At that moment, all three of the guys lunged for the bill between my feet. The training Joy had given me immediately kicked in. Time

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slowed down. It was almost as though I were play-acting as I kicked Dolphy in the groin, causing him to double up, and almost simultaneously ducked inside Sal’s reaching arm, grabbed his shirt with one hand and yanked him to me while stepping to the right to trip him; he fell headfirst away from me as Hands, who had hung back until he saw me occupied with the other two, threw himself headlong at the money, as though he was sliding into home base; and I kicked back with the foot I’d used to trip Sal and connected with Hand’s outstretched right arm, knocking it away, and he twisted and landed on his shoulder. I grabbed his outflung left arm with both hands and twisted it behind his back and up. I held it there for a minute, and then released it, pushing Hands away. With a flourish I couldn’t help, I reached underneath my foot for the bill. I waved the bill at the three sprawled on the floor, and warned, “I could have killed each of you, but I went lightly so as not to injure you. Do you now understand what I mean when I say I’m your boss?” Gripping or rubbing their painful spots, they grimaced and glowered, but nodded.

aaa I looked at my pocket watch and saw that it was mid-morning. “Okay, fellows,” I said, “Now you start earning your income. We have a lot of things to do and you can help us. But first, we have to get into some decent clothes. Relax for a few minutes.” Joy and I retrieved the toiletry bags that the Society had thoughtfully prepared for us. I was already dressed, but she said, “You going like that? Given what we will be doing, shouldn’t you look a little more respectable?” I frowned at her for a moment, but my clothing sheriff had spoken. Only because I knew she had good clothes sense, I chose a new set of clothes from the selection in the supply capsule. As for Joy, she might well be arrested, were she to appear on the streets in her uwagi and hakama. We went behind the capsule to dress. I changed into all-wool, gray hairline pants, black boots, and a longsleeved white cotton shirt with a bow tie. I covered it with a diagonallyworsted blue coat and a cocky looking Fedora. I looked into the two by three foot mirror we took out of the capsule, and smiled at myself. Hey, hey, I thought, these clothes don’t look bad at all.

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But apparently Joy didn’t agree. As we dressed she kept chuckling at the way I looked, and seemed to be holding back outright laughter. When I finished I watched her dress. She put on what was called a “lady’s white satin waist,” really a shirt with wide collars held tight at the throat with an imitation silk bow. She tucked the waist into a blue, mixed cotton and wool “short lady’s walking skirt” that fell to her ankles and had a flounced bottom. She held the shoes that she had to wear out to me and said, “Look at these stupid, awful, pointed, flat-heeled shoes.” She looked disgusted when she put them on. She also undid her ponytail and, using a million pins, redid her hair into a large, stylish bun on top of her head. I could tell she hated it. She glowered at what she had to do to her beautiful hair. As she put on a lady’s cloth cape, she looked at me and said, “You know, I’m astounded that the total cost of all these upper or middle class clothes would be about six dollars.” Waiting for the right moment, I said not a word as I held a mirror for Joy. She straightened out her clothes and added the final touch. The hat was a towering affair, a so-called lawn hat, with a wide brim, lace, bows, and imitation flower buds and blossoms. I still said not a word. She took the hat off and asked me to hold her 1906 cosmetics bag while she put on a touch of rouge and powder, the current fashion, and lipstick. It wasn’t easy holding both the mirror and cosmetics bag out to her, but I said not a word. Finally she was satisfied, and my patience was rewarded. She donned the hat again, and asked me, “How do I look?” Now, I’m no braver than the next man, and I knew what this warrior princess could do to me. And she had let me know in the past that there was a line I couldn’t cross without endangering life and limb or experiencing what life at the North Pole would be like. But we were in a new world, a new time, and I felt adventurous. What the hell? I looked her slowly up and down and then stared at her stomach. “Where’s your corset? You don’t want your stomach bouncing indecently around, do you?” I swear I kept a straight face. Joy stared at me, her eyebrows lodged at her hairline, her eyes incredulous, her mouth puckered into an O. She couldn’t have been more surprised, had I peed on her foot. Finally she tilted her head to look at me out of the side of her almond eyes. The top-heavy hat, none too stable even flat on her head, almost slid off. She had to put up her hand to steady it.

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It was all too much. Her expression of disbelief, her hat sitting crookedly atop her huge bun, and her very prim blouse and cape gathered tight her throat—well, I let out a huge guffaw, which then broke into uncontrollable chuckling. Joy grabbed her hat and hit me with it, knocking off some buds and beads, and then punched me hard in the shoulder. Wagging her finger, she said, “One more comment like that, mister, and you’ll have to cut a hole in your hat to eat.” Then, lucky for me, she smiled, chuckled, then joined me in stomach shaking laughter. I lived through it. We were almost ready. Joy took out of the capsule a Ladies’ open face chatelain watch, put it in her purse, and helped me put the mirror and other stuff away. We nonchalantly stepped from behind the capsule and strolled over to the guys, the afterglow of our laughter still on our faces. We had no idea what they thought from the snatches of our conversation and laughter they may have heard. Nor did we give any thought to what was most intriguing to them—we had dressed in front of each other. As we approached the guys, they wouldn’t take their eyes off Joy. Finally she had to wave her hand in front of them and say, “Hello, there. Is my ankle showing?” The three got red, and Hands stuttered, “You’re beautiful.” “Thanks,” Joy responded, and started to say, “that’s nice . . .” when I interrupted. “Let’s go, shall we?” I was happy to have Joy as my partner and lover, of course, but she created problems that could interfere with our mission. She knew she was beautiful and used it like a carpenter uses his saw. She had used it on me, and that was one reason I was here. But jealousy and lust can overcome us all, and I’m afraid she seldom took into account the repercussions of her teasing men. Her martial arts skills and knowledge of weapons made her too confident that she could handle any situation her beauty or her use of it created. It would cause much trouble between us.

aaa These young men we hired were actually a lucky break for us. They knew their way around San Francisco. The Society had given us a detailed map of 1906 San Francisco, including areas destroyed by the earthquake and fire. But the guys knew San Francisco’s streets and cul-

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tures in a way that no map could show. Between them and our map, we should easily find the addresses of the real estate firm and the court handling the warehouse, I thought. We all left the warehouse together. I was immediately struck by the smell of manure on 8th Street that fronted our building and Hooper Street nearby. The air thrummed with the buzzing of flies. The street was a rutted, pot-holed, gravel street, lined with all kinds of tall poles supporting wire upon wire, some hanging in loose loops, others bundled around cables, all obscuring the sky. The wires presumably carried telephone messages and electricity. There were no automobiles or trucks on the street at the moment, only men on horseback and horse-drawn carriages, loaded farm wagons, surreys, and carts. There were a few bicycles. Not a woman was in sight. I pointed this out to Joy. “Look, no women around. Must all be in their place at home.” She refused to acknowledge my comment. No sense of humor. In some places a wooden boardwalk, raised about six inches, ran along the side of the road, but here and there the boards were missing or had rotted through, their remains sticking out of the hole they’d left. Pedestrians walked at their own risk, it seemed. From the moment we left the warehouse, we were at the mercy of our new employees. They asked if we wanted to pay for a ride, to which we readily agreed. Dolphy went out into the road and stopped a blue horse-drawn buggy painted with green stripes. At a word from Dolphy, the driver waved all of us into the buggy. Apparently, it was a taxi. I got in next to Joy and sat down with no sense of relief. We were here. This was our first day. We had our first three employees. We were on our way. And already fear lay heavy on my stomach.

Chapter 22

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ot until the summer of 1908 would the time be ripe for our first intervention and, if Joy had her way, murders. She had a nicer term for that—just executions. As I’ve said before, I never really accepted it. Murder is murder, whatever whipped cream topping is put on it. We thus had two years to learn more about each other and prepare for our mission, for my fear of Joy’s death or my own to fester, and to learn even more about each other. The first thing we had to do was start our company. We had our fake incorporation documents for the Tor Import & Export Company of New York, and it proved no problem to open up a “branch” in San Francisco. When someone asked Joy what “Tor” meant, she claimed it was the name of the originator of the company. We bought the warehouse with cash, no questions asked. The Society had also studied San Francisco brokerage houses and found the best of them—Leman Brothers. We opened an account with them and, using the old The Wall Street Journal stock reports the Society had put on a CD for us, we were soon bringing in large sums. At one point, the brokerage house even wanted to contract me as a stock adviser, but I told them it was a matter of luck that would surely turn on me eventually. I started doing just that, purposely making a few poor choices so that, while on balance our account continued to grow sharply, we also showed large losses now and then. We groomed our three new employees in the business of exporting and importing goods, and as their experience and confidence grew, we put each in charge of trade with a particular region. Understandably, Sal became our South American man; Dolphy, our European one. By 1908 we had a large, well-run company with 430 employees and, on paper, fourteen million dollars in assets. This did not count the huge hidden reserve we had brought with us from the Old Universe. We would not let that lie idle for long. Oh yes, about the poison pills we were supposedly giving our first three employees. After a year with us, they had become prosperous in

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their own right. We had grown to trust them. When we gave them their final antidote, we told them that it was the last one they needed. We’d built up an executive staff that could competently run the company in our absence when we did our work abroad. We developed many contacts in almost every major country in the world. In this age, long distance communication was difficult. The telephone had not yet spread widely in most of the world, nor was intercontinental telephone conversation possible. There was the telegraph, but it was often best to travel to make contacts and speak with them in person. We became world travelers. The only way to travel any distance was by ship and train. Not even the automobile had much of a presence yet in San Francisco. There were only about eleven thousand in the whole country. In our first month, however, for about 3,000 dollars, we bought a new Ford Model K. “Wow!”, I exclaimed, as we drove away. “For this money we get six cylinders and a 40-horse engine that will drive this delight to a max of 35 miles per hour. Fantastic. And for only about 60,000 in year 2002 dollars. Joy yelled above the noisy rattle of the car, “Don’t forget, we also got the options—canvas top and headlamps—for our money.” We, rather Joy I should say, discovered the delight of bouncing around in the Ford and honking the horse-drawn buggies out of the way. She was a wild driver and sometimes had me bracing myself as best I could so I wouldn’t be thrown out. Her greatest glee came when accelerating the Ford to its maximum speed of an incredible thirty-five miles on level streets. Now, the gas tank was under the seat, and gas flowed to the engine by gravity. So, the engine would run out of gas going up a steep hill. No problem. Joy would back up as fast as the Ford would crawl up some hill, top it and turn about, and scream “Whoopee!” as we flew down the other side popping backfires and enveloped in gas fumes. One of her favorite hills was on Nineteenth Avenue. She would race down it to Sloat Boulevard bouncing back and forth over ruts and potholes; or zigzag down another favorite, Vermont Street; or even down that stretch of Filbert that was one of the steepest in the city with a near 32 percent grade. “You’re going to destroy the Ford,” I would yell, gripping the windshield and the folded canvas top and curling my toes in my shoes. “So, we buy another one,” she’d holler back as we approached another hill.

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She wore out three sets of brakes and eight tires in six months. I was surprised she used the brakes at all. During these early years, Joy and I were usually together, even when we had to establish a contact or office in another country. My love for her continued to grow as I came to know and fully appreciate her inner self. After all, I had known her for less than two months when we’d suddenly had to flee the Old Universe. I came to appreciate her warmth, her wit, and her delightful femininity, and I could live with her temper, fastidiousness, bossiness, obsession with jewelry, and her exploitation of her beauty. I believe she came to love me more as well, as she got to know me better and—ahem—saw my perfection. We fought frequently during our first months here, as we had to adjust to this primitive life and to each other. Partly due to the almost lifelong martial arts training Joy had received, she handled big problems with calm and assurance. If San Francisco were to experience another disaster, I’m sure that she would calmly do what was necessary to live through it and help others. If she were tied to a stake and a fire lit under her feet, she would no doubt look inside herself to her core, or whatever her sensei called that essence, and go serenely to her death. But if I spilled a bottle of milk, she became stratospheric about my clumsiness, demanding, “Can’t you be more careful?” and bouncing things around in our office, kitchen, or wherever for half a day. I gather that her warrior training never encompassed how to handle minor irritations. Perhaps there was no room inside a warrior’s core for such trivial things. Simply put, she was intolerant of the minor mistakes and errors people commonly make, which made her a bad teacher, a sensitive topic I’ve mentioned once and will return to later. For now, describing the time I left the toilet seat up should demonstrate her intolerance. Aside from teaching me karate and judo tricks, she seldom used her skills on me. But when she didn’t turn the light on when she had to pee early one morning and landed deep in the toilet, backside first, her sensei-student code of ethics went out the window. Now, these old-fashioned toilets were big and deep. I’m sure she must have looked like somebody that fell ass first in a garbage can, with legs, arms, and head sticking out. Oh, for the photo. After she managed to extricate herself and wash her bottom, she stormed into the bedroom and angrily woke me up. “Damn it, John, you left the toilet seat up!” she screeched. I was reasonable about it, as I could take such a minor irritation, and calmly asked her, “Don’t you look? And why are you letting such a little thing make you angry? You should learn to control yourself.”

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“You bastard,” Joy hissed, and pulled me out of the bed. Although I tried to scuttle away (I didn’t want to risk hurting her), she grabbed my arm, got under me, and threw me hard onto the bed. Then she stomped out. She didn’t sleep with me for two nights after that. I knew that she had forgiven me, however, when she cooked pork chops and mashed potatoes for dinner. She preferred Chinese and Japanese food, and always rice. That she would make me mashed potatoes was her hint that all was well again. I hasten to add that I’m not trying to run Joy down. With all her skills and beauty, these very faults were what made her human and a woman I could partner and live with. Who can live with a person who is a constant reminder of how imperfect one is? In part I think I loved her because this human side balanced her heart-stopping beauty and superb warrior skills. Anyway, small things never bothered me. I never complained when Joy left the lights on, the radio blaring, the cap off the toothpaste, or charred my toast. If she had a headache when I was romantic, I could deal with it. It was the big things that got to me, worried me, and left me biting my nails or inner cheek while Joy took our mission and plans with equanimity. I don’t think I spent a really calm day in this new universe from the time we arrived. Even after all our talk and planning, even after all her logical reasoning, I could not accept the idea of murdering people. But I knew I would go through with it. I had to. That, in part, was why I was here. That was why the Society sent us. I had no idea then of the horror that would eventually destroy us because if it.

aaa As our Tor Import & Export Company grew, we naturally became a source of much gossip. We were unmarried and never seen in public alone with others of the opposite sex. People soon assumed that we were intimate, engaged, or deadly dull workaholics who could tolerate no one but each other. One rumor we both heard was that Joy had gained control over me with her Asian sexual wiles and tricks. Another rumor was that she was a sex slave I had bought on the Chinese black market, and who happened to be intelligent enough for me to also exploit as an assistant. She told me that one woman had thought she was a lesbian and had invited her to visit her apartment, which Joy could never quite find the time to do.

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A pretty, curly-headed blonde secretary in our accounting department, who was also the courier between my office and accounting, took a great interest in me. She took care to wear the most fashionable dresses for working girls, and made sure they were very tight at the hips. I paid no attention to her. Her tactics grew more blatant. She finally dropped some papers on my floor and bent over to pick them up in a way that let me see down her intentionally loose bodice. She didn’t get the reaction from me that she’d hoped, but I made some calls. The next morning she got a job offer from San Francisco’s Piedmont Fashions that she couldn’t refuse. When I told Joy about it, she had only two questions: “What took you so long? You sure you didn’t invite that?” Over “that,” she went into a deep Siberian freeze. It really didn’t bother me. There was much in this world I didn’t understand, and women were one. As I say, little things I could take. Just to help Joy realize how stupid she was being, I simply yelled at her things like, “You’re being stupid!” or, not to waste words, “You’re stupid!” None of these reasonable arguments broke through the ice. But in two days I usually had my meal of chicken and mashed potatoes. As for Joy, initially, men came at her like dogs around a bitch in heat; in part, I’m sure, because of her flirting. She liked the attention. She usually declined their many invitations politely, but one particularly bold fellow wouldn’t take no for an answer. Finally, in front of about a dozen people in our reception room, Joy said loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Let’s get one thing—or rather, a second thing— straight. I’m not interested in going out with you now. I won’t be interested next week. And I won’t be interested next year. Other than that, we can work together.” She turned and left the bore gaping after her, probably wondering if he had some socially unacceptable disease. This happened soon after her freeze over the blonde secretary, so I thought this was a golden opportunity to teach her a lesson. Not to get even, to be sure. I really didn’t care that other men hit on her. This was just another small thing that didn’t bother me. But, when I heard from Hands what happened in the reception room, I thought I would show her what it was like, being on the receiving end of such stupid jealousy. So when I knew Joy was alone, I burst into her office and demanded to know, “How come you’re leading these men on? You must be inviting this attention. Ain’t I good enough for you?” Her face flushed red and her eyes narrowed to slits. As she put both hands on her colonial desk and started to push herself off her swivel chair, I stalked out of her office and slammed the door.

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That’ll teach her, I thought. Humming to myself, I waited in my office for Joy’s submission. One hour later my secretary brought in a note from her. I opened it expecting an explanation and something like, “I’m sorry, dearest, that you got the wrong impression. You are the only man for me.” What the note actually said was, “Screw you.” I tried to put the freeze on Joy that night, but how can one put the freeze on a woman who is doing that to you? It was worse this time. It was four days before she made me mashed potatoes, but when I smirked and said, “I forgive you,” I got the mashed potatoes on my lap, and the start of another cycle of northern Siberian winter. I took the afternoon off and drove our poor, beat-up Ford to Yamashiro’s Oriental Grocery Store in New Chinatown. I bought a bag of the best imported Japanese rice they had. It was called Imperial Rice, and Yamashiro insisted that it was the same rice served to the Japanese emperor. I doubted it, although the cost of the rice made his story credible. When I got back to our apartment, I washed and prepared the rice as Joy had taught me, turned on our Wehrle gas range, fried two lamb chops, and made a vegetable salad to go with the meal. She was like a robot as far as time was concerned and I knew almost precisely when she would be home. She came in, immediately smelled the food, and came into the kitchen. I had the plates out and loaded with the cooked lamb chops and steaming rice. She looked at the rice, the rice bag, my smug expression, glanced again at the chops and at me, and threw her hands up with a loud laugh. “Okay, okay, it’s better than flowers.” Yes, she also won that round, but no biggie. During just our first two years in this New Universe, she bought perhaps $100,000 worth of rings, bracelets, pendants, necklaces, you name it. We could afford it, of course. She could buy several jewelry stores without making much of a dent in what the Society had given us and what I was making on the stock market. Most surprising, she hardly wore any of it. Joy would try it on at home, ask me how I liked it, to which I had learned always to say, “You make it beautiful,” and then she would put it away in one of her many jewelry boxes. During our first months together, after she showed me still another expensive ring she’d bought, I lost patience. “Did your mother convince the Society to send so much money with us to compensate for your spending on jewelry?”

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The air may have gotten thinner; I wasn’t sure. I definitely felt it freeze as Joy gave me that look I had learned to fear. She threw the ring at me, yelling, “Here, take the damned thing back, why don’t you?” She missed me. “Ah-hah, you missed,” I said, grinning. Stupid. In a flash, she grabbed my arm and threw me over her hip onto the couch. She slammed the door as she left, even though I had said nicely from my upside-down angle, “Temper, temper.” It was months before she showed me any more of the jewelry she bought. But for entertainment, I would occasionally look for new items in her crowded jewelry boxes. We had no friends. We could not afford that luxury, nor did we relish the constant lying we would have to do to people who would trust us. Truth to tell, our work and each other filled our lives through these early years, as we prepared ourselves for what we must do. We built a gym for ourselves. It enabled us to jog in the morning, continue our weightlifting, and allowed Joy to practice her martial arts and continue to train me. For weapons practice, we had a rifle range and weapons test facility built on twenty-five acres in the foothills. It had cost us almost twenty thousand dollars, very big money in those days, but cost was not a problem. I explained to our real estate agent and the builders that I was also a weapons merchant, and wanted to test what I sold. In our weapons capsule we had knives, explosives, stun and fragmentation grenades, and various kinds of guns and rifles. We also had night vision scopes, laser targeting rifles, and machine pistols. In short, we had a two-person armory. Our mission depended on our weapons, so the Society had sent the most advanced ones available. They were meant for us to kill with and defend ourselves, when the time came. And they would. Joy had to train me to use them. It’s a good thing our love for each other was the stable center of our relationship. Even our mission became secondary to our love, I must say now with some embarrassment, since I had taught and intellectually committed myself to the democratic peace. Its drive was almost all-consuming, once we arrived in this New Universe. Yes, almost all consuming . . . . Yet, that said, while my training in martial arts had certainly strained our love, weapons training put it on a rack and tried mightily to wrench its joints out.

Chapter 23

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eapons training? Ah, sweet memories. As I practiced with a pistol, Joy stood alongside me and yelled, “Jesus, use two hands, not one” or “Don’t jerk the friggin trigger. It’s like my nipple, damn it. Caress it.” On the range, it was hard for me to believe this was the beautiful, feminine woman I loved, rather that the Sergeant Phim who was testing my incredible self-control. For over two years after our arrival, Joy methodically trained me on our range in the use of one weapon after another. I began to feel less uncomfortable with many of them. At fifty feet I even could hit seven out of ten times a sketch of Hitler’s face she had drawn on cardboard. I thought I was good until she told me that I had graduated to only the “this a gun” level. Joy carried over to my weapons training the teaching methods of the Japanese senseis who had trained her in karate and judo. All, I’m sure, learned from the Marine drill sergeants at Quantico, Virginia. Once she picked up a broken branch as we walked to the range, and while I practiced with a short-barreled shotgun, she stood near me, holding the branch in one hand and tapping it onto the palm of the other. Then she pointed out, “You’re still aiming the damn thing. You won’t have time for that. Just point it in the general direction of your target and shoot from the hip.” I tried again. Bang, flame, smoke, and swat! Joy hit me on the head with the branch. “Faster, faster!” Joy yelled a split second before I grabbed the branch and hit her over the head with it. Hard. I’m sure that never in Asian history has a student swatted his sensei with her own stick. Joy stood there with the shocked expression of someone whose pet dog has bitten their hand. I told her nicely (she claimed later that I screamed it), “You’re not one of those fucking monks teaching me judo,” and I stormed off to the car. I waited, my arms crossed over my chest, staring at the car’s speedometer. It defied my glare, and didn’t melt. I heard Joy practic-

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ing her own shooting. This was one of the few times when I actually thought seriously about putting a spider under the sheets on her side of the bed. After an hour or so, she came down the dirt path to the car, dragging the burlap bag containing the weapons and ammunition. It was too heavy for her to carry alone. I refused to help her load it all into the back seat and trunk. Joy then got into the car and closed the door. She didn’t slam it. I felt then that this round went to me. She made me mashed potatoes for supper while I worked on our budget for our first intervention in a country’s history. No easy task, since I anticipated spending perhaps twenty million dollars. During these years, Joy usually did the cooking. I kept our gas range clean, and washed the dishes. I tried cooking for her in the beginning, but she found my overdone hamburger patties and tough omelets not fit for a cockroach, as she told me. Joy often claimed that this was a clever trick on my part. “No way,” was my pat response. I’d been a short order cook for one of the years I worked my way through college; I felt her opinion of my cooking was a matter of taste. Her tastes were just more delicate than mine. I did cook sometimes, usually preparing for her a special rice dish to show my forgiveness for something stupid she’d done, just as she apologized to me with mashed potatoes. When Joy kicked on the open kitchen door to announce mealtime and I saw the mashed potatoes, I gloated over one of my rare victories, and sat down at the table. Maybe I looked smug, I don’t know. Maybe I wore a little grin. Not triumphant; just a little indication of my victory over her, the warrior, which I deserved. But I should have been suspicious when she remained standing, for as soon as I was seated, she picked up the plate of sausages and mashed potatoes and flipped it upside down onto my lap. Now, this was not a small thing. I was angry all over again. But I have incredible self-control, and I sat there using my fork to put as much of the mess as I could back on the plate. Then I gently scraped the rest off my lap and ate it. And I ate what was on my plate except for two or three particularly buttery spoonfuls. Joy was in the living room, sitting on the sofa in her favorite position, leaning against its arm with her feet drawn up under her. She seemed to be reading a book on Mexico, but I knew she was waiting for my apology.

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I walked up behind her and dumped the leftover potatoes on the top of her head, on her beautiful black hair. It was obscene, but I had to do it to teach her a lesson. I even stood there making sure I scraped off all that was on the plate. Well, her hair was no longer black. The potatoes sat on her crown for a moment, trying to decide what to do, and then a portion of them fell over her face. I couldn’t see her look, of course, and I didn’t wait. I went into the kitchen and, humming loudly to myself, I washed the dishes, angling my body so that I could throw a glass of water at her if she rushed in. I heard no sound, and when I finished and cautiously entered the living room, Joy was gone. She had left some potato stains on the sofa, which I cleaned up with a rag. I then completed what I was doing on the budget. I expected an iceberg the rest of the evening, but I didn’t see her at all. She wasn’t in the bathroom. She wasn’t in our bedroom. She wasn’t anywhere. I tried to read in bed that night, but I really couldn’t. I didn’t sleep until early morning, and then only fitfully, waiting for the sound of her coming to bed. Joy was gone all night. I was frantic with worry. We hadn’t spent a night apart since I agreed to join her on this time travel mission, so many months ago. I feared the worst. She went out to walk out her anger, and has been kidnapped. I didn’t stop to think of how ridiculous this was—Joy, my warrior, kidnapped. Pity the kidnappers. She had an accident. She’s left me. She thought I was too incompetent with weapons and thus too much of a danger to her and the mission and she plans to find somebody else. I finally got out of bed and went down to the living room, where I could pace back and forth, back and forth, back and forth . . . Why doesn’t she come home? What happened to her? How could she do this? The thousandth time I paced past the budget I’d completed the night before, I picked it up and threw it across the room. Nice sound, that. And then I saw on the sofa the book on Mexico that she had been reading, and it made a beautiful arc as it ricocheted off the ceiling into a light fixture. I liked the cascade of glass. I didn’t eat breakfast and went to my office early. With hope. I wanted to run there, but had to grit my teeth and walk as fast as I could without looking ridiculous. This was 1908. People running on the streets were thought to have committed a crime somewhere. We never took the Ford to work, since our company was only a mile away and we treated this walk as good exercise.

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When I got to our company, I immediately went to her office and saw the door was shut. So, I calmly strolled—I don’t know why our security guard asked me if something was wrong—out of the building and around to where I could see her window. Yes, she was there. The light was on. It took an hour or so to find a florist. I bought a dozen pink roses and a beautiful vase for them. When I returned to our company, I put the flowers in the vase and carefully arranged them, Banks style, in an even circle. I knocked on Joy’s office door, and when she said, “Come in,” I walked in with the roses and put them on her desk. “I’m so happy to see you, baby,” I said, then walked around her desk and kissed her on the lips. She hesitated, and then slowly put her arm around me and returned the kiss with increasing passion. I may have shown the first tears, but they were soon not alone. Well, Joy won again, but I didn’t care. She had taught me something else. I loved her too deeply to let our little games get out of hand. Joy told me later that she had slept in the Ford that night, which explained why she needed me to massage the kinks and knots out of her neck and back. Oh yes, when she saw what I did to the living room, she put her hands on her hips, turned and looked at me with a serious expression, but she couldn’t hide the twinkle in her eyes. “You should learn to control your temper,” she instructed me.

aaa Joy never brought a stick to our firing range again, and she toned down her barking criticisms and orders, even when I accidentally shot a bird out of the sky (it really wasn’t far from the target). “You killed it,” she exclaimed in a horrified voice. Joy was sad for the rest of the day and kept mumbling, “Poor thing. I hope it didn’t have little ones to feed.” Still, Joy remained a demanding teacher. Although she had demoted herself from drill sergeant to corporal, she still did her best to make sure Private Banks was ready for the battles ahead. One of the things Joy made me do was learn how to crawl. Anybody can crawl, I thought. Not true. There is crawling, and craaawliiing. The first time I tried it, she handed me a bolt operated sniper rifle equipped with a scope and said, “Lay this across your arms like this,” and she showed me. She then pointed to the inevitable

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sketch of Hitler about five hundred feet away, and said, “You are going to crawl through the high grass until you are about three hundred feet away, and then shoot at the target while still on your stomach.” No problem. I was wearing my double-strength, blue farmer’s dungarees. I got down and started to crawl. “No,” she said, stopping me. Notice how simply she put things now. But she still insisted on colorful descriptions. “Are you showing off your buns? Rub the ground with your . . . jewels . . . as you crawl.” I tried again—successfully, I thought. “No, no.” Two negatives a positive do not make, in her mathematics. Joy sounded a little exasperated. “Are you trying to persuade the target that two pigs are humping in the grass? I know what you need.” Joy sat on my ass and put her feet on my shoulders. Having added 130 pounds to my load, she commanded, “Now, crawl. Two demerits if I fall off.” I slithered, tore the dungarees, scraped my elbows raw, and wondered if the French Foreign Legion was still accepting volunteers. From then on, however, when I crawled I just imagined she was on top of me and I did a fair imitation of a worm.

aaa Most of our problems occurred during the first months of our training here. I got better and better, and within a year, I was almost as accurate as she was, although never even near as fast. We had only one incident during the last year, during fast draw practice. I had constructed a pulley system that drew a cardboard figure rapidly toward me when she pulled on a rope. Presumably, this simulated someone pulling a gun on me. Joy had even tried to draw a gun on the target, its barrel pointed toward me. It was amusing. I told her that the rendering bore a striking resemblance to the male anatomy. “Yes,” she told me dryly, “it helps my aim.” I didn’t think it was funny. For the drill, I had on a suit with a shoulder holster and a .45 caliber semiautomatic. I was to stand relaxed and wait until she pulled the target toward me and yelled “Gun,” when I was to go into a partial crouch while pulling the gun out of my holster. Using two hands, I would then shoot the enemy in the chest. The first time I tried it, I thought I did pretty good. I got him in the stomach. Joy said, “Too slow. Again.”

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I tried again and killed his shoulder. “Elbow up,” she said. “Faster.” Another try. Another “Faster.” I said, “Time me.” Joy took her track timer out, reset it, and when I was ready, she yanked on the rope to pull the target toward me. She held the timer in her other hand with a finger on the start button. She waited a second or two, and then yelled, “Gun.” I shot the target in the hip. She looked at her timer and said unhappily, “three point six seconds.” She shook her head. She could never hide her feelings well. I was getting tired, and I felt I was being as fast as humanly possible. “Here,” I said, and twisted toward her. I was going to say, “Take the gun and let me time you,” but the gun I had been holding in my hand came with me and ended up pointed at her chest. Joy’s training immediately clicked in. She did a falling corkscrew and knocked the gun out of my hand with a flying foot. The gun landed ten feet away. She rolled and was off the ground in a flash, her hands and legs in a you’re-dead-meat stance, I’m sure. I stood there just beginning to rub my hand as I felt the pain in my finger. When her mind was able to function again and she realized I couldn’t be serious, she relaxed her body. I’m sure I responded to this attack in a level voice. “I was just testing your reflexes. Not bad.” Thump! She hit me in the shoulder. “Just testing yours,” she said. And then in a voice not yet as relaxed as her body, she explained to me what every gun trainer has told every recruit since these things were invented. “You never, but never, absolutely never, like never, point a weapon at someone you don’t intend to shoot dead unless you have emptied the chambers, opened the cartridge chamber in case of a stray or forgotten cartridge, and taken out the clip or magazine if it has one. And, what else?” She tilted her head and looked at me like I was a pup that again had peed on the rug. “Put the safety on, if it has one.” “Yes,” Joy said breathlessly, and came over and kissed me on the cheek. I guess I was a cute puppy. “Now, what were you going to say,” she asked, “before your . . . accident?” “Accident? I’m not a puppy.”

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“Well, what do you want me to call it? A stupid move? What about dumb?” “Okay, I’ll accept accident. I was going to ask you to show me how fast you could draw. After all, I have no one to compare myself against. As far as I know, I might be as fast as Wyatt Erp, or Billy the Kid.” “You’re kidding, right?” I groaned at that, and then went over to retrieve the .45 caliber, took out the clip, checked to make sure nothing was in the chamber, and flipped the safety on with my thumb. Then I pointed it toward the sky and handed it to her that way, smiling. Joy had brought along one of her holster purses and had been practicing her own draw from it. She had her gun already in it, so she laid the .45 caliber aside. She got into position, and relaxed. I just loved the look she would get on her face in these situations, whether weapons or martial arts practice. She had large almond eyes to begin with, and they would become larger, while her face took on a peaceful look, her full lips slightly parted. Except for her eyes, it was almost as though she were asleep, happily dreaming. I knew that she was then getting in touch with her inner strength—centering herself, she told me. And I learned she could do this in a split second. I pulled on the target, and waited until the last moment before it reached the stop before I yelled, “Gun.” Bang bang bang—three shots, right though the heart. I looked at my timer. “Three point eight seconds,” I said. “You lose.” “Let me see that,” she hollered and grabbed the timer out of my hand before I could hit the reset. “Hah, 1.8 seconds. I knew it. Now, shall we continue your practice, slow poke?” Well, I did pretty well eventually. I got it down to 2.5 seconds. By the middle of 1908 I was good enough with the gun that Joy, in a moment of weakness, admitted, “You’re not bad.” Well, her training may have helped save our lives, but at the time it did nothing for my nerves. As our first intervention approached, our weapons might as well have been spitballs. I was scared.

Chapter 24

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s a professor of history, the world we were about to enter was as alien to me as the surface of Venus, only known to me before through shoot-’em-up action movies. In one week, we would be off to Mexico. Finally, after two years of preparation, we would be truly fulfilling our purpose in coming to this primitive era. Our final preparations came down to deciding how we would arm ourselves for the long trip to Mexico City and what we had to do there. We had to keep in mind not only our purpose, but also that during one part of our trip or another we might well be attacked by one of the many bandit gangs that infected Mexico at this time. So, we were standing at our weapons capsule, deciding among all the weapons the Society sent with us. Rather, Joy was deciding. All my weapons and martial arts training was now complete. Our partnership, our love, had survived. I was as ready as I would ever be, and I loved Joy more than I ever had. As we stood there, this appeared to me as the capstone moment in our existence here. It was really the dividing line; from November 1906 until this moment had been preparation, training, speculation, planning, anticipation. Safety and security. Now, as we were about to take out our weapons, perhaps for the rest of our lives, we were crossing into another existence. I looked at Joy. Really looked at her. She was bent over in the light coming from the capsule, looking for something. She was serene, as though she were humming to herself. Maybe for her it was like being an artist standing around paint, oil, and canvases, or a musician in a musical instrument shop. I was never comfortable with guns, however, even after the practice she put me through. When I had a gun in my hand it was an alien extension, an unhappy tool. I was like a plumber given a violin to play. Oh, I got a kick out of shooting holes in things at a distance. What man wouldn’t? But then, I thought of the gun as part of a game. Now that we were about to get serious with them, the psychic separation between me and what I would have in my hand was even greater.

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I don’t know why I suddenly felt so close to Joy at this moment while I stood in front all these inventions for killing people. I think it was because she could be the weapons’ victim, either as their power went to her head, or when similar weapons in the hands of others could mean her death. Despite what she thought, I knew she bled. When it came out of her cuts it was red like mine. I knew others might be faster than she was, and I knew, as a warrior, she would allow no risk to stand in the way of our mission. I knew also that she would protect me to the death. That if someone was about to shoot me, she would wave and yell, “Hey, over here.” Joy was like one of those warriors seen in the samurai movies. She lived by that code. In a fight, I know metaphorically she would calmly step up to her enemy and say, “My name is Joy Phim. I am a SinoVietnamese from Vietnam.” And she would bow, and put her weapon at the ready. A storm of emotion seized me. I felt an overwhelming warmth and tenderness towards this woman. Its always surprised me how tears would come to my eyes at certain moments, and standing here in front of our weapons capsule was the most surprising of all. My mind was lost to my heart. I reached out to Joy and pulled her to me. She was startled and even more surprised when she saw my wet eyes. “What’s the matter, dearest?” “I can’t explain, “ I said lamely. “Just let me hold you for a few minutes, okay?” I put my face in her hair, cropped in her newly adopted Gibson girl look, and smelled its natural perfume. I held her tight. After a few minutes, I released her and took her hand. Kissing it, I told her, “I love you, sweetheart. Please don’t let anything happen to you. I couldn’t live without you.” Then she knew what caused this emotional outburst. She put her arms around me and gave me a passionate kiss. “My dearest, those are my words also. I love you.” I know this seems stupid, but what can I say. The Mexican intervention was now so close; I wanted this moment between us to never end. I told Joy not to move, and went to another of our capsules and took out a large beach towel. I put it on the concrete floor next to the weapons capsule, and as she stood there knowing what I was preparing for, I slowly undressed her. A major job in this era, and even more stimulating.

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Joy did the same for me, and we lay down on the towel. We caressed and hugged and kissed and kissed and made slow, passionate love. It was not the lovemaking of mad, unbridled passion, or that of sheer lust. It was intimate love, the melding of our two bodies, our spirits, and our souls. I’m not a religious man, but at that moment I felt that if there were a God, this is what he meant love and sex to be. Afterwards we continued to caress each other, and we cried together, and I would have died there and then for her. Hours must have passed. Finally I got up and pulled her to her feet. With a final hug, we turned back naked to the weapons capsule to take out our weapons and ammunition. Now I felt different about these weapons. In some way, together, we had neutralized for me the evil emanations from the capsule. Now arming myself for battle with these weapons was not bad after all, but somehow, a defense of what I loved. Joy began by taking a more substantial lizard grain holster purse from the capsule and putting in it a Ruger SP101 .357 Magnum 5 shot. She liked this weapon for its balance and power, and it was perfect for a woman of her finger and hand strength. She believed in stopping power, and wanted to take no chance that her attacker would keep charging and shooting even though already shot. So her ammunition was .357 hollow points. Even a shoulder hit with one of these would blast a man down and blow a fist-sized hole in his back. Joy put a knife sheath around her hips and slid a very thin five inch tactical knife into it. It hung at a slight angle just to the right of her pubic bone. She attached another sheath to her lower right leg for a six inch throwing knife. She wanted to wear them now to get her skin used to the sheaths, she told me. She would be wearing light, loose dresses and no petticoats when we started our trip to Mexico. “Watch this,” she said, and slipped on her skirt. Then she drew in her breath and rapidly reached inside her waistband for the knife on her hip, and whipped it out in a defensive position. Finally, Joy took her armor out of the capsule. This had been molded to her body by the Society and fit her well, except it tended to compress her pert breasts. I squelched what I was about to suggest, which was falsies; even I knew this was not the time for my great wit. Her armored vest was light and had cardiac trauma protection. It would stop even a machine gun bullet. Done, she got dressed. I put on my shorts, pants, and a shirt and took out my favorite pistol for my shoulder holster. It was the one I did the best with in

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practice, and that I could draw the fastest: a light H&K USP .45 caliber semiautomatic. I especially liked the number of cartridges it held in its magazine—ten rounds, with one round in the chamber. I knew when I got in a firefight, I would need every one of them. For stopping power, I followed Joy’s suggestion of 235-grain hollow points. I was no good with a knife, and she didn’t have to tell me that. I would only cut myself. So in place of a knife I had her pick out for me something I could carry loose in my coat pocket. Joy selected a 40 S&W double-action handgun. I finished arming myself by putting on my molded armored vest. Even armed and armored as I was, I felt like no gunslinger. I was just a professor who had been turned into a killer. No, that was too harsh. I had been turned into a soldier, and my sergeant next to me was itching for battle.

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veryone has a fear. Joy’s could mean her death. After we armed ourselves, we went to our company offices and conducted our normal business—or rather, tried to. We—rather I—had to get used to the extra weight of my guns and the movement this required, and especially my self-consciousness. I felt as though everyone could see through my clothes. I kept waiting for someone to walk up to me and say, “Aren’t you being silly?” But in time I got so used to them that I felt naked without my shoulder holster and the weight of the pistol in my pocket. Our apartment had hot water, one of its selling points, and we bathed that night as soon as we got home. We always bathed together no matter how small the tub, and enjoyed the logistical challenge this sometimes created. After the bath it was her turn to be soft and misty-eyed. Before I was even through drying myself with the towel, she caressed my cheeks with the back of her hands, kissed me, and told me, “I love you, big guy.” Then she took my hand and led me into the bedroom, where she told me, “Just lay down and be good.” She made love to me, and when she was done she lay on me and wept quietly. I only knew she was crying because she was getting my chest wet. Still savoring our—her—lovemaking, I asked, “What’s the matter, baby?” Until I knew, I could only rub her back, completely lost. “I’m scared, dearest. I don’t want to leave here. I don’t want to go to Mexico. I’m afraid. Please put your arms around me and hold me tight.” When I did, I could feel Joy trembling. I had never seen her this way before. I couldn’t believe it—my calm, controlled, warrior, my first sergeant, was scared. And if she was scared, I should have been petrified with fear, terrified. But I felt protective, close, compassionate. I had seen her cry a lot, especially when she suddenly had to leave her mom forever, but I had never seen her scared before, except for the spider episode. I held her tight with my arm around her and held her head on my chest with the other, softly cooing words of comfort. “It’s all right, baby. I’m here. We’re together.”

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“We can’t possibly do what we plan!” she cried. “We are only two people among billions. We’re up against incredibly powerful forces, armies galore with millions of soldiers. We’ll fail in Mexico, and after Mexico we’ll fail, and after that, more failure. So much depends on us, but I’m afraid I’m not up to it. I think of Mom, of Gu, of all the others in the Society, and I can’t bear the thought of failing them. I will die of shame.” I held and squeezed her and caressed her head. I still couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Joy was afraid? My warrior was afraid? I puzzled over that while I rubbed her back. Then it struck me. Joy would calmly go to her death. She would walk into bullets, chin up. It was shame she feared. Suddenly I understood. I had read about this. The bravest and most fearsome samurai sometimes committed suicide because of the real or imagined shame they suffered, such as imperial criticism of their lord, or a lost battle by their clan. Joy would be shamed if, after all the faith the Society put in us, after all they had done to make our mission a success, after her mom had sacrificed her only child for our mission, we failed. To fail was her horror. I realized at that moment that she would not survive failure. She would kill herself. And I knew, as I knew how much I loved her, I would join her. Not out of shame, but out of love. I wasn’t far wrong. It was only that we would fail at our mission that was conceivable during those early years. We didn’t even consider the possibility of what did happen. I naively tried to tell her, “I’ll do my damnedest to make sure we don’t fail.” Then I lied. I told her, “I know we can’t fail, baby. I know my history, and I have what we have to do down pat. Your fears are for nothing.” And I stupidly prattled on like that. Soon I felt her even and deep breathing and realized she was asleep. I slid from under her and got a blanket out and put it over her. She moved into a fetal position; perhaps her fears were still alive in her dreams. I got in beside her and snuggled against her back. I lay sleepless in wonder at Joy’s many facets. If we had just become acquainted when she was displaying one of them, I would not have believed any of the others. Gorgeous. No way she could be a warrior, not and look like that. Warrior? Impossible—she was so feminine. But warrior she was. Feminine? Then how could she be so bossy—a side I got to know well. Sweet? Then where did that temper come from? And so on. It was hard for me to believe these facets were all balanced together in the same woman. And here I was, still making new discoveries about her. My beautiful warrior woman was afraid. Of failure. Of shame.

Chapter 26 Bloody chaos sweeps Mexico again . . . Revolution now in fifth year . . . millions feared dead . . . Bandits loot and rape, have free rein. La Jornada, September 6, 1915 Old Universe

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ow, so many years later, I can see I should have known better. But then, I had no idea what would happen and from where the deadly danger to us would come. Finally we were on our way to Mexico City. Sal had gone well ahead of us and had made the initial contacts and set up the appointments for our work. He warned us to expect a long and tiring trip, and he was right. Mexico City lies about 1,891 miles from San Francisco. It’s about five thousand miles, I swear, when one takes into account all the curves, detours, transfers, and reversed directions on the trains, buses, and carriages we had to take. It took us over a week. Oh, for the passenger jet airplane of the future. Fully armed against bandits, we had caught the Mexican train in Mexicali. I remember my amazement at seeing the train for the first time, in the station. It was straight out of a B-grade Western movie, down to the huge cone-like smokestack on the engine that puffed out incredible billows of black smoke. Even standing still it clanked and wheezed and hissed. It must have been awesome when it first puffed out of the Pittsburgh construction yards just after the American Civil War. We thought it would be cool enough in October to make the trip, but as we crossed the desert a couple of hours after we pulled out of Mexicali, the air grew hot and sticky. Unbearable. I wore my armored vest, coat over the vest, and my shoulder holster. I felt the sweat running down my sides and the fan I waved vigorously in front of me seemed just to add to the heat. I’m sure I was sweating under my fin-

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gernails. The heavy air I fanned up my nostrils stank of all the sweaty, unwashed bodies that had used these seats. The fan was useless. I soon tossed it on the seat next to me. Finally, I turned from the History of Mexico I had been trying to read to refresh my memory, and just listened to the clickity-clack, clickity-clack of the train wheels as they sped over the breaks between the rail segments. I gazed at Joy. She was asleep on the first class seat opposite me, her head resting against a small, hard pillow she had propped against the train window, her feet and legs pulled up next to her on the seat. Her body bounced and swayed with the motion of the train and her face glistened with sweat. Joy looked so peaceful. Since the week before when she had confessed her fear to me and broken down over it, she had not said a word about it. Indeed, she seemed confident of our success. But now I knew that it was a facade manufactured by her training. A warrior going into battle had to show confidence. I let my head loll back against the smelly seat and move with the motion of the train. I wondered how much she had really succeeded in training me. There was that incident in the warehouse on our arrival in this archaic age, when, not to be shown up by Joy, I had proved to the three guys that I could handle myself. Since then I had not been seriously tested. She had continued to train me, and she did say I was now at least a first-degree black belt in karate. Me? I thought she was being kind. Clickity-clack, clickity clack. . . . With each mile closer to Mexico City my fear grew as I thought about what we would try to do, and the risks involved. I looked again at Joy, peacefully asleep, her body shaking back and forth with the movement of the train, and my stomach started to knot up. I was only an assistant professor. I’d led a civilized life. No dope, no drunken brawls. I hadn’t had a fist fight since I was eleven, and I’d been beaten up badly then. With the exception of the 9-11 attack on the World Trade Centers, I had never seen a bloody accident. Never a dead person, not even in a funeral home. I hated violence in movies and on television. Whenever there were car chases and strangers were driven off the road or into crashes, I always felt sorry for the invisible people inside the cars. I was very sentimental; I’d turn a one-handkerchief movie into three. I’d never been in the military. I can’t be doing this, I thought. Not me. Not with this warrior across from me. The Society should have selected a Green Beret, or a Navy Seal.

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I poured tepid water out of a thermos onto my handkerchief, spun the handkerchief around and around in the air to cool it, put my head back, and spread the handkerchief on my face. Would only one of us make this trip back? Would we both die? That was the better alternative. We could also be imprisoned in a Mexican jail, beaten, tortured to death, sold as slaves to a hacienda, or badly injured. In this whole world, we were on our own to do what we intended. Not even our country would protect us. And indeed, if the American embassy found out what we intended to do, they would send the Marines after us and we would spend most of our remaining years in a federal prison. Joy never knew how worried I was. I think my joking around fooled her. And I wasn’t going to quake in front of her. After all, me man, she woman. But inside I was one scared bunny rabbit. And yes, I was ashamed about hiding my fear. Joy, who cared so much about her warrior abilities and code of ethics, had told me honestly how scared she was of failure, and cried over it. If I was going to worry about one thing, why not everything? What about all the other things we planned to do? Would we survive them also? I knew my probabilities. Although the risk of death or some other personal disaster may be the same, when one took into account all the risky things we would do, then the probability was high that we would get creamed. On each toss of a coin, the probability of heads is the same, but in ten or twenty tosses, it is very unlikely that one will get heads for every toss—that we would survive each risk-filled intervention. But it was not the interventions that destroyed us in the end. On our way to Mexico City, as I thought of all the bad things that might happen to us, I tried to put it all away in a mental drawer and let the motion of the train do its work. I heaved a big sigh and made myself more comfortable. I told myself the motion of the train was making me shake, that I was not shivering, despite the heat. The wet handkerchief on my head felt good, and pretty soon the clickity-clack, clickityclack, clickity. . . clack, clickity . . .

Chapter 27

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ife is always throwing curves. Something that we could never predict, never anticipate, can drop on us like a two ton safe. In my case, it was a broken heart. We arrived at Mexico City on a Sunday, dirty, tired, and irritable. Never knowing whether and how long our train and other conveyances might be delayed, Sal had given us four days before our first appointment. At the previous train stop we had telegraphed him our arrival time, so he met us at the station. He had turned into a handsome, suave executive in the two years he had been with us. In his light, summer-white suit, he was the best looking gentleman on the platform, I swear. Joy recognized him before I did. Sal had made reservations for us at the Gran Hotel Ciudad de Mexico. In spite of his clothes, Sal was Sal. Looking at me mischievously, he said, “I made separate room reservations for you and Joy.” We had been on a first name basis for over a year. Neither of us could stand hearing “Miss Phim” and “Mr. Banks” after a while, particularly from our top executives. He hesitated, his eyes twinkling even more, then added, “I hope that’s all right. “ Sal was always testing our public stance that Joy was just my assistant and translator. “Of course,” I responded. “I can’t imagine why it would be otherwise. Can you, Sal?” Joy smirked. Sal looked embarrassed for a moment, then smiled. “Well, she might have a lot of dictation to take down.” We invited Sal to join us for supper at the hotel, and he responded, “Yeah. Er . . . can I bring a friend?” “Sure,” I said. We arrived at the hotel by carriage, had our suitcases taken to our separate rooms, and as soon as the bellboys disappeared down the hallway, Joy joined me in my room. Sal had located one of the only two hotels in all of Mexico City that had hot running water, and this one catered mainly to foreigners. So we bathed. As I luxuriated in the bathtub, I kept imagining the poor Indians,

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stripped to their loincloths, sweat pouring off them, who must be shoveling coal into the boiler in the oven-hot basement of the hotel. Surely Indians. Who else would be doing that here? Sal had told us that the hotel had bought an old paddle wheel ship’s boiler and used that to produce the hot water. But with all the hot water pipes throughout the hotel and their poor insulation, the boiler constantly had to be fed coal to keep the water sufficiently heated. But my pity for the stokers was abstract. The bath was real. And it was heaven to get the days of accumulated trip grime and sweat off my body. One can do only so much with cold water and sponge bathing. We had starved ourselves of lovemaking during the trip as well, although it had been conceivable in our private, first class berths. We’d felt no more romantic than if we’d been in a car caught in stalled city traffic on a hot August afternoon. Now, with ten pounds of grime washed off and “hot” buttons pressed by the sight of each other’s naked body and our flesh to flesh contact in the small tub, we made good use of the emperor-sized bed in my room. Awful springs. When we arrived at the hotel restaurant, we spotted Sal and his friend, a young Mexican woman, already at a table. When we pointed to the table, the headwaiter looked at Joy disapprovingly and said in Spanish, “We do not serve Indians here.” I wasn’t surprised. I knew about the third class status of native Indians in Mexico and should have realized that with her coloring, eyes, lips, and black hair, Joy might be mistaken for an Indian. I had learned the proper response to such prejudice from the civil rights movement of the Sixties, but thought better of pointing out that “We don’t eat Indians.” This was 1908 Mexico; I didn’t think the headwaiter would understand the sarcasm. Fighting such prejudice here was futile. This was an international hotel and I was sure the headwaiter spoke English. But I wanted to protect him from Joy’s wrath, so I replied in Spanish, “This woman here is my assistant, and Chinese.” He looked at her more carefully, and then replied, “I’m sorry sir. Right this way, please.” Joy looked at me curiously. I stayed between her and the headwaiter until we got to our table. I didn’t want to risk that she might understand a word or two. After Sal introduced us to his vivacious friend Alicia Cardenas, for the first time ever, I pulled out Joy’s high backed reed chair. “Is that for me? “ she asked, grinning from ear to ear. I pointed to the chair and commanded, “Sit.”

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She gave me a slight bow and, in a most ladylike way, slid onto the chair, crossed her ankles, put her hands on her lap, and sat primly, back straight. It was so unlike my image of her, like a wild tiger trying to act like a domesticated cat, that I only barely stifled a guffaw. Her way of being sarcastic. I plopped into the chair next to her and told an amused Sal, “You had better explain our humor to Alicia. He did so in Spanish, in effect telling her we were incurable jokesters. She replied in Spanish, “Really. I thought John was such a gentleman and Joy so much a lady.” I could tell Sal was struggling to suppress his own snicker. Before I could translate Alicia’s response for Joy, she nodded in the headwaiter’s direction and asked, “What was all that Spanish about?” “He wanted to know where I got such a beautiful creature.” “Sure,” she whispered, “and I’m a humpback whale.” But she let it go. It was a little difficult carrying on a conversation when Alicia didn’t understand English and Joy didn’t know Spanish, but Sal and I kept the translations humming. At one point in our conversation, Sal pointed out to Alicia, “Joy is our company’s translator.” I translated that for Joy, and we all laughed at the irony. Sal happily told us, “Alicia is from the famous Cardosa family. Big political wheels, and they have a huge hacienda. It takes a train half a day to cross it.” “How did you meet?” Joy asked. “We both tried to catch the same one-horse hansom cab. When I saw that she also had hailed it, I offered it to her. She offered it to me. And we smiled at each other and both of us got in.” Alicia was lovely and Sal seemed happy with her. But we were poor company. We were tired, and after our meal we excused ourselves. Yes, I pulled out Joy’s chair for her to get up. She did so with dignity, and we went to my room. She waited for me to open the door, which I did with a slight bow, and then followed her in. I gave her a mock punch on the shoulder, pushed her onto the bed with my hip, and exclaimed, “Don’t let that go to your head, my lady.” We both laughed, and she moved over so that I could join her on the bed. In the time it took for me to close my eyes, I was asleep. Joy beat me to it, and we had a nice, long nap.

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We woke up about midnight. Joy went to her room and unpacked, and fixed her bed so that it looked as if she’d slept in it. She then suggested we stroll around the city. So, we dressed in comfortable middleclass clothes, armed ourselves as usual, and donned our armored vests. They were now as intrinsic to our clothing as underwear. We left the hotel and on Av 16 de Septiembre headed towards the brightest city lights. The hotel was located in the commercial, business district of Mexico City; really what I would call the rich downtown area. The entertainment area was several blocks away. The avenue in front of the hotel was made of some hard material that, in the dim streetlights, looked like concrete. The raised sidewalk was made of the same material. As in San Francisco, the usual wire-strung poles lined the street. Surprisingly, there was virtually no stench from horses. I saw why in a few minutes, when we passed a hunched-over old man with a pooper-scooper and a broom. I wondered what he did when he filled his scooper, until I saw him dump it into a barrel with a flat wooden cover on it, farther down the street. Buildings of all descriptions and colors, some typically Mexican red, green, and blue, came right up to the walk. This was no different than the downtown of every major city. Nothing grew anywhere, except for a few trees with the sidewalk circling around their trunks, their tops pruned to make way for the wires. I guess the trees were there first, along with a few ramshackle houses with huge verandas that were hemmed in by larger buildings. This was Sunday night, a holy night in Mexico, and hours away from the workweek. There were few carriages and cabs on the road, and no automobiles. We occasionally encountered other pedestrians, but they always seemed in a hurry. We enjoyed the walk, our first since we got on that miserable train. The air had cooled and we strolled hand in hand. I was able to forget why we were here. We dimly saw four men ambling toward us. As they approached, I could see that they were young, maybe in their middle or late teens. They dressed in ordinary worker’s thick, dark pants with colorful shirts hanging out of them. One wore a sombrero and another had a vividly colored scarf draped over his shoulder. They were none too steady on their feet, and they were laughing and pushing each other. They stopped when they saw Joy, and after making some jokes I could not understand in their dialect, they spread a little apart and approached. The bigger one yelled at me, “¿Usted [something] Yankee?” I couldn’t understand him, except that he was asking if I was a Yankee.

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“Si,” I replied. I understood what he said next. “What are you doing with the Indian whore?” Then they got dangerous. One of the others growled at me in Spanish, “Go home Yankee. She is ours.” I didn’t know where the knives came from, but they suddenly had them in hand. One boldly advanced toward me with his, while the other three threatened Joy. To cover our backs, we cautiously stepped backwards to the picture window of the store behind us. Joy kept room for action between us. I knew exactly what she was doing. We were amazingly in tune, and moved together. All her training kicked in. After all my worries, all my fears, I realized thankfully that I felt only the expectation of combat. Now, with the real thing looming before us, I was as calm as if this was just another practice session with Joy. The big one yelled out something that I took to mean, “I get her cunt first.” Now there was no doubt this was a fight. Just to be sure Joy understood, in a voice so calm I could’ve been telling her the time of day, I said, “They want to rape you.” “Oh. Fun,” is all she said. I never forgot that reply. I have agonized over it; I became obsessed with it. It tore at my emotions. It devastated my thoughts. The boy in front of me was about five feet away, holding his knife menacingly toward me while glancing at Joy. The light was a little better where we were standing, and he commented to his friends, “Beautiful. I’m next.” Joy took two quick steps toward the surprised boy, snaked her hand over the crook in the elbow of his knife arm and swiftly shifted her body to the outside, trapping the arm against her side. She then clasped her hands in front of her body and using his body mass and getting the right alignment, she pulled upward on his elbow and dislocated his shoulder. I heard a loud pop as the knife fell from his paralyzed hand. She flung him screaming in pain at the feet of the others. They stood back, shocked, but only for a moment. She was still a woman. I hadn’t moved. They simply ignored what they could make no sense out of, which is what just happened to their friend, and moved on Joy with their knives pointed forward, but evidently not with the intention to stab her. They just hoped to scare her, perform their workaday rape, leave us crying on the street, and help their buddy, who somehow had got himself injured, off to wherever.

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What I hadn’t seen was Joy drawing her tactical knife out of her hip sheath. Distracted by their friend landing at their feet, the boys hadn’t seen, either. She calmly allowed the three to approach, her face serene, eyes large and tracking the boys’ every slight movement, mouth slightly parted, chin forward, feet precisely located for her attack or defense. Just as I was going to do a jumping side kick on the one nearest to me, she yelled, “Hihaiii,” and took a large step forward. She thrust her knife into the genitals of one, backhanded the second on the nose, jerked her bloody knife free, and thrust it straight-armed into the third boy’s heart. One boy was dead, two wounded and screaming, and the one whose nose she had broken was bleeding profusely. He staggered to his feet, crying in pain, and tried to flee down the street. Joy whipped out her throwing knife and pitched it deep into his back. He fell face forward. What I had just seen Joy do hit me like a sledge hammer in the face. I was quaking so hard I couldn’t stand. I leaned and then flopped against the store window, disbelieving my eyes, unable to say a word. Joy strode to where the boy lay with the knife quivering in his back. He was trying to creep away. She wrenched her knife out and, as the boy screamed in pain, she grabbed his hair, jerked his head back, and cut his throat expertly, so that the gushing blood would miss her. The one with a dislocated arm saw this and started to beg for mercy. He tried to push himself backwards away from her. She came and hovered over him. She showed him the bloody knife and asked pleasantly, “Do you still want to rape me?” He didn’t understand the words. He could only stare wide-eyed at the knife tip inches from his face. He screamed and then gurgled as Joy thrust the knife underneath his chin and into his brain. The one whose genitals had been cut wide open lay completely curled around his groin, sobbing in pain, and, I think, calling for his mother and the Virgin Mary to save him. Joy was just about to cut his throat too, when I finally got my voice back and screamed at her, “No! No! For Christ’s sake, don’t kill him.” Joy cut his throat. What I saw combined with the awful stench of human blood and waste—one or more of the boys had crapped and urinated in their pants—took my breath away. I sank back against the window, so weak with shock that all I could do was stare and gasp for breath, like a freshly caught fish thrown into a boat. I felt as though I were watching

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one of those explicitly bloody and graphic horror movies: In silence, one watches the horror. One wants to shrink from it, hide one’s eyes, leave the theater. But, one sits there mesmerized by the horror of it all. I gawked as Joy rolled two of the boys over to make sure they were dead. The other two were so obviously dead she didn’t bother with them. I gawked as she cleaned off both of her knives on the unbloodied parts of their shirts. I gawked as she put her knives back in their sheaths. I gawked as she checked her dress for spattered blood. I gawked as she took off her dress and turned it inside out and put it back on. I cringed as she came close to me and bent over and asked, “Are you okay, dearest?” I vomited, missing her by inches. The thought burst into my devastated mind: Thank God. She would have killed me. Yes, I know. She wouldn’t have done anything. But my mind was a train wreck. Joy put out her hand to help me stand up, pointing out, “We had better get moving in case someone comes along.” I slithered away from her hand and pushed myself up. I looked for the last time at the four bodies. There was nothing I could do now to save them. Her first words exploded in my mind. “Oh. Fun.” Fun. She was anticipating fun. To her it was . . . fun. I realized long after that this was just an expression, a way of diffusing the seriousness of the threat. But at that time, in that context, those words hung like plaques on the images of what I had seen her do to those boys. With those words and her actions, Joy wrote in blood on my mind that she was an utterly bloodthirsty and deadly warrior.

aaa I nodded my head in the direction of the hotel, and started to stagger in that direction. Getting my legs to work in coordination with my arms and upper body proved difficult. But it got better as the minutes passed. Joy strolled along beside me, saying nothing. I glanced at her face several times, but could not see her expression well in the darkness. When we got to my room, I motioned her in before me, gently closed the door, and went into the bathroom. I looked at my face. I was as white as a fish belly in the moonlight. The only color was in my red-

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rimmed and bulging eyes. It looked as though there was an incredible buildup of pressure behind them. There was. Joy came into the bathroom to see what I was doing. She tried to rub my back as I dashed cold water on my face. I shrugged off her hand. Then I spun to face her directly. In a quavering, strangled voice, I asked, “Have you ever killed someone before?” Her brow furrowed, her expression one of quizzical concern, she answered quickly, “No, dearest.” I hissed, “Don’t you dare call me ‘dearest,’ you hear?” She stepped back, her surprise just beginning to turn into anger. Then beyond any control, I pounded on the sink with my fist and roared, spittle flying from my mouth, “Why the holy fuck did you kill those boys? You could have incapacitated them. You could have knocked them unconscious. You could have just broken their arms. Then we could have called the police and turned them over.” I leaned forward and thrust my face an inch from her nose. “But you MURDERED THEM.” For a moment, I shocked the anger out of her. She had never seen me like this. She stuttered defensively, “T-t-they w-w-would have raped me.” Then she got control of herself and her face hardened and turned gray. Her eyes narrowed to slits, and in a voice that had firmed into cold steel, she threw back at me, “You don’t know who else they raped. And whom they would rape in the future. I probably saved many women the degradation and misery, if not the resulting suicide, of being raped, you asshole.” “So,” I screamed even louder, “You are judge, jury and executioner. Not of what they did, but of what they might have done.” Her hands kept flexing and I knew she wanted to slap my face. I could see the struggle in her eyes. She could have no doubt I would slap her back. And, warrior that she was, she could not trust her superbly trained reflexes if I really tried to hit her. She put her fists on her hips and leaned into my face and hurled at it, “Fuck you, you bastard! You don’t care that I would have been raped, or that I saved you from a knifing.” She stormed out of the bathroom and bounced off the closet door as she headed out of my room. She slammed the door so hard I saw the wall shake.

aaa I’d had a psychic body blow I could not absorb. I did not sleep that

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night; I did not cry; I did nothing but lie on my bed looking at the shadows on the ceiling. And try, try to deal with what I had seen and come to know about the woman I loved. The woman who found murder “fun.” I didn’t go down for breakfast or lunch. I stayed in my room with a “No Disturbe” sign on the door. Finally, I was ravenous enough to eat something for supper, and joined Sal, who was sitting at a restaurant table alone. I didn’t feel like talking to him, but he’d seen me come in and I couldn’t turn around. I must have looked awful, for after greeting me, he asked, “Are you okay?” “I’m not feeling well,” I responded. I tried to make conversation. “What have you been doing with yourself?” “Alicia has been showing me around the city. Tomorrow night she is going to introduce me to her father. I don’t know whether I want to make that big a deal out of our dating. Say, where’s Joy? I haven’t seen you two apart outside of the company building before.” “She’s been shopping.” “Well, you two be careful about walking around here at night. Alicia told me that there was a gang killing last night. Four boys were knifed to death a short distance from the hotel. She didn’t know them, but read in the newspaper that it was two brothers and their friends. She’s afraid to come near the ho—” I vomited on the table. I put my handkerchief over mouth, waved Sal off, and almost ran out of the restaurant to my hotel room. I again dashed water on my face, and finally dumped my head in the water. When I pulled it out to take a breath, I hardly recognized myself in the mirror. My face was drained of blood, my cheeks were gaunt, and my eyes were bloodshot. Gray bags had formed under them. I needed a shave. I left the bathroom with my head dripping, but I didn’t care. I sat on the side of the bed, my head in my hands, and finally I cried, and then sobbed, and then my whole body shook as I bawled uncontrollably. Hours later, I fell asleep from exhaustion and a broken heart. I never wanted to see Joy again.

Chapter 28

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here was a knock at my door. I ignored it. Again, the knock on my door. I still refused to answer it. I had a “No disturbe” sign on the door, but I didn’t realize I’d left it unlocked. The door opened and Joy stuck her head in. In a voice choked up with such misery that I hadn’t heard from her since she gave up her mother forever to come to this age, she asked, “Can I come in . . . please?” I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and taken aback by the way Joy looked. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. Her face was sallow, lined as though she had aged ten years. She had scratched her cheek somehow, and there was blood smeared around it. She had done nothing to her hair since we returned to the hotel, and it was half in a bun, with strands hanging loosely down the side of her head, and a large strand swept over her forehead. She usually took great care of her appearance; she must not have looked in the mirror at all. Or now just didn’t care. Joy sat in the easy chair by the Spanish chest of drawers and looked at me. She was going to say something, but then her lower lip started trembling, and tears began to roll out of her eyes, and she lost control and started sobbing. This was no get-him-with-tears-trick. She never used that trick on me. She was actually miserable. No matter. When I looked at her I kept seeing her calm murder of the four boys. I tried to shove it deep into my mind, out of the way. It kept coming back. I didn’t move. My mouth was locked tight. Visibly struggling, Joy soon got a grip on herself. She looked at me, almost as she had in the time machine when she’d finally cried out the loss of her mother. “I love you, John” Her lip began to tremble again, and she pulled up the bottom of her dress and wiped her eyes and face. I realized then that Joy hadn’t changed her clothes and still had that bloody dress on.

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“I would die for you,” she said, and then added very hesitantly, “my dearest.” My mouth like a vise, I looked away. Now she rushed on with, “If you want to leave me and forget about our mission, I understand.” My room's window was open and I could hear the faint rustling of the heavy curtains in the breeze. There was no sound of horses or automobiles from the street. Nor any noise from the rooms around me. We were alone in this universe of our misery. I continued to look away. Joy reached down and took her throwing knife out of its sheath. My heart jumped when I saw it out of the corner of my eye. I was about to roll off the bed and try to defend myself, when she tossed it on the end of the bed, grip first. She pulled in her stomach, reached under her waistband, and pulled out her other knife and threw that on bed also. She had brought in her holster purse, probably without thinking. She lobbed that onto the bed, too. She waved dejectedly at the weapons. “Here. I’ll never use them again.” Then she let out a miserable scream, followed immediately with, “Kill me, please! I can’t live without you. Now. Don’t draw it out. Please. This is your justice. And then you can live with yourself over what I’ve done.” This was so sudden, so unexpected, so unlike Joy, that my whole body suddenly jumped as though kicked by a horse. My heart beat so rapidly that I shook with it. Those were the magic words. Everything about the murders disappeared from my mind and vision in a blast. I looked at Joy, now actually looked. I could not forgive her. I could not leave her. I still very much loved her. She needed me. She loved me. Really loved me. My world had changed again. I shakily rose from the bed and, in a daze, I went to Joy. I put my arm around her and gently lifted her off the chair, then sat her down on the bed. I sat next to her and put an arm around her shoulder and with my hand I pulled her head onto my shoulder. She was crying quietly now, and I caressed her head and said my first words of this new world between us. “I will never leave you. I love you, baby.” She was still in my heart, but I didn't fool myself. There was now a part of my heart that was apart from her, a part that expressed caution in how I would now feel about her.

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I pulled my shirt out of my pants and wiped her swollen eyes with it. Joy put her arms around me and squeezed me to her. Soon, she sniffled, “I must explain. I know you hate what I did, and you hate me for it, but I must explain. Please.” Her lower lip quivering, she gave me a pleading look I had never seen before, and I nodded. Her voice strengthened as she talked. “You must understand what rape means to a woman, especially in a Catholic country like Mexico. It can mean the loss of purity, the inability to ever marry and have children, a life of severe psychological problems, including the inability to ever know love or true lovemaking. It often means suicide, John. In Muslim countries the shame of the family can be felt so deeply by the parents that they disown their raped daughter. “Think of that, John. The daughter suffers the rape, and it is she who is disowned. But more. Sometimes they kill her. Nothing is done illegally. She has committed the evil of letting herself, under the sharp blade of a knife or with a gun pointed at her, be raped.” Her voice remained shaky, but there was an intensity in her words that I hadn’t heard since she told me what happened to her mother in Cambodia. “I have never been raped. No matter. When women are raped elsewhere, I am raped also.” Now Joy did raise her voice. “If I had my way, all rapists would be executed. What they do to women—or men, for that matter—is often worse than murder. At least murder is usually quick. Rape usually means lifelong misery. Do you understand, John?” I didn’t reply. “Those teenagers—they were men as far as their equipment and lust were concerned—would have raped me if I couldn’t defend myself. While holding their knives at my throat. And they might have had fun killing me afterwards, and you, John, you as well. After all, you are a hated Yankee, you know.” She was rushing now, trying to get all the words out, as though she thought I would stop them by kicking her out of the room. “We don’t know how many they had already raped. We don’t know how many they would have raped in the future. Is a rapist less a rapist just because he happens to be stopped before he acts, by chance or by the victim defending herself?” I was emotionally exhausted and my body was weak from lack of food. My brain was operating on one cylinder, and my mind was muddled by what must have been a dozen of the chemicals nature gave us

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to protect us against just such emotional catastrophes. But, at that moment, I again saw vividly Joy throwing a knife into the back of the boy trying to flee from her. I fought the image again. I pushed it back down. I knew it would never be gone. Just temporarily out of the way. It was moments before I could speak. Finally, softly, I said, “I don’t agree that you should be judge and executioner. There are courts in Mexico for such crimes, and the punishment is harsh, although it’s not death.” Her confidence grew. “Yes, but not if you’re well connected. Not if you rape an Indian. Even foreign women may have no protection.” Enough! I couldn’t stand any more. How torn apart can one be? I gripped her tear-washed face in my two hands, brought her wet lips to mine, and gently kissed her. She put her hand on my head and crushed my lips to hers. She started weeping again. “I love you, my darling,” she exclaimed, and tried to kiss me even harder. We spent an hour or so in each other’s arms. Then I got up, pulled Joy up with me, and took her into the bathroom. While we stood by the tub, I ran the hot water and took the remaining pins out of her hair. She stood limply while I undressed her and then undressed myself. I hugged her until the water was ready, and then helped her into the tub and followed her in. We washed each other’s bodies and dried each other off afterwards, then went back to the bed and lay in each other’s arms. There was no need now for more words. All had been said. The past could not be undone. My life partner, my mission collaborator, my love, was a murderess.

Chapter 29 In 1908, Francisco Madero published “La Sucesión Presidencial En 1910” (“The Presidential Succession in 1910.”) . . . Calls for honest democratic election of president . . . Sparks political firestorm of pro-Madero presidential sentiment . . . Madero arrested and bailed out of jail by family, flees country . . . Revolution begins. “2 Million Dead: The Revolution of 1910-1920,” El Independiente, November 20, 1947 Old Universe

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oo soon, all the scientific work on time travel, all the costs, all the hopes, all the waiting, all the training, all the worry would come down to maybe less than one crucial hour. I was scared shitless. In the days before our first appointment, we got our relationship back on an even keel, if not quite as it was before. It was like floating a ship after it had gone to the bottom of the sea. Ours was floating and seaworthy again. But never quite the same. We went shopping during the daytime, and, of course, Joy bought tons of Mexican jewelry. We socialized with Sal and Alicia and we actually laughed, perhaps too heartily. We held hands more than we ever had before. But all this was cover. Beneath it all lay what I now knew about Joy. And deeper still, where all my emotions came together like gases swirling around a new sun aborning, I was terrified of what was to come. We didn’t make love yet—I couldn’t have if I wanted to, not even with a whole bottle of Viagra. There was something else that was different about our new relationship. I finally put my finger on it when I got distracted by my fear and left the water running in the bathroom

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sink. And then when Joy put on her new women’s-style Mariachi sombrero hat. Backwards. I was not making jokes and she was not showing irritation over my little mistakes. Sigh. Truth to tell, I missed them both, and needed them. The morning of our appointment, we had a good breakfast—rather, Joy had a good breakfast. I was too nervous to eat more than half a pancake and drink two cups of coffee. We took one of the carriages that always waited for paying riders outside the hotel, and we were on our way. Joy gripped my hand, not because she was nervous, I was sure. She knew my stomach was knotted up with tension, and she wanted to share her warrior’s strength with me. I looked at Joy out of the corner of my eye. Her face showed calm composure, but there was something different in the lift at the corner of her lips, and the thrust of her chin. Joy glanced at me and gave me a little smile. Ah, I recognized what was different in her face. Beneath the composure lay eagerness, anticipation of a greatly desired event. The signs were subtle, yet I knew I was not mistaken. I had seen that particular blend in her expression before. Was it just before we started on this trip to Mexico? No, then I’d seen outright eagerness. Was it before our time travel? No, then it was steady, unwavering anticipation. The carriage bounced over a rut in the road, and the horses missed a step, and she looked at me again. There was that look. That did it. I knew where I had seen that look before—on the last day of my class at Indiana University, the last one I would ever teach anywhere. She’d worn that expression when she came up to me after class and invited me to attend her mother’s dinner party. I would never forget that class; I tried to distract myself with its memory. It was the first time I saw Joy up close, the first time she ever spoke to me. What a different world that was! Or rather, would be. What a different person I’d been. And I had so much, so incredibly much to learn about her.

aaa Our coach arrived at the Riojais Building. It was in a beautiful part of Mexico City, a block from the Palacio de la Inquisicion (The Palace of the Inquisition) located on Republica de Brasil and Venezuela streets. It had been built in the eighteenth century and had belonged to the Inquisition.

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Joy was dressed as a proper lady, with a long, white dress loosely laced and belted at the waist so she could get to her knife, if necessary. Pointed gray shoes peeked from below the skirt, and her hair was pulled up in a tight bun covered by a wide-brimmed hat with a white egret feather sticking out of it. No corset. I’d told her she could put the sheath for her knife around a corset, so the hip knife sheath was no excuse for not wearing one. She looked at me like I had suggested she put on ice skates. I wore a long waistcoat and tight pants, with a fedora hat. Each of us carried all our concealed weapons and wore our armored vests. The question of Joy’s weapons almost occasioned our first fight since what I now called “the incident,” much as a small war between nations is sometimes called an incident. Joy had promised me never to arm herself again. I told her, “We should take no chances, and if we are going to carry out our mission, it’s stupid for you to go unarmed.” “I have my hands and feet,” she countered, her chin thrust at me. “What are you going to do,” I said, waving my hands at her, “throw them at somebody with a gun at fifty feet? I trust you. Now, arm yourself, damn it.” She threw a few hisses my way in response to my commanding tone, but she did take her weapons. It was almost for naught. Madero’s offices were in a corner of the second floor with a view toward the Palacio. When I announced our presence for the appointment to the secretary in the reception area, she called in two husky men in civilian clothes. One frisked me, and took the guns from my shoulder holster and my pocket with a sharp look. The other one looked in Joy’s purse, barked something in Spanish, and handed the purse to the secretary along with my two guns. They never thought she would also have two knives. Or, perhaps, frisking a woman was too sensitive a matter. The two guards—that was what they must have been—ushered us into Madero’s office. As one of them whispered in the ear of the middle-aged man seated at a handsome antique desk, I looked around at the paintings on the walls. One depicted the Catholic priest, Miguel Hidalgo, calling for Mexican independence in 1810. Another painting was of Porfirio Díaz, President of Mexico. There must have been a million medals on his chest. It was hot, humid, and stuffy in the office, and I began to sweat. I had to rub my nose; I was on the verge of sneezing. Joy told me later that the humid heat made the skin beneath her knife sheaths itchy; her

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urge to scratch was almost too much to bear. Air conditioning had been invented, but had yet to be commercially developed enough to reach Mexico. For the millionth time, I sighed over the loss of the modern comforts I’d left behind in the Old Universe. When Madero’s guard completed his whispered report, Madero reached into his desk, pulled out a pistol, and put it on his antique desk in easy reach of his hand, with the muzzle pointed toward us. Both the guards gave us stony looks. I’m sure Joy was as alert as a cat that had mistakenly jumped into a dog kennel. They left, doubtlessly no further than the doorknob on the other side of the door. Madero stared at us, his teardrop-shaped face watchful, and finally motioned for us to sit at the two Douglas office chairs pulled up to his desk. He greeted us cautiously; I barely saw his mouth move behind the large mustache that hung down over his mouth to his pointed goatee. I asked him, “¿Podríamos hablar inglés—Could we speak English?” “Yes,” he said. Then he frowned at Joy and said something in a local Indian dialect. She smiled. “I am Sino-Vietnamese, not Indian.” I jumped in and told him, “She is my partner.” I could feel Joy radiating happiness at that admission. Madero looked at her admiringly for a long moment, and then reluctantly turned his eyes on me. He placed both hands on his desk and, in a businesslike tone, said, “Mr. Sal Garcia passed on through my secretary your ten thousand dollars for thirty minutes of my time this morning.” I nodded. He asked, “What can I do for you that is worth such money?” “Can I speak freely?” I waved my hand at the door and the certainty of ears on the other side. I said as softly as I could, “I have a message, possibly dangerous to you.” “Not a problem,” he responded gruffly, almost smiling. “One is my son-in-law, the other my cousin. My secretary is my granddaughter.” He pursed his lips, reached into his coat, and scratched under his armpit. Then he put both arms on his desk and leaned forward to repeat his question. “What do you want, Mr. Banks?” Keeping eye contact, I also leaned forward. Gesturing with one hand for emphasis, I said bluntly, “I understand that you want to be president and bring about true democracy. I hear that you are planning a revolution to do this, and have strong support among the Indians and

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peons and certain hacienda owners who also want democracy. I hear that President Díaz can be bribed to resign, call for an early election, and point to you as his successor. All if the price is right.” Madero jumped to his feet and put his hand on the gun, and yelled in Spanish, “Who do you think—” Joy’s hand shot toward her leg, I went into cardiac arrest, and barely managed to hold up my hand, palm out, to motion him to sit down. I wasn’t cut out for this. My heart was now making up for lost time, racing the three-minute mile, and I could hardly breathe. It was somebody else, I swear, who said in a strong voice, “I am on a secret mission, but money speaks louder than words. How much do you need to influence Díaz and those surrounding him who might stand in his way? How much to gather the support of the middle class and the most important hacienda owners?” I raised my voice. “How much, Mr. Madero?” Madero sat down, took his hand off his gun, and just studied me. He was distracted for a moment by Joy, who seemed to be scratching her lower leg, very unladylike. He again put me under a visual microscope, taking in my pants, my coat, my hands, my face. And then he locked his gaze on my eyes. I looked back, unblinking, and hoped that my fear didn’t show. He wasn’t going to beat me, eye to eye. I had a technique. I thought of the way fish look at each other with round, unblinking eyes, and focused on that image, imagining I was one. He blinked, the test over and, I gather, successful. Maybe I’m cut out for this stuff after all, I thought. “It is a crime to bribe officials,” he snapped. “Of course,” I agreed. “Did I say bribe? I said influence, and there are many legal ways to do that.” “The things you say are all lies. Who is telling you this?” “My government has very good contacts,” I responded, trying to act nonchalant about it, as James Bond would have done in one of the 007 spy movies. My confidence was growing as I went along. “And there is no point in denying what both of us know to be the truth. How much?” Minutes went by. Madero stared at me again, eyes shrewd. He scratched his head and thrummed his fingers on the desktop for a few seconds. He glanced at the picture of Díaz, then gazed back at me with raised eyebrows. Come on, damn it. Say it. I felt as if the whole mission, our final success or failure, rested on his response. I could hear my heat thumping in my ears. My hands were sweating so bad I could have floated a

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toy boat on them. I didn’t dare steal a glance at Joy. That would indicate weakness to Madero. I hadn’t breathed in minutes. One of my legs wound itself around the chair leg; my toes curled inside my shoe. My other foot was on its way around the other chair leg when, horrified by the thought of a leg cramp and its devastating effect on this meeting, I planted it solidly on the floor, where it no doubt left its imprint for eternity. My toes could do what they wished. The other leg was hopelessly entwined. Jesus, what is Madero doing, going into hibernation? Suddenly, firmly, he said, “Twenty million American dollars.” We did it! I almost fell apart with the release of tension. I hid the deep breath I took, and uncrossed my mental fingers. I uncurled my toes and slowly, like a cobra releasing its dead prey to eat, I unwound my leg from the chair leg. It was clear to me that the absurd figure was a test and, if I were serious, a very high figure from which to start negotiations. “Fine,” I said. “Please give my partner the name of your local bank and your account number, and the bank official to whom the New York City Bank check is to be telegraphed by Western Union.” His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. Then he recovered himself. “This is all a joke. Yes?” “You asked for twenty million. You will get twenty million. I believe you will have it in your account in four days.” Now he crossed his arms and regarded me through narrowed eyes. “How do I know you are what you say?” I gave him a tight smile. “When you get the money, you will know.” He still suspected a trick; I could hear it in his tone of voice. “What government do you represent?” “We are secret agents, Mr. Madero. I can say no more.” Madero studied me for a long moment. This was a cautious man. Then, apparently willing to play along in the hope that this was legitimate, he pulled his records from a locked drawer and read Joy the numbers and the name of the bank official we should contact. With that, the meeting ended. We stood and I said, “Good day, sir, and our best wishes for your success.” Now it was Joy’s turn. In one swift motion, before Madero could respond, Joy pulled in her stomach, reached behind her waistband, and pulled out her tactical knife. She stabbed it into his desk, and released it. It stood there, quivering. Madero’s eyes focused on it as though the Devil’s hand had arisen from the desktop.

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She said nicely, “Oh yes—if you try to leave the country with that money or use it for personal gain, our government—and there are many secret agents like me—will track you down and kill you. You have heard of the la muerte de mil tormentos, I assume.” At that, Madero’s head jerked up to stare incredulously at her. I had taught Joy that term on the way to Madero’s office. A natural linguist, she pronounced it beautifully. Joy made sure he understood, and roughened her tone. “Once my government finds you, it will drop you on a cactus from some second floor balcony and leave you pinned there in the sun to die slowly. I understand it sometimes takes three or four days for victims to die.” Joy jerked her knife out of the desk, rubbed the point against her finger to clean and temporarily protect it with her body oil, then, as Madero gaped, she slid it back into her sheath. I guessed that two of Madero’s relatives were going to have their asses reamed for overlooking that weapon. And in the future female visitors were going to be very embarrassed at how intimately they were searched. With that thought in mind, I nodded to Madero and we turned to leave I glanced back at him as we went out the door. He was half standing, leaning on his desk with both hands, a bulky man dressed in a rumpled suit, sweating profusely and scowling at us as though we were stark raving mad. We picked up our guns from the secretary. Our carriage was waiting for us as I’d requested. We went immediately back to the hotel. I was so happy at the apparent success of this, our very first intervention, that I was on a high. Another bath would make it even better.

aaa Refreshed, with a good lunch of chicken quesadillas in my stomach, I was still flying high. We had two hours before our appointment with the Labastida Detective Agency. We had secretly hired them to locate Pancho Villa, as he became known. “Whose real name was Doroteo Arango,” I informed Joy, just to refresh her memory. “I knew that,” she intoned. We were relaxing in my room before leaving, discussing what we had to do.

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“Yes, well,” and I adopted my lecturing tone, “he was a former cattle rustler and bandit chief who became a general in Madero’s rebellion in the Old Universe. He won several important victories for him. After Madero took over the presidency, Villa became a major source of instability. Worse, he was responsible for the murder of tens of thousands during the Revolution.” “I know,” Joy said again, almost automatically, I was sure. Now. The moment I had been working toward. “He particularly hated Chinese, and would kill them wherever he found them.” She hadn’t known that fact, and I watched her face. I was rewarded; there would be no “I know.” But my secret glee turned to dismay as a blazing nova of anger spread over her face from ear to ear, chin to hairline. I swear, even her hair began to frizzle. I would rather have all my teeth pulled without Novocain than have that look directed at me. Stupid. I saw my mistake immediately. Now I was sure she would want to kill Villa with her fingernails, scratch by scratch. My best recourse was to turn her mind away from that. I continued lecturing, a little louder than before. “During the Revolution, Villa attacked Columbus, New Mexico, and killed eight American soldiers and nine civilians. The American government sent General John J. Pershing with a force of several thousand men into Mexico after Villa, but couldn’t catch him. Partly because of this, Villa became a hero to many Mexicans.” I reminded her, “When the Society proposed that he be one of those we assassinate, I agreed that he was important, but not important enough to kill. I told them, ‘I don’t want to go about assassinating all the small-time murderers like him. No doubt Villa was a major revolutionary figure. His importance lay in his influence among the native people and the peasants, which he used to seek dictatorial power. He could not be trusted to support any constitutional democracy for long.’ I agreed that he had to be removed—in some way.” Joy looked a little more merciful toward Villa, like she was now willing to chop him up here and there with her hands before the final coup to the neck. I had screwed this up, but we still had to come to a decision. “Now, it’s up to you and me, sweetheart. I want to bribe him.” Her eyebrows disappeared into her hairline as her mouth fell open. She shook her head as though she couldn’t believe what she’d heard. “You want to bribe him—bribe him. Jesus, John, we have to kill that

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damn mass murderer.” To persuade me, she decided to show some mercy. “I suggest dropping him on a cactus and leaving him there to die. Then the problem is nicely solved—forever.” I was morose, and probably looked it. My shoulders slumped. I picked at a scab on the back of my hand, not meeting her eyes. Joy cooled down and studied my face. I’m sure she was thinking of what the “incident” had done to our relationship. She got out of her chair and sat next to me on the bed. She put a hand on my knee. “You know that Villa murdered thousands of innocent people. You know that in any civilized country in the world he would have been sentenced to death and executed—” “Wrong.” I interrupted. ”Many countries now have laws against capital punishment. You and the Society always use that argument,” Joy decided to appeal to reason. “Anyway, Villa would probably just take our money and ignore any promise he made, and laugh at our threat to kill him.” Unconsciously, I picked more vigorously at my scab, already having succeeded in removing part of it. The little cut underneath was beginning to hurt. I could smell my own sweat in the heat. Joy gently poked me in the side. “Yes?” I turned my head to look at her, and brushed aside a tuft of hair that had fallen over her forehead. “Okay.” I very reluctantly agreed to make Villa our first assassination. Then, stroking her hair, I sadly pointed out, “I know, sweetheart. I agreed to assassinations in the abstract before we traveled to this age, but now I’m confronted with an actual living human being. Besides your persuasive arguments, I will comfort myself with the thought that in the Old Universe we came from, someone actually did assassinate him, but not until he organized a rebellion and committed more mass murder.” Joy answered, “Good. One down, one more to go.” I got up and went to the bathroom to get a drink of water. It was tepid, but my body demanded it. I came back and took the only chair and faced Joy sitting on the bed. “You mean Emiliana Zapata, I’m sure. He was also assassinated in the Old Universe, but not before he led his own revolution and many rebellions that cost many lives.” “I know, “ she said, but I ignored it. I wanted to be sure she remembered the history of this man, and I easily fell back into my lecture tone. “After one rebellion he set himself up as a local warlord. He thus was a potential danger to a new democ-

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ratic government, and, like Villa, was a mass murderer. He and his forces were not just content with killing those they did not like or their political enemies; they often subjected them to death by excruciating torture. They liked to tie their prisoners over the maguey cactus, which would grow a foot or more at night and kill the victim, inch by inch.” “I know.” I was on a roll, but her tolerant expression stopped me cold. “Okay,” I ended lamely, “do we assassinate Zapata also?” Joy didn’t answer; she didn’t need to. Her expression said it all. I threw up my hands and admitted unhappily, “If we do in Villa, it makes no sense to let Zapata live.” I was almost shocked at that sentence. We were acting like gods. “And we know where they are,” Joy pointed out. My chance, and I didn’t say “I know.” Joy got up and went to her holster purse on the chest of drawers. She took out a neatly typed sheet of paper bearing a grotesque caricature of Sherlock Holmes smoking a pipe and underneath, in Old English script, “La Agencia Detective De Labastida—The Labastida Detective Agency.” We had paid the agency an absurd sum for this report. They had delivered it to the hotel several days ago. She ignored the introductory part of the report and read aloud, “Villa is located some thirty miles southeast of the city of Queretaro; in San Juan del Rio, Durango State, where he is visiting a nephew. This is located in Mexico’s central region. He is expected to stay for two more weeks. We also found Zapata, who is currently a small landowner in Anenecuilco, Morelos State” Joy tossed the paper on the bed and said cheerily, “There they are. Let’s go get them.” Her cheer instantly reminded me of her “Oh. Fun” exclamation during the “incident.” I fought the sudden explosion of hot emotion. My face must have paled with the struggle. I put my head in my hands and gradually pushed the image of the murdered boys down and back. Sweat dripped from my nose. I looked up at her from under my brows and replied weakly, “You mean you want to kill them?” She knew what was going through my mind. She dropped off the bed onto her knees in front of me, took my sweat-damp hands, and replied softly, “I thought that was what we were about.” The incident, the incident—I had to keep fighting it, to keep it down, out of my mind. I stood up and pulled my hands free. I said as evenly as I could, “Give me a few moments to think about it.”

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I went into the bathroom again, filled the sink with water, and dunked my head into it, splashing water over my hair. I took off my shirt and wiped my torso with a washcloth. I brushed a towel over me a couple of times, then returned to the bedroom, still damp. Joy hadn’t moved from the floor. She had one arm draped across the chair seat with her head resting on it. She looked up at me as I sat next to her on the floor and leaned against the bed. Her eyes were wet; she had been crying. I had partially succeeded in my own emotional battle and I could think again. I put my arm around her and, as though nothing had intervened, I continued our discussion of what to do. I tried to be reasonable. “Villa and Zapata are very dangerous men. They no doubt have many armed men around them, are armed themselves, and would shoot you if they didn’t like your laughter. And, my darling, we are conspicuous. Even if we got in range through some subterfuge, whether we would get out is another question.” Joy turned her sad, wet eyes on me. I had carried the towel with me and tried to wipe her eyes and face. She reached up and moved my hand away, not taking her eyes away from mine. Her eyes narrowed slightly as they bored into mine; she was using her eyes to communicate her sincerity and depth of feeling. I understood. I would have had to be blind, not to. Her strained voice broke the silence. “Villa murders Chinese just because they are Chinese. I want to see the look on his goddamn face before I kill him. When I tell him sweetly that I am Chinese. Tell me, dearest. Am I bad or evil for wanting to do that—for wanting to kill this mass murderer?” “No. And I understand. But, you would have to do it without me. That would most likely mean your death without someone to cover your ass, but I think you’re wrong—not evil or bad, just wrong—and I’m not going to participate. And you aren’t going, either. I agree that they should be killed. That’s it. We will contract with someone to do it.” She stiffened and her face hardened. Lightning fast, her eyes threw daggers at me. She snapped, “What? You don’t trust me? Are you afraid I’ll kill some little children as well? You’re not going to tell me what I can and cannot do.” The “incident” again. It will always be there between us, I thought. I pushed it to the back of my mind again.

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As she scowled at me, I gently rested my hand on her shoulder and tried to do what she had done to me. I locked my eyes on hers and peered into them. I tried to use them as a tunnel through which my feeling could flow into her heart. My mind was useless at things like this; I wanted to touch her love for me, and all that surrounded it. Speaking just above a whisper, I told her, “Please understand, sweetheart. I love you. I couldn’t stand it if you were killed. It would kill me also, whether I lived or not.” I sighed, and continued. “These guys are dangerous. I know you’re trained to handle such people, but nothing can protect you from being shot by a sniper or from men rushing you on horses with their guns blazing. There are those whose business is assassination, at the right price. Baby, we can hire the acordada; they’re a group of professional assassins attached to each Mexican state. Governors and police often pay them to kill personal enemies and political opponents.” She was melting. I had to end this just right. “Why endanger yourself and our whole loving life together, when money will do the trick?” Her anger had evaporated. She broke eye contact and looked down at nothing, fidgeting with the ruffles on her sleeve as though seeking an errant thread with her fingers. She exhaled noisily. “Okay.” I couldn’t believe how that one word affected me emotionally. I felt exhilarated. I knew we weren’t playing one of our games. I knew that this was not a win-lose competition between us—so much more was at stake. Yet, I couldn’t convince my emotions of that. I felt I had served the winning point in the Wimbledon tennis championship. We could surmount the “incident.” Our love was stronger than that; so strong it bound Joy to me, even to the extent that she would not take personal revenge on a mass killer who murdered Chinese on sight. I fell against her. I buried my face in her hair. I felt it on my face and smelled its rich aroma. I stroked her back. I was so happy. Everything came down to three words. “I love you.” “I love you too, my dearest.” She moved her head so she could take my face in her two hands and give me a long, tender kiss.

aaa That afternoon, we kept our appointment at the Labastida Agency. After contracting with us for the information on Villa and Zapata, they knew how much we were willing to spend, and that we were very accommodating. They had no idea why we wanted to meet. I did when I

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had Sal set it up. Joy didn’t at the time, but I think she thought it had to do with precisely identifying Villa and Zapata before we killed them. We met with Labastida himself in his cramped and dirty office, which was so hot we had to constantly fan ourselves. It had the sour smell of a men’s gym locker room after summer football practice. A bare, dim bulb hung from the ceiling, and stronger light came from an accountant’s lamp on his scratched desk, which was overflowing with papers. My first reaction was to wonder, Why the hell did Sal contract for us with this company? Then I remembered their report to us, which had been fast and well done. Labastida was a fat old man with a gray thatch of hair on top of his head. He wore a poor-fitting dark blue suit. He didn’t get up from his desk. After introductions in Spanish, he told me to call him Jose. Our small talk—during which he ignored Joy entirely—may have set a record for brevity. Afterwards, he asked me in English so perfect that I would have thought he was an American, “What do you want?” I delicately expressed our interest in having the criminal Villa and the troublemaker Zapata “disappear permanently.” I handed him his company’s report on their locations. He knit his brow and gave me a cold, calculating frown. “Why?” “It is the secret business of our government.” He eyed me shrewdly. “Why doesn’t your government do it, then?” “They are, through us. That’s why we are here. Now, how much do you want to do this?” “Ten thousand,” he said firmly. “If we give you this money, how will you assure us that you have carried out our contract?” I asked him. He smiled slowly. “We will send you their teeth. All of them.” “Okay, we will give you ten thousand dollars now, and when we receive the teeth and have checked them out through other Mexican . . . contacts, we will telegraph another ten thousand dollars to your bank’s address with the deposit details you give my partner, here. You will mail the teeth to this address.” I gave him a post office box address in San Francisco. Fortunately, he had no way of knowing that we knew nothing about the men’s teeth and had no other contacts. I knew Joy was insulted by this man’s rudeness. It was her turn, and she put special vigor into it. Silently, her eyes like hot coals, she whipped out her tactical knife and thrust its unwavering point a foot

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from Jose’s Adam’s apple. He had started to reach into his desk drawer, but stopped when he saw her deadly eyes and the way she shook her head. At that moment, her eyes would have stopped a speeding Mack truck. Intentionally injecting a touch of hopefulness into her voice, Joy spoke softly what would become our standard threat: “If I find out that you have falsified the teeth or if either of these men later shows his face anywhere, our government will have others like me track you down and kill you by la muerte de mil tormentos—death of a million torments— by tying you over an ant colony.” He hesitated, obviously shaken. Finally, scowling, he wrote down the information we needed and tried to hand it to me without looking at Joy’s face or knife. She intercepted it, and with a slow flourish, put it in her purse. I opened my traveling bag and took out a roll of bogus thousanddollar bills, counted them off, and handed them to Jose. I wished we had planned for Joy to do this. I was also irritated by his treatment of her. He looked at me, glanced at Joy out of the corner of his eye, then swiftly shifted his gaze back to me. “These men are nothing. Stupid peons. Why are they so important?” I thought he’d keep wondering if I didn’t answer, and that would not be good. “Villa has insulted a high official of my government,” I told him, “and Zapata has raped the daughter of another official’s sister.” Gee, I’m good. “Oh, of course,” Jose said. And we got up and left without another word.

aaa We had one last appointment the next day, and I suggested to Joy that we go back to our hotel so I could take another bath. She wanted one also. The fight over the assassinations still haunted me, but it faded with the bath we took together and the sweet kiss she gave me when we dried each other off. I had flown high with our morning success, was brought down with our fight, and again soared with its conclusion. That was emotionally. Intellectually, I bluntly recognized that my sweetheart, my mission and life partner, my soul mate, was bloodthirsty.

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After we ate supper and talked about how well things had gone in our mission, I told Joy, “I want to go to sleep early. Will you join me?” She replied, “No, I have some things I want to do on my laptop. I’ll join you later.” “Fine.” I went to bed and fell sleep without difficulty. I had not the slightest suspicion, not the minutest inkling, that Joy had lied to me.

Chapter 30

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ne more appointment to go. It was the most dangerous. We would either succeed or die. I was even more terrified. We had been so successful; Joy and I had surmounted my worst nightmare about us, and I knew how fate worked. Now was the time for it all to end. Our appointment was with General Victoriano Huerta. Again, to aid Joy’s memory, I gave her a mini briefing, this time on Huerta’s background in the Old Universe: “As President Madero’s general in military command of Mexico City, he rebelled in 1913, and forced Madero to resign. He then seized the presidency himself, soon after someone assassinated Madero. “ “I know,” she said laconically, looking at a fingernail. General Huerta was on leave and staying in a lavish apartment a block away from Labastida’s office. An armed military guard showed us into his apartment. No frisking. I was surprised. But with an armed guard carrying an American Army 1903 Springfield rifle (Joy later informed me) and fixed bayonet, Huerta must have felt secure, especially since I was alone. Women didn’t count. I bet he also kept a gun or two on him, in easy reach. Huerta awaited us in the middle of his living room. He immediately walked up to Joy and, taking her hand, kissed it, and purred in Spanish, “My pleasure in meeting you,” he said, looking earnestly into her eyes, his small mustache twitching. Dropping her hand with seeming reluctance, he focused on me, shook my hand vigorously, and greeted me warmly as well. I guessed that as far as women were concerned, Labastida and Huerta embodied two sides of Latin American culture. “Please sit down.” He gestured at the leather covered divan. Huerta sat in a loosely cushioned, leather arm chair opposite it. His guard remained inside, stationed at the door, rifle held across his chest. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked. “I have a bottle of American cola. We now get it here.” I declined, and Huerta engaged me in Spanish small talk, although his eyes slid often to Joy. After a few minutes spent discussing how hot

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the weather was in Mexico City; Javier’s Restaurant that, he claimed, had the finest food in Mexico; and other mundane topics, he finally asked in English, “Why do you want to see me? I understand you have a proposal I will find very interesting?” I was wary of this man. I knew his violent history and I would not trust him to pet a puppy. I sat back and rested my chin on my hand in such a way that I had fast access to my shoulder holstered H&K. I glanced at Joy’s right hand, which she’d crossed over her lap. It was only inches away from the waist of her dress and her knife. We were ready. “How much money do you need to take up permanent residence in Spain?” I responded frankly. He frowned. “What are you talking about?” I saw his hand slide to the edge of the cushion he was sitting on. I swallowed, took a breath, and answered calmly, “My government knows that someone will assassinate you if you stay here. Therefore, it is willing to help you move to a home in a new country, and to make it worth your bother.” “Sergeant, arrest them,” Huerta commanded in Spanish, and the guard leveled his rifle, pointed it at me, and stepped toward us from Joy’s side of the divan. Huerta also pulled out a gun that he’d had hidden under his chair cushion. He held it loosely in his hand as he snarled, “Which of my enemies sent you?” Joy had worn a feminine pink satin-weave skirt and a white lady’s blouse, and had been sitting in her usual and deceptive proper ladylike posture: back straight, hands neatly overlapping on her lap, legs crossed daintily at the ankles. Perhaps for these reasons, the guard ignored her. So fast it would make a lightning bolt jealous, Joy launched herself off the divan in a blur of pink and white. Flashing under the sergeant’s gun hand, she grabbed it and pushed it slightly up in case the rifle discharged. Then she paralyzed his arm with an overhead twist that sent the rifle flying out of his hand and onto the divan. Not bad. I’d make that two seconds, I thought stupidly as the bayonet barely missed me. I flung myself onto Huerta’s gun at an angle, just in case he pulled the trigger, and wrenched it from his hand. He was old and slow. Okay. So it took me three seconds. Joy grabbed the guard’s rifle off the divan and pointed it at the guard, the bayonet pricking his stomach. “Turn around and put your hands on the wall,” she commanded.

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Without thinking, I yelled at her, “Don’t kill him!” I needed no psychoanalysis to understand where that came from. Joy shot a perplexed glance at me over her shoulder, then immediately looked back at the soldier. He hadn’t moved, so I translated her order into Spanish. He did what she ordered. I sat back down, put Huerta’s gun on my lap, and looked at him. I hoped he couldn’t tell how rapid my heart was pulsating. My calm voice amazed me. “We represent no one in Mexico. We are secret agents of a government that has your best interests in mind. Stay here, and you will die. Leave Mexico with the money we will give you within one month, and you will live—in luxury. What is your price?” Huerta rubbed his hand over the bald front of his head, removed his round, metal rimmed glasses, and glowered at Joy, thrusting his chin at her. He finally asked what I would hear often. “Who is that . . . woman?” “She is like me—a secret agent. And my partner. Name your price.” Huerta stared at us in bewilderment at first, his narrow lips clamped together, his mustache seeming to weigh down their corners. Then a calculating expression slowly formed on his square face. He nodded in the direction of his sergeant, still facing the wall, and put his finger on his lips. Joy saw this. She put down the gun, placed one hand on the sergeant’s upper neck, and dug her fingers into the switch on his carotid artery. He collapsed onto the floor, unconscious. Huerta looked down at his sergeant, then at Joy, and shook his head, throwing off a few drops of sweat. I could smell them. Then he eyed me, still looking skeptical. “Five hundred thousand dollars?” he threw out, his shoulders seeming to tense over this impossible wealth he expected us to reject immediately—but he had to start at some figure. “Agreed,” I said without hesitation. Huerta’s hunched shoulders jerked upwards. His eyes widened as his eyebrows rose, and his thin lips parted. Gesturing with both hands to display his amazement, he blurted, “You will pay me that much to leave?” We have him. James Bond, move over. “Yes,” I responded. I told him we would transfer the money into his account, and then asked for the details. He moved dreamily to a cabinet, took out a leather-covered record book, and wrote on a sheet of paper what we needed to know. He tried

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to give it to me, but Joy, now holding her own gun, reached over with her free hand and took the paper. She slipped it into her purse. “That ends our business,” I said. We rose, and Joy varied her routine. Holding her gun in her left hand, she swiftly pulled her throwing knife from her leg sheath and threw it across the room into the portrait of President Díaz. It embedded itself in the middle of his nose. As Huerta stood gaping, I commented, “That normally would have been right between the eyes, but she’s a little off today.” Joy ignored me as she calmly strolled over, pulled the knife out, and let him see her put it in her sheath after cleaning the point. She then made sure he understood the consequences of remaining in Mexico. “If you don’t go, we’ll assassinate you. And it won’t be pleasant, or quick.” Huerta’s eyes bulged. He stared at us as though we had sprouted devil’s horns from our heads. We took the rifle’s cartridges and Huerta’s gun with us when we left. We decided to make the hour’s walk back to our hotel. This was the worst part of downtown and we soon regretted our decision. The streets were dirty, rutted, potholed, and thick with horse dung and urine. The air was filled with the flies the excrement drew. Even the bodies of passing horses and their drivers seemed to add to the stench. The usual million wires obscured the sky. Here and there, we passed a plot of dirt overgrown with weeds and littered with rubbish. A few blocks away from Huerta’s apartment, we threw the cartridges and his gun into one of them.

aaa That night, as we lay naked and without blankets or sheets under the mosquito netting in our hotel room, Joy asked, “Why did you yell at me not to kill the soldier? Did you really believe I would kill him with his back to me and his hands up?” She was tensing up and again the image of her throwing her knife into the back of the boy flashed into my mind and I had to stomp on it and kick it away. I was getting better at doing that. Lamely, I responded, “I don’t know why. I think it was just a natural response from somebody as scared as I was.” Joy chewed on that for a moment and then changed the subject. “How much have we spent on this trip?”

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“I would say about twenty-one million dollars,” I replied after some mental calculation. “Cheap, cheap,” she giggled, “so cheap!” My smile was so wide, its ends tickled my earlobes. “In the Old Universe, about two million people were killed or murdered in the Mexican Revolution alone. It cost us about ten dollars a head to save all those lives, if we’ve succeeded. Cheap, indeed.” “Mom would be so happy to know about what we’ve done,” she murmured, and she touched her locket. “And Gu, and Ludger, and all the others,” I added. “Yes,” she whispered. It was too hot and humid to make love, which still gave me the excuse I needed. Not enough time had passed. But we held hands and I fell into an almost happy sleep. For the first time since this all started, I dreamed of giving my lecture on war and democide in my history class. As usual, Joy sat at the back of the class. When I ended my lecture, Joy stood up and waved her hand to get my attention. She had on an early twentieth century dress and a ridiculously wide brimmed hat piled high with silk flowers. Her beautiful eyes peeked out at me from under the brim as she asked, “Professor, what about the Mexican Revolution?” “What revolution?” I asked. “Mexico has been a full-fledged democracy since 1909.” Then I saw her mother and Gu in the class. They stood up and began to clap. And the other students all stood up to applaud, as well. It got louder and louder, and cheers broke out. I woke up with a start to the fire gong alarm of our brass alarm clock. Not even a deaf person would sleep through it. We had an hour in which to catch the buggy to the train station for our trip home. Sal had already left for Vera Cruz to conduct more of our business there. We were done, and I should have been the happiest I’d been since arriving in 1906. I wasn’t.

Chapter 31 Hirobumi assassinated in Korea . . . military demand annexation, more power . . . politicians overshadowed. Asahi Shinbun, October 26, 1909 Old Universe

W

e headed for home, what passed for our home in this New Universe, the apartment in San Francisco, the city of dark alleys and poorly lit streets. I was so ignorant. So dumb. The return train trip from Mexico was better than the trip down. This time our first class tickets got us a compartment in a newly added sleeping car, complete with two bunks that pulled from the wall when we were ready for them, and a water stand, sink, and makeup mirror. What didn’t change was the humid heat, the smoke from the engine when we left the window open and the wind blew into our compartment, and the infernal rush to shut the window when we entered a tunnel. Above all, there was the monotonous clickity-clack of the wheels. Since we had the privacy of our compartment, Joy and I tried to sleep together, hugging each other, the first night on the train, but the bunk was just too narrow, even for a contortionist like her. Not many fat people in this country or age, I suggested to her. So, being the gentleman I am, I gave her the bottom berth and took the top one. As I lay in my bunk that first night on the train, the success of the whole Mexican experience still fresh in my mind, I couldn’t help thinking again of the Society and my decision to join Joy on this mission. Yes, they all would be happy about what we had accomplished so far. We had done what we planned and the future here looked rosy, but this was still 1908 and the Revolution broke out in 1910, the year of the next Mexican presidential election. Much could happen before then, and to be honest, we might have actually made things worse.

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But so far, the Society would be pleased. Some of them might even support Joy’s murderous obsession with rape. But we’d straightened that out between us. Joy now knew how I felt, which she really hadn’t known before. It was done; we could move on. Right? That’s what I thought. I think I actually had moved on. I felt happy that first night on the train. Almost giddy. My mind relaxed, and pretty soon the clickityclack, clickity-clack put me to sleep. I might even have been smiling.

aaa During the one week of train trips and transfers from Mexico City to Mexicali, we had a chance to review the Society’s Plan for our next action, and my revision of it. “It has to be Japan,” Joy pronounced. Joy should know. She had been with me throughout the planning, ready to replace me in carrying through our plans if something should happen to me. I had the mission notebook, though, and I don’t think she had looked at it since we arrived in 1906. There was much she didn’t know or had by now forgotten. Finally, I thought at the time, now, with my incredible knowledge of history and Asian Studies, with my awesome research, I’m the expert. Joy’s the student. All that I suffered under Sergeant Phim has now passed. My turn. Move over, student Phim, for Professor Banks. None of these happy thoughts showed on my face, or in my manner, of course. I’m too nice. “Yes,” I said serenely. “Intervening to avoid the Mexican Revolution and the many years of authoritarian rule that brought it on was one thing, but with Japan, we face a series of events that led into the Japanese invasion of China in 1937, and her attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941. The first of these events will occur soon, if we don’t intervene there also.” I leaned forward. “Now, we have a company office in Tokyo, with eleven Japanese employees engaging in import/export affairs for us. We have also secured Japanese bureaucratic permission to establish a similar office in Korea.” “Dearest, I know all that,” she said, then added to prove that she did, “Most of the employees in the Korean office are Japanese—part of the bureaucratic agreement.” Of course. My runaway mouth. She made the trip to Japan to set up those offices.

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Her response got me off track. “Yes, and I still remember your complaints about the horrible boat trip both ways, to set up our offices. How many men propositioned you? And the Captain! Sweetheart, are you sure you weren’t wiggling your behind too much?” Oh-oh. I thought I was joking, but then I remembered flirting was to her as meowing is to a cat. She didn’t think I was kidding at all. Joy crossed her arms, then she crossed her legs. Her eyes flared. “Why, you bastard! Do you think I go around trying to screw any man within reach? Don’t you think I have more pride than that? How do you get off anyway, suggesting it?” Smoke began to come in the train window (How appropriate, I thought) and Joy got up and slammed the window down with all her might. The coach car lurched. Bad track, I hoped. Then Joy dropped roughly down on the seat and crossed her arms again. “You should talk. Hands told me how the women in Vienna flocked around you like park pigeons wanting to be fed. You must have been wagging your joy rod.” Then both of us realized what she had said. I burst out laughing, perhaps a little louder than called for. Her face softened gradually, and she began to giggle. My chance. “Sorry, baby. I was joking. Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, no one comes close to matching your attractiveness.” I was getting good at this. Quickly, I shifted forward again and consulted my mission notebook to change the subject. She was sitting across from me, so I got up and sat next to her. “Here.” I showed her the first page. “This is the outline that I made. Note the rise and fall of Japanese governments, parties, and the military figures that were significant in the growth of Japanese militarism and right-wing nationalism. And all these figures played a role in the final Japanese invasion of China and the later attack on Pearl Harbor. Note that many moderate and opposition politicians and military leaders were assassinated in the years 1908 to 1937.” Joy still was having trouble getting over my joke. She clamped her mouth shut for a few minutes and didn’t even look at my outline. She stared out the window at the smoke swirling by. Finally she decided to drop it and go along with what I was talking about. She uncrossed her arms, looked at me, and asked rhetorically, “We’ve got to start with Korea, right?”

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Whew. “Yes, Korea is it,” I said. “By now, 1908, Japan has turned Korea into a protectorate. No one has protested this except the Koreans, and in 1910 Old Universe, Korea becomes a Japanese colony.” “Let’s see,” she mused. “Japan now is very sensitive to the world, and particularly to American opinion. In the Old Universe, however, European powers and especially the United States ignored what Japan was doing in Korea. So, one of our tasks is to foment elite American opinion hostile to a Korean takeover.” I nodded. I thought she would have forgotten that. I got more detailed. “Ito Hirobumi is a historical pivot. He is the venerable Japanese statesman and oligarch who negotiated a modified protectorate status for Korea in 1905, and became its first Japanese Resident General. He strongly opposed outright annexation by the military, and finally resigned his post in 1909. In October, on a trip to Manchuria to confer with the Russians, he was assassinated at Harbin as he was getting off a train.” “I know.” She added, “General Ahn Choong-kun of the antiJapanese Korean Righteous Army did it.” Damn, she remembered that also. “Still my best student.” I smiled at her. I added, “The Japanese captured, tortured, and finally executed him. The assassination provided the pretext for annexation of Korea. Here, I have in my notes a headline translated from the Old Universe Asahi Shinbun of October 26, 1909.” I waited for Joy’s eager “Hey, I want to hear that,” but she only scratched her nose and waited slack-eyed for what she knew would come even if she took out her gun and shot a hole in the notebook. Professor’s lot. I read it anyway. “Hirobumi assassinated in Korea—military demand annexation, more power—politicians overshadowed.” Joy absently watched the cactus-littered desert slip by the window, and responded, “So, we prevent Hirobumi’s assassination. We give aid to the Korean Righteous Army that is fighting a guerrilla war for Korean independence. And then they can recruit abroad and buy weapons.” “Right. Both actions will defeat the demands of the Japanese military and nationalists for the annexation of Korea. Which will help weaken, if not deter outright, Japan’s imperial desire for Manchuria and China.”

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I consulted the notebook again. “Another political pivot in Japan during this period was the elections of 1908, in which the political party of the moderate prime minister, Saionji Kinmochi—” “Dearest,” she interrupted, and held up her finger, “you pronounce Japanese like you’re sneezing. Don’t embarrass me in Japan. Its sa-e-own-gee keen-mo-che—as in cheese—without emphasis on any syllable.” “—Prime Minister what’s-his-name. His party was formerly headed by Ito Hirobumi.” I waited, but she said nothing about my pronunciation of Ito’s name. She’d obviously embarrassed herself by interrupting me before. I went on, “The party gained control of the lower house of parliament. But, the most powerful oligarchs, who actually controlled the government for the emperor, wanted a prime minister who was more supportive of the military. Sa-e-own-gee Keen-mo-che—as in cheese— resigned this month in the Old Universe, but here in this New Universe he has been hanging on with the fifteen million dollars you secretly sent him to garner support.” I was laughing so hard I could hardly continue. “Even the old oligarchs are susceptible to pretty young women and bribes, if they’re large enough.” Joy kept a straight face, and responded wryly, “I know.” No sense of humor. She asked, “Didn’t the Society’s banker, Ed, say that the best plan for Japan is virtually no plan?” “Yes,” I replied, leaving the laughter behind. “Japanese politics are full of factions, bureaucrats, oligarchs, secret societies, and the military, all entwined within their unique culture like threads in an oriental rug.” I looked at her. No smile or groan. “Oriental rug,” I repeated. Joy lifted an eyebrow. Well, I got some reaction. I resumed. “We’ll do what we can about events upcoming in about a year or two, and then wait to see the results. And then, if it looks like Japan is moving to invade Manchuria, we intervene at that point. And we also wait and see regarding Japan’s potential invasion of China. What we are now doing to help Prime Minister Saionji . . . ” Now, I did pronounce that well, if I do say so myself, “. . . and what we will do about Korea may be enough to weaken the oligarchs, control the military, and get democracy on its way. We’ll see.” We had many such mission-oriented conversations, often interspersed with Joy’s “I know.”

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aaa When we returned to our office in San Francisco, we made sure all the funds we promised to send to Mexico had been sent as we’d telegraphed. We also secretly sent another ten million dollars to our office in Japan to support Prime Minister Saionji’s party and to bribe the oligarchs. We continued to build up our business and our offices in Europe. I spent most of my time signing papers, monitoring our business, and making sure our executives knew what we wanted done, while Joy concentrated on overseeing the mechanics of our true mission. Our Tor Import & Export Company had a good staff, and this type of business was thriving with the growth in communications and new ships that speeded up international travel. People were becoming more interested in foreign cultures and other ways of life. Utilizing our business profits, my stock trades, and the Society’s jewels and gold—we rarely used the counterfeit money now—we were growing rapidly as a company and beginning to attract public attention. In the time we had been gone in Mexico alone, I had made eleven million dollars on the New York Stock Exchange, but I lost four million on purpose. Since then, counting both company profits and profits from my stock trading, we had made many millions more than we had so far spent in Mexico and Asia combined. The memory of the rape attempt on Joy in Mexico and the associated horrible images rarely intruded into my thoughts anymore. Between Joy’s constant love, a resumption of our lovemaking, and the effect of returning to our apartment, I came to accept what she’d done and what she was as one comes to accept many bad things about their loved one that in isolation one would condemn. I had faced it and realized that she was my love and my partner, and we had a job to do together. I never questioned why she now sometimes seemed moody, nor did I wonder why she spent an unusual amount of time on her laptop computer after I had gone to sleep.

aaa We boarded the Oakland at San Francisco’s Pier 7 in September 1909, and soon we were on our way to Japan via Shanghai. I hated traveling this way. This trip would take about two weeks each way and

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was without modern communications except the wireless telegraph, which we sent messages on as often as the captain allowed. That was not often enough, even with a special surcharge we paid him. Our Japanese office telegraphed us that they had arranged our meeting with Ito Hirobumi, who must have accepted our offer of two thousand dollars for the appointment. A buxom Japanese girl of nineteen, Joy told me, delivered the money, and let Ito know in the usual Japanese shadow play that she was part of the deal. Joy exclaimed, “You men!” “Excuse me,” I responded, “but wasn’t she a woman?” Damn, what a dirty look. About halfway between China and Hawaii, we ran into increasingly strong winds and high waves. Soon, the wind reached over a hundred miles per hour and drove the rain horizontally. The wind tore at the ship, blowing overboard anything that was loose. When we ventured on deck, the rain felt as though it was sandblasting our skin. We tried to protect ourselves against the rain and raging torrents of spray and spume by clinging to handrails in an open passageway that ran between both sides of the deck at the stern. Although midday, everything merged into a dark, watery gray and we could not see from one end of the ship to the other. The captain had steered the ship head-on into the waves and wind when it was obvious there would be a big blow. At the stern, we had the bulk of the ship protecting us against the fantastic wind, rain, and charging sea, but as the waves rose into towering, white-capped mountains, even this was not safe. But we were not going to retreat into any closed passageway that would be a coffin if the ship suddenly sank. The ship twisted and lunged, and sometimes seemed to be hanging in air. For hours, it shuddered and shook and groaned like a huge beast attacked by a pride of lions trying to claw and bite it down. It would rise almost straight up on a raging forty or fifty foot wave, then plunge like a roller coaster down the other side, burying its bow deep into the frothy sea. There it hesitated, groaning and screeching throughout. We could feel the shuddering in the deck plates beneath our feet and whatever we were gripping for dear life—each time, we thought we would sink. Then the ship would shake off the tons of seawater and begin its heavy climb up the next mountain of foaming sea. The captain was in the fight of his life just to keep the ship centered on the oncoming waves. One slight deviation to left or right, a small granting of the ship’s sides to the lethal waves and deadly wind, and we

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were fish food. We would be rolled over under the waves like a barrel over Niagara Falls, never to come up again. I was certain this would happen. We refused to go to our cabins when ordered, and stayed close to the lifeboats. They surely could not be launched in these waves and wind, but they were floatable and we hoped that with our life preservers on, we could stay afloat long enough to find either the debris of the lifeboats or other wooden debris from the ship that we could use for support. I would do anything I could to make sure Joy survived. All I could do was hope. But living through the hell of wild rain, wind, and waves, hope was only a mental surcease. I thought we both were going to die. It was all I could do to hold to the railing, or whatever was bolted down. When the ship was at the bottom of its plunge and there was a moment of shuddering grace, I kissed Joy’s streaming wet face and screamed into the wind, “I love you!” and gloried in her telling me how much she loved me, and what a great life we’d had together. Our noses and mouths filled with salt-laden air and water, and we vomited standing up, holding onto the railing and each other. The wind-driven spray pulled the vomit away from our mouths and washed it from our bodies. We gagged constantly. There was no such thing as dry heaves—everything was wet. The ship did almost sink. When the waves calmed five hours later, the ship was taking on so much water that the pumps barely kept up. The freight had also shifted and we were low at the bow and only three feet above water amidships. Everyone available formed a human chain from cargo hold to railing, throwing overboard everything that could be lifted. The wind and waves had carried away parts of the superstructure and a freight crane, and a damaged engine limited us to no more than six knots. The captain said we had lived through a typhoon; another hour in it and we would all be at the bottom. We had been blown far off course. Almost wallowing, we were met by an American warship twenty-five miles outside of Aparri, Philippines, the nearest port, and watched over as we slowly chugged toward dock. This near-death experience was a lesson for us. We were exhausted by our fight for survival and from helping to keep the ship afloat, and too weary to do anything but eat and sleep. When we could finally sit together on the scarred deck, our backs to the ship’s structure, and gaze at the peaceful ocean, I said aloud what we both knew.

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“You know, sweetheart, the Society has invested so much in our success, and too much depends on at least one of us surviving the next twenty or thirty years. We could potentially save hundreds of millions of lives and be the creators of a global structure of human rights and welfare. I’m almost sick at what we have risked by taking this trip together. Everything, including our great love for each other, is secondary to the mission, to humanity.” Joy changed her position so that she could put her head on my shoulder. She put one arm around me and ran her other hand through my hair. “I know, dearest.” I caressed her back, and pressed on. “The storm drove this home to me in a way I hadn’t appreciated before. For my first two years in this New Universe, the mission was in the future and I became preoccupied with my love for you, my practice and training, and our games and fights. Mexico was successful as far as I know; nothing there really threatened the mission’s future. We were incredibly lucky to escape death this time. If we’d died, the mission would have ended before we could even deal with the biggies—World War I and II, and the growth of communism. We must recenter our lives and put the focus back on the mission. All else now seems trivial.” I didn’t want to do more than hint at the “incident.” “I agree,” Joy responded, her soft, sad voice rising from my shoulder. She raised her head and gave me a long, moist-eyed look. She kissed me on the cheek, and pointed out, “When a mission is risky, including risk due to natural hazards, one of us has to do it alone. I did take one trip to Japan and China without you, to set up our offices there. I didn’t enjoy it, but traveling alone is something we will have to get used to.” I was about to say something, but she put a finger on my lips. “Now, every trip we take by train or ship has to be alone.” Tears streamed down her face. We both realized one of us might board a ship one day, and never come back. I barely got out my response before choking up. “Yes, sweetheart. That’s what we’ve got to do.” It would take one more day for our ship to limp into Aparri, and we spent part of this time discussing how we would handle our separate trips regarding the mission and our growing and demanding import and export company. For sure, we would take separate ships to return to San Francisco. Even our trip to Japan should be completed on separate ships.

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In Aparri, Joy purchased a ticket for one of the two passenger cabins on a Japanese freighter returning with lumber to Japan, and I paid double for a ticket on one of the four passenger cabins on an American freighter that would be unloading goods in Manila before sailing to Tokyo. We had three days before Joy’s ship would leave, and we spent them as though on a honeymoon. We found a comfortable hotel, got one room as Mr. and Mrs. Banks, had food delivered to our room, put a “Do Not Disturb” sign on our door, and lived the three days in each other’s arms. There is nothing like an acceptance of death and subsequent reprieve to create an appreciation of what one has. As well, we now knew that our mission would separate us for months at a time, and that our days alone together would be too few. So we did not waste this precious time together, not one second. We even neglected the jogging and exercises that we’d done without fail every morning on the trip here, except during the typhoon and its aftermath. Those three days were the happiest of my life. Joy almost missed her ship as we hugged on the dock and whispered sweet words to each other. Only as the dockworkers started hauling back the gangplank did we separate. With a wave, she rushed up the gangplank and I next saw her at the ship’s railing, waving. I waved and waved and watched her slowly recede as the tug pushed the ship into deeper water. I watched until she disappeared into the distance on the horizon. We still kept in constant contact through our communication devices. It was not the same, though. I now missed her more than I’d ever believed I could miss another human being, and hearing her voice through my implant only made my arms yearn to hold her. My world had changed again.

aaa We got to Japan three days apart. When my ship docked, our frantic office chief, Shinseki Watanabe, met me as soon as I left the ship. Joy stood a little behind him—publicly, she was only an assistant and translator. A welcoming smile lit up her face. “Hurry, hurry,” Watanabe insisted in flawless, Yale-taught English, after a rapid bow to me. “We had to change your appointment time. The meeting is in two hours.”

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“I’m all prepared,” I responded, trying to calm his agitation. Joy had informed me of the problem, but I had to put on a show. “Watanabe-san, thank you for the wireless message you sent yesterday. The ship’s wireless man didn’t know how to handle it, since he had never received a communication for a passenger before. He had to ask the captain what to do. Anyway, as you might have noticed, I’m all dressed for the appointment.” I tipped my fedora. “Got my documents?” I asked Joy. When she pointed to her own large bag, I said, “Okay, let’s go.” I wanted to gather Joy in my arms and lift her off her feet and twirl around with her in my arms, madly kissing her. But all Watanabe knew was that she was unmarried and my employee. We had to keep up appearances, especially in Japan, where appearances—keeping face— meant so much. When I finally got my luggage an hour later, I was beginning to worry, myself. But Watanabe got a fast buggy with two horses, and we sped along the streets to the Daiichi Building across from the moat surrounding the Emperor’s Castle. We arrived with only minutes to spare. With Watanabe in the lead, we jumped out of the buggy and rushed into the building. In a huge reception office, Watanabe bowed to a very thin man in a tailored Western suit, and they barked back and forth. I checked my pocket watch. We made our appointment with two minutes to spare. I passed this on to Joy in a hushed voice. She shook her head. “That’s another close call.” For a man of Ito’s eminence, being late was as bad as missing the appointment; it would have been cancelled. Ito probably would only reschedule another one after returning from his trip to Korea and Manchuria. But he’d be dead by then. “What if we offered him tens of thousands of dollars and a castle in Kyoto, or some such, for an appointment before he left for Korea?” I asked hypothetically. “He would have turned it down. Our being late would have been an insult, a matter of face. To recover face he’d have to deny the appointment we obviously desired so much.” “Jesus,” I said, still trying to keep my voice low. “Two minutes. Two bloody minutes.” I sighed. “We can’t always be so lucky.” We had another minute to wait before the receptionist, secretary, whatever he was, motioned for me to follow him. Joy was a woman; in Japan, it was up to me to motion to Joy to follow us. I had already

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asked Watanabe to wait for us in the outer office. With Joy following me, I was led into a spacious, high-ceilinged office overlooking the lawn, with a view of the palace and its moat across the street. A very rigid-looking, bespectacled man with a mustache and graying hair had spurned the large roll top curtain desk against one wall, and sat at the head of a massive black lacquered conference table in the middle of the room. On one wall was a huge photograph of Emperor Mutsuhito, and another wall held photos of bemedaled generals and admirals, including famous Admiral Tojo, who sank nearly the entire Russian Baltic fleet in the 1905 battle of Tsushima Straits. No politicians. Ito Hirobumi rose and stepped away from the table to await our approach. He was tall by Japanese standards, and carried himself with a military bearing. As Joy had taught me for this occasion, I joined her in giving him the deep bow one of his rank expected, and he gave us a small, condescending bow in return. “Hajimemashita—How do you do,” he greeted us stiffly, his trailing mustache wiggling with the effort. Joy returned the greeting and I offered my “Nice to meet you” and put out my hand. He took it and gave it two swift shakes. Having studied Japanese as one of her Asian languages in preparation for our mission, for the first time Joy lived up to her job title as interpreter. Japanese of Ito’s status were now required to learn English. Japan had committed itself to modernization, and for many the United States was their technological and scientific model. Diplomatic relations with Great Britain also played a large part in this decision. Despite this, many high Japanese preferred to have English translated for them, to give them time to think of a reply, or as a way of delaying the undesirable. Ito sat stiffly at the head of the table and motioned for us to sit down in one of a dozen red-lacquered, softly cushioned chairs around it. Then he waited, stroking his gray goatee, and I let a few minutes go by. Through Joy, I finally said, “I am a secret agent for a certain government, and my government’s spies have irrefutable proof that a Korean plans to assassinate you as you get off a train in Harbin, Manchuria.” I hate idle conversation. Perhaps because I was never good at it. He just looked at me. Only his nostrils moved. Now I could see why Westerners called Japanese inscrutable.

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“Here are the details.” And I gave them. As I waited for Joy to translate, I watched his face transform. His nostrils flared first, then his eyes seemed to disappear as he narrowed them to slits. His heavy brows drew down, his mouth turned into a thin line, and his chin advanced. At one point, I half expected his ears to wiggle. All this as his face metamorphosed from inscrutability to amusement to amazement to anger. It was like watching an animation of the change in the earth’s landforms over billions of years. “Haaah. Baka shii,” Ito finally growled at me, his normally narrow eyes still slits. Then he barked even louder a long response, sounding as though he were giving commands to a company of soldiers. Joy translated, trying to capture in English his commanding and staccato way of speaking. “He says you’re ‘Silly, absurd. My inspection trip to Manchuria and negotiations with the Russian Finance Minister, not to mention my stop at Harbin, are state secrets.’” She consulted her notes and continued. “‘Only the emperor and two people in the Privy Council know of it. We will find and punish the traitor who told you this.’” “There is no traitor,” I responded. “We have sources of information that you would not believe. Anyway, your potential assassin found out somehow that you would be in Harbin on October 26, so your trip is not as secret as you suppose. All we are asking is that you change your schedule in secret, to frustrate your assassin.” His face returned to inscrutability. He sat rigidly upright and stared at me while Joy translated. Silence followed. I listened to a grandfather clock ticking somewhere in the room, and the muffled sound of a weed whacker. Weed whacker? Impossible in 1908. I stole a glance out the window and saw a steam-driven, three wheeled truck on the street between the building and the imperial moat. “However,” I said, after enough silence had passed to underline my words, “my government recognizes that you will be inconvenienced by this change of schedule and that your government will incur some costs. To cover this, we are willing to reimburse you whatever you feel is reasonable.” Joy translated and Ito responded to her gruffly, which began a back and forth between the two of them. Her voice always sounded calm and very feminine, especially in Japanese. Finally she turned to me and said, “He wants to make sure that we give him the money so that he can adequately reimburse his government.”

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“How much?” Ito now responded directly to me in English. “Twenty-five thousand American dollars. Doi shi masu ka—Do you agree?” he asked, tacking on the Japanese, which Joy instantly translated. “Agreed,” I said, and put out my hand to shake his. He looked at it for a long moment as he brushed his other hand over his receding hairline, and then he took my hand in his and gave it two big shakes. We cleared up the details of how we would transfer the money, and then as we were about to leave, he asked me in Japanese to be his guest later for drinks in the “famous Shinjuku Dancing Swan geisha house.” Joy translated, looking at me sweetly from beneath her long black lashes. Then Ito added, “Pretty geisha . Plenty like you—kurabu you.” Joy got a flinty look. I raised my eyebrows questioningly. “I don’t have to translate that, do I? You don’t need me,” she said in a tone that made my nose feel frostbitten. “I’m just your assistant and translator here.” Oh-oh. I hastened to answer Ito with, “I’m terribly sorry, but since we were delayed in getting here, I have too much business to do before I leave Japan tomorrow. I hope, however, that you will be my honored guest when either I come to Japan next, or you visit the United States.” Joy didn’t bother to translate. He stood up, and Joy and I followed. I bowed deeply to him while she gave him a curt bow, about half as deep as mine. He ignored her and stiffly acknowledged mine with his own slight bow. Then I said “Sayo nara,” as Joy had taught me, and we left. We picked up Watanabe in the outer office, exited the building in silence, and climbed up into the buggy that had been waiting for us to go to our own office. On the way Joy asked me in a warm tone that did nothing to melt what her voice had inflicted on my nose already, “Why didn’t you accept Ito’s invitation? It’s traditional for Japanese men and their guests to go out after business and drink themselves into the gutter while whoring around. I’m sure he would have shown you a memorable time. You wouldn’t mind a little Japanese . . . tradition, would you?” Where did she learn to do this—to stick a verbal knife in my gut and twist it, all in such a sweet voice? It’s part of the female package, I bet. Anyway, time for repair operations.

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I put on the most innocent, honest, angelic look I had in my emergency kit. “Baby, I’m not Japanese. I think the way Japanese men treat women is abominable, detestable. I don’t whore around.” And my final bit of honey: “You more than satisfy me, and fill my heart to overflowing with love to boot.” We jolted along for several minutes in the dusty traffic of horse riders, wagons, carriages, and carts. I was about to comment on how the modern city smog of the Old Universe had replaced the city stench, flies, and dirt of this age when Joy looked at me out of the corner of her eye, smiled, and said, “Dearest, you’re full of it.”

Chapter 32

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should have known she would betray me. Joy and I had to change our ticketing in Japan, since we now would travel separately. Because she also spoke Chinese, she would travel to Peking to meet with General Jung Il Han, the Korean Righteous Army general who was seeking arms and money from China to fight the Japanese. I would head home. We each left on our different ships the next day. I got back to San Francisco eight days later. Through our communicators, Joy informed me that she had arrived in Peking two days before and made arrangements to secretly meet with General Han. We agreed to offer him ten million dollars in gold and another twenty million in American dollars, with the usual threat. I heard nothing from Joy for two days after the meeting, however, and was getting very worried. We had never been out of contact with each other in one way or another for more than ten hours when awake. I was about to telegraph our contact in Peking to investigate, when she finally contacted me. “KK. Hello dearest, all arranged. Make the transfer of money and send the gold. The details are as follows.” I wrote everything down, and then asked quite simply, “What the hell happened to you?” “I’ll explain everything when I get home. Nothing to worry about, dearest. I’m sailing tomorrow on the China. Love and miss you.” We stayed in contact while she sailed, but she would not explain why she had not communicated with me for two days. After her ship docked in San Francisco, we had to clean up some business together at our headquarters. When we were alone in our apartment at last, and had made up for the hugs and kisses the trips had denied us, she took me by the hand and sat me down on the couch. “Now,” Joy said, “I want to tell you what happened. There must always be truth between us, not only because it is right for us, my love, but because it is important to our mission.”

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Now, in retrospect, I have to say that she was the one full of it. It was another outright lie. But I was still blinded by love at the time. After she said that, she stopped, looked down for a moment, then added, “Please listen and don’t say anything until I finish. Okay?” I couldn’t say anything even if I wanted to, I was so concerned about what had happened. She started, “I met with Han—a real bastard, but we’ve dealt with his kind before, and it’s part of our mission. I made our offer, but he would not believe I was a secret agent and thought I was trying to entrap him for the Japanese. He finally asked me whether my government had trained me as a secret agent, and I said yes. Without a pause, he called in two of his Korean guards and said, ‘Tie her up.’ “I put both of the men on the floor in minutes.” Minutes. You took minutes. I thought that it would take that long only if you had a broken leg and a paralyzed arm. Then out of the mental depths where my horribles lay hidden came What, you didn’t kill them? But I held my tongue, and realized that what I had thought sunk forever by the typhoon and buried under a mile of sentiment by our subsequent “honeymoon”—the murder of the boys in Mexico—was not. Joy was wound up and didn’t notice the fleeting pain on my face, how my hands balled into fists so tight my knuckles turned white. She continued with, “Han accepted what I said from then on, but he kept trying to find out what country I worked for. He finally agreed to accept the money and our stipulations about how he was to spend it. When I pulled my knife on him and made my usual threat if he stole the money, he simply laughed at me. But I’m sure he also understood our threat.” Joy suddenly leaned forward and put her hand on my arm. “However, John, he said that his cooperation depended on one thing. I would have to sleep with him for three days. I said no without hesitation, and he said, ‘Goodbye.’ I couldn’t believe he would give up all we promised just to sleep with me. I tested him by getting up, going to the door to leave, and opening it. He said nothing, and I left. When I got back to my Peking Hotel room, there were no messages for me. I waited until the last minute, just before I was scheduled to leave Peking, and then I sent a rickshaw driver to him at the Palace Hotel with two words: ‘one day.’ The rickshaw driver returned with the reply, ‘Two days,’ and a time and place. After changing my schedule, I went to that place.”

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“WHAT!” I jerked to my feet, ready to outdo the Vesuvius eruption that buried Pompeii, when Joy gently pulled me back down. It was her gentleness and pleading expression that temporarily capped the volcano. Not what she said. “Our mission, dearest—think of our mission. It has to come above all else.” More bullshit, but how was I to know then? She went on. “Han is from a culture where men are everything and women are only for procreation and men’s pleasure. He saw me as another Asian woman, although I made it clear I was not Asian by culture. You have to realize that, while for some men money and power are everything, for others it is women, power, and money, in that order. He was being very stupid. There was so much at stake for his country, and as a Korean nationalist he should have seen this. But when it comes to women, men will be very stupid.” At the time, I didn’t realize how really true that was. I sat there, my stomach twisted into a knot, my heart thudding, and my brain blasted by an anger I had not felt before. I sat on my hands. I didn’t trust them. “You fucked him for two days? Did you enjoy your taste of Korean ‘tradition’?” I bellowed. Joy’s eyes opened wide as she stiffened and clasped her hands. “It was nothing to me. It was only physical, a meaningless exercise. I did nothing but lie in his bed, faked nothing, and refused to look at him. He would have done better paying a prostitute. Even screwing a knothole in a barrel. But I satisfied him, and after two days I left with his agreement to fight the Japanese with new vigor. He gave me a present, but I don’t know what it was. I gave it to my rickshaw driver. Han also gave me some advice. He said I had much to learn about making love.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Without pausing, Joy unclasped her hands and continued in a voice a little firmer, a little louder, “I am like a female secret agent in an enemy country during a war, dearest. We are at war with mass murder and needless death, and I must do what I must do as a woman. I was prepared for this. I took the anti-venereal pills that Gu made sure the Society sent in a capsule, and which I packed in my bag, just in case.” I don’t think I really heard anything of this after I knew Joy had fucked the man for two days. I don’t think I even caught the meaning of her taking those pills with her. I was so angry I lost control. Vesuvius finally erupted and I spewed ash all over San Francisco. I jumped off the couch, kicked a saddle seat chair and broke its leg, and then threw a

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book against a wall. I kicked the broken chair again, stomped it, and gladly hurt my foot. My breath came in gasps. I picked up a cushion and beat on it with my fist. I finally rushed into the bedroom, slammed the door, and sat on the bed in utter misery. I had lost all reason. I felt betrayed by what Joy, my beautiful love, had done. This was different than when she had murdered the boys. Then, it was moral disgust, a blunt hatchet taken to the ethics I thought we both shared. Now I envisioned a fat, old, bald, decrepit, ugly, leering pig fucking her luscious naked body. The image filled my mind and like a fire robbing a room of oxygen, it stole all my thoughts. Only utter, vile, green jealousy remained. I must have sat there for fifteen minutes before I slowly cooled down and my ability to think snuck frightened back into a corner of my mind. I began to see the necessity of her actions. Yes, yes, it was for our mission. Yes, yes, this New Universe depended on us, and untold millions of lives were at stake. Yes, yes, and all that shit, but I loved her so deeply that the jealousy still remained, screaming and kicking at my thoughts. I still found it impossible to emotionally accept what Joy had done. The bedroom door opened a crack and Joy stuck her head in, her long black hair hiding part of her face and falling straight down in front of her. Her almond eyes were wide with worry. “Can I come in?” As stunningly beautiful as she was, she never looked more beautiful to me than at that moment. I could not trust myself to speak, and motioned her in. She entered and sat beside me, took my stiff, cold hand, and simply shared her calming presence with me. I leaned over my knees, propped my other elbow on a knee, and put my forehead in my hand. The shadows on the wall slowly changed their configuration and school let out and I could hear children laughing and chattering as they walked down Haight Street nearby and there was a world out there and I didn’t give a shit. I began to feel the pain in the foot I’d used to kick the chair, and my hands hurt from being balled into fists for so long. My stomach was living its own life in one of those bubbling mud pools in Yellowstone National Park. I lifted my head from my hand just enough to blather out my heart’s misery into it. “I hate this. I want to marry you, spend my life with you, have children with you, raise our family, get old together, share our love. That cannot be, and I’m miserable about it.”

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Joy was intelligent and knew I meant her and not my hand. I snatched a quick glance at her out of the corner of one red eye as she just nodded at me, understanding and love in her eyes. After more minutes, I said lamely to my faithful hand, “I know, the mission must come first. We can save the world, as stupid and corny as that sounds, but it’s true, we can. And in this my love, our love, cannot interfere.” Then I took back my other hand from her and covered my face with both of them and cried, and Joy put her arm around me and cried with me. That evening we slept hugging each other. It would be weeks, however, before I could make love to her—months before a certain image of her and Han mercifully disappeared. One evening much later, when I thought I could talk about it calmly, I asked her why she didn’t get in contact with me during those two days. “I couldn’t,” Joy replied, looking down at her hands as we sat on the couch in our apartment. She fiddled with a long stand of her hair and absentmindedly started winding it around one finger. “I didn’t want those two days to be any part of our life. I knew I worried you, but to have talked to you then would have made you part of it. Do you understand what I’m saying?” “I think so,” I said with a sigh, and we never talked about those two days again. Years later I found out how successful our efforts for Japan had been. Joy had been keeping up with events in Japan through our Tokyo office and the Asahi Shimbun to which she subscribed. She briefed me: “Our money bought a tremendous uproar in the Western press and among politicians, and then in Congress, over the Japanese-imposed Korean protectorate. It bought support for the Korean Righteous Army, which won some surprising victories against the Japanese. Because of this and world opinion, there was an upwelling of opposition among the Japanese people against the military, and Prime Minister Saionji’s party won a startling victory by gaining an overwhelming majority of the seats in the Lower House. He grew so powerful that the real rulers of Japan, the oligarchs, were afraid to interfere with his policies. The next year’s budget showed a marked decline in proposed military expenditures, and the legislature passed a bill that, with the oligarch’s surprising consent—perhaps due to pressure from the emperor—made military membership in the prime minister’s cabinet attainable only by the prime minister’s nomination and the approval of the Lower House.”

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Joy was very happy at our success and I joined her in cheers, though my own were a sham. I only noted this victory as a figure to be jotted down in a ledger. I didn’t feel proud. I didn’t feel like celebrating. I was preoccupied with what I was finding out about Joy. I didn’t tell her. Yet.

Chapter 33

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arriage? We did consider it. Would it have made a difference? I think so. From the end of our Japanese and Korean mission to the New Year of 1911 in this New Universe, we concentrated on building up our business, establishing offices in Moscow, St. Petersburg, Berlin, Paris, and other potentially important cities in Europe. We continued to keep a close eye on events there as they exactly followed the Old Universe political chronology prepared by the Society. It was still too early for us to directly intervene, but we continued to pump millions into an anti-war propaganda campaign. I continued to add to my stock portfolio, which was now too large for even the biggest brokerages to handle. Overall, it was now worth about 600 million dollars. This would have been— would be, that is—about 11 billion in 2002 money. On her laptop computer, Joy did a weekly comparison of the Old Universe’s The Wall Street Journal stock prices and the same day’s stock prices in our New Universe. Since we’d arrived, they matched 100 percent, implying that we hadn’t changed the financial sector of this universe yet. Then in December 1910, Joy came into the kitchen where I was cleaning the burners on our gas range before she prepared dinner, and announced, “It’s happened, love. We finally are significantly influencing global events. We have created a New Universe. The correlation over all the New York exchange stocks is down from 100 to 96 percent.” “What caused this?” I asked with a big smile, putting the steel wool I had in a tin bucket on the linoleum floor. Joy’s smile was even bigger. “I tracked this down to companies that had investments or sales in northeast Asia and Mexico.” It was a happy day. She didn’t even mind my smudging her shirt with my dirty hands when we kissed each other.

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aaa Our company was now the largest import & export firm in the western part of the United States, and we employed throughout the world about thirteen hundred people. Our first three employees were now the leading executives in our firm, and we finally made Hands Executive Vice-president. When we once had him and the other guys over for a little party, after a couple of Anchor Steam beers he asked me, “Where does all your money come from? You sometimes seem to conjure up much more than our company income justifies. Especially in setting up all those offices in other countries. I know you are not borrowing from banks.” I was careful in my response. “Nothing illegal, I assure you. I dipped into my inheritance left by my very wealthy, aristocratic, European forebears. Then there’s my stock portfolio.” He seemed satisfied with that. As far as Hands and the others in the company were concerned, Joy remained simply my assistant and translator. No one knew for sure that we lived together, although by this time our top employees took our intimate relationship for granted. Dolphy, his brows knitted, asked me once, “For Christ’s sake, why don’t you propose to her, boss?” He said this in the same tone he would use to ask, “You’re so dumb, how do you manage to cross the street?” Taken aback, I grabbed the first thing that occurred to me. “Bosses don’t marry employees.” “Then promote her,” he said. “Jesus, boss, that woman should be your vice-president. Even Hands thinks so.” “She wouldn’t take it,” I unintentionally replied a little testily. “She thinks her present position gives her all the money she needs, and she enjoys the freedom. She wants to avoid the command on her time an executive position would involve.” He seemed to accept that and never raised the question again. I think he recognized my irritation over it. But Joy and I did wonder whether we should get married. We always agreed that we might eventually, if our mission worked out well and there was no longer a need for us to intervene. Then we would retire from it all, get married, buy a house, and enjoy each other and the New Universe for the rest of our lives. We might even adopt one or two children if we were not too old.

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Anyway, to everyone other than those at the top in our business, we were simply the handsome, brilliant, and savoir-faire boss and his beautiful assistant. As I put it to Joy when she wondered about our getting married, “This relationship makes situations in which we both will be involved easier to handle. You being my wife would call for certain responses from those we deal with, and it also would be a perceived vulnerability that enemies could exploit.” “Yes,” Joy responded, looking at me through her long lashes, “Ito wouldn’t have invited you to a geisha house in front of your wife, would he?” I hastened to move on. “But we could have a secret marriage, you know.” She sighed and responded, “I know, I know, but it’s unnecessary, dearest. As far as I’m concerned, we’ve been secretly husband and wife since we arrived.” I kissed her. The worst problem, of course, was the constant attention men lavished on Joy on her solo trips, sometimes, I’m sure, brought on by her flirting. I had come to accept it as simply the second nature of a woman who knew she was desirable. The older men were the worst. This was solved at my suggestion—I wouldn’t dare demand it (playing a woman demands the expertise of a concert pianist)—by Joy wearing a very large and gaudy wedding ring outside our business offices when I was not around. She varied the ring, usually buying a new one in whatever city she was visiting. She knew I could hardly object to this new jewelry. Also, when she was away from San Francisco visiting one of our offices without me, I paid one of our older female employees to be her chaperone. We fought over this chaperone thing at first. “What are you scared of?” Joy demanded. “I’m not scared of you going to bed with some guy. I’m scared of the risk you’re taking by flirting.” I was also jealous, but that was not an argument to make, nor did it make my arguments less valid. Her eyebrows went up, she put her hands on her hips, and responded in disbelief, “Are you telling me that I can’t take care of myself?” Sure. Like saying Arnold Schwarzenegger couldn’t handle the neighborhood bully.

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“Baby. Even some very frustrated, lovesick eighteen-year-old who doesn’t know martial arts from roller skating could knock at your hotel room door, wherever you are, and shoot you dead when you open it.” I won that one. I was getting worried about her health, especially over the last year. She seemed unusually fatigued some days and slept in, canceling whatever morning appointments she had. Although we continued our exercises, she sometimes seemed exhausted afterwards. Her moodiness also increased. So, I asked her how she felt and wondered whether she should consult a doctor. She wouldn’t hear of it. “In this day and age,” she replied, “they might give me a lobotomy for what is merely the flu.” If only I had known what I do now. I would have preferred a lobotomy.

Chapter 34 China Revolt Growing Fast . . . Aims at republic in place of Manchu Empire . . . Hankow and Han-Yang, with Imperial arsenals, taken . . . Capitals of other provinces in revolt. The New York Times, October 13, 1911 Old Universe

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s it turned out, Mexico and Japan had been relatively easy. China was the most difficult, and a trap for the unwary. Irony of ironies, I saved Joy’s life there. Joy and I kept our eyes on China. We often discussed when to intervene to encourage its democratic movement. Finally I pointed out to her, “Revolutionary fervor and the democratic movement are peaking. Sun Yat-sen is leading it from Hawaii, where he fled to avoid arrest, and the Manchu Dynasty is tottering.” “I know,” she said, a little annoyed. “China is my special area and I do read its major newspapers in Chinese—in Chinese, love—although a month or so late. And let me tell you, since the old empress died in 1908 leaving the throne to two-year-old P’u Yi, his father, as regent, has been weak and unable to control the dynasty and prevent its further decay.” So what if China is her specialty. I am the professor here, I thought stubbornly. I used my lecture voice, which I know always annoyed her, and with a sweep of my hand, I informed her, “The regent’s weakness allowed a popular outcry against the dynasty, and to stem this . . . ” I smiled at the depth of my knowledge “. . . the regent convened a half elected, half appointed Provisional National Assembly. While not democratic, it was nonetheless a break with centuries-old tradition.” “So what else is new,” Joy said, dismissing me. She went back to her perusal of the women’s clothes section in the 1911 Sears, Roebuck Catalogue.

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Months later, I rushed to her office. When I opened the door, however, I nonchalantly entered and strolled to her desk. “I just got the wire from our Peking office,” I said, shoving it under her nose. “The dynasty has crumbled. There was just one rebellion too many. It called upon the most powerful military leader in China—” “Let me guess,” Joy responded quickly. “It’s General Yüan Shihk’ai, head of the Northern Army.” “Right. The dynasty called upon Yüan to defend it, and appointed him as governor-general of Hunan and Hupeh, two provinces the dynasty still controlled; the National Assembly in Beijing appointed him prime minister. But now, instead of fighting the revolutionaries, he has negotiated with them. He kept his forces motionless while many provinces declared independence.” “I know,” Joy said smugly. She picked up a paper from her colonial desk and held it up in front of my face with the thumbs and forefingers of her two hands. It was a wire from our office in Shanghai translating an October 13, 1911 headline in the Shen Pao newspaper. It read “China Revolt Growing Fast—Aims At Republic In Place Of Manchu Empire—Hankow And Han-Yang, With Imperial Arsenals, Taken— Capitals Of Other Provinces In Revolt.” “I know” had become one of her favorite expressions. It had become an irritating tick in our discussions. I had been greatly tempted to set her up—to tell her I had to go home early to do some work on the apartment, rent a horse, lead it into our apartment, tie it in the bathtub, and close the bathroom door. Then when she came home, I would nonchalantly say, “Sweetheart, there’s a horse in your bathtub.” No way was she going to say “I know” to that! Sigh. Never got around to it. Just to rub it in, weeks later she came into my office with a wire from Shanghai. “He’s done it!” Her cryptic comment neatly destroyed any possibility of my saying “I know.” I had to ask, “Who has done what?” Joy answered, “Dr. Sun Yat-sen has returned to China. And various revolutionary and progressive leaders have elected him president of a new republic. Hooray, love. Democracy is moving forward.” I was so enthused I celebrated with her. I forgot to say, “I know.” On February 12, 1912, I got the wire we had been fervently hoping and waiting for. When our courier gave it to me and I read it, I whooped and actually rushed out of my office to Joy’s. She was rushing to my office. We met in front of my secretary’s desk, both holding up our wires, hers from Shanghai.

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We said it simultaneously: “He’s abdicated.” Centuries of Manchu rule had ended. Imperial rule was over for China. It happened on February 13, 1912 (China is a day ahead of us), as it did in the Old Universe. Absolutely incredible from an historian’s viewpoint. As far back as the dim past had been recorded, there had been imperial rule of some kind. We knew the date it occurred in the Old Universe, of course. But this was the New Universe and we couldn’t be sure it would happen on time or in the same way. It was such a dramatic event when it did happen that we did a little dance together in front of my secretary. She must have been embarrassed over our public display and the confirmation of her suspicion. It was a rather intimate thing to do in 1912 between a boss and his assistant. But hell, by then those who worked close to us would have had to have the IQ of a sea slug not to know we were intimate.

aaa We had to leave on the next ships for China; Joy’s the following day and mine the day after. In anticipation, we had already bought our tickets and packed our suitcases. Now, before leaving, we put aside our little games. That evening, we made sure we both understood what was going on and what we would do. I reviewed what I thought was happening, not to inform Joy, but to get her insights. I consulted my mission notebook just to be sure. “The pivot of these events is General Yüan. He has the power, and he has already used it to put his generals in charge of local forces within each province. As agreed in negotiations with General Yüan in the Old Universe, Sun Yat-sen will soon resign as president, and Yüan will be elected provisional president.” Joy nodded, looked at the notebook, and added, “In the next years, if we do nothing, Yüan will have assassinated Sung Chiao-jen, the leader of the most powerful parliamentary party and the democratic movement, next only to Sun Yat-sen in power. He will then try to restore the monarchy with himself as the new emperor.” I didn’t even notice her dropping of “I know.” “But,” I noted in response, “the most critical ‘but.’ The military governors would not back him. In 1916 in the Old Universe, they declared each province independent of the central government. This

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began the bloody warlord period in China in which these generals fought hundreds of wars and killed and murdered hundreds of thousands of Chinese.” “So we assassinate Yüan and aid Sun Yat-sen,” Joy said, without any doubt in her voice. “No!” I said. She had forgotten. “Sun is not a democrat. He believed that the people had to be guided and tutored in democratic rule by enlightened leaders, presumably by him. As leader of the democratic parliamentary movement, Sung Chiao-jen is the real democrat. He leads the strongest parliamentary party, the Kuomintang. But Yüan will have him assassinated, as I mentioned. So General Chiang Kai-shek would eventually take over the Kuomintang and lead it down the fascist road.” “Didn’t you say in your class and your Ph.D. dissertation—I did read it, you know— that Chiang was responsible for the democide of about ten million Chinese?” “Yes!” I answered emphatically. I was now so serious my teeth ached with the strain. “Now that the dynasty has abdicated, we assassinate Yüan after Sun resigns the presidency, and support Sung Chiaojen for president. We also assassinate Chiang, Mao Tse-tung, and Chou En-lai, who would become Mao’s second in command and premier of communist China.” Joy leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, narrowed her eyes, and tightened her lips into a line. In a cool voice, enough to harden butter, she said, “Now you’re going to tell me,” and she changed her voice to mock mine and swiftly leaned back to imitate the way I gestured, “Baby, it’s too risky. You might be killed. You’re such an incredible creature, the best thing that has happened to man since the invention of fire—” “Sliced bread, baby.” “—I cannot let you die.” Then she resumed her normal voice. “Like a Mafia don, you want to contract it out.” “You got that right,” I replied with some asperity. She threw up her hands, but didn’t argue it. I tried to make my case anyway. “As to the assassinations, we now have a large office in Peking and another in Shanghai; we have the resources. We’ll be meeting in Shanghai, where our office can set up an appointment with the secret Green Lotus Society to arrange the contracts. Then we can go together by train to Peking to meet with Sung.

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We should have Yüan assassinated right away, as I mentioned. Then we have to persuade Sun to keep the provisional presidency until the 1913 elections, when he should abdicate in favor of Sung.” Then I stopped talking as I realized what I had proposed. I, Professor John Banks, was going to put out a contract on the head of one famous general who was the ruler of China, and other contracts on two still unknown future mass-murderers and leaders of China—Chiang Kai-shek, Mao Tse-tung, and Chou En-lai. Human beings, nonetheless. I shrugged it off. There was something else here that I didn’t notice at the time. I had fought doing our first assassinations in Mexico. Now, several years later, I didn’t even question assassinations. The salient question was who would do them, and that was a utilitarian and not a moral question. I don’t puzzle now over why this happened. It was due to our past success in our mission and my feeling that we were on a roll, and I didn’t want anything to stop it. It was the result of our growing wealth and influence and my feeling of power. Joy had nothing to do with it. I had profoundly changed. Joy’s thoughts turned elsewhere also. Finally she looked at me and asked in a low voice, “Dearest, why are you coming along? I know this culture and language and you do not. Are you afraid of my doing this alone?” I didn’t know whether I was lying to myself or not, but I responded with, “We will be dealing with the worst of the Chinese underworld, who would be happy to skin you just to enjoy seeing your pain. This has to be done together, not only for the success of the mission, but for your safety.” Joy saw my point. And I was right.

aaa We took our separate ships, had uneventful voyages, and arrived three days apart in Shanghai. I arrived first and used that time to make the necessary arrangements for our plans through our company office, and to give the appearance of conducting our company business. Our China mission was more complex than any of the other ones we had or would carry out. We were successful in contracting the Green Lotus Society to assassinate General Yüan for one million dollars, and we got to Sung, who felt the fifteen million he asked for would be enough to cement his power. Sun was the real problem,

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though. He finally agreed to resign in favor of Sung and leave China when the Kuomintang won the next election, but only because we indirectly made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Thanks to our secret endowment to Harvard, he received a telegram from its President A. Lawrence Lowell offering him a lifetime chair. He would teach a Chinese politics and history seminar for one of the highest salaries then offered to professors in the United States—ten thousand dollars per year. But it was the Green Lotus Society that almost ended our lives and our mission. Their leader learned of our wealth during our office’s initial discussion with him. He correctly thought we were incredibly rich, but mistakenly believed we carried loads of money and jewelry with us. He knew almost nothing about how money could be transferred from a bank account by telegram. Once he found out what we were willing to pay for his help, he strong-armed a lowly employee in our company office to keep him informed of our movements. When he found out we intended to take in a play at the Shanghai Ritz in the foreign sector, he set up a trap. We stupidly missed all the clues. We didn’t notice our rickshaw man had almost knocked another rickshaw man over in his eagerness to pick us up when we waved at the crowd of rickshaws outside Peace Hotel where we were staying. We didn’t notice how he kept his head up and looking around as he pulled us along Zhongshan Road, unlike most rickshaw men who bent forward, head down, as they jogged along pulling their riders. Nor did we question why he pulled us off the main street into Hankou Lu, and then into a narrow side street. But we were immediately alert when he pulled into a dead-end alley, dropped his pull bars, and ran back out of the alley. And we were not that stupid about going out. We had our weapons and armored vests. Three men filled in the space behind us. Three more came out of a door in front of the rickshaw, one of them the size of a sumo wrestler. Two carried what looked like curved scimitars, one had a gun, and the rest had knives whose long blades reflected the dim light. Joy didn’t have to ask in Chinese what they wanted. The men slowly approached, looking as though they expected us to turn over whatever we had in trembling fear. Then they would probably kill me, rape Joy, and then, if they didn’t kidnap her for future fun, kill her as well. If we resisted, they would just change the order of things

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and take our possessions after they killed me and raped her. These were not like the young boys in Mexico. These were experienced and hardened killers. I was scared. Now, in retrospect, I don’t know why I didn’t soil my pants. But I was not petrified, and slowly got down from the rickshaw while Joy got out on her side. The only rational thought I had at that moment was, Your show, baby. You should have “fun.” The men stopped moving towards us and carefully looked us over. They were in no hurry. This was their territory and no one was going to intervene, no matter how loud or horrifying the screams. They were enjoying this, looking forward to seeing our fear and hearing us begging for mercy, anticipating the woman’s terror as they ripped her clothes off. Joy shifted her back to the wall five feet away from me so there would be enough room between us for action. I made sure the wall was behind me as well. As the men were in no hurry, neither was Joy. She kicked off her shoes, unbuttoned her skirt, dropped it, and kicked it out of the way. She took off her ridiculous hat and tossed it into the rickshaw. She patted her hair, making sure the side combs and pins holding the bun were secure. She certainly made a show of it. Joy now stood there in a lady’s pink evening blouse closed tightly at the neck, with ruffled sleeves down to her wrists. The blouse hung half over the light blue silk panties she’d brought from the Old Universe. Her leg and hip knives were now obvious. I couldn’t help think what a movie scene this would have made. Probably in our time it would have been an R-rated movie, in which the actress playing Joy took off all her clothes and stupidly let all her hair down. She might even have growled and shown her white teeth. Of course, I would have been leaning against the wall, one foot propped against it, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette. My mind jerked back to reality when one of the men moved. Joy reached into her holster purse and pulled out her magnum. To my surprise she also took out the red headband she always wore during our practice and kept in her purse. She put it over her head with one hand, twisted it inside out for some reason, and threw her purse into the rickshaw. She now stood staring at the three men on her side, gun held in one hand pointed at an angle and resting on her other hand. I had my own gun out, holding it in two hands, facing the three men on my side. I pointed at the big one. I swear, I gave another meaning to the term knock-kneed. Yet, it was extraordinary how my mind seemed

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independent of my body. It closed in on Joy and the six thugs so absolutely that I would not have been aware of a plane crashing into a building at the end of the alley. We were ready. Joy sweetly asked the man closest to her in Chinese, “Shi—Yes?” These men were not going to be deterred by the sight of our guns. They must have confronted foreigners with guns before, and found out how shaky they were with them. And they must have known what Joy had tried to teach me—that the reaction time of someone holding a gun was inferior to the sudden movements of an attacker. The tall skinny one on my side must have been the leader. He yelled something that surely was the order to attack. Suddenly, zigzagging back and forth as Joy had also tried to teach me to do when confronting someone with a gun, they rushed us. They simply didn’t know how fast and accurately Joy could shoot with her modern weapon. Everything now moved in slow motion—each second stretched into a minute as Joy shot the man with the gun, who, deciding to save her for some fun, was aiming at me and got a reflex shot off as his head exploded from her bullet; and particles of brick from the wall to my left sprayed my back and I jerked my trigger an instant later, but nothing; flicked the safety off, fired, missed, missed again, hit one, missed again, while as Joy immediately shot a second one, ducked a thrown knife, stepped aside when the man pulled a second knife, and shot him in the face as he lunged at her with it; and in a split second she spun toward my attackers while one man dodged toward me and I missed again, and Joy shot him just before he sliced me in half with his large scimitar; I saw a glint in the air from the side and ducked down and forward automatically and heard Joy give a hissing grunt just after I shot the one who threw the knife. That horrible sound from her was the first sound I heard since all this started, only seconds ago. There must have been screams, yells, grunts of pain, gunshots, but I was oblivious. Now I could hear the moans and cries in Chinese from the wounded men. I did it. We did it. It must have taken only two, maybe three seconds for all that action. Less time than it took to say it, for sure. My whole body shook from the stress of combat and being so close to death. I turned to Joy to give a loud yell of triumph—really a cry of relief. Instead, I gave a horrified cry: “Oh my God!”

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The knife I’d ducked had caught Joy by surprise. It was deeply imbedded in her upper thigh. Blood coursed around it. An artery must have been nicked or cut. She hopped on one leg over to her skirt and dropped down on her good side. Just as I realized what I saw and rushed toward her, she pulled out the knife with a little screech, and then tried to use her skirt to compress the wound. Three of the men were moving on the ground, but I ignored them. I got to her, pulled the gun out of her hand, ran to the rickshaw and threw it into her purse, tossed the purse strap over my head, and rushed back to Joy to pick her up in my arms. Even in this dim light she looked white, almost silver. I knew shock was setting in and that it would kill her before loss of blood did. Joy tried to resist me, but she no longer had the strength. She yelled in a weak voice, “Kill them, goddamn it! John, shoot . . . them. Kill . . . .” I couldn’t hear her anymore, and I think she fell unconscious from the shock. Not a good sign. I had to get to the emergency medical store we’d placed in each of our major offices, just for such contingencies. She was no longer pressing the skirt against the wound; blood streamed out. I got down on one knee and moved her around in my arms so that I could hold her while pressing her skirt against the wound with one hand, and also keep my gun in the other. I stood up with her and ran. Oh God, did I run with her; I could have done so holding a Model T above my head, with the adrenaline saturating my body. I darted out of the alley, dashed down the street and into the Hankou Lu and right into the chaotic street traffic. I stood in front of a horse and buggy and displayed my gun. The horse abruptly stopped at the sight of this strange, double-headed animal in front of it and stamped its hoofs and neighed and snorted in fright. When the driver saw the blood on Joy, he tried to be helpful. I lifted joy into the buggy, got in and cradled her on my lap, pressed her dress against the wound, and shouted Ningbo Lu, the name of the street our company office was on. When we reached it, I gestured with my head the directions he had to go and yelled for him to stop when we got to our office. I can still feel Joy’s weight in my arms, her head jostling against my shoulder as I carried her frantically into our office. I still see my blood-slick hand pressing down her skirt, compressing the wound, trembling from the effort. I can still describe the expressions of shock on the faces of our office staff as they turned and saw all the blood. I hadn’t cared what they’d seen then; let them be amazed at my equipment—all that mat-

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tered was Joy, still bleeding, whose blood pressure must have been rapidly falling, her pulse increasing and getting weaker, her life disappearing. I couldn’t take her to a hospital. Medical science still had much to learn about shock, as it finally did from treating wounded soldiers in World War I in the Old Universe. Nor did they have the medicine available to me. I ran into the small supply room, kicked some boxes out of the way, put Joy on the floor, and with the pillows I had shouted for, I got her body inclined with her feet about a foot above her head so that blood would more easily flow to her brain. I turned her head in case she vomited. It was cool in the room, so I tore down a curtain and put that over her to keep her heat in. I hooked her up to a blood pressure monitor, and all I could say when I saw the figures was, “Holy shit.” Her systolic was 78; her pulse rate 124. I tore out the medical instructions from the first aid book in our large kit and did what it said to the deep bleeding. I upset the kit and dumped its contents on the floor and fumbled for the package of surgical gloves. I tried to put them on but couldn’t get my fingers in the right places. I had to stop and take a deep breath, slow down and try to readjust my fingers in them. Got them on. “Apply thrombin-fabrin bandage,” the book instructed. I ripped the bandage covering open to release what looked like Styrofoam and as instructed I pressed that into Joy’s bleeding wound. On contact with the blood it almost immediately melted and took on the shape of the surrounding tissue. The bleeding began to slow. I had to treat her shock. I ripped a page on shock from the book. Joy’s was due to loss of blood and possibly tissue damage from the knife. “Treat for loss of blood, “it screamed at me in red. Use the IV package. And it proceeded with the instructions. Shit, so much to do, so detailed. I could hardly read it, nonetheless find her vein in her lower arm for the intravenous solution. But then there was a reference to another page on what to do under battlefield conditions. I found that page and ripped that out along with a handful of other pages and tried to focus on the words. “. . . package for intraosseous infusion . . . . 250 ml bag . . . . 7.5 percent hypertonic saline . . . . intraosseous needle . . . . sternum (breast bone) or tibia.” I had to wipe the sweat out of my eyes. “Shit, she’s going to die.” I yelled at Chan Chi, “Quick. Get me something to hang this from above her head. While he set up a hanger tied to a tall lamp, I ripped

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open Joy’s blouse and pulled apart her armor. I opened a packet containing a povidone-iodine impregnated cotton pad and wiped her chest with it. Then I grabbed my right wrist to stop the shaking of my hand, took the intraosseous needle out of its package, and yelled at Chan Chi, “Wipe my face.” He ran out and back in seconds with a towel and wiped my sweat away. I hung the fluid bag from the hanger, leaned over Joy, and told her, “I’m sorry, baby,” and stuck the needle in the center of her chest and into her breast bone.” “Please let me get it into the marrow,” I prayed. I released the needle and it seemed to be firmly stuck in the bone. I opened the clamp on the bag’s tubing. I looked at the instructions again. “Check if the skin around the needle is ballooning out or there was leakage on the skin’s surface.” Nothing. The solution seemed to be going into her marrow to be rapidly absorbed into her blood. I asked Chan Chin to wipe my face again. Infection? That knife probably had every kind of bacteria in China on it. What to do about possible infection? I looked in my first aid book, and then through the pages I had ripped out. The Society had planned to train me in first aid, as they had done Joy, but we had to flee before they got to it. There it is: “Treating actual or potential infection from a wound”— shoot her with 2 mu benzylpenicillin. More packages. Small bottle of benzylpenicillin. Hypodermic. What’s a mu? Good, the hypodermic has mu divisions. Fill it to 2 mu. Test it like they do in movies. Wipe her shoulder with another povidone-iodine impregnated cotton pad. My hand was shaking again, too much to give her a careful shot. I almost flung the hypodermic like a dart into her shoulder, and slowly pushed the plunger in. She was still bleeding. I put a sterile compress over the thrombinfibrin bandage. I then wrapped my belt around it and her thighs and tightened it to hold the compress against the bandage. I could do no more. I removed my surgical gloves and my sweat dripped out of them. Utterly exhausted, I sat on the floor next to Joy with my pocket watch on the floor so that I could release my belt every ten minutes just in case it was stopping the flow of blood to her leg. After a few minutes, I would then retighten it. Chan Chi had kept everyone else out of the storeroom while he stayed in case I needed more help. I continued to sweat so much that it

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dripped off my nose and I asked him for his towel so that I could keep wiping my face. Eventually he had someone bring me water to drink. I couldn’t. I released my belt around her thighs for a few minutes and redid it. I was beyond exhaustion as I watched the heart monitor. What do you do when you’ve done all you can to save your loved one, and you are left sitting and watching a damn machine measure the slow disappearance of their life? I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t take my eyes off the monitor except when I relieved the pressure on her compress. Her pulse was up to 131; her systolic was down to 75. I released my belt and after a few minutes retightened it. I took her hand in mine. It was clammy, lifeless. I felt for her pulse. It was so weak I couldn’t find it. I put her hand in both of mine and watched the monitor. No images of our life together flashed across my mind; no thoughts of things past. Everything was the monitor. I watched her life ebb away and begged the machine to change. I pleaded with it to make her heart beat slower and her blood pressure rise. I gently put her hand down and made lifting motions toward the systolic digits with my hands, trying to help. I prayed, yes, I prayed to God for help. I released my belt and checked the compress. It was getting saturated with blood. I put another compress on top of it, and redid my belt around both. I didn’t know when night came and Chan was alone in the building with us. Although I kept track of the ten-minute intervals on my pocket watch, I didn’t really know what time it was. Finally there was almost no new bleeding when I released the pressure on my belt and checked the top compress. I left the belt on with only minor pressure after that. My legs were cramping badly from sitting on the floor in one position for so long and my back was protesting with pain. I beat the muscles in my leg with my fist and ignored my back, and stared at the monitor. Now I knew each if its red digits as they appeared and transformed into another red digit better than I knew my fingernails. Each fall of the systolic digits were a red guillotine in my mind, each rise in pulse rate a possible knife thrust into my love’s heart, I stared at them so intensely my eyes hurt and my head ached—down one systolic red digit-up one red digit-down two red digits, down one red digit-up one

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red digit-down two red digits—I was losing her. I was so miserable that I was ready for the one horrible red zero to come up for her heart beat. I was ready to give her a last kiss, say my last loving words to her, hold her cold hand, and shoot myself. The intraosseous bag was empty. I removed the needle from her chest bone, and knowing in my heart it all was hopeless, I put Betadine on an adhesive bandage anyway over the needle hole. I pulled her armor together and her blouse over that. I wanted her to look her best in death. It was still night when the systolic’s red digits began a pattern of one up and one down, and then, as I stared and stared and my breath lodged in my stomach, agonizingly slowly, the systolic climbed a single red digit at a time. Her pulse rate decreased. I released my breath in a gush of air. Soon, her cheeks gained some color. Her pulse was at 120 and her systolic at 83. I pounded the floor with my fist and shouted at her, “You’ll live, baby. You made it.” For the first time, I cried. I tried to lean over her and put my arms around her and kiss her and tell her how much she meant to me and how I loved her and would have died if she hadn’t pulled through. I couldn’t move. The cramps and long hours in one position left my legs and back no longer functional. I fell over on my side and tried to stretch. With Chan’s help, I was able to get some control over them. The muscles in my back began to untwist and relax as Chan massaged them. Moving on my knees, I leaned over Joy and kissed her cheeks and lips, then put my arm around her and lay next to her. I was more exhausted than I had ever been in my life and, my absolute focus on Joy gone, fatigue took over. One arm still about Joy, I collapsed into the sleep of the dead—rather, I should say, the near-dead. I woke up, still weary, when somebody tapped me on the shoulder. I was under a blanket with a pillow under my head. Joy was trying to wake me up. In a weak, tired voice, she asked, “You got us kicked out of our hotel, huh? I’m not sure I like the accommodations you found us.” Her attempt to smile barely succeeded. She put her hand on my check and caressed it. “How can a decent woman get a drink around here?” A day after she regained consciousness, she asked me if I had made sure our attackers were all dead. I said her life came before that. She didn’t bring it up again.

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The Triads heard of our little skirmish. They were impressed by our skills, and so asked to talk to us. Our negotiation with them was successful. That was the only good thing to come of the ambush, and not nearly worth it, if Joy had died. She eventually had a vivid white scar that, with bathing suits what they were in this age, only I would ever see. We stayed an additional month in China while she healed, and we had a second honeymoon, or a third. And to hell with the risks, I sailed home from China with her, not wanting to leave her health to any primitive ship’s doctor. On this I was adamant, absolutely adamant, regardless of her protests.

aaa On March 1, 1913, a trusted guard assassinated General Yüan in his sleep. With no one of comparable stature and political power to step into his military shoes, the resulting indecision and lack of leadership paralyzed the Northern Army. Sun Yat-sen filled the vacuum of power before it could suck in another general and asserted his authority as the provisional president. He proceeded, as we had advised him, to appoint civilian governors of the provinces from the Kuomintang Party and other pro-democratic revolutionary movements. In the 1913 elections the Kuomintang won an overwhelming victory, winning a 72-seat majority in parliament. With one of the greatest resignation speeches I ever read, Sun stepped down for the good of the country in favor of the Kuomintang leader Sung, and departed China for Boston and Harvard. Joy no longer disputed my, as she put it, “Mafia-like contracts.” Truth to tell, after the attack on us, I was even more inclined to use murder to further our mission in China. Our payments of ten thousand dollars each for the Triad to assassinate Chiang Kai-shek, Mao Tsetung, and Chou En-lai were successful. For each we asked for the full set of teeth to prove their assassination, with the usual threats if we ever saw or heard that these men still lived. As a gift to us, the Triad also assassinated the leader of the Green Lotus Society, and brought us his head in an ornate box. I told them they could keep it, although I must confess I did for a moment imagine mounting the head in our Shanghai office reception room. The Triad also informed us that we had killed all six of the thugs that attacked us—either on the scene, or they had died shortly afterward. Our hollow point bullets did it.

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While we focused our attention on China, we continued our preparatory moves in Europe and pumped into the region tens of millions of dollars to forestall World War I. Furthering democracy in Japan and China and preventing World War I were a big part of our mission. But we also did some things that were not exactly part of The Plan.

Chapter 35 Titanic sinks four hours after hitting iceberg; 866 rescued by Carpathia, probably 1,250 perish . . . Ismay safe, Mrs. Astor maybe, noted names missing. The New York Times, April 16, 1912 Old Universe

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es, she was a murderess. But a compassionate one. Late one night, Joy mentioned something near and dear to her heart, and after some discussion, we decided it would do no harm to our mission, and take little effort. A few days later our London office wired us that they had located the person we’d been seeking. I sent the following telegram to Mr. T. Lewis, the president of the British Seafarers' Union: I have long been a supporter of your union and was shocked to recently discover through my company contacts that The White Star Line is planning to hire in Southampton non-union immigrants from the colonies at half union pay to replace union workers on the maiden voyage of the Titanic. As a strong union supporter, I urge you to do something about this. I am wiring $5,000 to you to help with the expenses of a strike against this dastardly violation of your contract with The White Star Line. With Very Best Wishes, John Banks President and Owner Tor Import & Export Company I then also arranged with our office that they hire a dozen blacks and Indian immigrants to stroll and loll around the Titanic’s berth 44 as though they were expecting to work on the ship.

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In spite of the company’s denial, the union called a strike and delayed until the 15th of April the sail date of the Titanic. Only then did P. E. Curry, the local manager of the White Star Line, persuade Lewis that the allegation about the company hiring non-union immigrants was false. I telegrammed my apology and included another five thousand dollars to show my sincerity. Two weeks later, Joy ran gleefully into my office, waving a newspaper. “Look!” she said, and slapped the Society Page of The New York Times on top of the inventory I had been studying. I looked down at what she had circled with a red pencil. First-class passengers John Jacob Astor and his wife Madeleine Force returned on the Titanic from an extended honeymoon in Egypt and Paris. When a reporter asked Mrs. Astor how she enjoyed the trip, she responded, “Oh, it was pleasant being on such a great ship and everyone was so nice to us, but it grew boring after a while. There was nothing to see but water.” Joy then took out the front section and pointed to an item below the fold under the headline, “Titanic Sets Record.” The Titanic set an Atlantic crossing record yesterday of five days, 2 hours and 24 minutes. Her Captain, Edward J. Smith, was hailed and feted in New York. The whole maritime community declared the ship the harbinger of a new class of unsinkable liners. A spokesman for the White Star Line said that . . . . “We did it, darling,” she exclaimed happily. We saved 1,503 men, women, and children. Hurray!” I was pretty happy myself. It cost us almost nothing compared to our other expenditures. It was just something small among the great events we were trying to change. But for once we knew who and how many lives we had saved within weeks of our intervention. We had the names of those who would now live because of us. It was not easy winding my mind around this thought—they would live because of what Joy and I had done. Over fifteen hundred breathing, loving human beings. Because of us. A shudder of pleasure went through me and the

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hair on my arms stood up. Over fifteen hundred people are now alive because of us. At that moment, all I had sacrificed to come to this primitive era, all I had gone through in preparation, all the terror and unhappy moments, all were worth it. Joy and I celebrated with bottles of champagne. We had so many happy times together. That was one of our best. We got drunk.

Chapter 36

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was adamant: I wasn’t going to kill these men. I reluctantly agreed to bribe or frame them. It had nothing to do with their being white Europeans. After China we had to direct our full attention to Europe. World War I was on the horizon, and we had to prevent it. In the Old Universe, this war had killed about nine million people and was possibly the genesis of the 1918 Influenza pandemic that killed another twenty to forty million. We knew the war provoked the coup in Russia that gave the communists control over the largest country in the world for the next seventy-four years, during which Lenin, Stalin, and his successors would murder something like sixty-two million people. If we prevented only this war, our mission would be a glorious success, worth all the personal horror about to arise in my own life. Well before 1912, while we were relaxing on our antique brass bed one day, I brought up the subject of World War I. I told Joy that, “In the Old Universe there was an incredible amount of European mass murder, revolution, and war in the ten years between 1914 and 1924. Moreover, the outbreak of World War II also grew out of these events and was really World War I, Phase II. So, we’ve got to send every last million we can spare to change the pivot events and atmosphere of the time.” “I know,” she said while clipping her toenails, “I sat in on your class. Remember?” I was not to be deterred. “We’ve got to focus our propaganda efforts on the four major countries whose entangled animosities, loyalties, and fears provided the tinder for the spark that ignited the war—Germany, Austria-Hungary, Russia, and Serbia.” “I know, my loving professor,” she said, this time with slight irritation. I was sure she aimed a half-moon cutting in my direction. “Are you lecturing me?” I knew I should have tied that horse in her bathtub. In 1908 we did start trying to influence popular opinion in Europe, building on an existing and widespread revulsion toward war. After

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that date in the Old Universe, common attitudes had begun to change. Nationalism, the philosophical ideas of the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, and the challenge-and-response theory of Darwinism began to create contempt for compromise, and, among some, a cult of violence. From 1908 to 1914, we spread around almost 600 million dollars to influence public sentiment, paying for newspapers and popular magazines in the four countries to extol the benefits of peace, to describe the destruction and deaths that occurred in war, and to stress the need for negotiation and compromise in crises. We had a huge, dedicated staff of peace activists working on this, many present or former college students, and we cultivated hundreds of political contacts. When our executives and European insiders asked why we were doing all this, we said that war was bad for our business and peace was profitable. We secretly formed international organizations whose members hailed from the major countries that would fight World War I. Among these were the Veterans for European Peace, Mothers Against War, Peace International, and Christians for Peace. We also covertly funded institutes and centers to put out peace-oriented position papers, such as the International Negotiation Institute and the Center of European Affairs. Our best hope was the lobbying organizations we put together to work on the politicians—the German Committee of Concerned Businesses, the Russian Orthodox Christian Union, and others. I was amazed at what one could do with tons of money and a precise knowledge of the future events one was trying to prevent. I was once concerned about how two people could ever influence grand historical events. Now I was growing concerned at how much two people could influence such events. We had learned much about how modern interest groups and lobbyists operated in democracies in the Old Universe. Such lobbying was still not widely known in this New Universe. Money and appeals for peace and profit did wonders, but we could not underestimate the appeal of nationalism and the heavy role of pervasive historical grievances. As our campaign got underway, I confessed, displaying to Joy my usual caution, “We really have no hope of stopping the small wars in Eastern Europe that will soon break out and involve the Ottoman Empire, such as the Italo-Turkish War of 1911-1912 and the First Balkan War of 1912-1913. My hope is that avoiding World War I and promoting democracy in the region, especially in Turkey, will end or gradually reduce the causes of those minor wars.”

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“I know,” she responded. I had her. “I didn’t say any substantive fact, Miss Know-it-all.” “No, dearest, you told me what a pessimist you are, Professor Halfempty-bottle. And I know that.” What could I say? By 1914, our efforts in Europe showed some success. David Lloyd George, the British Chancellor of the Exchequer, turned decidedly dovish and negotiated several agreements with Germany over contentious issues, such as a railway to Baghdad, and declared that Anglo-German hostility was at an end. Happily, I showed Joy my wire from our London office. “British chancellor says ‘A war against Germany is less likely than snow in the Sahara.’” The House of Commons had already cut the Naval shipbuilding budget by 12 percent. She was equally joyful over the wire she showed me from our Paris office. “A conscription law put to French voters was defeated, while voters elected an anti-militarist majority to the Chamber of Deputies. Immediately, the new Chamber debated cutting the military budget by 18 percent.” Our efforts were working. In 1912 and 1913, we turned specifically to nonviolently removing from power the major statesmen and politicians we knew would be prowar if a crisis happened and deepened sufficiently, and replacing them with more moderate men. Through our new offices in all four countries, we had cultivated political figures and power brokers, and we went into action through them. We knew the emperors of Germany and AustriaHungary and the Czar of Russia were not the war hawks. Their foreign ministers and military advisors were the ones who either persuaded or manipulated their monarchs into war. In the Old Universe, the excuse and tool for their actions was the assassination of the Austrian Archduke Francis Ferdinand, presumptive heir to the monarchy. Fanatic Serbian nationalists known as the Black Hand secret society did this in Sarajevo.

aaa After sailing to Europe separately, we made our plan to remove from government influence the worst of the top pro-war leaders. I had another fight with Joy over this. I thought we should try to bribe them, and thus leave them with their dignity and family life intact, at least as a first try. If that didn’t work, try plan B.

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Joy wanted to go to plan C directly: “Assassinate them.” I said, “No way.” She crossed her arms over her chest, stuck her chin out, and verbally punched me below the belt. “You had Asians and Hispanics assassinated. Is it because these bastards are white Europeans that you say ‘no’?” I was hurt by the unwarranted accusation. I retorted huffily, “This is different. While largely responsible for the war, these men killed no one themselves. They often operated in good faith, doing what they thought was right for the interests and security of their countries. They were also generally good family men who respected their wives and children and treated them well.” This is when I got the hand on the hip look. “Oh, is that right. What about General Yüan Shih-k’ai and Chiang Kai-shek? They were not like Mao, and were responsible for war and deaths only by virtue of the decisions they made. Like these Europeans.” Joy was now trampling on my historical expertise again. “Not the same. Both were actually fascists and ruled China. They were directly responsible for democide and war. The European leaders we are talking about never ruled a country.” Her eyes got steely; her lips thinned. “Did not the decisions of these Europeans, my historian, result in a war killing millions and millions of people? By getting rid of them, won’t we save millions and millions of lives?” On this I would not budge. I didn’t see the point. I was no longer morally opposed to assassinations, as I mentioned before. But I just saw them in these cases as . . . a waste. With one exception—but more on that later. I told her, “I am not going to kill them. I’m not going to put a contract out on them. I’m going to bribe them.” And so it went. Joy finally persuaded me that an attempted bribe might well fail, and we would get no second chance aside from assassination. So, I agreed to compromise on the approach we finally took for some of these leaders.

aaa Within a month of our arrival in Austria, photographs of the Austrian Chief of General Staff, Franz Conrad von Hötzendorf, in bed with an eighteen-year-old Russian girl started circulating in Vienna. Von

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Hötzendorf claimed at first that the photos were fakes, but then the girl went public with the tale we prepared, and said that she’d had a long affair with him and that he wanted to marry her. Conrad first denied it all, and then finally admitted to spending a night with her. He claimed he thought she was German, since she spoke the language fluently. For men of his stature, a quiet one-nighter was acceptable. But an innocent-looking girl of eighteen, and especially a Russian girl, was too much. Under pressure from deeply embarrassed Emperor Francis Joseph, Conrad resigned and sank into obscurity. The emperor replaced him with someone who happened to be more moderate towards Serbia. The girl took a train to Switzerland and soon bought a little chalet with the money we promised her. Within a week, Count Leopold von Berchtold, Austro-Hungarian Foreign Minister, suddenly surprised everyone by resigning for unknown reasons. He left Austria for Switzerland, where he bought a chateau and a hotel on Lake Geneva with money no one had known he’d possessed. No one knew, either, that Berchtold’s only other choice to being obscenely wealthy was public disgrace as a homosexual. This was our bluff. We had no photographs or letters, just rumors. But in this time and place, such threats were very credible. In Russia, Foreign Minister S.D. Sazonov’s aides rushed him to the hospital with a serious illness. His doctors could not diagnose it, and it appeared to be getting worse. He was in delirium most of the time, and even when conscious he seemed confused. Czar Nicholas II had to replace him with Prince Vasili Alexandrovich Dolgorukii, known for his caution in military matters and his leanings toward peace. Sazonov’s health returned with surprising speed after the Czar appointed a new foreign minister, but he declined any future role in the government. In Germany, after a tip, police found Foreign Secretary Gottlieb von Jagow drunk and passed out in an alley. He was in the arms of a young boy. When the boy saw the police he yelled, “He forced me to suck his cock. I didn’t want to. I never did this before.” Then he ran away. As planned, a reporter with a camera was passing by, heard the accusation, and took a photograph. When the photograph somehow appeared in several newspaper and magazine offices, government efforts to prevent publication were unsuccessful. Von Jagow retired from service the day after the photos and story appeared, and committed suicide a week later.

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I was very saddened by his death. I had not intended it. I had not expected it. And I was responsible for it. I hated what I was doing to these people. Jagow’s death would be seen as an admission of guilt in a culture that saw suicide and its repercussions in the afterlife as retribution for one’s sins, gross errors, or public embarrassments in life. But setting up Jagow with a young girl, or in a financial frame up, would not have worked, and this man was subject to neither bribe nor threat. Joy felt no remorse. She loved life and humanity in the abstract, to be sure, but particular lives and members of humanity, she could not abide. She saw Jagow’s suicide as tantamount to the assassination we should have carried out. This left me with some moral doubt about our mission for the first time in many years. That night, after finding out about Jagow’s suicide, I lay sleepless in bed. I battled my conscience with the memory of what Jimmy Wilson, Ed’s father and the founder of the Society, had told him about the battle of the Somme, about all the lives snuffed out in minutes. I tried to imagine its images and terror as though I were there:

aaa Half squatting, Jimmy leaned against the side of the muddy trench, the toes of his boots invisible in the muck at the bottom. Jimmy was a short, skinny fellow, with a frame on which not even his military training could put muscle. His baggy uniform now rippled like a sail in a crosswind. His helmet hid his short brown hair, except when his shaking tipped it forward over his eyes and a few strands escaped. Jimmy had grown up in Bristol, England. Before joining the army, he had spent most of his evenings drinking with his buddies at the local pub, or going to the new silent movies with them. That was his entertainment. Even at eighteen years of age, Jimmy had never gone out on a date and was shy of girls. His friends constantly ribbed him about being too embarrassed to participate when they’d dragged him off to a French bordello. Once Jimmy had thought of going to college, and teachers had told him that he had the intelligence for it, but his father had never paid the family bills and later, he disappeared altogether, leaving Jimmy to support his mother and two sisters. He could read up and learn on his own, Jimmy told himself, and he did enjoy the rough and tumble of a warehouseman's job.

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Jimmy was part of the Army’s plan to create new volunteer divisions to fight alongside the regulars. The Army kept together as units all those volunteering from a particular company, town, or city neighborhood. This meant that Jimmy knew most of the soldiers around him, who in civilian life had drunk with him, sold him goods, or delivered ice or milk to his small home. Many had been his good friends. All but a few were now dead, as were his two best friends and his cousin. Jimmy had cried for hours after he had helped drag the upper half of his cousin’s body to the rear—all that remained of someone Jimmy had grown up with, played with, eaten many meals with, and, as boys do, argued with. Half his body gone! As Jimmy waited for the scheduled cessation of seven days of shelling on the German trenches, he thought about dying. Despite his captain’s assurance that this next attack would be an easy victory, that Jimmy could walk over to the German lines and simply shove all the dead Germans out of the way, he knew he would die, as his friends had died. So he trembled as he awaited the silence that would follow the end of the shelling, and the captain’s whistle that would send him climbing out of the trench, to his death. He only hoped it would be quick and painless. George Finch, crouched next to him in the trench, poked him in the side and leaned over to shout in his ear, “Jimmy, could you do me a favor?” “What?” Jimmy yelled back. “If I’m killed, will you give this to my mother?” George held out a small piece of dirty packaging from their rations. He had scrawled a few words on it with a blunt pencil. “You can read it,” George said. It was easy to read in the dawning light, and said simply, “My Dearest Mom—I love you. Sonny.” George lived several houses down from Jimmy on Bloy Street; Jimmy knew George’s mother. “Come on,” Jimmy said, “you won’t die.” “Please!” Jimmy shrugged and tucked the wrapper into his pocket. “Okay.” At least this will make him feel better, Jimmy thought, although I’m the one that's going to die. Minutes later, there it was: The awful silence as the shelling stopped. Immediately, the officers came down the trench, getting them ready to move out. Jimmy heard the shrill whistle and then the yelling, and he scrambled out of the trench with all the others up and down the line and advanced on the Germans.

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Jimmy’s jitters vanished. He focused everything on the trenches in the distance and unconsciously switched to automatic motion. Carrying sixty pounds of ammunition, food, water, and gear, he doglegged along the paths through their own barbed wire, moving at a slow walk through the mud. “Please, God,” Jimmy kept murmuring, “no pain. Please, God, make it sudden.” Jimmy was one in a line of men slowly walking almost shoulder to shoulder toward the German trenches, their bayoneted rifles held diagonally across their chests, their officers out in front, unarmed and waving their troops on with swagger sticks. The Germans had been deeply entrenched and almost all had survived the shelling. As soon as they heard the British whistles, they scrambled up to their trench parapets and machine guns. German artillery had already zeroed in on the thousand or more yards between the trenches. It began a bloody barrage as the German soldiers also started shooting. The soldiers with rifles had only to point and shoot; the machine gunners only needed to swing their guns from side to side. Some British made it to the German barbed wire that the British generals had thought shelling would destroy, but as the soldiers tried to get through the wire the barbs hung them up, making them easy targets for the Germans. Along the barbed wire, bodies hung at all angles, like so many sacks thrown randomly on the wire. Sometimes the British tried to push through where shelling had created a gap in the wire, but the German gunners just kept their machine guns aimed at those gaps and the dead piled up. The huge mounds of bodies resembled piles of discarded clothing, equipment, and kits. Jimmy couldn’t believe he was still alive. He looked to his left and saw those next to him outlined in the smoke and the flash of explosions. They leaned forward as they walked, as though into a stiff wind, and Jimmy realized he was doing the same thing. He heard a scream. Beside him, George fell backwards. Then the man in front of him simply disappeared, and another flew into the air as though he was a rag doll thrown by a child. Jimmy hardly had time to react. Something pinged off his helmet. Another projectile thumped into his right arm with the force of a hammer blow and spun him around; and as he collapsed, he saw, as if through a fog, the uneven line of British soldiers still plodding forward. Then nothingness.

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aaa An explosion nearby jerked Jimmy back to consciousness. He lay on his back, helmet gone, bare head thrown back into the mud. A body lay next to his head, shielding him from the German trenches. A spattering of tracers flew overhead, accompanied by the whizzing sound of bullets. Jimmy tried to feel his body. He knew he was wounded, but where? Yes, his feet would move, and his legs. He could move his head slightly; the mud sucked at it as he twisted it from one side to the other. His left arm moved. But his right arm was numb and wouldn’t respond. At least he could move something. Raising his head out of the slime, careful to keep the corpse between him and the Germans, Jimmy slithered feet-first to the shell hole just made by the explosion, and slid over the edge. Then he stopped with a gasp of horror. At the bottom lay Stewart, Jimmy’s sergeant, with one leg blown off. Stewart held his intestines in his hands, as though making an offering to Jimmy. Jimmy vomited into the mud, and could move no further. He knew he should offer Stewart water and soothing words, but he could do neither. Within minutes, Stewart’s eyes closed, his body shuddered, and he died. Jimmy heaved again and again, until nothing more would come up. Exhausted, Jimmy finally looked at the arm he had let drag behind him as he approached the shell hole. The muscle on his lower arm had been sheared to the bone as though with a cleaver. What remained hung at an odd angle, surely broken. As best he could see through the mud that had collected around his hand, part of his palm and three fingers were missing. Oddly, there was not much blood, probably because the red-hot shrapnel had cauterized the wounds and the mud had caked into and around them. For hours, Jimmy stayed on the edge of the crater. An occasional figure would loom up in the smoke, only to fall. There was another British charge at the German trenches, but this got no farther than the others, and only heaped up thousands of new bodies before the German trenches. An explosion nearby shook the ground and blew another corpse into his shell hole, and Jimmy scrambled away from it. With nightfall the fighting and shelling stopped. Now he heard the screams and moans of the wounded, and the dying crying for their mothers.

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German marksmen were still trying to shoot anything they saw moving, but Jimmy knew that he had to get back to his lines, and medical aid. He crawled over the heaped dirt on the edge of the shell hole. As he turned onto his right side to flip onto his back, sudden, excruciating pain in his right arm all but knocked him out. He screamed, attracting a flurry of bullets that plowed furrows in the mud near him. Now sweating profusely, he waited for what seemed hours and developed a headache that sent arrows of pain through his head with every gunshot he heard. Finally, fearing he would soon die, Jimmy bit his lip against the pain and gently lifted his right arm with his left. He placed it on his stomach, and straightened it. He drew several deep breaths, then inched backward toward his trench, pushing with his legs and slithering in the mud. Several times, partly buried shrapnel cut him. One razor sharp piece sliced his scalp open. He automatically put his hand on the wound to check it, and it came away wet. Even more anxious to return to his trench and safety, he changed direction and slid around the shrapnel. Finally, Jimmy made it to the British barbed wire. Holding up the bottom wire with his good hand, he carefully pushed myself under and then continued the slow slither toward his trench. Two British soldiers crawled over their parapet and grabbed him. He screamed in pain. They dragged him rapidly into the trench as bullets whizzed overhead. As rough, friendly hands lowered him to safety, he whispered, “Jimmy; I’m Jimmy Wilson. Help.” Fortunately, stretcher-bearers were nearby. They carried him unconscious to the rear and medical treatment. His arm had to be amputated, and he had a mild concussion. He had many other wounds, one needing fifty-three stitches. The Battle of the Somme was over for Jimmy Wilson, but the fighting continued for three more months, killing around 600,000 British and German soldiers. The day Jimmy was wounded, some twenty-five thousand British officers and men died, all to gain a few hundred yards of French soil. The generals wasted those lives. The Battle of the Somme achieved nothing.

aaa For one week, Jimmy lay on a cot at a rear hospital until the Army could transport him to England. As he lay there, he saw the wounded

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brought in and the dead removed. He heard the moans, the muffled cries of the men thrashing in the grips of nightmare, the soft words of the nurses trying to comfort them all, and he knew he could never return to his former life. Jimmy would still have his mother to take care of, but now with his sisters graduating from school, he could work part-time, even with one arm, and attend college. Drinking with friends and movies now seemed a trivial waste of time. With a single-mindedness he had never felt before, he vowed to study the reasons why human obscenities like this war could ever happen. On this he was clear, and determined, as though pushed by a great force of nature; as though God had descended and had said to him, “This you will do.” When Jimmy was transferred to a hospital in England, he walked down the line of wounded men, some in pitiful condition, some still in shock or suffering from battle fatigue or mustard gas, and with his left hand he shook the hands of those who could, saying to each, “I promise you that I will spend my life trying to make sure that this never happens to anyone again.” The nurses had heard all this before, usually from the soldiers. The officers were too educated and sophisticated to be so naive. Not having learned the academic truths about history and international relations, Jimmy’s pledge and dedication to it preceded his education. And overrode it when he went to college in the United States and got his degrees in business. He worked hard, saved all he could, and planned. He made his first million by the age of thirty-four. Then he secretly created the Survivor’s Benevolent Society.

Chapter 37

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ne of our greatest moments ever was yet to come. We would celebrate by getting stupefyingly crocked. But during that sleepless night I remembered Jimmy Wilson’s horrible experience in World War I, not as an historian, but as though I lived through it myself. Afterward, I felt less uncomfortable about von Jagow’s suicide. After all, he’d been one of the major instigators of the war. I looked over at Joy, sleeping so soundly next to me, her hand resting on my shoulder. All she was unhappy about was that she hadn’t killed him herself. Well, I never told her I was able to push my feeling of sadness over his suicide away and accept that our end did justify these means. I still didn’t sleep, though. I finally slid out of bed and found my mission notebook in the dark. In it, under “World War I,” I had recorded two historic headlines. I went into the bathroom, closed the door so as not to awaken Joy, and turned on the light to read the two headlines. Austria Formally Declares War On Serbia—Peace Of Europe Now In Kaiser’s Hands —— The New York Times, July 29, 1914 Old Universe Germany Declares War On Russia, First Shots Are Fired—France Is Mobilizing—England Hesitates —— The New York Times, August 2, 1914 Old Universe I thought of the millions killed. I shook my head over this history, sighed, and said to myself, “It’s up to us. You’ve done it right and you’ve done it well. Now, finish it likewise.” I shut my notebook with a snap and went back to bed. In minutes I was asleep.

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aaa Once we had gotten von Jagow out of office, we also had to deal with German Chancellor Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg. He was another central official whose actions, supposedly on behalf of Kaiser Wilhelm II, led to the war. We had bribed several close officials to tell us about the skeletons in his closet, and discovered that forcing him out of power would be easier than we’d thought. At first, though, we had great difficulty setting up an appointment with him. His aides repeatedly told us that he was a very busy man and that, unless we had very important—“extrem wichtig”—business of state, he would not see us. We had our wedge. We had hired as a consultant Franz Kleinsteuber, a German businessman and chairman of the German Business Council, and paid him an indecent retainer. We hired him because he occasionally sailed and played cards with the Kaiser, a relationship we thought we might exploit. He knew our import & export business well and we greatly impressed him with the size of our company and its success. He was constantly angling for us to appoint him director of our German office. We dangled this possibility in front of him as we asked him to intervene with the Kaiser to get us an appointment with Bethmann. Within a week the appointment came through, and at the specified time, Joy and I appeared at the Chancellery. A straight-backed, mustached male secretary ushered us efficiently into Bethmann’s office. Bethmann did not rise from behind his huge desk, or offer his hand. As we approached him, he scrutinized me as though I was a soldier on parade who had dropped his rifle. His face was framed by closecropped gray hair, almost flat on top, and a pointed beard. He had a full mustache, however, darker than the rest of his hair. The combination made him look like a white terrier whose food had discolored his muzzle over the years. His eyebrows were still black and almost straight across his brow, and he had prominent black eyelashes. “Formidable” was the first word that came to mind to describe him. Without a greeting, he finally asked in German, “Why did the Kaiser instruct me to see you?” I answer in German, “Because my government has an offer that you can’t refuse.” Bethmann spoke little English, so we continued in German. He asked, “What government?”

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“We are secret agents. I’m sure you understand the reasons why we cannot divulge that.” He nodded. “Yes; get on with it.” I took a photograph from my case and gave it to him, saying, “This is a photograph of your child in the Christian Sister’s Orphanage.” He stared at it. Reaching into my case again, I took out several folded documents with official seals, and handed them to him one at a time. I described each. “This is the child’s birth certificate, father unknown. This one identifies the mother as a seventeen-year-old Berlin girl, who died in childbirth. This one is a certificate of authenticity for the attached statements of two nurses. They were present when the girl identified you as the father before her death. And this last document is a statement from the orphanage that you have not provided any support for the child.” I waited. Bethmann had turned a sickly white, except for his lips, which he pressed tightly together in a dark line that fell sharply toward his chin at the ends. As he continued to stare at the documents, he visibly slouched lower in his high backed leather chair. His hands gripped the desk, white-knuckled. Finally, he looked at me—jaw slack, eyes frightened, a sheen of perspiration on his high forehead. He’d aged in minutes before our eyes. His whole world had just crashed down around him. He said in a low but controlled voice, “Does the Kaiser know about this?” “No, and he need not. If you resign, we will destroy these documents and the originals. There is no further purpose to them. My government is sure that you can invent a persuasive reason for resigning. If you do, we will provide you with secret funds in Switzerland that you will find more than adequate to keep you and your family in luxury for as long as you live.” “How much do you want to find in a Swiss account upon your resignation?” I asked him. “Nothing. What I am doing is for the German State. My child would embarrass Germany at a crucial time in foreign affairs. I cannot stay on, but I will not take a bribe to leave. My family and I will survive.” He paused and glanced down at the documents. When he looked up, he had full command of his voice again. “Do you have any further business?”

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“No,” I answered. “You may destroy those documents on the desk. We will destroy the originals when we read about your resignation.” “Go.” He pointed to the door. As I opened it, he said, “I will resign in one week.” And we left. Joy had not spoken, and Bethmann acted as though she wasn’t there. Bethmann did resign in a week, and the Kaiser expressed much grief over his resignation, and explained that it was because of his constant and distracting gallbladder pain, as his doctor certified, which made him increasingly unable to attend meetings for any length of time. I thought it was a lame excuse, but Bethmann knew the High German culture and what was acceptable better than I did.

aaa Our final intervention was dangerous, and involved the fanatical Black Hand Society of Serbia. To be sure that Joy was up on this, I typed a message on my laptop while she was napping, and taped it on the bathroom mirror. I wrote: “Attention: The Black Hand Society will assassinate the heir to the Austrian throne on June 28, 1914 when the archduke and his wife are on a state visit to Serajevo. This triggered World War I in the Old Universe. The Black Hand Society has members in the Serbian Army and supporters throughout the Serbian government. Apis, the alias of Colonel Dragutin Dimitrijevic, leads it, and as head of Serbian military intelligence he is beyond our influence. We could assassinate him, but someone else might well take his place and arrange the assassination of the archduke. “In the Old Universe, Apis organized the assassination on his own, without any government approval. Indeed, the research of your Society uncovered the fact that Apis and the Serbian prime minister, Nicola Pasic, were enemies and that Alexander, the prince regent of Serbia, sided with the prime minister. Your Society also discovered that the Austrian court intensely disliked the archduke of Austria, and the emperor hardly spoke to him. Against the emperor’s expressed wishes, the archduke had married a Czech countess. The emperor was so unhappy with this marriage that he even forbade the archduke from appearing in public with her.” I joined Joy for a nap. When I awoke, Joy as sitting at our little teak desk with her laptop, and I went into the bathroom to splash water on my face. My note was

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gone. In its place, Joy had written on the mirror in lipstick, “I know. Cheers for the countess/screw the emperor.” So, we worked both sides of this equation. On May 11, acting on a tip from a trusted government official, Serbian police raided the home of Apis and found what we had planted: forged secret government documents and wireless communications with the German General Staff. The Serbian police immediately arrested Apis. With the backing of Alexander, Pasic demanded that supporters of Apis be rooted out of the Army and government. As for the archduke, we decided to be very careful with so much at stake. We would try to make sure many years passed before—if ever— he made a trip to Bosnia-Herzegovina. I brought in Hands to lead a special group of our employees and Austrian contacts to ensure this. Hands was intimate with a well-known German actress, and she provided an unusual entry for him into high Austrian society. On June 1, after a formal dinner party attended by Hands and the actress, the archduke came down with what appeared to be a horrible illness. He was feverish, vomiting constantly, and looked as though he would die. Despite his doctor’s medicines, the illness continued for several weeks, and the archduke only gradually recovered. June 28, 1914 passed without notice. I had spent two days calling newsrooms and making a pest of myself by asking if there were anything important on the wires. I was told with increasing irritation, “Nothing is happening; do you expect the end of the world or something?” On the evening of June 29, Joy and I stashed all our weapons in our suitcase, pushed that under the bed, and I ordered German Franziskaner beer, the best, delivered to our hotel room. We sang, swinging our beer steins. We made toasts to her mother, to Gu, Jimmy Wilson, and to his son Ed and everyone else in the Society. We tried to dance, and knocked over a lamp and broke it. We lurched against the window curtain and pulled that down on ourselves, laughing. We cried with happiness. Joy vomited in the bathtub; I missed the toilet. I vaguely remember her saying something like, “Your aim was never worth shit.” Then I wet a towel in the toilet and threw it at her. And missed. I don’t know what happened after that. We eventually passed out and woke up in the morning, huddled together, when the hotel maid opened the door, gaped at us, and slammed the door. It was cold on the rug. Joy wore only her Old Universe pink silk panties; I was clad only in my undershirt. The second time drunk for both of us. We were sick all that next day.

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How better to celebrate saving nine million lives? The archduke did not visit Sarajevo until nine years later, and without incident. Although war did not break out, this part of Europe remained a tinderbox ready for some other spark. Therefore, we worked on the governments themselves, trying to push or pull them in a democratic direction. Monarchy was the rule, and although there were parliaments with power, monarchs still dominated, especially in foreign relations. But democracy was in the air, and in Germany and Russia there were strong democratic movements, as well as contending socialist revolutionary ones. Interlarded with our antiwar media and lobbying campaign, we worked hard trying to get the democratic peace message across. Through the German parliament, we secretly subsidized the building of a huge statue of Immanuel Kant as the first democratic peace philosopher and proponent. The parliament placed it on the plaza in front of their building, and with our help the Germans turned its unveiling into a great international event. Prime ministers, politicians, and wellknown actors were in attendance, and President Wilson of the United States delivered a speech there on democracy. The Kaiser himself gave the keynote address, honoring Kant and democracy. Our German office later told us that, when the parliament suggested to the Kaiser that he make the speech if he wanted his budget passed, he had said, “If you can’t beat them, lead them.” In 1917, an upsurge of protests and demonstrations broke out against the Kaiser’s power. The people demanded that he abdicate in favor of a German republic. There were street fights between socialists and democrats, fights involving both against monarchists, and several buildings were burned down. The sympathetic police stood by and refused to act, and the army remained in its barracks. Finally, on October 14, 1917, in front of the statue of Kant, 300,000 people demanded abdication and full democracy, socialists among them. The Kaiser abdicated the next day, and the chancellor resigned. The parliament made the leader of the nonviolent social democratic forces, Friedrich Ebert, provisional president of the new republic until they could organize general elections. We knew the history of the democratic movement in Germany in the Old Universe, and had to supply little money and motivation to achieve its victory. But that was still in the future. Back in 1914, I had my own murder to commit.

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e had one more thing to do regarding the history of western Europe. Throughout, I’d been adamant: I was not going to commit murder with my own hand. But there was one exception—really two, but the other one I can’t touch yet. Tracking our quarry down was difficult, and we had to hire a detective agency to do so. They found him in a small, one-room apartment in Munich’s artistic colony, in the part of town where Hans Hofmann School for Modern Art was built in 1915, Old Universe. Many of the leaders of Cubism, Fauvism, Futurism and German Expressionism did their painting there. He just barely supported himself by painting famous landmarks and selling them to tourists in local shops. There were many ways we could eliminate him. I thought the most direct way involved the least risk and greatest possibility of success. We went into the old apartment building and up the dirty stairs to the second floor. The whole place reeked of alcohol, turpentine, paint, and urine. His apartment, #29, was on the right at the top of the stairs. Joy flattened herself against the peeling paint on the plaster wall next to the scarred and scratched door, her hand in her holster purse. We knew he was there. We had knocked before and nobody answered. We had then waited across the street until someone fitting his description entered the building. We had not fought over this one. In a firm voice, Joy started telling me what she was going to do. “I don’t care what you say, I’m going to—” “I’m doing it. Period.” Taken aback, she stared at me a moment and saw the stubborn look in my eyes that she knew was impossible to cross. She nodded, and relaxed. “I’m your backup.” As I stood beneath the naked bulb that provided the hall’s light, my hand ready to knock on the grimy white door, I saw cannons beginning their cannonade across the border into Poland. I saw lines of German troops crossing the border into Poland, some riding tanks, some in

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trucks, some marching. I saw Polish corpses strewn across a field along with their dead and dying horses. I saw houses aflame and refugees carrying all they had left in suitcases and bags, some to be run down by German tanks and trucks. I saw on the door a line of women leading their children by the hand to be gassed. I saw another line of men and women standing in front of a trench, waiting with resignation to be machine-gunned. I saw it all, and I let my shaking hand come down to knock on the door. He opened it. There he stood, just as I’d imagined him—a creature with huge red eyes, canine teeth protruding from an evil smile, horns growing out of his head, and a tail wrapped around one hoofed leg. He held the scythe of death in his hand. I felt his molten breath and heard the horrible hiss of burning bodies as the red fires of Hell leaped out around him and billowed toward me in clouds of red and yellow smoke that carried the acrid, horrible smell of death. The image receded from my mind and I saw an ordinary young man standing in his doorway, a paintbrush in one hand and a paint-spattered apron protecting his old clothes. He stunk of paint and turpentine. His rather common eyebrows lifted and his large handlebar mustache twitched at me as he asked in Viennese German, “Waht wünschen Sie—What do you want?” I could barely speak. My German must have sounded like my mouth was full of egg shells. I tried to say, “I have a gift for you, but must make sure you are the right man.” My voice cracked on “man,” but I pressed on. “Were you born in Braunau on the Inn, Austria, in 1889?” “Ja.” “Did you come here last year from Vienna?” “Ja.” I tried to get the next question out, and coughed to clear my throat. I felt my eyes getting wet, and finally threw out in a rush, clearly startling him, “Are you Adolph Hitler?” “Ja.” I shot him between the eyes. I could hardly hold my gun steady enough to remove the specially made suppressor from the H&K with my sweat-soaked hand. I got it off and put the gun back into my holster and the suppressor in my coat pocket, stepped over the body, and dragged it into the stinking room. I didn’t look around. I didn’t want to see what he’d been doing. I left the room and closed the door.

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DONE. Done. Everything went out of me. I leaned my back against the wall next to the door, my heart thudding, my whole body shaking, I slide down it. Joy looked at me wide-eyed, approval in her eyes. She opened the door I had closed and went into Hitler’s room. I heard thudding and cracking sounds and in minutes she came out with a bag she put into her purse. She stopped to wipe the bottom of her pistol grip with a rag, then tossed the rag into the room, closed the door, and returned her magnum to her holster purse. I pointed to her purse with a trembling finger and raised my eyebrows. I couldn’t trust my voice yet. “His teeth,” Joy said, with a morbid smile. I still couldn’t move from the wall. I was still shaking violently. I leaned over and vomited next to it. I, John Banks, once assistant professor at Indiana University, Ph.D. in history from Yale, steeped in the history of World War II and Hitler’s genocides, the Holocaust, and his crimes against humanity, had just killed Hitler. It was September 1, 1914—the month and day that he launched the German invasion of Poland in 1939, instigating the war in Europe that would kill some ten million people in combat, and perhaps another twenty million in the Nazi democide. I had killed Hitler. I had killed Hitler with my own hands. It was not murder. It was a just execution. No one in the Old Universe would ever know. No one in this universe would ever care. Except for Joy. She knew. She cared. And she applauded me. I had killed another human being and that night I cried with happiness.

Chapter 39 Revolutionists seize Petrograd; Kerensky flees; ministers under arrest . . . Winter Palace is taken after fierce defense by women soldiers—Washington reserves judgment, hoping revolt is only local. The New York Times, November 9, 1917 Old Universe

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o far, we’d succeeded in our mission beyond our hopes. We’d also had many happy and beautiful moments and my love for Joy had deepened. But inside our relationship was a growing cancer. The symptoms were there; I noticed but ignored them. Love and loving were infinitely easier than recognizing this awful disease. We made the long and separate trips back to San Francisco in late October 1914 with relief. But not all our time in Europe was spend on our business or for our mission. With our new Mercedes 22/50 Touring car we bought in Germany and sold in Cherbourg when we were done, we toured castles, famous art museums, listened to famous symphonies, and frolicked like young tourists. We saw Paris, Rome, and Athens, of course. Historian that I am, I was delirious with pleasure at visiting with Joy these and other places that were so much a part of the history I’d studied. We also danced, walked hand in hand, and laughed; and we made love. All that said, it was good being back in San Francisco again, in our apartment. We spent the next three years continuing to build up our flourishing business, which took larger chunks of our time, but added to our wealth. I was spending an increasing amount of my time writing a history of the Old Universe twentieth century, with all its wars and democides, but no one, of course, would believe it was the real history of an alternate universe. I thought I would get it published as an alter-

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native history—what might have been, had events transpired differently—but when I finished, no publisher or agent would touch it. Not plausible, they said. I could have used our funds to publish it, but . . . what the hell. Our troubles soon took center stage and I didn’t care then. No one would believe the Old Universe could ever have existed, anyway. Through the newspaper, Joy had discovered a home for Chinese girls. A former Chinese missionary, Barbara Atherton, had started taking in homeless Chinese girls, those disowned by their families, or those who were in trouble or needed a foster home. She covered her costs through public donations. Joy visited the home, was very impressed by her talk with Barbara, and started making contributions to her. Soon Joy was gifting tens of thousands of dollars to her. She became the home’s primary supporter. Her charity soon branched out to several San Francisco orphanages. She spent an afternoon every other day at one orphanage or another, or at Barbara’s home. I went with her many times and I don’t think I ever saw her happier than when she was playing with the children or teaching the young Chinese girls one thing or another. Whether orphanage or the home, the children all greeted her enthusiastically, yelling out, “Miss Phim is here. Come play with us, Miss Phim.” Joy and I had many happy times, but when I saw her with these children there was a special look on her face. Her eyes shone, her face glowed, and she wore a perpetual smile. She was so beautiful and so happy my heart swelled with my own happiness at seeing her this way. It does now, at the memory. Joy would have made a great mother. But, there was also this: In Europe she had always seemed energetic and alert. Now, back in San Francisco, her strange lethargy returned. Not often, not one day after another. Weeks would go by when she was normal. But often enough for me to notice it, she would seem tired, drowsy, and moody. I didn’t understand the moodiness at all. It was unlike her. But then, it wasn’t that often that I was going to make an issue of it. Our fights had all but disappeared. We had worked out virtually all the kinks in our relationship and we each knew what would press the other’s hot buttons. Because of the life we led together, we knew each other better than couples married for thirty years or more. So I thought.

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aaa In 1917 we had to travel to Europe again, this time in even longer and more tortuous train trips to Moscow and the Russian capital of St. Petersburg to intervene. This was actually more important than World War I. This is because out of the Russian Revolution came Lenin and Stalin, and over seventy years of totalitarian communism, with all the wars and democides that it entailed. Now, Russian Czar Nicholas II had put down a rebellion in 1905, but the antimonarchical and pro-democratic forces had only grown stronger since. We provided as much support as possible to the democrats, and funneled tens of millions of dollars into the hands of Prince Georgi Y. Lvov and moderate lawyer Aleksandr F. Kerensky. We also arranged with a secret pro-monarchy society two assassinations: Vladimir Ilyich Lenin in Switzerland and Leon Trotsky at a train station while returning to Russia from forced exile. These assassinations were not difficult to arrange at all, since these future mass murderers were well known revolutionaries and enemies of the monarchists. Joseph Stalin was the greatest mass murderer of the twentieth century, perhaps of all time. The new provisional government has released him from exile in Turukhansk, and he would be arriving on March 12 in what was still called St. Petersburg in this new universe. I also planned his assassination without compunction. Agreeing on who was to do it, however, caused one of the biggest fights between Joy and me since our European trips. She exclaimed, “He’s mine. You did Hitler. I do Stalin.” “Hitler was easy,” I told her. I spoke the language, knew something about the culture, and Munich was an international city, easy for foreigners to travel around in without attracting attention. Stalin was becoming very influential among radical revolutionaries, and would be surrounded by supporters. Since assassinations were a well-used political tool here, there might also be bodyguards. “So?” Joy asked angrily. In my usually nice manner, I pointed out, “You’ll stick out as you would sheetless at a Ku Klux Klan meeting.” “So?” “You’ll be killed or spend many years in prison. Most important, you will lose all those future years when you could hear me coo in your ear my love for you, when you could feel my arms about you, and see the love in my eyes and heart.”

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Her anger evaporating, she looked at me from under her long lashes and said, “Let me get this straight. You don’t want me to die because I would no longer have the absolutely incredible, world-shaking, universe-exploding experience of your love for me? Is that it?” “Precisely.” Joy started laughing. “Dearest. You’re so compassionate you break me up.” Anything that works, I thought. Stalin’s assassination cost us ten thousand dollars. We made the contract. Five thousand on agreement. Five thousand when we received the teeth. We played tourists until Joy got sick and stayed in our hotel room for a couple of days. After doing all I could to make her comfortable, she insisted that I stop annoying her with my mothering and go out and make use of our time here. I did. I ambled east along the great street known as Nevsky Prospekt, and visited the Alexander Nevsky Monastery, Kazan Cathedral, and Church of Our Savior of the Spilled Blood, among other places. The street was the nucleus of Peter the Great’s original city. When I read in the English edition of Pravda that Stalin and three others had been killed in a gunfight at the Petrograd train station, I was very happy, as was Joy. I waited a day for the package with the teeth inside to be delivered to my room. She was in the bathroom when it arrived, and after tipping the delivery boy, I opened it to assure myself that it contained the teeth. Yes, they were there, wrapped in wax paper, and with a little note: What you gave us is payment enough. Somebody beat us to him, but we got this present for you from the morgue. Joy! My mind yelled at me. Sick? What a crock of shit. I had to think. Storming mad, I shoved the note in my pocket and, trying to control my voice, I yelled at her through the bathroom door, “I’m going to the lobby for a short while.” Without waiting for a reply, I left. I do remember closing the door quietly. I don’t know why people in the hallway turned around and stared at me. I stomped down the stairs, found myself a well cushioned easy chair in a corner of the lobby where no one was likely to bother me, and stewed.

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What to do about Joy? I had absolutely no doubt that she’d murdered—executed—Stalin. That’s not what so upset me. What upset me was that she’d done it without telling me. She purposely deceived me. She coolly and calmly lied to me. Without any backup from me, she’d put herself in great danger. That really got me. She must have killed the others besides Stalin. Perhaps innocents. I didn’t know. I must have been quite a scene, sitting, livid, in the corner. I wouldn’t have been surprised if black smoke had billowed from the top of my head, like that from the smokestacks of an old steamer. But no one noticed; no firemen were called. I finally damped the boilers and cooled down enough to decide what to do. I’m sure that I made an entirely rational decision and my great love for Joy had nothing to do with it. There was now nothing to be gained by confronting her. Stalin was dead. I couldn’t change the past about the others. So it was simple; I would do nothing. But now I would be on guard. I no longer could trust her completely. I got up to go to my room and swayed for a moment, dizzy from the strain I had been under. I tried to move calmly up the stairs. When I entered my room, Joy was looking out the window. When she heard me enter, she turned from the window and exclaimed, “We got his teeth. Isn’t it great?” What I wanted to say was, “Yeah, great. You celebrate.” What I did say with forced glee was, “What a day. I’ll never forget it.”

aaa We were done here; we left for Moscow to play tourist and from there took the amazing, once in a lifetime, 5,785 mile train trip east to Vladivostok on the Trans-Siberian Railroad. We visiting many small Russian cities and towns, held hands as we explored, and finally, toward the end of the trip, I was able to make love to her, just like old times. I didn’t realize when we planned that trip how necessary it would be for us. For I soon was able to put aside what she had done. One month later we took separate ships out of Vladivostok to San Francisco, via Tokyo for me and Manila for Joy. Travel by sea was no longer fun, exciting, or informative. I no longer cared to experience how people got around in this primitive age. It was boring, tedious—an awful waste of time.

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hat’s important about a human monster’s teeth? That, absent his body, they are his evil incarnate. And can be treated thusly. We had the teeth of Mao and Hitler, Lenin and Stalin. And we did something we had not done before with the teeth we collected. We celebrated. It may seem terribly morbid, perhaps even perverted, but to us, saving tens of millions of lives was reason for celebration. We’d put each set of teeth in a jar, and labeled each jar with the name of the owner. Now we lined the jars up on a half moon table against the wall of the living room, in order according to their vast murders in the Old Universe—STALIN, MAO, HITLER, and LENIN. We had other sets of teeth—Trotsky’s, and those of many lesser murderers—but we wanted to focus just on the greatest mega-murderers of all time. The true human monsters. We sat on a large pillow before the table, heads level with the jars, and stared at the names and the teeth. Joy got up and took her laptop computer out of its hiding place and put a music CD into it. As she again sat next to me, the first notes of Beethoven’s Symphony #5 filled the room. We now had the best and the worst of humanity. This was not a happy moment for either of us. We could feel no glory or exultation over these teeth. The weight of the dead human beings, and the tears, misery, and heartbreak of many times more, all caused or ordered by the owners of these teeth, bore down on us. As we stared at the jars, tears trickled down Joy’s cheeks, and I wordlessly put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. With my free hand, I lifted the champagne bottle waiting next to the pillow, poured a glass for each of us, and returned the bottle to the floor. Joy pulled away and wiped her cheeks before accepting her glass. I stood, for I could not say this sitting, and raised my glass. Joy stood as well, and raised hers to touch mine. “This is for the over 100 million people you four alone are responsible for murdering in the Old Universe. This is for the souls of those

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dead. We wish those souls could transcend universes and join us now. We wish they could see into these jars and know their murderers are dead. We hope, in this New Universe, we have saved all their lives. May all their souls now be at peace.” We clicked our glasses again and drank, tears pouring unabashedly down our faces. I refilled our glasses. Joy now spoke. “Mom, Gu, Ed, Laurent, and the rest of you loving members of the Society, this is for you all. Humanity of this space and time will never know what they owe you. But we do. Thanks, Mom.” We toasted them, and when her glass was empty she reached over and lifted a thick black rag from the couch. With Beethoven still playing softly in the background, she slowly draped it over the jars. I tucked the rag around the jars and carried them out the back door of our apartment to the garage we had built for our Buick B25 Touring car. I placed the bundle on the floor, tied the open ends together to secure the contents, and motioned for her to get the small sledgehammer leaning against the wall. When Joy brought it over I took it, held it upright for a long moment, then swung it down on the rag and its contents. Glass shattered; the fragments of broken glass and teeth ground together with a sound that was loud and satisfying. I handed the sledgehammer to Joy, and she took a solid two-handed whack at the rag. We alternated back and forth until there was nothing inside the rag but a jumbled mass of glass splinters and crumbled enamel. Lifting the rag carefully to prevent its contents from spilling out, I led Joy out onto Fillmore Street. We walked until I saw several stinking garbage cans standing in a corroded and rusted line in an alley next to a restaurant. We went up to them and I waited while she took the lid off one after another, seeking the smelliest one that was still half empty. Then, both gripping the bundle, we opened it and dropped its smashed contents into the garbage can, and tossed the rag in after them. We put the lid back on and pushed it firmly down. As we walked away, I had this strange feeling that the day was suddenly sunnier, that birds sang louder in the trees, that everyone on the street seemed, somehow, happier.

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hould I go into my personal horror? Why not stop here, and do now what I must? I can’t help it. I’ve got to go on. It’s all I have to hold onto, the only compensation for what I did. By the late 1920s the mission no longer was at the center of my life. I no longer had the same dedication, the same missionary zeal. My life fell apart and that’s all I really cared about. But still, I remain proud of what we accomplished. Maybe a few, just a few words about it might help my despair.

aaa Many of the events we had set in motion in our trips abroad, and by funneling huge amounts of money into peace and democratically oriented groups and parties, were bearing fruit in the 192Os. In this New Universe, the Czar of Russia abdicated on February 25, 1924, and Kerensky became president of the Russian Republic. Social revolutionaries tried a coup in St. Petersburg, but were easily defeated. Turkey had been a major problem in the Old Universe. Its ally Germany, along with its enemies Great Britain and France, were too distracted by the war to worry about what Turkey was doing to its people. A million or more Armenians and Greeks were murdered. The excuse given for this genocide was World War I and the invasion of eastern Turkey by the Russians. Since we’d ensured that no war or invasion occurred in this New Universe, those Armenians and Greeks did not suffer. We were afraid, however, that this was only temporary, and that this genocide was inevitable. But the Young Turk rulers were assassinated during a democratic rebellion—quite without our intervention— and replaced by a provisional regime more sympathetic to Britain. In 1923 the Turks elected a pro-democratic majority to their Grand National Assembly, and 15 percent of those were Armenians. The new Minister of Finance was also Armenian, and within two months of the

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election Greece and Turkey signed a treaty governing the voluntary immigration of Muslims and Greeks between the two countries. And in one of the most dangerous of all countries for peace in the Old Universe, Japan, a well planned rebellion of younger military officers failed. By good luck. The police accidentally uncovered the plot when one of the plotters got drunk and leaked it to a geisha, who informed the head of her house, who then went to the police. The government expelled the officers from the military, and the courts gave them ten year prison sentences. The government executed no one. There were no assassinations. The oligarchs still had the power to defeat important legislation, but with the death of former Prime Minister Hara Kei and the ascension of the more liberal-minded Kato Komei, the oligarchs allowed most bills approved by the parliament to pass into laws. Thus, the famous Civil Authority Statute of 1935, which placed the military under Civil Authority, became law. And the Minister of Military Affairs would henceforth be a civilian appointed by the prime minister with the approval of the legislature. Enough of this. I simply can’t generate the interest to say more about the mission. I can no longer avoid it; I have to face what started killing me.

aaa I was getting older and age was beginning to take its toll. For the first time in what would eventually become a pattern, I had to get up during the night to pee. Joy was not in bed. I assumed she was either doing some work on her computer or playing one of the computer games she programmed that often occupied her for hours. So it appeared. Since I was up, I thought I would give her a little kiss and see what she was doing. I looked for her in the living room. No Joy. No Joy in the kitchen, either. Maybe in the garage we had built for our cars (Joy had a new LaSalle coup now, to my new Mercedes Touring Sedan). No Joy. And her car was gone. Now wide awake, I waited in bed for her to come home. Maybe she had to go to our company for something. Or perhaps she wanted something from our supply capsules and had driven to where we had them secured. I ran down and up and sideways though all the possibilities. And I waited.

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I left the bedroom light off so she wouldn’t see it when she came home. I don’t know what time it was when I heard her in the living room. Soon she was in our bathroom, and then next to me in bed. I rolled in her direction, put my hand on her hip, which I often did, and found it cold to my touch. I acted as though just awakened, and asked, “Did’ya win?” She was startled. “Win? What?” “Your computer game.” “Oh. No. I’ve got to reprogram the weapons to make it less difficult.” “Well, good luck next time. Good night.” I almost choked over the words and hoped she thought I was just sleepy. Soon she was breathing deeply, while a tornado twisted my emotions into a maelstrom, making it almost impossible for me to think. Joy had lied. Again! She was out somewhere in the middle of the night. She was sneaking around. She was having an affair. Pure and simple. Who? Sal, Dolphy, Hands. They were all married, but so what? And she especially liked Hands. He will be the first one I’ll check. Joy had her own secretary by now and both our secretaries kept a log of all our appointment times, telephone calls, and arrivals and departures. I could find out on what dates Joy had been late in the morning, which usually was when she slept in after a late night on the computer or catching up on some work—so she said. I’d never questioned this before. And now I knew that when she slept in it may have been because she was whoring around. I may have caught some sleep toward early morning, but I was awake when light filled the bedroom. Joy slept in that morning, as I expected she would, and I drove off to our company. When my secretary came in I asked her to cancel all my appointments, and get the daily record Joy’s secretary kept of her activities. I also asked her to get the records of all the times Hands, Dolphy, and Sal were out of town for any reason from their own secretaries. I was stupid and I didn’t care. By lunch, I’m sure, the secretaries had all whispered to each other around the water cooler, and thereafter gossip would pass through the company with the speed of sound. As soon as I received the records, I went to work. Joy didn’t come into her office late in the morning very often. Maybe about once in six weeks. When I correlated that with when the three guys were in town, there was no match. Sometimes one or the other would be here; sometimes not. No one stood out consistently with her lateness. Twice when she’d been late, all three were out of town.

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I was frustrated. It must be somebody else in the company or someone she had met elsewhere, I decided, maybe someone associated with her charity work. I wasn’t going to use a private detective agency on this, given our many secrets. I would track this down myself. My mind now says I should have let it go. So she was having an affair. We weren’t married, she was her own boss, and I had the best years of her love and devotion, and the envy of other men wherever we went. But then, my jealous heart screamed at me, Joy is with another man. She is kissing him. She is purring and caressing him. She is making love to him. He has the whole tour of her body. It was a knockout in two seconds. My heart took over. I would wait. No problem when Joy went to bed with me and I could hear her sleeping. But when she stayed up at her desk in the living room, doing something on the laptop, I also stayed awake, listening for her to leave the apartment. Many times I snuck out of bed to make sure she was still there. Weeks went by and nothing happened and I got sloppy. The seventh week, she stayed up at the laptop when I went to bed, and while waiting for her to leave—if she was going to—I fell asleep. I woke up with a start and quietly looked into the living room to see if she was there. No. She was gone from the house and her car was gone as well. “Shit, shit!” I yelled at myself. I waited in bed. Hours later she came home. This time I said nothing and acted as though I was asleep. I was going to have to take a different approach to this.

aaa When Joy arrived late at the company the next day, I told my secretary that I had forgotten something at home, and left. At the apartment I thoroughly searched through everything, including in, under, and behind her drawers, closets, many jewelry boxes, and the pockets of our clothes in the closet. Several times, I passed by the dress she was soaking in a bucket placed in the bathtub. This was the way she removed or softened stains from food and drinks before taking her dress to the Chinese laundry with our other clothes. Not getting anywhere, almost as a last resort, I pulled the dress out of the bucket, thinking that there might be semen on it. If there were, it would only confirm what I knew to be true. But I checked anyway.

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When I held it up high, letting the water flow off it into the bucket and tub, I saw something near the hem. It looked like . . . I looked closer. It is . . . I blotted the area with toilet paper. “It is . . . Jesus Christ!” I dropped the dress into the pail and dropped down on the floor and put my head in my hands. I now knew what she was doing and it blew my mind. Everything fell together. I was positive what I was going to do the rest of the day would prove it. Mechanically, I made sure that the bucket and the dress soaking in it looked as I’d found it. I cleaned water off the floor, and washed my face in the sink to cool it. My heart beat so hard that my whole body jerked with each pulse. I went to my office and picked up the record of when Joy had been late to her office and then drove to the offices of the San Francisco Courier. After I explained that I was doing some research on China for my company, they let me into their archives. Hours later I emerged from the archives in a daze. I said something to the editor when I left, which I hope was a “Thank you,” and drove home. I now had an explanation for her moods. For her fucking tiredness. For her late night trips. I didn’t even need to follow her to make sure. I was sure. I sat at the kitchen table with nothing in front of me but my pocket watch lying on the waxed floral tablecloth, and I waited. I was more heartbroken than I would have been if I’d been right about her whoring around. I was ready to leave her, and screw the mission. I stared at nothing. I physically felt nothing except a boiling hot ball in my stomach. I could have been lying sidewise on the chair, as far as I knew. My hands were somewhere, doing something. They could have been peeling back the skin of my face or gripping one or both of my guns. I didn’t care. All the time I waited, my entire consciousness was twisted around one bloody, all-destroying fact. At 5:33 Joy came in the back door from the garage, saw me sitting at the table, and gave me a cheery “Hi love.” Why waste time? I spit it at her: “How many have you killed on the street in the last year?” Joy dropped her dangerous purse on the table between us and collapsed on the dining room chair across from me. I grabbed the heavy purse and threw it over my shoulder.

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I waited. Her eyes got soft and wet. I screamed at her, “Go ahead. Cry! I don’t give a fuck. I want to know how many you murdered!” Tears ran down her cheeks. How can I explain the look that now came over her? Her face flushed, her brows knitted, the corners of her mouth turned down and I thought she was biting her lip. She kept rubbing one hand up and down the sleeve of her other arm. She slumped over the table. Tears dripped off her chin onto the tablecloth. She stared aimlessly at the table, blinking, her wet eyelashes combing through her tears. This was where, in the past, I would have gone to her, put my arms around her, pressed her head onto my shoulder, and caressed her back. I might even have cried with her. I knew she wasn’t acting. It didn’t matter. “Cut the crap,” I yelled. “How many?” I could barely hear her. “Maybe . . . four . . . or five.” The last word came out in a gasp. I jumped to my feet, grabbed my chair, and bought it down on the sink with all my might. It broke into pieces. I still held onto part of the back and I threw that at the window, which showered broken glass onto the garage area. “You fucking murderer. It’s eleven. In one goddamn year. You must have killed a hundred or more since you started.” My hands balled into fists. I stood over her and roared, spewing spittle at her, “And you deceived me every second, every hour, every day, every month, every year since the first one.” I hit the table with my fist so hard that Joy jumped and the table bounced a foot away from her. I couldn’t stand her anymore. I rushed out, jumped into my car, and tried to burn rubber. These cars didn’t burn rubber yet. I stalled my Mercedes several times, until I was able to gain some semblance of control over my devastating anger—like trying to redirect a blowtorch with a paper towel—and let up on the accelerator. I drove anywhere and nowhere, just to be away. I slept in my office that night, and my secretary brought me a Danish and coffee when she saw how I looked the next day. Joy did not come in to the office and her secretary asked me what to do about an appointment she had scheduled.

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“Cancel it,” I said. I’m sure my anger showed. I also cancelled my appointments and drove to Golden Gate Park. I paced around the park. Turned inside out by my anger, exhausted and brokenhearted, I finally plopped down on a familiar shaded bench on a grassy knoll. Elbows on my knees, my head often in my shaking hands, I stewed and grieved there for hours. A policeman passed me two or three times and finally stopped and asked for identification. I gave it to him; it had my picture on it. He studied it and my face—it hardly looked like me, in my current condition—and asked, “You look like one of those bums we get in here. You having a problem?” “The woman I love died.” I didn’t tell him it had happened years ago. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Banks. You stay here as long as you like. Lay down on the bench if it will help. I’ll keep people away.” With a tip of his cap he strode off, but he occasionally reappeared to give me a sympathetic nod. My mind was in chaos, except for one banner-like thought that kept streaming through it: My love is a serial murderer. Not past love. I still loved her, even then. I loved so much about her. But what do you do when you love a serial murderer? I couldn’t turn her over to the police. I couldn’t abide her murdering people. I began to think seriously of suicide, I was so torn, so heartbroken, so desolate. Joy found me there and sat down next to me. She knew what I would do when I was this depressed. I had come here alone before, and we had come here together. She’d dressed for the age, but crazily. She had on the required long dress, but its blue clashed with the brown of her sloppy sweatshirt from the future. She wore no hat, and had let her messy hair fall loose around her shoulders. She looked like a gypsy. The policeman happened to be nearby and started over, but I waved him off. He must have thought I was either being propositioned or panhandled. She had bitten her lip and it was swelling. It trembled. Her voice wavered as though pushing against a powerful wind, but I could feel the force of will she was imposing on her anguish so she could explain, “It started with the boys who attacked me in Mexico. I was sorry they were boys, but they were still rapists and maybe murderers. Before we left, I went out by myself to see if I would be attacked again. Nothing

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happened. When we got home I wondered if I would be attacked here if I walked down a downtown street at night. I was. By two thugs with knives. I killed them both. Then it occurred to me that, using myself as bait, I could help clear the city of these scum. It was another kind of mission, but not entirely different.” She broke eye contact, and looked unseeingly down at her hands, which seemed to be clasping and unclasping of their own will. She took a deep breath and let it out in a gust. “So, about every five or six weeks—” She hesitated and cast a dejected glance my way when I shook my head and dropped it into my hands. Holy mother of God, every five or six weeks. “—I would go out on the street, and if I were attacked, so much for them. And so much the better for the city and women. I didn’t dress sexily. I didn’t act provocative. I just dressed as would a working woman or a wife on some late night errand. “Many men would pass me without a word or threatening movement. The vast majority, as a matter of fact. A few stopped to warn me about being out alone and offered to pay for a taxi to take me home. They were sweet. Only a small number of thugs thought they had free pussy, and I was happy to send them to hell.” I tunneled my head further into my hands. Joy was “happy,” like “Oh. Fun.” “I think I did a public service, John. I helped clean up the streets, and I went to bed afterwards happy that I had saved some women from a fate worse than death.” If I hear “happy” one more fucking time, I’m going to staple her goddamn lips together. “I know I hid this from you. I lied to you. I know you now hate me. I expect you to leave me. I am simply a murderess to you. For the sake of the mission, we’ve—” “Fuck the goddamn mission.” “We’ve got to sort out things between us and . . . Oh God, John, I love you so much. I’m sorry. Terribly sorry.” She broke down, her head in both hands, bawling. I scurried away. Joy didn’t come home that night and she wasn’t at work the next day. Now I was afraid she was on the verge of suicide, if she hadn’t already killed herself—after all, she had grown up with that warrior code—and I started searching all over for her. I found her at the home

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for Chinese girls. Barbara had given her a bed, support, and comfort in what she thought was a lovers’ quarrel. When I asked Barbara if Joy was there, she nodded. When I asked if I could see Joy, she glared at me so coldly that the moisture in my breath turned into a pale cloud, I’m sure. “That is up to that poor woman. I’ll ask,” she declared. She came back, gave me a “you are a bastard” look, and said Joy would see me, in a voice that conveyed her thoughts: I don’t know why. She led me to Joy’s door, gave me a final dirty look, and stomped away. I knocked hard. Joy opened the door and slouched against it, one hand on the knob. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face wet, her hair a mess. Dried vomit was splattered on her sweatshirt, and her dress was twisted and wrinkled. I twitched my nose at the smell of her. I picked her up. “Where’s your purse?” She pointed to it, and I carried her over to it and said, “Grab it.” Then I carried her down the hallway as girls began to pop out of doors to look at us. Barbara opened the front door with an “I’ll kill you if you hurt her again” stare, and I carried Joy to my car and plopped her in the front seat. I drove her home without a word between us, and carried her into our apartment. I put Joy down to sit on the side of our bed. I got down on my knee in front of her, took her locket from around her neck, and held it over my heart. I took her right hand in my left and gently placed it over my hand, her locket, and my heart. I looked into her eyes, those beautiful eyes now so anguished, and I tried to speak. My lips trembled. Tears almost blinded me. I just managed to get it out, “Now . . . pledge to me . . . tell me that . . . you will never, never . . . go out on the street . . . to murder thugs . . . scum, rapists, whatever, again.” “I do, my dearest, I do,” she moaned. “So help you God.” “So help me God.” I took her hands and I cried like a baby. What else could I do?

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oy was more loving, more accepting of my faults, but I think she knew, as I did, that even though the sunken ship of our relationship was refloated a second time, it now sailed still lower in the water. It would not survive another torpedo. It didn’t. Joy’s moodiness and understandable tiredness ended, along with her staying up beyond the time I went to bed. I think she now made it a point to put everything away, shut down her laptop, and join me when I went off to bed, even to read. As I come to this part of our history and the years that went by after I discovered Joy’s street murders, I feel a special need to update our success. Not for my sake. For hers. She would’ve wanted this said, and I envision the happiness on her face and the kiss she would’ve sent to her mother along with something like, “Look Mom, we did it!” By 1933 our firm had become the third largest such company in the world. This placed a tremendous load on Joy and me, but we managed it by delegating all but emergencies to Hands, and through him, to Dolphy and Sal. They in turn had built excellent executive staffs. We had no board of directors. All legal authority was in my hands, which in practice meant Joy and me, and we kept it that way. My estimated wealth in stocks alone was now at two billion dollars, and I was a major mover on the stock exchange. My success in this was ending, however. The last analysis that Joy calculated of closing values on the New York Stock Exchange in comparison to those in the Old Universe on the same day showed only a low correlation. The financial world had been revolutionized by our interventions, and this New Universe avoided the Great Depression that had started in October 1929 in the Old. New companies not seen in the Old Universe were now big players in the economy and companies that had done very well in the Old Universe were not even on the New York Stock Exchange now. The major reason for this was the lack of war and the democratization of the Big Powers. Wars always favor some companies over others, and we were now seeing their loss or lack of growth in the New Universe.

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An unexpected result of the global democratization taking place, the lack of world wars, and the diminishing local wars was a corresponding retreat of government power and nationalism. When governments go to war, they become garrison states for the duration, and afterward seldom give up more than a fraction of the power they held during the war. This took place even in democracies in the Old Universe. But now, without that threat and actuality of war, the pressure of democratic voters and opinion was forcing a retreat of power. This retreat involved the willingness of many democracies to consider, debate, and negotiate for the independence of minority groups or colonies that desired such status. Impossible from the perspective of the Old Universe, now Hawaii, Alaska, and California were on the road to independence. In Great Britain, there were glimmerings of thought about the possible independence of Northern Ireland, Wales, and Scotland. Québec was now independent of the rest of Canada. By 1936, we could travel to most places in the world by air. Lacking the great impetus of World War I, airline companies still saw the profit in developing passenger airline service. But there were still a few things to be done. Our company office in Spain had warned us about a pending military revolt led by General Franco against the socialist-leaning democratic government. Some things from the Old Universe had not changed. Joy was monitoring a possible bloody insurgency in the British colony of India and wanted to be available to travel there if the need arose, so I flew to Spain to handle Franco by myself. Unfortunately—and I mean unfortunately—calm heads prevailed in India and Joy didn’t need to travel there after all. I communicated to her that a pro-government mutiny I had nudged had removed General Franco from power, my contract for his assassination was successful, and democracy had been preserved. I was headed back home. It was still risky flying across the Atlantic to New York and then jumping to Chicago, Denver, and finally San Francisco. But it was infinitely preferable to those damn trains and ships we had to take years before. Joy picked me up at the airport in her new Wilson Speedster, and I gave her a leisurely account of the people I’d met, the parties I had to go to, and the so-called antiques that people tried to sell our company. When we got home I hugged and kissed her again, but now more intimately than I had at the airport. We made love, then went to sleep in each other’s arms.

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If only we could know the future. Not the documented future that time travelers still think of as history even while living in the past, but our future in a new universe we created and in which we were trapped. Had I known the special significance of that night, had I known what would follow, had I known . . . But we humans, time travelers or not, are locked in our own time-bound shell, open to our past, closed to our future. What tomorrow will bring for our personal lives, we never know. And thus, we may unknowingly drink our last champagne, see the sunset for the last time, hear Tchaikovsky for the last time, and make love for the last time. Unknowingly. If I had only known. And this brings me to what I find almost impossible to relate.

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want to go back to the early years again. I want relive them, add things I now recall. But I must soon emerge from this long tunnel of remembrance. Time is running out. I got up late the next morning and Joy had already left for the company. She left me a note: “Good morning, sleepy-head. Coffee made; pancakes in the oven. Will be at one of the orphanages part of the day. Love, Me.” I had taken with me to Spain two grenades and a lot of ammunition, and had left them hidden in a false bottom of my suitcase when I came home. Now I thought I had better put the grenades and ammunition back into our weapons capsule. We had purchased adjacent apartments over the years and turned one into storage for, among other things, our heavy capsules. The apartment had a concrete subfloor over which wood flooring had been laid, so we saw no problem in this. We just told the governing committee of owners that ran the apartment building that we kept there the company supplies that we needed handy. But I had a number of other things to do first. As I puttered around the apartment and straightened out my personal effects, I listened to the local radio station, which reported that the Democratic candidate for president, Norman Thomas, would be giving a speech here this very morning. San Francisco was a Democratic Party bastion. The town buzzed with excitement. Joy was a strong democrat and gave a contribution of a thousand dollars every year to the national party, and another thousand dollars to the local party. We had agreed that we would never use our mission’s funds for partisan political purposes in the United States, but we gave ourselves salaries of twenty thousand dollars a year from the company that we could treat as private income to do with what we wanted. Joy hated Norman Thomas. I remember her rant over the choice of Thomas at the Party convention. “He’s a closet communist,” Joy spit out. “He’s an utterly stupid choice. Have the Party bosses no sense? He’ll put his ideological cronies in the cabinet, and they will do the

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same in their departments. As they appoint more and more of their kind, they’ll load up the government and the courts with those dedicated to revolution.” She wagged her finger at me. “I’m telling you, by the end of his four year term, he will have carried out a silent and legal coup. I’m voting Republican this time, although I don’t think it will do a damn bit of good.” And on and on. I thought she was exaggerating, and I listened with half a mind. I ranted myself from time to time, over some stupid politician or policy. I should have paid more attention. When I finally went to the weapons capsule, I leaned in to put the ammunition and grenades away, and noticed it was missing. At first I just looked. Then I looked more carefully. Then I searched in rising panic. It was gone. She was gone. I slammed the capsule door shut, rushed into our apartment, and searched the whole apartment as fast as I could. What time was it? I looked at my watch. It was 10:03. God, I had twenty-seven minutes. I ran out the door without even closing it and dashed into the garage. Joy had left the garage door open when she had driven out. I jumped into my Mercedes Roadster, shoved the key into the starter, and prayed, “Please start.” It did. I screeched the tires as I backed out, and shoved the gearshift into first even while it was still moving backwards. In this car I could burn rubber, and I did as I headed out of our alley and turned onto Fillmore Street fronting our apartment. The car’s back end skewed around and I almost lost control. Then I was on my way to the large bandshell at Golden Gate Park. I drove as fast as I could, bouncing over potholes, passing cars and trucks, driving on the wrong side of the road, missing cars by inches, scattering pedestrians, topping hills and flying through the air to come down the other side with a screeching bounce. I didn’t care. I would gladly spend my life in jail, if only I could get there in time. I sideswiped a truck; one of my fenders flew into the air and I almost lost control. To get around a crowd of cars I drove off the road and through bushes and cans in a spray of broken branches and can lids and garbage. I almost flipped when I made the turn into the park at Lincoln and 9th Avenue and kept going until I crashed through a wooden bar-

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rier and onto the grass of the park, the back of the car skidding left and right. I kept going until blocked by trees. I jumped out and dashed through the trees. I knew precisely where to go. We had discussed it during our walks around the park, and she had commented on how effectively the hidden knoll could be used. I glanced at my watch. Only four minutes left. I jumped a little stream and strained my foot. Fuck the pain; I kept going. And there she was. She lay on her stomach, clutching her prized British Accuracy International sniper rifle. She had set up a solid support of rocks and a large branch for the rifle, and she was sighting it through the sniper’s telescopic sight. I looked far down the park toward the speaker’s platform, about half a mile away. She wouldn’t miss Norman Thomas when he started to speak. There were no secret servicemen around, this far away. Indeed, the protection of the nominees for president and vicepresident had become lax by 1936. There had been no attempt to assassinate a president since that of William McKinley in 1901, and the country had not had war or a terrorist bombing or killing since then, either. No one could shoot accurately at this distance with 1936 rifles which, without the stimulus of war, were even less accurate than those in the Old Universe at this time. I didn’t hide the noise I made as I charged her. Joy swung her head toward me. In a flash, she had her magnum in hand, a silencer attached, and it was aimed at my heart. She held it steady, finger on the trigger, her arm extended. I was unarmed and without my armor, but that didn’t make a difference. Neither of us said a word. She kept the gun pointed at me, and I was ready to die. Twenty feet. She didn’t shoot. Fifteen. I was still alive. Ten. Surely now she would shoot. Five feet. She didn’t. I fell across the sniper rifle and grabbed the barrel. I held it in both hands with all my strength. If she shot me I hoped that she would not be able to wrest the rifle from my dead hands. Off in the distance I heard clapping and cheering that went on for several minutes, and then the far voice of someone speaking. I was beginning to feel the bruises and cuts from hurtling through the woods, and I was at an odd angle on the rifle, which was digging into my side. I had my back to her. I heard her say, in a voice from Hell, “You never did learn how to zigzag.” Her very last words to me. How ironic.

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Soon I felt her head on my back, shaking. I guessed she was crying. I still held onto the gun barrel with all my strength, but it was waning. I had to do something soon. I tried to roll off the rifle and take it with me. I did. She was not putting up any resistance. I still held it as tightly as I could as I moved away from her. Then, lying on my side, I swung the rifle into the woods. Finally, I looked at Joy. She was fifty-seven years old. Her hair, now styled shoulder length—more appropriate for her age, and the new fashion—was graying on top and in streaks down the back. She’d still looked much younger than her years, as many Asian women do until in their late sixties. Now, she looked ten years older than she had yesterday. The elegant beauty she had matured into was now ruined by wrinkles and lines in her face I hadn’t seen before, and her compressed lips. She had stopped crying and looked at me with eyes that were still her best feature, eyes that, as always, dominated her face. They were flat, almost empty; they had the same look I’d seen in the eyes of the murderers on the “Colombo” television detective series, when Colombo confronted them with the evidence that proved they did it. It was resignation. Acceptance. Death. I put out my hand, and she listlessly dropped her magnum into it. I threw it into the woods. I put out my hand and Joy took it and I pulled her up. Then, holding her cold, lifeless hand, I led her out of the woods and to the Mercedes. I opened the door for her and she got in. I drove slowly home.

aaa The door was open at our apartment, and I led her into the bedroom, closed the door, and pointed to the bed. She sat on its edge. I pushed her down onto her back. She didn’t look at me at all. She didn’t resist. I had no thought. My mind had been destroyed and would have to be rebuilt. My body was running totally on some instinctual inner drive and my soul was a void. I jumped on Joy and grabbed a pillow with both hands and shoved it over her face and put all my weight on it. She started to fight me and then stopped. She put her hands over mine and helped me press down. Her warrior body rebelled, automatically fighting both of us. She pressed down on my hands harder. My face was inches from her hands as I bore down. She raised one hand off mine and reached for my face

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and caressed my cheek with the back of her fingers. She touched my lips with her forefinger. Then, with a shudder and a full body quiver, her muscles relaxed. Her finger fell from my lips. Her other hand went limp. I held the pillow on her face for another minute, maybe five minutes, I don’t know. I raised the pillow and looked at her peaceful face. Joy was dead.

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still had no thoughts. I hadn’t had a thought since I took her hand in the park. I was still a robot I didn’t know where my directions came from. I just followed them. Without thinking I had parked the Mercedes in the alley next to our rear apartment door. I got a shovel and pick, and threw them into the car. I carried Joy to the car and laid her down on the rear floor. I had a full gas can for emergencies and emptied it into the gas tank. Then I drove to our weapons range. There was a little hill overlooking the range, which was in poor condition and overgrown. We hadn’t used it for many years. I dug her grave there. Deep. So she would be sitting in it facing the range—her range, really. I fixed her hands in her lap and closed her hands around her locket. I kissed her goodbye, and crawled out of the grave. I filled it in, and placed on top of it what she had bought to plant next to our apartment—a red bougainvillea. In this soil and with the constant sun here, it would flower perpetually with brilliant red bracts. It would be beautiful. Appropriate. It was evening when I returned to the apartment. I washed myself and changed my clothes. I drove to the airport and picked up tickets for Joy Phim to fly Pan Pacific the next day to China. I returned and took a cab to where Joy had left her car, drove it back to the apartment, and parked it in the garage, as she would have. I packed two suitcases with her things, including toiletries and her laptop, and got rocks from outside to further weigh the suitcases down. I drove to the bay and found an overhanging ledge over deep water and threw the suitcases in. I returned to the apartment again and lay down on the couch. I couldn’t touch the bed. My mind was still empty. I think I was in some kind of shock. In absolute denial. I just lay there the whole night. I may have slept some. I don’t know. In the morning I turned on the radio and the news was about the huge crowd that turned out for Thomas’s speech. What he’d said was summarized.

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I went into the bathroom to pee, and then I saw it. On the glass shelf below the mirror, its soft bristles slightly worn at the ends, its wooden grip toned dark brown by her body oil, it filled my eyes. I had not packed her toothbrush. Her toothbrush! Joy! Joooy! The sledgehammer of stark realization finally smashed into me. I’D KILLED JOY! Everything hit at once. The vision of Joy alive and happy. Her sweet voice when she said she loved me. My love for her. Our arms twined together. Her kisses. And what I couldn’t bear above all—Joy must have thought I hated her when I . . .we . . . murdered her. I didn’t. I loved her. I always loved her. Why go on. In a flood of tears, I found my H&K and pointed it at my temple. I put my finger on the trigger. And then my mind seemed to slowly emerge from the wreckage. Maybe this was Joy trying to help. Maybe we were partners again, even as we were in her death. There was still much to do. Regarding the mission and our company, there was much to sort out and close down. Her mission—I never thought it otherwise from then on—had to be ended appropriately. Her death had to be recognized and honored. I put the gun down, curled up on the couch, and cried myself to exhaustion, until my body demanded rest and sleep. I woke up in late afternoon, washed my face, and spoke a few words aloud, testing my voice to clear it and try to calm it. I called Hands. I told him Joy was involved in secret negotiations about our business in Asia, and had to fly there to handle it personally. I told him the cover for this was that we’d received an emergency call from our office about the revocation of a large export contract with us, and that’s why she’d gone there. I also told Hands to handle the company for the next week. I had much work to do at home since returning from my trip to Spain. I can’t describe the misery I went through in the next two days, and I won’t try. At the end of them I was still an emotional ruin, but I was better able to function. We each had left a note for the other in case of death on one of our trips. I took hers out of our safe with shaking hands and read it. I broke down again. Her words were so beautiful, so sweet. After I recovered, I knew they were just what I needed to do what had to be done. Joy wanted to be cremated. I could now do this for her. I bought a large metal barrel, and punched holes in its bottom. I also filled a large

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gasoline container. I can’t describe what I felt when I disinterred her. No words can remotely capture my agony. I couldn’t have done it without her last written words to me, giving me enough strength. I can only say that I cleaned her face with a wet rag I brought and kissed her. I put the locket aside and put her in the barrel and cremated her. Her ashes filled the beautiful amber vase she’d bought in China. I refilled her grave and marked it again with the bougainvillea plant. It may have been her temporary home, but it was now holy to me.

aaa Now, I waited. And waited. Days went by. They turned into weeks. I had finally returned to the company and worked on automatic. I think I conducted business and even held meetings. I was told I looked sick, that I was distracted. I said I was suffering from some Spanish virus I picked up on the trip. Each night I went home to our apartment, and cried into its emptiness. I was a limp rag. No desire to eat, although I did mechanically. No desire to live, although I had convinced myself I had to for a while. Finally, the news I waited for came over the radio. On a regularly scheduled flight from Canton to Peking, China’s Golden Airlines Flight 37 crashed in a storm. All twenty-one passengers were killed. I waited two days, the normal amount of time it would take officials to sort out who was aboard, determine their next of kin, and send a telegram to them. I called Hands. Now I could communicate my emotional devastation. I simply sobbed, “Joy died in a Chinese plane crash.” “Oh NO!” I waited. I knew he was trying to pull himself together enough to utter what he wanted to say. Choking on the words, he told me, “I’m terribly sorry. You have my deepest sympathy. I’ll be there.” He hung up without another word. He came, and listened to me talk about her and our love for each other. He held me and rubbed my back, and he cried with me. “I loved her also,” he told me. I knew it was true. Then, out of sheer exhaustion, I got a few hours of sleep on the floor. I still could not sleep in our bed. Hands slept on the couch. A week later I searched our storeroom for the best funeral urn I could find. I knew Joy would love it. It was of the finest quality porce-

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lain, and decorated with pink flowers in the style of a Japanese kimono. Its handles were done in gold, and the blue base and lid were trimmed in gold. I took it to or apartment and transferred her ashes into it. I told people I had received her ashes and would hold a little private funeral in my apartment. I asked only Hands, Sal, and Dolphy to attend. I had made a little altar. On the top I placed the urn containing her ashes. On each side I placed a candle and set photographs of Joy on each side of them. One photo I had taken soon after we arrived in this universe, when she was twenty-five, and the other I had taken last year, when she was fifty-six years old. I had pushed deep into my unconscious what she looked like at the park when I discovered her. In my mind’s eye, age had not diminished her beauty; it had merely become more mature, more refined. On a lower shelf, I placed the throwing knife she’d brought with her from the Old Universe, which I removed from her sheath before cremating her. Next to it, the tattered red headband that she had worn when we first made love, had worn while killing the attacking thugs in China, and had always worn when we practiced martial arts. Next to it I set the folded pants I had been wearing during that training session, and which I’d worn on our flight from the Old Universe. On the last shelf, just beneath the urn, I put a bowl in which I could place burning incense, and to its right I opened the scrapbook we had made together, filled with photos of the inauguration of President Madero in Mexico, the Titanic as it docked in New York, the unveiling of the statue of Kant in front of the German parliament, transcripts of the speech to parliament by Prime Minister Saionji on his party’s great election, and the victory celebration speech of Sung Chiao-jen. On the last page, I knew, was a photograph I’d taken of the jars containing the teeth of Lenin, Stalin, Hitler, and Mao. I had placed cushions before the altar, along with glasses and a bottle of cold champagne. When Hands, Dolphy, and Sal arrived, I motioned them to the back three cushions and took the front one myself. I lit the incense that waited in the bowl, knelt, lifted the bottle, and poured the champagne into four glasses. I handed one to each of the three men behind me. With the others there, I could not say all I wanted to say. I would say those words later, in private, before her altar. Now, I looked at the pictures of my beautiful, brilliant mistress of life, love, martial arts, weapons, and of me, and I lifted my glass and said simply, “You and me, my love, forever.”

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Each of the others expressed his own love for Joy, drank a toast to her, and paid quiet respects to her, each in his own way. Finally I stood up, hugged each of them, and thanked them for coming. When they were gone, I draped her locket around the urn so that it hung down the front. I sat for hours before this shrine to my love and the New Universe. I thought of all that she had done, and I knew that her soul would eventually meet with those of the lives she had saved.

aaa At the end of each day, I lit incense on Joy’s shrine and told her about what I did during the day and the steps I took in ending our mission. I never told her that Norman Thomas lost to the Republican candidate in a landslide. In one of my final summaries of our mission, I informed her, “There no longer appears any danger of a world war, nor local war among the major powers. Germany has developed a stable democracy. While Japan still yields considerable authority to the emperor and the oligarchs that act in his name, the country is a partial democracy. Its democratic power is growing and the military is kept in its place. There were rumblings among the elite and another planned rebellion by young officers, but it was unsuccessful. The generals are taking to heart the idea of civil authority. That especially was your doing, baby. “Democracy in Russia is working well. The country is beginning to compete industrially with Germany, France, and Great Britain. With her resources, economists expect Russia to be second to the United States by 1980 or 1990. Internally, Russia’s many minorities and republics that differ in language and custom from Russians are seeking more autonomy, or sometimes outright independence. “What we didn’t expect, sweetheart, was that with no wars and threats of wars, there would be a decline in nationalism. Central governments are now more sympathetic to minorities splitting off, and are granting their colonies independence. People, and especially national elites, now recognize that this is better than fighting them. “Your favorite, China, is an exception to this and remains a major problem. It is a democracy, to be sure, although civil rights and political liberties are always in question. The large minority groups in the West that always fought for independence still pose a particular problem. Uighuristan, sometimes called East Turkistan, gained its full

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independence in 1910. The Chinese central government resisted, as you knew it would, and still resists the independence of any other minorities. But, the latest evidence suggests that this is changing. “You would also be happy to know that there is much diplomatic talk among the democracies of forming by treaty the United Democracies, the first worldwide international organization in the New Universe. It would be made up of the 110 democracies that now exist, and any new democracy would become an automatic member. “There apparently is agreement that all remaining colonies still ruled by democratic countries would be transferred to a trustee agency of the United Democracies. Its purpose would be to provide education, training, and economic aid for the people of former colonies until they could sustain democracy on their own. Then their people would be able to vote on independence and sovereignty. “For reasons you know, baby, my major fear is terrorism. Unlike the Old Universe we knew in 2001, no terrorism is now brewing anywhere in the Islamic world. Without World War II and the Cold War, there will be no catalyst for such terrorism in the future. There are difficulties and conflicts in the Middle East, to be sure, but not one of these newly independent Islamic countries is supporting or giving aid to any terrorist groups.” In my mind, I heard her cautioning me. “I know. This is not a perfect universe yet. There are still some local wars and rebellions, and massacres do happen, especially in Africa. Humanity still has to contend with genocide (there still is no word for it in this universe), as one tribe gains democratic power and tries to use it to subdue another tribe. Moreover, there are large areas of the world still sunk in poverty, where life expectancy has hardly improved over what it was when we came to this New Universe. But that is slowly changing and as democratization expands even to these remote areas of the world, so will the growth in welfare and human development.” I stopped, leaned forward, and put my hand on the side of her urn, where I’m sure her cheek was, and told her, “Be proud, my sweetheart. Be happy. On balance, this New Universe is one hell of an improvement over the Old, with its world wars and mega-murders, and the vast numbers of people living under dictatorships.”

aaa In another talk with Joy I mentioned what I had done to sort out our commitments and wealth. I told her, “I stopped trading on the stock

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market. The market no longer resembled that in the Old Universe, and by last year my winnings were approaching my unintentional losses. This measures how much we have changed the world. You and I, baby. “No matter. I had to cash out anyway. I decided to gradually cash in my whole portfolio so as not to upset the market. I also announced my retirement from business. I know this is sad. You and I created the Tor Import & Export Company, and I saw your spirit in it each time I conducted business. It is a monument to you. But, it is time. “I called a meeting of Hands, Dolphy, and Sal, and said simply, ‘I’m retiring from the business, and will sell it in whole or in part. I will give each of you 200 million dollars as severance pay and bonus. If you want to use this to buy any part of the conglomerate or combine your bonuses to do so, I will give you a special deal. I intend to spend the rest of my fortune on the creation of the Joy Phim Democratic Peace Institute.’ “This was hard, sweetheart. One of the hardest things I had to do since we parted. In the meeting I had to stop to collect myself, and then I finally said, ‘Its purpose will be to promote an understanding of democracy and its contribution to peace and welfare.’” Dolphy and Sal used their money to purchase regional subsidiaries of the firm, and Sal created a scholarship awarded in the major universities of South America: the Joy Phim scholarship for students in peace or the study of mass murder. Dolphy did the same in Europe. Hands created the Joy Phim Chair of Peace at Harvard University, and gave the rest of his money to the Joy Phim Institute I had set up. He also became its first president.

aaa I know that Joy was surprised by what I told her in our final talk. This time it had to be addressed only to a little Chinese teacup with a spoonful of her ashes that I took from the urn. No matter. Her smiling spirit was there. I lit incense and candles on what remained of her shrine. With a deep sigh, I let her know that, “We were not as smart hiding our time travel as we thought. Since Hands became head of your—smile, baby—institute, I had to tell Hands about our time travel, if for no other reason than he would have to take over the supply capsules and time machine.

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“He said that he, Dolphy, and Sal knew. Dolphy had figured it out. He couldn’t believe it at first, but too much fell into place to confirm it. Besides, Dolphy is a science fiction reader and that made it easy for him to be convinced, and he then persuaded the others. “Oh yes. I turned over all your jewelry to the Chinese girls’ home, and have endowed them and the orphanages that you helped. The endowment is in your name and I’m sure you will be remembered. I see your happy tears, baby. “I had a crypt built at the Cypress Lawn Memorial Park. I have endowed it so that it will be taken care of forever, even if the cemetery moves. Our ashes will be combined and placed in an even more beautiful urn in the crypt. I know you will love it. “I’ve chosen the epitaph for our urn. I did what I now wish we had done when we first arrived. I married us. You were always truly my wife in heart and soul, Joy Phim-Banks. This simply confirms it. No one but you and I will ever understand our epitaph. Too bad we didn’t, right from the beginning. “Now, my love, all is done. I signed a million documents. I purchased all the apartments in this building and helped the tenants move out of them and find new homes. The mission is over. It is time for me to join you. I have moved your ashes to the crypt and I will be with you in day or so, our souls forever commingled. I have left a will to ensure this will be done. “Now I’m ready. The flames are approaching, and the smoke is almost too thick to see through. I can hardly breathe. In minutes I will lay down on the bed where I always slept with you. I will hold your photograph on my heart and on top of it, this account of our wonderful life together and our successful mission. It has kept me alive until now. “I’m so sorry you died believing I hated you. I did not. I always loved you. Now, my sweetheart, my wife, we will be together again. You will know my love again. I’m coming.”

Epilogue We have been at peace for one hundred years. No major nation threatens us today. No American soldier has died on a foreign battlefield in all that time. Peace has been secured by the United Democracies. I therefore will make it my policy to decommission all but ten of our warships, and reduce the size of our armed forces to 50,000 men and women. I will also recommend to Congress that the funds thus saved go to the United Democracies for their effort at global human and economic President Shirley Morris’s Inaugural development. Speech, The New York Times, January 20, 2001, New Universe arry Gavino, the old manager of the Cypress Lawn Memorial Park, had a week to go before retiring. Today he was showing his replacement, Derek Kojima, around the grounds. The Park was large and they used a golf cart to get around. He particularly wanted to make sure Derek knew what mausoleum and crypt was where. In the far reaches of the cemetery, Harry steered the cart down a flowered path to a crypt that stood in relative isolation from the others. It was not very big, but it was solid, squarish, and constructed of beautiful translucent marble. There were no windows, of course. Nor were there decorations or carvings on the outside. But a bed of well cared for variegated roses surrounded the crypt and a trellis of climbing roses framed the entrance. A little granite plaque over the door was engraved with “The Banks’ Crypt.” Harry unlocked the door, led Derek inside, and flicked the light switch on. Diffused light emanated from a number of hidden bulbs. The quality of the light made the inside of the crypt appear bathed in a

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golden sunrise, with the sun’s first rays reflecting off green leaves and verdant plants. Light also shone through the translucent marble. It must have been only an inch or so thick. Derek had never seen anything like this. The veins in the marble took on diverse colors from the outside light as though various hues of rose and green ink had been dropped into a pool of water and then frozen in time before the colors could thoroughly mix. He stood at the door and looked at the tableau. One large, goldenhued urn rested on one of three Italian white marble shelves on the far wall. On the walls of the crypt hung large framed photographs of a man and an Asian woman in their youth. Harry pointed to the pictures and said, “They were both cremated and their ashes combined in the urn. They were not married until the end, but lived together for thirty years, maybe more. They are now together here for eternity.” Derek walked up to study a photograph of the couple, hanging above the urn. It was beautifully framed in koa wood. It looked as though it had been retouched with watercolors, for the colors and the woman’s beauty seemed to add light to the crypt. The man wore a happy expression as he stood next to the woman with his arm around her shoulder. There was a locket around the urn that hung down to the shelves below. They contained what must have been the couple’s articles of clothing. A red headband and a knife stood out. No way of knowing their meaning anymore. There was an open scrapbook and Derek looked down at the photographs and headlines. What caught his eye was the picture of some liner named the Titanic with a headline about its maiden record-setting voyage. It must have been a romantic cruise for them, he thought. There was a plaque beneath the urn on the edge of its shelf. It said simply: Joy Phim-Banks—1936 John Banks—1938 THEY LOVED MANKIND AND EACH OTHER but POWER KILLS. “Why the ‘Power kills’?” Derek asked. “I know it applies to dictators and tyrants. This is what my son is learning in Civics. But why as their epitaph? And why the ‘but’?”

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Harry shrugged. On the lower shelves there were three other urns, with the ashes of husbands and wives combined. On the walls on both sides were their photographs. One photograph dominated all the rest. It was in black and white of the Banks and the three men when all were obviously in their twenties. They formed a half circle with Joy in the center and their hands joined on top of each other. The plague read, “The Banks’ team.” Derek looked back at the Banks’ picture over their urn. There, engraved in the marble wall above, was a poem: Souls do not disintegrate and die; Years pass and yet they do not fade away. Memories are like a distant star Pouring forth its light across the void. All our tears and laughter do not lie; Though we pass like dreams, our spirits stay, Held fast by love, which is just what we are, Yet in a form that cannot be destroyed. Derek noted the red rose in a crystal bud vase next to the top urn. He asked, “Is it in your contract to put a fresh rose in the crypt every day?” Harry looked puzzled and seemed unwilling to respond. Finally, at Derek’s urging, he replied hesitantly, “I don’t know how the rose gets there. No one asks for the key, yet each morning there is a fresh rose. My gardener even came to work one morning at dawn, just to see who was putting the rose there. He saw no one, but when he got the key and looked in, a fresh rose was in the vase.” As they turned to leave, Derek waved his hand around the crypt in wonderment. “Who arranged the urns and plaques, and all that? The whole crypt is integrated by a loving hand.” The manager looked even more puzzled. “No one knows. It’s like the rose. The caretaker takes an occasional look and maybe once a year or two, something is changed—a picture added, the urn’s position changed, something like that. Without the key to the crypt.” For some reason he could not explain, as he was about to follow Harry out, Derek stopped and turned around. He looked slowly around the crypt and then he saluted the urns. He held his salute for a moment, and then said softly, “Rest in peace.”

Afterword

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hile the characters in this story were fictional, the context and background were generally true to life. Considerable social science research has been done on the democratic peace, that democracies do not make war on each other and that globalizing democratic freedom is a solution to war and violence. Indeed, as though John Banks and Joy Phim had advised them, top leaders, such as Secretary of Defense Donald H. Rumsfeld, President Clinton’s former National Security Advisor W. Anthony Lake, and former prime minister of Israel Benjamin Netanyahu, have mentioned this power of freedom favorably. And the leaders of ASEAN signed a democratic peace oriented pact in October 2003 of which ASEAN spokesman M.C. Abad pointed out, "The introduction of the notion of democratic peace sets the standard of political norm[s] in the region. It means that member states subscribe to the notion that democratic processes promote regional security." In spite of this recognition of the power of democratic freedom, the democratic peace has not been the declared focus of American foreign policy until recently. President Clinton came close in the early 1990s by making democracy one of the three pillars of his foreign policy, but it turned out that at best this was a minor one. And regarding Iraq, President George W. Bush has implied a democratic peace: "You see, a free, democratic, peaceful Iraq will not threaten America or our friends with weapons. A free Iraq will not be a training ground for terrorists or funnel money to terrorists or provide weapons to terrorists who would willingly use them to strike our country. A free Iraq will not destabilize the Middle East." Now it is explicit. In a speech on the 20th anniversary of the National Endowment For Democracy, President Bush proclaimed a Forward Strategy of Freedom. Although focused on the Middle East, it was general in tone. He made the democratic peace a central pillar of American foreign policy, and called it the Forward Strategy of Freedom.

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However, and this is the however in mind when I undertook this series, while many researchers in international relations and comparative government are convinced of freedom’s power for peace, and top American leaders are now basing foreign policy on it, there is a vast ignorance of this solution to violence among the general public. Realizing that entertainment is one of the best ways of conveying knowledge, I hope this Never Again series will help fill this void. In addition, there is also a black hole in general knowledge about how many people have been murdered by governments. Probably about 170,000,000 from 1900 to 1987, as John taught. This is almost five times as many as were killed in combat in all international and domestic wars over the same period. The number murdered would head to toe circle the earth about four times. There is much about these murders in this first book of the series, and the facts and context surrounding them are as realistic as I could make them: the manner in which victorious guerrillas totally depopulated a capital city in a day, and a teacher is hanged by his little students; the fanatic institute director that reads a book of fiction and then believes a fictional spy in the novel is the real person on his staff, and has him and many others executed; the German auxiliary police trucked to Poland to murder Jews and the way in which they did so; the Rwandan genocide, particularly at a university and hospital; Stalin’s intentional Ukrainian famine, and the taking of warm bread off the dinner table and shooting birds out of trees to deprive the peasants of food; and the details of the Battle of the Somme. All happened. If you wish documentation for these killings and the democratic peace, see my web site at www.hawaii.edu/powerkills. Above all, I hope that the character driven drama, conflict, struggle, and love in this first novel of the series entertained and moved you. If you also learned something new, so much the better. R.J. Rummel Professor Emeritus [email protected]

NEVER AGAIN Book 2

NUCLEAR

HOLOCAUST

NEVER AGAIN

R.J. RUMMEL

Llumina Press

Copyright 2004 R.J. Rummel All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher. Requests for permission to make copies of any part of this work should be mailed to Permissions Department, Llumina Press, PO Box 772246, Coral Springs, FL 33077-2246 ISBN: 1-59526-308-X -- 1-59526-307-1 Printed in the United States of America by Llumina Press

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Rummel, R. J. (Rudolph J.), 1932Nuclear holocaust not again / R.J. Rummel. p. cm. ISBN 1-59526-308-X (alk. paper) -- ISBN 1-59526-307-1 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Nuclear warfare--Fiction. I. Title. PS3568.U447N83 2004 813'.6--dc22 2003027676

Praise for books by Nobel Peace Prize finalist

R. J. Rummel "26th in a Random House poll on the best nonfiction book of the 20th Century." Random House (Modern Library) ". . . the most important .. . in the history of international relations." John Norton Moore, Professor of Law and Director, Center for National Security Law, former Chairman of the Board of Directors of the U. S. Institute of Peace ". . . among the most exciting . . . in years." Jim Powell ". . . most comprehensive . . . I have ever encountered . . . illuminating . . . ." Storm Russell "One more home run . . . ." Bruce Russett, Professor of International Relations ". . . has profoundly affected my political and social views." Lurner B. Williams ". . . truly brilliant . . . ought to be mandatory reading." Robert F. Turner, Professor of Law, former President of U.S. Institute of Peace ". . . highly recommend . . . ." Cutting Edge "We all walk a little taller by climbing on the shoulders of Rummel's work." Irving Louis Horowitz, Professor Of Sociology. ". . . everyone in leadership should read and understand . . . ." DivinePrinciple.com

". . .exciting . . . pushes aside all the theories, propaganda, and wishful thinking . . . . " www.alphane.com " . . . world's foremost authority on the phenomenon of 'democide.'" American Opinion Publishing ". . . excellent . . . ." Brian Carnell ". . . bound to be become a standard work . . . . " James Lee Ray, Professor of Political Science ". . . major intellectual accomplishment . . .will be cited far into the next century" Jack Vincent, Professor of Political Science." ". . . most important . . . required reading . . . . " thewizardofuz (Amazon.com) ". . . valuable perspective . . . . " R.W. Rasband ". . . offers a desperately needed perspective . . . . " Andrew Johnstone ". . . eloquent . . . very important . . . . " Doug Vaughn ". . . should be required reading . . .shocking and sobering . . . . " Sugi Sorensen

Relevant books by R.J. Rummel Understanding Conflict and War (five volumes) Lethal Politics: Soviet Genocide and Mass Murder since 1917 China’s Bloody Century: Genocide and Mass Murder since 1900 Democide: Nazi Genocide and Mass Murder Death By Government Statistics of Democide Power Kills: Democracy as a Method of Nonviolence Saving Lives, Enriching Life: Freedom as a Right and a Moral Good (online book)

To the unknown Joys and Johns of this universe that fight and die so that others may live in freedom

Acknowledgements I owe many thanks to the thorough evaluation, many helpful suggestions, and careful editing of Marg Gilks. Whatever strengths this book has I owe to her. As with Book 1, I also am indebted to the many visitors to my website at www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/ who commented on or questioned the material there. They often had an impact on this novel. And as always and foremost, is my wife Grace. She made this novel and series possible. Without her, I could not have written it. Another kiss, sweetheart. To be sure, this is a book of fiction. Although some characters may in name and position bear a striking resemblance to historical figures, they are fictional. Nonetheless, I must say that whatever errors of fictional facts exist are mine, and wholly mine.

Foreword As I pointed out in the foreword to War and Democide, Never Again, Book 1 in this Never Again series, love is one of our greatest mysteries and the greatest reward that we can receive and give others. Here I revisit the story of the love between a man and a woman, and their love for humanity, and continue my effort to uncover a subversive, insidious, and almost invisible force in human relations. This is the enemy of love and the struggle between the two pervades this book. What is it? If you read Book 1, you will know. You can start here with your eyes open, unlike the lovers thrust by me, a merciless author, back in time again. But, this time, not alone. R.J. Rummel www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/

Chapter 1 New York October 7, 1994, New Universe

B

ehind Lora, a sudden, blazing-white light cast everything into stark black and white, like a photographic negative. “What the . . . ” Lora blurted, just before a thunderous blast pushed her into the earth. She shuddered, cringed from it. The sound hammered her for seconds, then diminished like thunder reverberating in distant mountains; it lessened further into a distant crackling, breaking, tearing, clanging. Finally it disappeared altogether, leaving a vacuum of sound, as though all noise had been sucked into the earth. All were stony silent—birds, insects, cars; no tree branch rustled, no voices called. More seconds. She heard an approaching roar. Then, in a flurry of leaves, broken branches, shingles, and small rocks, a hot windstorm picked her up like a doll in a child’s hand and hurled her against a tree trunk. All around, a maelstrom of banging, thudding, shattering, falling things exploded in her ears. Stunned, the breath knocked out of her, Lora gasped for air, tried to focus her eyes, tried to stop the world from spinning. A more profound stillness settled around her. I’m dead. No, Lora’s body screamed: that thudding was her heart; that salty iron taste her blood; that grit on her lips, that smell, was the dirt covering her face. As if proving further her survival, excruciating pain blasted her mind, and she let out an involuntary screech. Her mind struggled against the shock and pain to gain control over her body. She had to discover what had just happened. The world steadied, her eyes focused, but nothing made any more sense than an abstract painting of complex and intertwined lines, patches of color, gray images, black holes. Then, as a strange image suddenly clicks into an obvious picture, she realized her head was upside down and, through the tangled branches of a shrub, she was watching an angry, roiling, red and black mushroom cloud climbing above Manhattan to blacken the morning sky.

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Sound gave up its paralysis in an eruption of distant screams, cries, howling dogs, the metallic crunch of shattered cars, and breaking things. Almost with regret, Lora recovered full consciousness. She was sprawled upside down in a twig dogwood shrub with one leg against an oak tree, her dress suit bunched around her chest, and her shoes gone. Asteroid, it’s an asteroid. Its hit New York. It can’t be anything else. After all, her mind spun out as if to defy the horror emerging in her mind and the pain and nausea of her body, Joy and John eliminated major international wars—against all odds, they succeeded. Their peace has lasted for almost a century. My God, this can’t be an attack. Lora tried to reorient herself. Mark and I had breakfast . . . about 9:15 we locked our apartment . . . headed for our Institute in Manhattan . . . garage being remodeled . . . car parked on Graham Street . . . walking toward the car . . . . MARK! Where’s Mark? She tried to right herself, and gasped from another rush of pain. Her right arm was twisted behind her. As she bent and turned to get at her arm, she screamed. Her eyes teared, and she bit her lip. It felt like somebody was cutting the muscles of her arm out with a dull, red-hot knife. Gritting her teeth, Lora rotated her body to disentangle herself from the branches of the bush. Lying on her back, she pushed her body out of the bushes with her legs. Panting, nauseated, she sat up and stared at her right arm. It was broken near the elbow, the lower ulna and radius bones twisted backwards at a right angle. White bones streaked with blood protruded. I can’t wait for help. A catastrophe has happened. I’ve got to find Mark. She jerked her eyes from street, to houses, to street, to trees. She finally located Mark leaning against a tree. Christ, his right arm can’t bend at that angle. “Mark. Mark! Can you hear me?” He’s moving. He’s alive. Lora gritted her teeth, gripped the broken segment of her arm, and twisted. Agony made her squeal through her teeth. She straightened her broken arm with her left hand. Dizzy, near vomiting, she held it gingerly as she struggled to her knees, then staggered to her feet. She stood swaying. Finally she checked her body for more injuries; saw scratches and punctures, but they weren’t bleeding much.

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“Nothing serious,” she told herself, needing to hear a voice. “Just hold the arm out from your body.” She spit blood and probed with her tongue—she’d bitten the inside of her lower lip. She needed all her strength to lurch toward Mark. “Sweetheart,” she called, “can you move? We’ve got to get to a hospital.” Blood dripped from a cut on his cheek. Mark grimaced and grunted as he struggled to his feet. He stood rocking back and forth like a drunken sailor. With his good left hand he felt around his ribs, and yelped. “Besides my arm,” he moaned, “I think some ribs broke.” Letting his broken arm hang, he shuffled over to her and put out his good hand to help support her. His eyes opened wide when he saw her broken arm. “Jesus, “ he exclaimed, “your arm. I’ve got to get you to a hospital.” Lora leaned against him, happy that they both had survived whatever had happened. She rested her head on his shoulder for a moment to calm herself, then lifted it and looked around for other survivors. No one had been nearby, this late in the morning, and there had been little traffic on their narrow road. “Our Lux looks okay,” Mark said. The whirlwind had blown it backwards into a telephone pole, but Lora could see no serious damage. As they helped each other toward it, she realized that snow-like grit and ash was falling from the towering black and gray mushroom cloud that now loomed over them. Already it coated everything. What had been a clear, sunny day was now dim and hazy, blanketed in a gray fog. They pulled several broken branches off the car, and Mark managed to brush the debris and fallout from the windshield with his good hand. Lora suddenly exclaimed, “My purse. What happened to my purse?” Letting her broken arm hang around the protruding bone and trying to ignore the pain, she limped in her torn stockings toward the tree she had been thrown against, and saw her purse and shoes had been flung nearby. She quickly shoved her feet into her shoes and as she returned to the car with her purse, she heard frantic whining. She spied a small terrier, its tail between its legs and ears flat against its head, running into one object after another. Each time it fell, got up, and tried a new direction. It was bleeding from the mouth. Lora pointed at the terrier with her good hand. “The poor thing can’t see,” she said in a voice that reflected the dog’s anguish. The terrier heard her voice. It headed toward her, but after another crash and tumble, she pleaded, “Here. Come, boy.” The terrier stopped

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about four feet away, trembling, and turned its gaze blindly in her direction. She opened the car door with her good hand, limped over to the terrier, and picked him up by the scruff. She put him on the floor of the car and commanded, “Stay.” Lora laboriously climbed into the car, then rested her broken arm on her lap and her head on the dash. She took deep breaths to steady herself. She heard Mark cry out a couple of times and looked up with fear. He was trying to get his keys from his right pants pocket. “I’ll help you, “ Lora yelled. Mark shook his head. He couldn’t get the fingers of his left hand deeply enough into his right pocket. Gritting his teeth against the pain from his ribs, he bent over and with his left hand pushed up on the pocket under the keys, jiggling them upwards within reach. He raised his right leg to jam the keys against his pants, balanced himself by putting his right foot on the car, then pulled the keys out with a grunt. Mark carefully maneuvered into the driver’s seat, but his broken ribs kept him from sitting straight. “Okay, here,” he rasped, trying to angle his body toward her so he could hand her the keys. “I can’t start the car.” She inserted the ignition key, started the car, and turned on the windshield wipers. “Can you steer?” “Yes. But you’ve got to change gears.” Lora gripped the gearshift with her left hand. “I can. Just yell ‘shift,’ and I will. This is one time I’m sorry we didn’t get a car with an automatic transmission.” Mark headed for Saint Catherine’s Hospital in Brooklyn, a few miles away. The terrier remained huddled at her feet, shaking. It moved its head, trying to look around with its sightless eyes. Blood caked around its muzzle. How sad, Lora thought. It doesn’t know what’s going on. Then it struck her—Neither do we. Aside from her first confused thought about an asteroid, she had not thought beyond her concern for Mark, the terrier, and her throbbing pain. Now it hit her like a punch in the face. Almost incoherently, she yelled, “My God, Mark. Jesus. It wasn’t an asteroid. It was a nuclear bomb. We’ve been attacked with a nuclear bomb.” “Shit. Shit.” Mark almost drove into a three-car pileup in an intersection. “Jesus Christ, a nuclear bomb! Who could do this?” Lora moaned, “Goddam, I’m too messed up to even guess who did it. It has to be the worst monster that ever lived.”

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Mark scowled and his mouth compressed into a thin, tight line. She immediately regretted distracting him, and pointed to the road. As calmly as she could, she said, “First, to the hospital.” She saw him try to compose himself and refocus on getting them there. Mark threaded their car around numerous stalled vehicles, accidents, and downed trees that blocked the streets, several times detouring through gas stations, parking lots, and front yards. They made it to St. Catherine’s before the flood of injured reached it, although the ambulances, police vehicles, and walking injured crammed the emergency entrance. Mark parked on the grass in a remote corner of the grounds so that vehicles converging on the hospital would not block their car. The terrier no longer trembled, and Lora thought it best to leave him in the car. She petted and stroked him with her good hand and told him, “You be a good boy, now. We’ll be back.” The hospital was on the fringe of the mushroom cloud, which was dissipating in the light wind. In its place grew an uglier cloud of solidlooking black and gray smoke from the thousands of fires ignited by the nuclear blast. As Lora limped with Mark toward the hospital, she saw virtually no fallout on the ground and parked cars. In contrast to what she knew must have occurred in Manhattan, the hospital building stood untouched. The imposing structure was a mishmash of architecture, the result of years of added extensions. The old, central three-story brownstone building remained, though, and looking toward it with her back to Manhattan, Lora thought it looked like a church in calm repose against a cloudless blue sky. The air here smelled fresh and felt crisp. To handle the emergency load, the hospital had augmented its staff with every available doctor and nurse, but fortunately, the deluge of human misery had yet to arrive. Frightened doctors and nurses gave Mark and Lora emergency medical treatment within a half hour. Doctors set their broken arms, put them in casts, and tightly taped Mark’s ribs. Because of her protruding bones, a doctor wanted to give Lora a general anesthetic before working on it, but she refused. “Give me a local and do what you can to get me through the next couple of weeks,” she told him. “I’ll have surgery later, if need be.” Both required many stitches, and afterward they filled prescriptions for pain and antibacterial drugs at the hospital pharmacy. Worried, their fear showing, all the medical personnel wanted to know what had happened. Mark and Lora could do no more than tell them that the explosion was probably a nuclear bomb, and that they soon would be overwhelmed with patients injured in every conceivable way.

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An officious nurse came around with a clipboard and asked them to fill out an information sheet. She seemed oblivious to the horror around her. “Sorry,” Mark said, “neither of us can write.” He indicated their broken arms. “What do you want to know?” “Names?” Lora answered, “Lora Joy Reeves and Mark John Docker.” “Work?” She responded, “I’m president and owner of the Joy Phim Democratic Peace Institute, and Mark is my assistant and translator. And my husband.” The nurse continued to ask for personal, medical, and insurance information until Lora put a stop to it. “We have to leave. I’m sorry, but we’re running out of time.” “But—” Mark interrupted. “You have our telephone number. Give us a call if you need more information.” The nurse nodded, clasped her clipboard to her chest, and said over her shoulder as she walked off, “Have a good day.” Before leaving, Lora used the toilet. She emerged from the bathroom shaking and chilled with shock. She had dared peek at herself in the bathroom mirror. Proud of a beauty that in her late forties had only turned elegant, she now resembled an old woman. Her normally dark brown hair was matted and dirty, with grayish clumps and strands curling outward at odd angles. The cheek she had bitten was swollen, her lips puffy, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. A witch out of a horror movie looks good by comparison, she thought ruefully, regarding the patches of antibacterial ointment and a large bandage that seemed to accentuate the lines in her face. Feeling as if she was about to vomit, she stood at the entrance to the bathroom and tried to soothe her emotions. For the first time since the catastrophe, she took a real look at Mark. He appeared much worse than she did. She had always admired his good looks and strong body, and his prematurely gray hair had only added to his attractiveness. Now he couldn’t stand straight, his shoulders were rounded, and his face reflected all his suffering. Somehow he had lost a patch of hair, and one eyelid drooped in a face gray and haggard. There was a large patch bandage on his cheek. With his disheveled appearance and torn and dirty clothes, he looked like an unwashed, homeless druggie. That his one arm hung in a sling didn’t help.

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Seeing her distraught look, Mark put his good arm around her shoulder in spite of his painful ribs, kissed her on the forehead, and brushed her cheeks with his lips. “We survived, precious. We’re alive. I couldn’t bear losing you. I love you.” Lora took his hand, kissed it, and looked up into his eyes. “I love you too, honey,” she tried to purr. It sounded like a moan. Outside the hospital, they saw ambulances and police cars backed up to the emergency entrance, and dozens of stretchers deposited on the asphalt holding bloody and mortally injured people. An occasional cry punctuated the hubbub as triage doctors and nurses scurried from one stretcher to another, dividing the injured into those beyond help, those in need of immediate treatment, and those able to wait. A large crowd of injured people stumbled or limped into the hospital, some crying, some moaning, and some appearing stoic or dazed. Some were blinded and helped along by others. Two nurses organized them all, so that the most badly injured who might survive could receive care first. Fortunately, Mark’s foresight paid off; their Lux was not blocked. When they got in, the terrier remained where Lora had left him. He still held his tail tight against his stomach, but he sat up and looked in her direction with clouded, dead eyes. He sniffed her, then licked her hand as she tucked him in between her lap and her sling. She stroked his stomach. Her eyes grew moist. “You poor little guy. You may be permanently blinded.” Mark drove back to their apartment, steering with his left hand while she jockeyed the gearshift. Traffic was now stop and go on a few main roads, unmoving on all the others. Mark had to take a circuitous route along back roads, and detour through parking lots and alleys. Lora’s right arm now only ached and, freed from the pain that had dulled her mind, she gave full thought to the nuclear attack. Its full meaning hit her with the force of a violent slap in the face. My God, our Institute must have been destroyed—all our people were killed. Tears flowed, and sobs wrenched her body and jarred her broken arm. Physical pain again tried to flood her mind, but could not compete with her anguish. “The bomb exploded about 9:30,” she pushed the sounds out. “Almost everyone would have been at work—all our department heads and our staff . . . dead. Janice, Bob, Shirley, Ed, Tony— Tony, whose parents are among our best friends. We’ve known him since birth! And brilliant Betty. And more. So many more . . . dead. Oh, Mark.” The little terrier sensed her grief. In spite of his own misery, he tried to push himself up on her lap and lick her face. Lora held him to

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her with her sling and cried so hard that she couldn’t shift the car. Mark almost stalled when he had to slow down, and finally stopped the car. Freed from having to think of shifting, she mentally collapsed into mourning. She pounded her fist on the dash, scaring the terrier. “So many good people, so many promising futures,” she sobbed, “wiped out. So many families and loved ones devastated. And they were our people. Our people. All those in the middle and top positions within the Institute that we personally hired and nurtured . . . .” She shuddered, then screamed, “Killed! All of them!” Mark’s grunt of pain and his touch penetrated her misery. Lora looked up though her tears to see that he had tried to put his arm around her shoulders and pull her close, but his sling had prevented him. He turned sideways and grunted again as he put his left hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. Her sobs soon diminished to tearful shudders. She put her good hand on top of his and whimpered, “They were our family.” Mark shook his head, and Lora saw his own tears. “We were lucky. Had we not slept late, we would have been at the Institute at 7:30, and dead now, too. Those calls we made late last night to Southeast Asia saved us, made us oversleep. I can’t believe our luck.” She felt him squeeze her shoulder again, as though trying to assure himself that she was alive. She tilted her head and kissed his hand. She wept for a few more minutes, then willed her misery to silence. She mourned for her dead no less, but now there was the future to think about. One thought now filled her mind: We have a transcendent duty, a blood obligation to all the dead, not only our own. It focused her energy, overcame her pain and anguish and gave her purpose. She patted Mark’s hand, turned her face up to his, and said, “Let’s go.” He took his hand off her shoulder and grabbed the steering wheel with his good hand. “I know what we’ve got to do,” he whispered. “We have a duty,” Lora said, her voice breaking. “To ourselves, to our dead, and to humanity. Yes!” she exclaimed, and turned to Mark. “We’ve almost a full tank of gas. That will give us a start toward our scientific and engineering affiliate in Santa Barbara. But first, we’ve got to return to our apartment.” As they approached their apartment, refugees, injured, and vehicles of all kinds filled the main roads as people tried to flee the boroughs or the fires and rubble in Manhattan. Almost no one kept to their side of the road. Debris and tree limbs cluttered the streets. Raging fires now

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engulfed whole blocks. Mark again took to the narrow tertiary roads, and they were glad their apartment was on a small, seldom traveled road, reachable by back streets that few residents of Queens knew about. Even so, they had to detour through lots and, in two cases, backyards, knocking a fence down with their car. On one road no wider than a path, they teamed up with another car to push a tree limb out of the way with their bumpers. They parked in front of their apartment, locked the car, and rushed inside. Lora put the terrier down and, while Mark got their suitcases, she jabbed the TV and radio on-buttons, looking for news about the nuclear attack. Despite being hungry for news, they had avoided turning on the car radio so they wouldn’t be distracted during the difficult drive. They could not afford to damage the car—what they were sure was their only way to get to Santa Barbara, without stealing another car. TV and radio reception was full of snow and static, and pictures and sound disappeared for minutes at a time. The news they did hear was sketchy, contradictory, and sometimes panicky. On one Gordon News channel broadcast from Philadelphia, the anchor claimed, “The attacks are acts of God for our immorality.” As he started screaming, “Sinners, repent!” cameramen forcibly removed him from the news desk. A talk radio station host claimed, “It was the Russians. They attacked us. We have sent bombers over Russia to drop nuclear bombs on them in retaliation.” That’s so stupid, Lora thought. We don’t have any nuclear bombs anymore. We disarmed the last of them over twenty years ago. An academic analyst on the KNS TV news channel claimed, “The United States has brought this upon ourselves, for lording it over and exploiting other countries, particularly poor countries.” Through it all, Mark and Lora wept. They tried to focus on packing their survival clothes and supplies. Suddenly Lora screamed, “Listen!” and dropped onto the arm of their easy chair. The radio reception from Newark NYNU was clear: “. . . confirmed that a nuclear bomb destroyed Washington, D.C. at the same time the one in New York went off. The President of the United States, Vice President, Speaker of the House, and President pro tempore of the Senate were all killed—” “Holy Jesus,” Mark cried, gaping at the radio. He leaned on the edge of the dinner table. Worse was to come.

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“ . . . Cabinet was also devastated. Killed were the Secretary of State, Secretary of the Treasury, Secretary of Defense, the Attorney General, and the Secretary of the Interior. This leaves George Peabody, Secretary of Agriculture, who was giving a speech in Florida. He was sworn in as President in Fort Lauderdale by the Chief Justice of the Florida Supreme—” The voice broke down and in moments was replaced by someone with a deep but mournful voice. “This has just come in . . . Central London, Berlin, Paris, and Moscow also were wiped out—” “Oh my God!” Lora shrieked. “Our affiliated institutes in those cities must be gone—all our people. Mark, I can’t bear it.” She collapsed slowly to the floor. She was beyond sobbing, beyond physical pain. She lay trembling on the floor, her good hand covering her face, and wailed. Mark’s face had become a sickly white. He almost fell into the easy chair next to Lora. He put his face into his left hand and bawled. They barely registered the rest of the news announcement. “Great Britain lost not only its top leaders, but also the queen. Germany and France were also politically guillotined. The President of Russia survived only because he was visiting his mother in Kazan.” Minutes later, Mark wiped his face with the edge of the satin tablecloth, still shuddering with suppressed sobs, and knelt down beside Lora. He stroked her shoulder and hair. When she pulled her wet hand away from her face to hold his, he told her in a quavering voice, “C’mon, precious. We’ll have to save some big tears till later. No time.” She couldn’t get any words out, but she got herself under control and he helped her get up. She held him lightly, avoiding his ribs, and put her head on his shoulder for a moment before gently pushing away. They both went back to packing what they would take with them. No one knew who did it. There was nothing but speculation on the radio and TV. “It’s Russia,” a high government source reportedly said. “Crazy!” Mark swore at the radio. “It’s been a democracy for three decades. We’ve had no serious conflict with Russia.” A radio talk show host exclaimed, “A rich and powerful secret international organization did it. They used nuclear weapons to take over the world.” Others blamed “those evil Islamic extremists,” but couldn’t agree on who would have organized and led such an attack. Lora found her voice, although it trembled. “The problem is, without a major international war in the twentieth century, secret and security services in the democracies have atrophied . . . and political acumen about surprise attacks has dulled.” She wiped her eyes and face with a tissue and blew her nose into another.

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Mark glanced at her and nodded. He piled more folders on the floor. Once they’d accumulated all they were going to take to the car, Lora pointed to the phone and whispered, “No matter how long it takes, we must do it.” “Yes,” Mark replied. “I know, but I hate it.” They began to telephone the surviving families of their department heads, secretaries, and others that they knew personally. Few calls went through, and static and fade-outs made conversation difficult. They tried to console the few they reached. They cried with them and gave them the private telephone number for their affiliate in Santa Barbara, telling them, “Call if you need any aid, or just want to talk.” Only to those who knew the secret of their institute, the husbands and wives of their department heads, did they divulge their plans. All approved. Through their tears, they offered Mark and Lora whatever help they could give. Lora tried to call their Santa Barbara affiliate, but none of the telephone numbers worked. She tried to eletter and swore when she couldn’t get a connection. Mark put his good hand on her shoulder and quietly pointed out that their ecomm hub had been in their Manhattan Institute. Finally, they each made several laborious trips to the car to load it with what they had piled near their apartment door—food, water, first aid and other survival supplies, camping clothes, important documents and disks, laptop computers, weapons, and all their cash and jewelry. They secured everything in the apartment for what they thought might be a long or permanent absence. Lora gave the terrier water. He had peed in a kitchen corner. “Why am I doing this?” she asked herself as she cleaned it up, but did it anyway. The terrier’s tail was extended now, but still not wagging. She didn’t blame him. Mine wouldn’t wag either, she thought as she took him with her to the car. Coughing from the smoke that now hung in the air, they drove the three blocks to where their car had been parked before the explosion and knocked on a number of doors in the neighborhood, asking if anyone had lost or knew anything about the little dog that Lora carried in one arm. Few people answered their doors. Those who did were too distressed to care, or knew nothing about the terrier. Lora gave up after an hour. There was too much at stake to delay any longer. They began what normally would have been 2,780 mile drive to Santa Barbara.

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aaa At one time, Lora had consolidated all the scientific and engineering work in their New York Institute. Increasingly, however, she found that much of the research related to their mission was done in Santa Barbara. The city had mushroomed into the scientific, technological, and computer capital of the world. She therefore set up an affiliated institute there and moved their most important scientific work into it from New York. It’s a good thing I did, she thought. Otherwise, we could never do what we intend to do now. “Let’s see,” Mark mused. “What routes are we going to take? We’ve always flown long distances.” Lora reached into the back seat with her good hand and picked up Simpson’s Road Atlas. She took their compass out of the glove compartment. “We have all we need,” Lora murmured, still subdued by horror. Mark studied the maps, and asked Lora to help him remember the routes. “We’ll catch Route 5 outside of New York to Pittsburgh, and from there Transcon Route 42 through Columbus, St. Louis, Kansas City, Denver, and Las Vegas, to a junction outside of Los Angeles. Then it’s a short hop on Route 96 to Santa Barbara. Three routes in all.” So they thought. They didn’t realize what a nightmare of back roads, detours, undesignated farm roads, and dangers would be involved in driving anywhere in the aftermath of this national catastrophe. More than once, that road atlas and simple compass saved them from getting completely lost. They drove three hours on, three hours off, day and night, and made room on the back seat so that their off time could be spent sleeping. Even though they had casts on their right arms, they developed a way of shifting. They took their encased arms out of their slings before they changed places, and while driving they would bend over the edge of the steering wheel, grip the knob of the stick shift with their extended fingers, and shift only when they had to prevent stalling or to get the car moving. It was most difficult for Mark because of his broken ribs. Seeing his tight-lipped grimaces, Lora knew it was painful for him, but he insisted on doing his share of the driving. They faced urban refugees, traffic jams, blocked roads, suspicious cops and state troopers, and overeager national guardsmen. They had brought their driver’s licenses, Institute I.D.s, and federal retirement cards, all with photos, and those got them through roadblocks and state border checks.

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Gasoline was scarce. Many gas stations had been vandalized and those they found selling gas were demanding as much as fifteen dollars a gallon. They learned to stop at the first functioning gas station as soon as their tank dropped down to half-full. The first time they filled up at a combined store and gasoline station, they bought a bag of dog food and a large thermos. From then on they filled the thermos with coffee when they stopped to eat once a day, and drank coffee along the way to assure they wouldn’t fall asleep while driving, especially at night. After they ate they let the terrier out of the car and fed him. During their toilet breaks, they also let him roam around to get used to his blindness. He never explored far and responded to “Spunky,” the name Lora gave him. His tail now wagged when he approached them, and he judged where he was going by sound and smell. He had shaken off his misery and proudly held his head high. “I’m beginning to love the little guy,” Lora told Mark. On their second day on the road, they heard the incredible ultimatum over the car radio. There was no longer any question of who was responsible for the most monstrous slaughter in human history.

Chapter 2 Abul Sabah Peking, October 8, 1994, New Universe

A

bul Sabah glared at his son Turghun in sad anger. He could no longer hide his hatred. I wish he were dead. Turghun stood staring through the bulletproof glass, his face shining with the light of victory. Beside him, so pear shaped that not even a tailored uniform could be made to hang right, was General Mirzat Zunun, his chief of all combined military forces. By his narrowed eyes and smug expression, he appeared to be gloating already over the coming victory. It is a wonder he does not crow like a rooster, thought Abul. On the other side of Turghun towered long-faced and full-bearded Imam Ch’en Hsun. He was the head of China’s National Governing Council—in effect, a council of Islamic Sabah clerics—and wore his emblematic toe length, all white, dragon court robe. Always inscrutable, always slippery tongued, always a holy word of Sabah on his lips. Abul did not trust him and had advised his son against appointing him to that powerful position. Abul dropped his eyes for a moment—they felt almost too heavy to move—and gazed down with disgust verging on horror at the activity on the other side of the glass. A chill spiraled up his spine, competing with the apparent arthritis flaring up in his neck. He felt nauseous. If he vomited, he knew in what direction to spew it all. Below was a roomful of metal desks topped with Yang computers, Lan consoles, and microphones. There were twenty desks, two for each of the major powers whose cities were to be destroyed. Twenty carefully screened technicians and scientists wearing headphones manned them. Each had a key paired up with that held by the technician at the other desk. The two keys would be inserted within four seconds of each other into key locks on the consoles of the two desks for a specific country. They would unlock the switches that set off a nuclear bomb in

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one or another of its cities. Built into the wall in front of the room was a six by twelve foot electronic world map, with China at the center. Twelve red circles marked the cities already destroyed by hidden nuclear weapons. One red, pulsing X indicated the bomb had not gone off in Tokyo. Peking had a blue square around it on the map, as though it were surrounded by protective iron walls. Security men, with their square, narrow brimmed hats and red and blue pinstriped trousers, stood or ambled around the room along with a supervising general and his aides. Four security men hovered over the Japan desks as two technicians struggled with their unlocked toggles. They kept inserting their keys into the locks simultaneously, and pushing their toggle switches back and forth. Suddenly one of them threw up his hands exuberantly as a row of green lights appeared on his console. He yelled something and everybody stared at the wall map. In the booth, no one moved. Abul thought he could hear his blood boiling in horror. Maybe it was someone breathing heavily. It could not be my son. He has not taken a decent breath in years. The X over Tokyo disappeared. A minute went by. A red circle appeared. General Zunun turned to Turghun and smiled. His chest swelled up even more, and he stated the obvious: “The second Tokyo bomb worked.” Turghun glanced at him, then at his father Abul for the time it takes to blink, and looked back at the floor below. “Good,” he said, as though commenting on the fit of his shoes. I cannot believe Turghun would do this monstrous killing, Abul thought for the thousandth time. I’m still as sickened by it as when I first heard about his evil plans. Abul had strongly advised against the attack. He told Turghun it must not be done this way. His method—of patience and infiltration and awaiting the right political moment to strike—would work, as it had in China. Abul rubbed an arthritic hand over his face, each finger feeling its own deep wrinkle, and checked the large black and white wall clock again—9:14 p.m. Only fourteen minutes have passed. Further along the observation window, General Zunun’s adjutant, Colonel Chi An, sat at a gray metal desk. Different colored phones rested on the desk in front of him. The desk sat on a raised metal platform that allowed Chi An a full view of the floor below. Abul studied him. Tomorrow Turghun’s ultimatum will be broadcast to the world in my name, despite my protests. Then the world will

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think I committed this unspeakably horrible act. Whether this ends in world victory or not, I do not care. This is not God’s way; this is not the way of Sabah; this is not what I taught my son. “Your method takes too long,” Turghun had yelled at Abul, waving his hands as though tormented by flies. “We would all be dead before the final victory. This way, our victory will be fast and complete. We will control the world. Sabahism will be universal.” Abul argued, “Yes, but at what cost? One must kill to take power and consolidate it, to be sure. But not innocents. Not the masses; they could not care less who ruled. And not the wealth and history each major city contains. God wishes us to exploit what the centuries have built, not destroy it. God wants us to educate, convert to the true faith, and uplift the people in his name. You want to kill them like cockroaches, like pouring gasoline on an ant’s nest and setting it ablaze.” Turghun had ignored his arguments, and made his preparations. He had the power. Abul glanced at the two security officers in the back of the booth. Both had their eyes on him; they always did, no matter where he went. Sometimes he felt like pissing on their legs, and excusing himself as an old man. He had threatened to go to the people. His name was still the power among the people and in the mosques. But Turghun had gradually taken away all his physical authority, all his physical power. Oh, Abul reflected, I still can make speeches on behalf of God and the book of Sabah. But I first must ask for use of the appropriate facilities, and I have two of these security brutes always standing nearby. No security guard would let him enter a radio or television studio without express permission from his son. He couldn’t even make a tape, since he had no recording device, and he didn’t know how to use a computer. But he was secretly learning. Soon he would be able to get the word out by eletter or over the esystem. All Abul’s top men were long gone, either dead or transferred out of his reach. His uncle died decades ago. His son was his only living male relative. There was not one person he could trust to kill Turghun, not one person around him who would come to his defense if his son tried to kill him. I’m now a paper caliph. Abul dropped his throbbing head into his hands. Is this all it means? All my successes, all my triumphs, all my planning for God, all my teaching? I converted billions to the true God; I thought my son had learned the way of Sabahism and would carry on the message of God after me.

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I cannot believe how all I have done has ended.

aaa Uighuristan, 1914, New Universe On November 16, 1914, soon after Uighuristan became independent of China, Abul took his first breath on the outskirts of Kashgar, in the small bedroom of a three room, mud-brick home. His mother Niyasam Sabah bore him alone. She cut his umbilical cord after he arrived. She cleaned up both of them. His mother told him years later that she was breast-feeding him when his father Aisha returned from herding his goats and came into the bedroom. In the dim light from the small window, he glanced at the afterbirth in a pail, the bloody towels, the wet bed, and finally stared at the infant. He approached the bed and leaned over for a good look at his tiny, wrinkled face. He asked gruffly, “Is it a boy?” “Yes,” Niyasam said proudly. The hard lines of his father’s face crinkled into a rare smile. Aisha half bowed and clasped his hands together in momentary prayer, repeating several times, “God be praised.” He put his rough hand on Niyasam’s head for a second, nodded, and turned to leave. As he strutted into the main room he threw over his shoulder, “You take good care of Abul. That’s what I will name him.” Abul’s father husbanded and sold livestock, particularly sheep and goats, and Abul began to learn the trade even as a child. By the age of seven he regularly helped his father tend his livestock and sell them at the market. As was traditional in this part of the world, he also learned from his family about Mohammed and Allah—what Muslims called God—and the sacred Quran. He bowed in the direction of Mecca and said a prayer to God five times a day. In this most conservative Islamic city, his family was one of the most fundamentalist. They attended the mosque whenever possible and on all Fridays and religious holidays, his father saved ten percent of the family income per year in the hope of taking Abul on the pilgrimage to Mecca, and he enrolled Abul in the Idgah Madrasa, an Islamic religious school at the famous twelfth century Idgah Mosque. Now recorded in the holy book called The Sabah by his biographers, what happened to Abul at the age of thirteen would transform world history. He remembered that time differently, but he knew such religious myths were important to the faithful. While on the way home with his father after herding their sheep,

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Abul fell to the ground with convulsions. His lips turned blue, his forehead oozed sweat, and he foamed about the mouth. Frightened by Abul’s convulsions and frightening appearance, Aisha tried to pick him up to rush him home, but his violent shaking made handling him too difficult to carry. When Abul’s convulsions stopped, he shuddered briefly. After a few minutes, he rolled over and pushed himself up to sit on a rock. His mind was still numb; he felt miserable, and he had a dull headache. It was minutes before Abul was able to focus on his father. When he did, he saw that Aisha looked worse than he felt. His father was shaking. Fear for Abul, his only son, lined his face and filled his eyes. Abul knew nothing about epileptic fits, and such were unknown to his father and most people of Kashgar. At the time he thought it was something he ate, maybe bad lamb. At thirteen, boyish pranks and jokes, especially on his parents, came naturally to Abul. It was also the way he relieved his fears and released tension. He was a believer in Islam, of course. Through his classes at the madrasa and his father, he was a good Muslim boy. But he was also questioning and iconoclastic, and his questions at the madrasa and his pranks had caused his father and him some grief. So as his scared father leaned over him and while Abul’s lower lip still trembled from the convulsions, Abul joked. That is, he thought he did at the time. The Sabah has him saying, “Father, I have had a holy visit. The angel Gabriel came to me. He told me that God wants to speak to me through him. God said that I would be his prophet. I am in Mohammed’s image and must go forth and lead all people to Paradise.” Abul did not talk like that at thirteen. Years later he recalled saying something like, “Father, I saw the angel Gabriel. He said he speaks to me for God. He said God wants me as his prophet. He said I should take people to Paradise.” Abul’s black hair was long and curly and framed an angelic, sweet face like a halo. He knew even at his young age that his looks put adults on their best behavior around him. Other boys teased and taunted him for it. So, when Abul adopted what should have been a comical, saintly look and told Aisha, a simple and religious man, of his supposed revelation, his father gaped at him. He fell to his knees and bowed his forehead to the ground. He surprised Abul by saying, “You are God’s prophet. God be praised. Lead us, Abul of God. I believe.” Abul thought his father was also joking, and at any moment would let out a laugh and kick him in the ass as he did his donkeys. Playing out the joke with him, Abul stood, asked him to rise, and said in a high-

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pitched voice, “Take your prophet home.” Rather than laughing, Aisha stood, bowed, and said, “Everyone must hear.” His father did get the whole family together, to Abul’s further surprise. Almost all came: his married sister and her husband, three cousins, his in-laws, and two uncles. All crowded into their small home and gathered before the fireplace to hear about Abul’s “revelation.” His father described in detail Abul’s convulsions and contortions and the color of his face and lips, and explained that this was due to the stress of his communication with an otherworldly being. Then he looked at Abul reverently. Abul knew his father had him now. This was his way of being sarcastic. He was going to teach Abul a lesson for making a joke about God and Gabriel, for blasphemy, and once he repeated his “vision,” his father would hold him up as a bad example and punish him in front of everyone. Abul trembled and chewed his nails. He could not look at his father. He did not intend that things would go this far, but he felt he had to play it out. He tried to speak in a firm and knowing voice, but it sounded squeaky when he told them about Gabriel coming before him in the image of a man, and what he said to Abul. No one laughed. His sister told him later that it was because his father brought everyone together with the admonition, “My son is divinely commissioned by God to lead us all.” But his mother was hearing this from Abul for the first time. Now she realized why his father had given him special treatment for the two days before this family meeting. Abul knew she was not dumb. She asked, “Are you sure you did not have dreams or hallucinations? It was very hot that day, and you did not eat breakfast.” His sister nodded her agreement. If his mother had just said, “You’re joking,” and shook her finger at him, he would have confessed his joke. But hallucinations or dreams? He was not going to admit to those. Abul replied, “It had to be a revelation.” He made a boyish exaggeration. “I saw Gabriel as if he were standing here. He was so clear to me.” He added what he hoped was his clincher: “But this was hard on my body. It was painful. Father saw this.” Most important, Uncle Hasan believed. Abul did not know it at the time and thought that when everyone went home, that would be the end of it. But, as an important businessman and contributor to the Idgah Mosque, Hasan told Molla Abduvahit Ahmedi about Abul’s “visions.” Ahmedi knew about Abul’s studies at the madrasa and, Hasan told Abul later, was impressed by his seriousness and intelligence. So Ahmedi invited Abul to visit

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him, and then asked him to describe his “revelation.” Abul was scared. He could not admit to such a joke before Ahmedi. Abul was sure Ahmedi would see him as an evil blasphemer, and he would be kicked out of the madrasa and his family shunned. Stammering, hesitating, face heating up, he retold his story. He did better when Ahmedi asked him to repeat it, but Abul thought at the time, I sound like I’ve been caught peeing in the fireplace. Abul’s uncle told him afterward that Molla Ahmedi was not impressed, that Ahmedi thought Abul’s “intense study of the Quran and the heat of the day caused him to hallucinate a revelation.” Abul was only relieved to hear that Ahmedi did not think him a blasphemer. “Whew,” Abul said to himself. “I accept that.” That interview was not the end of it, however. Unknown to Abul, his father and uncle were trying to convert everyone they knew to his “revelation.” This went slowly at first, with few converts. But this changed after Abul turned fourteen. While shopping with his mother at the Alpekin food market, the largest in Kashgar, he dropped to the rough ground in the midst of the shoppers. As his body convulsed and contorted in another epileptic fit, a crowd formed a large circle around him. His mother tried to shield his face from the sun and loosen his cotton shirt. Many had heard about his “revelation” and it had become a local joke. No one laughed, however, when they saw his convulsions. When they ended several minutes later, he lay trembling for a few minutes, his eyes firmly closed, apparently exhausted. Someone called out, “He has had another revelation.” Another yelled, “He has talked to God.” Abul heard and realized he was pinned down by his joke like a butterfly to a board. He just could not walk away. He would be the joke of Kashgar for the rest of his life. Still weak, Abul got to his feet, held out his hands to the crowd, and in a quavering voice (he was really scared by this public speaking) that grew gradually firmer, he repeated parts of the sermon the Molla Aitbayev gave some Fridays, leaving out references to Mohammed. Abul recalled later that he intoned something like, “God has again talked to me through the angel Gabriel. He said, ‘God is great. You are my prophet. Lead your people to Paradise. Show them the way. Through them, lead the world to salvation.’” Gaining inspiration, Abul pointed with a flourish to a wrinkled, bearded man in front of the crowd and said, “Gabriel stood before me like he does. Gabriel told me, ‘I speak to you for God.’”

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Not bad for a fourteen-year-old, Abul thought years later. The crowd was hushed, creating a surreal bubble of silence against the distant market hubbub. Abruptly, the old man he had pointed to knelt and bowed; an old woman followed him, then one person after another until half the onlookers were on their knees, chanting, “Oh Prophet, lead us.” Word spread in the market that the Prophet had come to Kashgar, and was in this very market. People rushed to see Abul Sabah, the supposed prophet, and prostrated themselves. Two men lifted him to stand on a melon table so that all could see him. As the swelling crowd gathered around, many in the front still on their knees, Abul felt a thrill of exhilaration. Carried away, he repeated over and over in one combination of words or another, “I am God’s prophet. He asked me to lead you to Paradise. My pain proves it.” Finally his voice gave out. Beyond exhaustion, he plopped down on the table and rolled off to stand unsteadily by his bowing mother. He put his hand on her shoulder, and when she saw it was Abul’s, she got to her feet and looked at him in awe. When he croaked, “Home,” she took his hand and led him through the silent crowd. From that day on, she gave Abul special treatment at home, including his favorite meals. His father would not let him work with him. “Prophets do not milk goats,” he told Abul while on his knees, bowing. Abul now took it all seriously. And well he might. More and more Uighurs accepted his supposed holy leadership. He had more public fits, some now contrived, but he knew how to make them look good. He came to believe that what he had thought was a fit, and a joke—what he thought of as play-acting—was really God’s way of communicating his intent while making it easy on him. God had put the idea of a joke in his mind. Otherwise, he might have been too scared to speak, or thought he was crazy. God does work in mysterious ways, he thought, but not so mysterious that his methods cannot be divined by his prophets. Abul now preached Sabahism, as his converts now called it, to large groups that gathered in one rich man’s home after another. He had been taught about Mohammed and the faith, about God’s teachings. He had read the holy Quran and interpretations of it. He had heard how the mollas interpreted God’s words. And it all came together in his head. He just knew what God wanted him to say: God wants the whole world to follow His Will—to be Muslim. If non-Muslims do not accept His Will, force is legitimate to convert those infidels to Islam. Using force to this holy end is

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an obligation of all faithful Muslims. It is a holy Jihad. Moreover, all Muslims must be united under one banner, and that is the banner of Sabahism. In unity there is God. In unity there is paradise. In disunity there is hell. In disunity there is Satan’s work. Abul encouraged what his Sabahists were calling the Sabah Hanafi School of Islam. Even though Abul disagreed with the Hanafi School, it dominated Islamic teaching in Kashgar. He was taught this in the madrasa, and naturally he hung his preaching on this hook. This was a practical consideration advised by Uncle Hasan, not a religious one. Actually, the Hanafi School tolerated different ways of interpreting the Shari'ah—Islamic divine law. The school taught that law was what legal and religious Muslim scholars established by agreement, and that agreement was evidence of God’s will. Abul thought this was all wrong, but he never said so outright. Instead, in boyish words, he claimed that God told him through Gabriel what this agreement should be and that those clergy who agreed with him were correct in their interpretation of the Shari'ah. Abul no longer lived at home, but moved from one rich man’s house to another. He had all the money he needed, through donations. He was happy. And he was happier when he discovered another benefit, when beautiful Tillakiz came into his bed for a night, unasked. From then on, he slept alone only when he wanted to. In a population of about thirty thousand, Abul had converted about six thousand people by the age of eighteen, in spite of the best efforts of the Muslim clerics to counter his teaching. One reason for his attraction was that he gave voice to what many Uighurs believed. The need for unity among Islamic tribes and nations was intensely felt, even preached by the mollas, although none of them claimed they were messengers of God. All of them believed unity was essential against the hated Chinese, English, and Russians, all former colonists or meddlers in the region’s affairs. None of them could forget the horrendous murder of hundreds of thousands of Muslims during the Chinese annexation of their country. Many of his rich converts financed the Sabah School in 1932, purposely built near the Idgah Mosque, and in which he would give sermons on the holy task that God had assigned him. His preaching and his school aroused the hostility of the clerics, especially that of Molla Bahtiyar Ezim, who believed Abul was a danger to the community and Islam—so much so that he decided to act against him. In August 1933 Abul found out that in their forthcoming Friday

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sermons in all Kashgar’s major mosques, the mollas planned to denounce him as a fake, as a false prophet and blasphemer of Mohammed. He felt helpless. Utterly depressed. There was nothing he could do. But, the day before these sermons were to be delivered, Ezim denounced Abul before Mamat Abliz, the Chief of Police, and demanded that Abliz arrest Abul immediately after the sermon. A fundamentalist Muslim and friend of Ezim, Abliz gave the order to Captain Abulahat Khair, and added that Abul should be shot “while trying to escape.” Khair had attended one of Abul’s sermons at the home of a friend, and had seen firsthand one of his “God induced” convulsions. He’d become a secret and fervent follower of Sabah. He was an exceptionally tall and big-boned Uighur, with a barrel chest and a loud, commanding voice. Although in his mid-thirties and still young for his position, he had a charismatic presence that demanded obedience from his men. With Chief Aliz’s order in hand, Khair contacted his friend and fellow convert, Major Turdi Musa, who was in command of the battalion of army troops encamped just outside of Kashgar. Together, without a word to Abul, they made their plans. Overnight, an army company sealed off the political center of Kashgar. In the hours before dawn, Captain Khair led a police squad of selected Sabahs to the homes of Abliz and the mayor, while Major Musa took care of the seven members of the “advisory” Kashgar Islamic Council. All were summarily shot, including every member of their families. By early morning, Kashgar was declared “The Holy City of Sabah.” Throughout the morning, Sabah volunteers, troops, and police arrested all the writers, teachers, and religious figures who had been critical of the Sabah School or Abul. They were given two choices— convert to Sabah or die. Those who would not convert were tortured to reveal others who plotted against or denied the truth of Abul’s prophecies. All but one of the important clerics were allowed to flee to Urumqi, the capital. That morning, Abul was asleep in wealthy Abduhelil Gohar’s house, where at his invitation Abul had been spending the week. About 8:30 a.m., there was a heavy knock on the bedroom door. Abul covered his companion for the night, and said, “Come in.” Captain Khair, Major Musa, and Gohar entered, seeming apologetic. Before saying anything, they looked at his bed, and Khair put his fingers to his mouth. Abul lifted the cover from over his companion’s

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head and told her that she would have to leave. Without a word and with obvious pride, she got out of the bed, threw her clothes on, and, with a nod toward Abul, walked out the open door. Captain Khair closed the door behind her, and he and the others got on their knees and bowed to Abul. Khair intoned, “Oh Prophet Sabah, you rule Kashgar. Lead us to glory and to paradise.” Pleased but confused, Abul told them, “Stand up and tell me why you are here.” They told him. He was thunderstruck. He was incredulous. Speechless. They thought Abul was listening to God. He thought, I must be God’s prophet. What else can explain that I now rule Kashgar? What he didn’t realize at the time was that his life hung on his next words. Khair and Musa believed in Abul Sabah. They believed they had done the right thing for Sabah and Sabahism. But if he rebuked them, if he created doubt in their minds about their actions, they could have transferred this doubt to his holy authority. At the moment they were the real rulers of Kashgar, and they could still rule in the name of Sabah even though Abul had gone to Paradise, killed by a blasphemer. That might be better, since rule of Kashgar would be without his interference. Abul was too inexperienced in power to think of this at the time. He did feel outrage at their murders. He knew many of those they’d killed. Although he thought Khair and Musa were mistaken about God’s way, they were good Uighurs. But, had they asked him beforehand, he would have said, “No killing.” They had not, and the deed was done. And after all, he was now a ruler, with great power to spread Sabahism. None of this ambivalence showed in Abul’s voice when he finally put his hand on Captain Khair’s shoulder and blessed him and the others: “All be praised. You have done God’s work.” Major Musa let out his breath with a whoosh, and Khair’s smile spread across his face his face. Gohar just looked confused. Letting his own breath out in a gust, Abul thought, Thanks to God, I said the right words. Fortunately for the conspirators, few in the outside world or the democracies knew what happened in Kashgar. Any large-scale mass murder of this sort, especially of political and religious leaders, normally would have come to their attention, either through their

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diplomats or foreign reporters. Uighuristan, however, was Middle Asia, deeply recessed from world attention by high mountains and deserts, and it existed on the remote and little explored peripheries of countries like China, India, Afghanistan, and Russia. After the coup in Kashgar, Molla Ahmedi of the Idgah Mosque was the only important clergyman who remained. Captain Khair and Major Musa had given Ahmedi the choice between death and conversion, and he chose God’s Way. They told him what they expected of his Friday sermon, and he gave it: “Prostrate yourselves before the true Prophet, for his name is Abul Sabah and he speaks in the name of God.” With much humility and several bows, Khair also suggested to Abul what he might do afterward. Khair and Musa had taken the lead; Abul could do no more than agree. The sermon over, Abul strode with his Uncle Hasan through prostrating crowds of worshippers to stand on the steps of the Government Building. He was so nervous, he was afraid his baggy trousers fluttered as though in a wind. Hasan stood behind Abul. As planned, Musa and Khair arrived to stand on each side of him. Then, before an awed crowd of thousands, Musa declared that Abul Sabah was the Holy Leader of Kashgar. Reverently, Uncle Hasan stepped around Musa and prostrated himself at Abul’s feet. In a loud voice that carried to many in the crowd, he offered to take over the onerous task of political governance of the city on the Prophet’s behalf. I did not know he was going to say that. What could I do? I nodded, not trusting my voice. And a huge cheer erupted from the crowd. Uncle Hasan stood up and, pointing to each of them in turn, appointed Major Musa as General in charge of all military forces, and Captain Khair as Chief of police and security. Hasan turned to the crowd, opened his arms wide, and proclaimed, “This day is for the celebration of God and his Prophet Abul Sabah. Henceforth, it will be an annual holiday for prayer and thankfulness.” Abul heard that, when the expelled mollas reached Urumqi, the capital of Uighuristan, they told the powerful national Council of Clerics and President Awasy what had happened in Kashgar. Awasy then ordered police forces to arrest Abul Sabah’s thousand or so followers in the city, and sent orders out to all army units to prepare to march to Kashgar to fight the blasphemers. After his formal investiture of power, General Musa explained to Abul the military problem Awasy faced. The country’s army units were

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largely stationed five hundred or more miles east and southeast, along the border with China. They were far from the axis of approach to Kashgar, or that between Kashgar and Urumqi. They had never faced in their lifetime such a rebellion as what now existed. Musa prepared for battle. Abul had no role in this planning, but he was asked to speak to God on behalf of the proposed military campaign. Thus, with what he believed was God’s help, he had a fit while attending prayers at the famous Azna Mosque, with over nine hundred Muslim men present. Coming out of his convulsions, he declared, “Gabriel again appeared before me in the shape of a man.” Abul rose and, reaching his hands out to all there, he proclaimed, “Through Gabriel, God told me that every Muslim who wants to go to Paradise must fight on his behalf and unify the faith under Sabah. He told me to preach that the holy duty of all Muslims is to join in this holy war.” Volunteers flocked to join his crusade, but there was no time to train them. Most had ancient rifles, and were no more than ragtag forces around the core army battalion that had been stationed outside Kashgar. No matter how ill-trained some under his command were, General Musa insisted that they must all march to the capital and capture it before the country’s army could pull its units together to attack Kashgar or protect the capital. Three days after the celebration, General Musa moved out with a force of six thousand volunteers and military men on horses, camels, and on foot. Clothed all in white and riding on a strutting white Arabian horse, Abul was at his side. Molla Ahmedi rode behind them. They marched along the historic road toward the Tianshan Mountains. Urumqi lay on the other side. The road skirted the lethal and desolate Taklamakan Desert, but even so, the heat prevented them from moving at all during midday. On the way they met small army units at Akesu, Baicheng, and Kuche, all carrying white flags. Abul never had to say a word. He sat proudly on his horse while General Musa dictated terms: “For God, join Sabah’s army or die.” They joined. At Kurle, about twenty miles before the mountains, General Musa dispatched assassins near dawn. They sent to paradise its mayor, the head of the clergy council, and the colonel in charge of the local army forces. In the resulting chaos, the defending army units surrendered and enlarged Musa’s forces by about one thousand trained men. A few miles farther, the small town of Yanqi lay in the foothills, guarding the pass to Urumqi. When the major in charge of the army

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unit stationed there saw the size of Musa’s forces, he surrendered without a fight. As Musa prepared to enter the pass to Urumqi, he had nearly eight thousand men. Then he laid a trap. Throughout the march, General Musa had sent advance units ahead, riding Musa’s fastest horses. They killed any couriers they found and cut all telegraph and phone wires to Urumqi, except for those at Yanqi. When Musa’s forces reached Yanqi, he had the army telephone operator, under the threat of death to him and his whole family, telephone army headquarters in Urumqi. The operator yelled into the phone what Musa had written on a pad before him: “Alert, alert! A courier from Kuche has just ridden in to our base to warn us. Sabah forces are on their way and now are only about one hundred miles away. They have about five thousand men.” With pistols held to their temples, local army officers were placed at all available phones to repeat the warning if military headquarters tried to verify the call. General Musa now deployed his forces in the mountains in three places. He put those with modern rifles among the rocks that hung above a narrow ravine in the pass. At the Yanqi end of the ravine, he placed his best soldiers. Hidden above the entrance to the ravine were most of the volunteers, commanded by his best officers. President Awasy’s army had never fought a modern war and his officers had no more military experience than that gathered while fighting bandits. Moreover, since no large-scale modern war had been fought elsewhere using airplanes, they had no example to follow—they never thought to use the three vintage biplanes still at their small international airport to reconnoiter ahead of their forces. When Awasy’s army of nine thousand troops passed through the ravine in an orderly march, the ambush caught them by surprise. Rifle fire from the rocks above them decimated their ranks, and when officers ordered their soldiers to rapidly deploy forward, they ran into a solid wall of fire from Musa’s soldiers, who blocked the ravine. Many of Awasy’s troops turned and ran, but by that time Musa’s volunteers had filled the road to their rear, and with guns, knives, sabers, and pitchforks, butchered almost all of them. No mercy was shown. By the end of the battle, all but eleven hundred prisoners were dead or wounded. Abul was not asked and did not want this, but Musa ordered that all the officers among the prisoners be killed, and the rest be given the

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choice of accepting Sabah as their prophet, or death. The remainder of the day was spent killing the wounded. When Abul found out about this, he told Musa to save those who were only wounded in the arms or legs. Musa said that his order had gone out, and it was too late to change it. He gave all the army weapons and the surviving horses and camels to the volunteers. At daybreak the next day, Musa’s army crossed the mountains and entered a defenseless capital. President Awasy welcomed Abul Sabah as the Prophet on the steps of the Presidential Palace, but at a word from Molla Ahmedi to General Musa beside him, the General had his men grab Awasy and hang him from the balcony outside the President’s third floor office. Abul, frozen in place, could only gape at the ongoing murder. He was glad his jaw did not drop, but he thought, This is—was—the President of Uighuristan. This is an internationally recognized country. Awasy was not a democrat, God forbid, but according to our traditions, the Council of Islamic Clergy appointed him. He was himself a recognized molla. But there he is, shaking and kicking, being hanged in MY name. Without a word to Abul at the time, but acknowledged afterward, Musa had his men track down the clerics who had been expelled from Kashgar and execute them for blasphemy. Abul also found out that any government official, molla, or professional who informers claimed was involved in anti-Sabah activities, sermons, writing, or teaching, was also executed. General Musa and Molla Ahmedi had plans for their first evening in power. Thousands of people, with cheer leaders scattered among them, gathered before the Presidential Palace. Some waved their fists, others waved the flag of Uighuristan, as they all chanted, “There is only one God, and Sabah is his prophet. Sabah, Sabah, Sabah.” Abul stood on the presidential balcony from which Awasy had been hung. Looking over the crowd of thousands, he waved his hand and hoped he had a look of revelation and prayer on his angelic face, rather than the disgust he felt. At the set time, with radio and loudspeaker microphones in front of him, Abul read words written by Molla Ahmedi on a sheet pinned to a Chinese elm bench hidden by the balcony. “Hear me, the great and holy Muslims of Uighuristan. I am your Prophet of God and I have come directly at His request to unify Islam and bring all under God. All Muslims everywhere must submit to His will and live according to the Quran, as your Prophet, with His guid-

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ance, has interpreted it. Henceforth, by the will of God, Uighuristan will be a caliphate and I will be your caliph. General Musa will handle secular matters and will be my chief advisor. Molla Ahmedi will lead the Council of Clerics. There is no god but God, and I am His prophet.” General Musa ordered all army commanders throughout Uighuristan to return their men to their camps, and join him in the capital for a military meeting. As, in twos and threes, they entered the capital, Musa greeted them, gave them the best of quarters, and fed them well. Once the fifty-seven top commanders had all arrived, Musa convened them for a staff meeting in the auditorium at military headquarters. Before they entered the auditorium, soldiers disarmed them as “a precaution against an enemy of Sabah being among them.” Once all were seated, General Musa came in from a side door. He was followed by armed men who soon filled the aisle along both sides of the auditorium and guarded the rear exit. After all his men were in place, Musa raised his hands to quiet the buzz of alarm. The air was heavy with the smell of fear. When he had everyone’s attention, he spoke. “My fellow commanders. You now have the great privilege of joining in God’s great struggle against blasphemy and the infidels.” Abul was ready, as Musa had rehearsed him. He entered through a side door, stopped at the mark taped on the floor in the exact center of the stage, and, head held high, turned to face them all. He wore a white shirt hanging over white baggy pants that ended a few inches above his ankles, so the hems would not get dirty—he could not bow to God in soiled clothes. A long white cloak was draped over his shoulders. In place of a turban he wore the traditional Uighur four-cornered hat, but it was all white rather than multicolored, as was usual. Molla Ahmedi’s assistants had searched throughout the markets of Urumqi for this outfit. It became his public uniform. After a few moments General Musa, standing at Abul’s right shoulder, announced, “All of you are Muslims. Some of you are not Uighur, but that does not matter. What is important is that each of you accepts Abul Sabah as your Prophet, and pledge your life and that of your soldiers to his mission. Each of you must come onto the stage, bow before Sabah, and pledge ‘There is one God and Sabah is His Prophet, and I pledge my life to Sabah.’” One by one, starting with the commander in the first seat in the first row, they obeyed. Only eleven commanders refused, and they were immediately taken out and shot.

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Abul had just turned twenty. He was undisputed ruler of Uighuristan. His next step was to make an announcement to the country that Musa had prepared for him: “My fellow subjects of God. Our holy country is the home of all Muslims, regardless of whether you are Uighur, Kazakhs, Kyrgyz, Uzbek, Tartar, or Han Chinese. In recognition of this, and through his angel Gabriel, God asked me to change the name of our holy country to Islamic East Turkistan. Moreover, He has commanded that all those who refuse to accept Sabah as His messenger must leave the country within one month, without exception. I, Abul Sabah, His Prophet, have spoken.” There followed a mass migration of nearly 250,000 people, mainly Han Chinese, into China. Finally, word of the events in former Uighuristan reached the outside world. An international relief effort was undertaken by the democracies for these refugees. Its operations were limited to China, since Abul would not allow relief workers to cross the border. His government was criticized by one non-Muslim country after another, and the Prime Minister of China recalled its ambassador after formally protesting Abul Sabah’s expulsions as “barbaric.” No other actions were taken. Within a few years a new Prime Minister was elected in China and diplomatic relations resumed. Abul had no thought of it at the time, but China would be his next conquest.

Chapter 3 Lora October 8, 1994, New Universe

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or days she could not get beyond the thoughts that kept running like a video loop in her mind. No one in the democracies would have guessed. No one could have imagined it. No one was prepared for it. It was the stroke of a monstrous genius. Now, all knew who did it and why. He told everyone still alive. It was Abul Sabah, 81-year-old Caliph of Islamic East Turkistan and still the shadow ruler behind the Muslim Council governing China. The ultimatum he’d issued to the world from Urumqi was short, without subtlety or diplomatic language. It needed none. A strong voice declared in Uighur, with an over voice translating it into English: Leaders of the corrupt and Godless democracies. I speak on behalf of Abul Sabah, Prophet of God, Imam in Chief of Sabah, and Caliph of Islamic East Turkistan. We have shown our power with the destruction of your major cities and political capitals. We have in place more bombs that we will explode if you launch any attack on China, Islamic East Turkistan, or any other members of the Islamic Union. We simply ask that you stand down your military forces, sign a treaty of nonaggression with the Union and China, and accept as an advisor at the highest level an appointee of China’s National Council of Clerics. If you do not accept our terms by 12:01 a.m., October 12, Greenwich Mean Time, 1994, we will destroy one of your Godless cities per day until you do. The Chinese embassy in each of your countries has been authorized to carry out the formal signing ceremony and the document now awaits your signature.

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The first time they heard it, Lora was driving. She began to shake so much that she pulled off the road into a field. She could barely talk. She woke up Mark by reaching behind the front seat and poking his leg. “Huh? What?” He rubbed his eyes with one hand, and looked up at her. Since the ultimatum was being repeated continuously on the radio, she pointed a shaking finger at it, and let him hear it without a comment from her. When he heard it all, she almost screamed, “It was Sabah. Sabah!” For minutes Mark could only say, “Shit, shit, shit . . . ” Finally he yelled, “We missed it. Nobody had a clue he’d try to take over the world like this. Jesus Christ, how could he build all those goddam nuclear weapons and place them in so many cities? And, my God—to set them off all at the same time . . . ” Lora trembled. Tears of frustration coursed down her cheeks. She tried to respond, but her throat felt as though it was in a vise. She tried to breath deeply, but could only gasp. Finally, as Mark was about to say something, she blurted, “We knew about his coups and power plays in Asia and the Islamic world. We have been fighting him through our Institute.” She felt so miserable; she couldn’t stop herself from getting defensive. “We’ve fought his fanatical influence and his clergy in Indonesia and Malaysia. We’ve spent tens of millions trying to save their democratic governments.” But guilt wrapped her mind like a wet blanket. We didn’t do enough. We didn’t do all we could. She argued with it out loud. “Okay, so in Paris, Hamburg, and Milan, suicide murderers killed dozens of civilians within the last week. But The Righteous Allah claimed credit. They’re a pro-Sabah terrorist organization, but not Sabah, as far as we knew. And we certainly couldn’t generalize from that to nuclear attacks on the world’s major cities. No one could. All the democracies were ill prepared to counter this.” She scowled out the windshield and growled, “We should have had him assassinated.” Mark nodded. Arms crossed, he stared down at nothing. “In hindsight, yes.” He sat silent for several moments, his breathing fast, choppy. He uncrossed his arms and unconsciously combed his hair with his fingers. The ends of his mouth drooped in a face that suddenly seemed deeply lined and sunken. His voice came flattened by despair. “Jesus, I can’t believe it. No major international war in over a hundred years—civil war, yes, in China and Angola and a few other places, but they were no

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threat to the democracies. Now this. The lack of war is what has done us in. The democracies let their security services whither to almost nothing.” “I know,” Lora groaned. Her heart passed judgment. It was her failure. Mine. She tried to fight it. “I don’t know what more I could have done with our Institute. Damn it, we were already using most of our resources to combat this Sabah crap.” She put her good hand up to her throbbing temple. “I still can’t believe we didn’t even get a whiff of this coming. Affiliates in thirty-one major countries gathering information on terrorist organizations— especially Sabah’s—and we heard nothing, not even from those we hired who were well connected with the terrorists or the underworld.” “We even knew who was screwing whom,” Mark agreed sourly. “Well, whatever we discovered we passed on to the intelligence services of the democracies, and it didn’t do them any good, either.” “It’s so horrible to have failed. We are . . . were . . . the world’s largest private institute. We had the huge endowment John left us for the very purpose of stopping somebody like Sabah. We failed John. We failed Joy. We failed mankind.” Lora ended in a sob. She put her head on the steering wheel and cried. Mark got out of the back and slid into the front seat next to her. He picked up Spunky, who was trying to climb onto her lap. He let Spunky lick his face for a moment, then held him out to her. “Here, precious. He’s concerned about you.” She waved him off, wiped her face on her damp sleeve, and sat up straight. She took several deep breaths, leaned over, and rubbed Spunky’s back with the fingers sticking out of her cast. Mark took her fingers in his good hand and caressed them with his thumb. “We knew Sabah threatened us all,” he told her. “But no one could even come close to imagining how much he really threatened us.” Lora thought about this for a moment. She centered on it; she tried to use it to push her emotions down. She weighed Mark’s last sentence as one would a problem in geometry. It worked. “It’s something that’s inconceivable before it happens,” she mused in a level voice, “but once it does, the chain of events, causes, and capabilities are clear. Now, after the fact, how Sabah got nuclear weapons is easy to answer. Before Sabah’s coup, China was swiftly developing nuclear energy and building large and small nuclear plants—by the time of his coup, China was getting much of its electricity from nuclear plants, far ahead of the United States.”

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Mark seemed startled that she could articulate several complex sentences in a rational statement in spite of her emotional state and, she suspected, her bag lady appearance. He slid sideways on the seat to get a better look at her. He gently caressed her tear-damp lips with his fingertips. Lora sighed. “China had known peace since the downfall of the Manchu dynasty, and it prospered. By the time of the coup, it was a rich country.” She tried the impossible. Didn’t work. The smile won’t come. Mark mumbled, as though in pain, “I hate to say this, but I think that peace and our democratic culture—China’s democratic culture before the coup—defeated them, and now us.” Lora jerked her chin up and gaped at Mark. “Defeated us? What?” she exploded. “You think the democracies have no choice but to submit to the ultimatum?” “Yes, goddam it! Defeated us.” Mark slapped the dashboard hard, startling Spunky. His face twisted. He added, even louder, “We were damn stupid. Stupid.” He handed Spunky to Lora again. She gathered Spunky to her with her good hand. His tail wagging vigorously, he tried to lick her nose. She continued to stare at Mark. With some difficulty, Mark lowered his voice and explained, “The world is mainly democratic. No major power thought it had need for a large military force. No democracy thought it needed nuclear weapons any longer, and what few nuclear bombs we had were disarmed decades ago. Even when the fanatics seized control of what is now Islamic East Turkistan and created the Islamic Union and took over China, no democracy thought those crazies would build weapons of mass destruction. We—all of us—were caught in the trap of conventional thought. Shit. Democracies always tend to think the best of other coun—” “I know, I know,” Lora interrupted. “We see nondemocracies in our own image. We see them as equally tolerant of disagreement, willing to compromise, and rejecting violence as a solution to conflict. But, sweetheart,” and Lora gripped the steering wheel tightly with her good hand and twisted her body around to look into Mark’s still angry eyes, “we can do something about this. And, goddam it, we will.” Tears began coursing down her face again. “We will. We will. We can stop him. But we’ve got to survive to do it.”

Chapter 4 Abul Sabah Peking, October 12, 1994, New Universe

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bul Sabah’s mind barely worked. He kept losing his thoughts in a mental mist; he tried to hold onto each of them until they made sense. I must be present at the conclusion of this. I must witness what my son has done, what is ultimately my responsibility. He lifted his heavy eyes and stared at the wall clock until he could make out the hands. It was 3:21 a.m.—three hours and forty-nine minutes until the ultimatum’s deadline. Nothing seemed to have changed. Turghun and his fellow blasphemers stood on the same spots, the same adjutant manned the phones. Even the same security men stood against the wall behind him. Abul leaned back and put his head against the headrest. He felt the air conditioning on his pate that age had rapidly turned bald. He was so tired, so wearied by it all. He felt as though his life’s energy was pouring into his shoes. No, pouring into the toilet, he thought as his stomach cramped and the nausea that never went away surged again. Damnable stomach flu. He closed his eyes, tried to rest. Turghun had been such a beautiful child, such a joyful boy. So eager to learn, so eager to foster Sabahism, so eager to command. It was China that subverted him with its unholy ways, violent traditions, and material customs, despite the Uighur teaching, despite being the son of God’s Prophet. Had he not been so ambitious for God to bring China under the rule of Sabah, his son would eventually have taken power over Islamic East Turkistan and the Islamic Union, and followed God’s peaceful way for achieving world power. China! Stupid China.

aaa

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Uighuristan 1933–1977, New Universe With Abul Sabah, General Musa, and Molla Ahmedi in full control of newly named Islamic East Turkistan, Ahmedi imposed a rigid Sabahist interpretation of the Shari'ah. Women had to conform to strict dress codes, including wearing head coverings, veils, and shapeless, floor-length body coverings. Education was no longer allowed them and they could only be seen in public when accompanied by a male relative. When Abul found out about these laws, he confronted Ahmedi. “This is not what I intended. It is not according to my teaching.” Molla Ahmedi looked sadly at Abul and responded, “Oh Holy Prophet, these laws are implicit in your teaching and your revelations in The Sabah. They surely are what God desires. He just did not spell them out. He must not have thought it necessary for his Prophet, who divines His thinking.” Abul was confused. Ahmedi continued. “If your revelations are in error, it must be a small human failing. Anyway, if we now change these laws, people will question whether in fact you are the Prophet. They believe that one so close to God cannot be in error.” Abul now realized that Ahmedi was correct, and made no more protests. Nor, he understood, could he protest to Ahmedi or General Musa the other things the government was doing in his name. What he most hated were the executions. People were executed for the most trivial behavior, such as gambling in one’s home or listening to Chinese or Western music on the radio. One woman was taken to a stadium in Turpan and, in front of thousands of cheering Muslim men, she was stoned to death for adultery. In 1938 the prisons were full of those charged with moral crimes or accused of having “blasphemed” against Sabah or Sabahism—really no more than criticism of General Musa’s or Abul’s tyrannical rule. Musa had every one of them hung from balconies, trees, and cranes. No one asked Abul’s approval; no one consulted him. He heard about the executions from his aide, after the evil was done. That was the final bloodletting. It centered his mind more than anything done so far. Abul excused his aide, went to his office and, alone, he let his control relax and his abhorrence over what was going on fill his mind. These mass murders were in his name, as were all the new laws. He thought execution was appropriate for blatant blasphemy, treason, rape,

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and murder, and no more. And no execution should be carried out without a trial by Sabah judges, unless he, as the Prophet, ordered it. He could no longer allow this terror. He had to take command. After all, he was Abul Sabah, the Caliph, the Prophet. He telephoned Uncle Hasan, now the mayor of Urumqi, and asked Hasan to see him at Abul’s home that evening. He could trust him. When Uncle Hasan arrived, and Abul had put a glass of haraq in his hand—the only alcohol Sabahs were allowed to drink—he explained the situation. “Musa and Ahmedi are ruling in my name and doing things contrary to Sabah. They are the doings of Satan.” He detailed one law after another, and told him of the thousands of executions done without Abul’s knowledge or consent. “They must be stopped. I plan to assassinate them,” Abul concluded, his voice firm. Uncle Hasan slowly put his drink down on the floor and stared at Abul, his lips a tight line, his eyes narrowed. Abul held his breath. His heart beat rapidly. He was sweating. If Hasan will not join me, I know not where to turn. Musa or Ahmedi had appointed all his aides, and he didn’t know which commanders or security officers he could safely approach. He suspected that they also chose many, if not all of the women who provided his evening entertainment. If Uncle Hasan now joins Musa and Ahmedi, I am dead. God empowers me to speak His word, but I am otherwise on my own. As though a spell had been broken, Abul’s uncle threw himself on the floor, prostrated himself in front of Abul, and kissed his foot. “Glory be to God,” he said. “You are his Prophet. I will have what you wish done tonight. I humbly suggest that you appoint General Abdulrakhim Hamit in Musa’s place. I also suggest that you bring Chief Abulahat Khair from Kashgar, and put him in charge of national security and rooting out those whose minds have been poisoned by Musa and Ahmedi.” Abul put his hand on his uncle’s shoulder and bid him to rise. Then for an hour they discussed which untainted Sabahs could be put in critical positions. When Uncle Hasan left, Abul heaved a sigh of relief. As always, it was only one’s blood relatives who could be trusted in bloody matters. Before dawn, General Musa and Molla Ahmedi were assassinated as they slept. Their whole families down to second cousins and twentythree of their closest aides and confidants also were killed. That had to be done, Abul believed, so there would be no aggrieved relatives or followers to seek vengeance.

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Uncle Hasan and Chief Khair knew who to trust. They put together a team that began a systematic purge of those whose loyalty to Abul was questionable. Only the high officials and commanders were executed. The others were fired or transferred to nonsensitive positions or to outlying posts. Abul also replaced all his aides, including members of the Council of Clerics. In two weeks the job was done. Abul went on national radio and gave his own speech—his first: My holy people of Islamic East Turkistan. I am happy to report that God spoke to me through Gabriel two weeks ago and informed me that there was a conspiracy of my close advisors to subvert your Prophet’s power and act contrary to His Word. I speak of General Musa and Molla Ahmedi. They have carried out mass executions against my wishes and made laws contrary to The Sabah. They and their closest aides have been punished. In their place I will soon make new appointments, including new members of the National Council of Clerics. I am also reviewing all laws to which I have not given agreement. You can be sure, however, that those laws forbidding jobs and education to women, those laws that make them slaves to their husbands and fathers, are contrary to God and will all be cancelled. So will vice laws forbidding dancing, music, movies, and the like. Henceforth, all laws and any executions must have my written approval. God be praised, for I am His Prophet. Khair did nothing important without first consulting with Abul and getting his permission. To be sure, he placed spies among their aides. One must learn from experience. The next year Abul took a wife, Ayner Yasin, the daughter of Aisha Yasin, one of the richest merchants in Urumqi. He thus married to his secular and religious power that of wealth, and thereby cemented his power over the country. Although as the Prophet he could fill a harem with wives, one was sufficient, and she was tolerant of his occasional evening visits from young Sabahists. She bore him four girls and one boy. Abul named him Turghun and carefully groomed him to eventually rule and promote Sabah.

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To Abul, the word of God applied to all mankind. To Abul God said, “Go forth and lead all men to His Word and Paradise.” To Abul the iron logic followed: God meant me to be a Prophet for all mankind. So, soon after he consolidated power in his country, he began to promote Sabah in neighboring Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, and Tajikistan, all republics in democratic Russia. But decolonization was proceeding rapidly, and so was the self-determination of ethnically and culturally unique regions. He was preparing for their inevitable independence. Abul invested a considerable portion of his country’s resources in proselytizing among the dominant Muslim majorities in these countries. In every one of their major cities, he funded Sabah madrasas. They taught about Sabah’s—the Prophet’s—call for Muslim unity. And they conveyed God’s message to convert the infidel, non-Islamic world. This appealed to the average Muslim. Some of the most powerful mollas who tried to prevent the spread of Sabah met unfortunate accidents or disappeared. Abul undertook similar proselytization in Afghanistan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, and the Muslim states of colonial India. At the same time, he worked to subvert China. Ordinary rulers would have thought China much too huge, with relatively few Muslims for such an ambition. But Abul was God’s Prophet. He was sure God would lend a hand in spreading His Word. There were about thirty million Muslims in democratic China, some in high places in the military, bureaucracy, and politics. A largely Islamic-oriented National Revival Party held twenty-four seats in the 472-seat legislature. And with most Chinese being Taoist or Buddhist, they tolerated different religious views. They had no built-in resistance to God’s work. The intelligence services of China, the United States, and Great Britain knew nothing about his fostering Sabahism in Middle Asia, nor of his overall ambitions. Of course, his takeover of Uighuristan was noticed, although at the time they knew few details, especially about the mass murders conducted by Musa and Ahmedi. But news that someone so young had seized power, even in such a remote country, did become known. His spies informed Abul that democratic leaders thought him a crackpot fanatic. Since becoming a caliph, Abul had studied these countries—their history, governments, beliefs, and so on. One must know one’s enemies. Without a war among major or middle powers for many decades, the heart of their intelligence services had atrophied like unused muscles. When Sabah took power there were only seven embassies and consulates in his country, the largest an eight-man embassy from China.

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Regarding his plans for China, he was in no hurry. His allies were time, patience, and good health. He allowed the natural course of promotions to raise his secret followers to high positions in the Chinese military, police, and bureaucracy. Bribes, women, quiet threats, and lethal “accidents” worked to improve their chances at crucial junctures, but these traditional tools were seldom needed. He also exploited China’s open borders and welcome mat for professional immigrants. With his country’s wealth, he underwrote the slow, unobtrusive migration of Sabahist Muslims from his country and the rest of Middle Asia into China. His indigenous followers found jobs for the immigrants in the important professions. Although only a few hundred a month immigrated to China, they became well placed. In forty years they amounted to over eighty thousand powerfully positioned followers. Some of them became top consultants and advisors to Chinese legislators and administration leaders, some top generals, some heads of local security forces. In the 1950s and ’60s, a long list of states, provinces, and colonies became politically independent, including Hawaii, Alaska, and California. In Middle Asia, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, and Punjabistan became independent. Because of his successful proselytization throughout this region, within a year of their independence, Islamic East Turkistan signed a mutual aid and defense pact with all these newly independent Islamic countries and set up an Islamic Union to coordinate their foreign affairs. The first Chairman of the Union was his Uncle Hasan, who had resigned as mayor of Urumqi. Within a few years it became clear that these supposedly sovereign and independent nations were in fact under the political and religious control of Islamic East Turkistan, and thus of Abul Sabah. All their major schools had adopted the Sabahist reading of Islam and the prayers of the mollas in all the major mosques preached devotion to Sabah, the Prophet. This was especially clear when all the armies of these countries were unified under the command of General Amat, General Khair’s Chief of Staff. The democracies did not pay much attention to this either. Although there had been purges throughout the region, they had been done in small numbers over many years. Although the death toll from these was actually in the tens of thousands, there was not one huge massacre that would draw their attention—not that Abul wanted such mass killing. Moreover, there were no wars in the region and no rebellions. Throughout these years, Abul realized he was free to go about God’s work in China. He waited; waited like a spider on her web, watching political events in China. In 1978 they were getting interesting.

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Southern and Northern Chinese began a contentious political struggle over control of the national legislature. Since China was a democratic parliamentary system, the prime minister headed his political party and only held power if his party got a majority of legislative seats, or if he could knit together a coalition of parties willing to give him leadership. The Prime Minister Zhu Jiabao, leader of the Democratic Union, was defeated on a vote of no confidence over his plan to build a dam on the Fenhe River that would displace 230,000 Chinese. He had to call a new election and in 1979 no party got a majority in the legislature. Over the next five years, several parties tried to establish a stable governing coalition. Two national elections were held and still no party got a majority control of the legislature. Neither north nor south could win. Prime Minister Jiabao only held power through a tenuous coalition of parties, including the National Revival Party led by secret Sabahists. The democracies, especially the United States and Japan, with their traditional ties to the country, tried to help. They sent observers and financed extensive polling, but as long as the fight was democratic, they kept out of influencing the election. Rapid inflation and a minor recession hit China at this time. The economic philosophy of Prime Minister Jiabao was socialist. He believed in using government funds to force industrial development, particularly in heavy industry, and government power to control wages and profits. So, shipbuilding, automobiles and trucks, and heavy machinery were subsidized, particularly their exports. To do this Jiabao had to raise taxes, but when this brought in insufficient revenues, the government’s National Bank of China increased its printing of new money to support government expenditures. Many Western economists said the result was predictable. So did Abul’s secret Sabahists in influential positions, and that is why he commanded them to give it all their support. As the political paralysis continued, government industrial subsidies for the largest companies began to dry up. In 1982, the China Ship Building Corporation, China’s largest, filed for bankruptcy. Over 43,500 people were put out of work at its four major yards. Jiabao wanted to nationalize the corporation, but dare not put it to a legislative vote. He knew it would become a vote of no confidence, and he would lose. The bankruptcy immediately affected the economy, causing other firms to fail and deepening the recession. The National Bank printed even more money in the hope of turning it around. Hyperinflation resulted. The price of a bag of ordinary rice soared from the equivalent of $1.23 to $7.68 within six months.

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All this questioned democracy. More and more editorials, articles, and politicians called for a strong hand to take charge, even for authoritarian rule, if that would put people back to work, stop inflation, and end political paralysis. Abul’s Sabahists wrote many of these. Abul waited patiently. Finally, when the people planned large-scale antigovernment demonstrations in Peking, when the major unions prepared a national strike at the same time, and when a vote of no confidence in Jiabao’s government was scheduled, Abul sent out the order for which he had planned for so long. On May 26, 1984, at the biannual meeting of top military commanders in Peking, General Hu Jieche, the Commander in Chief of the Western Region and a secret Sabah, shot the Chiefs of the Army and Navy, and assumed emergency command over all China’s military forces. General Jieche claimed that they had attempted a coup. At the same time, the security forces were similarly taken over by Colonel Jiang Lanqing, another secret Sabahist, at a meeting called in Peking presumably to deal with upcoming antigovernment demonstrations. Largely Muslim troops that had gradually been infiltrated into Peking surrounded the legislature, letting no one escape. Special forces with lists in hand searched through the legislature, killing all top nonMuslim political leaders. Other squads, each with their own list, hunted through the universities, newspaper offices, and ministries, shooting those who were known for their strong pro-democratic positions, or their anti-Islamic writings or speeches. By nightfall, the coup was complete in the capital. At 7:30 p.m., General Jieche went on radio and television. He was a handsome man in his late forties, with a mixture of Caucasian Turk and Han Chinese features. Tall, with closely cut black hair, high forehead, and small eyes, he communicated a sternness appropriate to the three stars on the shoulders of his general’s uniform. He sat at a marble-topped rosewood desk flanked by the Chinese flags and spoke into a collection of microphones before him. Two armed guards stood off camera, each holding a STU machine pistol across his chest. Behind the General was a vividly colored map of China. His speech was short and to the point, as Abul had advised: My fellow Chinese. I am General Hu Jieche, commander of the Western Region. Today the Army and Navy Chiefs tried to overthrow the government. As part of their plot, they had plunged the country into chaos and created

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famine in Hunan and Sheshi provinces. They also refused to allow their military forces to shore up the Yellow River banks and retaining walls that have been breached by a vast flood. Their supporters have forced people out of work and into near starvation. They have put businesses into bankruptcy. They have caused food prices to soar so that not even the middle class can afford to buy food. Your political leaders and politicians did nothing. They were so absorbed in their petty quarrels that they ignored what was happening to you, my fellow people of China. Had my soldiers and I not stepped in to quash this plot, you would now be living under a repressive and absolutist military dictatorship only interested in power. Your welfare would be no concern to them, either. Therefore, reluctantly, I will provide the necessary leadership to China. This is only temporary, until such time that we can hold an election of legislators and a prime minister sympathetic to your true needs. I intend no dictatorship. I am only a caretaker. I will establish a Governing Council of representatives from business, the military, and the professions to govern until such time that we can hold elections. By noon tomorrow I will announce membership in the Council. In the meantime, I ask for your patience and support as we bring economic growth, price stability, and democracy back to China. The speech worked. It was received with much acclaim, As one would expect of God’s doing, Abul thought when his intelligence service reported on it. Jieche already had Sabahists in many positions of high and middle power throughout the country, and now he had them purge those thought unreliable, anti-Muslim, or anti-Sabah. God’s enemies were not long paralyzed. In the south, three military divisions rebelled against the Sabahist officers who had seized command. Anti-Sabah General Li Tu organized these divisions into an army and defeated loyal Sabahist forces outside of Anyang and then Handan. Abul was worried. A few more such defeats, and Peking and his rule over China might be lost. War between the Islamic Union and

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China would only be a matter of time, with his defeat obvious. But God can see this no less, he thought. He is sure to lead my armies. General Li Tu consolidated his forces for three weeks before marching toward Baoding on his way to Peking. This allowed time for loyal army divisions led by the secret Sabahist General Wang Furong to organize and integrate Islamic East Turkistan troops that Abul rushed to him by road and rail. When the two armies met in the famous Battle of Wangdu, Li Tu was defeated with much bloodshed. There also were pitched battles between security and army units in Shanghai, Wuhan, Kunming, and Taijuan. In Shanghai and Kunming, the enemy forces won and tried to fortify the cities, while calling for help from the democracies. No democracy had the forces to intervene and engage in a major war in China, however. Once General Furong cleared the south of more dissident units, he entered Shanghai in full force with ten thousand troops, all wearing green headbands emblazoned with red crescent and star, the symbols of battle to the death for Sabah, kill or be killed. Furong easily defeated the rebellious army and security units there. Once he was firmly in control, General Jieche ordered him to make an example of the city to the rest of China while ridding it of corrupt and evil foreign influences. General Furong therefore gave his troops his famous Rule of Three— the city is yours for three days; kill all foreigners; and do not touch Muslims, mosques, or Muslim religious schools. The next day, Abul’s chief of intelligence informed him of the resulting atrocities at about the same time foreign news services were reporting the ugly details. Abul was distressed and outraged by the rape and mass murder of common people. “This is not God’s way,” he yelled at his chief. In the translated foreign news, he read that soldiers raped women and girls with abandon. Mothers or fathers who objected to the daughters being raped were shot. Those gang raped were often killed afterward. The soldiers played a game they called Hop Hop: they would force a boy to rape his sister or mother, a father to rape his daughter, and pair up father and son, or mother and daughter, to perform sex acts on each other. Once tired of the play, they castrated the males, forced their genitals into the mouths of the women and girls, and then shot them all. No male, no matter how young or old, was exempt from mistreatment, occasional rape, or death. If death came fast, they were lucky.

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Some of the soldiers took particular pleasure in killing their victims an inch at a time with a cut here, another there, and within a few hours, everywhere. The first of the three nights was chilly, Abul read with shame and horror; drunken soldiers dragged nineteen of their foreign captives to an intersection, tied their hands and feet with wire, and wrapped a long rope around them all, pressing them together until they could hardly move. The solders poured oil and gasoline from a nearby service station on them, then lit the mixture. They warmed themselves beside the resulting fire while making jokes about the screaming, undulating, quivering mass of bodies. Captured Americans were tied or nailed to a tree or post and skinned alive. American and other foreign women and girls were stripped, tied or fastened spread-eagled to walls or wagons, and left for any passing soldier to take his pleasure. Abul did understand that soldiers hated Godless Americans the most, but he detested how they were treated. After he read about the Rule of Three, Abul called General Furong directly and commanded in the name of God that he stop it. Furong issued the order and his officers tried to impose discipline on their soldiers and remove them from the city, allowing newly appointed security and police units to take over. In some cases soldiers drunk with power or heavy with loot refused to leave and had to be driven at bayonet-point to the army trucks. Some had to be shot. There was no complete accounting of the dead. General Jieche said only that an uprising in the city had been successfully defeated with much loss of life. The Chinese Red Cross estimated that the rampaging soldiers had killed 367,000 Chinese and foreigners. This would not happen again, by Abul’s orders. What they had done to the people proved that Generals Jieche and Furong were not true Sabahists, and in time they would be removed. Meanwhile, with the example of the Rape of Shanghai, no security police or army units in or around any other city put up resistance to government forces. There were sporadic and largely individual clashes and firefights throughout China, but General Jieche was in firm control. Within a year, the country seemed at peace and normal economic and social activity resumed. One year after the coup, General Jieche died in a helicopter crash; a month later, General Furong died, reportedly from a heart attack. A Sabah-controlled Government Council “regretfully” assumed power.

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Abul continued to rule China through the Council. He made one official visit to China as a head of state, several informal visits, and numerous secret visits. As happened many times in China’s history with the Mongols, Manchus, and Uighurs, the heart of China was now in the control of foreigners. Abul was smart about his exercise of power. He made no sudden attempt to convert all of China to Islam. Nor did he make any radical change in China’s laws. Gradualness was his power principle. A slightly different law here, another one there, and slow, legal, step-bystep Islamic—Sabah—law took over China. He insisted, however, that capital punishment remain limited to the usual severe crimes, adding to those excessive blasphemy of Mohammed, Sabah, and God, as interpreted by a court of Muslim clerics. In the areas of journalism, the arts, and entertainment, the Council moved carefully also. After all, China had been a democracy and people were used to free expression. The Council therefore initiated a nation-wide debate on the role of violence and sex in television programs and the movies, and especially their impact on children. As though related, the Council also showed concern over lies and distortions of history and current events that misled or exploited people. With Abul’s hidden manipulation, a national consensus emerged, asking for action. The Council then passed several laws that set up in every city and town a “Children’s Welfare Association” to which complaints about the content of newspaper articles, television programs, movies, speeches, and the like could be submitted by any citizen. The Association then had the legal right to sue in court whomever violated public or children’s morals. The Council insisted that this was not government censorship, since the membership of the Association was picked at large from local citizens and all those accused had their day in court. The effect of these new laws, as Abul planned, went beyond chilling criticism and dissent. When court cases against high profile critics of the government ended in their imprisonment, they froze it. Within three years, the military forces of China and the Islamic Union held joint war games in Islamic East Turkistan, and Abul created a Joint Military Council to integrate their different strategies and tactics, and to work toward making their weapons compatible and interchangeable. By 1991, he was seventy-six years old and ready to retire as anything but the final authority on the most general policy. His son

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Turghun already had been involved in the day-by-day affairs of ruling East Turkistan for a decade when Abul had reached fifty-four, and in the last five years, he’d been involved in China as well. Abul had turned all but the most Sabahist-related policies over to him. Turghun was a militant Sabah, and Abul had trained and educated him for power. His holy task was to lead the rest of the world to Sabahism and Paradise, and if not achieved under him, to train his sons to this holy end. In this Abul had pressed upon him God’s Way: patience, gradualness, accommodation, and alertness to the right moment to seize power. With all his experience with power, Abul did not recognize that his son was impatient, hungry for more and more power, and eager for the final victory of Sabahism, which he would inherit or seize. Abul remained in Urumqi as Turghun secretly ruled from Peking. With Abul’s approval, he had ordered the extraction of plutonium from nuclear energy fuel rods to make nuclear bombs. Abul had thought a small number of bombs would be necessary in case the infidel democracies made war on them. The bombs were meant to be defensive weapons, a deterrent. He’d seen what happened during the secret test of the first nuclear weapon in the Taklamakan desert, and he could not conceive of using one against a city. Such mass murder would be infinitely worse than the Rape of Shanghai, he had thought. It would be a bloody butchering of God’s Way. But without his knowledge, his son had secretly built up a much larger stockpile, and by 1994 he had the nuclear bombs hidden in major cities around the world.

aaa Imam Ch’en Hsun Peking, October 12, 1994 HE EXPLODED THEM IN CITIES. Abul’s hand was so heavy he could hardly raise it to put his face into it. I must now be the most hated, most despised, most loathed man in the world. He could barely focus. An incredible weight crushed his mind. So a world victory, swimming in the blood of mankind, will come to Turghun. But it will not be the victory of Sabah. Not of God. Only of an evil man. I am ashamed I ever had a fit; I am ashamed I ever heard God’s message; I am ashamed He did not pick a more worthy Prophet. I am . . . .

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aaa Turghun coolly turned from the observation window to look at General Mirzat Zunun. “One more hour, General,” he commented in an emotionless voice. He raised it to give the expected order: “If we do not hear from the democracies, Chicago is to be destroyed at precisely 7:02, our time.” General Zunun strode the few steps to his adjutant and relayed the order. The adjutant licked his lips and picked up his green phone. He glanced through the large window at the American desks on the floor below, punched a combination of buttons on his phone, and reached a specific technician at one of the two Chicago desks. The technician had already made preliminary preparations, and the adjutant watched closely as he and the technician at the other American desk inserted their keys, unlocked, and toggled all but one of the switches. They removed their keys and waited for one minute before the deadline, when they would reinsert their keys and unlock the final switch. Two security men well familiar with the procedures stood at their elbows; the supervising general hovered nearby. Looking concerned about the lack of response to the ultimatum, Turghun glanced back at his father. He was slouched in the plush cushion of his rattan rocker, his head lolling to one side, his eyes closed. He was too still. Imam Ch’en Hsun stared down at the activity on the floor below, his face so placid that he seemed lost in contemplation of God. Turghun tapped him on the arm and nodded toward his father. Ch’en looked around at Abul. Hiding a grin, he walked back to him, bent down, and looked at him carefully. He lifted Abul’s wrist, seeming to seek his pulse. After a few minutes, he looked back at Turghun and shook his head. “He is dead.” Turghun stood rock still and stared at his father’s body. Ch’en took the few steps back to him and whispered, “Did you do this?” “No,” Turghun finally said. “But I am glad he is gone. He no longer spoke for God; he no longer was a true Sabah. No matter how deprived of physical power he was, he still had spiritual power, and would have been a constant danger to the new world. As his son, I’m sorry to see his death. And I will grieve when the day is done.” Ch’en bowed and said, “I am sorry about his death. My sincerest condolences. We have been honored and humbled to know the world’s

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greatest man, God’s greatest prophet.” He was afraid his eyes would give him away, and turned to look unseeingly through the window. And by the same slow-acting thallium, you soon will join him.

Chapter 5 Lora 1994, New Universe

“Y

es,” Lora repeated to herself, “the lives of billions, and the freedom of billions more, depends on our survival.” It had become her mantra. As they drove toward Santa Barbara they tried to avoid all large cities, but sometimes this had its own risks. On October 11, that most crucial day in all of world history—the ultimatum’s deadline in their time zone—her mind seemed in a state of suspended animation and her body drove by habit. At one intersection outside of Kansas City, Lora slowed to a crawl to make a sharp left turn onto a two-lane connecting route. She hardly noticed the four men and a girl standing at the intersection, watching traffic. The girl, no more that thirteen or fourteen years old, had brown hair chopped short around her head. She wore a dirty gray t-shirt hanging loosely over a tight denim dress that barely hid her panties. She had rolled the shirtsleeves up over her bony shoulders, revealing tattoos of scaly dragons that swept down her upper arms and threw red-orange flames along her elbows. Two of the men were dressed in tight faded denims and t-shirts. One had a skull and crossbones on his shirt and wore a black headband around dirty black hair that cascaded in rivulets down his back. Another had his shirtsleeves cut off and so many tattoos covering his arms, they looked like abstractions by Jackson Pollock. A third was bearded and wore a tank top over a bulbous stomach that drooped over his belt. The fourth man was middle-aged and neatly dressed. As Lora slowly rounded the corner, she saw Neat Dresser nod when the girl glanced at him. Then she pointed in Lora’s direction. Two of the men immediately jumped in front of the car and forced Lora to hit her brakes to avoid hitting them. Lora quickly locked her door, but the man with the tattoos broke the door’s window with a spiked metal bar. Leering at Lora, he reached in with stinking hands to unlock the door and pull her out. She had no

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doubt what he and the others intended to do. She opened her left hand and put her right into it, cast and all, and used the power of both arms and her right shoulder to ram her left elbow into his throat, gasping from the pain as her broken arm bones ground against each other. With a strangled squeal, the punk disappeared beneath her broken window. A second threw open the unlocked passenger door—Stupid us, she thought reflexively—and Spunky started barking and growling at the strange smell and noise. The man hesitated, looked at Lora with a face frozen in a mirthless grin, then leaned in and faked a thrust at Spunky with one thick hand, not knowing he was blind. At the same time, he reached out to get a grip on the dog’s fur with the other, obviously intending to throw the terrier from the car. Lora was angling her body to smack him in the face with her cast when Mark reared up from the back seat where he had been sleeping. With his pistol butt, he whacked the intruder in the nose and there was a crunch followed by a gurgling scream as the man gripped his face with both hands and fell backwards out of the car. Hoping that Spunky would not fall out of the flapping passenger door, Lora ground the gear into first and accelerated, knocking one of the men flying with her fender and just missing the girl as Neat Dresser pulled her out of the way. Lora burned rubber spinning around the corner, threw the gear into second, third, and sped down the road. Safe, her pinpoint focus relaxed, and her post-fight adrenaline withdrawal began. The agony in her abused broken arm overwhelmed her. She gasped, and couldn’t get her fingers to work through the pain to shift into higher gear. A mile down the road, she pulled over and just let the car stall and her body slump against the steering wheel while she panted for breath. No one had said a word; not the girl, not any of the punks. A chill went up her spine and she could feel the hair on her arms stand out. She shivered. Too close—it was too close. Minutes went by before she could move and let Mark take her place behind the wheel. It was longer before either of them could speak. Or before Spunky stopped trembling. He didn’t need sight to sense there had been great danger. At Lawrence, the next large town, they looked for and found a Lux car dealer and asked him to replace their broken car window. Their Lux was one year old and the dealer had no replacement window. But he had the same model on the lot. So Lora showed him her universal ITU bank machine card, and Mark asked him to transfer its window to their

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car. She didn’t think he would have accepted the card of a New York bank. He made the transfer for an even $3,000, finishing the job at almost 5:00, slightly over two hours before Sabah’s deadline. They decided to go on the road and then park somewhere near deadline time. At 5:50 p.m. they parked outside of Junction City. Both were so anxious, they could drive no farther. There’d been no word on the radio yet. Hardly any cars and few pedestrians were on the streets. The parking lot of a nearby shopping center was almost empty. Most people must be waiting for the announcement. The clock showed 5:55. Nothing. Lora’s mind, her whole body, was on minimal life support. Lora existed nowhere. Nothing existed. Only the car’s digital clock and the radio. They filtered out all the chatter of experts over what to expect, and they trembled, waiting for that special announcement. 5:58 She knew she was not breathing. She saw nothing beyond the digits on the dashboard clock. 5:59 It came: “This is a Public Broadcasting Network news special from the temporary capitol of Philadelphia. President Peabody has announced that the United States has signed a Treaty of Nonaggression with the Islamic Union and China, and will accept the ‘advisor’ from China’s College of Clerics. Senator Wells, the temporary Democratic leader of the Senate now meeting at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, has assured the country that the treaty will be put on a fast track to approval and that a quorum of Senators will be present so that it can be voted upon. President Peabody is scheduled to make a national speech from Andrews at—” Lora took a shuddering breath and let it out as a sob. She knew what to expect. It had happened. It was real. Freedom ended; Sabah ruled. As though from a great distance, Mark’s sad voice broke into her mind. “No goddam alternative. The democracies have a few bombers, some warships, and a small army, but nothing that could cause the level of destruction in Urumqi alone that would come close to what Sabah did to just New York. The bombers couldn’t even make the long oneway flight there over hostile countries. Shit!” Mark stared at the radio and pounded the steering wheel with his good hand. “Jesus, Lora, I never dreamed in my worst nightmares that this could happen.”

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“I know, but it’s clear that Sabah’s threat is a realistic one. Already he’s shown he’s willing and able to destroy major capitals. But we know the hidden democratic agenda, don’t we? Government officials and the bureaucracy will use the techniques all politicians and bureaucrats learn in a democracy. They will obfuscate, delay, deny, change the subject, misunderstand, seem to agree, and fulfill partially.” Lora shook her head. “Works if your opponents are democrats. But not if they shoot you for as little as mismatched socks.” Mark nodded. “Yeah. Well, I’m sure the democracies will set up secret labs to build nuclear weapons, and carry out covert action, especially toward assassinating Sabah and his successor son. And they’ll secretly search for the remaining nuclear bombs, if any, that Sabah claims to have hidden in major cities. Of course, the only ones he had hidden could have been those he exploded, but it’s too dangerous to try to test his claim.” Mark calmed down sufficiently to wipe his face with the Softies she gave him and resume driving. Soon, after the news special concluded, PBN put on a panel of weapons and security experts who speculated on how Sabah had hidden the nuclear bombs he had exploded. A retired director of the American Security Group argued, “Sabah smuggled them into the cities in crates, probably routed through such innocuous countries as Indonesia and Alger—” A retired Air Force General interrupted with, “By the 1990s we became too damn complacent and too damn open in a world where twothirds of the countries were democracies, and we were no threat to each other. All passports had been eliminated among democracies and customs checks at the border were cursory. And trade among the democracies was almost completely free and unregulated. Some crazy could have smuggled an elephant into the country in a crate leaking its urine and feces, stinking to hell, and still managed to hide it in a major city.” Lora leaned her head back against the headrest, closed her wet eyes, and stroked Spunky. “Now that we’ve accepted a dictator, we will soon be an occupied country with Sabah’s security forces and resident Sabah supporters rooting around for people like us, and we and our institutes were not secret or hidden.” Mark hunched over the wheel and kept his eyes on the road. “Yeah, but the Republic of California is still too small for Sabah’s secret police to be interested in it. In time, though, the scientific and engineering center of Santa Barbara will attract their attention.”

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Lora still had trouble controlling her voice and spoke much louder than she intended. “We’ve time, thank God. I’m sure California, like the United States, will be preparing for a covert war against Sabah. There’ll be secret collaboration and organization among businesses, scientific and technological centers, and universities to hide much of the their scientific secrets and equipment in underground sites— perhaps abandoned gold and silver mines.” Lora hesitated, looking mournfully out the window. “No matter. Sabah’s people will eventually uncover it all. Everything now depends on our getting to Santa Barbara and having time.”

aaa Day after day, night after night, they drove on, keeping their doors locked and windows up, traveling on major highways between cities and back roads around them. After three days of such driving, they approached the Republic of California’s border. They passed miles of cars, motor homes, recreation vehicles, trailers, and trucks scattered in the fields, under trees, and along the side of the road. Tents had sprung up, smoke drifted from fires, and people milled about. The air smelled of too many people, too many cars and trucks. Before they got to the border, Nevada State troopers stopped them at a roadblock. One checked their identity and let them move on to the California border only when Lora showed her California registration documents for her Institute’s Santa Barbara affiliate. She asked about all the vehicles scattered around, and the trooper waved her hand at the them, frowned, and replied, “California won’t let them in.” When they got to the border, they also presented their documents to the well-armed border guards. The guards studied their pictures, their faces, and sullenly waved them around the roadblock. They were in California. At Stovepipe Wells near the border, Lora called their Institute’s affiliate so they would be ready for their arrival. She explained what she wanted done. But whether the car could make it the whole way was in question. They’d been unable to find any gas being sold for the last two hundred miles, and within two days of the nuclear attack, California initiated gas rationing available only to those with California driver’s licenses. When they hit the intersection for the route to Santa Barbara, Lora called the Institute again, told them what route they were taking, and told them that if they weren’t there in two hours, to send a pickup truck after them.

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The naked sun was high and a light breeze blew off the Pacific as they drove down De La Vina Street on gas fumes. Stately royal palms lined the street and mottled isolated patches of asphalt with their stingy shade. When Lora caught sight of the affiliate, she felt like cheering that they had made it and crying with sorrow that the affiliate was all that remained of Joy and John’s mission. “We’re here,” Lora said with a heavy sigh. “Now the real hard work begins.” She picked up Spunky, who had been sleeping, his paws twitching as he dreamed. She felt the tension drain from her, leaving behind a deep weariness. The trip had taken seven days. The affiliate was a beautiful rose pink two-story building done in the local Spanish style. To the casual observer, it looked like the sprawling, airy home of a very rich family, rather than the location of scientific laboratories. As they pulled into the parking lot, a crowd waiting in front of the building broke and ran toward their car. Lora recognized the affiliate’s staff—all had come out to greet them. Sybil Bazyan, the Palestinian president of their affiliate, ran toward the car with her purse flapping. She reached the car door and clapped on it. The others caught up to her, shouting welcomes, and surrounded the car except for a space they left open in front. Mark stopped the car without trying to park. Even before the car stopped, Sybil started crying. She tried to open the locked door, and waited while Lora maneuvered her body around to unlock it. Then she leaned in and hugged Lora’s head, crying out, as if Lora hadn’t called her on the telephone, “You and Mark are alive. God be praised, I was so worried.” She kissed Lora’s cheek, then backed up and ran over to the other side to hug Mark as he emerged from the car, not even caring about the cast and not knowing about his ribs. Tears flowing, she kept saying, “Thank God, thank God, you’re alive.” With more restrained enthusiasm, their chief scientists welcomed them with brief hugs and left-handed handshakes; many of the assistants, technologists, and other specialists greeted them happily as well, although when they saw the couple’s injuries, they did so with more consideration and concern. The mood soon turned somber as they all recognized that Lora and Mark were the only survivors of all their friends and colleagues at the Institute. Although standing slouched with fatigue, Lora told Sybil to assemble her department heads for the immediate meeting she had asked her to arrange. As she shuffled in the front door of the Institute with

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Spunky cradled in her arm, she had to pass him to Mark and vomit again, as they both had been doing frequently. “You know,” she commented to Mark, twitching her nose at the odor of the three of them, “Spunky also seems unable to hold any of his food down. I think he lost weight during our drive here. I know we did. After the horror we’ve gone through, it’s certainly understandable.” Mark and Lora had known what to do about Sabah even before their trip began, and had the whole drive to think about it and work out the details. As soon as all department heads were at their first meeting, Lora said, “Let us join hands and bow our heads in a minute of silent remembrance of all our dead, our friends and colleagues, our fellow Americans, and our fellow human beings throughout the democracies.” Mark and Lora removed their slings so that they could touch the hands of those on both sides of them. Afterward, she said, “We will remember them more properly later, and also try to help all their surviving loved ones as best we can. We will also hold a memorial service for them all as soon as we get settled and organized. That will be the time for tears. Now, we have a job to do. “Most important things first. You all know about the old time machine we had kept hidden in a vault in our New York Institute until we transferred our scientific research here. We had the machine freighted here too, years ago. You’ve been all over it since then, trying to figure out how it worked. As I understand it, your problem is that we have Joy and John’s time capsule without the external electronics and laser equipment that made it operational. It’s like trying to figure out how a car works, when the motor is missing. Although we have had no immediate need to operate a time machine, given our Institute’s goals to promote democracy and prevent war and democide, I nonetheless insisted that you all work on it anyway, just in case we might need it. Now we do.” Lora looked from one face to another. “So, what’s possible?” Sybil answered, “We carried out several tests. We know that we can send back in time a small capsule. So far we have not been able to increase its size or successfully send a living thing back in time without it being killed.” Looking at the bearded man on her left, Sybil asked, “Jack, tell us what we now can and cannot do.” At that moment, Mark held up his hand, excused the interruption, and said, “I have to use my room, be back in a minute.” He rushed out. “‘My room,’ Lora?” Sybil asked, her eyebrows arched.

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Lora couldn’t even grin. “He means the john. With everybody but us in the Institute, he uses his middle name. As some of you know, his father Dolphy named him in remembrance of John Banks. Anyway, we’ve both had diarrhea.” Then it struck her. There is something funny about this. But I don’t want to think about that now. Once Mark returned, Jack told them in detail about what they could now do, how far back they could go, and other limitations. “In short,” he finished, “we can send back a small inanimate package no bigger than two packs of cards, and we are limited to twenty years in time travel.” Lora tried to sit up straight. Looking around the table, she said in a firm voice, “Okay, this is what we absolutely must do, within weeks. We must be able to send back in time a metal box weighing no more than two pounds and perhaps half the size of a shoebox. It must go to a precise location. Your absolute error margins are days in time, and no more than an inch in space. I will give you the four dimensional coordinates when your tests show you’re ready.” During the trip, Mark and Lora had discussed how much they could reveal about the purpose of the time travel they planned. She’d explained then, “These are loyal scientists, but scientific activity on this scale can’t take place without a platoon of assistants, secretaries, mechanics, and so on. There are too many possible sources of leaks, and just one could end the project and possibly everyone’s lives—and the only hope of mankind. I don’t doubt the local police and security officials soon will be under orders from some Sabah henchmen.” Mark had nodded. “The scientists especially won’t like it, but we’ve no choice. We can’t even connect this time travel to the attacks on the democracies—that might leak out and bring the security forces or police down on everyone. But we have to tell Sybil. If the research is to be done well, she must know.” Lora agreed. Now, at the meeting, she tried to make sure everyone understood the importance of this project. “This is a Priority One project. You must work on this as though your life and those of your loved ones depend on it.” George, a quantum physicist said, “It would be helpful if we knew why this is so important.” Before she could answer, her head involuntarily jerked toward the floor and she spewed a grayish liquid, all that remained in her stomach. She saw flecks of blood in it.

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Mark leaned over and whispered, “Are you okay, precious?” Lora felt exhausted. She tried to put her hand on his shoulder, but her cast got in the way. Sitting up, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and gasped, “I think we’d better see a doctor.” Mark took over the meeting. Ignoring George’s suggestion, he told them, “You all know what Lora wants.” He looked from one to another. “Can it be done within a few weeks?” Sybil answered for the scientists, “We’ve been working overtime to get our equipment and material ready for movement into a secret cavern in the Kilten Mine complex. We’ll now do that only as time is available from work on the time machine.” One of the department heads, a thin, short, brown-skinned man with a mustache that seemed to hang from his large nose, put up his hand. Nodding at him, Sybil said, “Go ahead, Harry.” “I think we almost can to do it. The problem lies in the energy needed. We are reducing this by fiddling with the quantum foam. The worm hole across the space-time dimensions is set, however, and all we need to do is increase its size and stabilize its other end at the precise coordinates you define. This is ultimately a matter of laser power. As it is now, we can lay additional cables to tap into another electrical transformer station half a mile away, and through it tap into the California grid, but we will probably cause a citywide blackout for several hours. I’m sure the cause would be tracked down to the local transformers and the repairmen will not miss our taps. In the present national emergency, this may attract the police or even the secret security teams.” He ended with his hands palm up in front of his chest. Mark answered, “We need to do this only once. And we have to chance discovery. Forget about the fiddling. Plan on going full blast. Any more questions?” Helen, head of the computer department, put up her hand. When Mark looked at her, she asked, “Does anybody here know how Sabah developed the bombs?” Sybil responded, “China has been far advanced in the development of nuclear energy. They have forty-three nuclear reactors hooked into their national electrical grid. Sabah had his scientists extract plutonium from the spent fuel rods from their reactors. By our calculations, he could extract an average of one to eight kilograms of plutonium per plant per year. He only needed something like eight kilograms of plutonium for each bomb like the one that exploded in New York. Sabah has had the plutonium and time to build hundreds of such bombs. Re-

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member that two years after his coup in China, there was a massive explosion in the Taklamakan desert. We think now it was the first nuclear bomb test. The nuclear bombs that Sabah exploded in New York and elsewhere were not very large, given what he could have done with all that plutonium. They were the equivalent of about fifty thousand tons of TNT.” Lora’s heart was racing. She blurted out what she feared asking. “The New York bomb was exploded in the middle of Manhattan at a time when most people were on the street or at work.” She hesitated and took a deep, tremulous breath. “This means that the number killed must be astronomical. From what you know about the bomb and the urban populations it was exploded among, what is your best guess . . . as to . . . the human . . . toll?” The last words came out as squeal, as though Lora were trying to brake her words to a stop before the awful question was completed. Sybil stared down at the table for a moment. Then she slid her conference chair back and stood. She slouched, her head hunched into her shoulders, the suit padding on her shoulders thrust out at the edges. She continued to stare down at the table for a long minute, brow furrowed, lips pinched. Her finger moved idly over the table’s surface. She seemed to be gathering emotional strength. A tear crept halfway down one cheek. Lora had never seen her like this before. The soft swishing of the air conditioning and the wheezing of one of the scientists combined into what seemed a modern musical parody of Sybil’s anguish. Some of the scientists looked down at the table in front of them, some stared at the wall. Two of them wiped their eyes. They all must know the estimates. Sybil finally looked at Lora, her black eyes narrowed and wet with her misery, the skin at the corners of her mouth folded into deep creases. She forced the words out, and each one stood alone, as though a separate tombstone. “About fifty thousand dead . . . 250,000 missing in New York. In all the cities attacked . . .there may be . . . 1.75 to two billion . . . human beings killed . . . or missing.” Sybil pulled her chair under her and plopped down with a thump. She gazed down at the teardrops splattered on the table in front of her as another tear marked a fresh path on her cheek. Lora was stunned. The hairs on her arms and legs stood out from goose bumps as a polar breeze worked down her spine. Almost two bil-

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lion human beings wiped off the face of the earth in seconds? That many? Lora’s mouth hung open. Her stomach knotted as her mind warped around the indigestible numbers. A sound pierced her whirling mind. Mark was speaking. She jerked her head to look at him, and struggled to push that impossible death toll into a corner of her mind. It would never leave her mind. She would now live with it, as though it were a metal rod that had been thrust through her brain. Mark’s face was gray. He was stammering out a conclusion to the meeting. “. . . for your help during this most terrible time.” He stopped and inhaled a deep breath. He held it. And let it out in a whoosh. “Our sincerest sympathies for all the friends and colleagues each of you have lost in the despicable attacks on the democracies. Thank you all.” Lora could not speak. She put her hand on Mark’s shoulder and her head on top of that and cried. Others cried with them, and soon people got up, said a few words to each other, and left. Some came over to them, patted or stroked their backs briefly, and expressed their personal regrets and sympathy over the destruction of their New York Institute and all those inside. Sybil hung back until all the others had left. Her eyes were red and puffy. Lora felt even sicker. She continued to lean on Mark, even after they stood up. Mark said to Sybil in a tremulous voice, “Above all, even if we sacrifice our Institute and our lives, we’ve got to send that box back in time.” “Amen,” Sybil sighed. Mark suddenly looked as tired as Lora felt. He leaned on the table with his good arm as he told Sybil, “Beyond our injuries, something is wrong with us. You’d better get us to a doctor.” Wasting no time, Sybil wiped the tears from her face with both hands and took Lora’s good arm in hers. She walked them out of the Institute to her car. Lora remembered Spunky, and once Sybil made sure they were comfortable in her car, she retrieved him from the care of her secretary. Lora took him from Sybil and whispered, “Hi little boy,” and he showed his happiness at hearing her voice by weakly barking his greeting and trying to lick her hand when she put him on her lap. He seemed unusually weary. While Sybil drove them to a nearby hospital emergency room, Lora told her why they were sending a box back in time. Sybil’s only response was, “I thought so. We’ll do it, Lora. While there is a spark of life in all of us, we’ll do it.”

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At the emergency room, Sybil got them immediate attention while she held Spunky for them. Lora tried to explain their symptoms to a doctor, but she was having trouble with the words. Sybil took over, and once she explained that they had been near the nuclear bomb explosion in New York, they became the center of attention of a squad of doctors. None of them knew at first what to make of their tests. They conducted more, called in several specialists, and made numerous calls. The doctors finally told Lora and Mark that they should be hospitalized for observation, but the couple refused. Early that evening they left the hospital, with Spunky tucked into Lora’s arm. Sybil had rented a furnished apartment for them as soon as she knew they were coming. She drove them there, then took their car keys so someone could gas up their car and bring it by the next day. All Lora and Mark could do was say thanks and give her a kiss on the cheek and an affectionate one-armed hug. Lora put a bath towel on the end of the bed for Spunky. She gently placed him on it, and made sure he had water nearby in case he got thirsty. Then she dropped onto a bed for the first time in weeks, put her head on Mark’s chest with a sigh, and fell instantly asleep. They slept for about twelve hours. Strange, Lora realized when she slid out of bed and staggered into the living room, I feel no stronger after that long rest than I did before going to bed. There was a message waiting on their answering machine from Dr. Chang, the doctor in charge of their tests. When she returned his call, the conversation was short: “Are you at the apartment address that Miss Bazyan gave me?” “Yes.” “May I come over now?” “Please do.” “Will be there as soon as possible.” He hung up. When Lora returned to the bedroom she found Mark awake. She noticed the stench in the room for the first time and went to Spunky, still at the end of the bed. He lay unmoving. His eyes were closed. A yellow, mucus-like substance had drained onto the towel from his nose, and blood-flecked diarrhea stained the towel. She put her hand on him; he was hot. He opened his eyes a slit, tried to lick her hand, and gave up. She realized that he was near death. Lora dropped to her knees at the end of the bed and cried as she gently stroked Spunky’s head. Tears ran down Mark’s cheeks as he

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smoothed Spunky’s fur. They were still there when the doctor knocked on their door. She kissed Spunky on the head and all he could do was half-open his sightless eyes. She didn’t think he could smell her anymore. Dr. Chang had called Sybil to join him and they met at the door. They came in together when Mark answered the knock. Chang wore a somber expression and Lora knew that his news would not be good. Mark and Lora sat on the plush sofa while Sybil sat on the armrest by Lora. Chang sat on the edge of an ottoman across from them. Mark asked, “Well?” Chang rubbed his hand over his balding head, leaned toward them with his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands. “I’m very sorry I have to tell you this, and you have my greatest sympathy. The tests we’ve done show that you both have lethal radiation poisoning. There is nothing we can do about its finality. We can, however, ease your suffering and help you avoid a painful end.” That was it. He was direct. He was honest. They had to know. They now did. Lora had suspected as much, and had made her peace with death. All that concerned her now was the time machine. Her mind exploded with one thought: We’ve got to succeed. We must. The words almost stuck in her throat, but she had to know. “How long?” “You two are in your forties, I know. The older you are, the faster the poisoning acts. Maybe a month. Three at most.” Mark was not surprised. He cleared his throat and asked, “Is there anything we can take to keep our minds clear until the end, no matter the deterioration of our bodies?” “Yes. I’ve checked with the radiologists on this, and there is a cocktail of drugs that I can give you that will help keep your mind as clear as possible and slow the effect of the radiation. I have the drugs with me.” Mark twisted his body toward Lora so that he could hold her hand in his good one, and asked, “When we’ve completed what we must and we are obviously near the end, we would like to take something so that we can both go together. You understand?” Tears had been streaming down Sybil’s face. Now she let out a mournful sob and buried her head in her hands. Chang’s own eyes were moist, and he just nodded. After a moment, in a controlled voice, he told them, “In a few days, I’ll give you pills that will do it. It’ll be just like going to sleep. You can take them together when you’re ready.”

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He opened his medical case and handed them over a dozen bottles of pills, and a list of instructions for taking them. He took out two hypodermics and gave them several shots. Afterward, he gave them his home number and told them, “Please call me at any time for any reason.” With their thanks, he let himself out. Sobbing even more, Sybil came around the sofa, knelt down on the floor in front of them, and stretched out her arms to both. They all cried together—for humanity, for democracy, for the United States, for themselves. After a while Lora rose and went to check on Spunky. He was dead.

Chapter 6 Joy Silicon Valley, 2002, Old Universe

I

n the midst of Joy Phim and John Bank’s training by the Survivors’ Benevolent Society for their travel back in time to 1906 and their mission, the FBI raided their building in Silicone Valley. Word had leaked out about the possibility of a time machine and under the excuse that there were unregistered weapons and drugs on the site, a SWAT team burst in, weapons drawn, looking for it. Only the guards in the building were armed, and they were not about to fight the FBI. Joy’s mother, Tor, rushed them to the time machine and they hurried through their final goodbyes. As Tor pushed her into the time machine capsule with John, Joy frantically brushed her hands over her mother’s shoulders and cheeks. Just before the door closed on them forever, Joy screamed to her, “Good-bye, Mom, I will never forget you. I love you!” Joy would never forget the agony on her mother’s face as she yelled, “Safe journey, my dearest,” and slammed the capsule door. Tor had been her greatest love, her life, until John. Tor had adopted her when she was nothing at the age of four and had, in her love and teaching, created the woman Joy had become. More, Joy had a deep empathy for Tor’s deep humanity, and her suffering under the Cambodian Khmer Rouge, who murdered her husband. For virtually Joy’s whole life, Tor had been her model of love and goodness, and now she would never see her again. She would never know what happened to her mother. She would never again share her thoughts or know her feelings. And she would never be able to speak to her mother’s worry about Joy and her fear of the failure of their mission. Tor had invested her life in Joy and the mission. Now, she would never know if Joy lived or died, or if the mission succeeded or failed. So Joy broke down, devastated, in the time capsule once the door was slammed shut. In her mind and heart she saw her mother’s loving face. She felt her fingers as they stroked her cheeks. She felt her arms and body as she hugged Joy to her. She heard Tor’s sweet voice comforting her when she was hurt or sad.

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And the sobs came from deep within Joy and rushed to the surface, emerging in a passionate howl. She sobbed out her heart. Gripped within her grief, Joy did not even know they had traveled through time. She heard nothing, although John told her later that the capsule made a sound like a sports car starting up. Much later, when her rationality returned, she could see it now in her mind’s eye, as the calendar pages flipped backwards and then whole calendars, the moon reversed its course, and the sun spun from west to east. They finally did arrive in San Francisco, precisely as their scientists had calculated: November 14, 1906, 2:51 am. But at that moment Joy did not know it and did not care. The capsule was cramped for both of them, but that didn’t stop John. He squirmed around, knelt in front of her, hugged her, stroked her back, and just held her while she cried. Between body-shaking sobs, she managed to whimper, “I knew . . . I knew . . . I would lose her forever . . . . I knew it would be like . . . death between us. I had prepared myself. But, I . . . didn’t know . . . I didn’t know it would . . . really feel like this.” Joy slowly cried out her grief, and when her sobs subsided into sniffling she finally sat up, still in John’s arms. Her face was wet with tears and they had soaked the front of his pants. He wiped her face and eyes with the sleeve of his uwagi—karate shirt—and she managed to ask if they had arrived. “Yes,” he murmured, his face overflowing with compassion. He released her from his arms and as she was standing up, he looked down at the floor. His brow furrowed. He squeezed down, picked up a golden locket, and handed it to her. She guessed that Tor had thrown it into the capsule for her just before she slammed the door shut. Joy’s hands were shaking as she took it from him and held it over her heart for a precious moment. Even without opening it, she felt her mother in it. She felt her love. She opened it and saw a picture of Tor smiling, and sending her a kiss with her hand. On the other side of the locket was a group picture of the Survivors’ Benevolent Society members who had planned this mission for years, had prepared them for it, and invested all their wealth in it. Tor was in the middle of the group, and Gu, her godmother from China whose husband also had been murdered by the communists, stood next to her. At the bottom Tor had written, Our love goes with you. Good luck. Joy kissed both pictures, closed the locket, kissed it, pressed it to both her cheeks, and put it around her neck. It hung over her heart.

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Joy was ready to step into a the new universe they would create— live or die, succeed or fail.

aaa Not in their wildest imaginings could they have guessed what they would find in the first few minutes in their new universe. John carefully opened the capsule door. As planned, they were in a large, empty warehouse. A slightly sour, burnt smell, like a fire doused with water, still hung in the air, although it had been seven months since the San Francisco fire. The odor was especially unpleasant when mixed with the moldy smell and stuffiness of the warehouse. Joy sneezed several times until her nose adjusted to it. The air seemed to cling uncomfortably and coldly to her damp cheeks. I wanna go home was her spontaneous reaction, but she shoved the thought back into her unconscious. She didn’t think it would stay there long. They stepped out, swinging their flashlight beams through the darkness of the warehouse until they located the supply and equipment capsules that had been sent ahead of them. Before they did anything, John thought they had better test their communication system. Doctor Laurent Nkongoli, a Rwandan member of the Society, had surgically implanted small transmitters in their necks near their throats, and a small receiver behind each one’s left ear. Their bodies acted as aerials, and their communications could reach over thousands of miles. By sub-vocalizing “KK,” they could toggle it on or off. But before John activated his, Joy had already noticed a beeping in hers. “Is there something wrong with my receiver?” she asked. “I’m getting a beeping sound, even though we haven’t activated it yet.” “I’m hearing that too,” he replied, looking puzzled. “I don’t think this was caused by our time travel, or that the receivers are defective. Maybe it’s coming from somewhere in here.” John began to stride around the warehouse, leaving behind him a small cloud of dust. He soon noticed that the beeping grew stronger or weaker depending on the direction he took. By pacing back and forth and then moving in a steadily decreasing circle, he homed in on the source. Finally he stopped and pointed the flashlight down at the wooden floorboards. “It’s coming from there. Get me something to pry up the floorboards.”

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While he stood on the spot, Joy rushed over to their supply and equipment capsules and only then noticed that there were boxes, broken chairs, empty bottles, garbage, and a spindly table by the capsules. Someone had occupied the warehouse. But first things first. The capsules were shaped like large residential gas tanks and made of dull gray titanium. About five feet high and seven feet long, they sat on runners attached to their bottoms. They contained everything the Society calculated they would or might need—all the clothing, supplies, equipment, weapons, and financial assets amounting to two billion 2002 dollars in gold, gems, and real and counterfeit currency. Joy sought out the supply capsule that she knew contained an axe and crowbar and pressed down hard on the left corner of an almost invisible plate in its side. When the plate loosened, she pushed it in and sideways to reveal a keypad and punched in the code to open the capsule door. When it swung upward, she reached into a recess to one side of the open door and switched off the self-destruct mechanism, then studied the map of the capsule’s contents mounted on the door. She found the tools she wanted, and took them to John. He used the edge of the axe to create an opening for the crowbar, inserted the crowbar, and pried up one floorboard at a time. Dust kicked up in a low cloud that looked like ground fog in the flashlight beam. “You know, dearest,” Joy said, “the second thing I want, when we get a chance, is a bath.” “Oh?” John responded. “What’s the first thing?” “Something to drink. This air has made my throat dry and I don’t think we’ve had anything to drink since well before we started your training this afternoon.” “Is that all,” he replied, sounding disappointed. Two layers of hardwood boards were crisscrossed for strength, and he had a hard time working his way through them. Breathing hard, he commented, “No wonder this warehouse survived the earthquake. Being all wood sure helped.” “I’m surprised it didn’t burn down in the fire, then,” Joy replied, doing a fast scan of the warehouse with her flashlight. “Hey,” John exclaimed, “keep the light on the hole.” She jerked the light back. “The warehouse is far enough south to have avoided completely the fire that burned down the downtown and commercial districts,” he pointed out. “No sparks even came this way. And the ground didn’t flow or settle under it during the earthquake, either.”

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Finally John created a large enough hole to look underneath with his flashlight. The bottom layer of boards rested on wooden beams about a foot apart, and poles driven into the earth supported these. The warehouse floor had been constructed to support heavy weight. Beneath the beams, a bright yellow metal box about the size of a hardcover book lay on the bare clay of the ground about two feet down. John got down on his stomach, lifted out the box, and placed it on the floor next to Joy. She focused her flashlight on it. John sat up, picked up the box, and twisted it around in his hands, looking for some clue as to what it was. There was no icon nor anything printed on it, but there was a recessed keypad similar to that on a cell phone. “Obviously, we should punch in some code, but what?” Joy said. “Let’s do something fast—that beeping in my ear has gotten irritating.” “This keypad looks like something from our time and the electronic beeping confirms it. I bet this was sent through time for us. Maybe it’ll open with our cell phone numbers.” John punched in her number, and when nothing happened, he tried his own. Nothing. “Try our phone numbers,” she suggested. John did, and nothing. He tried their first names, their last names, and their full names. Nothing. He was clearly frustrated. “If it weren’t for that damn beeping, we could leave this until later, when we’re settled. It would be fun trying to decode this thing when we had the time.” “Try my mother’s name,” Joy suggested, with little hope. Nothing. John sat back and put the box on his lap. “Okay. Let’s relax, try to ignore the beeping, and just let our minds play with this. We’re in no hurry, right? Nothing’s at stake. We’re under no pressure, except for the beeping. And we’ve this puzzle. If this were sent to us, and it had to be, we should be able to open it. The code can’t be anything strange. It should be something that only we know.” Joy sat back as well, and tried to relax and ignore the beeping, the unpleasant odors, and the cold chill in the air. She set the flashlight on its bottom and it lit up the ceiling beams high above them. John did the same with his and they sat quietly in the dust and dim reflected light, thinking. Still feeling emotionally drained, Joy reached over and took his hand, and they sat holding hands. The warmth and firmness of his hand in hers helped her emotionally refocus from the mother she had lost to what would now be.

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She slid closer to John, put her arm through his, and rested her head on his shoulder. His closeness and vibrancy were just what she needed. She didn’t doubt that only harmonically tuned lovers like them could find this situation at all romantic. What a strange and completely unanticipated way to begin their life in the new universe. Then she had it. She raised her head and looked at John, and he wore the same “eureka” expression that must have been on her face. John released her hand, and she picked up her flashlight and focused it again on the box. Smiling, he keyed in the code they used for their supply capsules. With an audible, metallic click, the top of the box was released and the beeping stopped. “How can we be so dumb?” he asked, raising the top and looking for a self-destruct switch. There was none. Both of them looked inside. Nothing was the same after they opened that box. Not their lives, not their world, not the universe. The new universe they’d just begun, that branched off from the parallel old universe from which they had traveled through time, now itself branched into another. Unknowingly, they had initiated a Third Universe. John opened the lid of the box wide and Joy focused her flashlight inside. They could see a small electronic device that must have been the source of the beeping, the electronic locking mechanism, and two CDs and a DVD in plastic cases, carefully buttressed against shock. There was a handwritten note on the top of the CDs: For Joy Phim and John Banks from your new universe, 1994. Please read CD #1 as soon as you can. All our love and very best wishes, Lora Joy Reeves Mark John Docker Joy Phim Democratic Peace Institute. Joy was more than surprised. Stunned, was more like it. This was so unexpected and the note so laden with meaning that she suddenly drew in her breath and it felt like minutes before she released it. Her hand holding the light shook. She couldn’t have been more taken aback if a dead relative sat up in their coffin.

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Joy’s mind would not work at first. And then thoughts suddenly flooded it, as though from a burst dam. Here they’d just arrived in 1906, ready to foster democracy and intervene around the world to prevent major wars and democide. They were trying to be gods. Such grandiose ambition might easily and most likely would fail. They both knew it. There was a good chance one or both of them would be killed. They both know that too, but they hoped for at least some success beforehand. Now, within an hour of stepping out of their time machine with a new universe of possibilities and dangers before them, they’d found a message—a message!—sent to them from the far future. Not from the universe they left, but incredibly, the very new universe they were here to create—that they will have created. And the message implied that they survived long enough to become known. And Joy would be successful enough to have an institute named after her, although she was beginning to worry whether that meant John died or was killed well before her. Her mind was swamped with questions, but it centered on one thing: I’ve got to read these CDs immediately. Apparently, John thought the same thing. He slapped back the floorboards and made them secure, then rushed with the small box to their supply capsules. Joy beat him there. She found in one her laptop computer while he found his 1905 Hamilton pocket watch and her open faced purse watch styled for the same year in another. It was 3:30 a.m.; they had some time before morning light. Joy wanted to just sit down on the floor, open the laptop, and start reading the CDs, but John insisted that they make themselves a little more comfortable. While she waited impatiently, he took out a backpack tent for two and an automatically inflatable air mattress and set them up on the floor. He got blankets to put around them and hung a bright lantern inside. Joy was the computer expert, and put everything together in the tent so they could view the CD. They had two super long lasting batteries in the laptop, and a transformer to enable them to recharge the batteries on the variable electricity of this age. Once ready, she inserted the CD, and when it opened she saw that it contained documents compatible with the system, word processor, spreadsheet, and browser she had on the laptop. Of course. Those who made it must have known what kind of computer and operating system she had. Joy opened the first “Read me” file.

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Joy and John, this and the other CD contain the following: CD #1 Our letter to you Why we are sending you all this Institute background on Uighuristan Sabah’s seizure of Uighuristan Sabah’s takeover of China CD #2 The daily closing of the New York Stock Exchange, November, 1906, to October 12, 1994; commodity market, funds rate; and daily currency exchange. (This will enable you to compare and plot the new universe changes from the old universe financial statistics you have brought with you.) The most important world events, 1906 - October, 1994, New Universe. DVD: Scenes of nuclear destruction in New York. “I’ll be damned,” John exclaimed, slapping his forehead. “This is incredible. Hours ago you were teaching me karate, and now we’re not only back in time, but we have a history of what we did in this new universe on a CD.” “I don’t think this is good news, dearest,” she told him as she opened the CD’s letter to them. December 2, 1994 Joy Phim Democratic Peace Institute Santa Barbara Affiliate Our Dearest Joy and John: We hope that you don’t mind our being so personal. You have been part of our lives since we were born, and as close to us as our own parents. Before I continue with what has happened, I should explain about our names. You see, in honor of both of you, who meant so much to our grandfathers, our parents gave us your names. As

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you now know, I am Lora Joy Reeves, and my assistant, translator, and husband is Mark John Docker (they followed your example—as Joy was John’s assistant and translator, Mark is the same to me. When we think about it, it gives us a moment of humor.) Until now, we have tried to continue your mission. We succeeded in this only up to the last horrible months. Since then, we have spent all our available resources and time trying to get this message to you. We hope with all our hearts that once you realize what happened and have the record of relevant events, you and your successors will be able to prevent it. Before sending you on to our “Why” document, one warning: you will have three early morning intruders in your warehouse. You will tame them and they eventually will become your greatest supporters and executives in your company, and two of them will be Mark’s and my grandfathers. You will come to love them as we did. We so wish we could have met you both in person. In love and in remembrance of your great work, with all our hopes for your success, Lora Joy Reeves President, Joy Phim Democratic Peace Institute Mark John Docker Assistant, Translator, Husband Surprised and worried by this bad news, Joy looked over at John. He looked like someone facing a snake and unable to tell whether it was poisonous or not. She told him, “We’ve got to read what happened right away. I won’t be able to sleep, otherwise. I’m going to open the ‘Why’ document.” “Wait,” John said. “Since we’re going to meet our future helpers, I want to be sure we see them when they come in. When I was looking around with the flashlight, I saw that the front entrance to the warehouse is barricaded and that the only entrance is the side door. Let’s turn the tent and mattress so that we can watch that entrance as we read.”

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They did that, wrapped the blankets around themselves, and settled in for a long read. Joy brought up the “Why we are sending this” document on the laptop screen, and they started reading. What no one foresaw in the old universe was the development of a radical antidemocratic Islamic fundamentalism called Sabahism . . . It went on to explain the nature of Islam and its relationship to the growth of democracy. Then they read: Many mullahs and imams taught this tolerance and peaceful coexistence up to the 1960s. Besides, much of this world had become democratic. The Joy Phim Institute you set up, John, and of which my grandfather Hands Reeves became first president, also saw no reason to believe otherwise. Joy felt warm inside at reading that. “How sweet, darling. You set up an institute in my name to continue our mission.” She leaned over and kissed John on the cheek. This was the only happy moment for her since they’d arrived. They returned to reading. What was little noted by either of you during your creation of the new universe was what went on in a remote region of the world. In Middle Asia, specifically in what was at one time or another called East Turkistan, Sinkiang, Uighuristan and, in its latest incarnation, Islamic East Turkistan. Ever since the tragic events that caused this message to you, we have asked ourselves how you two, Hands, and we could have missed what happened in what was known at the time as Uighuristan. You had no company offices in the region, and neither did we have institute offices or affiliates there. Our closest offices were in Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Peking. We did have an affiliate institute in New Delhi, but this was on the other side of the Karakorem Mountains. In short, none of us had the intelligence we needed, and we were caught by surprise by what subsequently happened there, in China, and to us. We didn’t stretch our thinking enough. We never dreamed that such tragedy would be-

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fall China, and have such horrible ultimate consequences for us. So far I have given you no basis for intervention and changing the history of the new universe you are creating. Now I will. Since time presses on us, I leave the background to “The History and Geography of Uighuristan” included in this CD, and the two reports on Abul Sabah. Sybil Bazyan, president of our Santa Barbara affiliate, will prepare a detailed chronology of events and people to put on the second CD. Please read the two reports on Sabah, and then I will have some comments on them. In the reports you will read about what we all now agree was the most monstrously evil man to have ever existed. John and Joy read that Abul was born in 1914, New Universe, and used his epileptic fits to create a fundamentalist Islamic sect that would eventually take over the country of Uighuristan, with himself as caliph, and that following that he gradually subverted and seized China in a coup he masterminded. It was an unbelievable story, worthy of the emperors and kings of ancient times. The conclusion of the report was chilling: In short, by 1994, with his hidden nuclear weapons and in control of the most populous country in the world, he was the most powerful ruler ever seen in history. He was ready to take over the world. When they finished reading this, Joy noticed that John’s brow was deeply furrowed, his lips pulled down at both ends. She asked him, “Do you have any knowledge about those events in Uighuristan?” He didn’t raise his eyes from the screen. “No, and the report even used the word ‘horrible.’ I have no idea what went on.” They now turned to Lora’s conclusion on the reports: From these reports, what do I conclude about Abul Sabah that may guide your relations with him or strategy

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toward him? He is ruthless. He is patient. He is brilliant. He is supremely capable. He is charismatic. He is ambitious for power. And he has inspired the dedicated loyalty of those around him. “What time is it?” Joy asked. John looked at his pocket watch and replied, “It’s 5:38. We’ve got time before we see our visitors. What do you think of our clever young boy, Abul Sabah?” Joy thought for a moment before replying. “He is amazing. We’ve seen other men in the twentieth century with that kind of ability to move masses, although not by using epileptic fits and hallucinations, if that’s what they were. Hitler and Lenin had that ability and charisma, for example, as did Juan Peron of Argentina, and Mahatma Gandhi of India. You know, in our history of the old universe, I don’t remember this Sabah existing. What say you, my historian? Had you heard of him?” Dumb question, she realized. This is not a happy moment for my historian. “Let’s see,” John replied, thinking aloud, “I must say that, like most Western historians, I don’t know much about Middle Asia, or Sinkiang of China. With Sun Yat-sen’s revolution in 1911, Sinkiang, or what I knew as East Turkistan, did achieve autonomy, if not in practice independence, and set up their own republic in 1920. Twice the Nationalist government of China under Chiang Kai-shek tried to subdue them but failed. After the Nationalists lost the mainland to the communists under Mao Tse-tung in 1949, Mao sent a huge army into Sinkiang and reannexed the country. The communists renamed it the Xinjiang Uygur Autonomous Region.” “Wow, I’m impressed,” Joy exclaimed with a smile. Ignoring her, John continued. “There was nothing autonomous about it, of course. The Uighurs continued to rebel against the Chinese up to the time we left the old universe, and there were frequent massacres carried out there by the Chinese as a result.” “So, love, I guess he must have been born and had his fits in the old universe as well, but they either amounted to nothing or he was killed under the different political and religious conditions. Yes, I guess whatever we did in this new universe made it possible for him to live, proselytize, and capture a country. We are going to have to study all this once we get settled.” John was quick to respond with, “Well, we don’t need to study

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more to know one thing: democracies cannot ever let down their guard when there are tyrants around.” He thought for a moment. “You know, these events probably will take place after we have died of old age, or are too frail to do anything. This is now 1906; I’m twenty-six to your twenty-five. By 1960 we will be about eighty years old. We’ve got to deal with this while we are still young and healthy, and leave this message to our successors.” Again their situation hit her. “I can’t believe that 2002, the year that we left just a few hours ago—a few hours, darling!—is so incredibly far in the future that we won’t even live to see that year again.” “I haven’t absorbed it either,” John replied. “Maybe when we get out on the street and see the horses and all the buggies, and the women with long dresses and corsets, and men wearing Derby or Fedora hats, we’ll feel more like we’re here. Let’s continue reading the message.” As we watched from afar, Joy and John, you can easily guess what we intended to do. We were by this time the largest privately funded institute in the world. We were richer than all but the top nineteen countries in the world. And through our secret conversion of the 2002 technology you left us, we were always developing new technology for the 1970s, ’80s and ’90s that would bring in new funds. Our game plan was your game plan. We tried to use our funds at first to help those committed to returning democracy to China, but many democratic leaders had been arrested and the rest were scared and dispirited. So we tried to determine who the pivot figures were at the middle levels of the regime, particularly those in the security police and military, that we could subvert. We made several such contacts, and successfully recruited a few agents whose own contacts reached high up among the ruling echelons. But this was slow, and our major difficulty was that we had no road map of who would do what to whom, and when, as you had with your Old Universe chronology. All this is introduction. The rest is so evil that it dwarfs any other historical evil as a massacre of thousands does a single murder. On October 10, 1994, we decided to sleep in before heading to our Institute in downtown Manhattan. After we got up, we had made . . .

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Joy and John were so utterly focused on the laptop screen, an elephant could have walked by the tent at that moment and they would not have noticed. Unconsciously, Joy leaned forward to read. . . . . We found out later that not only were Manhattan and our Institute destroyed by a nuclear bomb, but Washington, D.C. was also obliterated. Central London, Berlin, Paris, and Moscow were similarly wiped out, along with our affiliated institutes in each city. Joy jerked her hand to her mouth and screamed through it, “Oh my God, I don’t believe it! Nuclear bombs in so many cities? My God, it’s like our old universe. No. It’s worse. While atomic bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki during world War II, that was it. No nuclear bombs were ever exploded in or above a city again.” Her voice trailed off. “Never . . . again . . . .” John sat staring at the screen in disbelief. He looked nauseated. He pounded his fist on his knee, his face lined with emotional pain. Joy’s thoughts writhed with the horrible scale of this human catastrophe. She trembled all over. But like John, she couldn’t take her eyes away from the screen. Like a drug addict that must have more, ever more, no matter the physical cost and pain, she was driven to read on. They soon got to the part where Sybil estimated that 1.75 to two billion people were killed or went missing in the nuclear attacks. “Oh God,” Joy moaned. She finally was able to rip her eyes from the screen. She put a shaking hand on John’s shoulder and cried, “My God, John, all those poor people. I can’t believe it. That’s more killed than in all the wars, democides, and famines in the twentieth century of our old universe. In all history.” John covered his eyes with his hand. He twisted away from the screen, dropped his hand and stared down at it as though it had turned into a rotting fish. His face looked sallow in the suffused light from the screen and lantern. His lips trembled. Joy could smell his sweat even over the stench in the warehouse. “Holy Mother of God.” His voice broke. “I can’t believe this either. All those people murdered by the decision of one man.” Joy’s face contorted; her lips were barely able to twist around the words: “I don’t have words for this evil.” She tasted blood where she had bitten her inner lip. The deadly understanding of what this all meant slowly loosened the paralysis grief held on her mind, and the words exploded out of her

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mouth. “We came here to carry out our great mission to foster democracy and intervene to prevent war and democide.” Each word felt like a knife thrust into her emotions. “We failed. Utterly. We—I—created a world worse than what we left.” Her voice rose to a wail. “I gave up my mother to come to this primitive year to . . . fail.” As they sat in the dark warehouse next to their supply and equipment capsules, Joy began to shake even more. She remembered her mother’s anguished face as she pushed them into the capsule to be gone from her forever. Just a few hours ago. For nothing. And there was no way back. They were stuck here. She couldn’t stand the sense of failure. She didn’t want this world now. I am ashamed of what we—I—did . . . No, what I will do. So ashamed that she began to sweat. Each beat of her heart shook her body and pounded in her ears like a drum. Her emotions beat on her thoughts and they submitted. She was a perfectly trained warrior and, when threatened by stress or danger, she could control and calm herself. But not now. Not when faced with such humiliation and disgrace. She threw off the blanket, rolled out of the tent, and stood, shuddering and swaying, breathing heavily. Shame made her reel. Her head pounded with a tension headache and she tasted vomit. Somehow, the deep, unconscious part of her mind instructed her body what to do, and then it disengaged itself. It knew it was gone forever. Her body straightened. It moved toward the weapons capsule and automatically keyed in the code, opened the door, thumbed off the selfdestruct mechanism, and reached for her tactical knife. It felt good in her hand—just right, the perfect answer. It would end dishonor. She couldn’t wait. She raised it to her throat to slice her carotid artery open. It was the female warrior’s way, the Heavenly Cut. Joy was almost knocked off her feet as a rough hand grabbed her arm and another the hand holding the knife. Reflexively, she lowered her body, got her legs into the proper center of gravity, seized the arm, rotated to her left, and threw the assailant over her shoulder. He landed hard on the floor as she twisted the knife from his grip. She straightened, ready again to do what she must. “JOY! No!” John screamed at her from the floor. “No, Joy. Don’t. There’s a way out. You can beat it.” From somewhere deeper than her trained instincts, something gained enough control of her mouth to spit back at him, “We failed. The Society failed. The Institute failed. I failed. I can’t stand it.”

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Devastating images flooded her mind—cities wiped out by nuclear bombs; horribly mutilated bodies; the wounded and dying; the hopeless refugees. Her body allowed a single thought: All this was our—my— creation in this new universe! Her mouth shrieked, “I wanna die.” “Baby, listen,” John pleaded as she raised the knife one last time to make the cut. Then he bellowed with all the power of his lungs, “LISTEN TO ME, GODDAM IT.” No one had ever yelled at her like that. Never. She hesitated with the knife near her neck. Her mind was stirring again. But it was not enough. In a voice intermixed with love and panic, John threw words at her in a jumble. “WE change it. The future. We created Lora’s future. We didn’t know about Sabah. Now, now we do! We can save all those lives. We create a third universe. Think, Joy. A third universe.” In a voice so miserable Joy didn’t recognize it as her own, her tongue countered with, “How can we fight Sabah, with all his power? Just you and me?” “We kill him when he’s a baby or a little boy. We kill him before he has any power. Before anyone but his parents care.” He couldn’t reach her dead mind. She held the knife almost touching her pulsing artery. She wanted the bliss of death—the escape from shame, just a second away. There was a ritual to this, and her warrior instincts demanded that she do it just right. She properly oriented the blade for the cut. John had to know he could never take a knife away from her. But as broken up as Joy was, he did the perfect thing. In one motion, so fast he caught her by surprise, he leaped up and slapped her face so hard he knocked her head to the side—away from the blade. She almost fell. John was a kind and decent man, she believed in her heart. He would never strike a woman, or anyone for that matter, unless defending himself. That he would hit her, and so hard, shocked her to the core, to her innermost love for him. He shocked her mind into working again. Joy’s body must have known she needed it, for it didn’t reflexively strike a defensive chop or kick back at him. Joy’s cheek smarted, and her eyes teared from the slap. She stood with her hands hanging loosely, one now barely holding onto the knife. She felt as if an hour had passed, but it must have been no more than seconds. She slowly turned her head to look at John, and brought her

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free hand up to touch her hot and swelling cheek. John stared at her, his eyes pleading, tears coursing down his checks. And as her mind began to work, he gently took the knife from her hand and threw it into the capsule. He put his arms around her and held her hard against his body. Slowly, as if coming out of a long sleep, she put her arms around him. They held each other tight, their heads on each other’s shoulders, and John started to sob with what only could be relief. She was still too devastated to cry. Although functioning again, her mind felt weighed down with lead. It was still overwhelmed, in the eye of an emotional storm she could not release. She whispered huskily, “Let’s simply do nothing and make a good life for ourselves. Let’s get married and adopt children. We’d never have to work, with the money we have, and we could buy a nice house and travel the world and . . . ” She was babbling. John stopped sobbing, drew in several deep breaths, rubbed the tears from his face onto her shoulder, and gently pushed her away. He held her by the shoulders at an arms’ distance, looking into her eyes. In a voice filled love and compassion, he said, “Sweetheart, baby, we can do it. We can prevent this. Together. It has to be you and me. I can’t do it alone.” He did it! she realized suddenly. Her mind was functioning again. Her heart seemed to stop for seconds as she looked at him, staggered by the thought. She grabbed it with her mental hands and squeezed it to her. She centered on it, as though it were a lifeboat in a storm-tossed sea. “Of course, we’ve got the power. We don’t have to fail. Yes, you’re right.” Joy let out a long, tremulous breath. Her mind cleared, as a fresh breeze clears away a fog. She thrust out her chin and stood straighter. Yes, yes, of course. My shame is now a challenge. We can do it. This is a fight worthy of a warrior and her partner. And my love has saved my life and my soul. She threw herself into his arms and kissed his lips, his wet eyes, his hands. Suddenly she stopped as she realized again the awful immensity of their new task. “We can do it. Yes, we can. We must. Even if it means our deaths.” She took several more deep breaths and exhaled slowly to calm herself. Now it worked. She was back in control. She took his hand in hers and kissed it again, then led him back to the laptop screen. She was emotionally and physically exhausted by all that had transpired since their training session only hours ago, a universe away, and two life-

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times in the future. But still, she had to keep reading. It was impossible not to. They cried all over again when they read about Lora and Mark’s terminal radiation poisoning. And then they came to the end of Lora’s message. You now have it all. Obviously, we succeeded in getting this information to you. So, our darling Joy and John, our very best wishes and all our hopes are now with you. We know you won’t fail. We have lived a good life and have no personal regrets about our coming deaths. Like yours, our lives have been a meld of our deepest love for each other and our duty to mankind. We gain solace from the knowledge that we will die together hand in hand, and so travel as one to whatever future the universe holds for us after death. We hope that Spunky will be with us. We knew the little blind boy for such a short time. Our deepest sympathies go out to all the millions already dead in this war, and we are profoundly sad over what may well be the end of this Institute and your legacy. We hope and pray that you can prevent this from happening in a third universe. With our deepest love Lora Joy and Mark John February 11, 1995 Note from Sybil Bazyan: I am adding this note to the CD just before sending this capsule to you. Had you known Lora and Mark, you would have loved them, and shared my pride in them. Although they never met you, they studied all they could about you, and heard fabulous stories about you at their grandfathers’ knees. They truly loved you both. They died in each other’s arms two weeks ago, as they wanted. We know that, hand in hand, they have now gone on to whatever heaven awaits them. They died without knowing that we had finally perfected our time machine so that we could send this capsule to you, although just before their deaths, we as-

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sured them we would be able to do so. We have been warned by our contacts that, at the orders of the local Chinese “ambassador” in Los Angeles, state police are headed for our Institute in order to take it over and prevent the destruction of any equipment or scientific documents. We have been unable to hide more than a small amount of our equipment, and nothing regarding our time machine. As soon as we send this, we will set the timer on explosives placed throughout the Institute and evacuate it before setting them off. I join Lora and Mark in praying for your success. God be with you. It is my lifelong regret that I never met you, but I know with all my heart that I still can say sincerely, With my love, Sybil Joy went through the motions without thinking. She ejected the CD and carefully put it into its case, and put the case in the small capsule. She turned off the laptop computer and closed the lid. She sat there looking down at the laptop, not seeing it, overwhelmed by what she had read, still utterly exhausted by her near suicide. She could not move or cry any longer. She could not even look at John, whose heavy breathing was the only sound in the warehouse. She didn’t know how long they sat there, trying to absorb and digest all they had read. Occasionally, she rubbed her cheek, still smarting from his slap. Idly, she hoped he’d left a mark. I will bear it proudly, as a sign of his love and our new mission. Finally John said, almost in a growl, “Now we have work to do.” That broke her spell. “It will be light outside soon,” she responded. “I’m so drained by all that’s happened that I have to sleep. But we were told we’ll soon have visitors. Can you believe it, dearest? Two of them will be the grandfathers of Lora and Mark. Will you wake me up when they come? I’m exhausted.” She didn’t fall asleep right away. She heard John making a noise by the back door of the warehouse. He soon put another blanket over her and squeezed in beside her. Judging by his breathing, he actually fell asleep before she did. Her last thought was, When our visitors wake us up, it will be a third universe.

Chapter 7 Joy November 14, 1906, Third Universe

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ome noise disturbed her sleep, and Joy woke with a start. She felt John close to her, as usual, since she had moved into his room at the Society’s scientific headquarters. It had all been a nightmare, a god-awful nightmare stemming, she knew, from her basic fear of shame. “Phew,” Joy sighed with relief, and started to stretch. She realized suddenly that they were in a tent, and the air stank. Joy looked around. Damn, it wasn’t a dream. The sound she had heard was falling bottles. John had piled them on the empty boxes he stacked against the back door, so they would be alerted when their three visitors entered. John also had been awakened, and they both looked out of the tent. Yes, it was the visitors they’d been promised. Three young men carrying boxes looked in bewilderment at the fallen bottles as they came in. Then they saw the tent. They stopped in surprise, and seemed even more amazed when John crawled out of the tent. While they talked excitedly among themselves, Joy climbed out of the tent and stood next to John. Her body had needed that nap; she felt better. She was still dressed in her karate practice clothes, with her hair in a pigtail and her red headband across her forehead. After several minutes, the three guys slowly approached them, the tall man in the lead. “What are you doing here?” he asked them. He didn’t sound friendly. John answered, “This is our warehouse. What are you doing here?” “You own this?” the guy asked, still sounding a little belligerent. “Yes,” John replied in pleasant voice. “I don’t believe you,” one of the men who had been hanging back challenged. John looked at them calmly. Waving at the capsules behind him, he

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said, “I bet you tried to get into our capsules. I’ll tell you what. Will you believe me if I open a capsule and thus show you that they are ours?” The third man, who had yet to speak, pointed out, “We took a sledgehammer to them and didn’t make a dent. Tried everything.” Joy watched the men closely, just in case they thought of attacking. John went over to the nearest capsule and, with his back to the strangers, punched in the code, opened the door, and deactivated the selfdestruct mechanism. Among other things, this capsule contained some of their money, which had been divided up among all the capsules for safety. With his back still to the men, John took out a roll of money and put it in his pocket. He turned around and looked at the surprised faces of the three men. “Now,” John said, “you are in our warehouse. Have you been living here?” “Yes,” the big man admitted. “We’re sorry to trespass in your place. We’ve no jobs and no place to live, since the fire.” John asked for their names. They were Adolph Docker—“Folks call me Dolphy”—Sal Garcia, and the tall man was Hands (Alex) Reeves. John asked the three of them a number of questions about their backgrounds and then, after a brief description of the Tor Import and Export Company John said he was setting up in San Francisco, he surprised them by offering them jobs for a good wage: two dollars per eight-hour day, which was about thirty-eight dollars a day in year 2002 money, and higher than the average wage for the time, considering the norm was a ten-hour day. They accepted, of course. They had yet to say something to Joy, although she kept getting glances from them. While John was talking to Sal, she caught Dolphy staring at her, open-mouthed. Finally Dolphy pointed his thumb at her and asked John, “Who’s the Chink?” Before John could say a word, Joy lost it. The accumulated stress of losing her mother, what they had gone through to get here, reading about the nuclear horror suffered by Lora and Mark and the democracies, and her near suicide made her snap. She reached Dolphy in three steps, grabbed his shirt, and threw him to the floor. As he lay there, dumbfounded, she put her foot on his chest and said sweetly, “Move, and I’ll break your arm.” John was about to step over to Joy to protect her back, but she motioned for him to stop. She placed her hands on her hips, put her weight on her foot as she leaned over Dolphy, and asked even more sweetly, “What did you call me?” “You’re a Chink, ain’t you?”

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“Now you know, Mr. Docker, where I come from, that is a very bad word. You have insulted me. You are now working for Mr. Banks’ company, as I am, and you will apologize. You will call me Miss Phim. Let me hear it.” John’s eyes were twinkling. The other two guys smirked. “The hell I will,” Dolphy said, and tried to push Joy’s foot off his chest with his hand. Joy stood back and let him get up, and offered amiably, “If I throw you three times in a row, will you apologize and call me Miss Phim? And if you throw me even once, well, you can call me what you like. Okay?” Dolphy eyed her up and down, looking as if he’d been offered sex if he could answer whether a dog or a cat barked. His face cleared, and he shook his head. “Nah, you’re a woman. I don’t want to hurt you. It ain’t right.” He looked sad at the lost opportunity, however. Joy took two steps over to him and pushed him hard on the shoulder. “Coward, eh? Afraid of little me?” She pushed his shoulder again. “Don’t want your friends see you lose, huh? What a coward. I bet you’re not afraid to take on little boys, howev—” Grunting, he leaped at her, his arms reaching out to grasp her and throw her down. Joy just twisted inside his right arm, jerked his arm in his direction of motion, hooked her foot around his ankle, and friend gravity did the rest. Dolphy rolled to a standing position more easily than she thought he could, and better than John had, for the first month of his training. Furious, he yelled, “Oh no, that doesn’t count. You tripped me.” “Fine,” she replied. His anger didn’t get in the way of his new caution. He assumed a wrestler’s crouch and circled her, arms bent toward her as though circling a barrel. It didn’t matter. She’d been taught how to handle this approach even before she was a teenager. She did a side snap kick with her right foot to his chest, and he flew backwards. He couldn’t roll so easily out of that one, but he still was able to do a flip jump to regain his feet. His anger was gone. She thought at first he was grimacing. No, he was smiling. As he adopted a hunched-over stance, almost hugging the floor with his hands out about a foot in front of his chest, she kept her eyes on his— eyes are the message board of a fighter—and used her peripheral vision. He was waiting for Joy to attack this time.

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So she stood facing him, her left leg slightly in front, looking relaxed in her unorthodox hour glass stance, her hands loosely at her side, as though waiting in line for a movie ticket. She read the confusion in his eyes and, faster than his brain could track, she faked left and right at an angle toward him and left to his side to get a wrist lock and took him down backwards. No one made a sound as he slowly rose, holding his wrist, obviously in some pain. With surprising graciousness, he tilted his head toward her, and said. “I did some wrestling for money. You’re good. Are you really a woman? I don’t believe it.” Sal smiled broadly. “I want proof.” John chuckled and Dolphy and Hands reddened. Joy was happy with the outcome. She held out her right hand to Dolphy, and at first he didn’t know what to do with it. Women of this age did not shake hands. “She wants to shake your hand,” John gently pointed out. Dolphy smiled, rubbed his hand on his trousers, and firmly shook her hand while telling her, “I’m sorry I called you . . . that, Miss Phim. I’m glad to meetcha.” “My pleasure,” she said, truly pleased. John came over and put his hand on her shoulder. He said loud enough for all three of the guys to hear, “Miss Phim is my assistant and translator. I will attest to her womanhood.” When they smirked and Joy glared at him, John reddened and blurted, “I mean to say that I have seen her in dresses. You are to treat her with the same respect you treat me. Otherwise,” and he chuckled, “she’ll break your arms.” The three guys smiled at this, even Dolphy, who was rubbing his aching shoulder. Joy stepped close to John and whispered that she wanted a private word with him. “Sit down and relax for a few minutes while we get some stuff from our capsules,” he told the guys, then led Joy over to the nearest capsule and asked her, “Is this the woodshed, where I’m going to be spanked for my slip?” She laughed. “No, dearest. What they don’t find out now about us, they’ll find out soon enough. Anyway, if they know we’re lovers, it will save me from their advances.” And I won’t have to suffer your jealousy, she thought, then added, “Anyway, what I wanted to ask was whether you think we can trust them. I know things worked out with them in the Second Universe, since Lora and Mark were the grandchil-

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dren of Dolphy and Hands. But right now they are untamed, so to speak. They have no home, no close relatives, and they’ve been stealing to live. We don’t know if they’re presently dangerous when our backs are turned. Not even I can always be prepared for a knife in the back.” She smiled demurely. “Well, what choice do we have?” She made her suggestion to him, and he agreed, and they looked for the medical supplies in the capsule next to them. When she had everything prepared, they returned to the guys, who were watching curiously. “Fellows,” John said, “you’re now working for us, and I have to protect the health of all our employees. So, my assistant will have to inoculate you for several diseases.” “Like what?” Sal asked. Joy lied, “Diphtheria and small pox.” She had no idea what one could inoculate against in 1906. She approached them holding in one hand three swipe pads dampened with alcohol and three hypodermic needles, and in the other a syringe filled with a harmless sterile solution. She inserted a new needle into the syringe, wiped a spot sterile on Dolphy’s arm, and plunged the needle into his arm. Carefully changing the needle each time, she repeated the procedure with Hands and Sal. “Now,” John said, “listen to me carefully. Miss Phim has given each of you a slow-acting poison. You’ll be protected against it if we give you an antidote once a month. Each antidote will have a new infusion of poison, for which you will need another antidote the next month. This is a special poison made in China. It is unknown here, so don’t bother searching for the antidote.” The guys looked sick. Hands yelled, “Why did you do this? We didn’t do anything to you.” John answered, “It’s simply to keep you honest while you work for us. Anytime you want to quit, or you get fired, we will give you the antidote without any new poison. You understand?” They looked very unhappy, but nodded. “When you’ve proven your loyalty, I end the poison.” John looked at his pocket watch and saw that it was mid-morning. “Okay, fellows,” he said, “Now you start earning your income. We came straight here from the train station, and don’t even have a place to live. How about taking us to a hotel where we can get rooms? But first,” he added, “we have to get into some decent clothes. Turn around, relax, and look at the opposite wall while we change.” Joy and John retrieved from the appropriate capsule their period

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clothes, and the toiletry bags that the Society had thoughtfully prepared for them. They went behind the capsule to change. John put on all-wool, gray, pinstripe pants, black boots, and a longsleeved, white madras shirt with separate linen collar. Shaking his head, he put the fashionable maroon bow tie around the collar. He added a blue, diagonally worsted coat, and pulled a cocky looking Fedora down over his carrot-colored hair. Unruly wisps of orange hair stuck out from beneath the hat, contrasting with its gray felt—no two colors an artist would put next to each other, except with a gun to his head. As Joy dressed she kept chuckling at the way John looked, and had to hold back her laughter. She had to wear what was called a “lady’s” white satin waist, really a shirt, with wide collars held tight at the throat with an imitation silk bow. She tucked the shirt into a blue “short lady’s” mixed cotton and wool walking skirt with flounced bottom. It ended just above her awful, she thought, pointed, flat-heeled shoes. No corset. She would go naked first. She asked John to hold the mirror from their capsule for her as she undid her pigtail and, with a dozen pins, redid her hair into a large bun on top of her head. She put on a lady’s cloth cape and finally, the pièce de résistance—a wide-brimmed hat with folded lace, imitation flowers, and white egret feathers sticking out at the side. What astounded her about all these clothes was that the whole outfit would have cost about $6.00, and marked her as middle class. Finally she dabbed some stylish light red lipstick on—for decades “decent” women had worn no makeup, but that was now changing— and heavily powdered the scar that ran from her cheek to her chin. It was still noticeable, but not as stark against her light olive skin. John put the mirror away. He avoided looking at her. He tried to whistle some off-key tune, but his red face gave him away. “You find something funny, John?” She shouldn’t have asked. Like water suddenly bursting through a dam, a loud guffaw burst out of him, followed by a few cackling chuckles. She had been holding in her own laughter about the way he looked, and finally laughed with him. When they regained their composure, Joy pointed out, “The guys will know we saw each other undressing. So your slip will be verified in their minds.” He shrugged. “They’ll just have to envy me, that’s all.” Before they stepped out from behind the capsule, John gave her a

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final look over, idly pointed down at her stomach with bent wrist, and asked, “Where’s your corset? Do you want your stomach bouncing indecently around like shaken Jell-O?” Joy just put her hand on her hip, tilted her head, and glared askance at him. It didn’t work. Her towering hat started to slide off her head and she had to put up one hand to hold it in place. It ruined the effect. “My God, “ he exclaimed, “I love that . . . look.” “What look?” she asked as she punched him in the shoulder. She wagged her finger. “One more comment like that about a corset, and you’ll have to cut a hole in your hat to eat.” John leaned away in mock fright and put up his hands as if to ward her off. She had to smile with him. Joy was happy to return to their usual banter. And they’d had their first laughs since their arrival. She felt better. Much better. She was ready for . . . their third universe. Thanks, my love, she thought. I owe you so much. Even fully dressed in his suit, John shivered in the damp San Francisco air. He pulled his Oxford gray wool topcoat out of the capsule, and asked Joy, “Aren’t you cold?” “What? In all these stupid clothes? Anyway, everybody knows men are the weaker sex.” John poked her in the stomach. “It’s all due to the tons of female fat,” he said. “You have a death wish, John?” she responded, laughing, as she pulled out a beige, double-breasted box coat to hold over her arm. For the moment, they forgot the horror they’d learned of in the message, and the possibly lethal challenge of their mission. They nodded to each other, grinning, and nonchalantly stepped from behind the capsule to rejoin the guys, who still had their backs turned. They were talking about what they were going to do with their sudden income. “We’re here,” John said. The guys stopped talking, turned around, and after a glance at John, they stared at Joy. Finally she had to wave her hand in front of them and say, “Hello, there. Is my ankle showing?” Three faces reddened, and Hands stuttered, “You’re beautiful.” “Thanks,” she responded, happy that someone liked her outfit. She was going to say, “That’s nice of you,” when John rudely interrupted to insist they get going. Dolphy looked sharply at him, then asked, “Where are we going?”

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John replied, “You guys are going to find us a hotel room. That’s your first job for us.” “What kind of hotel do you want?” Hands asked. “Middle expensive. Someplace where small businessmen stay when they come here for a short while.” “Ah. How about the Fairfax?” Dolphy asked, looking at Hands. Hands answered, “When I was playing minor-league baseball for the San Francisco Seals, that’s one of the hotels where I stayed. It’s okay. It’s four dollars a night. That alright?” “Let’s go,” John replied. “Wait a moment,” Joy said, “I think we need to take some stuff with us.” John looked at her a moment, then his brows rose as he remembered. He went to the supply capsule, reopened it, and brought out a large briefcase; he also took out more money, she guessed. He clambered into the tent and put their laptop computer, notepaper, the two CDs, and the DVD into the briefcase, then came out and motioned to the warehouse’s side entrance. “All set.” As Joy walked toward the door, she could not help thinking, It’s amazing how much we filled our first morning here—sobbing hysterics, horrible discoveries, near suicide, humor and smiles, and a taste of John’s jealousy. I can’t imagine what more is to come before this day is done. They stepped out into the alley next to the warehouse and walked down it to 8th Street. The stench of horse manure and urine immediately struck Joy, and pesky flies were everywhere. There was not much traffic. The street seemed to be used mainly by commercial traffic from the southern Potrero, Excelsior, and Bayview districts on their way via Hooper and 7th Streets to the downtown financial and market center of the city. Nonetheless, horses and wagons had left 8th Street rutted and potholed. A team of two horses pulling a wagon piled high with covered goods passed another one with a similar team pulling a lumber wagon in the opposite direction. A raised boardwalk ran along both sides of the street. It was in sad condition, with broken and rotted boards; here and there, pieces of the broken boards stuck up out of the earth below. Joy was surprised. Apparently there is no such thing as suing the city government for injury in this age. Pity. But, maybe not. Hands led them south to Wisconsin Street on the decrepit boardwalk, past a building partly destroyed by the great San Francisco earthquake, and over another two blocks west on 16th Street. They fi-

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nally came to a concrete sidewalk and, another block over, they arrived at a three-story hotel near the intersection with Rhode Island Street. The hotel had a large marquee in front with a vertical sign reading Fairfax Hotel. They entered through the hotel’s two large front doors, and stepped into a spacious, traditional Victorian lobby with all its gaudy decorations, colors, artificial plants, cushiony blue velvets and Versailles chairs—even two spittoons: one by the foot railing at the registration desk, and the other underneath a potted MacArthur palm. A case of complimentary cigars rested at one end of the desk. The place smelled stuffy, heavy with dust, engrained cigar smoke, and something else Joy recognized with surprise—unwashed bodies. Joy immediately attracted attention. Two older gentlemen sitting in the easy chairs put down their newspapers and stared at her. A furcollared woman standing with a bearded man near the heavily carpeted stairs gave her a dirty look. Twitching his nose, John, with Joy beside him, strolled up to the reception desk. He asked for two rooms next to each other. Clearly from central casting, the man behind the desk could never be mistaken for anything but a hotel receptionist. He asked, “For whom are these rooms . . . ” He added a belated “sir?” that made it sound like a slur. “For my assistant and me,” John responded, waving his hand in Joy’s direction. Arrogantly, the clerk pointed out, “We don’t rent rooms to Orientals.” Joy was ready to walk out and find a hotel where she would be accepted, when Hands, who had remained close by, leaned over the counter, grabbed the clerk by the shirt, and hissed, “You will now. She is a friend of ours.” John gently removed Hand’s hand from the clerks’ shirt, and asked the thoroughly frightened man, “Is this hotel policy?” He squeaked, “It’s the rule. I only work here.” Still calm, John asked, “Where is your boss?” “That’s Mr. Foster. He owns the hotel. He’s in the office,” the clerk stammered, pointing to the rear. John changed his tone. He now commanded, “Take me to him.” Enough, Joy immediately thought. She didn’t want John beating up on somebody, their first day here. She put her hand on his arm and said, “This isn’t necessary. We can just go to another hotel.” He didn’t respond. He disappeared into the back with the clerk, who returned alone a few moments later. Joy and the guys waited.

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Fifteen minutes passed. Joy just stood where she was, although she was dying to get her ugly pointed shoes off her feet, or at least sit down. One skinny old man with a ruddy complexion and a goatee who was obviously color blind—he wore a yellow silk coat with green pants—approached her and asked, smiling, “Hello chickie, are you waiting for someone to come along?” A dozen clever answers jumbled in Joy’s mind, but before she could unscramble them and pick the best, she realized that he was simply doing what came naturally for men of this age and place when he saw a young Asian woman standing alone in a hotel lobby. She didn’t have to say anything. Sal rushed up with the other guys behind him. He jabbed his finger at the old man’s chest and told him, “Leave her alone. She is a decent lady.” The man bowed to Joy and said, “I’m terribly sorry. Forgive me.” At her nod, he hastened out of the hotel. More minutes went by and still John didn’t return. The three guys were getting restless. Joy thought she soon would have to restrain them from going into the rear to see if he needed help. Finally John emerged from the office with Foster, a middle-aged, bulbous nosed, heavyset man who was constantly moving his hands. Foster strode up to the clerk and, waving his hand at John, told him, “Meet your new boss. He now owns the hotel. I’m your new manager.” John stepped up to the clerk and said evenly, “I have changed hotel policy. You now accept Orientals.” Joy was sure his eyes twinkled. John stepped around the counter to rejoin Joy, and asked the clerk, “Do you have two rooms side by side for my assistant and me?” Looking like he was about to faint, the clerk responded, “Yes sir. Do you want the six or the four dollar rooms?” Foster waved his hands at the clerk and whispered, “He now owns the hotel, you idiot.” Without another word, the clerk reached into the narrow mail slots behind him and pulled out the keys to two rooms and gave them to John. He shoved the register in his direction. The manager formed rapid circles and figure eights in the air with his hands and barked, “He doesn’t have to register. Don’t you get it yet? He owns the hotel.” All this time, the three guys just stood by as though watching some strange African dance. Now, when John turned to them with the keys in his hand, they looked at him in amazement. “Oh, I forgot,” John said. “You three don’t have a place to live.” He turned back to the clerk and said with a smile, “Please put my three employees up in your best rooms.”

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The clerk quickly twisted around and again reached into the mailboxes. He pulled out three keys, which he handed to John. In turn, John handed them to Hands, Dolphy, and Sal, and said, “Here, the rooms are free. Please meet us in the hotel dining room for dinner at 6 p.m.” As the guys turned to go up the stairs, Hands gave John a little salute. John and Joy also headed for the stairs. Joy hadn’t said a word and didn’t until they climbed the one flight of stairs and entered John’s room. She turned to face him and waved her finger under his nose for emphasis as she asked, “What are you doing?” Her voice rose ten decibels on the last word. She told him what he was doing. “That was a total waste of money for no good purpose. Prejudice like that exists everywhere in this age. Just roll with it, John. We could have found another hotel that would have accepted me.” John opened his mouth to defend himself, but she was not to be stopped. “We have more important things to do than buy hotels on a whim. Jesus, all that money so that we could have two rooms.” She was running down. He just waited. “How much did you pay for this hotel?” “Sixty-nine thousand dollars.” “What? You spent $69,000 to get two rooms for maybe a week or so? I read that a good house only costs about $4,500. Let me see . . . ” She took out of her purse her pocket calculator shaped like a bracelet and opened a little display and numerical pad with her thumb. “Holy Christ, John, that’s about 1.3 million 2002 dollars. That’s stupid. You were robbed.” Joy put both hands on her hips and leaned forward to stare up at him. Not easy, since she had to tip the brim of her hat back to look up at his four additional inches. She suspected she looked comical. No matter. This is truth to height. Like a truck rolling downhill without its brakes, she rattled on. “Isn’t that a little bit expensive? We’re going to run into this prejudice wherever we go in this age. You’ve got to get used to it. Think of us as being on a safari into the most primitive past.” John did not respond. She rolled to a stop. She clamped her hands down harder on her hips and almost yelled, “Well?” John hadn’t moved and just looked at her with those little tolerant dimples at the corners of his mouth. She’d warned him she was going to surgically remove them with her fingernails someday. After a few moments of silence, he said, “Yes, my beautiful Chink.” Joy’s mouth dropped open in shock. She was just about to turn him

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into an instant block of ice with her stare when she remembered that was what Dolphy had called her. He was playing with her. She broke up. She doubled over in laughter, her towering hat tumbling to the floor. She managed to make it to the bed and fell onto it, holding her stomach. “Bastard.” She could hardly get the word out as he fell laughing next to her. Once he got his breath back, and with Joy now calmed down and chuckling, he pointed out, “We will need a hotel for our visitors. Remember, we will be running a new import and export company and will have many tradesmen coming here to do business with us. It will be convenient to have a hotel of our own to put them in for a couple of days. Also, it already has been useful as a temporary place for our new employees to sleep. Consider it our first company purchase.” He gave her his “ain’t I clever” smile and added, “I paid Foster with our counterfeit money, which nobody will ever be able to detect without twentyfirst century equipment. And in no time, we’ll make it up with real money on the stock market.” What, is this so I’ll absorb some of his cleverness through osmosis? Joy thought as he hugged her tight. “You stink,” she exclaimed. “Let’s take a bath. You haven’t bathed since . . . yesterday? Let’s see. We got up at 5:30, bathed, did our jog and weights, ate, I valiantly tried to teach you karate, we got the emergency warning, were shoved into the time capsule about 10:30 a.m., got here about 2:30 a.m. local time without any real difference for us in body time, and it is now about 10:00 a.m. locally. That means we’ve been up twelve or thirteen hours. And you without a bath, with all we’ve gone through in all that time. No wonder you smell.” John looked at her, surprised. “That’s all? Twelve hours? Incredible. I get up looking forward to a day of training in February, 2002, and here I am the same day—as far as my body is concerned—in a San Francisco hotel in 1906.” “Yes, and body-wise, you still smell.” He lifted her arm and stuck his nose into the pit of her underarm. He pulled back, wearing a gargoyle-like face. “Smells like a football locker room a month into summer practice.” Joy kicked him off the bed. With a laugh, he got up and looked around the room. It was large, with a little alcove containing a stonetopped side table with a drawer and a large Imperial parlor lamp on top. A dark brown armchair sat nearby. A window hung with heavy reef curtains and a roller shade overlooked the marquee. Through it, John could see San Francisco Bay in the distance.

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Joy was sprawled across the room’s French double bed. Above it hung a large painting of a three-masted barque on a rough sea. Next to the bed was a two-drawer side table with another Imperial lamp. The usual chest of drawers was against one wall. Above it was a painting of San Francisco Bay with the fog rolling in. The room was surprisingly similar to hotel rooms in their old universe. “You know, “ he said, “maybe there is a time independent mold in which all hotel rooms are made. But two exceptions. There is that old wooden telephone box on the wall next to the door. And there is no bathroom that I can see.” He went out the door and down the hallway. He came back smiling. “At the end of the hall there is a bathroom, bathtub, and hot water. Is that a miracle, or what? Shall we?” Joy undressed, impatient at the time and wiggling it took, and found bath towels in the closet. She was just about to head out the door when he yelled at her, “You’re naked!” “I’m glad you still notice,” she said, smiling. “And how come you ain’t?” “Here, put this around you.” He tossed her an extra blanket. He finished undressing, except for his shirt, which he let hang over his thighs. They headed down the hallway and into the bathroom. It was a large room with a high ceiling and a small, claw-footed, porcelainover-sheet-metal bathtub, hardly big enough for both of them. The hot water took a long time to arrive, accompanied by thumps and gurgles in the pipes, and it ran rust-colored in the beginning, but once it was clear John let it begin to fill the tub. They quickly forgot about it. John obviously got aroused as she stood naked before him, waiting for the tub to fill, and that turned her on. They made love on the bath mat. No tricks, nothing extraordinary sexually, just slow, loving, and very fulfilling lovemaking. Their kisses and caresses were very special for Joy. She recognized them as their inauguration into this new world, and they helped clear away the residual horror from earlier in the morning. Somehow, somewhere in the middle of it, John remembered to turn off the water. Their bathwater had cooled and they had to reheat it when they were finally ready for their bath. While they waited, they sat on the edge of the tub, just hugging and immersing themselves in each other’s presence. Joy almost regretted washing off the residue of their lovemaking, but as they washed each other’s bodies, she got aroused once more, and easily put John in the mood with her lips. Even as limber as

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she was, lovemaking in the tub was a logistics challenge, and even slower and more satisfying than it had been on the rug. Not since the first day they had made love on the gym mat during a training session, back in their old universe, had their lovemaking been so satisfying. In spite of the environment, it had the flavor of a fully romantic evening. After everything that had happened during their first morning in this universe, she felt reborn in a way, and their lovemaking reflected that. Joy could see from John’s face and his unusual gentleness that he felt this also. She knew this as a woman comes to know her man intimately, although all he could say was, “I hope all that water spilled on the floor doesn’t leak downstairs.” They dried each other off and Joy undid her hair so that she could fluff it dry with a towel. When she’d finished, without thinking, she opened the door and started down the hallway to John’s room. He made a grab for her, but too late—she was already out the door when a young, well-dressed couple reached the top of the stairs, led by the hotel’s one bellhop, carrying their suitcase. Joy’s long hair covered part of her breasts, but she was bare everywhere else. The woman’s eyes opened wide and her hand flew to her mouth, unsuccessfully stifling a gasp. Her face turned sports car red. The man with her smiled and, tipping his hat, said, “Hello,” emphasizing the last syllable, and, “Good morning,” also stressing the last word. Joy was sure he would have some explaining to do to his companion for the next week. “Good morning, sir,” Joy chirped as she passed. Behind her, a semi-naked John stumbled as he tried to get his towel around his waist. The bellhop disappeared at that point, and she didn’t know whether he fell down the stairs, fainted, or had gone in search of something to drink. When she got to John’s room, she flopped onto the bed howling with laughter, while he stood by her shaking feet, looking at her as though she were a spoiled child. But soon he couldn’t help laughing, and joined her on the bed. He pulled her to him and they lay there chuckling until the exhaustion they had been ignoring caught up to them, and they fell asleep in each other’s arms. Joy woke up briefly when he got up and covered her with a blanket and slid under it himself. She sighed. What a day, and it’s not even over yet. Afternoon, here we come, the force of two. She laughed herself back to sleep.

Chapter 8 Hu Mingsheng Sacramento, 1995, New Universe

S

o much for the water treatment, thought Major Hu Mingsheng as he tossed the wet towel into a nearby pail. She wants pain, she will get pain. Hu bent over the middle-aged American woman whose hands, legs, and head were strapped to the steel chair, and gripped her long index fingernail with his flat-nosed pliers. He watched her face as he pulled evenly and slowly. The woman screamed so shrilly that Major Hu thanked the noise plugs in each of his ears. When the nail came completely out, leaving a bloody trail and a flap of skin, the woman started keening. Her face was as white as plaster and twisted into such anguish that it tore at her facial muscles. Blood trickled down her chin from where she had bitten through her lip. He dropped the painted fingernail into a pail, gripped another fingernail with the pliers, and waited. Soon she stopped keening, and quaked against the straps holding her as she sobbed. Hu pushed a little button on his right earplug to open it to middle range frequencies while still filtering the high ones. He pulled open the woman’s tightly clenched eyelid with his finger so that she could see him. He raised his eyebrows questioningly. She screamed, “I don’t know. You have the wrong person. Please, no more. Please. Let me go. I’ll do anything . . .” And she broke down in uncontrollable sobs, trying to get the words out: “I don’t know anything about terrorism.” Well, maybe not, Hu thought, but why was she running from the explosion at the Sabah Mosque? He felt his special cell phone vibrate. He’d got one designed for the deaf, since in his line of work he was often unable to hear the buzzing of a normal phone. He pulled it from a pocket of his coveralls and looked at its little message window: Colonel Chin Baojia wants you immediately.

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He put the pliers on the black table against the wall, and stood up. He looked down at the woman with a sad expression. “I must leave you for a while. Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone.” Major Hu closed the heavy metal door behind him and took the elevator from the basement’s second level to the fourth floor of Sacramento Security Headquarters. It opened onto a reception area furnished with a black leather sofa, two black leather easy chairs, and photographs of the newly named Ch’en Mosque of the Three Pillars in Peking, taken from different angles. Hu nodded to the armed receptionist, who pressed a button on his desk when he recognized Hu. After knocking on the plain oak door, Major Hu waited until the light above it turned green, and entered the office. Colonel Chin sat at his ordinary, ship-gray metal desk in a common, middle-official, government office. Hu was always surprised to see it this way. Other than an American calendar displaying an autumn scene on the wall on one side of the desk, the light blue walls were unadorned. A metal file cabinet within reach of the desk was near the other wall. In front of the drawn, green twill window curtains, a gray metal credenza held two computer monitors, a keyboard, and a mouse; a Chinese Cheng computer was tucked underneath. The only light in the office came from the monitors and a fluorescent lamp on the desk. There were two ordinary, stiff-backed, armless office chairs in front of the desk. And on the floor, out of the way of visitors so that they would not step on it, was an Uighur prayer rug, now the rage in Muslim China. The room was dim, dreary, and smelled musty, the victim of excessive cigarette smoke. It matched Colonel Chin, who, it was said, wouldn’t care if he conducted business in a shit house. He was as informal as his office was dreary. Colonel Chin sat behind the desk on a triple cushioned swivel chair specially built for his three-foot-two height. A step stool beside his chair enabled him to climb into it. The light from the desk lamp reflected off the papers on his desk but didn’t reach his eyes, which were in deep shadow. After waving Hu into one of the chairs, Chin took out an Enlai cigarette and lit it with a match that he then blew out and tossed onto a pile of used matches next to his granite ashtray. He leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk, and tried to push enough air through his shrunken vocal cords to be heard. When he got excited he sounded like air escaping from a balloon. In Chinese, he managed to say, “Turghun Sabah died yesterday of diphtheria. Imam Ch’en Hsun, at the direction of the Governing Council, has taken temporary power.”

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Major Hu’s eyes widened at the news, but he quickly forced them to relax. He started to respond with the expected lamentation: “I’m very sorry—” “As to General Mirzat Zunun, he was arrested for plotting against the Council. Under Imam Ch’en, I am sure that Sabah still rules. He is a dedicated man of the Sabah and I do not see that anything regarding our work for Sabah will change.” Hu tried again. “God be praised for—” “That is not why I called you here. I have a job for you . . . . ” Hu leaned forward, trying to catch Chen’s words as his voice seemed to fizzle out. “I’m going deaf from the screams,” Hu said. “An occupational hazard. I did not hear you.” The Colonel took a deep drag on his cigarette, held it, and puffed it out in a swirl of smoke. He wheezed louder, “I said, there is something for you to do in Santa Barbara. You are one of my best interrogators and you also have a scientific background.” He stopped and raised his eyebrows. When Hu nodded to indicate that he could hear him, Chin continued. “I believe that there is scientific information of the highest importance for you to uncover. I will only sketch the details. Full details will be in a report I will give you. “Have you heard of the Santa Barbara Scientific Institute, an affiliate to the Joy Phim Democratic Peace Institute that existed in New York—Manhattan?” He smiled knowingly with mention of New York. Hu was happy to change the subject. “Yes. Everyone in security knows about it. Their scientists blew up the whole affiliate. They must have known about our discovery that they had blacked out Santa Barbara for over ten hours to conduct an experiment. Our people in Santa Barbara are investigating, I’ve heard.” Chin leaned back, sending his face deeper into shadow. He puffed on his cigarette, creating an eerie halo of smoke that slowly rose into invisibility in the darkness above. “They must have been doing very useful research, to justify destroying the whole Institute when they feared discovery. They were probably working on a new weapon. And . . . ” His voice disappeared into a rasping hiss again. Major Hu pointed to his ear and looked apologetic. Chin crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray, climbed down from his chair, and waddled around the desk to Hu. Looking up at him, he ordered, “Pick me up and put me on the edge of the desk next to you.” Hu did so. Chin crossed his legs and leaned on his hand until his mouth was only inches away from Hu. He said, “I want you to find out what that

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Institute was working on. We are detaining three scientists from the Institute, and their wives and children. They were easy to locate— Americans keep good records for everything. Do you know how Security found them? Hu had to smile to himself. There is not a visit to his office in which he doesn’t test me. He answered, “Security checked the city government records regarding the Institute’s registration and job classifications and designated payments for unemployment and health insurance, with a cross-check of the names against driver’s license records and city property taxes. Finally, you had people check the state income tax records here in Sacramento. If any questions remain, there is the Central Credit Bureau in Santa Barbara. I’m sure that Security has already interrogated secretaries and janitors just for verification of the identities and the importance of those three scientists. Were there only three?” Chin leaned back for his pack of cigarettes, took a match out of his top pocket, and lit another cigarette. He took a puff and blew the smoke away from Hu’s face. His breath stank of tobacco smoke when he answered, “No. All the others have disappeared and we have notified Californian and American Federal Police of their identities.” He pointed at Hu with his cigarette and ordered, “Go to Santa Barbara. Find out what you can. This has top priority and you have full power to draw on Security’s resources.” Waving one hand in dismissal, he ended with, “Keep me informed.” Major Hu got up and turned to leave, and heard a whistling screech. “Forget something?” He turned and saw Colonel Chin pointing first to himself, then to the floor. Hu bowed and apologized. He reached for Chin and lifted him down.

aaa Santa Barbara Major Hu looked over the room he had remodeled in the last week. In its center, two stainless steel chairs were bolted to the floor. Each had built-in head, wrist, leg, and ankle clamps and straps. Tall, mobile flood lamps stood next to each chair. A metal worktable sat against a wall, with obvious torture devices arranged on its top; a stainless steel work stool was pushed halfway under it. Against another wall was a

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long, narrow, steel table with clamps for head and waist; clamps for wrists and ankles swung out from the table and locked. A large, square, stainless steel laundry tub was mounted against a third wall. The walls were padded, the floor tiled and slightly off level so fluids would run to a drain in the middle. The ceiling was soundproofed. Hooks hung from the ceiling in three places, each with a looped and knotted rope. Three more hooks protruded from the walls. The chairs, tables, and walls were painted blood red, while the floor and ceiling were black. The heavy, prepared acidic smell of the room was almost sickening. It came from two large pails, one containing rotting pork, and the other pig’s blood. Major Hu wore black work dungarees. Perfect, he thought. The scientists will shit in their pants when they are brought in here, and will be disposed immediately to tell me all they know. He pressed the black one in a row of colored buttons on his worktable, turning on the microphones that would record all sound in the room. With one last look around, he pressed the green button and looked expectantly toward the soundproofed door. Two guards led a heavyset man into the room. As soon as he entered he stopped dead and gaped. His nose twitched at the smell. He jerked his head around, looking at one frightening object after another. As Hu watched, he turned pale. Hu pointed to one of the chairs, and the guards half-dragged the scientist to it and forced him to sit down. At Hu’s shake of the head, they left the scientist unbound. They departed, locking the door from the outside. Hu had no fear of the scientist attacking him. Like all security officers, he was well trained in self-defense. He pulled the stool from under the table and over the tile floor with a clatter, and sat down facing the scientist. “You are Peter Hayward?” Hayward’s eyes were wide with fright. He was trembling so much he couldn’t get a word out. He jiggled his head in a nod. “You are a quantum physicist?” Another, less jerky, nod. Hu picked up his clipboard and looked at the top page. “You worked in the Department of Applied Physics of the Santa Barbara affiliate of the former New York Joy Phim Democratic Peace Institute?” “Y-yes,” Hayward stammered Hu watched the process that he’d grown so familiar with, after so many interrogations. He could see the gradual transformation on Hay-

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ward’s face as he gained control and steeled himself for the pain he expected. At this moment, Hu knew that Hayward was saying to himself, I’m a dead man. But I will die with dignity and impress him with my resistance. He’s not going to get any secrets from me. Hu asked, “Do you have any complaint about the way you’ve been treated?” He had ordered that the scientists and their families be kept together, fed well, and given comfortable rooms with radio, television, and whatever reading matter they requested. Hayward shook his head. His face was now hard-set, but he couldn’t control the sweat rolling down his face and the tremor in his hands. Almost with the boredom of repetition, Hu observed again all the signs he knew so well. After waiting several minutes to allow Hayward’s fear to season, Hu said, “Here is what I know about you,” and he ticked off the facts accumulated from city and state archives, and the interrogation of secretaries and janitors. Hayward’s lips parted and his eyes twitched wide for a moment before he resumed his steely expression. Hu noted it and knew that it was time to get serious. “Here are the two things I want to know. What were you working on that required so much power that Santa Barbara was blacked out? Why was the Institute destroyed?” When Hayward answered in a shaking voice, he clearly took such care with his words that Hu knew he was telling a story he and his colleagues had concocted in case of capture and interrogation. “We were working on molecular dynamics—really the control of molecular reactions,” Hayward said. “We used a battery of lasers to control nuclear transitions. There is debate over hidden variables and how complete quantum mechanics is. So we were doing a test of the Bell inequalities—” “Enough, my good doctor. It’s all a lie. For one, your Institute was not involved in fundamental scientific research. That we know. Its purpose was practical, commercial. For another, we have two other scientists from the Institute and what they say contradicts you. And, even with the destruction of the Institute,” Hu smiled as though catching a student getting a total of five for two plus two, “enough of the machinery and equipment remained that we know that is not what you were doing.” Hu let that sink in for some seconds. Then softly, almost intimately, Hu said, “Here is what I will do to extract the truth, Dr. Hayward. You

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see all this equipment around here?” Hu waved at the various torture devices. “These are not for you. But more on that in a moment. Instead, I am going to use on you the number one torture method: a wet towel over your face that will prevent you from breathing until I take it away. If, after longer and longer applications of the towel, you refuse to truthfully answer my questions, nothing more will be done to you. All these devices here are for your twelve-year-old daughter.” More seconds of silence, while Hayward’s steely face collapsed. Hu watched the transformation with a professional eye. “I will bring her in here and use one device after another on her, until you tell us the truth. I will not begin with a wet cloth, for that is not crude enough. I will strip her, strap her on the table you see over there,” and Hu pointed, “and spread her legs. You see those cables near the table that are attached to that battery? I will clip the hot one with the rotary switch to her clitoris, and juice her in steps. I assure you that her screams will rise in crescendo with each step. I will add her nipple in good time.” Hayward’s eyes were bugging out, and his face had turned gray. He was shaking, his lips trembling. He started gagging. Gently, Hu pointed out the obvious. “You may not want to save yourself, but why subject your little daughter to such indignity and pain? Even if she survives because you decide to tell us the truth, once I start on her, she still will be dead psychologically. Is your secret worth that?” Hayward leaned over and vomited on the floor. Hu handed him a towel he had ready, and Hayward wiped his mouth and put his head in both hands. “Oh God!” Hayward let out heavy sigh. His voice almost a whisper, he gave up. “I’ll tell you all I know.” Hu crossed his legs, clasped his hands around his knee, and waited. After several silent moments, Hayward began to describe his incidental work on the Institute’s time capsule. “It was a secret project and there were many rumors as to how the Institute got a hold of it. I was not a department head and the other scientists and I were not told where the time machine came from or who developed it. We all assumed it was covert government work. This would explain our secret background check and the legally enforceable contract we had to sign about keeping everything we worked on confidential. “With the destruction of the New York Institute and the arrival of Lora Reeves, the president and director of the Institute, work on the time machine took top priority.”

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Hayward described in scientific terms what his work involved, and that, “We were successful in achieving what Lora wanted—to send a small box back in time to 1906 San Francisco.” His voice shaking, Hayward concluded, “Soon after Reeves died, we sent the box. I must assume. This caused the citywide Santa Barbara blackout.” Hayward stopped, tears running down his brown cheeks. Hu waited for more. There was no more. “Time travel? You were working on time travel? I’m also a scientist, Doctor, and not as ignorant as you think. Time travel is impossible. You lie. You were working on a weapon. But let me see how good your lie is. Why, Doctor, why? You say you sent only a small box. What was in it? Whom was it sent to?” Hayward almost screamed, “I don’t know. Nobody told us. We just assumed the Institute sent it to a time traveler in San Francisco. But who or why, I don’t know. All of us scientists were intensely curious. This time machine was the greatest invention of our lives. In history. We wanted to know what we were doing with it. But for every one of the days we worked so hard on it, there was a new rumor. The secret was kept too well.” He paused, tried to calm himself, and continued. “We didn’t even know the space-time coordinates, but I had a friend whose wife worked on them and told me they were for San Francisco, 1906, and I’m guessing that it was being sent to a time traveler. Otherwise, it wouldn’t make sense.” Hayward sighed. He looked relieved. “You lie. You worked in a private institute, not a military lab. Private American scientific centers do not operate that way. You know and refuse to tell me.” Hayward screamed it this time: “Nooo! I don’t know any more.” “Your choice.” Hu pressed the green button on the worktable, and when the two guards came in, he told them to clasp Hayward’s arms, legs, and head to the chair. Hayward fought them to no avail. When the guards finished and left, Hu checked with his finger the band around Hayward’s forehead, to make sure that it held his head tightly against the chair back. Hayward struggled. He kept yelling that he didn’t know any more. He gagged on the vomit he spewed into his lap and down his legs. He shook against the straps, his breath coming in gasps. “No . . . no . . . ” is all he could get out, as he soiled his pants. Hu was used to all the ugly smells a terrified human body could produce. He breathed through his mouth until his nose adjusted to

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them. He waited until Hayward quieted, then half-filled a red pail at the sink and put it on the floor in Hayward’s view. He stuck a towel into the water, sloshed it around, and pulled it out. Holding it over the bucket, he loosely wrung the excess water out. Holding it in front of Hayward’s face, he waited. Only Hayward’s panicked gasps and whimpers could be heard. Hu waited a full minute. And covered Hayward’s tightly closed eyes, flaring nostrils, and clenched lips with the wet towel and held it tightly against his face with an open hand.

aaa Sacramento Major Hu waited for the light above the door to turn green, and when it did he entered the musty office, the air even heavier with cigarette smoke this time. Colonel Chin waved him to a chair without looking up from what he was reading. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, and Chin unconsciously tilted his eyes away from the smoke. Hu was beginning to taste the smoke on his lips. He hated the smell, but Chin would not take well to a display of his irritation. He watched the smoke tendrils as he waited, imagining turning a fan on them and happily watching the noxious fumes disappear toward the far wall. Suddenly remembering, he moved his uncomfortable chair as close to the desk as he could by shoving both his knees sideways. He leaned over the desk on his elbows, but he didn’t know what to do with his hands. After clasping them at first, he finally folded his lower arms across each other. “Very interesting,” Chin hissed out with the billowing cigarette smoke, and looked up at Hu. “You have one scientist that went insane when his daughter died under interrogation, another scientist without relatives who died keeping his secrets to himself, and another who with his wife survived interrogation. And his story is the same as that of the one who went insane. This is what you have found out.” Chin let his cigarette hang from the right side of his mouth, squinting his right eye from the smoke, and ticked the findings off on his nicotine stained fingers: “One, they were working on time travel.

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“Two, the laser power they needed to send a small box back in time blacked out the city. “Three, the scientists did not know what the box contained or why it was sent. “And four, the box was sent to an unknown time traveler in San Francisco in 1906.” Colonel Chin stopped and gave Major Hu a hard look. He wheezed, “Do you believe this?” Hu had waited for this. “I did not believed it at first. But at the end I am sure the two scientists believed what they said. Either they were themselves duped, or this really happened. After I sent you the report, I did some research on the North American ecomm-net. Some physicists do believe this is possible. And there are rumors—nothing concrete— about two people sent back in time. Nobody believes that is possible. One time traveler, a small one, maybe; two is impossible, especially since two would have been sent without testing the system with one traveler beforehand. Science develops in small stages, not one big leap. There is supposed to be a document one of them wrote about his time travel experience; just in case, I talked to our archivist in Peking, and he put a team to work on it. I got a call yesterday. Nothing.” Chin rasped, “And your speculation?” “If the Institute’s scientists sent such a box back in time, it was sent about two months after Sabah’s Great Victory. They knew the associated electrical blackout of Santa Barbara would alert us. They destroyed the Institute so that we would not discover their time machine and duplicate it. They can have only one reason for sending this box. Sabah was born in 1914. I believe they sent a message to the possible time traveler, warning him about Sabah’s victory. What he then would do is obvious—he would kill Sabah after he is born, or kill his parents beforehand.” Chin leaned into the fluorescent lamplight. “And the prob . . . ” His voice disappeared into the smoke. But Hu knew what he was asking. “As a scientist myself, this is all new to me. I do not know how to assess its probability.” Chin pointed his cigarette. “Give me a number, Major.” “About point six, to quantify the subjective.” Chin crushed out the cigarette in his ashtray, and fiddled with his cigarette pack for a few moments while he thought. He took another one out and lit it. He watched the match flame and extinguished it just before it burned his fingers. He puffed on the cigarette and let the

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smoke drift out of his mouth. Finally, he waved the cigarette, creating a spiral of smoke, and wheezed, “Even if the probability were point two, we would have to turn the world upside down . . . prevent it. I will pass this . . . ” Hu put his hands on the desk and leaned on them to get closer to Chin. He heard the rest. “That terrorist woman you left unfinished has been waiting in her cell for you to return. Take a couple of days off. I am sure she will be happy to see you again afterward.”

aaa Imam Ch’en Peking, 1995, New Universe “Kill him. How many times must I say this? Kill him!” Cao Mingsheng, Chief of Chinese Security, and Dr. Ouyang Bohao, the Minister of Science and Technology, had prostrated themselves before Imam Ch’en. Minister Ouyang continued to whine, “We have no time machine. I have discussed it with our top physicists. They say it is all fantasy.” Ch’en picked up the report he had received from Security on what they were now calling the Santa Barbara machine and threw it at them, causing his white robe to swish over their heads. “It doesn’t matter if it takes ten years or a hundred years. We can always send the time machine back to the same year to intercept this creature of Satan. If the scientists don’t succeed in creating a time machine after a thousand years, then we will know it’s fantasy. Not until then. “Get off the floor, you two. I want to see your eyes.” When they were standing rigidly before him, Ch’en glared at Ouyang to make sure the minister understood how serious this was. He ordered him, “Set up a Chinese project comprising our best scientists whose specialties are most related to time travel. Make sure that the scientist in charge is a Sabah. Spare no resources.” He turned to stare at Minister Cao. He pointed his finger at him and said coldly, “These are to be top secret projects. You are to assure that.” “What are we to send back in time?” Ouyang asked. Keeping his eyes on Cao, Ch’en responded, “Give me the capability to send someone back to 1906 to kill that infidel American time traveler.”

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Cao blurted, “But we don’t know his name or where he is in San Francisco, assuming he stayed there after he got the Santa Barbara message. We don’t even know if he exists.” Ch’en’s gaze became deadlier. “You are the chief of the world’s most powerful security service. You have resources undreamed of by any previous security forces. Can’t you and your people devise some way for our time traveler to find and kill the American?” He let that ripen. After twenty seconds, he yelled, “Out. Get to work. And I want a progress report from both of you every week. That American must be killed.”

Chapter 9 Captain Khoo Jy-ying Tianjin, 2001, New Universe

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hu Kuo lay on top of Khoo Jy-ying for a moment, panting and sweating even in the air conditioning. “Whew,” he exclaimed, and gasped, as usual, “I came inside out.” Jy-ying could not complain. Kuo knew what he was doing and she usually had her own orgasm. But this time she was distracted. She had been preparing their confrontation for a week, and unless handled carefully, it could mean her death. This was the best time to make her demand. She wiped him and herself, threw the tissue in the wastebasket he kept nearby, and rolled over on her side. She played with his nipple as she whispered, “I have a favor to ask.” He was getting his breath back. He turned his face toward her, his bold masculine features lined with suspicion. “You know I can’t get you another promotion. You are already the highest ranking security officer for your age.” “No, that’s not it. I hear from my people that you have duplicated your successful test on a prisoner.” “That’s supposed to be top secret.” “Not from me. I am the Chief Assistant of Security for your lab, you know. You sent him back one year and recovered him alive yesterday.” Kuo sighed. “It’s not enough. We want to send back two men, but every time we try it with two prisoners, both die. Chief Scientist Liu Bihai doesn’t know what the problem is. The last time, he loaded the two prisoners with every kind of monitor, but they showed nothing strange. He now insists that the rumor about two being sent back in time from the United States is ridiculous. I am about ready to go with one, which is consistent with the information we got from Santa Barbara.” Jy-ying kissed his nipple and rubbed her breasts against him. Always ask for the impossible first, she thought. “I want to be the one that goes when all of these experiments are done and all is ready.”

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Kuo jerked away, turned on his side, and looked at her as though she had asked him to leave his wife. “No, Jy-ying. Impossible. You are a woman. You are not trained for this. Why do you ask for such a stupid thing again?” She held her temper, but she couldn’t help the aggrieved sound of her voice. “You know that I beat Ma Dehua and Kong Qingguo in the physical competition. You know that I beat both of them at weapons. You know that I was able to take both of them down in martial arts and could have killed them if I wanted. You know,” and she could not hold the anger in anymore, “I placed first in all the intelligence, English, and history tests. But Ma was selected to go, and Kong second. I’m not even on the list of alternates.” “I had no choice, Jy-ying. The National Governing Council would have replaced me if I selected you for this.” Now Kuo was getting irritated at her. He rubbed his hand through his full head of graying hair, and by habit pulled on his black beard. “You know that. How many times have we gone over this?” “Then make me the alternate in place of Kong. As project director, you have the power, Kuo, and I’m sure you can make up something with the Council to justify it.” He got up on one elbow, grabbed her crotch with his other hand, and shook it. “Woman. You are a woman. Even if I want to send you, the Council believes that God would not understand sending a woman to do a man’s work.” Jy-ying knew he was lying. Her agents had told her otherwise. He just loves my ass and wants to keep it here, she thought. She couldn’t help glaring at him. “Then why did they allow me into the competition?” “They couldn’t believe you would win. Anyway, I don’t understand why you are so insistent on going.” He sat up, looked into the middle distance, and waved one hand. His narrow eyes widened in puzzlement. “It’s a one way trip, Jy-ying. One way. You are well respected here; you have a good future in Security. You have my secret support. I still don’t understand. Tell me again why you want to leave all this forever.” Calmly, Jy-ying answered, “How many times have I explained this to you? Both my parents were Sabah agents and died in his cause. I am a Sabah and will do everything in my power to spread and protect God’s way. While I have a breath in me, I cannot allow the assassination of Sabah that American time traveler may be planning. This is what you are trying to prevent, Kuo, isn’t it?”

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Jy-ying sat up on the bed, turned her body, and looked at him. “You know Ma and Kong as well as I do. You know, while they believe in Sabah, their beliefs are no deeper than habit and convention. They would kill the time traveler out of loyalty, because they were ordered, and because of the excitement of it. But because their beliefs are shallow, they may be subverted. Not me. I would travel only for the reason that I want to save Sabah. I would be God’s hand. “You know that because of my education at the California Institute of Technology, I speak better English; that because of this time spent in California, I am more familiar with the customs; that I am more skilled at weapons and the martial arts; and that I know more. I proved it in the tests.” Kuo crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged. Just what I expected. Now that I have that laid down, I can get serious. He is unaware that I had his shoes bugged. “And you know, Kuo, that I have no relatives or anyone else keeping me here.” Jy-ying smiled, her voice dripping honey. “I know you are interested in another mistress, but want to keep me nearby for your occasional pleasure.” She enjoyed watching his face. He now had both hands on his knees, gripping them. His muscles had tensed, his eyes narrowed. “The replacement you have in mind is nurse Lee Lifhang, whom you met when you went into the hospital for your annual medical checkup. You have already taken her to bed once. She is much more amenable than I—you find me bossy, and my greater physical ability and skills and my performance on your tests threatens you. You bedded me for my looks and body. The rest gets in the way, and you regret it.” She could see he was about to lash out at her verbally. He wouldn’t dare try to hit me—I would break his arm. She put up her hand. “Is my replacing Ma still out of the question?” “No matter what you say, Jy-ying, it is out of the question.” Jy-ying got up and stepped over to her briefcase resting on his beautiful shingtao marble table. Hiding her movements with her body, she took a letter from a secret compartment. She returned to Kuo, handed it to him, and sat on the edge of the low bed. He started reading it immediately. His expression crumpled into an angry glower. His penis, which had been partly erect as he watched her nakedness, shrank into a small mound of flesh. “You will notice,” she said nicely, “that it is addressed to Chief of Security Tao Zedong.”

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She gave him time to finish reading. He did, and looked up at her with an expression that clearly threatened an accident for her in the near future. “You no doubt can see that I report our little biweekly gettogethers, and I will include a tape of our bedtime chatter, during which you say some choice things about Imam Ch’en. Also, I am sure that they will be interested in your relationship with me, one of your security officers.” She pointed to the letter. “That is a copy. The original is in the hands of someone I can trust, who will send it to Tao if anything— anything—happens to me, with the exception of time travel.” His fiery eyes bored into hers. Fury contorted his face. Jy-ying told him, “I will give you a week. What I am asking for is first slot on the time travel.” Kuo stared at her for a moment, then spit out his answer. “I can’t, even if my life is at stake. I repeat, the Council will not allow a woman to do this. The clerics oppose it. I can’t do anything about it.” She had expected that answer. “I will send that letter you have in your hand, unless I get a chance to go. I am sure you will spend happy days in Deyang Prison, while I will disappear into China’s vastness. I can serve God’s Prophet Sabah in other ways.” She watched him for a moment, then said, “I will settle on first alternate. I go if Ma Dehua cannot.” Kuo leaned back, his face softening. He idly rubbed his knee with his hand. “I still can’t justify that.” He gave it some more thought, and his face relaxed, even though, Jy-ying thought, he still looked like he was chewing on a Szechwan hot pepper. Jy-ying took a last look around at this beautiful room. There was an Empress screen against the wall, and alongside that a carved chest of drawers, each drawer itself a montage of carvings of landscapes, sailboats, ports, old buildings, and people in ancient clothes—a vision of history and nature. There were yellow pillows, trimmed in white lace, on the floor surrounding a lacquered Kang table. A soft, braided mat covered the floor. One brown lacquered horseshoe chair sat in the corner. Wide French doors, framed by heavy, rose-colored satin curtains, opened onto a balcony overlooking downtown Tianjin. No one was in the nearby buildings at this twenty-story height, so there was no danger of anyone seeing their activities. A Majolica-style lamp in deep amber sat on a black wood and marble side table next to the bed. The walls were papered in an old Chinese landscape design complete with steep

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mountain cliffs, a few tree limbs in the foreground, and dominating mist. It gave the room a gentle, outdoor feeling. She would never see it again. Kuo spoke firmly, interrupting her final look around. He said what she’d expected. “No, absolutely, the Council would not accept that, regardless of my arguments.” She waited, both eyebrows raised and her lips slightly parted. She saw the conclusion to this as inevitable. He acted as though she were pulling his next words out with pliers, which in a way she was. “But I can offer you as another alternate. I can justify this on the grounds that you would never get the chance to go anyway, and that it would be a costless sop to female scientists and other professionals who have been complaining about second-class citizenship. It would also meet the criticism of Chief of Security Tao Zedong who, unlike the clergy, has put less emphasis on gender than on performance and capability. He would be pleased by your selection. “Yes, Khoo Jy-ying. I will make you second alternate.” Yes, Director Shu Kuo, as I had planned.

aaa When Shu Kuo called Jy-ying into his private office to tell her the news, his face was unreadable. That was the only face he had shown her since their “little discussion” three months before. “You know about Ma’s strange sickness, of course. Now, I know you won’t be unhappy about the latest. Kong Qingguo has been hospitalized with heart disease.” He gave her a long stare. “I am now formally informing you to prepare yourself for time travel to 1906.” Jy-ying couldn’t conceal her smile. He looked into her eyes and saw her pleasure. “You haven’t left yet, and if I find out that you are responsible for the disqualification of Ma and Kong—” She calmly interrupted. “Don’t make threats you will not carry out.” She let that fill the space between them for a few seconds. Finally she said, “I have always been your best choice for this operation. Shall we get on with it, and try to make it successful?” He nodded, and described the latest test data that had just come in. Still showing no emotion, he told her, “The last test using a prisoner concluded successfully.”

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Jy-ying was unclear which test, of the three they had conducted in the last week, he meant. “Is this the time capsule constructed and painted to look like an ice rock that you sent to an isolated area a few kilometers from the south pole?” “Yes. The prisoner was warmly clothed, fed intravenously, and his physical and mental functions monitored for a week before he was killed by injection, and an air vent timed to open let the cold inside. A revolving camera placed on the top of the capsule took photographs of the stars during the polar nights. And our instruments took daily magnetic and gravitational readings. We have just finished the calculations on the data. The capsule landed within a meter of where it should have, and within three weeks of its target date in 1906. “The other experiment had again involved sending two prisoners back, this time only for a week. No good. Both died in transit. Chief Scientist Liu is now positive that the rumors about two Americans being sent back in time is impossible—a legend.” Kuo’s gaze seemed to assess her. “Doctor Sima says that you are in excellent shape for the time travel, and I know that you have been honing your martial arts and weapons skills, and studying the San Francisco of 1906. I think you are as ready as you can be, and we are about ready to send you.” A smile overrode her serious expression, and Kuo studied it for a moment. “To tell you the truth, Jy-ying, I will miss you. I have missed you.” His sad grin came and went. He claimed, lamely, “You didn’t have to threaten me. You would have been my choice for this trip anyway, when Ma and Kong were unable to go.” He made Jy-ying uncomfortable. She changed the subject. “Because of my studies and my time spent in America, I have been involved in the planning for the capsule’s landing in San Francisco, and the supplies the time traveler will need. We have agreed, subject to your approval, that we have a large time window. The message from Santa Barbara went back to 1906. We must assume it contained information on Sabah’s Great Victory and the suggestion that the recipient—and I am also sure that it is only one person—kill Sabah after he is born, or prevent his birth by killing his parents. So going back to Kashgar at a time near Sabah’s birth to protect him or his parents will not work. “Our time traveler—now me—could only do so much to protect Sabah, even if I carried baby Sabah around in my arms, or became a servant in his house. Instead, I must catch the killer as close to his arri-

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val in 1906 as possible. But when in 1906 did he arrive? There was the earthquake and fire of April that destroyed so much of San Francisco— it would not be practical for him to arrive too close to that. So, we suspect October was his best choice, and we fixed on that month in 1906 as my arrival time.” Kuo listened carefully. “I have not been involved in all these discussions, but Liu has kept me generally informed. I agree to the date and the argument for choosing it. Have you agreed on a landing site?” “This has been the most difficult decision,” she replied. “We have old maps of San Francisco and many photographs of the city before and immediately after its earthquake and fire. Unfortunately, the business and government center of the city suffered the most, and many records were destroyed. “As you know, our Security Ministry has been fully involved in this. Six months ago, they sent ten agents to San Francisco to search through museums, libraries, and government documents for what might be identified as a safe landing site. We know that the person the Americans sent back had to have found a secure place to land. It would be . . . convenient if we found a different place.” Kuo did smile at that, and Jy-ying returned it. He put his hand on her arm. She left it there. “Well?” he asked. “There has to be room for error. I don’t want to land in a wall or in the middle of a well traveled street.” “Well?” “We found a building that was once used for making wagons, carriages, carts, and the like. The owner sold it to a company that turned it into a warehouse. The plan we have shows a strong, reinforced wooden floor and a high roof. The company that bought it could not make its payments on the mortgage after the fire, and went bankrupt. The bank that held the mortgage foreclosed on it, put the warehouse up for sale, and it was sold in March 1907. It is in the Potrero District, the southern part of San Francisco, what was south of the fire, and it is my destination.” “Good. We are preparing an equipment container to send before you go. It will have your weapons, explosives, electronics, and all else we can stuff into it, including jewels and counterfeit American hundred dollar bills. You will be a very rich woman. Oh yes—it will also contain your laptop and CDs containing the front pages of local newspapers, November 1906 to December 1915, along with as detailed a chronology of world events for those years that we could prepare.”

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Jy-ying gave that some thought. “If I’m successful, I may live until . . . oh, 1960 or so. So extend the chronology to 1960. Also, I must have some way of renewing my funds, if necessary. The best legal way would be through the stock exchanges. Please also include the daily New York Stock quotes in The Wall Street Journal, January 1907 to 1960.” “I had not thought of that.” “It comes of having lived in American for a while,” Jy-ying explained with a small grin. Kuo squeezed Jy-ying’s arm and said, “I have advised Liu that you should also carry as much as you can in your time machine, including a good supply of money, weapons for your defense, water and food, and whatever you may immediately need, just in case the equipment does not arrive as planned, or in case you land in a place other than your destination.” She nodded, and added, “Security has counterfeited for me an American birth certificate giving my birth year as 1882, which would make my age in 1906 twenty-five, my true age.” Kuo looked at Jy-ying, smiled, and said, “It could have been 1885, the way you look.” How stupid. Jy-ying could not help a little smile anyway, before continuing. “The second identity will be as Princess Tz’u Li Poh of the Empress’s side of the royal family. This high aristocratic position should get me the cooperation of any Chinese official with whom I must deal. I will also use that identity to mix with higher society in San Francisco. For all other purposes, my real name should suffice.” Shu Kuo moved his hand to Jy-ying’s leg. It felt hot and she began to get a warm, fuzzy feeling. He was always able to do that to her. She had not contrived their first lovemaking; she had wanted him. The old feeling she had for him, that she’d thought gone forever, was returning. She put her hand on top of his. He hesitated and looked at her with pleasure and anticipation. Then he said, “I know that you have been discussing with your security colleagues how to find the American time traveler. Any ideas so far?” “It’s detective work. We have come up with a number of possibilities. Can we discuss this at another time?” She was aroused and wet. She took his hand and placed it on her crotch. He got up and made sure the door to his office was locked, and they undressed each other. They made love on his black lacquered desk. She

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knew it was the last time in this world for them. She realized she would miss him. She made it last.

aaa He came to say goodbye. Jy-ying had not seen him alone since their office passion six months prior. He stood near the door of the time machine as she fitted herself in among the weapons; a leather briefcase containing money, an American birth certificate, and college transcript; a small suitcase with a change of clothes and toiletries; and other things the scientists and Kuo thought she might need immediately. Everything was clamped in place or pushed into crevasses. She was dressed uncomfortably in a checked gingham jumper—ordinary clothing for a lower middle class woman of 1906. The countdown had begun, and Jy-ying had thirty minutes to go. She had to shut and lock the time machine door at minus five minutes. Scientists were intent at their consoles. A crowd of assistants, associates, and administrators stood in a crowd behind them. Security allowed only a few close to the capsule, which included Shu Kuo and his aide and Chief Scientist Liu Bihai Imam Ch’en Hsun strode into the lab and right up to the capsule. He stood for a minute looking at Jy-ying. He got down on his knees on the dirty floor, white robe and all, and prostrated himself toward her. He began his prayer with, “La E Laaha Il Lal Laa Sabahdur Rasul Lullah—There is no God besides Allah, and Sabah, peace be upon him, the messenger of God.” He concluded with, “O Creator of all creations, as this holy duty to protect Your Prophet Abul Sabah begins, we all beseech and implore You alone to give guidance, encouragement, strength, and determination to Khoo Jy-ying, Your servant. It is only with Your help and support that Captain Khoo Jy-ying will succeed in this holiest of holy duties. Eyyaaka Na`Budu, Wa Eyyaaka Nasta`Een—You alone we worship; You alone we ask for help. Subhaana Rabbiyal A`laa—Glory be to God, the most high.” She felt humbled as a servant of God and His Prophet Sabah. She bowed as best she could in the confines of the capsule, and returned the prayer. “Bismil Laahir Rahmaanir Raheem—In the name of God, most gracious, most merciful.” She ended as the Imam had. Ch’en stood, fixed her with a long look, bowed slightly, nodded, and walked to Liu’s console to watch from there.

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Finally, at minus six minutes, Kuo took the few steps to close the capsule door. Looking at Jy-ying proudly, he said, “May fate treat you well, Khoo Jy-ying.” He bowed deeply, as did his aide and the scientists nearby. He took hold of the capsule door, and whispered, “Have a long and successful life, Jy-ying. I will miss you.” She bowed in return, and answered, “May your life be full of sunshine. I will miss you also.” He shut the door on her. She turned and looked at the digital chronometer: 4:43:07 p.m., March 23, 2002. She watched it and waited for her life in a new world—or her death.

aaa Imam Ch’en Hsun Peking As soon as he saw the time capsule waver, gradually grow indistinct, and disappear with a loud hum, Imam Ch’en Hsun returned to Peking in his official jet, Sabah One. When he reached his capital office, he found a message and two documents waiting on his desk. His clergy spies had reported on their findings in San Francisco. Three months ago, Security had heard again the rumor that one of the time travelers had written a journal or biography. Coupling this with what the two Santa Barbara scientists confessed under torture and the vague but continuing rumor that two time travelers had been sent back to 1906, Ch’en decided to investigate this himself. He sent his own spies to San Francisco to search for the rumored document, on the slight chance it might exist and be discoverable. They searched every possible repository of historical documents and papers, including all the city archives, using keywords such as “time machine,” “time travel,” and “1906.” The message from Imam Abdul-Raouf, the Chief Advisor to the mayor of San Francisco, said they found what Ch’en was looking for in the archives of the San Francisco Fire Department. It had been evidence in the arson investigation of an apartment house partially destroyed by fire in 1938. Ch’en made sure that each of those who handled the English document and translated it into Chinese for him swore to God on The Sabah that they would maintain strict silence, on pain of death. He scanned the Chinese translation with increasing excitement. Many pages were scorched and charred, and an unknown number of

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final pages were burned away, but nevertheless, he could not believe the information it contained. He went back through it, noting the details he needed immediately: The time travelers were the Americans John Banks and ethnic Sino-Vietnamese Joy Phim. They landed in San Francisco on November 14, 1906, and created the successful Tor Import and Export Company. Ch’en also noted the dates for their travel to Mexico, China, Japan, and Europe. The document even mentioned that John Banks had set up the Joy Phim Democratic Peace Institute, of which the Institute in Santa Barbara had been an affiliate, before its members destroyed it. We got them. For sure, these are the time travelers that received the message. He put through an urgent call to Shu Kuo. When Shu answered, Ch’en asked without preamble, “Can we contact Khoo Jy-ying right away?” Shu Kuo hesitated, and finally responded. He sounded surprised that the Imam would ask this after he had seen her disappear into the past. “No. She is now in 1906.” “I want to send a message to her immediately.” “I do not understand.” “This message will contain new information that will make it easy for her to find the American time travelers and execute them before they assassinate Sabah. I want you and Chief Scientist Liu to prepare a time capsule to carry back this message to Khoo. I don’t care how you do it; I don’t care about the expense; you need not hurry. But I want to make sure she gets this message.” After Shu Kuo assured him they would start on the assignment immediately, he hung up. He now had copied the essential information from what its author, Banks, called his Remembrance. The document was overtly revolutionary, Satanic, and anti-Sabah. It was too dangerous for anyone to read, other than a high Imam, who was armored against its lies. It exulted in a counter theology, that of infantile freedom. Ch’en knew what he had to do. He took the original and translation home with him late that evening. He turned on the floodlight on his patio, carried the documents to his little garden off the patio, and picked up a trowel from his gardener’s bench. All the snow had melted, and the first buds of spring were beginning to sprout. He dug deep and wide into the mulch he had placed around the roots of his prized, aromatic hamamelis in the au-

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tumn, sniffing the exotic, spicy fragrance the activity conjured and again enjoying the beauty of its delicate, creamy-white flowers. Nearby he had also planted for contrast the red, orange, and yellow flowering varieties. He slowly tore the pages out of both documents and then tore the pages into small pieces. He stuffed them into the hole. Finished, he stooped over the hole, but hesitated. He’d destroyed an historic document. Perhaps the most historic—the first report of time travel to ever exist. If it were made public, it would revolutionize science. “And these two would be heroes and martyrs to the anti-Sabahs,” he told himself firmly. “I have just saved the Sabah faith, the word of God.” He covered the papers with soil and mulch and watered the mound.

aaa Director Shu Kuo Tianjin Shu Kuo watched the final preparations for sending the message to Khoo Jy-ying. They were giving the buzzer its last test. He held the message for Jy-ying that detailed where John Banks and Joy Phim were staying in San Francisco, and their major activities up to the birth of Sabah. With this information she would have no difficulty finding, ambushing, and killing them. Liu motioned him over and said, “I want to be sure about the time frame. Security has insisted Khoo Jy-ying’s destination warehouse will be unused at least two months prior to her arrival. Because of the range of error in arrival dates for both Khoo and this box, we are planning for it to arrive two months before Khoo, which would be August. The warehouse will be unoccupied then. Is that correct?” “Yes.” “All the space time coordinates are now set, then, and have been triple checked. We have clearance to heavily draw on Tianjin’s electrical power. Anytime you are ready, we can send it off.” Shu Kuo walked over to the little, red metal box, punched in the code—which was the same as Jy-ying’s equipment capsule, so she would know it—and inserted the plastic-sealed message. Hiding the open capsule with his body, he also put on top a personal message from him:

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My Dear Jy-ying, I know you will succeed in protecting Sabah, especially with the enclosed information. You were the best for this mission and you would have been my first choice, had the Council not stood in the way. Now you are gone. I did not realize what you meant to me until you left. I miss you, truly miss you. I am finding it almost impossible to accept that I will never see you again, never again hold you in my arms. I can only hope now that we will meet in Paradise. Have a long life, Jy-ying, and I applaud with a kiss what I know will be your success. God surely will be with you. Shu Kuo He closed the capsule and returned to the large console to stand next to Liu. “Send it off,” Shu ordered. He watched as the red box seemed to shrivel, turned hazy, became only a dusty outline, and then disappeared.

aaa Jy-ying San Francisco, 1906, Old Universe The jackhammer of sound blasted her mind. Jy-ying put her hands over her ears and moaned from the pain. She pressed her palms into her ears as hard as she could, but they had no effect. The sound beat her whole body and rattled her bones. She thought the machine must be malfunctioning and she would not survive. It attacked her for hour-long minutes. Then in an unbelievable instant, the sound ended. Jy-ying had a sudden falling sensation, heard a screeching sound, and was jolted to her knees. Silence. Absolute silence, except for the beating of her heart. She leaned against the door, feeling helpless and deaf. She couldn’t think. Was she dying? As her senses returned, she realized that she wasn’t leaning, the capsule was. It was tilted toward the closed door. She had to be sure she was okay. She felt herself all over. She looked carefully at her hands in the dim capsule light, and pulled up her

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toe-length dress to look at her legs. She was not, however, going to take off the uncomfortable pointed shoes and look at her feet. She swallowed a few times, made a couple of coughs, and spoke out loud, “God be praised. Thank you. I’m in one piece and apparently healthy.” But did she make it? She looked up at the digital reading: 3:18:02 p.m., November 13, 1906. “Success!” she exclaimed aloud. The month was off, but she didn’t think that would make any difference. She mentally squared her shoulders. “Time to see the old world.” She picked up her specially-made holster purse, styled to look like an ordinary 1906 woman’s handbag, and took out her Taiyang .38 caliber semi-automatic. She switched off the capsule’s inside light, and gently tried to open the door. Because of the angle of the capsule, it would only open about an inch before the floor stopped it. She pushed on it, but it would open no further. She looked through the small opening and saw light coming through a high window into what must be the warehouse. She’d apparently arrived where planned, but now she was stuck in the capsule. How ironic, she thought, if with all their plans and preparations, she made it to 1906, to the proper destination, only to die in the capsule because she could not get the door open. Jy-ying switched the light back on, put away her gun, and stooped down to take a look at where the door made contact with the outside floor. It was hardwood, possibly walnut, and the door was thin steel. She knew the capsule weighed as much as a small automobile, so she didn’t think she could rock it back and forth. But why assume a negative? Okay, she thought, I will take off my shoes after all. Good thing my feet are well callused from my sparring. She removed her shoes with a sigh, and moved and crammed equipment, bags, and containers out of the way. She carefully gauged the distance and spot to hit the capsule side at a right angle from the door—if she seriously injured her leg, she was dead—to tip the capsule over. If she succeeded, she could easily get out. She crouched as far from the spot as she could and sprang at it, hitting the metal flat and hard with one foot. The capsule only gave a little shudder. She fell back and suddenly realized another danger. Oh Sabah, if it falls over on the door, I’m dead. So much for that. Back to the door. She had to apply enough pressure to bend its top out and its bottom in. She looked around at what she had. Just in case the range of error in space-time coordinates had materialized the cap-

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sule somewhere outside the warehouse, the scientists had thoughtfully clamped in various places in the capsule a long-handled spade, an axe, a hatchet, a sledge hammer, a short-barreled shotgun, a rifle, and a few other tools. Well, with all this, if I can’t get out of here, I don’t deserve to live. First, muscles. Jy-ying laid across the seat, braced her back against the far wall in between the clamped tools and weapons, and raised her well-muscled legs to push on the door. She pushed and grunted and pushed. The top of the door moved out maybe an inch or more while the bottom did not move at all. She looked more carefully at the door. There was no way to unhinge it. Stupid, she thought. It should have explosive hinges. There was the shotgun, but she was not going to shoot at the bottom corner of the door stuck into the wooden floor. She might well be injured by a ricocheting bullet or scattering shot from the shotgun. She could still use the shotgun, however. It gave her a brace for the shovel. She first made sure the shotgun was unloaded. Next, she held it barrel sideways across the bottom of the door, reversed the shovel so that the bottom curved down, put the tip of the shovel in the open crack between the door bottom and that of the machine, and held the bottom of the shovel against the shotgun barrel that was abutting the bottom of the door. This gave her a lever. She put her shoulder under the shovel handle and pushed up with her legs. The screeching sound indicated some success. The door was now open about two inches, with its bottom edge bent slightly inward. She repositioned the shotgun barrel and the shovel and lifted again. She gained maybe another half an inch. Time for some heavy action. Jy-ying took down the sledge, but trying to get a good swing was awkward in the crowded and narrow capsule, and the position she had to take strained her side. Regardless, she began to hammer just above the point where the bottom of the door met the wooden floor outside. The angle at which she had to swing exhausted her in about ten minutes. The door was now open about three inches. Jy-ying sat down, panting, and looked at the door, hoping for inspiration. She could keep pounding away with the sledge, taking frequent breaks, but she would be in poor condition afterward for anything but a long rest.

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She sat very still, relaxing her mind and letting it play with the problem. She imagined what the capsule and door would look like in schematic. She mentally drew into the schematic the various vector forces. That did it. The solution was simple. The door was a lever on the capsule. It stuck out, and if she used her weight to lift on the lever, she might straighten the capsule just a little, giving some clearance from the wooden floor for the now curved edge of the door. Then she could kick the door, knocking it open a little more. The more open, the more leverage, and the greater the distance she could push it open. When her strength returned she laid the sledge hammer close to the corner of the door, turned the shovel right side up and put its point under the door as near to the edge embedded in the floor as she could, and sat the upper part of the shovel down on the hammer. Almost there, she thought, moving to the back of the capsule where the end of the shovel handle extended. Shoving down on the shovel handle with all her strength, she felt the capsule tip slightly, and at that moment she kicked on the door. She gained half an inch. She did it again, gaining an inch. She kept this up, with frequent rests, until the door was open just wide enough for her to squeeze out. She put on her ugly shoes, held her holster purse in front of her and her jacket behind her, and squeezed out without tearing anything. It had taken her almost two hours. Jy-ying looked around at the dirty and dusty warehouse, bare except for wooden columns supporting thick beams overhead. The windows were so dirty they were opaque. A dank and moldy stench mixed with an old factory smell of greasy oil seemed to paint her lips. Her equipment capsule was close to a far wall. Good. I have that. She walked around the time machine capsule, trying to see what had caused it to tilt. Looking under the back of it, she saw that it was sitting on a red metal box tipped on end, which had been squashed to half its height by the weight of the capsule. Well, I wonder what that is. There are no other boxes on the whole warehouse floor. She shrugged and turned away. She had more pressing concerns. Jy-ying found two entrances to the warehouse. One was through a corner office and was locked from the outside. In the middle of one warehouse wall was a shipping entrance closed by two large doors with a bar across them. Next to them was a door like that in the office, also locked from the outside.

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She looked herself over as best she could. Her hair was supposed to be up in a stylish bun and she felt around it to make sure her long black hair was in place. Now that she was no longer concentrating on getting out of the capsule, she began to feel the chill and put on her wool broadcloth jacket. And then she remembered. No hat. Striding over to her equipment capsule, she typed in her code and opened its door. Everything was there, as it should be. Her one hat, a “genteel” turban, was the only one that hadn’t generated gales of laughter when she tried on the variety of hats created for her 1906 wardrobe. She refused all the others. “Too bulky, and they take up too much room,” she had told Liu Bihai. “The turban will do until I get to a clothing store.” After putting on her hat and pinning it, she realized that no one had thought of including a mirror. “Just as well,” she told herself, grinning. To be sure she looked presentable anyway, she checked herself again. The bottom of her dress was wrinkled from her efforts inside the time capsule, and under the jacket she was damp from sweat. But no rips, no scratches. I’m ready for this world. Jy-ying unbarred the shipping doors and opened both of them out enough for her to slip between them, then closed them behind her. Looking around, she saw the shipping entrance was off a small alley that connected to De Haro Street, an area of small factories and warehouses. In the foggy distance she barely see several large buildings, their smokestacks billowing black smoke. Hazy bicycles, horses and wagons bustled around their entrances, and many more were apparently parked nearby. The air on the street smelled even worse than that in the warehouse, and she could well see why, with all the clumps of horse manure in the streets. There was no sidewalk. All this was not completely strange. As a security officer, she had taken a tour of China, where some backward areas still remained, hardly touched by China’s economic development. Jy-ying walked toward the street, and stopped in amazement to look at the poles that lined it. They were so laden with wires looping from pole to pole, and from the poles to the buildings scattered up and down the street, that they seemed to defy gravity by remaining unbroken, especially those leaning at precarious angles. She had made sure she knew where the warehouse was located in San Francisco, and had memorized the streets in this area. There was the intersection with 15th Street two buildings south, and with Alameda

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Street several buildings in the other direction, and she walked toward it to make sure of her orientation. At the intersection she continued on to Division Street, and from there did a one block jog over to Townsend Street. She now stood on the edge of the huge downtown, commercial, market, and residential districts destroyed by the April 18, 1906, San Francisco earthquake and fire. The fog was thicker here, and from what she could make out the area was still undergoing massive rebuilding. Two-thirds of the city had been destroyed, with 674 dead or missing, and 250,000 left homeless. She could see some indistinct mounds of rubble and a few skeletons of buildings whose owners waited for or contested their insurance settlements. Now to find a hotel, get something to eat, and slowly settle in. No hurry. I have eight years before Sabah is born.

Chapter 10 Joy

J

oy awoke in a sweat, with her heart beating rapidly. John was already awake and was looking at San Francisco’s skinny telephone directory. “I dreamed about my mom,” she told him, her voice shaking. “I was with her and we were running away from a Khmer Rouge patrol when Mom fell and broke her leg. It was horrible. She told me to run and save myself and I ran and I heard the shot behind me as the patrol found her and I ran back and saw her lying in a pool of blood.” Tears sprang to her eyes as she tried to recover from the nightmare. John put his arms around her and held her tight. She felt so sad. She lamented, “I can’t get out of my mind the horrible suffering people experienced in our old universe’s wars and democides.” “You know,” he said as he stroked her back, “finding out about Sabah and his nuclear murder of maybe two billion human beings destroyed any feeling of success that we might otherwise have had. But if you forget about him for a moment, as difficult as that is, we did succeed in stopping major wars and democide up to 1994. Except for Sabah, we did accomplish our mission.” Joy shook her head. “Isn’t that like the cliché, ‘The operation was a success, but the patient died’? Anyway, we can’t get cocky about that or work any less cautiously or cleverly. We don’t know whether we followed The Plan you and the Society worked out, or whether we succeeded as far as we did because we threw The Plan out.” John nodded. “It’s as though we’re starting from scratch again, except now we know about that son of a bitch, Sabah. And if we fail at everything else, we’ve got to kill him.” “Amen,” she said. “Let’s look at the chronology of this new universe that Lora sent us and at least see the consequences of what we did—not that we necessarily will be able to duplicate them.”

aaa

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When the time came, Joy and John met their three guys, as they were now calling them, for supper in the small hotel dining room. It was only twice the size of their room, and held seven cloth-covered post tables, all fairly close together. People were eating at four of them when they entered. The guys were already sitting at one table, and John pulled another table over so that they could eat together. People had stopped eating to stare at John and particularly Joy as they sat down. The waiter, a surly looking fellow, ignored them for the next fifteen minutes. Joy was irritated. John noticed, and cautioned her with his finger and a shake of his head. He finally stood, tapped on the candleholder with his knife, and waited for everyone’s attention. Smiling, John spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Good afternoon. My name is John Banks. I am the new owner of this hotel, and also the owner of the Tor Import and Export Company, which I have relocated to San Francisco from New York. I would like you to meet my company’s new employees,” and John introduced the three guys. Then he added, “I also want you to meet my assistant and translator, Joy Phim.” He smiled broadly, and continued. “Collectively, our parents, grandparents, or near ancestors came from England, France, Germany, Mexico, Spain, Vietnam, and China. I don’t see any Indians here, so all of you or your ancestors have also come from a foreign country. Now we’re all Americans. And we all benefit from the diverse cultures we have brought together here. Isn’t this a great country? To celebrate this, all your dinners this evening are on me.” Some of the quests clapped, and John sat down, his smile now extending from earlobe to earlobe. Joy was proud of him, her man, and rubbed his leg with her ugly shoe to show it. From then on, they always had the best of service from the waiter, and word rapidly got around. For several days after, when they ate in the dining room, at least one guest would come up to John, smile at Joy, thank him for bringing his business to San Francisco, and congratulate him on the speech they’d heard or heard about.

aaa With the guys helping with directions and flagging down hacks, John and Joy began their first business in the past after breakfast the

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next morning. The whole downtown area, and with it most city government buildings, had been burned down or destroyed during the April earthquake and fire. But several buildings had been repaired, and these were being used temporarily to conduct city business. Some city offices in the partially destroyed city hall were still open to the public; again with the help of the guys, they found the appropriate office for registering their company in San Francisco. Next, John had to buy the warehouse. The Bank of California, which had survived the fire, had been appointed as trustee for the warehouse, and the court permitted them to sell the warehouse to John at a market value of $19,233. “Less than one third of what you paid for the hotel,” Joy whispered in John’s ear. He ignored the comment. Until their new company developed sufficiently that they could build or take over a whole office building, they intended to renovate the inside of the warehouse into temporary offices and work and storage rooms. On the advice of the manager of the bank, John had a long discussion with Muss Builders over what he wanted and finally gave them a blank check to hire an architect and get to work. He was told that their job would have to wait a year or more—there was reconstruction going on all over San Francisco due to the fire and earthquake. After a whispered conversation with Joy that raised the eyebrows of the company owner, John tripled the estimated cost of the remodeling. Their job was given priority. They had rented a team of two horses and a carriage, all hitched together for them at the Rent-A-Horse stalls, and had Dolphy, who had worked on a farm, drive them from city hall to banks to builders. Once they got the business details settled, John had the guys ask around for an automobile dealer. At Hughson & Merton, a new franchise for the Ford car, they found a 1905 Model C. It bore a $800 price tag. No trade-in on carriages or wagons. “Boy,” John exclaimed, “two cylinders, ten horsepower, maximum speed thirty miles per hour. I have to buy this baby. It’s only about twenty thousand in 2002 dollars. Cheap, for all that horsepower.” “Like we have a choice,” Joy replied. “It’s ugly, but better than a horse.” She hesitated, grinned, and whispered so that the guys couldn’t hear, “And about one sixtieth of what you paid for the hotel.” John made a show of looking at the sky, cupped his ear, and asked Hands, who was looking the car over, “Did you hear something?” “Huh?”

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John shrugged. “Think it’s a chickeylipper” “What’s that?” “Oh,” John drawled, trying to look bland but betrayed by the upward twitch at the corners of his mouth, “it’s a pesky female creature that feeds off of male eagles and owls. Yes, pesky to be sure. Makes a belching sound.” The guys looked curiously at the middle finger that Joy jabbed at John. The dealer showed John how to use the Ford’s hand lever to control the high and low gears, how to operate the reverse and brake pedals on the floorboard, how to control the motor throttle with the foot lever, and how to set the throttle and use the lever on the steering wheel to retard the spark when starting the car. “Have you ever cranked an automobile before?” he asked. John looked startled. The dealer interpreted John’s expression as a “No” and showed him how to crank the car without breaking an arm, just in case the car backfired. As John finished noting it all down on the car’s advertising booklet, Joy beat him to the driver’s side door and climbed up to sit behind the wheel. John got in and told her with an undertaker’s seriousness, “Women are not allowed to drive at this time, since the automobile is considered too complex for your simple minds. Besides, it’s too difficult for a woman to crank.” He had a hard time getting her away from the crank and steering wheel for the next week—she would have cranked the car by herself, if she had to use both arms and one foot.

aaa They’d been in San Francisco a month when Joy decided she needed a wardrobe with more variety than the one the Society had prepared for her. There were several dress shops only four blocks away along 16th Street, and walking to them would give her a better chance to look around at this old world. John was busy working with their architect on their new offices; she let him know where she was going and left the warehouse. She got no further than the intersection of 8th and Wisconsin Streets. “Hey you, stop!” someone yelled, and Joy turned to see two policemen walking along the street toward her. One of them was a husky

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fellow, about her height, in late middle age. He had a handlebar mustache and unruly hair that curled up around his helmet. The other fellow was young and clean-shaven, and walked a step behind the older policeman. The older man looked angry. He asked gruffly, “What are you doing here?” “I work down the road, at the old warehouse.” “You lie. No Chinks work around here. You’re not allowed around here.” “I beg your pardon,” she answered levelly, “I’m an American citizen, and you have no right to stop me.” “Is that so. You’re either a Chink or a Jap, and you ain’t going to fool me with your forged birth certificate. There are too many of you paper sons around.” He looked at his younger partner. “Call a wagon, Jim.” There was a police phone on the pole at Wisconsin and 16th Streets, and while Jim went over to call, the old one asked Joy, “How come a good-looking whore like you is working this area? You must have escaped from one of the Chink cribs. But you’re too good-looking for them. I can fix you up with a good location at Turk and Steiner Streets—Madam Labrodet has opened a nice bagnio there, and she’ll take on good-looking Chinks.” He added, leering, “We’ll take you there for a little payback.” Joy must have looked pretty angry, because he stepped back a couple of feet and brought his billy club up in front of him as she said loudly, clipping her words, “I am no whore. I work at the Tor Import and Export Company down the road. Do you understand that, my simple man?” “Bullshit.” Joy briefly considered laying out both him and his partner. Too close to the warehouse. They might easily see her again in the future and call in reinforcements. No need for additional trouble. She’d settle this at police headquarters. Jim returned. “Called ’em, Carl,” he announced, and the pair stood off a little distance, waiting for the wagon. They stared at her and chuckled, murmuring sidelong to one another. While they laughed over whatever little jokes they were exchanging, Joy simmered. Let’s see, which of Carl’s legs should I break? Better yet, why not wrap his right arm around his leg and tuck it back into his right armpit? Nah. That’s too easy on him too.

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Finally a two-cylinder Buick that looked like a motorized buggy puttered up to them, another policeman at the wheel. The police had commandeered all the automobiles after the San Francisco fire; this must have been left over from then, Joy thought. She was told to climb into the back, and Carl climbed in beside her. Jim pulled himself up in the front, next to the driver. They started off with a jolt. Carl immediately leaned over and tried to put his hand under her dress—no easy matter, since the skirt was so long it almost covered her shoes. She chopped down on his biceps. He reared back, rubbed his upper arm, and tried to press the head of his billy club into her side. With a twist of her upper body, she elbowed the club away and knife-chopped down on his quadriceps, giving him a painful charley horse. “You fucking whore,” he roared, causing his partner in the front to jerk around to see what was happening. “I’m going to enjoy personally working you over and sticking this club up your fucking twat.” She responded as demurely as she could, looking at him from under her long eyelashes. “Try anything more—and I sincerely hope you do—and your partners in the front are going to wonder how a sweet little thing like me could take that club away and beat the shit out of you.” He reared back against the strut holding up the car’s canopy and stared at her. I bet no woman has ever talked to him like that, Joy observed smugly. “We’ll see, you fucking whore,” he spat. He kept his body turned toward her, thumping his club hard into his palm, scowling. He kept glancing back and forth between his partners in front and Joy. After driving for about half an hour, they came to a small encampment of dirty, dusty-looking tents. The driver stopped at the entrance to the camp and looked back at Joy. “Are you a Chink or a Jap?” he asked. “I’m American.” “Shit you are,” Carl threw at her, his voice husky with rage. “I think she’s a Chink,” the driver said. “Anyway, if we put her in with the Chinks, rats know their own—they’ll send her over to the Japs, if that’s where she belongs.” The driver guided the Buick into the camp. Two policemen near the entrance stood and stepped in front of the Buick. “Where is the women’s tent?” the driver asked. “You know which one I mean.” “Three tents down, on the left.”

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The driver drove down the line of tents and stopped at the third one. Carl got out first. As Joy climbed down, he smacked her hard on the rear with his club. She stopped dead and gave him such a fierce glare, his eyes widened for a moment and he took a step away from her. As though to hide his reaction, he turned abruptly, pointed toward the tent, and beckoned Joy to follow him, all without looking at her. The air inside the tent was hot and stunk like a spittoon—or what Joy though it would smell like, if she were to stick her nose in one. An old Chinese woman hunched over a rickety folding table, her head wreathed in a haze of smoke. She wore a gray, shapeless robe, and clutched a long pipe with a tiny bowl in one hand. Joy breathed through her mouth to escape the stench, and almost immediately her lips felt oily. When she unconsciously ran her tongue over them, they tasted odd, like they’d been rubbed with a rotten orange. The old woman raised her round, shriveled face, and Carl asked her loudly, “Is this whore a Chink?” Hardly seeming to open her eyes beyond a crack, she looked at Joy for several moments. She mumbled in Mandarin Chinese, “Who are you?” Joy answered in Mandarin, one of the Chinese languages— mistakenly called dialects—she had studied, “I’m American. My parents were Sino-Vietnamese. My name is Joy Phim.” “What?” The woman was partly deaf. As well as olfactory-challenged, Joy thought, reluctantly swallowing the taste in her mouth. She slowly and loudly repeated what she’d said. The old woman nodded, and responded in Chinese, “Call me Mei. Am I not as enchanting as my name?” And she pulled her wrinkled mouth into a grin, exposing her yellow teeth. Then she coughed, blowing a stinking hole in the haze of smoke. She turned her head in Carl’s direction—Joy couldn’t tell where she looked, with those slit eyes— and nodded. In English she said, “She Chinese.” Carl’s eyes blazed with a mixture of hate and expectation. He jabbed his finger at Joy, and opened his mouth as if about to say something. He suddenly changed his mind, clamped his lips shut, and jerked around to stalk out of the tent. Joy took the few steps over to the table and without invitation sat down across from Mei. “Where am I?” she asked loudly in Mandarin. Without seeming to move her lips, Mei mumbled, “You are in the Presidio, near Fort Point.”

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“Why are you here, Mei?” Mei inhaled deeply from her pipe and exhaled enough smoke in her direction to obscure an ocean liner. Joy tried to hold her breath and fan it away with her hand. When she partly succeeded, she warned Mei, “Do that again, and I’ll take that pipe away from you.” Mei ignored her threat, but answered her question. Pipe smoke puffed out of her motionless mouth as she mumbled, “All of Chinatown was burned down. We had no place to live after that, so the mayor made us all go to one camp. Then another. This is our final camp. There were about five hundred of us here, at first. Chinatown is being rebuilt. Many went back there to live in new buildings. Only about fifty of us are left here.” “But the guards—aren’t you free to leave?” “Yes, I think so. But, where would we go? Our homes are all gone. White men do not want us to live outside of Chinatown. The mayor is against it, and he is a little emperor.” She paused and gestured behind her. “Would you like some tea? I have a hot kettle on a little fire.” “Yes, thank you.” When Mei put the green tea before her, Joy sipped it as she asked Mei about her family and where she’d lived in China. Within a few minutes, though, Joy became dizzy. Mei seemed to be disappearing into a haze. Shit. I’ve been drugged. She pushed herself up from the table, swayed on her feet, then crumpled to the floor. She tried to get to her knees, but her body wouldn’t work. She raised her head. Through the increasing darkness, she saw Mei’s fuzzy back as the old woman left the tent. She felt her head bump the floor. Blackness.

aaa Joy’s mind slowly emerged from darkness, but she still felt dazed. She had a headache. As her senses struggled toward awareness, she felt cold air blanket her body. Only cold air. She was naked. Someone had stripped her. And she could hear two men talking nearby. She didn’t move as she tried to orient herself. She was on her side. She could feel that her hands were tied behind her. And she was shivering from the cold. Now, she thought, I could scream, cry, beg the men to let me go, blush with embarrassment, and all those things women do in movies when threatened. That antithetical model in her mind helped her take

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deep breaths, slow her breathing, relax her muscles, and center her thoughts and energy on what she had to do. She kept her eyes closed, listened, and tested the bonds around her wrists. If left alone for a few moments, she was limber enough to slip her wrists under her feet and bring her hands in front of her, where she could bite through the bonds or use her teeth to untie them. She heard someone say, “This one is a beauty. She’s too good for the peasants. I think we can spread the word that we have the most beautiful Chink they have ever seen, available for two dollars a halfhour, ten dollars a night. Give her a nice, slant-eyed name, like ‘Lotus,’ or ‘Jade.’ I want to start working her tomorrow. Break her in by then.” Someone with a thick accent replied, “She eat shit before she say no when I done.” “Yes, whatever. But no bruises, no cigarette burns, no broken bones. I’m first tomorrow at 2 p.m., so I want her cunt shaved, clean, and ready. You got that? Use her other hole or her mouth if you want, but her cunt is mine. “Before I leave I want to take a picture. When the rich pricks see it, they’ll maybe pay double, if they get an early whack at her before everybody else slimes her up. Untie her hands and sit her against the wall. Put the sheet around her, sexy-like. I don’t want anyone getting anything for free. I’ll go get the camera.” She felt herself being rolled over onto her stomach. Her hands were untied. Are bad guys always this stupid? Joy wondered. Bad Accent roughly rolled her over onto her back. He put a hand on her breast and tried to spread her legs with the other. Planning to aim a chop at his neck, Joy opened her eyes, but they wouldn’t focus. She saw only a blurred image of a bull of a man with a large, bald, round head that seemed to merge into huge shoulders. Focus! She imagined three hollow tiles stacked on top of each other, the ends of the bottom one supported on bricks. She prepared to break through the tiles with one mighty chop of her hand. She ignored what Bad Accent was doing, gathered her energy, and focused and focused and focused. Yelling “Haiyeee,” Joy released her chain of power. Like a whip, it sprang up from her twisting hip and back, through her rotator cuff, into a turn of her elbow, flip of her wrist, to end in a knife chop of blazing speed and strength. Slap. Thunk. She felt her chop dig into flesh, muscle, and cartilage where she thought Bad Accent’s neck was.

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“Ummph,” he grunted, and a large club of a hand swiped at her face. Joy ducked, rolled, and tried to stand up. The room swam before her. She swayed. Damn drug. Okay, plan B. He lumbered at her with both arms held wide to bear hug her and throw her helpless to the floor. In all her years of training in judo and karate, that was one approach no one taught her. For good reason. She let him get his arms around her, but held up her right arm to keep it free. As he tightened his hug, she brought her free arm down and quickly jabbed two stiff, dagger-like fingers into his eyes. “Yeohhh,” he cried, followed by some gibberish in a language she didn’t recognize. He released her and yanked his hands up to his eyes to rub the pain and sudden blindness away. Joy’s vision and mind had cleared enough to do what came to her as routine. She twirled on her left leg and kicked him in the throat with her right heel, and as he bent over choking, she put both hands behind his head and jerked it down sharply onto her knee. There was a loud cracking sound, and an even louder grunt as she felt his nose break. He still wouldn’t go down. Joy couldn’t trust going after his neck again. She simply stepped in front of him and threw a powerful front toe kick into his vulnerable throat, not caring whether she crushed his windpipe or not. He must have had concrete legs. He still didn’t go down, but bent over further, holding his throat and gasping for breath. Blood dripped from his nose. His eyes were squinted shut. She fired a two-handed knuckle punch into his temple. Sucking air in huge, gurgling gasps, he finally lost consciousness, and toppled to the floor. She looked around the room as she took a moment to rest. It was bare except for the bamboo mat she had been lying on, and her clothes thrown in a corner. There were no windows; light came from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling on its electrical cord. The only other thing in the room was a dirty sheet at the foot of the mat. She picked that up and was going to wrap it around her, but she remembered that the other man was coming back with a camera. She took up a position near the door and waited. A few minutes later, a man entered carrying a large camera. She was behind the door as it opened, so the first thing he saw was Bad Accent sprawled on the floor. He jerked his head around, looking for her. She stood as nature made her, one hand on the door, the other on her hip. “Hi Sweetie,” she said in a sexy voice, “looking for me?”

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He hesitated a second, surprised, then immediately crouched; his hand flashed toward his pocket. Joy twirled, rotating her foot into his face and kicked him sprawling. She leaped on him. Unlike Bad Accent, he had a normal neck. She swiftly chopped his carotid vein switch and his head flopped as he lost consciousness. She straddled his body and searched his clothes. She found his wallet and saw that he not only carried a badge, but that he was Assistant Police Chief Greg Glazier. She stripped him, sliding the .36 caliber Colt handgun he had in a shoulder holster toward her clothes. She tried to do the same to Bad Accent, but he weighed about twohundred and fifty pounds, and it was like moving a huge granite slab. Employing various laws of mechanics, she managed to strip him also. Glazier started gaining consciousness as she was doing so, so she knuckle-punched his temple and put him out again. My locket! She realized she was not only naked, she didn’t have her locket. Frantic, she rushed over to her clothes—it wasn’t there. She hurried over to Bad Accent’s clothes and rummaged through them. She found her locket in his pants pocket. She held it close to her heart for a moment, kissed it, and with a great sigh of relief, put it back around her neck where it belonged. She stood contemplating Bad Accent and Glazier. She had an idea. With great difficulty, invoking even more laws of mechanics, she dragged and rolled the naked Bad Accent up to a wall. Grunting with the effort, she leaned him against it. Then she dragged the equally naked and much lighter Glazier up to the wall, and propped him next to Bad Accent. She grabbed the sheet and wet a corner with her spittle, then wiped the blood off of Bad Accent’s face. She folded the mat and placed her clothes on top so that the pile was about a foot high. This she positioned about ten feet away from the two men. Joy was pleased to see that Glazier’s camera was a Kodak folding pocket bellows type, with a ten second timer. Gauging the poor lighting, Joy set the speed at its longest—one second—and balanced the camera on the folded mat. Returning to the two men, she tilted Bad Accent down and positioned him so that his mouth was on Glazier’s penis. She made sure Bad Accent’s diminutive penis was visible, so there would be no mistaking his gender. She stood back and studied her handiwork, then arranged two fingers of Bad Accent’s hand right around his penis. She rested Glazier’s right hand on Bad Accent’s head. Again she stood back. Better. She grinned. My mom would never believe this. Joy, the porno director.

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Finally, she placed Glazier’s badge where she could get it in a rush. She set the timer on the camera, hid her locket down her back, rushed over to the men, and sat on the floor next to Glazier. She placed his badge over her genitals, covered her face with one hand, and with the other held his head in a loving embrace so it would be visible for the camera. Click. Done. Joy had to make sure. She took another photograph. She dressed in Glazier’s clothes and stuffed her hair up into his fedora to keep it from sliding down over her ears. Glazier was only an inch taller than she was, and thin, so with some adjustment of the clothes, she was satisfied she could pass for a man, if no one looked closely. She folded her clothes around her purse and placed them under her arm, lifted the camera with the same arm so she would have the other hand free to reach Glazier’s gun in his coat pocket, and opened the door. Joy had no idea where she was, but she could tell she was in a large house. A number of rooms opened off a long hallway. She could hear voices, and muffled crying came from a nearby room. Further down the hallway, there were other sounds. Lovemaking? Wrong word—rape. She ambled down the hallway as though she were in her own house, then passed through a dimly lit living room where a number of women sat talking and two men stood looking like they were on guard. When somebody said something to her, she lifted her hand holding the camera and waved it. She kept walking. She walked out the front door, down several steps, and onto a street. It was night. Without stopping, she turned right and walked until the house was out of sight. Joy walked into the middle of what a street sign told her was Castro Street and waved down what was possibly one of the first motor trucks ever made. It looked like a poorly loaded washing machine and indeed it was precariously loaded with bundled hay. When the driver leaned out and looked down at her curiously, his whole body shaking in time with the idling motor, she had to yell up at him to be heard above its popping noise. Trying to imitate a man’s voice, she announced huskily, “I’m going to a costume party but I’m very late. Five dollars if you take me there.” “What’s a Chink like you doing around here?” “I’m not a Chink. This is good makeup. Fooled you.” Looking at her doubtfully, he said, “Okay. Give me the five dollars.”

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She pulled out Glazier’s wallet, hoping he had enough money in it. She found two dollars. “Here’s two. I’ll give you the rest when I get to the party.” She climbed in, yelled the address at him, and with a loud backfire they started off in a plume of acrid smoke from his exhaust. She tried to raise her voice above the loud put-putting of the engines to ask, “How long will this take?” She wasn’t doing a good job of disguising her feminine voice. He looked at her suspiciously, but answered, “Maybe half hour, forty-five minutes.” Joy nodded, and thought it best to ignore him for the rest of the trip. Fortunately, the truck was so loud that she could risk finally communicating with John. Looking away from the driver, she sub-vocalized “KK” to turn on her communicator and whispered, “Dearest, are you there?” John responded immediately. “Jesus, baby, where’ve you been? I was about to send the posse out after you.” “Later. I’m coming to the hotel by hay truck. Wait outside for me in a half-hour with four dollars. KK.” They arrived about an hour later. As they approached, she could see John pacing up and down the street. He took note of how she was dressed but, mindful of the driver’s presence, he simply said, “Hi,” and gave her the money. She turned it over to the driver and said with a smile, no longer disguising her voice, “Keep the rest.” As they walked into the hotel, John looked her over and said, “Nice clothes. They cost you much?” Except for a look of resignation over his sense of humor, she kept silent. They got their keys from the desk clerk, who stared at her, shook his head, looked up at the ceiling, then buried his face in his newspaper as if seeking escape from a crazed world. When they reached their rooms, John followed her into her room. As soon as the door closed behind him, she let relief flood her mind and body. It was over. The warrior could disappear until she needed her again. She wrapped John in her arms, kissed him on the lips, on the forehead, on the cheeks, and let the tears flow as she put her head on his shoulder. All he could do was ask, “What happened? What’s the matter?” “You don’t like my new clothes,” she bawled, trying to imitate a little girl who had skinned her knee. He looked like she’d hit him with a rock. Joy waited until she’d calmed down before again attempting the catharsis of humor. She finally pulled away from John, bowed, and with a sweep of her hand, announced, “Meet the newest candidate for sex slavery.”

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“That’s not funny,” he said sharply. “No, really, I was. I’ll tell you about it while I get out of these stupid clothes.” “Why? They make you look good,” John said with a twisted grin. Joy ignored that, and was into her story by the time she had kicked the clothes into a heap on the floor and had a towel wrapped around her for warmth. By the time she got to the point in her story when she was coming out of the drug to find herself naked on the floor with two men in the room, John was fuming. When she told him that Bad Accent was going to break her in for sex slavery, he was livid. His hands balled into fists and he looked like a boiler, red hot and ready to explode. She could imagine steam pouring out of the safety valves in his ears. But his face was transformed when she told him about flooring Bad Accent and what she had done to Glazier, and he wore a pleased grin as she explained in detail the photographs she had taken. “The photos are in that?” he asked, pointing to the Kodak. “Yes.” “And you covered your privates with his badge, and the badge is clear in the photo?” His grin almost split his face. “Yes,” Joy murmured. John now wore a delighted, smug expression, as though he had taken a photo of his worst enemy making love to a goat. He could hardly speak for chortling. “Well, well,” he managed to get out, “we’ve got ourselves a smoking gun.” “Excuse me, dearest,” she said pleasantly, “‘we’?” “Of course, baby. Where would you be without me to develop the photograph?” “Of course,” she responded dryly. “I hadn’t thought of that.” Joy gave him her version of a triumphant grin. “Anyway, I hope you don’t find it too odd if I take a bath before discussing this further.” She wrapped a blanket around her and waited while John disrobed and covered himself with a bath towel. As they headed down the hall toward the bath, John stopped at Hands’ door and knocked. Hands answered; Dolphy and Sal were with him. Hands looked at Joy and said simply, “We were worried about you, Miss Phim. Hope that you’re alright? We thought your boss was going to murder someone if anything happened to you,” and he looked at John and smiled knowingly. John invited the three guys out for a meal and drinks. They agreed. Saying they would see them after their bath, John and Joy continued

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toward the bathroom. Suddenly realizing what they were doing, Joy looked over her shoulder. The three guys were standing in the doorway, utterly stupefied. She gave them a nonchalant wave as John opened the bathroom door. They stepped inside. After he closed the door, Joy said sweetly, “Do you realize those three saw us come in here? They know we’re taking a bath together.” His mouth dropped open. He stared at her for a moment, then broke out in laughter. “Well,” he said between chuckles, “you thought they would find out about us sooner or later, even if I hadn’t made that slip yesterday. Sooner is better, but I don’t know whether I can stand the envy.” Joy couldn’t believe it. He did have a very pleased look on his face. When they finished their bath, always a logistic victory for two in that small tub, and were walking down the hall to her room—she now remembered to put a towel around her—Joy saw that Hands had left his door open and the other guys were still inside. She couldn’t help it. She peeked in, and said cheerily, “The bathroom is now free, if you guys want to take a bath together.” All the way back to her room, she giggled at their shocked expressions. When the door closed behind them, John snatched the towel off her, flicked her bottom with it, and said, “Vixen.” Joy didn’t think he lost his pleased expression until their dinner with the guys, when she brought up the kidnapping. Hands and Dolphy were outraged. Sal sort of brushed it off. “I’m really sorry it happened to you, but it happens all the time, unless the girl has a family member or husband with her. Corrupt policemen or a gang pick her up, drug her, and make her disappear forever as a sex slave. Especially, you know, Mex and Chi—Oriental chicks, since no one in power seems to care about them.” He looked embarrassed, and she put her hand on his arm. “Sal, thanks. I know you’re trying.” They went out for drinks afterward, to a place Sal recommended— the new Liberty Cafe on Broadway. On the way, Joy warned John, “You had better not buy the place, if there is any trouble over me. Promise.” “Cross my heart.” Joy knew he had his fingers crossed as he said that. But she loved him for it. They had no trouble. The Liberty Cafe hosted a mixed clientele, including some Indians and Mexicans, and they provided Black

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entertainment. No one paid any attention to them, and they found in a corner a nicked and scratched, redwood table they could relax around. Once they all had their steins of Anchor Steam beer, Hands told them about the sex industry in the Barbary Coast area of San Francisco and Chinatown. “Before the fire, this used to be a wide-open town, although my baseball pals told me that the crusaders and religious leaders were having some effect. There were the cribs, little rooms lined up one next to another, where young girls were forced to prostitute themselves. There were the cow-yards, which was just a collection of cribs under one roof. And there were the parlor houses for the best whores. There were hundreds of these places.” Joy asked, “What about Chinese girls?” Hands looked away and Dolphy found his beer stein interesting. Finally, Sal spoke up. “I’m sorry, Miss Phim—” “Please, I’m Joy.” “Joy. You don’t want to know.” Joy motioned with her hand. “Come on, Sal.” Sal stared down at the table, his brow furrowed, his lips thinly drawn. “Sal!” “Okay, okay. Chin . . . Chinese girls were sold by their families in China to pimps, and then smuggled here and sold to Ch . . . Chinese cribs. My uncle used to do deliveries to some of the Chinese cowyards. He told me that they could buy a fourteen-year-old girl for about $1,000, and girls aged six to ten for maybe $500. Even girls one year old were sold. Good-looking girls of twelve to fifteen might cost $2,000.” Still not looking at Joy, Hands added, his voice tight with disgust, “Yeah, I heard about this. The girls would be strip . . . undressed and poked before the sale. They were slaves.” Though unfocused, Sal’s eyes blazed, as though he were staring at some despicable mental image. He didn’t seem to realize his fist was hitting the table in sync with his words. “Some Mex girls were brought in—kidnapped—and treated the same way. They and the Chinese slaves—those poor goddam girls—were diseased, ugly, and goddam useless by maybe twenty, and you know what the goddam crib owners did?” Joy gaped at him. Looking at no one, Sal answered, “The fucking shits took them to a goddam death house, where they had to lie on a bamboo mat in a dark

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room with little to eat or drink until they died, or—” he hit the table with his fist, and again “—killed themselves.” Sal was so enraged his face was a livid red, and both his hands were doubled into fists on the table. He was completely unaware that he had cussed horribly in front of a woman. Dolphy realized it, though, and his face flushed. John was aghast, not at the swearing—it had lost its shock value in the old universe—but at what Sal revealed about the girls. “Jesus! I read something about the Barbary Coast being famous around the world as the American Paris—even worse than Paris—but I didn’t know the city allowed open slavery. You say it is being cleaned up now?” “Oh,” Dolphy replied, his normal color returning, “it’s being cleaned up now, but I think some of it is still going on.” Gruffly, John asked, “What do the slave owners charge the . . . men for these girls?” Her face pale, her hand still on her cheek in outrage, Joy looked at him sharply. “Leave it, John.” Sal hissed, “Twenty-five goddam cents for a Mex; for an American, one dollar.” He refused to look at Joy. “About fifty cents for Japanese or Chinese. French women can get seventy-five cents.” There were many things Joy wanted to ask. It even crossed her mind to wonder whether the guys had used these young girls. She stomped on the thought and kicked it into her mental garbage can. Their repugnance was real. Having suffered her own experience with San Francisco sex-slavery, it all nauseated her. But at least there is something we can do. “Let’s talk about the photos,” she said, and with obvious relief they all discussed what to do with them. Except for Sal. His normal light olive coloring returned, but he seemed distracted for the rest of the evening. I would not want to be a pimp propositioning him in the next week or so, Joy thought. Joy and John already knew from the chronology the Society had prepared for them that in 1906, San Francisco had a corrupt administration. Just in the month of their arrival here, Mayor Schmitz, political “Boss” Abe Ruef, and Police Chief Dinan were indicted by a Grand Jury for bribery and extortion. In the following months, indictments also would be handed down for the city Attorney General and all eighteen members of the Board of Supervisors. The guys, of course, only knew about the indictments of the mayor and Boss Ruef, but they had heard rumors, as had everyone else in the city.

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Now, she had found out personally that the assistant chief of police was involved in the sex trade. The historical records said nothing about indictments related to the sex slave market. Here was where the photos could be useful. But it had to be done without Joy’s identity becoming known. So they talked long into the night about how to handle this. Those young Chinese girls bought and sold into sex slavery never left Joy’s mind that night, and for weeks afterward the imagined images of their awful lives blew into her mind at the oddest moments. She decided, There are missions and then there are missions. Eradicating such slavery is a mission I could undertake with a vengeance—and in vengeance.

aaa They could not trust anyone to develop the photographs that she’d taken, but the Society had anticipated their need to do their own photo development and had included special chemicals in one of the supply capsules, along with 8.5 by 11 inch photo paper. All they needed was water, pans, a closed room, and a place to screw in a red bulb. Hands bought pans, a bulb, and red paint as John requested, and watched curiously as John painted the bulb. Then he put an Out of Order sign on the bathroom door on their floor—his buying the hotel was proving smarter than Joy had thought—and set to work. He looked carefully at the two negatives and picked the best. Then he followed the directions that came with the development packets and photo paper, worked to counteract the photo’s poor contrast and brightness caused by the poor light conditions, and finally hung it up to dry. Three hours later, John retrieved the photo from the bathroom and examined it in the hallway, where he could see it clearly. “Yes!” he yelled, and did a little jig. He quietly took the photograph into Joy’s room, where Joy was working on her laptop, writing the letters that would accompany the photo. He leaned over her shoulder and proudly shoved one of the black and white photographs under her nose. “Look! Worth a Pulitzer Prize.” She was amazed at how good it was, and what a pornographic tableau it appeared to be. She felt the heat in her face and realized she must be blushing. Bad Accent actually seemed to be committing fellatio on Glazier while playing with himself. Glazier’s badge showed clearly. It ade-

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quately covered her genitals, and her hand hid her face. Poor Glazier. Even though he’d been unconscious, his eyes closed, in the photograph he seemed to be smirking, eyes drooping with pleasure. The only sensitive thing about the photograph were her breasts, but hell, no one would know who those belonged to. No one would even know she was Asian. “Oops.” It occurred to her: “Are you going to show this to the guys?” John thought for a moment. “Sure; they’ll envy me even more. Maybe I’ll make copies for them to pin up on their walls.” “Deviate!” she yelled, and pushed him onto the bed with her foot. She jumped on him and tickled him. They both rolled around on the bed, laughing. Once they sobered, they talked through the problem. For one thing, they had already grown to trust the guys, despite their background and the little time they’d known them. Part of the reason was what Lora had told them in her message. Another part was their intuition. The guys had already shown themselves to be good and helpful employees, even friends. The other question was the display of Joy’s body. In their twentyfirst century of topless bars, R-rated movies, and Internet pornography, the display of breasts was nothing, especially for Joy, with her Asian background and the sexual training she’d received as a young girl. For the young men in this era, a revealed ankle could be erotic, and indeed, was considered risqué. Yet, if they were to use the photo to its maximum advantage, they had to distribute it, which meant that it would become an underground sensation. Then the guys might see it anyway. Besides, they were adults and surely not virgins. “So,” she finally told John, “show it to them.” “You don’t think this will demean you in their eyes? I worry that they might get ideas from seeing your breasts.” “They’re young men, sweetheart. They naturally get ideas, as you put it. If they haven’t already, I’d think they were gay—or that there was something strange about them.” “I don’t want them to cut your picture out and pin it on their wall to ogle,” John protested. “Why not? Wouldn’t you?” “Maybe I will. Okay, you win. I’ll bask in their incredible envy, the unbelievable desire in their eyes, their amazing jeal—” “Shut up, John.”

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aaa John made nine copies from the negative, and the next day when they met with the guys at breakfast, he gave each of them one of the photographs. Dolphy blushed while looking at it, and managed to say, his voice unusually high, “God—gosh, this is good.” Sal looked at it for a few moments, and said, “You’ve got . . . nerve. I couldn’t have set this fuc—punk up any better.” He reddened, and apologized to Joy for his language. Hands looked at the photo for a long moment, then said, “Where? I don’t see her . . . nerve.” “There, behind the shield,” Sal said, grinning devilishly, his normal color returning. Hands put down the photo and gave Joy a little salute with two fingers. “I think the best thing that ever happened to me was meeting you two.” Looking into Joy’s eyes, he continued. “And being hired by your boss. If I can ever help you two, and I mean beyond the job, let me know. You are my kind of people.” “I agree,” Dolphy said, and Sal added his, “Me too.” This affected her deeply. Moist-eyed, she reached across the table and asked that they put their hands in hers. Once they had, she placed her other hand on top of theirs and told them all, “Thanks, guys. You don’t know what that means to me.” “To us,” John amended, and added his own hands to the stack. That afternoon, Joy put the letters and photos in envelopes, put a two-cent stamp on each, and the guys mailed them from separate mailboxes around the city. They went to William Randolph Hearst’s San Francisco Examiner, San Francisco’s Daily News and Chronicle, and especially to Fremont Older, editor of the Bulletin, who was particularly devoted to exposing the corruption in the city. Each letter said: Enclosed is a photograph of Assistant Chief of Police Greg Glazier of San Francisco, who is running a sex slave ring. With him is one of his female victims and the enforcer, who is seen servicing him. The enforcer’s job is to make the kidnapped girls fear him more than they are sickened by the sexual acts they must perform for ten or more men a day. One way they procure the girls is to have them picked up by the police for some bogus reason. They are taken to

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a place where they can be drugged and kidnapped into this slavery. Such a place is the third tent on the left after entering the Chinese section of the Presidio camp. An old Chinese woman named Mei is doing the drugging there. Check her tea. Yours Sincerely, I.M. Justine Two months later, the San Francisco Daily News carried the following headline. SEX RING BUSTED Assistant Police Chief Greg Glazier, eleven policemen, four Chinese, two Japanese, and sixteen others were indicted for kidnapping, slavery, and murder. Three committed suicide within hours of the District Attorney’s release of the indictments. Toward the end of the article, was this paragraph. Two of the indicted policemen were being treated in hospital for severe beatings they had received. One, Patrolman Carl O’Brien, had two fingers of his right hand cut off. The policemen refused to talk about the beatings and the prosecutor’s office disclaims any knowledge of it. The prosecutor did say that this was assault with the intent to kill and they will pursue the perpetrators regardless of the indictments. Neither John nor Joy ever mentioned these beatings to the guys, although she did notice the next day that Dolphy had skinned knuckles and Sal seemed unusually pleased with himself. In the next year, all those indicted were found guilty, and Glazier was sentenced to life in prison. Of those women the ring had enslaved, twenty-three survived and five died or were murdered by the ring. The survivor’s names had not been released, but through contacts John had developed in the prosecutor’s office during the year, they got their names and addresses. Joy personally sent each $5,000—about $94,000 in year 2002 dollars—with a note:

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You have my deepest sympathy for the suffering and humiliation to which you have been subjected by the Glazier sex ring. My heart goes out to you. Not all men are like those that sexually exploited you. Most that I know are helpful, kind-hearted, and considerate. I hope that you have come to know such men also, and have found love, or will do so soon. Perhaps this gift will make your life a little easier, although I know nothing can ever erase the memory. My very best wishes for your future happiness, A friend

Chapter 11 Jy-ying

“M

y name is Khoo Jy-ying, and I am here to purchase a property you are holding.” The bank clerk was surly when he reluctantly gave her his attention. She did not understand it. She was dressed in the most fashionable and expensive clothes she could buy. She had come straight from Eglantine’s Chic Shop and even wore an awful corset that the female clerk laced up for her. She felt like she’d been strapped to a pole. Jy-ying laid a five dollar bill on the clerk’s plain oak desk. That seemed to upset him. He looked her up and down again, then without a word he rose and went to a rear desk, where he talked briefly to an elderly man. When he returned, he pointed to the rear without looking her in the eyes and said, “Go see him.” He sat down at his desk and stared at the papers scattered across it. She strode purposely past him and sat down uninvited in the office chair diagonally facing a lovely desk made from cross sections of redwood burl. On it a lacquered placard read Eugene Hoppner, Manager. Hoppner ignored her, apparently checking a list of numbers. She didn’t know how he could see over the gray handlebar mustache that protruded further than his nose. The bank was crowded, with two long lines of customers at the two available cashier windows. Many of the people continued to stare at her, as they had done when she walked in. The bank was uncomfortably warm and the temperature combined with her dress, petticoats, corset, and bustle were making her overheat. She could feel the sweat forming in her underarms. Jy-ying looked back at the lines of customers. An old woman in a long yellow dress had advanced almost to the window. She thought back. Yes. I’ve waited through five people being served at the window. Enough. With the flat of her hand, Jy-ying slapped the desktop. Hoppner jumped, throwing the paper he’d been holding into the air. He jerked his head up to look wide-eyed at the invading hand, then further up to glare at her through his small wire-framed glasses, his

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mustache twitching like a sweeping broom. He face reddened all the way up to the five strands of hair that he’d combed across his bald pate. In a voice that would freeze the Nile River, she told him, “Your bank has foreclosed on a warehouse. I will buy it.” Jy-ying reached in her purse and threw down a roll of counterfeit thousand dollar bills. She laid the address of the warehouse on top. Hoppner’s eyebrows reached for the sky as he leaned back, his face struggling with several emotions. She looked at the lines of customers. No one moved; they were all watching. She waved at them and smiled, and several turned away, embarrassed. Hoppner leaned forward and picked up the address. He twisted around and looked in the gold-colored file cabinet behind him, retrieved a file, and opened it on is desk. He compared the address to that in the file, and turned to her. “I cannot sell you that warehouse. We do not sell property to Chinks . . . Chinese outside of Chinatown.” “What? Did Chinatown not burn down in the fire?” Hoppner didn’t even try to hide his grin. “Yes, it did.” His grin disappeared into his mustache, replaced by a scowl. “Because of the interference of your fuc . . . your country—that meddling Chow-Tszchi from the Chinese Legation at Washington—the mayor is allowing your people to . . . rebuild it.” He said the last words as though uttering an epithet. Jy-ying kept her temper. Too much was at stake. She gave him an apologetic look and asked, “Would the honorable sir please inform this humble Chinese woman whose policy it is that says I cannot buy this warehouse?” He picked up a pencil and started tapping it on his desk, a question on his face about her sincerity. He leaned forward and replied, “This is not my policy; this is the owner’s policy. We are both members of the Japanese and Korean Exclusion League and this is white man’s land. Go back to China.” Will God be blessed? Security knew about the anti-Oriental prejudice, but they had not known it was so serious. One more question before happy time. “Who is the owner? “None of your business.” She swiftly leaned over the desk and grabbed a sheaf of papers. The second paper had the letterhead she was after: National Bank of San Francisco; Paul Bales, Owner; Eugene Hoppner, Manager.

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Jy-ying stood, slowly folded the paper, and put it in her purse. She was sure she had everyone’s attention. She wiggled her bustled behind as she stepped around the desk and stopped a little behind Hoppner, so that she wouldn’t block the view of the customers. She leaned over him, tweaked his mustache, and gave him a smothering kiss. His struggled, but she held his lips in hers. When she finally released him, his face was the color of her outrageously unladylike bright red lipstick, which was smeared all over his lips and mustache. She stepped back, gave him a little wave with her fingers, and called in a sexy voice, “Bye-bye, honey. See you tonight.” She turned and walked out of the bank. When she reached her room in the All Nations Hotel, she cranked her telephone and asked the operator to connect her with the National Bank of San Francisco. When a clerk answered, she disguised her voice. “Hello, I am a postal clerk and I’m trying to get the home address of a certain Paul Bales. I have tracked him to your bank. The home address on this letter to him is illegible.” Jy-ying heard, “Just a moment, please.” And in less than a minute, “The address is 1081 Judah Street.” One more question. “For our records, does he have an office somewhere?" “Yes, his office is Room 233 in the new Watson Building on Merchant.” Jy-ying hung up. She had to have that warehouse. She could quietly have her capsules moved somewhere in Chinatown, but the warehouse was perfect for constructing a gym for her practice. Hmmm. How to do this? First I must find out who heads this Exclusion League. Olaf Tveitmoe, she soon discovered, was the man. Jy-ying called his secretary and set up an appointment to discuss a $10,000 project. He was accommodating, and made the appointment for that morning. When she entered the office, Tveitmoe’s secretary looked at her with raised eyebrows. Jy-ying didn’t think he had ever before seen a Chinese in the reception room. At least, not one the way she looked. She wore a cheap blouse and skirt without a corset, and she was chewing gum. She had applied almost luminescent red lipstick, and heavily rouged her cheeks in the manner popular among prostitutes. He asked coldly, “Can I help you?” “Oh yes,” Jy-ying said. “My name is Blossom and Olaf wanted me to come to see him.”

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While the secretary hurriedly looked in his appointment book, she started to ramble. “I don’t know why he wanted me to come in the morning. It is so hard getting out of bed. You know, I have this late cafe act and—” The secretary looked up. “You have no appointment at this time. There must be some mistake. I have an appointment here for Mrs. Marble.” “Mrs. Marble? Oh yes, that’s me.” Jy-ying giggled and faked a guilty smile. “He told me he wanted to see me.” His lips puckered as though he’d tasted sour milk, the secretary knocked on Tveitmoe’s door and stuck his head in. She could hear him snap, “Your nine o’clock appointment is here.” Jy-ying sashayed in, leaving the door open a crack behind her. She placed her purse just where she wanted it on Tveitmoe’s solid oak desk. She removed her hat, and as she took the pins out of her hair, she whispered throatily, “I am a gift from Paul Bales.” She took off her cheap wool cape and threw it on the floor. He sat gaping at her as she unlaced her taffeta silk shirt. She wore nothing underneath. She exposed one breast, stepped around the desk, and rubbed it against his face. He licked his lips and his eyes widened. Face flushed, he started to caress her breast. She took his hand off her breast, raised her skirt, and put his hand underneath. She wore nothing there, either. She pulled him to his feet. She could see he had a full erection. She leaned over, letting her breast hang, and unbuttoned his woolen pants. With some gentle maneuvering, she pulled his erection through the slot in his long underwear. Jy-ying was ready. She ripped her shirt further apart, shook her hair over her head, and screamed, “What are you doing? Let me go! No, stop. Please!” As his secretary rushed in, she yelled even louder, “Help me! Rape—he’s trying to rape me!” Jy-ying snatched her cape off the floor, scooped her purse off his desk, and ran past the secretary, who stood by the door with his hand to his mouth, his eyes like saucers. There was a public washroom two offices down the hall. She ran past two people in the hallway and into the women’s room. In five minutes she had herself repaired, and quickly left the building. Another ten minutes and she was driving her new Rolls Royce Silver Ghost to her room at the All Nations Hotel.

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In her room, she had everything ready that she’d brought from the equipment capsule. She took the Wang digital movie camera out of her purse, in which she’d cut a view hole in the bottom corner. She had set the camera to automatically take pictures once she switched it on with her remote. She removed the memory card from the camera and inserted it in the card reader she had plugged into her laptop. She opened her Taicang photo manipulation program and went to work. Three hours later, Jy-ying printed out her three favorite photos and studied them with a little embarrassment. She didn’t have to wonder what Imam Ch’en Hsun would think of her work on behalf of Sabah. After her noon Contact Prayers, she wrote a letter to Tveitmoe. Dear Sir: You are a devil, sir, trying to rape me in your office. I am sure that your secretary will try to deny that anything happened. But for my protection, I took the enclosed photographs of your mad passion and your attempt to take advantage of me. I do not know what to do now, sir. My lawyer advised me to sue you for attempted rape. These pictures and what your secretary will have to swear to under oath should establish the truth. However, I am only a humble Chinese girl and cannot be sure that I will get justice in your white man’s courts. My honorable father is angry, and has told me to send the photographs to the newspapers. But I fear they would embarrass him. My husband is so angry over what you have done to me that he has bought a gun and threatens to shoot you. I have begged him not to. As for me, I have told them all I would be satisfied, if only Paul Bales would sell me the warehouse I asked for on De Haro Street. A simple transaction at market price. My lawyer, father, and husband most reluctantly will accept this if it makes me happy. My lawyer, I am ashamed to admit, is a suspicious person. I had to turn over to him copies of these pictures, just in case something should happen to me. I will telephone Mr. Bales tomorrow afternoon to close this deal. Your humble Chinese, Khoo Jy-ying

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Jy-ying hired a courier to deliver the letter into Tveitmoe’s hands only.

aaa Jy-ying paid $21,000 in counterfeit bills for the warehouse. Once she killed the time traveler, she would be living in San Francisco as a base until Abul Sabah was born. Afterward she planned to travel to Uighuristan and be a servant to his family until Abul’s first contact with the Agent Gabriel. She would be Abul’s first convert. It was her dream. But she had a job to do and a life to live until then. She contacted an architect, took him to the warehouse, and told him what she wanted: a complete gym for indoor jogging (he thought she was crazy), a practice room for marital arts, a weights room, a soundproofed gun room, and a corner office with an outside door. He took rapid notes, asked a few questions, and finally asked, “What is this all for?” “I will be training a team of athletes to participate in the 1908 Olympics.” That seemed to satisfy him. He pointed to the time machine and supply capsule and asked, “What are those containers for?” “I shipped some special equipment from China in them. They have to be especially strong to make the voyage with the heavy equipment inside.” With the use of a primitive wagon jack and a sledgehammer, she had managed to get the door closed enough on the time machine so that the interior was hidden. She also had put a chain around the capsule to keep the curious out. The architect drew up plans, she approved them, and he recommended The Pacific Construction Company for the remodeling. She telephoned them to send a representative to the warehouse. He came, saw that she was Chinese, and said he could do no work for her. He was friendly enough, but could do nothing about his company’s policies. He explained, “My company has to belong to the Building Trades Council. It’s headed by Patrick McCarthy, and he is a leading member of the Japanese and Korean Exclusion League.” On an off chance, she asked, “Does Tveitmoe have any relationship to the Building Trades Council?” “Yes, he is the general secretary of the Council.”

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“Thank you,” she replied. “I think you should make preliminary plans for the remodeling of my warehouse. I’m sure that when I explain my needs to Mr. Tveitmoe, he will allow an exception in my case.” When Jy-ying returned to her hotel, she completed her Noon Prayers, ate her cold rice, dried tuna, vegetables, and drank the hot jasmine tea she heated up on her small electrical hot plate. Then she wrote the letter that had preoccupied her mind during lunch. Dear Mr. Tveitmoe: I am so sorry to disturb you again over my humble problems, but its seems that The Pacific Construction Co. cannot do the remodeling of my warehouse because of a misunderstanding over my being Chinese. As General Secretary of the Building Trades Council, I’m sure that you can resolve this question in my favor. Your humble American, Khoo Jy-ying As with the previous letter, she sent it via courier.

Chapter 12 Joy

W

ith a promised bonus as an incentive, the builders started remodeling John and Joy’s warehouse into temporary offices almost immediately. John and Joy were surprised, then, when they arrived late one morning and found the warehouse empty. None of the workers who had been doing the remodeling were around. John telephoned their builders, who informed them that Patrick McCarthy, head of the Building Trades Council, had ordered a boycott of their remodeling. As to why, John could get no explanation. He was told to call Olaf Tveitmoe, general secretary of the Council. John tried several times to reach this fellow, but he was either busy or out. So John drove to the Council building. Refusing to take the secretary’s “no” for an answer, he stalked into Tveitmoe’s office. Tveitmoe was angry; when John confronted him, he dropped all pretense and told him the score. “The Council is going to drive you out of business, Banks, because you have violated an unwritten principle of labor in San Francisco. White men in business do not hire Orientals. You are stupid enough to do so, and you must suffer as a result. And don’t think you can go to the politicians on this. They’re on our side. Read this.” He flipped a carbon copy of a letter across the desk. John picked it up and read: Mr. A.E. Yoell Secretary, Japanese and Korean Exclusion League, San Francisco, California Dear Sir: As it is now nearly one year since the organization of the Japanese and Korean Exclusion League, I venture to write and congratulate the League through you upon the progress made toward the ultimate exclusion of Japanese and all Mongolians from our shores.

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If the agitation is kept up, and we continue to bring to the public’s attention the Japanese competition and the dire evil influence upon our civilization of their residence among us, we are bound to succeed. I shall be glad at all times to cooperate. I remain, Sincerely Yours, E.A. Hayes, Congressman of the Fifth District, House of Representatives, Washington May 1, 1906 John made no effort to hide his disgust as he looked up. His expression seemed to excite Tveitmoe, who gloated, “We are all members of the Exclusion League here.” John had heard enough. He wordlessly tore up the letter, spit on it, and tossed the wet pieces on Tveitmoe’s desk. He rose to his full height and strode to the door, where he paused and turned to glare at Tveitmoe. He said in a clear, firm voice that he hoped carried into the outer office, “You’re crud, Tveitmoe. The lowest of the low. A snake would tower over you.”

aaa “No swear words?” Joy asked, raising one eyebrow, when he told her later. John answered, “None that I’ll tell you. To complete the story, I left Tveitmoe’s door open when I left his office, tipped my hat to his secretary, who was gaping at me, and walked out of the building.” Joy looked at his cool expression, and the words just rushed out of her by themselves. “I’m hurting our mission. First the Chink bit and sexual slavery, and now this. You don’t seem a tiny bit concerned about it. Don’t you care?” John immediately changed his tone, which showed he had learned by now to read her looks—well, some of them—and understood her “subtle nuances.” He responded, “Oh, I’m damn-well concerned. More than concerned. Didn’t I show that when I left Tveitmoe’s office? I’m fighting mad, and I’m not going to bow to those bastards. We could run away to another city, such as what that bastard called ‘Chink asskissing Seattle’ and leave others to suffer this discrimination. But I want to fight them.”

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Joy put her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, dearest. I shouldn’t have said what I did. I know you care. Of course.” John nodded at her apology, and continued. “Whatever we do, baby, we can’t go off half cocked. We can’t screw up our mission, or forget about Sabah. That understood, let’s see what we can do about the Exclusion League and the Buildings Council.” “We aren’t completely blind,” Joy countered. “While you were gone, I called the secretary to the vice president of Muss Builders, and talked to her woman to woman. I told her I was your secretary, and I was going to be out of work because of your lust for some Chink, and I wondered if they had a job for me. I told her my name was Shirley Carpenter. She was friendly, and suggested I see their personnel man who does the hiring. All this was groundwork. Then I probed and probed—you know how women can do this, with little questions that build an edifice of information.” Joy grinned as John impatiently motioned with his hand, urging her to continue. “Okay. I found out that the Japanese and Korean Exclusion League you mentioned is in fact headed by Tveitmoe, and its membership includes the general president of the Buildings Trade Council, the vice president the secretary I spoke to works for, and the waterfront labor boss. And, as you know from the research the Society passed on to us, the labor movement in San Francisco has at this time the most powerful stranglehold on labor of any city in the country.” “Yes, I know,” John replied. She had to add, “Although apparently focused on Japanese and Koreans, the secretary told me that the Exclusion League is really trying to exclude all Orientals from San Francisco.” “Yes,” John replied. “That was clear from Representative Hayes’ letter I read.” Her final bit of information: “The local labor leaders have been strong backers of the Chinese Exclusion Bill now before Congress. This effort extends to all of California, the idea being to make it ‘white man’s country.’” Just saying this upset her even more. “Because of my race, I think the Society made a mistake in picking San Francisco for our base. Perhaps New York or Seattle would have been much better. I don’t know how they made this error.” “Well, they had what I thought was full information on San Francisco during these years,” John replied. “But they missed the depth of feeling against Orientals, and don’t even mention it in their chronology. Nor do they mention the strong anti-Oriental bias of the labor move-

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ment here. I think the problem was that Society members were too familiar with the cosmopolitan, wide-open, anything goes, San Francisco of the twentieth century, and that misled them as to 1906. Also, the problems we—” “Me, my love. I’m the Oriental here.” “—ran into may be a matter of bad luck. If you’d gone shopping a few hours later or earlier, you probably would have missed the policemen who picked you up. Moreover, another hotel might not have any restrictions on renting rooms to Orientals.” With more heat than she intended, Joy disagreed. “Not bad luck. Very good luck. We busted up a sex slave ring, and doubtlessly saved the lives of many women. The first lives we saved. Do you understand what that means to me? We saved the lives of many women and ended for others miserable slavery. This is not ending war. This is not stopping the mass murder by tyrants. This is not our mission. But doesn’t it weigh in the balance?” His eyes softened, and he looked at her with pride. He put his arm around her and pressed her head to his shoulder. “And more good luck. Now we can bust up this Exclusion League. That is, if you’re interested.” She kissed him. “You got it, dearest.” She shook her head and looked away from John for a moment, reflecting on what they were doing. Amazing. We certainly have egos. A less charitable interpretation would be delusions of grandeur. Here we are, new to this age, no power base, and we intend to put out of existence a very influential Exclusion League supported by powerful politicians, businessmen, and union leaders. To think of doing this should have been our ha-ha moment. But we are absolutely serious. “Now,” John said, “let’s think about this. We have a pretty good chronology of the immediate future for the Old Universe from the Society, we have the tremendous wealth they sent us, and we have the best of twenty-first century technology. If we can’t put something together to deal with this little problem, we’re pretty dim bulbs.” “Yes, we’ll be the idiots some villages must be missing.” After a moment, Joy mused, “The people who control the League and the Builders Council are pretty important. We have to go high up to finesse them. What are our levers of power here?” John replied, “So far as I know—and no matter how we hate it— these people are acting within democratically determined law. In this era, they are free to discriminate in this fashion. Whatever we do, we

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have to do legally, too. No frame-ups, no Chinese mistresses coming out of the woodwork, no bribes. And this is a widely felt movement among whites; if we remove those at the top, someone will take their place. We’ve got to persuade those running the movement to end the discrimination themselves.” “Keep in mind that they are trying to destroy our business simply because you hired me,” she pointed out. “If this is not illegal, it is against the spirit of the laws, and what our country stands for. But I agree. At first, let’s try this the legal way.” She got out her laptop and opened the chronology of the Old Universe the Society had prepared. She also opened alongside it Lora’s chronology of the new universe they had created. They went over them event by event. “Aha,” John exclaimed after two hours. “That’s it. There’s our solution.” Joy had to agree, and they started planning for it immediately.

aaa As they left their room for dinner that evening, John thought it would be nice to ask Hands and the others to join them. He was just about to knock on Hands’ door when a pretty young woman wrapped in a towel, her long brown hair unpinned and hanging over it, came out of the bathroom at the end of the hall. Hands was right behind her, also covered by a towel. The young woman gave Joy a sisterly smile and sauntered into Hands’ room. Hands turned to them in his doorway and noted, with a huge grin, “The bath is free, if you two want to use it now.” He winked at John. As they went down the stairs, Joy couldn’t help thinking, What is it with men, to make a clubby, in-group, kind of thing about sex? We don’t. Hands’ honey just smiled at me and went into Hands’ room. No wink. No, “Ha, ha, look at what I did.” No making a little joke out of it. John must have thought he read her look. He tried to point out, “Well, sweetheart, we did set an example.” She had to chuckle at his misinterpretation. As they’d planned, the next day she phoned the secretary of the Chinese Consulate and made an appointment two weeks hence with Chung Pao Hsi, China’s Consul-General in San Francisco. The secretary was at first reluctant to set up an appointment, but Joy described

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their company and the tens of millions of dollars they would be spending, and how generous they could be. She got the appointment.

aaa All five of them trooped into the rebuilt Chinese legation at Laguna and Geary Streets. The Chinese secretary let the Consul-General know that Miss Joy Phim had arrived, and looked surprised when Chung Pao Hsi came out to greet them. In Chinese, Joy introduced John as the head of the Tor Import and Export Company and her boss, and just waved her hand at the guys, saying simply, “Our guards.” Chung seemed surprised. He led Joy and John into his office, and asked them to sit down on a green fabric coach, while he sat on a hickory office chair across from them. When they were seated, Joy asked him if they could talk in English so her boss could participate, and he agreed. She nodded. Looking at John, she explained, “My boss is very rich and in November transferred his company from New York to San Francisco. Part of its business will involve imports to and exports from China.” She turned back to Chung and leaned forward. “He will also hire as employees a good number of Chinese. His attempt to build his offices, however, has been boycotted by the Builders Council and the Chinese Exclusion people are clearly involved. He wants to fight them and end the discrimination against Chinese.” Chung’s eyes narrowed. “We know what is going on here. It was only with some difficulty that our first Secretary in Washington and I were able to persuade local officials to allow Chinatown to be rebuilt, after it was completely destroyed in the fire. Even then, we had to talk to Governor Pardee in Oakland and pass on the Empress-Dowager’s displeasure. John spoke up. “We realize what you did, and that is why we are here. Before I make any suggestions, I would like to give you this little gift.” He handed him a beautifully engraved Chinese envelope that Joy had bought from one of their future import competitors in San Francisco. Inside the envelope was $10,000. Next, John opened a heavy box he had carried into the office, and pulled out with two hands a smaller box with gold gilt wrapping. On top was an envelope on which was engraved in gold and classical Chinese calligraphy the name of the Empress-Dowager of China. John

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carefully handed it to Chung, bowed, and solemnly said, “This is an indication of my esteem for the Empress-Dowager and for our future relations. It is a 99.98 percent pure gold bar worth $101,023. The bar is engraved with her name, Tzu-Hsi.” It had taken Joy and the guys a week to get everything together, and find the Chinese who had the materials and could do the fancy Chinese engraving necessary. The gold bar was part of the resources that the Society had sent them. Chung put his envelope and the heavy box with the gold bar on his solid rosewood desk with a thump. He was obviously impressed when he turned back to them, and looked expectantly at John. John reiterated what Joy had said about trying to end the discrimination against Chinese in San Francisco, and to improve trade with China. Leaning forward as Joy had, he went into his pitch. “I think the best way of doing this is through the American Secretary of State and the President. Although I think that President Roosevelt is opposed to discriminating against Chinese, he has so much to do that his attention needs to be focused on San Francisco by some big event or very important dignitary. Can you please ask your Empress-Dowager to do this? I know that she has a personal interest in San Francisco, since she gave about 100,000 taels, or about $75,000, as a personal contribution to the fire relief effort after the earthquake; and an additional 40,000 taels to the relief of the Chinese here. Also, she allowed you to use her name to have Chinatown rebuilt.” Joy knew that what the Empress-Dowager contributed to relief was big money. She tried to estimate it—overall, two million dollars in year 2002 dollars. The gold bar they’d just handed to Chung was worth nearly that. In effect, they were repaying her for her aid to San Francisco. John asked, “Through her Foreign Minister, can the EmpressDowager issue a formal protest to the United States over treatment of Chinese in San Francisco? A diplomatic hint would be helpful—that if the discrimination continues, China will boycott American imports from California. I’m sure your Foreign Minister can properly word such a communication. Perhaps she would also want to express how insulting this discrimination is to the great nation of China, and that the Chinese people are humiliated by it.” Chung was silent for a moment as he probed John’s eyes. He asked, “Why are you doing this?” John also took a moment before responding. He held Chung’s eyes with his, and said in a firm voice, “First, I love this woman sitting be-

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side me. Her working for me is a formal technicality. She is in effect co-owner and manager of the business. We would marry, but have not because of the long-run interests and nature of our business. What the League and others who agree with it are doing to her is not only an insult to this woman, but to me. “Second, I need to hire many other Chinese for my business. “Third but not least, Chinese are an intelligent and creative people, and the United States will benefit immeasurably from their immigration and contributions.” Joy was flabbergasted. She had no idea John would divulge their relationship. She didn’t know whether to kiss him or kick him. Chung sat back thoughtfully, and looked at Joy as though he were her father and they had asked him permission to marry. He asked her in Chinese, “Do you have a love arrangement with this man?” “Yes. He lives in my heart.” “Is he really so . . . accepting of Chinese?” “Yes, he sees all people as equal, as human beings.” “That’s extraordinary. Is this not because he loves you? Doesn’t he see all Chinese as being in your image?” “No. It is his character and the way he views the world. He treats Koreans, Japanese, Russians, Arabs, Africans, and all other races and national groups the same. He does not have a prejudiced cell in his body.” Chung’s eyebrows rose. “Where, may I ask, did you find this exceptional man?” “He was once a professor of history and I took a class from him.” “So he is a very knowledgeable and distinguished American.” “Yes.” “My minister will ask me this question and I want to be clear in my answer. Is it that you are Chinese that he will not marry you?” “No. It was a joint decision not to marry. Such a decision would have to be made by any woman in my position, given the kind of business we do.” Chung studied her. “You two are involved in something secret, beyond this business. Yes?” It was Joy’s turn to lock eyes with him and judge his sincerity. He was in his forties, about the right age for this honored position. Clearly, he was a rising star in the Chinese Foreign Ministry. He had those soft features and the lean, small-boned body of the southern Chinese, which probably meant that he was outside the inner, influential circle around

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the Manchu Imperial dynasty. That the Chinese ministry had given him this legation position was even more impressive. He spoke excellent American English; he must have had a superior education, probably some of it in an American university. People like him could be very helpful to their mission. And his eyes never wavered from Joy’s. Okay, she thought. John trusted him about our relationship. I’m ready to go further. Speaking in English, eyes still fixed on his, Joy asked him, “What do you think of a free, independent, and democratic China?” John and Chung were both startled by the question. John turned and stared at her, clearly looking for a hint as to what was going on. Chung sat back, raised his hands, brought his fingertips together, and said, “What a surprising and interesting question. And by democracy, you mean?” She answered, “There are many types, including those where there is also a king or queen. The idea is that people freely, privately, and regularly vote for their government executive and members of a legislature, which has the power to make laws. The United States and Great Britain are examples, but not the only ones.” Chung rose suddenly and went to the door of his office. He opened it and looked around. Through it, Joy could see Hands, Sal, and Dolphy paging through Chinese travel guides and pamphlets. Chung shut the door and pulled his chair closer. He sat down. Softly, he said, “Everything we now say in this room is private. If anything of what I say is divulged, I may not live long, but you will die before me.” They nodded. “Now, we each have secrets,” he said. “You first.” Continuing in English, Joy said in a low voice, “When the time is ripe, we will try to bring about democracy in China.” “Who are you, to do this?” “We have resources you would not believe that make it possible for us to attempt this.” “You are secret agents for the United States?” “No.” “But you are secret agents, yes?” “In a way, yes. Your turn.” “I am allied with Sun Yat-sen.”

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Joy mulled that over. Sun Yat-sen was a revolutionary trying to overthrow the dynasty and create a democracy on his terms. In reality it would be a top down, authoritative government with a mixture of democratic elements. Close enough. Joy nodded. “Thank you. You need say no more.” Chung’s eyes never left Joy’s during this exchange. He sat unmoving in his chair. When John saw that Joy was finished and Chung had no more to say to her, he turned to Chung and said, “Well, that concludes our appointment. I hope that you can influence your government to help us and the Chinese in San Francisco with this problem of discrimination.” Chung got up, and they stood as well. He shook John’s hand vigorously, saying, “I will do what I can. You have a . . . friend here.” He gave Joy a little bow, and said in Chinese, “May the sun always shine on you and your man.” “And on you and your country,” Joy replied, bowing deeply in return. “Zai Chien—Goodbye.”

aaa That evening, they relaxed with the guys at the Liberty Café, singing along with everyone in the café as a small band played “In My Merry Oldsmobile,” “Meet Me In St. Louis, Louis,” and beer songs like “Under the Anheuser Bush” and many of the risqué lyrics popular with the men. Joy danced with John and each of the guys several times and in fact they all did get a little under the Anheuser Bush. Joy’s life had been so serious for so long, she couldn’t remember when she’d last had so much fun and been so relaxed. The fun continued when Joy and John returned to his hotel room. At their breakfast together the next morning, Sal, who had a room next to John’s, asked with a grin if he slept well. John replied, “Well, something came up so I couldn’t sleep for awhile.” Joy kicked him hard under the table, Dolphy choked on his donut, Hands spewed his coffee when it went down the wrong hole, and Sal smirked. Joy glared at John, who wore the innocent look of a choirboy.

Chapter 13 Joy

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n the following weeks, John rented temporary offices and storage space so they could continue to build up their business while they dealt with the Exclusion League. He also hired away from a Los Angeles import and export firm its manager, at twice his salary. He began to pull their business together, hired additional people, and initiated the difficult job of setting up company offices in other countries. Always the teacher, John spent three hours a day home schooling the three guys about business and other things they had to learn. Hands had an education up to the ninth grade, and the other two up to the sixth. So there was much home schooling, and he told Joy that he enjoyed it. He informed the guys that this was part of their job, sort of apprenticeship training, and they accepted it. He was especially happy to discover the three were very intelligent; it was a misfortune of the age that those like them had so little education. Somehow, the Oriental Exclusion people found out that Joy was still involved in John’s business, and decided that tough action was necessary. John received a letter without a return address, left in his letterbox at their hotel, which read simply, Fire the Chink, or regret it. That was all Joy needed. Enough nice girl, she told herself. They had not armed themselves so far, since they perceived no danger in San Francisco. This had been a lucky decision, for if she had been armed when she was drugged by the sex slave ring, the kidnappers might have gotten scared over her knives and gun and murdered her while she was drugged. John was against arming until they did their first intervention in Mexico, but there was too much at stake not to be prepared for hostile action. She knew how to get to him. Even though she had given him some training in weapons before they had to flee the Old Universe, she told him, “It’s just as well. You’d likely shoot yourself in the foot. No, I take that back. By the time you drew your gun, I’d have knocked out our attackers and would be going through their wallets.”

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He agreed to arm, and they decided to visit the weapons capsule at the warehouse at noon, when they were least likely to be attacked. Still, John had a sour look as they entered the warehouse. During her many years of weapons training, Joy had concentrated on defense with the knife. She armed herself with a five-inch tactical knife in a sheath on her hip and a six-inch throwing knife in a lower leg sheath. Both had thin, flat grips. When armed, she would choose clothes that allowed her to reach either knife in no more than two seconds. She also would carry a holster purse with her Ruger SP101 .357 magnum loaded with five 125-grain hollow points, and a box of reloads. Even a shot in the shoulder would flatten most attackers, and one of those bullets would even crumple a charging football linesman. No knife for John, she decided as she helped him select his weapons. Even somebody behind him is in danger when he tries to throw one. But despite what she said when she was goading him, he was now beyond the “which end do I point?” stage with a gun. He would carry two. One, an H&K USP .45 caliber semiautomatic in a shoulder holster, loaded with ten rounds of 235-grain hollow points in the magazine and one round in the chamber. The other, a small .40 caliber S&W double-action that he could carry in his coat pocket holster. They also donned light armored vests that had been custom-fitted to each of them, with cardiac trauma protection. They weighed a little less than four pounds. Joy’s was molded over her breasts and gave them a flatter look—she would be right in style for the flapper 1920s, when they came. “Good fit, my boy . . . Oops, my girl,” John said, purposely showing those dimples at the corners of his mouth that irritated Joy so much. That warranted an especially loud raspberry. John’s armored vest covered his genitals and made his trousers puff out. “The girls are going to twitter around you,” Joy couldn’t help saying. Deliberately puffing out his trousers even more, he responded, “That will make the discomfort worth it.” Joy giggled, then pointed out, “Wearing these vests must now be as permanent as wearing our skin. We never know where a shot will come from, or when. These will stop bullets from a .44 caliber magnum, a 9 mm submachine gun, a modern high-powered rifle, and a 12-gauge rifle. They are little protection against armor-piercing rifles, but the dangerous ones won’t be produced until the late twentieth century.” “What about a sharp tongue?” “Get used to it, dearest.”

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aaa Joy wanted to buy land to build a weapons practice site outside of San Francisco, but the boycott against them and the threatening letter had prompted her to postpone this. However, they had trained in a variety of attack and defense scenarios, especially those that would protect their heads, for which they had no armor. No hurry, Joy felt. They had only been in 1906 for a couple of months and were hardly rusty yet. One thing was certain, although neither of them would say so. They would discuss the risks of their mission in this new universe in the most serious tones: “Our mission,” they would say to each other, “our mission, now including Sabah, is uppermost. Billions of lives depend on us. Our mission cannot fail, if humanly possible.” “Yes, that is so true,” they would agree. And they would say to each other even more seriously, “If I go down, you must escape in any way possible. I’ll hold the attackers off, if I’m able.” And they’d nod to each other. But when laying in bed at night with the light out and her mind idle, thoughts percolated up from her heart and soul, and told her the truth: Yes, billions of lives depend on at least one of us surviving. But I would die inside if, while escaping, I left him behind and still alive. I would be so heartbroken and ashamed of what I did that I couldn’t live with myself afterward. I’d be worthless for our mission. It’s as clear and simple as one and one equals two—if attacked, we would survive or die together. She knew John felt the same way. So they armed themselves to try to make sure they both survived whatever kind of attack they faced. Three days later, John received a second message: Last chance. Fire the Chink whore, or else. John had wanted to keep the guys out of this, but now Joy persuaded him that they might be attacked, as well. To any casual observer, the guys probably seemed unusually close to both of them— more than simple employees. That afternoon, they met with the guys in John’s room and he showed them the two threatening letters and explained the situation. Dolphy said, “We’ll take care of it.” “No,” John said. “I want them to make the first move. That will tell us what kind of action to take in return. I don’t want to do anything illegal unless it’s forced upon us. Behave. Okay? Now, do you have weapons?”

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Sal took out a knife that he had sheathed in his sock and showed it to John. Joy grabbed it out of his hand and hefted it. It was a seven-inch hunting knife with a bulky handle and poor balance. Joy figured it was only good for carving wood. “How does this thing stay in your sock without falling out?” she asked Sal. She balanced it on one finger, determined where to put her thumb and forefinger, and threw it the fifteen feet to the door frame. It stuck there, quivering. “Not a good knife, Sal,” she said. “It’s too head heavy and the grip and blade are too thick. I’ll get you a better knife.” The three guys looked at Joy as though she had turned into a witch and had just floated up on her broom. Sal got up to pull the knife out of the door frame. On the way back he said, “Jesús Cristo, John, where did you find her?” They didn’t know it was the other way around—Joy had found John. John laughed and asked, “Do you all know how to use guns?” Hands and Dolphy responded at the same time, “Of course.” “Good. Now, today I want the three of you to buy guns that you are comfortable with and holsters to hide them under your clothes. Then always keep them with you for protection. The cost is on me.” Dolphy asked, “What about you two?” Joy pulled her gun from her holster purse, and lifted the bottom of her dress to show them the knife in its sheath on her lower leg. “That’s my throwing knife. I have a tactical knife on my hip.” She decided against showing them the one on her hip. John would have a cardiac seizure. Sal looked appreciatively at her leg sheath and knife, while Dolphy blushed at seeing her lower leg. John opened his coat so that they could see his .45 and its holster, and showed them his pocket S&W. “My God, “ Hands exclaimed. “I won’t mess with you two.” John smiled. Looking from one to another of the guys, he said, “I want to be very clear on this. I will not support you if you use your weapons aggressively. We trust you all, and I don’t want to insult your loyalty and honesty, but I want to say this for the record. If your weapons are used for any criminal purpose, if you assault anyone with your weapons, I will fire you immediately.” They agreed. John put out his hand to shake each of theirs. Then they did something unexpected—they held out their hands to shake Joy’s. She was moved by this. Putting their hands together between hers, she said, “For our boss and the company—cheers!”

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“Cheers!” they echoed. Joy visited their weapons capsule the next day and picked out a seven-inch combat knife with a double-edged, bead-blasted blade, stainless steel guard, and a linen micarta grip. She also picked out a waist sheath and a leg sheath. When she gave these to Sal in his room, he hefted the knife, threw it at his door frame, and said, “I love it. Now you haven’t got a chance. Wanna fight?” “How dare you suggest such a thing, you brute! I’m only a poor woman,” she quipped. Sal laughed too. “You could have fooled me. Thanks, Joy.” After breakfast a few days later, Joy and John headed down the alley next to their hotel, on the way to their Ford. John was going to take Joy to their temporary offices, then return for the guys’ home schooling. She had yet to buy her own car, but kept saying she would do so soon. They had almost reached the Ford when two men emerged from a doorway further down the alley. Joy automatically checked behind, and saw two other men approaching. They all carried bats, and swung them back and forth with one hand as they approached. All were burly, heavyset, and dressed in rough work clothes. They were obviously enforcement punks. “Well, dearest,” Joy said, “fun time.”

aaa Jy-ying Remodeling at her warehouse was now underway. Jy-ying had been there most of the previous day, watching the builders piling construction material and getting organized. They’d brought in a Mack truck that belched oily smoke like a locomotive. It had a crane welded to the truck bed. The workers fixed chains to Jy-ying’s time machine and supply capsule, lifted each, and moved them out of the way of their first remodeling phase. When the time machine was hoisted and moved, a worker picked up the red box that had been crushed underneath it, carried it over to a dumpster, and threw it in. Jy-ying just watched. She had no interest in the warehouse’s old debris. After her Dawn Prayer and breakfast of rice with hot tea poured over it and pickles—thank God for Lee’s Oriental Food store in Chinatown—she took a Hansom cab to her appointment with her architect, to

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look at his wall and floor samples. His office was on 17th Street, across from Franklin Square. As her cab passed by an alley on 16th Street next to the Fairfax Hotel, she glanced down the alley, and her security training instantly alerted her. She turned and yelled at the driver sitting on his high seat behind her, “Stop!” When he complied, she threw a dollar to him, jumped out of the cab, and dashed back to the alley, where she’d glimpsed four men with clubs, about to carry out a mugging, beating, or rape. It was none of her business. But four tough-looking muggers with bats against an unarmed man and a woman—a Chinese woman, she’d seen—was unfair. She entered the alley, prepared to intervene before the muggers could swing their clumsy clubs. Without thought she stopped and kicked off her shoes and dropped her skirt and petticoat. This was not her fashion day. She wore no corset or bustle.

aaa Joy Joy and John moved close to the wall next to them to protect their one side, and turned at a right angle to each other, with about five feet between them. No sense in having one of them duck a blow, only to have it strike the other’s back. As she studied the thugs approaching her, Joy suddenly noticed a Chinese woman poised just behind them. It was obvious that the strange woman was prepared to intervene. She was barefoot and had stripped down to her silk panties so she wouldn’t be hampered by her clothes. Panties? Women wear such panties in this age? The woman still had on a shirt with frilly sleeves, and her hair was pinned up. Her shoes, skirt, and hat rested on the ground nearby. By training, Joy noticed and assimilated all this in a split second. “Woman behind the men on my side. May get involved,” she tersely alerted John. Then she warned herself, The men are too close. No more distractions. But with half her mind, Joy monitored John’s behavior, like a music teacher at her student’s first recital. This was his first battle. John said to the two men approaching him, “Good morning. Nice day, isn’t it?” His voice didn’t waver. He stood rock solid, in a perfect

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ready position. The one I taught him, Joy realized, pleasantly surprised by her student’s aptitude. “Fuck you,” one of the thugs grunted to John. Joy and John let the men get within range, and waited until the first swing of their bats. Then each suddenly ducked inside their man’s swing, grabbed the men’s shirts, kicked inside their knees to knock them off balance, and directing knife-chopping blows to the their necks. Both thugs sprawled unconscious, their bats now in Joy and John’s hands. In the midst of this, Joy noted peripherally that the strange woman lunged forward, as if about to jump in. When Joy glimpsed her next, she had backed up and stood watching. The remaining two thugs came at them with bats swinging wildly, but Joy had some training in Shaolin staff techniques and had passed on the elementary moves to John during their training. It was a simple matter to block the punks’ swings with their own bats. As the attackers tried to bring their bats back for another swing, Joy and John straightarmed their bats deep into the knot of nerves in each punk’s solar plexus. Both doubled over and collapsed, unconscious. Joy glimpsed the woman putting on her skirt. Must have decided we could handle this, she thought, and then her attention was pulled back to one of the first punks they’d knocked out. He was scrambling away from them on his knees. John overtook him and picked him up in a full nelson, his fingers locked behind the man’s head to prevent the usual defense against such a move. He thrust his knee into the man’s back. Joy undid the man’s belt and cut his pants down with her knife. When she did the same to his shorts, the stench of his body almost overcame her. He must never have bathed or used what passed for toilet paper in this era. Stinky tried to move away from her, but John held him tightly. “This woman was once violently raped,” he told him. “Hates men. Cuts off their balls whenever she can. I usually can’t stop her, so hurry and tell me who ordered you to attack us, before you become a eunuch.” Stinky struggled without saying a thing, so Joy pricked his penis with her knife. He screamed, and threw a name out. “Olaf.” “Tveitmoe?” “Yeah.” “Was Patrick McCarthy involved?” “He’ll kill me.”

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As John repeated his question, Joy took Stinky’s testicles in hand and positioned her knife as though she were going to cut them off “Okay, yeah!” Stinky cried, trying to struggle free of John’s hammerlock on his neck. “My God, he told us you’d be easy.” John threw him forward onto the ground. He landed next to the other three. “Pull your pants up and play unconscious like your buddies,” John told him, “and no one will ever know you talked.”

aaa Jy-ying Good for them, Jy-ying thought as she put her skirt back on, I couldn’t have done better. Strange, that in this age they would be trained like that. And that Chinese woman. She is stranger still. Something familiar about her, very familiar. I must have known somebody who looked and moved like her in the . . . future? Old world? I don’t know what to call it. Jy-ying shrugged. Her handsome partner can certainly protect himself, as well. Now I know that I won’t be alone in hating Tveitmoe. And he has gone too far, having a man and Chinese woman attacked like this. Time to take care of him, once and for all. But right now she was late for her appointment, and she’d have to walk the rest of the way. No time to congratulate the strange couple. She hurried off.

aaa Joy When Joy and John returned to the hotel, Joy went straight to the sink and washed her hands, smelled them, then washed them again. When she was satisfied, they puzzled over the strange woman. “I wonder what she was doing there,” Joy mused. “She could be trained in martial arts, to free her legs that way. Nobody can fight well in the clothes this era’s fashion dictates. And her stance seemed ready for offense or defense. I would have at least liked to talk to her. But poof, and she’s gone.” John scratched his head. “She stood just on the other side of the thugs, as though she was going to intervene. But on whose side? Was

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she in fact their leader—had she organized the attack? Or was she going to come to our aid? Nice legs,” he added. “John!” She glared at him for a moment. “She was going to help us, I’m pretty sure. I don’t know why she disappeared again, after we were done.” John wondered, “Is she American, or newly from China?” “From China, I bet. She had that look about her. There was something else about her . . . something I can’t put my finger on. But then, I could only steal one or two glances at her.” John smiled. “You know, I thought she looked familiar. But I could only steal a glance at her, too. Maybe she has deep, dark secrets, as we do.” He shrugged and changed the subject. “We’ve got some planning to do about Tveitmoe and McCarthy.” Later they called in the three guys and told them what they’d decided to do.

aaa That evening, when Olaf Tveitmoe arrived home from his office, they were waiting for him. He’d no sooner stepped out of his Cadillac than Joy stepped out from her hiding place and chopped him on the neck. John, Dolphy, and Sal dragged him to a truck they had rented and threw him into the back as though handling a carcass. They drove him to the city dump, which was closed for the night. When Tveitmoe started to regain consciousness, Joy gleefully put him under again. John and the guys stripped him and dragged him into the smelliest part of the dump they could find. Not without difficulty. He was almost all belly and must have weighed 250 pounds. The note they tied to his penis read: The Tor Import and Export firm is under our protection. If anyone associated with it dies or is hurt in any way, and that includes their Chinese workers, we will slowly kill you with the Chinese death of a thousand cuts. You had better hope for their continued good health. The Bloods.

aaa

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Jy-ying Well, what do we have here? Jy-ying thought as she approached Tveitmoe lying naked in the garbage. He was not an attractive man. His spindly legs and narrow shoulders seemed comical adornments to his round belly. He was lying on his back. She bent down and tried to read the message tied to his penis, but even with the full moonlight, she needed to use the penlight she carried in her purse. Clever. I couldn’t have worded it better. Jy-ying thought back on what she had seen, trying to figure out what it meant, as she waited for Tveitmoe to wake up. She had been waiting in Tveitmoe’s garage for him to come home when she heard a truck pull up nearby. When she saw the Chinese woman she’d seen in the alley get out of the truck, she snuck out of the garage and hid in the bushes nearby to watch. The Chinese woman had delivered an expert chop to Tveitmoe’s neck. When she and her companions loaded him onto the truck, Jy-ying followed them to the garbage dump. Tveitmoe groaned and put his hand to his neck. He shuddered, sending little waves of fat rippling back and forth across his stomach. He opened his eyes, and focused on her. In the moonlight, she could be seen clearly enough that he recognized her. “You . . . !” He tried to get up. “Hello honey,” Jy-ying said sweetly. “I happened to be walking by, and found you here. What a surprise. Oh yes—friends of mine left a note on you. I advise you to read it and give it careful thought. As to me . . . ” She bent over, close to his face. She narrowed her eyes to slits and said in an icy voice intended to chill him to the bone, “If you try anything with me, I will kill you. Slowly.” She could see the whites of his eyes as they widened in fear. She held his gaze for a long moment, then straightened up and took one last look at him. He had peed on himself. She gave him a little wave. “Good-bye, honey. I enjoyed seeing you again.”

aaa Joy It was late when McCarthy came home half drunk from partying with his friends, but Joy, John, and the three guys were patient. He

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soon ended up stripped naked and wearing an identical note, but in a different part of the city dump. About a week later, Joy found in the San Francisco Chronicle what she had been waiting for. Almost jumping with glee, she flashed it in front of John’s eyes, leaned over his shoulder, and mimicked the bland tone of a news anchor as she read it to him: BUILDING COUNCIL SHOCKED Olaf Tveitmoe has resigned his position with the Building Council in order to accept a job in Los Angeles. Patrick McCarthy expressed his great appreciation for the excellent work that Tveitmoe had done for the Council and wished him the best of success in his new job. He mentioned that he also had done all he could with the Council, that the cool and damp weather in San Francisco was affecting his health, and that it was time for him to move on. The loss of Tveitmoe and McCarthy came as a shock to members of the Council, which had been almost wholly dependent on the two men. Al Gerwig of Gerwig and Bros. commented that “The loss of these important and influential men will leave a hole in the Council that will be difficult to fill.” Jerome Bassity, manager of McCarthy’s NonPolitical Liberty League, said he was dumbfounded by this decision. “McCarthy stood a very good chance of being elected mayor in 1909,” he said. Waterfront labor leader Andrew Furuseth said that the efforts of the Japanese and Korean Exclusion League will continue as vigorously as ever in spite of the loss of McCarthy’s influence. He pointed out that . . . . The next day, Joy found a gem in the Gossip, the city’s widely-read tabloid, under the headline, “The Naked Truth.” They were at their temporary offices, and this time she did jump up and down, and rushed into John’s office, not even nodding at their secretary. She gleefully plopped the paper on top of the company inventory on which he was working. “See this?” Joy shouted. He looked up at her askance, rubbed his eyes with his hand, leaned back, slowly stretched, and scratched his underarm.

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“Bastard,” she yelled, and snatched it off his desk. She started to stalk out but he tore the tabloid out of her hand and read it aloud. Police picked up separately Olaf Tveitmoe and Patrick McCarthy on indecency charges. Acting on tips, the police discovered Tveitmoe naked near the city dump and McCarthy walking naked on a street a mile away. A source in the police department claims that McCarthy fought with the police when they tried to arrest him for indecent exposure, injuring a policeman. When we contacted the police they refused to comment on this story. Tveitmoe and McCarthy would not answer their telephones when we called, and their associates denied any knowledge of this. However, rumors are flying around the Building Council and City Hall. One source claims that both men were kicked out of an orgy with three Chinese and two Japanese women when they made deviate sexual demands. One woman pulled out a gun and made them leave without their clothes. A second independent source agrees that there was an orgy, and they were driven out at gunpoint, but that the orgy involved three Chinese women and two Japanese boys. We contacted the League for Decency and they have informed us of their plan to demonstrate outside the homes of both men. John got up and hugged Joy. “Am I forgiven?” he asked. “Of course not,” she answered. “My turn will come.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. The news items were reason for celebration; that night, they and the guys went to the Liberty Café. They were all armed, of course, so they sipped their beers and made them last while they sang and danced. It was beginning to bother Joy that she was the only woman among these four men. The guys did not seem to have any steady girlfriends. So she asked Hands what happened to the one they’d seen with him in the hallway of the hotel. “Oh, she was . . . ah . . . just somebody I met. Nothing steady.” “She was a prostitute?” Hands’ face turned red and he found something interesting to look at on the wall. “Well . . . yeah.”

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“Have you or the other guys had any steady girlfriends?” “No. It’s hard for us, Joy. What we did, and what we’re doing now, makes it difficult to meet nice girls. You know, good girls don’t come alone to bars like this, and you are the only nice . . . ahh, woman working for our company that I know.” “Hmm,” Joy replied noncommittally, not wanting to get into the meaning of “good” and “nice.” She let the subject drop. Back at the hotel, as they talked in Joy’s room, she told John, “We’ve got to help the guys find girlfriends. There seems little way for them to meet nice girls. You know, other than prostitutes.” Looking at John from under her eyelashes, she added, “Nice girls like me.” “You’re a nice girl?” John asked. Joy threw a punch at his shoulder. To her surprise, she found herself thrown over his shoulder and onto the bed. That’s what I get for teaching him this stuff, she realized. John jumped on her and said, laughing, “Don’t mess with your man, woman.” She put her arms around him and said seriously, “We’ve got to do something about this, you know. It’s not good.” “What is it with you women and matchmaking? Can’t you stand to see a man without a woman?” “Would you like to be without this woman, my man?” Joy purred, ruffling his unruly hair. “And where do they find a woman like you?” “My dearest, where it counts, all women are like me.” “Let me see, “ he said, staring at her so-called dainty lawn-waist blouse, with its Dutch collar trimmed with wide embroidery and Valenciennes lace. He was trying to figure out how to undo it. Finally he mumbled, “No wonder young women were so virginal in this age.”

aaa Tired of eating out and the constrictions of living in hotel rooms, John searched the classified ads and finally, after discussing it with Joy, bought a three-story apartment building containing nine apartments. It was at the corner of 16th and Vermont Streets, about three blocks from their new company offices and salesroom—within easy walking distance. Joy and John took two of the ground floor apartments. Joy’s apartment was for appearances, and became a large work area and a

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place to store their time machine and supply capsules. They turned the third first-floor apartment into a conference area and guest apartment, and let the three guys choose which of the remaining apartments they wanted for themselves, rent free. They all spent a week shopping and furnishing the apartments, the guys’ furniture at company expense. John hated the shopping. He always wanted to buy the first or second piece they saw. Joy loved shopping, and worse, she was a comparison shopper. After the first full day of shopping, John told Joy, “Baby, all I want is something to sleep on, to eat from, to sit on, and to store things in. You shouldn’t treat this as though it was our mission, you know.” By the fourth or fifth bed, dresser, table, or whatever it was they were looking at, John always mumbled, “I like it, already.” Understandably, almost all the furniture was to Joy’s taste—Asian, with simply-styled late nineteenth-century oak, teak, and walnut American furniture thrown in. Once all the furniture was delivered, and at Joy’s insistence they had repositioned it all several times, John was reduced to muttering, “Damned if I’d have volunteered for this mission, if I’d known it would involve this inhumane torture.”

aaa Weeks later, John rushed into Joy’s company office and threw the first page of the newspaper down in front of her. Triumphantly, he pointed to the front-page headline, and yelled, “Baby, we did it!” She leaned back and stretched, rubbed her nose, and turned to close the drawer on her two-drawer file cabinet. She finally looked at John, who stood patiently, unperturbed, as though waiting for a bus. Joy was too curious to continue the nonchalant act for long. She leaned forward and read the article he indicated. ROOSEVELT UNHAPPY WITH CITY. In a letter leaked to the press, President Roosevelt has written to Governor Pardee of California about the practice of excluding Orientals from normal business and other occupations in San Francisco. Roosevelt pointed out this has affected vital American interests. He asked that the governor throw his weight behind stopping this practice, and organize help for Oriental immigrants to adjust to, and find work in our great country. Attached to the letter was a note from Secretary of

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State Elihu Root, pointing out that this exclusion movement has hurt American relations with China and Japan. He hoped that the Governor would recognize the seriousness of the President’s letter. Our Washington reporter was told by a high State Department source that the Empress-Dowager of China had expressed to the President her unhappiness over the exclusion movement and wrote that it was a personal insult to her and all Chinese. Joy and John were now vying daily to be the first to read the newspapers. Joy found out when the morning newspapers were delivered to the small kiosk at Harry Adams and 16th Streets, and made sure she woke up then. Offering John some excuse for leaving the apartment, such as, “I need to get some panties from the supply capsule” (she never wore bloomers), she would quietly slip out of the building and rush to the kiosk, pay her five cents, and hurry back to the apartment. It paid off. On the third day of this, she returned to John’s apartment and casually asked as he dressed, “Oh, do you remember Chung Pao Hsi at the Chinese consulate here?” “Of course.” “He was part of an official delegation meeting with the mayor.” “Oh.” The kitchen faucet dripped into a pan, its sound magnified by the silence. John had promised to change the washer. He cracked his knuckles, scratched his neck as if in a slow motion replay. He cocked his head at her and finally asked, “What about?” “He came with Cyhow Tszchi.” “Who he?” “No, not Hu He. Cyhow Tszchi.” Joy noticed the dimples at the corners of John’s mouth again. “Who is this other notable you say appeared with Chung?” “First Secretary of the Chinese Legation in Washington. Also, he had with him Ow Yang King, Chung’s assistant consul, and Lyman I. Mowry, the attorney for the Chinese officials.” “Really. How come they’re here? “Governor Pardee was with them.” “And . . . ” John made coaxing motions with both hands. “Also included was the Assistant Secretary of State.” “Bitch. Are you enjoying yourself?”

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Joy waited, but John smoothed his face and refused to look annoyed. He seemed to be taking great interest in a callus on his palm, and started picking at it. “They met with the Mayor.” John must have seen the newspaper she was hiding behind her back, for he rushed her. When she jumped onto the bed, he tackled her legs, brought her down on her back, and wrested the newspaper from her hand. He sat up and read it. MAYOR TAKEN TO WOODSHED Governor Pardee, along with United States Assistant Secretary of State James Watson, First Secretary of the Chinese Legation in Washington Cyhow-Tszchi, and other high officials visited the city yesterday to meet with Mayor Schmitz about the practice of excluding Orientals from local jobs. A high source said the Mayor was told in no uncertain terms that the city must cease and desist, and that he must use his full authority to make sure private boycotts and sanctions are not used for this purpose. Cited in particular were the exclusion policies of the Building Council. Attempts to contact the Mayor or members of the Council were unsuccessful . . . What a glorious time this is, Joy thought, her smile feeling as though it would engulf her face. From then on, Joy and John laughingly agreed to get the newspaper together. Three days later, when they picked the newspaper up at the kiosk, John rapidly scanned the front page. “This is it,” he said, and held the paper up so that Joy could read the great news with him. CITY HALL PURGED In a wide-ranging purge of the city government, the Mayor has fired or transferred to manual jobs all those who were associated with the Oriental exclusion movement. Rumors are that the Building Council itself will be reorganized under new leadership, and several other organizations have been threatened with the most rigorous police and fire inspections, if they likewise do not change their policies.”

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That was Thursday. On the following Monday, John got the call from Muss Builders asking him if he wanted remodeling of the warehouse to continue. “Yes,” he said with seeming reluctance. After hesitating, hinting at other options, and expressing his disgust over their boycott, he got them to shave 25 percent off the cost. The five of them had waited for this, and that evening Joy and John, completely unarmed just this once, pushed two tables together at the Liberty Café and celebrated with Sal, Dolphy, and Hands. They sang many songs that night, like “Moonbeams” and “Let It Alone,” but when they sang “Hello! Ma Baby,” as all their voices came down on the “baby” and Joy raised her beer stein to John and the guys, everything she and John had accomplished since arriving in 1906 hit her. They’d only been here for a few months, but they’d already broken up a sex slave ring and saved their first lives. They’d brought down some real bastards who had ruled part of the community. They’d ended the Oriental exclusion movement here and turned it around to welcome Orientals. Work on their warehouse had resumed. John saw her happy tears and got up to come around the table. He leaned over and put his arm around her as they sang the theme again. She tilted her head back, reached up to put one hand behind his head, and crushed his lips to hers. When the song was over, a waitress with a little label over her left breast that read Sue came over to refill their steins. She looked at John and Joy and asked her, “What are you celebrating?” Her eyes brimming, Joy summed it all up: “Love and life, Sue. Love and life.”

Chapter 14 Jy-ying

W

ith the work on her warehouse underway, Jy-ying decided it was time to get serious about finding that infidel time traveler. She bought a whole set of the most expensive brown leather luggage she could find, including a large Sitka spruce sea chest with reinforced leather straps. She took a ferry to Oakland, searched the Chinese stores there, and found China luggage tags and stickers to put on her luggage. She filled trunk and suitcases with weapons, clothing, tools, medical supplies, computer equipment, and other things from her equipment capsules that would make the luggage heavy. She found the Mode de Paris, a high-class woman’s clothing store, and visited the store wearing her elegant, ankle-length, imperial Chinese cheongsam. It was made of double lined red and black silk brocade, with a mandarin collar and a keyhole opening that modestly closed above her cleavage. She wore no hat, but pulled her hair back into a tight braid, and circled that into a bun on the back of her head. The look was high-class Chinese. When the clerks at the store ignored her, she loudly counted out five counterfeit ten dollar bills onto the counter and yelled, “How can a Chinese princess get service here?” No problem from then on. She bought the most expensive, fashionable clothes, including a travel ensemble for ship voyages that she put on afterward, in her room—a light blue shirtwaist blouse with leg of mutton sleeves and white lace spilling down the front from a high-neck, sky blue collar, and a rich-looking sky blue silk gored skirt that flared at her ankles, with a small sashed waist. She wore no corset or bustle to configure her body in the fashionable S-shape. She was supposed to have just come from China, and she could assume that people would believe that she wore the latest Chinese fashion, of which they knew nothing. She wore a white Mink fur cape and what Jy-ying thought was an outrageous, albeit Peking-stylish, bonnet. The hat was a milliner’s masterpiece of hair braid and silks laid around a narrow brim, folded lace,

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and white ostrich tips that fell over one side. She laughed for five minutes when she first put it on and looked in the mirror. Her laughter finally diminished to hiccupping chuckles. Shu Kuo should see me now, she thought, and started laughing again. Prepared, she hired a two-horse coach with two coachmen and a driver. The lone bellhop at the All Nations Hotel brought a large cart up to her room. He could barely maneuver the Sitka chest onto it, but managed easily to pile her luggage on top. At the coach she tipped him fifty cents, and he gave her a huge smile. The coachmen loaded her luggage and chest, looking at her with a mixture of admiration and envy all the while. She ordered the driver to take her to the Little Palace Hotel on Leavenworth and Post Streets, the temporary site of the Palace Hotel, which had been destroyed by the earthquake and fire and was being rebuilt at Market and New Montgomery Streets. Before the disaster, the hotel had been the largest and most luxurious in the world. As everything was being unloaded in front of the Little Palace Hotel, the doorman, wearing a magnificent military-style uniform, bowed and waved forward two porters dressed in red and yellow uniforms with brimless square hats lined in blue. They brought up a cart to take her luggage to the registration desk. Does not anyone in this stupid age have a feel for color? Jy-ying wondered. Turning her attention to her act, she strode, head high, chin out, through one of the three front doors. She crossed the lobby, over a rug so deep and lush she thought it could hide a lion or two, and stopped in front of the long, marble-topped reception desk. No spittoon anywhere. Everything had a new smell. Cocking her elbow on her hip and raising her forearm so that she could let her snakeskin purse swing back and forth from her white-gloved hand, she painted a bored expression on her face and announced in a heavy Chinese accent to the suited clerk behind the counter, “I am Princess Tz’u Li Poh. You got reservation for me.” It was a statement, not a question. The clerk checked his file and looked up, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Princess. We have no reservation for you.” “What? You lose my reservation?” She swore loudly in Chinese, gesturing so wildly that her fur cape almost slid off her shoulder. “How could you? I want see manager.” The clerk rushed off and in minutes a tall, distinguished elderly man with a bushy gray beard and what was obviously a brown wig approached her. He looked over her luggage and her clothing. Satisfied,

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he took the appropriate stance of respect and, clasping his hands together, crooned, “I am Henry Vidrick, the manager. There seems to be a mistake. We do not have a reservation for you.” Jy-ying looked at him disdainfully. Guests nearby stopped to watch. “My legation make my reservation.” She raised her voice. “You say my diplomats did not?” Vidrick took an unconscious step back, wringing his hands. “Oh no, Princess. I am sure they did and the mistake is ours. I humbly apologize for the error, but we are temporary here until the Palace Hotel is rebuilt, and we do not have our full staff. Our services are limited, and there may be some inconvenience. If you accept that, I will give you our ambassador suite. Please accept the first week at our expense, as a token of apology.” She looked at him as though she expected nothing less, and nodded. He hurried behind the desk and reached up to one of the largest mailboxes in the top row. He pulled out a silvery key with what looked like a gold nugget attached with a silver keychain. He hit a bell on the desk. Almost immediately, two bellboys appeared. He gave them the key. Jy-ying bowed slightly to the manager and waited, body straight as a pole, while the bellboys slowly maneuvered the cart with the luggage across the thick rug toward the elevator. She followed them into a metal elevator cage whose sides seemed entirely made of wrought iron curlicues. With a loud hum, it laboriously lifted them to the fifth floor. The older bellboy showed her around the suite, pointing out the plush Third French Republic sofa and easy chairs and the Tiffany electric lamps in the living room before showing her the small kitchen with a marble-topped table for two and standup marble counter, new Wehrle gas range, and Puritan White icebox (she opened the ice door and saw a fresh fifty-pound ice block inside). Then on to the huge bedroom, furnished with a Second Empire Napoleon III poster bed, side chairs, and high mirrored chest of drawers. The tour ended at the bathroom, which contained a shower over a gold-gilded circular bathtub, a sink with hot and cold running water, and the latest toilet, with a low water tank and a soft pine seat. She tipped each of the boys a half-dollar. They seemed overjoyed.

aaa Over the next weeks, Jy-ying began circulating in high society. It was so easy. Acting as the Princess’s secretary, she called Mayor Schmitz’ office and said a visiting Chinese Manchu princess would like

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to make an unofficial visit to the Mayor on behalf of the EmpressDowager, who might be considering her own informal visit. She met Mayor Schmitz and his close staff the next day. Of course she didn’t ask him about his indictment for bribery and extortion. She played out her role to perfection. Security would be proud, she thought. As she expected, word got around. She began finding invitations to parties and formal dinners in her mailbox, or received them over the phone when she returned telephone calls. When the First Secretary of the Chinese Legation in Washington, Cyhow Tszchi, was in town for discussions about the treatment of Chinese, she was conveniently out of town. Jy-ying thought they all had left when she started circulating again, but at a formal reception for visiting Prime Minister Alfred Deacon of Australia, a Chinese diplomat, Song Shihao, was also present for some reason. He spied her at the gathering and as he came toward her, she thought he must have been looking for her. He hovered nearby as Jy-ying chatted with an army colonel about his battles in the Philippine War. When the colonel saw the diplomat standing nearby, he excused himself. Song Shihao bowed to her, and introduced himself in Mandarin Chinese. After she returned the greeting, she said without any preliminaries, “Please join me on the veranda so that I may introduce myself properly.” Jy-ying led him to a corner of the veranda where they could be relatively alone. She bowed to him again. “I am known here as Princess Tz’u Li Poh. I tell these people that I am here informally to look over San Francisco for the Empress-Dowager, who is thinking of making her own informal visit.” She knew he knew this already. Checking her out may have been the reason he was at the reception. He replied, “Yes, I had heard that.” She noticed, as he’d intended, that he didn’t acknowledge her title of “Princess” in his response—a truly rude test. She hardened her voice and her eyes. “What I will now tell you must be a secret, on pain of recall and death.” His eyebrows rose slightly. “You must swear by your oath to the Empress-Dowager that you will repeat what I tell you to no other, and if asked about me, you will only authenticate my cover story. Do I have your oath?” “But your have told me noth—” “You have three seconds to give me your oath, or I will walk away at your peril.” Her voice was now iced steel.

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Only when she started to turn away did Song respond. “You have it.” She reached into her black and gold clutch purse and felt for what Security had prepared for just this eventuality. Out of a hidden pocket she pulled a miniature badge embossed with the Imperial Guard seal, and a document on Imperial rice paper folded into a one by one-inch square. It also bore the Imperial seal and contained a short message over the signature and stamp of the Empress-Dowager. Jy-ying handed both to him and watched as he looked at the badge and carefully unfolded and read the document. Song’s jaw dropped and his eyes opened wide for a second before he regained control. Almost standing at attention, he carefully refolded the document and handed it and the badge back to her. She took her time putting them away. She looked him in the eyes, which were still wide with amazement. As though talking to an inferior, she told him, “To be sure you understand, I am Major Khoo Jy-ying of the Imperial Guard, here on special orders. You know that revolutionaries are working against the dynasty. I am seeking one special man who is involved in this. I am here to kill him. You are commanded to give me whatever aid I request.” Jy-ying softened her voice and smiled. Anyone watching would think they were having a friendly discussion. “Do you understand?” He gave her a deep bow and replied, “I understand . . . Princess. I am available as you wish.” She painted a friendly expression on her face and turned to return to the celebration. She noticed that the assistant to the Mayor and the Chief of Police had been watching. They had set this up, she realized, but now her false identity was solidly established. She was sure that Song Shihao would confirm it, even under the harshest torture.

aaa Jy-ying hated the charade she led, but she had to go through with it to find the time traveler. He must have funds like I do. He must be circulating among the high and mighty with his knowledge of current events and the future. He must be well trained to impress people and exploit their power and influence. I am sure I will find him this way. Jy-ying looked over each new man she met, at the risk of it being misunderstood. Old men? Obviously, no. Boys, or the immature young men? Surely not. Men too fat, pot bellied, or thin? Hardly. Only a man in good shape, showing good poise and self-control, would be picked

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for a time travel mission, whatever that was. This narrowed down the field considerably. Moreover, he was from her time. She was sure all the small cultural and behavioral clues of a man out of time would be easy for a security officer to recognize. In late March she attended a party hosted by retired railroad tycoon E.H. Harriman at his huge mansion on the bay. She circulated as usual, engaging in small talk about China, the prospects for a settlement in the conflict with Japan, and, some indelicately broached, the prospect of a Chinese revolution. Then she saw him. He was alone, sitting in a plush armchair, legs crossed, a champagne glass in one hand, relaxed. There was a jaunty self-confidence about him. He seemed to be studying people in the room. Immediately, she thought him out of place and time. He was also attractive and masculine, and she felt a little shiver as she thought about approaching him. She also felt uneasy, suffering a momentary lapse in confidence. She thought about the way she was dressed, her tight maroon silk dress that spread out on the floor and her bare shoulders and low-cut bodice. She’d had her hotel’s beauty salon do her hair in high curls with supposedly errant wisps of hair falling between them. She had on her jade necklace with matching jade earrings. She was sure that she was the prettiest at the party, as he was the handsomest. Jy-ying walked casually past him, knowing he was studying her, and within a short time she approached him from behind and bumped his drink, spilling some on his pants. “Oh, excuse me, “ she said in pidgin English. “How bad of me. I spill drink on pants.” She put her hand to her mouth. “I embarrassed.” He stood up and shook his pants. He was taller by about six inches. “My mistake, ma’am. I shouldn’t have had my drink hanging out in your way. But if you insist on taking the blame, you can make it up to me by telling me your name.” This is him. Jy-ying tried to look apologetic. “I get you another drink.” She didn’t drink herself. Sabah forbade it. But she got another glass of champagne, and soda water for herself, at the bar. When she turned around, he was standing behind her and she almost bumped into him and spilled the champagne on him again. She pulled it back in time and handed it to him. “Here is drink. “My name Princess Tz’u Li Poh. As you guess, I from China. Would do me honor of name?”

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“I am Rex Scott. I’m a movie actor.” Sure you are. “What you act in?” “I’ve had bit parts in a number of movies. Have you seen The Great Train Robbery?” “No. I do not.” “Why are you here, Princess? I mean, in the United States.” “I visit for my empress. Maybe she visit San Francisco in near future, if I say I like.” Rex showed great interest in China and asked many questions. Jyying asked her own questions about his movie career, testing him to see how good his cover was. She left him with her telephone number. He said he was moving around a lot and he was hard to contact, but he would get in touch with her. When he called the next day, she invited him to dine with her at the hotel restaurant, but he said he knew of a good restaurant on the coast—would she like him to give her a tour of San Francisco? I’ve got him. He picked her up in front of the hotel in a Ransom Olds. He was fun to be with, and surely did not have the Victorian values of men of this age. He treated her like an equal, but at the same time, a woman. Her only concern was to penetrate his cover. He no doubt was a Christian in a Christian land, so after the day was almost done, she told him she was a Muslim. “What’s a Muslim?” He’s good. “You know, Christian Crusades. Jerusalem? Islam?” “Oh, very good. I’m a Baptist.” “Baptist? What Baptist?” “It’s a Protestant church, but I’m not sure what it believes in, except it’s not Roman Catholic. I call myself Baptist because that’s what my mother was. She used to take me to church when I was a little boy, but I don’t remember what it was about.” Jy-ying did not want to get into any of this Christian stuff with him. She had her holster purse partly open and near her hand. She readied herself to move suddenly and quietly added, “I am Sabah Muslim.” She watched his eyes and lips for the slightest sign. He answered cheerily, “I would say ‘what’s that,’ but it’s beginning to sound like we’re playing some sort of game.”

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He is better than good. The next day he picked her up for a tour of San Francisco. She was enjoying herself, but she never forgot why she was here. She watched him carefully, but could not break through his cover. When he dropped her off at her hotel, he asked, “Would you like to go to a nightclub tomorrow night?” “What is nightclub?” “It’s a place where people dance and drink and get entertained.” “You honor me. I hope I not bore you.” Jy-ying spent part of the next day trying to find out more about Rex. After calling a local five-cent nickelodeon and getting information on the movie The Great Train Robbery, she telephoned the Edison Company Studios that produced it and for whom Rex said he was working, and asked for the public relations man. His secretary came on the phone. “Hello, can I help you?” Jy-ying answered, “Hello, I am a reporter for the San Francisco Examiner and I wish to do an article on the actor Rex Scott. I need background information on him. Can you give me that?” “Rex what?” “Excuse my accent. His last name is S.C.O.T.T.” “Sorry, I don’t know the name. Let me check my file.” While waiting, Jy-ying studied the wall telephone, amused by the design. She had spoken into a transmitter connected to a wooden box while holding the bipolar receiver to her ear—a cord-covered wire connected it to something inside the box. She opened the box and saw on a top shelf the switch for the receiver on-off hook and the ringer, a five magnet generator on a second shelf with the attached crank she had just used to signal the operator who placed her call, and two four inch tall dry batteries to provide the talking power. Fascinating, she thought. She took the receiver away from her ear and unscrewed it. Inside, she saw brass castings and a carbon cup turned from a solid brass piece. As she tapped the carbon diaphragm with her finger, she heard the secretary speaking as though from a long distance. She put the diaphragm to her ear in time to hear, “ . . . no such name.” “He plays bit parts. Could he be a bit player?” “No, I have looked at the whole payroll under S. No such name.” “Thank you. How can I find out who played in the movie The Great Train Robbery?” “Hold on a moment.”

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She should have brought something to work on while she was waiting on the phone. About ten minutes later, the secretary came back on the line. “I have the cinema credits here. What do you want to know?” “Is there anyone with the first name ‘Rex’ on the listing?” She might have misunderstood or misspelled his last name. After a short delay, he answered. “No.” So, Rex lied to me about his acting. Completely. Why else should he hide his background or work from me, except that he is the time traveler? I have him for sure. Rex drove up to the hotel that night to take Jy-ying to a nightclub. She was waiting. But when he got out of the car to open the car door for her, she asked him in a throaty voice, “You like come to my suite? We dance there.” He looked surprised, then excited. “Sure,” he blurted. He drove around the hotel to its little dirt parking lot. When he returned, she put her arm through his and led him to the elevator cage and up to her suite. She opened the door and led him in, and closed and locked the door behind him. As he stood looking around the suite, obviously impressed, Jy-ying waved with her hand and said, “Sit down on couch. I get more comfortable clothes.” She had not seen that expectant grin on a male’s face since her first sexual experience when she was eighteen years old. She went into the bedroom and changed into her black satin wing chun practice clothes, with red toggle fasteners, red satin piping on the jacket, and elasticized ankle pants. She left her feet bare. As she tied her hair into a pigtail, she fixed in her mind every piece of furniture in the living room and the distance and angle between each. If he knew martial arts, which she was sure he must, she was ready for him. He looked surprised when he saw her come out of the bedroom. “Why are you dressed like that?” Jy-ying looked at his eyes to see if there was any recognition of her clothing. None. I will play his game. “This informal dress of Princess.” Staring into his eyes, and aware of the slightest twitch he might make, she strode up to him and asked sweetly, “You take off coat?” She helped him remove it. As he stood there in complete surprise, she unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his trousers, and pushed them down. He was already clearly

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aroused and speechless at how fast Jy-ying was moving things along. He let the trousers drop and kicked them off is feet. She motioned to his underwear and he looked a little embarrassed as he took them off. He was now naked from the shirt down. She took his hot hand without another word and led him, smiling and erect, into the bedroom. Jy-ying told him to lie down on the bed, and as he did, she entered the closet and pulled down from a hanger several long ribbons she had prepared. She looked at him lying on the bed, hands behind his head, legs slightly apart, a grin on his now ruddy face that even crinkled his eyes. “I have fun,” she meowed. “Be still now.” She told him to put his arms out and she tied his wrists to the head posts with the ribbons. She asked him to spread his legs, and she tied his ankles to the foot posts. Spread-eagled, still grinning, he said, “I haven’t done this before. Your turn. Take your clothes off.” Jy-ying dropped the pidgin. “My fun does not include getting naked.” There was a nice filet knife in the kitchen and she took her time getting it. When she came back with it in her hand, Rex stared at her. “What kind of game is this? I’m not into that whip and pain stuff.” She sat down next to him on the bed, holding the knife close to his thigh and almost regretfully watching his erection disappear. “You are good,” she said, “but not good enough. I know who you are. But I want to hear it from you. The truth. I will carve you up piece by piece if you lie.” He tried a different kind of grin, but it only caused his mouth to tremble. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay. You caught me. I don’t know how you found out that I’ve been lying to you.” He stopped and looked at the knife. Jy-ying waved its point at him to continue. “I am not a movie star. I am . . . ” He looked ashamed now, as though telling his wife he had been fired from a good job. “I’m a gigolo.” “What is a gigolo?” “I seduce rich women and take their money for it.” “How were you going to take my money? I would not give it to you.” He was relaxing. There was a lift to the corner of his lips and a look in his eyes that was close to pride. “I would have taken you to bed in a couple of days, and several days after that I would have said that my

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producer needs a big investor to support a movie he wants me to star in. If I treated you like a queen, and you were falling in love with me, you would have given me the money.” Jy-ying put the knife down. At the moment she didn’t trust herself with it. She kept her voice calm. “You were pulling one of the oldest, meanest, most despicable scams on me?” “What’s ‘scam’?” Her voice rising, she asked rhetorically, “You were trying to use my feelings to trick money out of me?” “Yes, if you put it that way.” Jy-ying started to shake with anger. She stood, leaving the knife on the bed. She now had no doubt he was telling her the truth. That story of his, told in the way he told it, was not something the time traveler could have done. Her security training told her that. Her feminine instincts told her that. She looked down at him. What a poor excuse for a man, she thought. He had the body and looks that would have made some woman very happy. He had the intelligence that should have enabled him to go far in some legitimate career. He could have contributed much to humanity and God, if he had only had the right education. The rule of Sabah will help lost men like him. “What is your real name?” she asked him. “Cosmos Trzoniec.” That just dissolved her anger. She couldn’t help but chuckle. “If I understand you . . . Cosmos, you would have taken my money and left me, never to see you again? Even if I fell in love with you, God forbid? What about your feelings for me?” His mouth turned down and his brow furrowed. “Unhappily, regretfully, with strong feelings for you, I would have taken your money and disappeared. That is what I do. It’s how I survive. If I stayed around, you’d get tired of me—you are a princess and I’m nothing. Eventually, you’d send me away without anything. I’m just bringing the end closer while getting out of it something to live on.” Jy-ying began to undress. He watched her with increasing comprehension. When she was naked, she pirouetted, and asked, “You would have left me?” He said nothing, but didn’t have to. His body answered for him. She straddled him, made love to him, untied his hands and feet, and he made love to her. As they rested in each other’s arms afterward, she purred, “I ask again. You would have left me?”

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“No,” he said, “I don’t think I could have. You are the most wonderful woman I have ever met.” Jy-ying pulled out of his arms and stood. She dressed while he watched. She walked into the living room, picked up his clothes, and returning, threw them onto the bed next to him. “Get dressed.” He took his time, grinned a lot, but didn’t say a word. When he was fully dressed, she turned down his right collar that was sticking up and pulled down the back of his coat. She took his hand and led him to the door and opened it. “Goodbye, Cosmos. If I see you anywhere in San Francisco again, I will have you killed. Live long, Cosmos, and far away.” He paled, and with a final look, he left.

aaa Jy-ying was lonely. She missed Shu Kuo and even Rex. She needed a companion. She found one. Her gym was finished; finally, she could get the exercise she needed. She had done what she could in her suite, and had driven her Rolls Royce Silver Ghost over impossible dirt roads to a remote area in the country four times a week to jog along a path in the woods. She knew she could not jog on the streets of the city, nor did she know of a weight room or gym that would accept a woman. So she went back to her exercise routine and wing chun practice against her sand bag and Mook Yan Chong—a wooden dummy precisely constructed to her specifications. She increasingly regretted not speaking to the couple that she’d seen attacked by the thugs. Maybe she would see them again. After shopping for a formal ballroom gown on California Street, Jyying was on her way back to the hotel when she saw a dirty little white terrier trying to get into a garbage can outside of Harold’s restaurant. She went over and lifted the lid for him. His hair was matted, caked with dried mud, and he was clearly famished. But rather than jump into the garbage, he came up to her and licked her hand. When she bent down to him, he licked her face. He had no collar, no I.D., and he followed her when she turned to leave him. What could she do? She picked him up, carried him to a market nearby, bought him a pork chop, and watched him gobble the meat and fat off the bone. When she walked off to leave him, he followed her with his pointed tail up and wagging and the bone in his mouth. She thought he would disappear soon, but he followed her to the hotel.

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The doorman tried to shoo him away, but she stopped him. The terrier was scared, but he wouldn’t leave, nor would he follow her into the hotel when she was halfway through the door. He looked at her with his head and tail down, his pointed ears back. He had dropped his bone in front of him. An offering of thanks, she presumed. Jy-ying sighed and picked the little one up in her arms and took him into the hotel with her. She said nothing to anyone. She just walked into the elevator cage with him. She ignored two other guests in the cage. She could feel the little one trembling. When she put him down in her suite, he stayed close to her at first, but gradually relaxed enough to sniff around the bedroom, living room, and miniature kitchen—especially around the gas range—and finally the dining-conference area. Soon he was running all over, and she was finding pee spots. She was happy to have found him. She loved little dogs, but in her job she could never own one. Now she could. Breaking only for her Contact Prayers, she spent most of the rest of the day playing with him, feeding him, and cleaning up after him. She neglected her exercise this once. She didn’t care what the maids and manager said. He was here to stay as long as she did. Jy-ying washed him thoroughly—twice—to get rid of his ticks and fleas. Finally, as far as she could see, she had washed off all his fleas, and she removed the remaining ticks with tweezers. That done, she tried to bathe him a third time, and they had their first fight over that. With her martial arts skills, she won. Barely. She wrapped him in a warm blanket and held him while she read a magazine until he was dry. He slept with her that night, the first male she’d slept with in this new world. In the morning she took a good look at him. He had a beautiful, longhaired white coat, now that it was clean and fluffy, with a black nose and footpads, sparkling black eyes, delicate pink inner ears, and a red tongue. His pert ears stood straight up, as did his pointed tail. She had not seen a little dog like this before. With his head cocked to one side, standing solidly on his four feet, with his tail straight up, he also took a good look at Jy-ying. She must have passed, because he licked her hand. She named him Little Wei—little one full of presence She checked the telephone directory for a veterinarian and found nine. She checked her maps and selected the one with the largest advertisement that was not too far away. She carried Little Wei through the lobby without comment, and approached the horse and automobile

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hacks waiting in line. Rather than drive, she took a Hansom, with the driver sitting on a raised platform behind the seats. She enjoyed watching Little Wei look around with excitement as they rode along. He checked out well with the veterinarian—no disease, no problem that the vet could tell. He told her that Little Wei was a West Highland White Terrier, a new and still rare breed; no dog like this would be wild unless something happened to his owner. She left after buying a new red collar and leash, a play ball, rubber bone, and what the veterinarian guaranteed was special soap that would keep fleas and ticks away. Being a princess had its advantages. From then on, Little Wei and Jy-ying went almost everywhere together. The only time she kept him in the suite while she was gone was when she attended a formal dinner. People grew to expect that, except for those affairs, if they invited her, Little Wei, black blanket, and leash, came along. So had a little bag and scoop she kept in her purse. People would turn away, faces would turn red, and nobody would comment when she cleaned up after Little Wei. I do not know what their problem is, she thought. After all, not so many years ago, when nature called people, they were no less discerning than Little Wei Jy-ying was becoming well known in the tight-knit group of San Francisco’s elite, and could recognize most of them and recall their names. It was getting so that she could easily identify a new man in attendance at their functions and quickly check him out. She had two or three possibilities, and got close enough to one to have an excursion with him, but not one was the time traveler. Aside from using his funds to mingle with the rich and powerful, what else would the time traveler do? she wondered. He would try to make legitimate money, presuming he used mostly counterfeit money. How would he earn it? For one, he knows the future and could thus make money by betting on horse races, the stock market, and commodities. For another, he would be trying to change things he thought were bad here or elsewhere. Of course, he would try to establish legitimacy, and how better than to be the head of a business? And because he knows the future, it would be a surprisingly successful business. These were enough particulars to put a private detective to work on it, and within a few days she had the Anderson Detective Agency looking for a missing person on behalf of Princess Tz’u Li Poh. “It is my personal wish to find this person,” she told Gerald Anderson. “And I am willing to pay $1,000 plus expenses.” That was a sufficient answer. He must have thought it as a matter of the heart.

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Mr. Anderson had a long list of questions about the person she was searching for, most of which were easy to answer: “He is in good physical shape, perhaps athletic, keeping himself in shape through regular exercise. He is good at self defense and weapons. He is doing extraordinarily well on the stock market or betting, may head a rapidly developing and successful company, is in his twenties or thirties, and is probably of greater than average height—maybe much greater. He is unmarried and very well educated. He is not from San Francisco and possibly speaks English with a strange regional accent.” Jy-ying let Anderson know that she would be especially grateful with a bonus if they found this person. He was to report to her once a week.

aaa Jy-ying got a call from Mrs. Hiller, the head of the San Francisco Orphan and Child Welfare Society. This was one of the charities to which so many of the wives of the rich and powerful contributed their time and money. After the introductory small talk, Mrs. Hiller said, “We will be visiting an orphanage for Chinese girls this coming Thursday, and hope that you can join us. I knew that you would have a special interest.” Jy-ying replied, “Yes, thank you. I do.” The orphanage was in the home of Barbara Atherton, a former Chinese missionary. Her husband had been killed in the Boxer Rebellion, and she survived only because she had been rescued by a unit of British soldiers. She had returned to San Francisco, her home, and started taking in homeless and orphaned Chinese girls, and others in trouble. Mrs. Hiller’s society helped support her work. Jy-ying took Little Wei with her, of course, and had put on his red collar. It stood out against his white fur and matched his red tongue. He was a hit with the girls. She left him unleashed, and could not tell who was having more fun—Little Wei, with his tail a blur over all those faces to lick, or the young girls who chased him, petted him, and gamboled on the floor with him. She stayed in the background on this trip and let Mrs. Hiller and the other women with them do all the talking. Barbara Atherton obviously wanted to have a long talk with Jy-ying about China. Jy-ying told her in an aside that she would call to get together with her. When they left, with the greatest regret shown by the girls and Little Wei, she thanked Mrs. Atherton for inviting her and gave her 100 real dollars for the orphanage.

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The next morning Jy-ying called Barbara, who immediately invited her over that afternoon. “Bring Little Wei,” she said. “Then my girls will play with him and give us a chance to talk.” She did, and they talked while watching the dog and girls play. Barbara missed China and so did Jy-ying, but more important, she missed companionship. Barbara was in her fifties, friendly, smiled a lot, and missed her dead husband. The girls she took in helped, but sometimes she just wanted an adult to talk to, confide in, share memories with. Jy-ying visited her many times in the following weeks, and eventually spent every Saturday afternoon with her and the girls. Little Wei looked forward to the visits and seemed to sense when that afternoon had come. He would get very agitated, waiting by the door with his tail wagging, and whining with eagerness. Early on, Jy-ying told Barbara that she was a Muslim and asked if that bothered her. “No,” Barbara replied. “Does my being a Christian missionary bother you?” “No, but you should know that I am something of a missionary myself.” “Well,” Barbara said, “we both believe in God. It’s just that our intermediaries differ. You have Mohammed, and I have Christ.” They had many religious discussions after that. Jy-ying gradually introduced Barbara to Sabah, and she did the same for her Presbyterianism. Jy-ying thought Barbara was mistaken in her beliefs, in her faith in Jesus, but Jy-ying was not there to proselytize. She just enjoyed Barbara’s company and appreciated what she was doing for the poor Chinese girls. Barbara was very curious about Jy-ying being a princess, and the amount of time she was spending in San Francisco. Barbara was so open and friendly with her and with all she was doing for the girls, that Jy-ying found it difficult to lie. She had to tell her cover story, anyway. Barbara nodded, and didn’t believe her, Jy-ying knew. But Barbara was familiar with China and its many currents, spoke Mandarin and Cantonese Chinese, and understood that Jy-ying would tell her, if she could. Jy-ying grew to enjoy spending time with the young girls, teaching them about the world. After their first hour of play with Little Wei, he would fall asleep at her feet, exhausted. The girls gathered around, some petting him, and Jy-ying would tell them about science, about the stars and galaxies, about other countries and their history, and about Islam.

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She was a professional. She was dedicated. And children of her own were not possible. She had never given it much thought. Before. Now Jy-ying realized how much she enjoyed these girls, some as young as five years old. They awakened in her a feeling she hadn’t known before. Her closest experience of it was when she took over care of her sister when her parents died. But that was only for a few months before the girl was brutally killed in the same Chinese civil war that had claimed their parents. This was different. She realized now how much she wanted children. It was driven home to her when vivacious, ever-smiling, everlaughing, eight-year-old Mary Lee died from tuberculosis. Jy-ying could do nothing for her, once she found out about her sickness. She would have survived in Jy-ying’s time, and that made it worse. Jy-ying sobbed with the girls and Barbara, and Little Wei lay on Mary’s empty bed and whined. Dogs know.

Chapter 15 Joy

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ettling into this “primitive and backward age,” as Joy often characterized it, was a happy time for her. Her fights with John were glorious. Their making up afterward was even better. She could not stop thinking about how to help the guys find steady girlfriends. It bothered her. Besides, as the only female among the four men, she sometimes wanted another woman to talk with. One day John looked up from his perusal of the company budget and nonchalantly told her, “I’ve stopped home schooling the guys.” “Why? They need it, and I thought you liked doing it.” “They’ll have other things to do.” “Have you been loading them down with work?” Joy accused “You shouldn’t do that. If you’re bored with teaching them, I’ll take up the home schooling. It’s important, you know.” “No more need for home schooling. They’re starting college next week.” Joy gaped at him. John had turned back to his budget. A dog was barking somewhere, and a car backfired on the street. She went over to his desk, ripped the budget away from him, and threw it on the bed. She gave him her practiced evil eye and waited with her arms folded across her chest. He looked up at her with an innocent expression. “What? You don’t like my budget?” “Bastard!” she exclaimed. “How can they go to college?” “Oh, that’s what you want to know. Well, now, beginning Monday, the three guys will be attending San Francisco College as unclassified students during the remaining months of the Spring Semester. They will take classes in liberal arts, and what passes for business courses. Although they will start late for the semester, the college has agreed to accept them, and I have hired a student tutor to bring the guys up to date on the classes they missed. They are really eager to attend.”

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John walked over the bed and, as he bent over to retrieve his budget, Joy gave his behind a good kick, knocking him onto the bed. Putting both her hands on her hips, she demanded, “How did you do this? They’re not high school graduates.” “Easy.” John rolled over onto his back. “I promised they would pay triple tuition for status as unclassified students, and I made a contribution to the college of $10,000. I also contributed $1,000 to the personal expense account of the president of the college, for his troubles. When he asked why I was doing this, I told him these men were important to my business and I wanted them to get a good, all-round education.” John put his hands behind his head and waited. His eyes twinkled and he had the dimples at the edges of his mouth that Joy hated. He was obviously happy with himself. “Why?” she threw at him, exasperated. “‘Why’ what?” “What about the word ‘why’ don’t you understand?” she yelled. “You mean, why am I sending the guys to college?” She grabbed his foot, jerked off his shoe, pulled off his sock, and bent back his little toe. “Ouch. Really baby, what’s so hard to understand? That’s where the nice girls are. The nice girls interested in intelligent and educated men. They might even meet someone like you, heaven forbid.” He looked smug. “Are you going to be jealous, now that I’ve solved your matchmaking problem?” She released his toe, stood, and glared at him—the mess of wild hair, the twinkling eyes, the dimples, the smug expression. The laughter bubbled up from the bottom of her stomach to erupt in a guffaw that doubled her over. She collapsed on the bed. She couldn’t stop laughing. She grabbed her sides and curled her legs over her stomach, and hooted. When she finally settled into snickering, she looked at John. He looked serious, even grim, as he struggled not to laugh. It gave him a most mischievous look, and she broke up again. Finally, he joined her laughter. Her sides ached. She hugged him. “I love you, dearest. But I’ll get you for that.” Over the next month, they seldom saw the guys in the evening. It seemed that their time was taken up elsewhere. “Obviously by study,” John opined.

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Within two months, they found out that the three had girlfriends. They introduced them to Joy and John, of course, and they all ate together several times at the Cold Day Restaurant on Pine Street. Hands and his girlfriend Jane put on a picnic in the country for all of them. Having been a catcher for the San Francisco Seals, he was an ardent baseball fan and took them all to the 1907 season opener against Portland in the Seals’ new stadium at Valencia and 15th Streets, not very far from John’s apartment building. It was a good thing they could walk—with ten thousand spectators attending, traffic was a mess of horses, wagons, coaches, and automobiles. Joy noted how the guys behaved toward their girlfriends. In this age, men were so chivalrous. They opened doors, pulled out chairs, and stood when a woman came into a room. They always doffed their hats when saying goodbye, or took them off when in the same room with a woman. They even walked between their female companions and the street, to protect them from splashing mud and water. Come to think of it, why don’t they act that way toward me? Joy wondered. She asked John. “How come you and the guys—well, you I understand, but the guys? How come they treat me like a man?” “They see you as more a man than a woman.” “More a man?” “Yeah. You have all these skills that this culture tells them belong to a man. You’re supposed to shrink from danger, scream, and cover your eyes, and treat men as superior. That would tell them you are a woman.” “I see.” She dropped the subject. She had in mind a supper meeting scheduled with the guys to discuss reorganizing the Tor Company so that they would have larger roles.

aaa Joy spent over an hour getting ready for the meeting. John kept yelling at her, “It’s time to go.” By the time he ended with “damn it,” she was ready. She had let her hair down to fall naturally over her shoulders. For the first time since arriving in this age, she put her locket in her purse and wore instead a necklace with tiny, interwoven gold links and a single large pearl, with matching gold-rimmed pearl earrings. Her light pink blouse had puffed white lace at her wrists, down the front, and along the open collar that displayed her cleavage. She tucked the blouse

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into a hip-tight maroon silk skirt with velvet flouncing at the ankles. She carried a gold-colored clutch purse. No armored vest, no holster purse, only her hidden knives. Grateful that makeup was coming back into fashion, she powdered her scar, put soft red lipstick on, brushed out her eyelashes, and added the final touch: she had spent two hours away from the company in the afternoon, searching for just the right perfume. She found it in the Paris Deluxe Magasin. Not heavy. It was so light that men would not know she was wearing perfume, even while breathing in its stimulating musk. John was waiting impatiently at the apartment front door when Joy walked out of the bathroom. She saw his eyebrows snap up as his eyes widened, and his tongue whisked across his lower lip, all for just a second before he regained control. “About time,” he said gruffly. “What took you so long?” On their way out he picked up a folder from the sofa side table and jotted something on it. He opened the door and went out, leaving Joy to follow him, and climbed up into their new American Mercedes, leaving her to do the same on her side. He hummed to himself as he drove them to the Cold Day Restaurant. There he strode purposely ahead of her with the folder in his hand. Conversation around the restaurant almost came to a stop as people stared at Joy. She ignored them and regally glided to the large table where the guys were waiting. John immediately handed the folder to Hands and asked him to pass it to the others. The guys were goggleeyed, but Hands soon ripped his eyes from Joy, looked down at the folder he had been holding, then passed it down the table. She stood next to her wicker dining chair. John sat down. On the other side of her, Hands had started reading his menu. Disgusted, she plopped down in the chair, but remembered her act and sat erect with her ankles crossed and her hands on her lap, one over the other. She looked around the table. No one was paying any attention to her, although she kept getting furtive looks from other tables. She lifted one hand and demurely looked at her menu, turning a page with a delicate flip. John leaned over and whispered, “Look at these prices, will you? They range from fifteen to thirty-three cents, and that’s for steak and potatoes.” When he looked back at his menu, she unobtrusively held hers over the edge of the table and let it fall. “Oh, clumsy me,” she exclaimed, putting her hand over her cleavage.

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“Yes. Clumsy,” John said. On the other side of her, Hands seemed to have trouble turning the page of his menu while hiding his face in it. Joy leaned over, picked up her menu, and slammed it on the tabletop, almost knocking over her glass of water. Sal looked up and started to shake his finger at her, but stopped and put his hand in his lap. Dolphy seemed to be interested in a painting on the wall. When the waiter came to their table, he looked first at Joy for her order. As she was about to speak, Dolphy whisked the menu away from his face, waved his hand at the waiter, and ordered beef ribs, extra cut. Before the waiter could look back at her, Sal ordered corned beef, Hands put his hand up for the waiter’s attention and ordered roast beef, and John immediately followed with an order of cold salmon with mayonnaise sauce. When the waiter finally was able to look at Joy again, his face had the look of one intimately violated. She managed to squeak at the waiter, “I’ll have the same,” and pointed to John. As the waiter nodded disgustedly and turned to leave, the laughter bubbled out. She had to shove her plate aside and put her forehead on the table, she was laughing so much. The guys laughed with her. People at the other tables smiled curiously at them. Joy had finally realized what was on that folder John had handed around. He must have told them to ignore her, that she was trying to act like a woman. When she finally stopped laughing, she waved her hand at all of them and exclaimed, “Beasts!” She burst into laughter again. When they were all laughed out, Dolphy spoke up. “You don’t have to prove you’re a woman, Joy. You’re the most beautiful, nicest woman I know.” John raised his water glass. “A toast to womanly Joy.” They all clicked glasses. Joy put her glass down and shook her finger at each of them. “Thanks, guys. But don’t you forget it, or I’ll break your arms.” When the waiter returned to the table to take their orders for dessert, he didn’t know who to look at first. John and the guys waited, looking at Joy. She ordered an éclair. The three guys ordered apple pie, and John asked for a pineapple fritter with hard sauce. When they were finished eating, Joy made to push her chair back and stand up. The men all sprang to their feet, and John just managed to beat Hands in pulling out her chair. They walked ahead of her out of the restaurant, as they should, and John opened her car door for her. The others tipped their hats while saying, “Good night, ma’am.”

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When they got back to the apartment, John opened the door for her and followed her, wearing a huge smile. “You looked stunning tonight, sweetheart. You never have to prove to me you’re a woman, but I like it when you show me how much of one you are.” He proceeded to show her how much he meant it. He was learning how to undo her shirts.

aaa It became clear that three guys were more than just trustworthy, they were loyal friends. Joy and John gathered them together at their apartment without their girlfriends—a remarkable, perhaps unrepeatable achievement—and John told them, “No more monthly antidotes to your poison.” He waited until their shocked expressions turned to fright, then added, “That’s because the last antidote had no renewal of the poison in it.” They were beginning to look irritated. John hastened to add, “You have become so much a part of our company and our life, and have shown such dedication and honesty in so many ways, that we now completely trust you all.” Satisfied, he sat back. The guys looked at Joy—she raised her eyebrow—and back at John and at each other. Hands grinned, leaned toward John, and said, “You never gave us poison, did you.” “Of course they didn’t. You’ve seen how devious they are,” Sal said, pointing a finger at Joy. “Yeah,” exclaimed Dolphy, “we should have been giving them poison. I don’t know how we ever trusted them.” Joy assumed a coquettish expression and put her hand on John’s shoulder. “Us? Devious? They can’t be serious.” They all laughed, and the subject never came up again. As the months went by, John built up their executive staff and company employees. He worked toward setting up a company office in London and, thanks to Sal’s help, he actually did incorporate one in Mexico City. He and Joy also began making business and government contacts in almost every major Big Power in the world. It was hard work. It was slow work. It was absolutely necessary work. In a corner of their converted warehouse they’d had their builders put in a gym. They would drive to the warehouse at dawn, jog around the adjacent streets, do their weights, and practice their karate and judo. Jogging was unknown in this age. Twice a policeman on this beat

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stopped them to ask why they were running. Thereafter, he just looked at them as though they were crazy when he saw them jogging. With some special exceptions, they now never went unarmed. They always jogged in long pants and sweatshirts to hide their armor. Joy carried her throwing knife, and John his small 40 caliber S&W doubleaction. The smell that accumulated on the armor from their sweat became a problem. They were never quite able to remove it with washing. But no one noticed. So few people in this era bathed regularly that everyone stunk, and after a while their noses became inured to the smell. They had purchased twenty-five acres for a weapons range and test facility where Joy could ensure she stayed ready to use the various weapons the Society had sent them—sniper rifles, nighttime vision scopes, and laser targeting rifles—while she continued to train John in their use. She deemed this so important that she was willing to endure the drive on country roads to get there twice a week. Most of their fights occurred during practice. Having been a teacher, he seemed to view Joy’s teaching methods with an air of superiority. Joy thought he resented being taught by a mere woman. She certainly resented his attitude. When she got exasperated over his clumsy use of a tactical knife, she observed, “You couldn’t survive a fight against a little girl with a pen knife.” “And you couldn’t teach a dog to sit,” he retorted. He threw the knife at the target in anger, and nicked its edge two feet from the bull’seye. “You missed it, of course,” she pointed out. He stomped off and pouted for the rest of the day. But in spite of his attitude, he did learn very well. A testament to my teaching, Joy thought.

Chapter 16 Jy-ying

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y-ying’s brow furrowed. She tightened her lips and again looked at the list the Anderson Detective Agency had sent her, containing the names of those companies recently set up and very successful. A second list included those local speculators and investors who were also very successful on the stock market. The agency was still investigating those who had been making very successful bets on races and sports teams. She had correlated the business list with that of successful stock speculators, and checked off the names of those who had been doing very well at both. “This is another good possibility,” she said to herself. She’d been going down her list for weeks, visiting each company and trying to determine if their products were at all related to a possible time traveler’s project, whatever that was. Next, using one guise or another, she met and talked to the person in question. She had eight more likely possibilities to check out. She didn’t have to drive to this one. She walked from her warehouse down De Haro to Mariposa, two streets uphill west, and found the Tor Company on Potrero Hill near the intersection with Kansas Street. It was a two-story building taking up a third of a block. Its display windows contained a Persian rug, a Chinese ivory carving of a dragon, a Chinese vase painted with a traditional landscape, a French medieval suit of armor, a German walnut cuckoo clock, a Japanese samurai sword, and English crystals. Through the window she could see a variety of large and small imports pleasantly arranged around the showroom. The aisles between the displays were wide and dotted with potted rubber trees and bamboo. Somebody had tried to make the display floor attractive to buyers. There was a two-door castle entrance, with a huge false knocker. Above it was the name Tor Import & Export Co. and the hours open: 9:00 a.m.–4:00 p.m., Mon.–Tues.; Thur.–Fri. Or by appointment.” She ambled past the doors and stopped at the next corner under a eucalyptus tree to recheck the notes that the Anderson Agency had

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added to her lists. Owner John Banks; single, Caucasian; nationality unknown; age: 27; business started in 1906, worth approximately $232,000, small offices in London and Mexico City, employs 113 people. She next looked at statistics for Banks on her stock list: Stock speculation initiated in December 1906 with a purchase worth $1,397,000 in shares of four companies; current portfolio valued at approximately $5,000,000, or almost 258 percent profit. His ratio of gains to losses is now about 3:1. Oh Sabah, what a portfolio. Big operator, she thought. But she reminded herself that these statistics could apply to many who had profited from the 1906 earthquake and fire, or moved here afterward. There was much profit to be made, although Banks was probably a big exception. Time would tell—some portfolios did very well for a while and then went bust; some had special insider’s information. The one kind of information she needed badly she didn’t have. She did not know when the time traveler arrived and to what date the message had been sent from that institute in Santa Barbara Time to look-see. She strode back to the storefront and entered, tripping a bell above the door.

aaa Joy When Joy and John found out that Sal had a girlfriend, rather than a passing fancy, they stopped Sal at the front entrance to the apartments and asked him if it was true. He smiled and said, “Yes, of course.” They had to meet her. John asked him to bring her to a little party they would arrange at John’s apartment. They set a date, and Joy and John rushed off to an appointment. But Joy was too curious to wait. Several days before the party, she took an eighteenth-century Mexican shawl to Sal’s office, ostensibly to ask him some questions about it, and just happened to ask, “Who is your girlfriend?” He replied nonchalantly, “Her name is Jy-ying Khoo. She’s a local Chinese girl.” “Oh,” Joy replied. “Moving up, eh?” Joy couldn’t help it. She had to point out, “If she is Chinese, her surname, Khoo, goes before her personal name, Jy-ying. That’s true

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also for—” She clamped her mouth shut, feeling a little embarrassed. Damn. I’m beginning to lecture like John. I must be picking it up by osmosis. Sal ignored her, and started in immediately on what he seemed to think would interest and impress Joy most. “Her father is Liu-chin Kim— “Kim Kiu-chin,” Joy corrected. “—and he taught, ahh, something sing shun—” “Wing chun?” Joy asked. “Yeah, that’s it.” “That’s a form of kung fu very popular in Hong Kong. It’s a woman’s martial art, with the emphasis on overcoming brute strength through timing, positioning, anticipation, and strategy. Its origin is in the Shaolin temple and it was devised by five Grand Masters. When the Manchus burned the temple, the Grand Master nun, Ng Mui, escaped. Afterward, she taught the art to an orphan girl named Wing Chun, who in turn taught it to her husband, thus beginning the long line of Wing Chun Masters. The style is—” “Can I continue, Joy?” Joy felt her face heat up. “Sorry.” “Her father taught her that in his home, starting when she was two years old.” “Really,” Joy exclaimed. He grinned, then resumed. “Her mother had been killed in a gang rape during Oakland’s anti-Chinese riots of the 1880s.” “I’m sorry to hear that.” “Her father never got over her death and never remarried. Jy-ying told me that he insisted she learn to protect herself.” “I’ll be darned,” Joy told Sal, startling him. “You know, it sounds like my own life. Because of my mom’s horrible experiences in Cambodia, especially the murder of her husband, she wanted me to learn martial arts from the earliest age.” Sal was silent, apparently waiting to see if she had more to say, but Joy now had full control over her mouth. “She visited our company showroom looking for an imported statue of Yuh Niuy,” he said. “Do you know who she is?” Sal looked like he hoped she would say no. “Of course,” Joy responded, a little maliciously. “She’s the famous Chinese woman sword fighter who, under the king of the Zhou, was the final victor in a seven day contest involving one thousand swordsmen and—” She covered her mouth with her hand.

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Sal seemed disappointed that she knew. “She is Jy-ying’s idol.” He stopped and looked at her, waiting. Joy prodded, “She was in the showroom?” Yeah.” He turned back to the Spanish list of potential Mexican exports he’d been scanning. John has been teaching him tricks, Joy realized. “Sal!” Sal looked up, brows raised, then resumed. “Well, Joy, it was my lucky day. I happened to be passing through the showroom and saw this Chinese woman looking at some statues. At a distance, I thought it was you. You know, even up close you two look alike.” He stopped, but Joy impatiently waved him on. “Anyway, Jy-ying was clearly someone special and I couldn’t just let an ordinary salesman deal with her. It’s a matter of what’s good for the company.” “Naturally,” Joy responded dryly. “So I told the salesman to take a coffee break and offered Jy-ying my help. She had just come from her win chin practice.” “It’s wing chun, Sal. How was she dressed?” “Dressed? I don’t know.” Damn, Joy thought, Men are so frustrating. They can describe an automobile down to the number of seconds it takes to reach sixty miles per hour, but they can’t describe what a person wore. What do they look at, anyway? She knew the answer to that. She had to ask Sal detailed questions to finally get some idea of what she looked like, aside from “like you” and “what a galón gortious—gorgeous gal.” It was like a cross examination during a court trial. But she did finally find out that Jy-ying wore baggy blue slacks with a pink shirt that hung down to her hips. She’d also had her long hair in a ponytail, as Joy often did, which probably enhanced their resemblance. When she found out that Jy-ying’s parents had come from Canton, Joy was sure she had inherited from them the soft, slanted almond eyes, natural beauty, and flawless complexion of southern Chinese women. Joy believed one or both of her parents had come from southern China as well. Jy-ying was twenty-six years old, and about five and a half feet tall. My age, Joy thought. But I’m two inches taller. To get that, Sal had asked Joy to stand next to him, and said, “She comes up to about here. She’s slender, but she has all the right bumps,” he added. “She walks like she’s boss—like you do,” and he demonstrated by swinging his arms and strutting around his office, head held high.

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After Joy got all that out of Sal, she prodded him to continue describing their first meeting. “After finding out what she was looking for in our showroom, I offered to make the statue a special order from our contacts in Shanghai.” With her usual subtlety, Joy asked, “How did you make your move?” He looked at her and smirked. “Move? You mean, ask her out? I used you.” “Me?” “I told her, ‘We have a Chinese woman working for our company—” “Sino-Vietnamese,” Joy corrected. “—and I asked, ‘Do you know her?’ She answered, ‘No, I’ve never met her,’ and I saw my chance. You understand, I didn’t at the time know about her training in wing son—” Joy held up her finger. “Wing chun. Chun, Sal.” “—but I couldn’t have got her more interested. I said, ‘Her name is Joy Phim and she has black belts in judo and karate.’ Jy-ying almost dropped the stature she was holding. She jerked her head around to look at me directly, and with big eyes, just like yours are now, she asked, ‘She is? Who trained her? Why did she do this? What degree is she? What does she do for your company?’” He looked smug. “What a great line. Think I’ll pass it on to Hands and Dolphy. The rest was easy.” “Don’t tell me,” Joy exclaimed. “You said something like, ‘Why don’t you join me for dinner and I’ll tell you all about her.’ Yes?” Sal laughed. “You know, Joy, I thought she would be useful to the company, but I had to know her better to be sure. So we had dinner and I answered a million questions about you.” He hastened to add, “But nothing personal.” “I’m glad to hear that your mind wasn’t totally blasted.” Sal ignored her. “I found out that she had graduated from the California Institute of Technology. She told me she speaks Chinese. Her father would only speak that at home. “She also questioned me about our boss, about our business, and whether we had run into any difficulty because of you being Chinese—” “Sino-Vietnamese, Sal.” “I told her what happened to us and what you and John did. With my help, of course.” Sal paused. “She told me she may have seen you and John being attacked by punks with bats.”

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Joy opened her eyes wide. “So that’s who it was! We saw her watching us, but she disappeared before we could talk to her. Now I understand why she had prepared herself for combat. She would have helped us, if needed.” Sal looked at Joy diffidently. “She was looking for a job.” Joy noted the past tense. “Sal, you didn’t.” “Yes, I hired her for the company, to work under me.” Joy chose to let that opportunity pass. But, knowing Sal, Joy knew what she said next was a slam-dunk. “You hired her as your assistant and translator.” Sal looked surprised. “How did you know?” “Woman’s intuition,” was all Joy could say before laughing. She had not known about his hiring Jy-ying. Sal was a vice president of their company, after all, and was free to hire whom he pleased.

aaa At the scheduled time a week later, Joy answered a knock at John’s apartment door and saw standing alone on the threshold a beautiful Chinese woman. “Hello,” the woman said with a lovely smile, and her almond eyes sparkled. She looked very familiar. But not seeing Sal, Joy thought the woman had the wrong apartment. Then the woman said in Chinese, “You must be Joy. I’m Jy-ying. I’m very happy to finally meet you.” Startled, Joy took a second look, and was suddenly tongue-tied. No wonder she’s familiar—she does look like me. Almost. Somewhat different. But so close. She could be my clone—impossible, but there she is. Sal’s girlfriend. Some God must be messing with the probabilities. Sal stuck his head around the doorjamb and looked at Joy with a smirk. “Judo Joy, meet wun son—” “Wing chun,” Jy-ying interrupted. “—Jy-ying,” Sal continued. “Well Joy, you’ve met your match.” Jy-ying backed up and kicked him in the behind. She smiled at Joy and asked in English, “Is he always like this?” Joy grinned knowingly. They came in and Sal introduced her to John, and Hands and Dolphy and their girlfriends. The party went well. Jy-ying got along well with all of them. “I think Sal has a winner,” John said to Joy after the party. She gave him her most innocent smile. “Of course. She’s Chinese and looks like me.”

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“You’re Sino-Vietnamese,” John reminded her, and hit her with one of their beat-up pillows. Over the following weeks, Joy got together with Jy-ying several times to see what kind of person she was. “After all,” Joy informed John, “I do have a responsibility to our company, for which Jy-ying is now working. And Sal is our friend as well as our vice president. It’s only my duty to see if she is right for him.” “Of course,” John said, nodding, lips pursed. Eventually she asked Jy-ying, “Would you like to practice your wing chun with me? I know little about that form of kung fu, and would love to learn it from you.” Jy-ying responded, “I am impressed that you know it is a form of kung fu. Actually, my style is mostly yip man, with some techniques from the soft, internal form of kung fu. I would love to spar with you, but I would be embarrassed at how little I know about judo and karate. Could you teach me some of your moves?” That little dance over, Joy mentioned, “Well, there are certain standard moves in all Asian martial arts, and the human body has only a certain range of motions all experts come to learn, as one does to walk. But also, each of the martial arts has certain moves meant to exploit the weaknesses of competing schools. I look forward to seeing what those are for wing chun.” Jy-ying nodded. “I’m so ignorant of the martial arts. I hope you will teach me.” Dumb me, Joy later mused. I should have realized that was typical Chinese understatement. Like the stars are a humble distance from the earth. Joy scheduled their first practice—really a subtle challenge—at their private gym. She didn’t tell John or the guys about this meeting— she didn’t want to embarrass Jy-ying. Her first thought after their sparring was Ha! Her second was Ha! And so was her third. That evening, tired, bruised, muscles strained, Joy had to make an unhappy confession to John—she didn’t want Sal to blab it to him first. “Jy-ying and I had a martial arts practice session this afternoon.” Anticipating her kind description of how easy it was, John asked, “You were merciful, weren’t you?” She replied with some passion, “She’s strong. Damn strong. She made moves I didn’t anticipate, and had a speed and agility that I could only match, not overcome. Our first practice session lasted two hours, and I was exhausted at the end.”

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John looked awed. She ignored his look. “I tried to go easy on her at first, but it was clear after a few minutes that she was my match.” “Did I hear you correctly? She was your match?” “This was not a standoff, love. We each were able to penetrate and take down the other. Had we been serious, we could have killed each other. For Jy-ying and me, the only problem was lack of training in each other’s moves.” “This other woman is like you in ways other than looks? Is she a clone? I’ve got to change my whole conception of the universe.” John shook his head in mock despair. “It won’t be the same from now on.” “Smart ass,” Joy retorted. “If you can rein in your stupid humor, I’ll go on.” She gave John her you’re-lower-than-a-worm look. “When we left each other, we agreed to meet regularly for practice and training. She also agreed to train Sal, and I said I would most certainly pass on to you what I was learning from her.” “I don’t know,” John said. “Maybe I should learn directly from her, rather than second-hand from someone just learning the moves.” “Bastard. You just want an excuse to touch her breasts.” Joy didn’t have a pillow handy, but she gave his shoulder a tired whack.

aaa Jy-ying Jy-ying was satisfied. Her suspicion had grown as she closely watched John and Joy. Their behavior toward each other and in general did not fit into this age. They were too relaxed, too open, too informal. And from the point of view of this time, their etiquette was atrocious. She smiled. As is mine. They were certainly lovers, as Sal said. But she had not had to be a spy to know that. She’d gathered all the evidence she needed from Joy and John’s offices, and added to it what she’d uncovered in their separate apartments while they were at work. They were sloppy about writing things down, keeping duplicates in their office files, and letting important secrets lie around their apartment. It was as though they thought they were protected by a force field, and were immune to prying eyes. She closed the file cabinet in John’s office and held her penlight on it as she checked to make sure she’d left no marks on the cabinet. She

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locked it with her lock pick. Clearly, he had not expected anyone to seriously search through his files, and had only locked the cabinet to keep out the mildly curious in the office, such as their secretary. Jy-ying would return at another time and scan the important documents into her laptop, but that was only so she could make use of them herself—especially the chronology of future events that John had locked in his office file. She wanted to compare that with her own. John’s printout of daily stock transactions published in the Wall Street Journal would also be useful. She slipped out of John’s office and locked the door with her pick. She slowly opened the company’s front door, checked for the policemen on patrol, and closed the door behind her and locked it as well. She walked around the corner to her Rolls, where Little Wei was watching out the window for her. She opened the door, let him lick her face and, with a grin and chuckle, gently pushed him into the passenger seat so she could get in. She hadn’t been this happy since leaving China. She purposely left her mind blank as she drove. Now was not the time for thinking of something this special. When she got to the apartment building she’d recently moved into, she walked Little Wei to a grassy area nearby to pee, then took him upstairs to her second floor apartment, fed and watered him, filled her teapot with the pu-erh tea leaves she recently bought in Chinatown, and put it on her Acme gas range to heat. While she waited, she sat in the bathtub and bathed herself by dumping a pot of hot water from the faucet over herself, soaping, and pouring more hot water over herself several times. She could not understand why Westerners bathed while sitting in their own dirty water. She hated the thought of it. Little Wei stood up with his front paws on the bathtub’s rim and watched her as usual, and she splashed him, just for fun. By the time she finished, her teapot was boiling. She let the tea steep while she got out her prayer rug, and stood, then prostrated herself eastward toward Mecca. She thanked God and Sabah for her success. Her eyes were wet at the end. Saving Sabah’s life was now a certainty. Shu Kuo would be happy. Imam Ch’en would praise her to God. She would live in the history of Islam as one of their greatest heroines. But no one would know. Not even those who sent her—this was now a different universe. She was ready to think about how to make her mission a success. She threw a blanket over her shoulder, poured her hot tea, and went out

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to her apartment’s balcony, with Little Wei following. She settled into her ship’s deck chair, set her tea on the wrought iron table next to it, and covered herself with the blanket. Little Wei jumped into her lap. She gently stroked his long white fur, and sighed. The world was perfect. The sky was almost cloudless and a three-quarter moon reflected off San Francisco Bay, its light joining the many scintillating lights from Treasure Island and Yerba Buena Island and Oakland across the Bay. At this late hour there were few boats or ships on the water, although she could see the navigation lights and the wake of one small ship. The air was cool, almost cold, and a sky full of sparkling stars shone down on her She sipped her tea and put her head back against the pillows. “I have them,” she told Little Wei. “I know what they are doing here. Breaking into their apartment was easy. They obviously have no security background, no fear of spies. They are novices at this. “Now, what to do with them? It is still years before they will attempt to kill Sabah or his parents. Their mission seems to be ending war and what they call democide. They only altered that to include Sabah after receiving that message from the institute in Santa Barbara.” She pondered what to do. “I could kill them tomorrow, but is this the best course? Is it what I want?” Happy with the attention he was getting, Little Wei put his paws on her chest and licked her nose. Her eyes slitted with pleasure, and she kissed him on his nose. She held him back from her face with two hands and told him, “Sabah succeeded because they succeeded. They did help create a world of democracies, and almost eliminated war. But . . . ” she smiled broadly, “in doing this, they created a world whose democracies lost all incentive to maintain military forces or intelligence services. Joy and John thus made Sabah’s Great Victory possible.” This almost derailed her thoughts for a moment, for again it brought to her mind the horrible global catastrophe, the billions killed in seconds, to assure this Great Victory. With a sigh, she laid Little Wei on her lap and held him there. She almost had resigned from Security when that occurred; she almost gave up Sabahism. But she had talked to the Imam of her mosque, a long-time friend, and he had convinced her that this was God’s way, that Sabah, as His Prophet, had thus prepared the way for God’s universal triumph. “Let me put it this way,” he told her. “Just think of the billions and billions of heathens and infidels that will now live under Sabah. Islam will now be the only world religion, and the sin of godlessness and as-

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sociated corruptions are ended. Peace, freedom under God, and the good and proper life will now reign.” She had been convinced, but she hated what had been done. With a shake of her head that startled Little Wei, she jerked her attention back to Joy and John. Her tea was cold, but she finished it anyway while he looked at her curiously, head tilted, ears up. She gave him a little smile. “Well, little one, if I kill Joy and John, I destroy their mission, and the world their documents say existed in what they call the Old Universe may continue to exist, with its wars and far fewer democracies. Thus, Sabah’s success in Uighuristan or China may not happen. And his Great Victory may not be possible.” She scratched Little Wei’s stomach. “If I kill them, I won’t be able to duplicate their results. I don’t have John’s knowledge of history to know exactly what to do to create what they call the New Universe, and I would be only one person—a Chinese woman—trying to transform the politics of Europe to avoid war. I have to keep them alive and let them do whatever they can before I have to kill them.” She decided she would also learn from John as much as she could about his planned interventions. She liked that. He was a man she wanted to know better. Much better. “That means I should join them,” Jy-ying concluded, and added thoughtfully, “Maybe I can keep John alive and replace Joy. And manipulate him to save Sabah. What do you think, little boy?” Little Wei was asleep on her lap and she soon joined him, but not before making plans.

Chapter 17 Jy-ying

I

n the women’s room at the company, Jy-ying took the pins out of her coal black hair and let it fall naturally to her waist, and brushed it, paying particular attention to her bangs. She opened her small suitcase and changed into a white silk lady’s shirt, tight at the neck with pick-lace ruffles on the sleeves and down the front. She tucked that into her burgundy German linen skirt, with its little built-in bustle and a pink flounce around her ankles. She took out a mild Chinese perfume and applied it sparingly to her neck, with just a touch on her forehead. She also applied a smidgen of rouge—a cosmetic just becoming acceptable—to her cheeks. After surveying herself in the mirror, she headed for John’s office with Little Wei trotting behind her. John’s secretary was momentarily away from her desk. Jy-ying knocked on John’s office door, opened it, and stuck her head inside in such a way that her hair fell around her face like a black waterfall. “Can I see you?” she asked. “It’s important.” John didn’t look up. “Why are you asking, Joy?” he said. When she didn’t move, he looked up, eyes still unfocused, and said, “What are you waiting for, baby?” With a smile in her voice, Jy-ying responded, “Is that a promotion?” John jumped, focused on her face, reddened, and stuttered, “I’m sorry . . . Jy-Jy-ying. You look so much like Joy, and your voice sounds like hers, that I—” Jy-ying stepped in with Little Wei on her heels, and held up her hand. “I just wanted to say that I broke up with Sal. He is a very nice man, was very considerate of me, but I’m sorry to say, I slowly realized our personalities are too different. I like working for your company, but I can’t work under Sal because of our breakup, and I told him so. Is there something I can do for you?” Her smile would have electrified a small town.

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“Sure, “ John replied, a little hastily, Jy-ying was pleased to note. “Joy is not only my assistant and translator—” he smiled at that “— she’s also in charge of our China operations. Would you like to work under her?” Right now, under you would be better. Aloud she said, “It would be an honor.” “Fine, I’ll check with her and let you know tomorrow morning.” “Ahh, that brings up something else. I’d like to talk to you and Joy about something very important. Can I see you both this evening at your apartment?” “Can’t we discuss it here?” “No, I need the privacy of your apartment.” “Okay, join Joy and me for dinner at 6:30.” Jy-ying picked up Little Wei and nodded. “Thank you for the invitation. I will see you then.” As she closed the door behind her, she glanced back and caught him wiping his forehead. Get used to it, my man, she thought.

aaa Joy John entered Joy’s office and, rather than saying whatever he’d intended to say and leaving as he usually did, he dropped down in her stiff-backed chair. Looking as though he had lost a big bet, he told her, “Sal and Jy-ying have broken up.” Joy pursed her lips and rubbed her cheek with her hand. “Too bad. I was hoping that Sal had finally found someone. But I didn’t think they suited each other. She is too strong for Sal and. . . . ” She tried to put her finger on it, but couldn’t. “I have an odd feeling about her, aside from her being my double. I sense a kind of otherworldliness . . . you know?” The image of Jy-ying in the alley when they were attacked continued to bother Joy. She’d been wearing panties—panties, not bloomers or some other ugly underwear of this age. John hesitated, as though reluctant to say something. Finally he pointed out, “Well, you have to admit that Sal had fallen for you from the beginning. I think he saw you as a tough guy’s mole. Since Jy-ying looked like you, and was into martial arts, he fell for her. He’ll get over it when he meets a sweet, wholesome gal.”

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John paused again while Joy mused over that. Then he said, “I thought Jy-ying could now work for you. She certainly can’t work with Sal anymore, and she told him that.” “Since she speaks idiomatic Mandarin, I can find more than enough for her to do. Good idea.” She smiled broadly. “Maybe I’ll make her my assistant and translator.” Chuckling, he allowed a few seconds to pass before mentioning, “Jy-ying has something important to say to us in private, so I invited her to join us for supper tonight.” Joy was a little annoyed that John had not asked her first, even though she was interested in hearing what Jy-ying had to say. “John, ask me before you invite someone to eat with us at home, okay? I have to prepare the meal, you know.” After letting a few tactical moments go by, Joy continued. “I hope she doesn’t mind day-old rice and leftover sausages. I’ll warm that up while you make the salad.” John nodded, rose, and left the office with a wave. What, a nod only? No apology? Joy thought as she watched him leave. My love, someday you are going to find that I have volunteered you to attend a social tea.

aaa John left the company a few hours early, telling Joy that he had to stop somewhere. The somewhere was Kin Chee Chop Suey at Powell and Broadway Streets in new Chinatown. So when Joy arrived home, which is what they had started calling John’s apartment, he simply waved to her from the sofa where he was reading the newspaper. She stopped halfway across the room and looked around. He had straightened the clutter of newspapers, magazines, pillows, and the other debris of relaxed living. Shaking her head in wonderment, she went to their bedroom and changed into her favorite house clothes, Levi’s jeans and a sweatshirt. She was even more amazed when she entered the kitchen to prepare dinner. It also had been cleaned, and dishes left in the sink from breakfast were washed, dried, and put away. On the counter were three serving plates heaped with rice, stuffed chicken wings, shrimp fu young, and vegetables. On a cutting board were slices of fresh sourdough bread.

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She turned around and almost bumped into John. He was smirking. She reached up and brushed his cheeks with her lips, then gave him a little peck. “You’re forgiven.” “Is that all I get?” “Later.” When Jy-ying arrived with Little Wei, she was dressed to look no less feminine than when she had visited John in his office. She had pulled her hair back into a ponytail secured with a pink ribbon, tied into a bow. She wore a narrow black ribbon around her neck, a taffeteen silk shirt with full hanging sleeves, and a tan German linen skirt that perfectly matched her light olive skin. Her face was freshly-washed and bright. No makeup; no perfume. She had dressed Little Wei in a shiny black collar, and he greeted Joy and John with jumps, waving paws, and a doggie grin, as though he had not seen them for weeks. She is beautiful, Joy thought when she saw Jy-ying come in. She felt shabby herself. Just before Jy-ying arrived, Joy had changed into her standard, all-wool, cheviot serge work dress for dinner. During the meal they chatted about China, the instability of the Manchu Dynasty, and the gathering strength of prodemocratic forces. Jy-ying had brought it up and initially carried the conversation. Joy was wary of getting into it. Although they had continued to spar together two or three times a month, Joy had avoided any serious discussion of the political situation in China as they were showering and changing afterward—she never saw Jy-ying wearing panties again—or during their frequent meetings with the others. She had found that many overseas Chinese felt strongly one way or another, and with some it was like talking about their religion. After they finished eating and Jy-ying gave Little Wei a tidbit from her plate, they all cleaned off the table. John went into the kitchen, opened a cupboard, and brought out a Black Forest cake he had bought at Erik’s German Bakery. Joy looked at the cake, and at Jy-ying, and at John. “John! Such a dessert with Chinese food. Only a light dessert, such as a small custard or fruit of some kind, which I have waiting in the icebox, is appropriate.” John stuck his chin out. “We are not in China. We are in the United States of America. We are in San Francisco. We are in my home. This is what I serve. Enjoy.” He cut the cake accompanied by oohs and aahs from Jy-ying and Joy, and gave them each a generous piece. He filled three glasses with chilled milk and handed the glasses around.

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John sat down, raised his milk glass, and looked at Jy-ying. “A little toast to your happiness. I know it didn’t work out between you and Sal, but it’s best that you discovered it now. Anyway, we think no less of you, and hope that you will be happy working for us over the years.” They continued to talk about China while eating their dessert. When they all were finished, Jy-ying looked and Joy and said quietly, “I have something to tell you that is most serious and most dangerous to me.” She pushed back from the table, bent over, and reached under her skirt. When she straightened up, she held a Chinese woman’s traditional six-inch throwing knife in her hand. Joy was unarmed and wore no armor. In the time it took her to gasp, she got into as ready a stance as she could while sitting. She loosely balled her hands on her lap, knuckles up, and automatically arranged her feet under her chair so her upper body tipped slightly forward over her center of gravity. She was ready to jump defensively in any direction and immediately attack. She focused her gaze like a laser on Jy-ying’s eyes. They would tell the intended future of that knife. Jy-ying held it loosely in two fingers, slowly placed it in the center of the table, and rotated the point toward herself. Joy did not relax. She did not divert her attention to John. There was not a thought in her head. She was now in a zone, honed and directed by her training. Nothing existed at this moment but Jy-ying’s eyes. Likewise keeping her eyes on Joy, Jy-ying even more slowly reached into her purse, which was hanging from the back of her dining chair, and extracted with two fingers on the lower grip, as far as possible from the trigger, a Chinese copy of the Browning 9 mm seven shot 1903 pistol. Joy’s peripheral vision knew what it was; she knew it was pointed down. She hadn’t moved. Her eyes bored into Jy-ying’s. Jy-ying carefully placed the pistol alongside her knife, grip toward Joy. Jy-ying pushed her chair back a little farther, the scraping sound almost explosive in the deadly silence, and patted her lap. Little Wei jumped into it. She cuddled him close to her with one hand, and put the other one on the table palm-up. “Now for the truth,” she said tonelessly. “I was a secret agent. I spied on you.” Shit, shit, Joy thought. For a moment she felt like she’d been hit by a giant hand and knocked into a black hole, but she immediately recovered her calm and concentration.

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Jy-ying’s voice was level and direct, her face intent as she continued. “My real parents were both members of the Imperial Security Guard, and were Imperial spies in their youth. It was they who began my training in wing chun and all the arts of spying. They wanted me to be a spy, like them. While on a mission to Chunking during the Boxer Rebellion, they were killed by rebels.” Her eyes flickered and her lower lip trembled for just a moment. “The Security Guard continued my training. Before the dynasty collapsed, the Guard was reformed as part of the Chinese Security Ministry. My training didn’t stop. When I was old enough, I was sent here to attend an American university to perfect my English and gain knowledge of American customs. I was to return to China and spy on the American diplomatic officials there and, if possible, become the concubine of the American ambassador, or some other high American official.” “I thought—” John started to hiss, but Jy-ying held up her hand. John didn’t try to hide his feelings. He looked outraged. “One year ago, my control, who acted as my father, was sent special orders to spy on your company. Your activity in China, particularly your contacts in Peking and Shanghai, had raised suspicion. And so . . .” She hesitated, leaned over and kissed Little Wei between the ears. “On the luckiest day of my life, I went to your showroom and eventually met both of you.” Jy-ying choked up and wiped her eyes with her napkin. Joy had not moved a muscle from her ready position. Seeming to regain control of her voice and her tears, Jy-ying continued. “I got to know both of you—particularly Joy, through our sparring. I had been trained to listen to what people say and watch what they do, but also what they do not say and do not do. You may not believe, Joy and John, how easy it was for me to see that you were not what you portray. You were either foreigners from a country I did not know, or you were not of this world. “I soon saw how you were armed, and I looked carefully at your disguised armor. While Joy was showering one day after our sparring, I was able to shave off—with great difficulty—a small piece from the edge of her armor. I sent it to a lab at Caltech. After testing it, they informed me that it is made of no known material and is incredibly strong. “Also, there is Joy’s training in the martial arts. No woman of this time who is not a secret agent for some powerful country would have had her training, and I found out she has received training in weapons, as well.”

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She looked at Joy with her black eyes wide and frank, black eyebrows slightly raised, chin up. And she said with certainty, “Joy, you and John had to have come here from the future, for some secret purpose. I could not believe this at first. It was impossible. But I verified it.” That was the only thing that could have destroyed Joy’s concentration. She gasped, even louder than John. Incredible! exploded through Joy’s mind. Incredible. She knows. How could she? “As a member of your company, I gained access to otherwise confidential information about your incredible wealth and your great success on the stock market. Almost everything I looked at screamed at me that you could not be of this time. I also checked into all your trips and contacts—an easy job of prying. You two do not really know how to hide secrets. But then, you were never trained to be spies, and never expected to have a spy like me around.” Hearing a noise outside, Little Wei jumped off of Jy-ying’s lap and ran to the low living room window to look out. Jy-ying resettled herself and put both hands on the table before continuing. “I also asked some subtle questions of Sal and others, and I found the key to your activity. It concerned war or democracy, democracy or war. I found out that you wanted to end war and spread democracy. And Joy gave me the connection. In response to my leading questions, she told me the key— democracies are the most peaceful societies; they don’t make war on each other, and their leaders do not murder their own citizens. You are here to create a more peaceful universe, a more democratic one.” Her eyes probed Joy’s. What she read there sent a flicker of fear through her own. She looked away and called Little Wei to her, and when he returned to her lap, she pulled him close with one hand and sighed. “I want to help you, if you will let me. You see, Boxer rebels murdered my parents. I have seen what happens in war. I will not give you the gory details, but I have seen more bodies and bodiless heads than both of you can imagine. I love my country and want my people to be free and at peace.” She now clasped her hands on the table. “Once I saw that I must join your mission, I next did two things. I sent an official message to the head of my Security Ministry, Fong Chao-yang, who was a friend of my parents and had personally been involved in my training. I knew he trusted me as a daughter. I told him that I could find nothing about your company that was dangerous or a threat to China. This actually is true, isn’t it? I also told him that I was resigning. And that I had fallen in love with an American. Not quite true, but an adequate justification.

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This fits in with the Chinese conception of women being flighty and easily corrupted by love. He sent me a beautiful pure ivory statute of Yuh Niuy, the famous swordswoman. Inscribed on its pedestal were the words, in Chinese, She Lives Again. “My control is an old man, and ready to retire. Although his being my father was a cover story, I think he took it seriously and really was glad that I resigned and that I found love and happiness. He was very happy playing my father. Anyway, he left for China three days ago, and left me a goodbye present.” She bent down over Little Wei, who had fallen asleep, and reached into a bag she had brought with her. Joy remained absolutely still, alert, and ready. Aware of this, Jy-ying carefully pulled out a package and placed it on the table. She opened it and took out a beautiful jewelry box carved out of a solid block of jade, with two small compartments and three little drawers. Its craftsmanship was impressive. A note in a man’s handwriting said This was my mother’s, and then my daughter’s until she died, and now it is yours. I wish you happiness and a long life. Jy-ying sat back in her chair, a relieved expression on her face, and looked at John for a few seconds, then Joy. She put one hand back on Little Wei and slowly caressed his body as though for assurance that he was still there. Joy felt as though she had not taken a breath for many minutes. She didn’t know what to say. She finally let her breath out, acknowledging the awful decision she now had to make. There was no sound from outside or in the nearby apartments. No clock ticked. Little Wei was still. John didn’t even tap his fingers. The silence was absolute, as just before a great storm. As it grew uncomfortable, John asked Jy-ying in a hostile whisper, “You were a secret agent spying on us for China?” “I was.” “And you are no longer an agent?” “I resigned.” “So, you are no longer spying on us?” “That is right.” “And you are a traitor to your own country.” “In one sense, yes. But in what is best for my people, no.” “All that you told us before about yourself were lies?” “All except what I said at dinner. I am a democrat. I support your mission to promote democracy and end war.”

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John asked the only real question, now. “Yes, Jy-ying, but why should we believe you now?” Joy had to make a decision. Her head was awash with the awful tension, the dreadful emotional weight of it. She didn’t think John could do what would be required. Only she could do it. Only the decision waited. As another silence dragged on, Jy-ying’s look changed from calm determination to sad resignation. She had read Joy’s eyes well, warrior to warrior. She looked down at Little Wei as though for the last time. She looked up into Joy’s eyes, leaned over, and shoved the gun and knife across the table toward her. She folded her hands on the table. She glanced at John, then focused on Joy’s eyes again. Carefully articulating each word, as though speaking to the partially deaf, she said, “I know you two are from the future. I know what you are doing here. I know what you have done. If I am not trustworthy, you are in great danger, and you must kill me.” It was now spoken—the absolute dichotomy that faced Joy’s mind and heart. Speaking normally again, Jy-ying continued, “If I report to the Chinese Security Ministry what I know about you both, they will see you as a potential danger and assassinate you. Not even your armor, Joy and John, will protect you against a head shot, fire, or a large explosion. “ Yes, Joy told herself, decide. You must decide, Joy. You can’t let this go on. Not for John’s sake. Not for your own sanity. Make your decision. Joy thought she could see sadness in the eyes of this strong woman. Sadness, acquiescence of what Jy-ying saw in Joy’s eyes, and the steely resolve to accept it. Jy-ying carefully said it again, as though to clear away any question about her intent, any guilt over the result: “You must kill me now, if you have any doubt about me. Your only other choice is to believe and accept me. There is no middle ground.” Joy understood she was right. She realized that was what was at stake from the very moment Jy-ying revealed she was a spy. They both knew they could not leave this room without a decision being made, one way or another. John now seemed stricken speechless. She glanced at him. He looked paralyzed, his face pale and slightly mottled. She knew that he thought of picking up the gun and shooting Jy-ying. But she knew he could never do it. She could. Only the decision stood in the way. The absolute silence seemed to deepen and turn unreal, as though the whole world had disappeared and what remained were Joy and Jy-

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ying’s eyes. Now, until she made her decision, Joy would not take her eyes from Jy-ying’s. And she stared back, as though knowing, waiting, prepared in mind and spirit, almost sure of the result. Joy’s mind was in a torment, while her body was completely calm, as before battle. Which way to decide? What is best? What if I decide one way and I’m wrong? So much at stake, so many lives. I have to decide. NOW! Sweat glistened on John’s brow. He looked from Jy-ying to Joy, back and forth as though at an insane tennis match. He seemed to know the decision was Joy’s, as one warrior to another, and this simple professor was only a spectator. Joy came out of it. The sensory bubble surrounding her and Jy-ying collapsed, and Joy prepared mentally to say what she must. Jy-ying blanched, as though she’d read Joy’s decision. Jy-ying looked at Joy with sad resignation. Her gaze seemed to turn inward; Joy thought she must be saying her Buddhist death mantra. Joy’s mind trembled at the consequence of this—the words would not come. Her mind could not twist itself around the decision. She couldn’t breathe. Someone gasped, loud in the still room. “No, Jo—” It was cut off by an explosive thunk near her. She tore her eyes from Jy-ying to look. John had taken out his H&K and thrown it on top of Jy-ying’s weapons. No matter. Joy knew this had to be her decision. She had her voice now; she was ready. John loudly cleared his throat, another explosion in the dead silence that jerked her attention to him. His face seemed to light up with a bright-eyed smile, which was more the result of light reflecting off the sheen of sweat on his face. He waved his hand at Jy-ying and in a voice she would never forget, said, “Welcome. Welcome aboard. Now we are a force of three.” John’s voice broke into Joy’s mind like a battering ram, and sent her hardened thoughts and firm resolve spinning away in pieces, to be reformed into a new configuration deep within her. She let out a deep breath of relief. It was over. What is done is done. She reached for Jy-ying’s knife in front of her and a sudden, palpable fear shot around the room. John moved as though to make a grab for it. She turned it around with the grip toward Jy-ying and slowly

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pushed it toward her. She did the same with the pistol. Then she pushed her chair back and took a deep breath. She was mentally exhausted and physically drained. After a moment she stood and stepped around the table on shaky legs, arms open to Jy-ying. Jy-ying got up to meet her. Eyebrows knitted together, lips parted, she peered into Joy’s eyes for the final assurance. Joy was so tired she could barely smile. But she nodded at Jy-ying. Moist-eyed, Jy-ying looked at Joy as though a miracle had happened, and then they hugged each other. Joy teared up as she stumbled into the kitchen and filled three water glasses with Sutter red wine from a half-gallon container. She brought them into the dining room on a tray and passed the glasses around. Still standing, Joy offered a toast. “Jy-ying, welcome to our team.” Jy-ying offered her own toast: “To our mission.” Her gun and knife were still on the table. Jy-ying looked down at them and then she looked askance at Joy, as though they were in their own world. She said so softly that perhaps only Joy heard, “You would have killed me, Joy.” It was a statement, not a question. If John heard, he gave no attention to it. That night, emotionally exhausted beyond thought, Joy cried in John’s arms. She couldn’t believe how close she had come to destroying, if not their partnership, then what she wanted to see of herself. “Thank you, dearest,” she whispered to him.

aaa Jy-ying Lying in bed with Little Wei sleeping on her pillow beside her head, his paws hanging over her ear, she thought of what she had done. The ploy had worked, although she felt guilty over so thoroughly betraying their trust in her. She recognized that no matter how godless and heathen their beliefs, they were good people trying to save mankind. She felt dirty about what she had done. She had bathed herself and prayed after coming home, trying to cleanse herself of the feeling. It had been so close, so close. She’d almost killed Joy tonight, rather than years from now. Jy-ying knew Joy had been just on the edge of deciding she should die, and she knew how Joy would have done it—she would have taken her out of John’s sight, maybe into the kitchen or bathroom, pointed Jy-ying’s pistol at her, handed Jy-ying her knife, and then politely told her that she would be her second.

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Jy-ying managed a smile. She didn’t know that I had my two-shot spy gun hidden up my sleeve. All I needed to do was reach into my sleeve, and she would be dead. She almost couldn’t lose—either she killed Joy, or she became a member of their team. It worked out well. The risk had been acceptable. She was now one of their team and could help them spread democracy and end war; she would be privy to all their plans. While working to convert John, she would know the right moment to kill Joy. Jy-ying was getting a little uncomfortable and overheated with Little Wei sleeping against her head. But she did not want to wake the little guy. She pushed the covers off her chest, and raised one hand and rested it on his head. Just before falling asleep, her final happy thought was, I could have been an actress. So much talent; so few lives to live.

Chapter 18 Joy 1908

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hey’d lived in this “primitive time,” as Joy put it, for over a year. In spite of their dedication and focus on their mission, they were in a new world, living new lives, adapting to new surroundings and responding to new experiences. Our new lives are like billiard balls, Joy often mused, careening in radically different directions as one chance event or another hits us. One event now would be so profound as to knock them off the table—it radically changed their lives, altered their perception of their mission, and had absolutely unpredictable consequences. It began when Joy read in the San Francisco Daily News that Mark Twain would give a speech in the next month at the Gold Theater. He was one of her favorite authors. She had read his Huckleberry Finn and especially A Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur’s Court, which transported chief character Hank Morgan back in time to the court of King Arthur, where he used his knowledge of the future to make changes in King Arthur’s time. Joy felt a special affinity to Morgan. She was eager to see and hear this famous author, and so was John. Joy had stayed home that day to do some programming on her laptop, and waited until Jy-ying came home to ask her to join them for Twain’s speech. At Joy’s invitation, she had moved into one of their building’s empty apartments, and now lived above John’s—and Joy’s—apartment. “Happy to,” Jy-ying responded to Joy’s invitation to hear Twain speak. “Little Wei and I will look forward to it.” Joy looked surprised. Jy-ying noted it, and pointed out, “I hate to leave him alone for hours unless absolutely necessary.” She raised her eyebrows. “He is my protection.” Joy glanced down at Little Wei, who was sitting at her feet and staring up at her with his ink-black eyes. His little red tongue was visible at the edge of his mouth. She looked back to Jy-ying with a smile. “Of course.”

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At work the next day, before Joy could stop him, John asked the guys if they would care to come with them to Twain’s speech. They declined with one lame excuse after another. “They are, after all, young men with other things to do besides attend what seems a boring speech by someone they don’t know,” Joy told him. Mark Twain’s speech was billed as His Majesty Leopold’s Mass Murder: Terror and Death in the Congo. Daily weather reporting was a thing of the future and they got caught in a rainstorm and its resulting traffic pileup on Market Street. No one was waiting in line at the theater when they arrived, and they caught the ticket man just as he was about to close his little booth. When they tried to buy the twenty-five cent tickets at the entrance to the theater, the attendant would not let Jy-ying in with Little Wei. She laid down a dollar on the ticket counter, simply saying, “For you.” “It’s not up to me,” the attendant responded. Jy-ying laid down another dollar, and smiled. “I hid him from you.” The attendant grinned, gave Jy-ying a ticket, and waved them all in Apparently, the topic of Twain’s speech was not wildly popular, for the theater was about a third full when they entered. The enormously fat Colonel Henry I. Kominsky, a famous San Francisco lawyer, had introduced Mark Twain. They found out weeks later that he had been a secret lobbyist for King Leopold II of Belgium, but because Kominsky upstaged the Belgium Minister to the United States, the King relieved him of this very financially rewarding effort. Kominsky had then turned over to Hearst’s New York American all his secret correspondence with the King and Congo officials, for publication. Joy saw Jy-ying twitching her nose at the smell of too many unwashed people in too confined a space, and John held his nose and looked at Joy. Trying not to grin, she said, “I nose.” They got seated just as Mark Twain started speaking. His photographs did not well reflect what a vigorous and handsome man he was. His full head of unruly gray hair and large gray mustache suited his large and squarish head. His brows hung in a flat plane over his eyes, except in the middle, where they were notched in an upside-down V over the upper part of his bulbous nose. He left his soft brown suit coat open to reveal a tightly buttoned vest and a small black bow tie. He stood solidly erect, projecting strength and confidence, even at seventythree years old. He began with a short biography of King Leopold, whom he called “an unfortunately intelligent man.” Looking frequently into the eyes of

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his audience, he gestured as counterpoint to his strong voice, which projected easily to the back of the theater. “He used his brilliance to wield his kingly authority and prestige in conjunction with lies and deception,” Twain explained, “to convince the major nations of the world at the Berlin Conference of 1885 to grant him exclusive ownership of the Congo in Africa. He was so deceptive that these nations did not even know at the time that this was what they were doing. They had no idea they were giving this man an area that was larger than that of England, France, Germany, Spain, and Italy combined. They thought, as Leopold deceived them into believing, that they were acting against slavery and promoting the humanitarian development of the African natives.” Twain stopped for effect and paced over to John’s side of the stage. He spied him, Joy, and Jy-ying and glanced back and forth between the women with a small frown. Raising his voice, he looked to the other side of the theater. “With his control over all land in the Congo, which he cleverly called the Congo Free State, no native could own land; tribes and native empires that had worked and farmed certain land for centuries no longer owned their land.” Twain spread his hands wide as through encompassing everyone and everything in the theater. “Leopold owned it all—every stream and lake, every mountain and hill, every farm and plantation, every town and village. His!” He looked back toward Jy-ying and Joy. Lowering his voice, he continued. “Leopold granted rights to companies in which he secretly held at least 50 percent ownership. And they proceed to exploit the Congo’s resources without competition—Leopold would allow none. He set up police forces and a governance of the Congo under his total control, and each of the companies were encouraged to set up their own company police. From then on, profit for Leopold and his companies were the first, second, and third goals of his administration.” He stopped and strode over to the other side of the stage. Gesturing to underscore the evil, Twain shouted, “At the point of a gun, Leopold turned the Congo, over seventy-six times the size of his own country of Belgium, into a prison of slaves. No native had any rights. Their only purpose in life was to serve Leopold’s greed. They were forced to build a railroad for him; to transport his ships, disassembled into thousands of heavy and clumsy pieces, to inland lakes; and to produce ivory and rubber for his companies and his vast ego so that he could buy or build villas for his teenage mistress, a former prostitute, and build throughout Belgium monuments to himself.”

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Twain came back to John’s side of the stage. Seeming to gaze into his eyes as though recognizing a sympathetic and intelligent listener, Twain spoke in a soft voice that nevertheless projected to everyone there. “How many natives has this one man murdered or caused to die without himself actually seeing a drop of blood? Mr. Edmund Dene Morel, the foremost expert on the Congo and the editor of the West African Mail, believes that ten to fifteen million have been murdered, died from disease, or have been starved to death.” Twain counted on his fingers, “One million lives, two million lives . . . and ten million lives.” Holding up all his fingers on his right hand, he almost screamed, “And maybe another five million!” Joy was stunned. My God, I never heard of this. John never mentioned it. And apparently, the Society that sent us here to eliminate this very democide missed it entirely. There was no movement, no sound, not even a cough in the theater. Twain broke eye contact with John and stepped to the center of the stage, its wooden floorboards creaking like resounding cracks in the absolute silence. He waited there a few moments, scanning faces in the audience. In a conversational tone, he continued speaking. “All this is very general and lacks human story. I want to give you one. But it is so gruesome and brutal that I have to ask any of you who might be sickened by blood and gore, or who simply don’t want to hear it, to please leave. Your money will be refunded at the door.” No one left, not after that introduction. Twain moved up to the front of the stage, his shoes almost over the edge, and leaned forward. In a level voice, his hands still for a change, he said, “This is the story of one man in the Congo village of Malima two years ago, as he told it to a missionary.”

aaa The Congo Free State 1906 The white man came at midday. My wife Gili and I were weeding the village field planted with cassava and maize, while outside her hut, my sister Abo was making banana flour by pounding up dried bananas. We saw two men hurry to the Chief’s large hut in the village and soon Liamba, our Chief, came out and had the drums beaten to summon everyone from the fields.

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When we all gathered around him, he told us that soldiers with red caps and guns and accompanied by white men were coming to the village. He said that we should put out food for them so that they would eat and pass on without bothering us. So we went into the fields and collected in baskets cassava, plantains, and ground nuts and brought them back to the Chief’s hut. We also collected chickens and goats from around the village. When the soldiers entered our village they gathered the food, chickens, and goats together, and afterward they surrounded the village and the white man strode up to Liamba and shot him in the head. At the same time, the soldiers made us sit on the ground while they searched each of the huts, forcing everyone out, including even the young children and women nursing their babies. One man tried to escape and a soldier shot him. He cut off the dead man’s hand and put it into his pocket. We learned later that the hand was proof he had used his bullet to kill a native. Sometimes soldiers would kill animals with their guns, and cut off the hands of living people to prove they had not wasted bullets. Fida, a friend of mine, at first didn’t understand what the soldiers were demanding. A soldier prodded him with a knife to sit on the ground. A white man saw this and commanded a soldier to grab Fida and drag him by his feet to the space in front of us. A soldier told us to watch and see what happened when we didn’t obey. Fida trembled as he was pulled to his feet by two soldiers and forced to strip. They made him lay face down on the ground, and one soldier grabbed his hands and the other his feet. A third soldier wielded what we learned to call the chicotte. This was a special whip made of a long strip of corkscrew-shaped, sun-dried hippopotamus hide. It had sharp edges that cut into the skin of those whipped with it. The soldier started whipping Fida’s buttocks. The first stroke left a red line. As more strokes lashed his body, Fida writhed on the ground, and ended up getting his hips and stomach lashed. Some strokes fell on his genitals, and he shrieked with pain. He began bleeding badly in huge rivulets. Finally he could do no more than moan. We lost track of the number of lashes, but surely there were many more than fifty. Long before the soldier was finished, Fida stopped moving or making any sound. Out of breath, the soldier eventually stopped. He grabbed Fida’s hair and pulled up his head. Fida had bitten through his tongue. He was dead. A man dressed in blue with a white man alongside him told us that each man would have to collect a basket full of coagulated sap he

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called rubber from a particular vine that grows in the jungle. If we didn’t fill our basket, we would get whipped like the one dead on the ground. To make sure that we fulfilled our quota and didn’t run away, our wives and children would be held hostage. A soldier handed me a piece of rubber vine so I would know what it looked like, and had me pass it around. We were told the best way to coagulate the sap was to spread it on our body as soon as we tapped the vine. We must not get dirt, leaves and twigs, or stones in it. We were also prohibited from cutting the vine down, and should do no more than make a cut to drain the sap. We were separated from the women. I saw my wife crying as she and my sister and the other women and children were driven into one of the large huts. The soldiers packed them all in, and they had hardly enough room to sit. The soldiers gave each of us a basket and pushed us with their rifles, telling us to go. They gave us no food, nothing to protect us from the rain, nothing but a knife. I went deep into the forest looking for the vine. I could not find any the first day. When night came, I climbed a tree and slept in a fork in its trunk. It rained during the night; by morning, my teeth were chattering. At dawn I started searching again, more to get warm than to find a vine. I ate berries along the way and found a banana patch and filled my stomach. Toward nightfall, I found a thick rubber vine and made three cuts in its trunk. As the sap came out I cupped it in my hands and smeared it on my body. Night had fallen by the time the sap coagulated. Pulling it off my body was painful—the strips took body hair along with them. I laid the strips in my basket, then searched in the moonlight for tealeaves. I climbed a tree, found a spot to sit, and wrapped the leaves around my body for warmth. It took me three more days to fill the basket, since I could only find two more rubber vines. On the last one I was desperate. I hacked it down and dug up the roots with my knife to get as much sap as I could. With my basket full, I headed back to the village, which took two more days. When I reached it, I handed the basket over to a soldier sitting at a table with a white man. The white man emptied the basket on the table and moved the strips of rubber around. He said something to the soldier, who grabbed my arm and took me to the hut where they were holding my wife and sister hostage. Five or six soldiers were sitting around the hut, paying no at-

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tention to three others who were raping Oleka, a young girl. One was holding her arms. Another spread her legs. A third raped her. I tried not to look. The soldier I was following told me to call to my relatives inside the hut. I did so, and Gili and Abo, each very thin and weak, crawled out. I felt weak myself, but I managed to pick my wife up and put her over my shoulder. With my free hand I lifted my sister by her arm and half dragged her to the shade of a tree. I got water in a bucket from the nearby stream and gave it to them, and a soldier gave me nuts and bananas in a pot from which I fed them. When she gathered her strength to talk, Gili told me that they had been given only some nuts and a little water, and that two babies, three children, and two of the women, Ejum and Katinga, had died in the hut. She and my Abo had been repeatedly raped, as had all the younger women in the hut. Beautiful Kalonji had fought the soldiers, and had been knocked to the ground, stripped, and whipped to death with the chicotte. Her bloody body, “So cut up it looked like bloody strips of meat all entwined together,” Gili said, had been left for days in front of the hut as a lesson. I wanted to kill the soldiers, but what could I do? They had taken the rubber-cutting knife away from me, and they would shoot me before I could kill one, then as a warning to others they would kill Gili and Abo. So I swallowed my rage, but could not prevent my tears. For one week longer the soldiers waited for more rubber to be brought from the forest. Finally the last man came out of the forest in the morning, but with a basket only partly full. As soon as the soldiers saw this, they took the basket away from him, gave it to the white man, and pulled the man under a tree. They tied his hands behind him with a long rope, threw the other end of it over a tree limb, and pulled him up by his tied hands until his toes were barely touching the ground. They tied the rope to another tree trunk, and left him like that. He watched as the soldiers brought his wife and daughter out of the hut where they kept all the women, pulled them over in front of him, and shot each of them in the stomach so they would die slowly. Husband and father, he could do nothing but watch them die. Before walking away, the soldiers chopped a hand off each of the women for proof that they did not misuse their bullets. Gili, Abo, and I could only watch, shaking with fear. The soldiers had brought several large baskets with them. Inside were rusty chains. The soldiers told us to line up near the baskets. Then

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they clamped an iron collar around each person’s neck, and chained us together in one continuous line. We were given large, heavy baskets containing rubber, food, carvings, ivory, and other things stolen from our village, which they told us to carry on our heads. Some of us also carried goats. When we were all loaded, the soldiers led us onto the trail they had followed to our village. Day after day we walked, stumbled, tottered, and staggered, sometimes pulled forward by our chains, sometimes held back. In the heat, our sweat made the iron collars chafe our necks, and soon we had open and bleeding sores around them. The soldiers gave us little food and water. We undulated and swayed up and down and sideways, like a giant millipede drunk from Tembo, its many legs seeming to move in different directions, but the body nonetheless moving forward. I moved in a daze, tugging with or against the chains, watching my feet so that I did not trip. The chains made a continuous clinking noise. When one of us fell, others close by on the chain were also pulled down. Some spilled their baskets, and as they got up the soldiers whipped them with the chicotte. Diur, the woman in front of me, had carried her baby for the first two days, but when she started to straggle and slow up the line, a soldier jerked her baby boy out of her arms and threw him into the woods, where the animals would get him. The older people were having trouble. They steadied the load on their head with one hand while supporting themselves with a pole or branch. Knees bent, they lurched along. The fourth day, our chains pulled us to a stop. Farther back in the line, old Mobyem sat down and refused to move. A soldier jabbed him with his gun, but he just sat there looking at his feet. Finally, two of the soldiers took out their knifes and stabbed him repeatedly, and he fell over with blood gushing from the wounds. They unchained him, took off his collar, and chained together the ones behind and ahead of him. They redistributed the load he had been carrying. More people died or were killed, and it meant that our loads got heavier. Each day was more horrible than the last. On the most horrible of all days, I lifted myself off the ground at first light to eat a rotten piece of meat mixed with berries, nuts, and squirming larvae that a soldier passed out. My wife Gili would not get up when he kicked her. I leaned over her and gently called her name. “My lovely Gili, I said, “please get up. The soldiers will kill you.”

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She didn’t move. She was dead. The next day my sister Abo went mad and tried to run for the forest, but she only dragged the rest of us off the trail behind her, and fell screaming. A soldier shot her. After two weeks we reached the large village of Nyangwby by the side of a lake. There were many white men around. The soldiers led us up to a large white man’s boat. Black smoke billowed out of a big pipe sticking out of the top of it. Men on the boat removed our iron collars and chains, and led those of us carrying rubber onto the boat. They told us to dump the baskets into a very large hole. Different soldiers took us to a large hut where strangers from another village fed us. Afterward, with soldiers standing around us, the strangers branded us on the leg with a hot iron. They also told us we would be slaves of the white men in the village, and that if we tried to escape they would whip us to death with the chicotte. That evening, members of the strangers’ kingdom attacked the village. They used arrows and knives, and killed many soldiers and white men during the battle. I escaped into the forest. Two days later Mr. Sestok, a white Protestant missionary, and two Congo converts found me on a trail. I was almost dead.

aaa Jy-ying Twain stopped talking for a moment and slowly looked around at the audience. “The fellow’s name was Nzanba,” he finished in a sad voice. “He died three days later from an infection that developed in the wounds the metal collar made on his neck. Before his death, he told his story to Henry Sestok of the Baptist Missionary Society.” A number of women were dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs, while the men looked stern-faced—in this age, men did not cry. Jy-ying blinked back tears and looked at Joy and John. There were tears in their eyes, too. After waiting a decent few seconds, Twain described the Congo Reform Association, headquartered in England and headed by Edmund Dene Morel, the same man he had mentioned before. He summarized the Association’s work and said that Morel’s weekly journal, West African Mail, had been revealing to the world the horrible atrocities in the Congo Free State. With a tone of deep devotion in his voice, Twain ex-

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tolled Morel as the foremost humanitarian of the times. He worked tirelessly to end the slavery in the Congo, and to focus the attention of the world on the evils going on there. “I have tried to help their effort,” Twain concluded. “Because the United States was the first nation to officially recognize Leopold’s takeover of the Congo, and played an instrumental role in Leopold getting approval from other nations, I have been working on President Roosevelt and Secretary of State Elihu Root to pressure European nations to deny recognition of the Congo Free State. “If you also would like to contribute to the Congo Reform Association’s great humanitarian work, there is a box in the lobby labeled with the Association’s name. Any contribution you can make will help to end this evil slavery and mass murder. Thank you for coming.” He bowed. The audience clapped, and as people began to leave the theater, a few approached the front of the stage, some asking for Twain’s autograph. At the back of the group, John and Joy waited to talk to him, and Jy-ying stood a little apart, holding Little Wei. Finally there only remained an especially persistent old woman dressed all in black, who wanted to tell Twain about her great American novel. She insisted that he would not be able to put it down, if he would only start reading it. Twain nodded his head and was otherwise noncommittal until the woman pulled her beaten-up manuscript out of a large crocheted handbag, and tried to hand it to him. He held up his hands and told her in a firm but friendly tone, “I have too much to carry as it is, but thank you for bringing your book with you, and thinking of me. If you will send the manuscript to my home address, I will read it when I can.” With that, Twain clearly dismissed the woman and looked at John. John started to introduced himself, but Twain spotted Little Wei. “Oh, what a handsome little dog.” He reached out his hands and Jyying handed him over. Little Wei sniffed Twain’s hands, coat, and face; apparently satisfied, he permitted himself to be held. “What kind of dog is this?” Twain asked, petting him. Jy-ying replied, “A West Highland White Terrier.” Twain sighed. “Wish I could have a dog, but I travel so much it’s not practical. Anyway, I’m sorry. I’m being rude.” He gave Little Wei back and looked at John. John started again. “I’m a businessman and investor.” With a little wave to Joy and then to Jy-ying, he introduced them. “This is Joy Phim, my assistant, and Khoo Jy-ying, her assistant.”

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Twain shook John’s hand, and bowed to Joy and Jy-ying, saying, “My pleasure, ladies. Are you two twins or sisters?” Joy seemed confused for a second, but Jy-ying responded, “I regret to say that we are unrelated, but we share so much that she could be my sister.” That distracted Joy. John seemed nonplussed. Twain was still looking curiously at Joy and Jy-ying. After a moment John said, “Thank you for your excellent speech and for your efforts in communicating the horrible conditions of the natives in the Congo. We are very much involved in trying to rid the world of such evils, and hope you can join us for drinks, to talk about what we can do to help you.” Twain took a long moment to reply. He looked carefully at John, at Joy and Jy-ying, and back to John. Jy-ying had the feeling he had gone through this routine with people in his audience wherever he had given this speech, and that the results were not always happy. John took out a roll of bills that he kept for emergencies, and counted out ten one-hundred dollar bills. He handed them to Twain, saying, “This is my sincerity contribution, my first, to your work of freeing the Congo.” Twain was shocked by the amount, but recovered. Eyebrows still raised, he said, “Thank you, indeed, sir. That’s an incredibly generous contribution.” He took the money and asked with a smile, “Is it real?” John blushed and Joy looked embarrassed. Jy-ying wondered. They must have millions in counterfeit bills, as I do. Is that what he gave Twain? No, not John. Twain came down from the stage. “Let’s go,” he said. Kominsky, who had set up the talk, had been seated while Twain worked through all the well-wishers after the speech. Now he pushed himself off his seat with some difficulty and lumbered over. Twain introduced the three of them to him, simply giving their names, and they all walked together to the lobby, where Twain picked up the Association’s contribution box. He pushed John’s bills through a wide slit in the lid. “Wait a moment, “Jy-ying said, seeing a chance to score points with John. She took two five-dollar bills from her purse and put them into the box. Can’t overdo it. He would wonder where I got the money. Twain told Kominsky that he would be going with them, thanked him for setting up the talk, and mentioned that he would call him tomorrow. It was clear that Kominsky wanted to come along, but they all

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waited for him to leave. When it became too obvious, he tipped his hat to them, picked up the box, and waddled off to his own car. Twain asked, “Do you have someplace in mind?” “Yes,” John said. “Our Mercedes is a couple of blocks from here, and I’ll drive us all to the Liberty Café, a pleasant bar you’ll like.” From then on, the four of them never stopped conversing. During the walk to the Mercedes, at the café until it closed, and in the lounge of the St. Francis Hotel where Twain was staying, they talked until almost daylight. They were fascinated with what Twain knew about the Congo, about Leopold, and about Morel’s work. Joy and John were particularly interested in the politics of it—who was influencing whom and had what power. Twain had talked to President Roosevelt about it and they wanted to know the details of the exchange. At first Twain seemed to be feeling his way around them, and appeared guarded in some of his personal evaluations. But as he became increasingly aware of how much they knew about atrocities elsewhere, and about international politics, he became more and more excited. Jy-ying was supposed to be ignorant of the future, and in this exciting and animated discussion could barely prevent a slip of tongue. This decolonization was necessary to open these poor people to Islam and Sabah. She knew the history of the New Universe, which Joy and John did not, since they were just beginning to create the world in which she had been born. Now, in the third universe they were creating, she could make it even better for Sabah. But she had to watch her tongue. Her solution was to say as little as possible and seem to devote most of her attention to Little Wei. When they were about to part, Twain promised to be John’s gobetween with Morel. “We’ve had some disagreement, “ he said cryptically, “but we’re still friends. I’ll help in any way I can.” John asked, “Could I ask you to send a telegram to Morel about me?” “I would be happy to do so, sir,” Twain replied. John again pulled out his money to give Twain more than enough to cover the cost, but Twain put up his hand and said, “Thanks, but you’ve given enough.” Within several months, it was obvious that the contact John initiated with Morel that night would change all their futures, including that of Morel himself, in a way so unimaginable, so unpredictable, that for a long time afterward Jy-ying sometimes entertained herself and Little Wei by thinking aloud about what their life would have been like, had

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he not done that. Or had Joy not read about Twain giving a speech. Or had Twain not decided to come to San Francisco when he did. Or had John’s car broke down on the way to the theater. Or . . . .

aaa Joy After Joy and John said their goodbyes and returned home, they couldn’t sleep. They had to discuss what they had learned, and what they could realistically do about it. “You didn’t know about this at all, did you?” Joy asked John. He looked mournful. “I and the whole field of genocide studies in the Old Universe missed this. There was no book on genocide and mass murder in history or in the twentieth century that contained more than a rare paragraph on this. One of the surprising things is that every general book has an extensive description of the German genocide against the Herero tribe from 1904 to 1907, in the German colony that became Namibia. They massacred perhaps fifty-five thousand Herero. That was awful, but now we find out that up north in the Congo, Leopold was killing many millions. And Twain said that similar massacres are going on in the French Congo.” John shook his head in exasperation. “I can’t believe that all of us missed this, but we did. You know, my figure for the number murdered by governments in the twentieth century is about 174 million. I had found out about some of the killing in the European colonies, and believed it might amount to about a million murdered since 1900. But as a result of what I’ve learned from Twain, I’m going to have to reevaluate the colonial toll.” John rolled out of bed and picked up a message pad and pencil. “Lets see,” he said. “Where exploitation of a colony’s natural resources or portering was carried out by forced labor—in effect, modern slavery—as it was in all the European and Asian colonies, the forced labor system built in its own death toll from beatings, punishment, coercion, terror, and forced deprivation. There were differences in the brutality of the system, the British being the least brutal and Leopold and the Germans, Spanish, and Portuguese being the worst, with the French somewhere in between. We know what the Soviet gulag was like. These colonizers turned Africa into one giant gulag, with each colony being like a separate death camp.”

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John made a list of the colonies and estimated their 1900 native populations, and for each colony listed the least possible death toll and the most probable. He added up his figures, and said, “As a guesstimate, over all of colonized Africa and Asia, 1900 to independence, the democide may have been something like fifty million. This is way above my original one million estimate. Even fifty million may be too conservative. If this figure were roughly close, however, it would raise the total murdered by governments in the twentieth century from 174 million to 223 million.” John looked utterly depressed. Joy hadn’t seen this look on his face since they found out how many Sabah may have killed in his nuclear attacks. He wiped his face with his hand, and looked down at the floor. He said, “These mass murderers were the most advanced and supposedly civilized nations in the world. And if anything illustrates the role of power, Leopold II, the king of Belgium, does. He was an intelligent and otherwise civilized man. He talked constantly about ending slavery in Africa and about the freedom, education, and development of the natives. But when the United States and Europe gave him by treaty the most absolute power over perhaps thirty million people, he enslaved them. And he murdered millions.” Joy took a moment to think about it. “Okay, here we are with incredible resources. What can we do?” she asked. He put his pad down and said, “For one, the Society didn’t know about this massive colonial killing and didn’t put that into their plans. Second, we have to remember that we have the Mexican Revolution, the First World War, and the Russian Revolution to prevent soon—” “Megalomaniacs? Us?” Joy interjected. John gave her a sour grin and continued. “You know, baby, I feel helpless about this. Colonialism is not an event or an episode that we can prevent like the Mexican Revolution. This colonialism involves thousands of officials, hundreds of companies, armies of soldiers, a whole system of rule, and a mind set among the people of the colonizing country. The English, for example, feel that they are involved in a great effort to uplift, educate, and bring into the modern world the people in their colonies. They are proud of their role in ending slavery and see their colonies as protection of their natives against Arab and indigenous African slavery. It’s impossible for us to change this perception, even with our resources and knowledge of the future.” John looked so sad, slumped on the bed, staring at his hand. “There is nothing we can—”

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Joy reached over and put a finger on his lips. “We’re both tired. Let’s sleep, and talk about what to do tomorrow, when we’re refreshed. No more now, okay?” Neither one of them could sleep right away; their minds were too busy. But their tired bodies finally defeated their active minds and they slept, although fitfully.

Chapter 19 Joy

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hey were chained to a caravan of African natives struggling over a narrow rope bridge hanging above a deep gorge. When the first prisoner in the caravan lost his grip on the rope rail and fell off the swaying bridge, his weight and the chains began to pull those behind and in front of him into space. She could see the bodies falling one after another, as if in slow motion. The undulating chain reaction slowly approached them, and she tried to pull back on the chain to prevent them from falling, to no avail. The chain started dragging John off the bridge. She could not hold him back. She felt the heavy tug—the chain was pulling her after him. She screamed. Joy woke up with a start. John put his arms around her and held her close as her heart thudded in her chest and she shuddered and cried and held him tightly to her. He caressed her wet cheeks and hair and whispered, “You’ve had a bad dream, baby. Everything’s alright.” The dream remained with Joy for days. It was so vivid, so real. It was more than the images one might see on TV or in a movie. It was living the caravan, feeling the metal collar on her neck and the pull of the chain, hearing it rattle, tasting the sweat; it was feeling the terror in her knotted stomach and racing heart; it was knowing death was approaching John and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it; and it was knowing her own death would follow. And she knew, as she felt she knew anything, that this nightmare had been reality for some loved ones in the Congo. While eating a late lunch, they discussed what they could do about intervening in the Congo and other colonies, and the possibilities of success. They realized that they would not be able to stop much of the killing, and that a lot of it had already occurred. But one thought was uppermost—saving some lives was a universe better than saving none. Even if their intervention prevented the deaths of one thousand human beings, they would be successful. With that driving them, they discussed what to do.

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That evening Joy rechecked all the research materials and chronologies on this period that the Society had put on CDs for them. She found only one reference to Morel and his success in forcing Leopold to turn over the Congo Free State to his country, Belgium, in November 1908 to administer as a colony. It was a one-paragraph biography of Morel, as there was for every minor name mentioned. Aside from what they already knew, they found out that he was in his mid-thirties and was married to Mary Richardson; they had five children. Joy and John discussed whether one or both of them should go to England to see Morel. John argued, “I will not be separated from you for that eternity. No. Period. End of discussion.” Stupid, Joy thought. He still has much to learn about me, if he thinks he can make his point that way. Aloud she explained, “I fear that our whole mission might be ended if our ship is sunk in a storm or it suffers some other disaster, or if our train has an accident. Jy-ying can’t do it alone, even if she knew what to do. I think it’s dumb to take such risks. Dimwitted. Brainless. Idiotic.” John wasn’t going to beat her at definitives. John’s face resembled a block of carved wood. She ignored it. “There is always a risk, in this age of accidents. Our overall mission is too important to put in danger. I know that Morel’s project also is important and will accomplish much to help reform the Congo, and by implication, colonialism generally. But our new mission of saving maybe two billion lives, preventing nuclear terrorism, and perhaps preventing the end of democracy is infinitely more important.” “No, baby! We travel together.” John crossed his arms over his chest and recarved his wooden face to emphasize a jutting chin. “Well then,” she countered, “just in case we get killed traveling together, I’m going to put in my will that our epitaph read Here lies a village idiot and his brilliant assistant and translator.” “He should come here.” Joy stared. “Yes,” she said.

aaa The next day John telegrammed Morel, expressing his profound interest in doing something about the Congo, asking him and his wife to make an all expense paid trip to San Francisco to discuss how he might contribute to Morel’s efforts, and promising to wire in two days a good faith contribution of $10,000 for his Congo Reform Association. John stated that any date convenient for Morel was fine with him.

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Three days after they wired the money, John received a telegram stating simply, We will arrive on May 24 in San Francisco by train on track 14 at 3:42 p.m. Morel. John wired back that they would pick them up, and could he send by express mail back issues of his West African Mail and whatever other material he could spare on African colonization. They had two months to prepare for Morel’s visit. With Jy-ying helping, they borrowed from public and college libraries whatever they could find on the Congo, and made index card notes of relevant news items in the local and national newspapers, particularly The New York Times. Shortly before the visit, Joy and John discussed what funding to offer Morel. The Society had secreted undetectable counterfeit money, real currency, gold coins and bars, and jewels in the capsules they sent back in time. “Let’s see,” John said, “We have about two billion dollars to work with overall.” Joy smiled at that incredible wealth. She’d never calculated it in its current value. She got out her calculator and keyed in the amounts. “Do you realize, love, that we arrived in 1906 with the equivalent of about 38.4 billion dollars? And since our arrival, we’ve been accumulating more millions through your stock investments. And we can increase this even more by setting up separate brokerage accounts for the guys, Jy-ying, and me. We could also bet on horse races, baseball games, and the like. We have all the results of the major races and games.” Grinning widely, she concluded, “We’re fantastically rich.” John ignored that, waving a cautioning finger. “If we increase our investment, it has to be done with care. If we won too many bets too often, we would create suspicion, even if we tried to lose a certain proportion of the bets. As large as it is, the stock market will allow us to win millions without drawing attention. Here also, however, we have to continue to lose on some stocks, if our brokers aren’t to see us as incredibly lucky or smart.” “Obviously,” Joy responded, bothered by the wagging finger. “All our calculations must take into account the massive allocation of present and future resources to our mission. Oh yes, and Sabah. Especially Sabah.” She stopped for a moment, suddenly feeling the mammoth weight of what they had to do. In a subdued and somber tone, she reaffirmed what neither of them had mentioned in many months: “We must, absolutely must prevent Sabah’s nuclear attack and blackmail—even if it means our death.”

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His lips compressed into a tight line, eyes grave, John nodded. No words. They just let that fill their souls. After a moment, John said, “For all our interventions, we have to build up more field offices for our company, and a larger staff. The company itself probably will turn a small profit eventually, and we do know what to buy and sell to fit the popular interest for this and future decades. Still, for a while we’ll have to subsidize the company.” He took out his budget and began to jot down some rough figures. Joy could never get him to do his “arithmetic” on his laptop. She got out her own laptop and worked on her Excel spreadsheet. She tried to balance anticipated company expenditures and income against their total resources and likely stock market profits. After some time, John said, “I’m done. You still working at it? What’s taking you so long?” Joy answered with a little asperity, “I’m being thorough. What did your doodling come up with?” “How about ten million dollars to help end colonial slavery and exploitation. That’s about the equivalent of 192 million in year 2000.” She looked at her spreadsheet, hit the sum button, transferred that amount to the surplus line, summed that, subtracted the estimated costs, and arrived at $9,674,000 they could offer Morel. She shook her head, looked at John with exaggerated pity, and said, “You’re off, John. You’ve got to learn to use a spreadsheet. But ten million is a nice round number. These are all estimates anyway, so what the hell, let’s go with that.” Suspicious, John slid over to the laptop and said, “Let’s see what you got.” “Oops. Damn. I hit the quit and not the save keys when I was turning the laptop so you could see,” she lamented. “Well, anyway, we’ve agreed on your figure. So ten million dollars it shall be.” John shook his pencil and pointed out, “We should put this in context. We know that King Leopold will gain probably a little over one billion dollars in profit from his Congo Free State. Much of this he will use to lobby for foreign support, and against his critics. We will be playing in a very big league, baby, and we’ll have to use as much of our resources as we can.” Joy couldn’t agree more.

aaa

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Joy recognized Edmund Morel and his wife at the train station when they arrived near sunset. Morel had sent them a photo, and his wife carried a red bag as she’d promised in their exchange of telegrams. Morel was stocky; at first glance, he looked like a prizefighter. John walked up to Morel, introduced himself, and shook Morel’s hand. Then he put his arm around Joy’s shoulder and introduced her. “I would like you to meet my assistant and translator.” He hesitated a moment, and those dimples formed at the corner of his mouth. Joy noticed, but before she could crush his foot with her heel, he added, smiling possessively, “But foremost, I’m very happy to say that she is my best friend, soul mate, and partner.” Joy’s eyes widened. I love him. Morel introduced his wife Janet as “The best assistant, companion, and friend I could ever have desired.” Joy frowned slightly. The Society had listed his wife as Mary Richardson. Oh well, an error. She gave a mental shrug. The Morels were somewhat taken aback when they saw Joy was Asian, and even more so when John introduced her as his partner. The implication was obvious. Working in and about Africa, they had probably known many unmarried black-white couples, but Joy and John seemed to be the first Oriental-white couple they had ever met, and the first interracial couple they had ever seen in the United States. Joy had the feeling that their opinion of John went up as a result. As they left the station, Joy and Janet followed behind the men. As a conversational opening to what she was sure Janet could talk about for hours, Joy asked, “Do you have any children?” She answered laconically, “No. Don’t have the time for them.” Joy was surprised. The Society had made not only an error in Mrs. Morel’s name, but also in their having five children. In the great amounts of information the Society had prepared for them, this was a minor item, but Joy was quite astonished that these mistakes had been made. They invited the Morels to stay in their guest apartment, but they also had made a reservation for a hotel room, just in case the Morels preferred more privacy. Janet said they would be glad for the extra time with Joy and John, and they went to John’s apartment for a meal. Since the Morels had had a long and tiring two-week trip, Joy and John kept to small talk for the rest of the day. They knew about Edmund Morel’s age and were still surprised at how young he looked, given all his accomplishments in fighting King Leopold. He was only eight years older than John. During the first

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minutes of their meeting, Ed put them on a first name basis. He had a square-faced, solid British look that he must have inherited from his English mother. His father had been French, he said, and had died when Ed was a boy. He combed his wavy black hair away from a center part, and sported a huge, bushy black mustache of the type popular in this age, one that completely hid his mouth. His eyes were deeply set and intense and his chin was firm and slightly rounded. Janet was a lovely and vivacious woman, fully involved in Ed’s crusade against colonialism. She may well have contributed to or helped author some of the articles and books he published. It was also obvious to Joy as a woman that Janet loved Ed deeply and that they probably had a happy home life together. The day after their guests arrived, once they’d had a chance to recover from the long and tiring train ride, Joy invited Jy-ying to join them. Jy-ying brought a Chinese red bean paste dessert she had made. Little Wei was an instant hit with the Morels, and with all their strange smells, they were a hit with him as well. John introduced Jy-ying as an important member of the company with a strong interest in the Morels’ work in the Congo, and then John went through the now customary explanation that Joy and Jy-ying were not sisters. That night, after the Morels had retired early, John threatened both Joy and Jy-ying, “I swear I’m going to make stickers for both of you. Joy’s will read, ‘No, she’s not my sister,’ with an arrow pointing to the left; Jy-ying’s will read the same, with the arrow pointing to the right. Then just be sure you stand on the correct side of each other.” “And I’ll make sure you stand between us,” Jy-ying said, laughing, and Joy patted her on the back.

aaa Jy-ying Life never corresponds to fiction, for one simple reason—what happens in life is too unbelievable to put in fiction. On this day such would happen to Jy-ying, and leave her breathless at the improbability. They all sat around John’s waxed-cloth-covered dining room table enjoying coffee, tea, and cookies. It was time to get serious. Looking at Ed, John began. “Since we started receiving the back issues of your journal and copies of articles you and Janet had written, we’ve read about nothing but the Congo and colonialism in Africa and Asia. We

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also read all we could find from the local libraries which, I must say, wasn’t much. Could you summarize for us where all your anticolonial work stands now?” Ed leaned forward. “ I will, but first I want to say that Mark Twain had written us about you two . . . ” Jy-ying liked the way he included Janet. Little things like that made a big difference to her, especially because of the attitude of Chinese men toward women. She had noticed that John also always included Joy, and it was one of the things she liked about him. “ . . . He was very impressed and urged us to fill you in on our work. He thought you would be of much help in our effort. Now, most of all, we want to express our profound thanks for this trip here to your lovely and great country and state. Most especially, we’re greatly indebted to you for your gift of $10,000 to our reform association.” John answered, “We couldn’t have given the funds to a more deserving effort and pair of humanitarians.” Jy-ying did the mental calculation and realized that amount of money was near the equivalent of $192,000 in 2000. This was an incredible amount for Ed and Janet to be gifted. They must have been puzzled, therefore, when the first thing they saw was Joy and John’s lower middle class clothing. The Morels probably were even more surprised when they saw John’s modest, middle class apartment. They’d certainly expected to see a huge mansion in the middle of hundreds of acres, with butlers, maids, and dozens of gardeners bent over beautiful flower gardens. Besides what Joy and John had told her, Jy-ying had done her own research on Ed. She knew he was originally lower middle class, a clerk in Liverpool working for the Elder Dempster’s shipping firm. With his father dead and an ailing mother, Morel quit school to work when he was fifteen. She could see that Joy and John’s informality and friendliness also must have been a surprise. It had almost immediately relaxed the Morels. As far as Ed and Janet knew, however, Joy and John were only wealthy amateurs with an idiosyncratic interest in Congo reform, among many other things. After all, the Morels had been involved in this reform movement for a decade and had never heard of them before. Jy-ying sat back to watch how John would handle this. After Ed summarized where their work stood, and after some discussion, John said, “We are informal people and are not concerned about acquiring material goods or exercising conspicuous consumption.

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We are, however, filthy rich, due to what each of us has secretly inherited, our financial dealings, and our investments in the stock market. I only tell you this to explain our wealth, not to brag. I trust you will keep this secret.” Jy-ying rubbed her nose to hide her grin. What a liar. He is almost as good as I am. “We are humanitarians and wish to spend our present and future wealth wiping out war and mass murder, and fostering democracy and human rights. This is our lifelong mission. You should view our Tor Import and Export Company as one of the means through which we do this. We view our support of your efforts as part of our mission.” Janet held up her hand to stop John. “Surely you’re interested in profit. Isn’t that the bottom line?” Joy leaned toward Janet, looked into her eyes, and said firmly, “No more than it is for you and Ed. We know that you two have used every spare penny for your reform efforts and derive no material profit from them. Such are our own efforts. Whatever our company makes in profit, if it ever does so, will go into our mission.” Joy narrowed her eyes; her lips tightened in determination. “We have already sacrificed more for our mission than you would ever believe. We have committed our very lives to succeed, and would welcome death tomorrow, if it meant our final success.” John picked up on that to further describe their mission, but at this point the men and Joy did not exist as far as Jy-ying was concerned. Janet was staring at her. Jy-ying stared back, puzzled. There is something about her. Something . . . strange. No. Not strange. Familiar. Uncannily familiar. Ahh, she is hiding something. But what? Janet held the stare, unblinking, as a cat will focus on a bird in the grass. They became isolated in an emotional, intuitive bubble. Jy-ying could not describe this any better to herself; their communication bordered on telepathic. They sat there, their eyes locked, until finally Janet nodded and shifted her eyes to Joy, who was watching Ed and seemed oblivious to Janet’s exchange with Jy-ying. Soon Joy and Janet seemed involved in their own communication. After several seconds, Janet reached across the table and took Joy’s hand. Ed and John had glanced curiously at Janet through her silent exchange with Jy-ying, and when Janet took Joy’s hand Ed raised an eyebrow. Janet turned to him and said simply, “Trust them.”

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John cleared his throat, and continued what he had been saying. “We intend to set up a trust fund in a Swiss bank in the name of Edmund Dene Morel and Janet Baker Morel. The annual interest is to be used as you see fit to reform the Congo and European colonies throughout Africa and Asia. As best I can guesstimate, the death toll since 1900 and far into the future will be about fifty million natives unless something is done to stop the killing, exploitation, and slavery. We place only one condition on these funds—that you focus as much on the human cost of colonialism in general as you will on the Congo.” Ed hesitated, then responded sadly, “We want to thank you for whatever contribution you will make, but just the Congo is a big task. If I try to deal with these other inhumanities, I won’t have the time to do much for them, and it will take effort away from the Congo. What contribution do you have in mind?” “Ten million dollars as your trust amount. Presumably the trust would invest this in bonds and various government securities, so that you could expect out of this about $300,000 a year, with the principle available for great opportunities or emergencies.” Jy-ying almost fell out of her chair. Sabah, they’re crazy—$300,000 a year. There was a long silence as the Morels sat frozen in their chairs, eyes like saucers. They stared at John as though he had said he was Jesus Christ. Ed finally croaked, “Excuse me, did you say ten million?” “Yes.” “This is a practical joke?” “No,” Joy said, looking at Janet. “We mean ten million.” His voice still showing his amazement, Ed exclaimed, “Ahh, yes. Quite. What do you want me to do with all that bloody money? Buy bloody Africa?” John waved the question aside with his hand. “Remember our one condition. You just don’t focus on the Congo, but on all European colonialism. Of all people, you know how to organize reform. Both of you are so well organized personally that you now produce an unbelievable amount of writing and correspondence. Moreover, you have many contacts throughout Europe and in the United States. So, we leave the organization of the effort up to you. We will not micromanage the use of these funds or second-guess you. You can set up institutes or centers to study and detail the evil deeds, create newspapers, hire reporters, lobby legislatures, send to colonies investigative commissions,

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send people like Mark Twain on speaking tours, and so on. You know the possibilities. This organizational and disbursement freedom will be in a contract we will draw up. “With your background, Ed, I know you will understand that, for legal and security reasons, written into the trust agreement will be an annual independent audit of your use of whatever funds are disbursed to you during the year. The only purpose of the audit is to protect you against any possible claim, legal or otherwise, that you are misusing the funds for personal reasons. We will also write into the trust contract yearly salaries for you and Janet of $10,000, indexed to the rate of inflation in England.” Ed just sat still, trying to absorb it. Janet looked stunned. After several seconds Ed rubbed his glass with his thumb, still deep in thought. Joy stood and offered them all drinks. Janet and Jy-ying asked for tea while the men accepted cold Michelob beer right off the ice block. Joy had one herself after the tea was made. Jy-ying was studying Janet thoughtfully when she turned and returned her look, and held it. Jy-ying’s intuition was now screaming at her—Janet was hiding a great or nefarious secret. She had to find out what it was. Too much was at stake to risk a later surprise. Her eyes still on Janet, Jy-ying spoke up for the first time, her melodious intonation reflecting her Chinese language. “I am sure that John has ideas as to how you could best use this generous endowment—did I say generous? This goes fantastically beyond generous.” She looked at John. “What are your ideas?” John seemed happy for the excuse to lecture. “As you said, Ed, you are the people on the front lines of reform. We can only make abstract suggestions, which you may or may not find helpful. But we do know the world. Under different names, we have professional backgrounds. I was a professor of history. Joy has a degree in government, and Jy-ying is a linguist.” Ed listened intently, but Janet nodded absently without breaking eye contact with Jy-ying. John may as well have said, “I like tea.” “We would emphasize what I will call the 5-D plan,” John was saying, “deprofit, disgrace, delegitimize, derecognize, and delegate.” He began to lay this out and had Ed’s full attention for the next half-hour. John was clearly enjoying being the professor again. As he described their ideas, Joy’s eyes were riveted on Ed, apparently trying to gauge his response.

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But Jy-ying’s eyes remained fixed on Janet’s, as though probing behind them to read her mind. Okay, she thought, time for confrontation. In the kitchen—where else, for women? When John stopped for breath, Jy-ying suggested that she get the dessert that she had brought so they could eat while he continued. Joy was about to get up, but Jy-ying waved her down. Knowing John had been a professor, Jy-ying believed he might be at it for another hour or so. She got up, stepped over sleeping Little Wei, and looked at Janet. She nodded toward the kitchen. Janet rose and followed her. In the kitchen, Jy-ying started making dessert tea for everyone. She set the kettle on the range and prepared to turn around and say to Janet, “You can share a secret with me. What are you hiding?” Close behind her, Janet beat her to it. She leaned over Jy-ying’s shoulder and said in a low voice, “Sabah rules.”

Chapter 20 Jy-ying

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y-ying jerked around to face Janet, and automatically responded to what in this era would have been nonsense to anybody else except Joy and John. In two words she told Janet that she had guessed right: “Abul Sabah.” “Yes, Abul Sabah, the Prophet,” Janet intoned, her face now glowing with excitement. Nothing more need be said. She was from Jy-ying’s time. And the reverential way she had said Sabah’s name suggested she was a believer. The right side of Jy-ying’s brain was happily flabbergasted. She never believed for a moment that there would be someone else from the future who knew Sabah, and if so, that they would meet. On the left side of her brain, however, her security training kicked in and she was wary. Janet could be an enemy, sent to this time to follow up on the message to kill Sabah, and a deadly threat to Jy-ying. But it cannot be. I’ve studied her. She does not have the muscles and grace for combat. She stands and moves like a lady, not a warrior. She brought no purse in with her and there are no telltale weapon bulges. She decided paranoid was best. Carefully watching Janet, she acted out her shock. She opened her eyes wide, let her mouth hang open, and while leaning on the counter for apparent support, she brought the other hand up to her cheek. She gasped, “You are from my future.” “Yes, 2003.” “I’m from 2001.” She reached for Janet to hug her, but the other woman beat Jy-ying to it. Putting her arms around Jy-ying and struggling to restrain her voice, Janet exclaimed, “Am I ever glad to meet you, Jy-ying! I’ve been so lonely. Ed has no idea I’m from the future. Do Joy and John know?” “No.” Jy-ying was also fighting to control her emotions. She put a finger to her lips to stop any further response, and said, “Wait. Later.” Janet picked up the forks and tray of desserts and tried to steady her hands. Jy-ying put a hand on her arm and smiled. That helped.

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Jy-ying followed Janet into the small dining room. John was still in his lecture mode, so Janet quietly passed the desserts around while Jy-ying sat down. Janet stood for a moment when she was done, looking like she wanted to say something, but then silently sat down in her dining chair next to Ed, who was listening attentively to John. Joy looked at them briefly, smiled at Jy-ying in acknowledgement of the dessert, and returned her attention to John. But when the tea kettle whistled, she got up and went into the kitchen to make the tea. Jy-ying had no appetite, but ate her dessert to avoid any questions. She saw Janet do the same. After Joy passed the tea around and everyone had finished their dessert, Jy-ying gave a small piece of what she had left to Little Wei and, looking around in apology, said, “I’m going to have to take the little guy for a stroll.” She got up, and Janet followed her lead. She also stood and asked, “Can I join you? He’s so cute. I always wanted a little Westie, but a dog isn’t practical for us.” John was so intent on his conversation with Ed that Jy-ying didn’t think he noticed that they were leaving. Joy gave a little wave and smile, and turned back to the conversation. Ed seemed to except their leaving as a matter of course.

aaa Janet As they rushed to Jy-ying’s Rolls, almost tripping over confused Little Wei, Janet kept thinking, I don’t believe this. It can’t be true she’s from my time. Then she remembered that her father had been trying to send a man back to prevent the one who had received the message from Santa Barbara from killing Sabah or his parents. Oh God, she must be the one who received the message. She must be the one out to kill Sabah. She knows I’m Sabah. She’ll kill me. How stupid I am! I don’t even have a gun. Janet stopped, and started backing up. “Who are you? Really,” Janet hissed, ready to turn around and run back into the apartment. Jy-ying did not answer immediately. She turned and looked at Janet, confusing Little Wei further. Barking, he jumped up and down on her leg, twisting the leash around her dress.

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Janet saw this and realized she could get a good start if she ran. She backed up another step, and stared at Jy-ying warily, ready to flee instantly. “Dad. Dad,” she said, feeling some relief from uttering that key word she hadn’t had to use in over a decade. They were in the gravel alley between the apartment building and the garage. Jy-ying sat down on the gravel, let the leash remain twisted around her dress, and picked Little Wei up. She put him on her lap and held him there, although he struggled to get back on his feet. He was getting a little panicky. She said softly, “I’m sorry I frightened you. As you can see, I’m no threat, so please come closer so I don’t have to shout.” Much relieved, Janet took several steps closer and waited, her body still tense, her breathing coming in short gasps. She took a fast look around to see if anyone was watching from the windows of the apartment building, and noted that this seemed to be a service alley and probably not much used. Janet was beginning to shake. Her head throbbed. She had gone from the height of sudden joy to the depths of fear, all within minutes, and her body was suffering from the resulting chemicals that had flooded her bloodstream. Janet saw that Jy-ying looked pleased, as though Janet’s fear told her something. Finally Jy-ying spoke up. “I know why you are frightened. You think I’m a danger to you, perhaps out to kill Sabah when he is a baby. I am a captain in the Sabah Security Guards. As you may or may not know, the infidels sent two time travelers to this time on a mission that inadvertently made Sabah’s Great Victory possible. After the victory, the infidels sent these time travelers a message that Security assumed instructed them to prevent his success by killing Sabah or his parents. I was sent here to save Sabah.” Janet nodded warily. She could still be lying. She could have been the one to receive the message. Jy-ying paused for effect. “I have proof who the two time travelers are, and I have seen the message they received. They are Joy and John. They will try to kill Sabah.” Janet was aghast. Her knees felt weak and she dropped down on the gravel about a step away from Jy-ying with a huge sigh. “This explains so much. No wonder they are so rich, although living such ordinary lives. No wonder they can toss money around like pennies. No wonder he is so successful. But I knew something was strange about them. They are like people from my own world. For this age, they are too re-

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laxed, too informal, too colloquial, and their English—even their awful American English—doesn’t fit into this time. And John treats Joy as an equal. But then, I thought, without the leveling effects of television, radio, or movies, anyone from two hundred kilom . . . miles away may appear strange.” Janet’s trembling had stopped. She stood and brushed the dirt off the back of her dress. She took a step to Jy-ying and put out her hand to help her up. “Shall we go where you were going?” Jy-ying put Little Wei on the gravel and let Janet pull her up. She untwisted the leash and, still holding Janet’s hand, she said, “I believe you are here to save Sabah also. Yes?” “I am dedicated to saving Sabah. That’s right. But as to my being sent here, that’s another story.” “Hold onto it. I’m going to take you to a pleasant place where you can tell me.” Jy-ying drove her to a well-tended park, much like Regents Park in London, and explained that this was Golden Gate Park. “I come here often on picnics with Joy and John, or with Little Wei, just to read or think.” They easily found a shaded park bench. Jy-ying unleashed Little Wei, who scampered off in bouncing happiness to smell and explore. She asked, “You are a Muslim?” “Yes, a Sabah Muslim.” “So am I, just to state what is obvious.” Janet was back in the clouds. “I’m so happy, Jy-ying. You can’t imagine how lonely I’ve been for someone to share this burden and my fear. God is Great. I love Ed very much and he fulfills me as much as is possible for one with my religion and passionate purpose. Oh, Ed is Christian, but tolerant of my religion. I go to my Friday sermons at the Ahmedi Mosque and do my prayers, and he goes to his St. Thomas Church on Easter and Christmas. He’s almost agnostic, and I think that’s the secret to his tolerance.” Jy-ying was almost giddy herself. “Why are you so much involved in his Congo project?” “To speed up decolonization and thus facilitate missionary Islam and eventually, the truth of Sabah. Also, I think the way these native peoples are exploited and murdered is a sin before God. And, Jyying, I also love Ed. I can help him in what he passionately believes and that is complementary to my own faith. And it gives me time to prepare.”

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Her face flushed and her voice took on a sharp intensity. “Six years from now, Sabah will be born. While helping Ed I also have been taking classes in self-defense and weapons. I thought I would be well prepared in a few years to travel to Uighuristan to protect Sabah’s parents and Sabah. As long as I have a breath in me, no one is going to eliminate him.” She took Jy-ying’s hand. “Now I’m not alone. I know who wants to kill him—Joy and John. Incredible. Now we can stop them together. Sabah be praised. It’s a miracle that we found each other.” Jy-ying nodded. “Don’t do anything rash without planning it with me,” she warned. “We must act together. We have a world victory to save, the soul of mankind. We must be careful, and we have years for this. Tell me, why were you sent here?” Janet turned toward Jy-ying and put her hand on the bench and leaned on it. “I wasn’t sent.” She instantly plunged from joy into abysmal grief. The emotional shift felt as if she were falling off a cliff. She drew in a sharp breath, and swiftly covered her mouth to smother a groan. Her voice quivered as she forced the words out between her fingers. “Horrible, horrible how I ended up here.” She put her elbows on her knees and her head in hands, and shook. Jy-ying rubbed her back. She finally sat back, turned her wet eyes toward Jy-ying, and moaned, “I refused to think about it for years. I’ve buried as much as I could. Now, it’s all coming back. I’m sorry for the display.” Jy-ying nodded sympathetically. Janet looked off into the space of her memories. “I must start with my father, Bur Wadi.” She choked on his name, and her eyes overflowed with tears. She began to sob. “I’m sorry, “ she said again, “I haven’t said his name since I came to this age, so many years ago.” Jy-ying put her arm around Janet and held her close. “I’ve lost my Mom, Dad, and sister in civil war,” she said. “Cry as much as you like. I know how you feel.” Janet put her head on Jy-ying’s shoulder, still crying. “He was Egyptian. I’ve been able to keep him in the back of my mind, although there is a sacred part of my heart where he will live for me forever. He was a great man and the greatest father—I am what I am because of him. He brought me up, after my mother was killed.” Janet stopped, deep in memory. Little Wei had returned from his exploration. Sensing Janet’s grief, he jumped on the bench and tried to lick Janet’s face, but she had buried her face in her hands again. Jy-ying

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held him off. Several passersby looked curiously at them, and one woman stopped and was about to come over, but Jy-ying motioned her on. At that moment, a policeman appeared in front of their bench, and since Janet’s face was buried in her hands, he bent down and looked closely at Jy-ying. “Is there something I can do for you ladies?” Jy-ying’s own eyes were wet. She lifted them to the policeman and replied in a shaky voice, “Thank you, officer. My friend has lost her father and mother and I’m trying to comfort her.” “If there is anything I can do, let me know. My mother died in the fire and your friend has my sympathy.” He moved out of hearing, and stood with his arms crossed, signaling people not to bother them. Finally Janet pulled back, took a handkerchief from her purse, and wiped her face. She shook her head and said, “Thanks. I’ve been alone with this for so long, so out of my time, so unable to tell anybody about this, I can’t tell you how much meeting you means to me.” Tears trickled from Jy-ying’s eyes. When Janet raised her eyebrows questioningly, she murmured, “My turn. You reminded me of what I have not thought of in a long time—my father’s crumpled body, my mother’s face destroyed by bullets. I . . . No, another time I’ll tell you about it. Now I must hear about you.” Janet gave a huge sigh. “Yes, my father. I have to begin with him.”

Chapter 21 Janet Liverpool, 2003

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anet had gotten up unusually early this morning. While her father grabbed a donut and guzzled his coffee, she hinted that she would like to see the afternoon experiment. He just nodded, kissed her on the cheek, and rushed off. Her father called her from his cell phone about an hour after he left. “Hello Dad, what’s happening?” In a deep voice, he answered, “Are you free this afternoon, Janet? We are going to run our first experiment with a human being, and I thought you would like to see it.” “Thanks, Dad. What time should I be there?” “Try to make it before 1:30. See you then,” and he clicked off. As she put the phone down on her bedroom dresser, her eyes fell on her mother’s photo, next to it. It was the only photo of her mother remaining in the house. Dad had destroyed all the others soon after her mother was captured and executed as a rebel. Janet hardly thought of it anymore. She still loved her mother, but she had deserted them to fight against what they believed. Janet was sure it was the English blood in her—always prone to rebellion. Why she married an Egyptian Arab Janet did not know, but her mother and father were very close until Sabah’s Great Victory. When Dad told her mother he was a Sabah, although of the reformed sect, and she found out Janet shared that belief, she left within a week. Janet picked up the photo and for the thousandth time kissed her mother’s face. They didn’t know what happened to her until her father was secretly informed by a friend in the security police that she had been captured attacking Imam William’s house and would be publicly executed in Sabah Stadium. She had changed her identity, but the friend recognized her prisoner’s photograph. As the top Sabah scientist in the country, Dad was afraid to try to communicate with her. He said he was worried about drawing attention to them. Sometimes in the case of terrorism, whole families of a captured rebel were executed.

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While her father demanded that she stay home on her mother’s execution day, he went to the stadium dressed as an old man, and managed to get a seat near the front so that she might see him and know that he still cared and that she did not die alone. She saw him. She smiled at him. And she was hanged along with nine criminals. Janet put Mom’s picture down, and looked out the window at the garden outside their suburban house. So peaceful, so quiet. How many families, she wondered, have such horrible secrets as ours? It was almost noon. Janet hurried to take a shower to commit ablution. After toweling herself, she stood on her prayer rug facing southeast toward Mecca, and announced to herself her intention to observe the Noon Contact Prayer. She looked at the clock. It was noon. She raised her hands and touched her ears with her palms facing forward, then dropped her hands to her side, intoning, “Allahu Akbar— God is Great,” to make contact with her creator. She recited the Key in Arabic that unifies all Muslims, and bowed, placing her hands on her knees. “Allahu Akbar,” she said while bowing. “Subjaana Rabbiyal Azeem—Glory be to God, the Great.” She continued to recite her prayers as she stood up, prostrated herself, stood up and prostrated herself again. As she got up the second time she said, “Sabah is His Prophet” and assumed her final sitting position. She looked to the right, as though someone was there, and said, “Assalaamu Alaikum—Peace be unto You.” She repeated this while looking to the left, and then she was done. Mind at peace, her body rested, she felt at one with God and Sabah. After lunch Janet drove to the newly constructed Schawlow Laser Institute, which was now the center of her father’s work on the time machine. She enjoyed the pleasant drive from Liverpool through the woods and fields to the Center. She drove along a little stream until she crossed a small bridge, then drove through a clump of trees to the onestory brick building that stood on a small knoll. The lovely setting used to be ruined by thick electrical cables looping into the building from nearby transformers on high voltage towers. But they had been placed deep underground to eliminate their vulnerability to rebels. Below the knoll, almost out of sight, a barbed wire, electrified fence protected the building. It had only one large gate, with guard posts on each side manned by three guards. An armored vehicle, always occupied, sat back from the gate. The perimeter of the fence was graveled and patrolled at odd hours. The guards at the gate knew her by sight and waved her in.

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She looked in her father’s office for him, but as usual he was on the lab floor. She found him talking to two scientists, and waited a respectable distance away until he saw her. She looked around at the crazy machinery, some pieces the size of a garage, with black cables snaking between them. Off to one side stood the first human-sized model of the time machine. The scientists still had much to do on it, but they had already tested successfully a small-scale model. And they had picked a former British Special Forces man to send back to 1906 to find the infidel assassin planning to kill Sabah. He was undergoing training in the culture and technology of 1906 San Francisco. She’d met him at a party her dad hosted for the scientists. He was so handsome, she tingled when he said hello to her. A humming noise filled the lab, seeming to resonate through the concrete floor. As Janet looked around, the sound increased in intensity, and her father broke off talking to the scientists, who hurried to their consoles. Dad saw her, smiled, and joined her. “We’re almost ready,” he said. “We have a volunteer standing by.” He motioned to his assistant scientific aide, Walter Keel, who was waiting by the open door of the time capsule. Walter gave her a little wave. “If all goes well, he will end up in a nearby glade, one week ago.” Walter was her boyfriend. She had been introduced to him when she visited the lab months ago. They’d chatted, and he called her two days later and invited her to have dinner with him. Since her dad usually came home very late in the evening and she had to eat dinner by herself, she’d jumped at the chance to eat out, and in the company of an interesting young man. They had dated several times after that. But nothing serious yet. Janet was surprised. Walter had mentioned nothing to her about his volunteering for this. A speaker blared, “Thirty minutes. Clear the floor. Initiating countdown.” Her father pointed to a booth. “We’ll go there at minus five minutes.” She followed him and listened as he went from console to console, checking that everything was in order for the test. “Minus fifteen minutes. “Minus ten minutes. “Minus six minutes.”

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The low-pitched rumble from the machines now increased to an uncomfortable level. Janet thought she heard rapid popping sounds and an explosion, barely audible above the noise. It must be part of the experiment. Her father froze for a second, then jerked his head around to look at the door, eyes wide. He ran to her, grabbed her arm, and pointed to the concrete observation booth. He started tugging her toward it. Janet almost fell as he pulled her past Walter and the capsule. Two explosions, one after another, blew aside the locked doors to the lab. Two men, covered head to toe in black with only their eyes showing, rushed onto the floor with their weapons firing. Her father swung her forward, putting his body between her and the gunmen. Through their joined hands, Janet felt his body jerk as he was shot down. She stared in horror at her father’s prone form, then looked up for a moment to see two of the scientists who had been sitting at the largest console now hunched down beside it, violently gesturing for Walter to get into the time capsule. She didn’t care; it didn’t concern her. Her father had saved her life and now he was dead. He lay on the floor in a growing pool of blood. She knelt down and took his head in her hands and kissed him. She would never leave him. Crazed with anguish, she had no thoughts—just the overwhelming desire to die with him. She waited for death and Paradise as she held her father’s head in her hands and stroked his cooling cheek. Bullets whizzed around them. Walt suddenly grabbed Janet under the arms and jerked her away from her father. As she screamed, “No. No!” he threw her into the time machine and started climbing in after her. His head exploded. He fell against the open door, slamming it shut. Terrified, gasping for breath, Janet reached for the door, wanting only to get out. She heard bullets hitting the capsule as she tried to push the door open. Just then, the machine roared louder and louder, painfully louder, until she covered her ears with her hands. She felt a tingling sensation, and dizziness transcended her horror. Abruptly the roaring stopped, and with it her tingling and dizziness. Bullets no longer struck the capsule. No sounds penetrated its walls. She was left heaving short, terrified breaths, seeing only the awful images of poor Walt and her father, dead. Shaking all over, mind fogged by horror, she could only curl up in a ball and sob. She wept until there were no more tears. Her body was burned out, her mind mush. It must have been hours later and more

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time still before she gathered her senses enough to accept that she might no longer be in the Center. But instrumentation had not yet been installed in the capsule and she had no way of knowing where she was—or when. Janet remained huddled in the bottom of the capsule. She was afraid to move, terribly afraid to open the door. She was not afraid to die. She was afraid of what world would suddenly blast through the door when she opened it. She drew her knees up to her chin and shuddered. Never, never could she have imagined this. If this was a nightmare, it was the most horrible one possible. She screamed. She screamed louder. She put her hands over her face and screamed into them and held it as long as she could. Her throat burned, but she did not wake up. It was real. She put her head in her hands. Her heart pounded in her ears. Eventually her mind began to emerge from its emotional wreck. She had to do something. And there was only one something to do. Trembling, she raised a weary hand to the door latch and slowly pushed open the capsule door. Fresh air caressed her face and she heard birds chirping and the rustle of branches. The sky was light blue, with puffs of white clouds. It was so bright that her eyes flinched shut and she had to squint until they adjusted. There was the smell of woodland, of growing things and rotting leaves and wood. She was in a small, grassy glade with oak trees all around. Through the trees she could see a field and, in the distance, two low, mud-brown houses with what looked like thatched roofs. A horse was pulling a cart across the field. There must be a road there, she thought, the first evidence her mind was beginning to function beyond pointing to the door. She was somewhere at some time, but she didn’t know what to do. If she stayed in the machine she would die. If she left the machine, she might soon die as well. She had no clothes other than those on her back. Her purse was on the floor back in the lab. She had no money, no identification, no job, and knew no one. Janet closed the door and scrunched herself in the bottom of the capsule again. She rubbed her eyes with both hands, and tried to think. Dad is dead. The anti-Sabah guerrillas killed him to stop the time machine. Maybe they were the same guerrilla group Mom belonged to. Don’t think about that. “Why am I here?” she asked herself out loud, hoping the sound of a voice—even hers—would steady her. “Because Dad was testing this time machine. Why was he doing that? Because Imam William set up

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this project when he heard from Dad that the Peking project might have been a failure.” There’d been something said about a power drain at the worst moment in the time travel. Her father had been doing research on time travel ever since he heard rumors that an American had been sent back in time, and that a message might have been sent to the American since Sabah’s Great Victory. He went to Imam William’s Palace, argued that he should undertake a British attempt, and was given a blank check on resources. “Why?” Janet thought through all her father had tried to tell her in his sweet way. He really didn’t confide in her as an adult, but in his broken sentences and monosyllables, it became clear over the years that this research and experimentation was not for the sake of science. It was to protect Sabah. God be praised. The Imam, as did the World Council of Clerics, believed the message sent back in time contained instructions to kill Sabah’s parents before Sabah was born, or kill Sabah soon after his birth. “Yes,” she said aloud. “That’s the reason that Special Forces man was chosen for the time travel. He was going to go back and protect Sabah. Dad never put it in those words, but I guess that protection meant killing the time traveler who received the message.” She really had not thought about it much before. She stared at the door, trying to relate it all to her horrible predicament. Science and Dad’s work was another world. I was interested in Walt. I wanted to be a good Muslim. I wanted to marry and have children and a good husband. Dad is dead. He died trying to save Sabah. Sabah the Prophet. My Holy One. All that is left of his project is . . . me. Her mind focused on that. I am all that remains of his mission— Dad’s great mission. I could finish it for him. I could be the one that saves Sabah. Her mind centered on that like a flashlight beam on a black night. Tighter and tighter she focused; larger and larger it loomed in her mind. I can save Holy Sabah. Me! For Dad. For all the Sabahists of the world. For Islam. For God. God is great. Janet could feel the emotional transformation as her mind reconstructed itself. It had been like disparate pieces of torn and ripped metal strewn all over her mental field by the devastating hammer blows of her father’s murder, then Walt’s. Then this incredible time travel.

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The sudden realization that she could save Sabah and fulfill her father’s mission was like a magnet, pulling all the metal pieces of her mind together and aligning them with her emotions. She had a vision of them all forming a deadly arrow pointing toward the time traveler who would kill Sabah. She could feel that arrow, she could see it in her mind. It began to burn and vibrate. It took her over completely and drove her with one thought: She would be the one to protect Sabah. She would be the one to kill his enemy. She would be the one if she had to crawl on her stomach to find him and use her nails and teeth to kill him. She yelled, “I will do it for you, Dad. And for Sabah!” She could not prostrate herself in the capsule, but she could bow her head. She went through her Dawn Prayer—this was the dawn of a new life for her—imitating the proper body motions as best she could. She ended with, “Ash-Hadu Allaa Elaaha Ellaa Allah, Wahdahu Laa Shareeka Lah—I bear witness that there is no other god beside God. He alone is God; He has no partner.” I am reborn. Janet firmly opened the door and stepped out of the capsule. Without looking at the bullet-dented exterior, she slammed the door shut. She pointed herself toward the road, and started pushing through the trees. She no longer feared this new world or how she would survive. God was on her side. She just had to take one step at a time. It was not easy to get through the trees. Low-lying bushes, broken tree limbs, dead trees, and vigorous undergrowth hampered her, but finally she stumbled onto the field. It was even worse. It had not been plowed for some years, and was full of brambles, potholes, low vines, and stringy bushes that eagerly trapped her feet and tore at her skin. She wore only her light leisure shoes, and the field kept trying to steal them from her. A denim dress worn above her knees, and a sleeveless blue shirt were no protection. By the time she hobbled to what was a narrow dirt road, her legs were badly scratched and her feet were sore and bleeding. Janet looked up and down the road. Civilization! What next? It was pleasantly warm, even though more clouds had shadowed the sun. But now, as she stood in the middle of the road waiting to meet the denizens of this new world, she started to shiver. The scratches on her legs and the cuts on her feet began to sting. She put her arms over her chest and thought again of what she had to do, and invented one key word that would put any danger or fear in perspective. It was “Dad.” That would be her key word, and as she focused on it, she stopped shivering. But she couldn’t help the tears as she waited for what would come.

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Finally she saw a beat-up wooden cart drawn by a tired looking mule coming toward her. An old man whose head almost disappeared beneath a wide-brimmed hat and an old woman with a shawl over her hair sat on the cart’s narrow wooden seat. Janet immediately thought of the woman as someone’s grandmother. The man reined in the mule when she waved at them. Janet could tell how awful she looked when the grandmother quickly reached into the back of the cart and grabbed an old buggy lap robe, with what she supposed was hay and other things adhering to it. The woman scrambled down from the cart despite her age and rushed to wrap it around Janet’s shoulders. It hung down, covering her bare legs. Janet just stood there, afraid to say a word. The man just sat holding the reins and watching with large eyes. The grandmother put her face close to Janet’s and asked with compassion, in an odd accent, “What happened to you, girl?” She speaks English. Great! Janet had given no thought to what she would say, but the words tumbled out. “I don’t know. I found myself on the ground in the field,” and she waved her hand toward it, “and don’t remember how I got there or anything else.” She began to cry. She really didn’t have to fake it. The grandmother put her arms around her shoulders. Through her tears Janet asked, “Could you take me to a hospital, please?” Finally, the old man spoke up. “The nearest one is in Liverpool, too far away. Take us all day to get there. I’ll take you to Doc Hawkins.” They sat her between them on the uncomfortable seat and she was so exhausted she put her head on the grandmother’s shoulder and fell into a half sleep as they bumped, bounced, and swayed down the road. She thought she could walk faster, but she was now going somewhere in England with English-speaking people, and she had an explanation for her condition. She no longer had any fear. She was on her way. They entered a small town with one stone road down the center, a few two-story stores, a pub, and perhaps ten or more small houses. They stopped at the largest one, which had a white picket fence in front and a little white sign with Dr. Jeremy Hawkins in black lettering. Grandmother helped her down from the cart, took her hand and led her into the house. Inside it looked like a small clinic. The living room had been turned into a reception room, with a parlor divan, three hardbacked armless chairs, and an ancient desk behind which sat a trim, middle-aged woman in a white smock. A pregnant woman sat on the divan and a man with worn and torn coveralls waited on a chair, with his heavily bandaged foot thrust so far out they had to walk around it.

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The pregnant woman greeted Grandmother with smile, and the man automatically tried to stand in greeting, but Grandmother told him, “George, if you get up I’ll stomp on your foot.” George gave up the attempt and doffed his sweat-discolored straw hat. Grandmother approached the desk with Janet, said, “Hello Mary,” to the woman behind it, and told her, “This poor girl has had some kind of accident. She stopped us on the road by Simpson’s farm.” She pulled the blanket away from Janet’s legs in a way that the man would not see, and said, “Look at her legs, and her feet are bleeding. She doesn’t remember what happened. She must have lost her outer clothes, also.” Grandmother leaned forward and whispered, “Or they were taken from her.” Mary look alarmed. “You don’t recognize her at all, Helen?” “No. She must be from far up the road, or maybe even from Liverpool. Her English is strange, so maybe her parents are foreigners. I think the doc should look at her.” Mary nodded and said, “Wait a moment, and I’ll give you your robe back.” She stood and took Janet’s hand, and led her into a bedroom. She took a clean sheet out of a pile on a white metal table near the door and replaced the blanket with it. “Wait here,” she said. But with the sheet around her, Janet followed Mary out, and said to Helen as Mary was handing the blanket to her, “Thank you for picking me up and bringing me here.” Helen gave her a grandmotherly smile, and left. Doctor Hawkins treated Janet’s scratches with iodine. Janet gritted her teeth and refused to cry out from the pain. He diagnosed her inability to remember as a reaction to what had been done to her. He didn’t ask Mary to examine her for rape, which Janet gathered they would only do with the permission of her parents. God be praised. She was a virgin. She was given a room at the clinic, treated nicely, sometimes ate with Mary, who turned out to be Dr. Hawkins’s wife, or sometimes ate with both of them. Mary found clothes that almost fit her, and she was able to wear them in some comfort. They tried to help her with her memory by answering all her questions, even those that normally would have been absurd. The year was 1888. She was in the little village of Fearnhead, about twenty kilometers east of Liverpool. The doctor sent a young boy to the county sheriff, describing Janet’s amnesia. In a week the sheriff visited the clinic and questioned

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her. He shook his head and said, “We have checked around the county and I have written a circular on you and sent it to neighboring counties and Liverpool. No one has a missing girl even near the age of sixteen.” That was the age Dr. Hawkins guessed she was. The sheriff contacted the Women’s Protective League in Liverpool and a week later he told her, “The League has arranged for a family in Liverpool, the Wilsons, to take you in until your own family reports you missing, wherever they are. The Wilsons’ two sons are grown, married, and now living in London. I recommend that you accept their offer, although by law you have no say in the matter. Janet accepted. Janet couldn’t have been luckier. James and Ester Wilson were a wonderful foster family. They had always wanted a daughter in addition to their sons, but the two that were born had not survived their first year. Janet even had her own private bedroom, which had belonged to their sons. The Wilsons were lower middle class, Mr. Wilson being a freight foreman on the Liverpool docks. They didn’t have that much money, but they were more than happy to help her buy suitable clothes and necessities. They were Christians, really Anglicans. They thought the Christian Crusades had been a holy effort and regretted that they had not succeeded in converting the Muslim heathens. More than heathens, they saw Muslims as savages. Janet secretly prayed in her bedroom when she could, and she was sure that God understood and allowed for such exceptions, just as He did for soldiers in time of war. She went to church with the Wilsons every Sunday, and did what they did at the service. In her mind and heart, when everyone prayed, hers were to her own God Allah and to Sabah. She was sure that God would understand as well. Girls did not ordinarily go on to secondary school, for that was thought unnecessary for their work in the home. But this was the era of educational reform and girls in increasing numbers were going on to complete high school, and a few even went to college. Since she was thought to be sixteen, she could complete the last years of high school and requested of the Wilsons that she be allowed to do so, and they approved. This would give her a chance to learn about life and customs in general in this era, how people dressed, and so on. Janet could learn only so much from Mrs. Wilson. She also could begin the background work for her studies of Islam and Middle Asia in preparation for protecting Sabah, and about the United States to aid in her search for the one who would try to assassinate him.

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They enrolled her in Liverpool High School beginning in September of 1888. For the first school day, Ester Wilson wrote a note to the school pointing out Janet’s lack of memory, and stating that she would need special help. This was circulated to her teachers, who informed her fellow students. From the beginning, she had help from her classmates, who treated her profound ignorance of things they knew so well with tolerance and kindness. The boys treated her with the teasing that all the girls got and she soon learned by watching the other girls how to respond to it—with giggles, feigned horror, and sometimes a serious kick or punch the teachers would not see. After high school she had to go to college to specialize in Middle Asia. With perfect grades and her doctor’s written description of her amnesia and his recommendation, she was one of the few women admitted to Liverpool University. But she had to pay her way. Her foster family did not have the money, nor the position in society for her to get the proper recommendations for a scholarship. Anyway, she was a woman, and since not many women went to college, such aid for women was rare. So were ordinary part-time jobs. Janet was determined to go to college. She had to learn about Middle Asia, where Sabah was born. She had to learn his language. Two years in this old world had not lessened her desire to save him, to do in his memory what her father wanted done. That arrow of emotion pointing toward saving Sabah had only strengthened and grown with time. High school girls hear things. Janet found out that some of the rich boys were bragging about a whorehouse they had visited. She made friends with one of the boys and got him talking about where he had been while at the same time fending off his hands. She had the name, but could only get the address when she let him put his hand under her sweater. When she graduated from high school and was ready to attend college, she knew what she had to do. She refused to waste time and put it off, regardless of her fright, embarrassment, and shame. When the day came, she first prayed and asked God for strength, and asked Him to understand that she was doing this to save Sabah. She asked for His forgiveness. She completed her prayers with “Allahu Akbar” and, while bowing, “Subjaana Rabbiyal Azeem.” She asked her foster mother if she could borrow one of the family horses for the day, to look for a job in Liverpool. With an answering

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“Good luck,” she rode off to Madam Camille’s house in Seaforth, a little town on the outskirts of Liverpool, along Liverpool Bay. It was a three-story home with a splendid view of the Bay that had been built by a wealthy shipper some fifty years before. It had a four-column porch, high porticos in the four corners, and from what Janet could see from the outside, many bedrooms. She lifted the large doorknocker—a happy man’s face in solid brass—and was surprised at the heavy thump it made when she released it. A large, dark-skinned man with a gray beard and turban opened the door and looked at her strangely. Janet nervously asked to see Madam Camille. The turbaned man looked her over in a tired way, and waved her in with a bow. “Wait here,” he said, and left her standing in the foyer. Janet heard voices in another room and edged toward the door so she could look in. She saw a living room of a size comparable to those in most homes. Above a huge fireplace hung a large painting of a beautiful young woman in a ballroom dress. Heavy chenille drapes covered the windows, and there was a bar in a corner of the room. Five women lounged on red upholstered easy chairs and heavily cushioned divans and couches. Two were chatting and laughing, two looked bored, and one was reading. No men were present. An attractive young woman in a loose housedress came out of a side room and approached her. Janet saw immediately that she was the one in the painting. Her face had none of the makeup customary for this time period’s prostitutes. She had well brushed sandy hair curled around her shoulders and piercing eyes that gave her a confident look. She approached Janet and said, “I am Chastity Camille. Can I help you?” Janet’s eyebrows shot up and she inhaled sharply, momentarily stopping her knees from shaking. The woman was no more than twenty-one. Janet was so nervous her voice wavered and she stuttered, “Excuse m-me, you are Ma-Madam Camille?” Camille laughed. “You find me a little young, perhaps. Now tell me, younger lady, why are you here?” Dad! Janet thought, hoping her key word would help. It did. She visualized the neon arrow pointing toward saving Sabah. “I need a job.” She threw the words out. Camille slowly looked her up and down. Janet straightened and raised her chin. “I need money to go to the university.” Camille looked into her eyes and nodded. “How old are you?”

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“My real age is twenty. Recorded age is eighteen.” Camille took her arm and led her into the room she had came out of. It was a friendly room, with a teak secretarial desk and two hardbacked chairs near the door, an ordinary four poster bed with a Roman lounge next to it, a large seascape on the wall behind it, and more seascapes on adjacent walls. Lacy curtains were pulled back from windows that looked onto Liverpool Bay. There were gaslights on three of the walls, and several five-prong cathedral tabletop candleholders held pink candles. Janet liked the room. It could have been hers, except for the cross hanging by the bed. Shutting the door behind her, Camille motioned for Janet to sit down in one of the chairs while she sat on the lounge. “Tell me about yourself,” she said. Janet told her about her amnesia, her foster parents, and her schooling. She told her about her interest in Middle Asia and her desire to get a degree in it, and maybe a graduate degree in London afterward. But she could do nothing without money, which her foster parents did not have. Camille was friendly and sympathized with Janet’s amnesia and the loss of her real parents. “You are a virgin?” “Yes.” “How far have you gone with boys?” Janet could feel her face getting hot. “My breasts.” “What did you do with the boy?” “What do you mean?” Janet barely got out, looking down at her hands clasped on her lap. “You didn’t touch him.” “No,” she squeaked. Camille leaned back on her side and supported her head with her hand. “Janet. Look at me,” she said softly. “Are you absolutely positive you want to let men—some old, some fat, some stinking like a pig pen—do anything they want with your body? Are you sure you will do anything, any-thing, to make them happy while they are with you?” Janet was sweating and couldn’t help the tear that started down her cheek. Let me die, she thought. But she swiped at the tear, lifted her head up, and tried to look Camille squarely in the eye. The word would not come out. Please, God! “Yes,” she barely croaked. Then firmly, “Yes!” “Here is the deal, if I accept you. I can give you room and board, the cost to be taken out of your weekly earnings. Or you can live elsewhere, and come in to work on a fixed schedule. As an apprentice for

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six months, you would get 25 percent of what the men pay me. After that it is 50 percent. But if you become popular among the men and some women that visit us, if you attract new clients, I will increase that to 60 percent. “Any freelancing and I will immediately fire you. If you fall in love with a client, I will fire you. If you fight with another girl over a client, I will fire you. When working, you will wait in the living room. Men choose there. If you are chosen you take the man to your appointed room, and do whatever they ask. Period. Men can reserve you for a certain time, but it costs them extra. Otherwise, it is first come, first choice, so to say. “I have two doctors come in once a week to check all my girls for disease. “Virginity is special and among my clientele, it cannot be faked. So I would auction you for the highest bidder, with a privately circulated announcement. I will be auctioneer, and you will be on display at my side, fully clothed and modest-looking, of course. This is so special I would give you one-half of the highest bid. Agreed so far?” Janet nodded, much too vigorously, but she couldn’t trust her voice Camille sat up and said, “Take off all your clothes.” Janet almost gasped, but controlled it. She stood and removed her clothes with shaking hands. “Turn around.” Janet almost twirled. “Slowly, girl.” Camille got up behind her and felt and squeezed her breasts and buttocks. “Okay, lay on the bed.” Shivering with embarrassment, Janet did so. Camille poked and prodded her, and asked her to take various positions. “Okay, get dressed. You are in your prime, with excellent looks and a trim and healthy body. And you are clean. You have taken care of yourself. When my clients see your beauty and hear about your body and talents—which my girls and I will train you in—men are going to be rutting for you like bulls among cows in heat. I like you. You’re no cheap whore off the street. Nor are you some stupid kid out for thrills, or to spite some lover. I respect why you want the money. “One more thing. You have too much hair down there. It would all have to be shaved off. Can’t hide your jewel, can we?” When Janet was dressed and standing in front of her, Camille took both her hands in hers and smiled. “I offer you work,” she said. “Will you take it?”

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Janet was close to fainting. She nodded. Camille hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks. “Welcome to my home. I will introduce you to my girls after you sign this.” She went to her desk and pulled a form out of a drawer. “Read this. It details what I said. It is protection for both of us. I am legal; I can take you to court or you can sue me. But I assure you, I run a respectable house, and I am fair and honest with my girls and clients. No drunks are allowed. No man is ever permitted back here if he ever hits or abuses my girls.” Janet signed, her hand surprisingly steady. The bidding brought in ten pounds, paid by an India Company top executive, for a full night with Janet. Her share paid her university tuition and living expenses for one month. From then on she lived at Camille’s and worked two nights a week. Her foster family thought she had a part-time job as a secretary in a shipping firm, and lived in a small apartment in town. She majored in Asian studies—there was only one course on Middle Asia—and took all the courses she could on Islam and other religions. There were no courses on the Uighur language, but she hired a Uighur student in medicine to tutor her. For some reason having to do with her hearing, French was more difficult for her than Uighur. But, she had to learn French to graduate, so she hired a French tutor. His name was Edmund Dene Morel. She soon discovered his anger over the mistreatment of the Congo natives, and that he intended to do something about it. That this lowly clerk was going to fight Goliath attracted her to him. When she also found out what a good man he was, she fell in love with him. But she kept it contained. She had to finish her studies and she had to continue her work for Camille to do so. Ed was poor and could barely support himself. Six months after meeting Ed, she moved into her own cheap apartment, while continuing her work for Camille until a month before her final exams. The last day she went in to work, the house was empty of men and all the girls were waiting for her. It was a graduation party for her. One large banner was hung across the fireplace: Congratulations, Janet. Camille gave a long toast to Janet: “How naive and innocent she was when she first came to our house, and now she is teaching me tricks. With Janet leaving, the clientele will fall off by 50 percent. But Janet has found the love of her life. No, not the French condom with all the rough, knobby protrusions, but a man. We should all take pity on him, for Janet will kill him from exhaustion in six months.”

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After the toast, Camille’s turbaned butler, who always seemed to be nearby, carried into the living room a large, flat, gaily wrapped package. He handed it to Camille, who handed it to Janet. “For you, dear.” Janet unwrapped it to reveal a sensual painting of a long boat and several two-masted sailing ships on a shimmering, choppy sea. She could almost smell the salt water. And it could have been a view of Liverpool Bay through a window of Camille’s house. The painting bore a plaque: Claude Monet; The Entrance to the Port of Honfleur. A small pink card was attached: Hang this on a nice wall, and always let it remind you of our love for you. Our fondest hopes for your happiness and success—Camille and Girls.

Chapter 22 Jy-ying San Francisco, 1908

J

anet looked into the distance, deep in her own story. “I married Ed a year after graduation. My love for him has only grown greater in the years since.” Jy-ying had to ask. “Did you tell Ed about your work for Camille?” “No, he knew nothing of that. I suppose I could have told him. He never asked me about any lovers, which my lovemaking must have told him were many. He just accepted it. I just told him that I did not remember anything before sixteen because of my amnesia, and that I was working my way through college as a secretary. I didn’t want to take a chance with his love for me. Men are funny about this, and hard to predict. So this has been one of my many secrets from him.” “Like Sabah?” “Yes, like Sabah.” Jy-ying asked quietly, “Now that you are happily married to a man you love so much, what about your resolve to save Sabah?” Her voice grew steely with determination. “I will do all I can to save him. Nothing can change that. Nothing, Jy-ying. Nothing.” She looked down at her clenched fists on her lap, and visibly tried to relax. But her vocal cords graveled her words. “In our work on the Congo, Ed is often gone on trips for many weeks at a time. Because of my major in college, he will understand if I want to make a trip to Uighuristan, and I was going to arrange it so that he would have to go somewhere on a trip of his own. I knew I would be there for years, and that he would increasingly wonder, and demand my return. I hoped that I could return to him eventually.” Her voice softened to a whisper. “Also, you know, I have refused to have children, although I know Ed wants many. I couldn’t. I want his children, Jy-ying. Oh, I want them. But it would be too much of an emotional burden on top of having to leave Ed, perhaps . . . forever.”

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Her tears started to flow again. “And it wouldn’t have been fair to the children if I got killed, even though they probably would be grown by the time I left to do what I must.” Her voice firmed again. “I have a duty to my father, to that young assistant, Walt, to the scientists who died sending me off, and . . . ” She thrust her chin out. “Excuse me for getting corny . . . to humanity.” She wiped her face with one hand, and looked at Jy-ying for the first time in many minutes. “But now, Jy-ying, with our finding each other, all that is changed.” Jy-ying stood and moved in front of her. She leaned over and took Janet’s head in her hands and kissed her forehead. She looked into Janet’s eyes and said, “Janet, we are partners. You are not alone in your duty. We share it. We will do it. It is as though God brought us together. With my skills, your Middle Asian expertise, particularly on Uighuristan, and our dedication, we are the perfect team.” Jy-ying sat down and, holding Janet’s hand, she described her own background, her lover Shu Kuo, her maneuvering for the time travel here. She said her present mission had changed after she found out about Joy and John—save Sabah, to be sure, but also promote democracy and end war, for that provided the fertile ground for the rise of Sabah and his Great Victory. And she agreed that Janet’s work with Ed for decolonization contributed to this. Janet asked, “You had no relatives, nothing to hold you there except your lover?” “That’s right, and I now realize that I loved Shu Kuo more as a man than a person. There could be other men, but only one person. You found yours; I have yet to find mine.” I think I have, she thought. In John. “What happened to your parents?” “Neither one was a Muslim. My father was a teacher of wing chun kung fu, and started teaching it to me at an early age. Both my parents were caught in a rebellion and killed. I was at home with them when the soldiers of the democratic forces led by anti-Sabah General Li Tu seized Anyang. They started raping and looting. Two soldiers burst into our home. I was eighteen years old. My father ordered my sister and me to hide in the attic. I wanted to stand with my dad and fight, but I never saw him so angry as he demanded I climb to the attic, so I did. I found a little crack and watched what happened. My father tried to fight them off with his skill, but they shot him. They raped my mother, and shot her in the face afterward.

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“I became a Sabah Muslim as a result. I lied about my age and joined Sabah’s Security Service as a teacher of wing chun. I was later promoted to other jobs in Security, the last being to help protect the time travel effort.” Little Wei was asleep on the walk by the bench, his little toes twitching with his dream. Jy-ying got up and said, “Shall we return?” The policeman was still standing by them, and they walked over to him hand in hand. Jy-ying told him, “That was very nice. Thank you, officer.” He tipped his helmet and walked off. They went to the Rolls and Jy-ying drove them back to the apartments.

aaa Joy When Jy-ying and Janet walked in, John, Joy, and Ed were still sitting at the table talking, and stopped to greet the two. Janet’s eyes were puffy and red, and her cheeks flushed. Ed was about to continue the discussion with Joy and John, and stopped. He asked Janet, “Are you okay?” “I’m okay,” she responded, smiling broadly. “Just got dust in my eyes.” Ed nodded. John looked at Janet and Jy-ying, and then at Joy. Nodding his head toward the two, he raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He looked at the Swiss cuckoo clock on the wall, saw it was near dinner, and suggested that they all go to the Fior d’Italia, a new Italian restaurant on Union Street, for dinner. Everyone agreed, and retired to their respective apartments to freshen up beforehand. As soon as the others left and closed the door behind them, John confronted Joy. “Okay,” he said, “what’s going on with Jy-ying and Janet?” Joy responded immediately. “There is something strange going on here. Janet is an unusual person, and my intuition tells me there is something more to her. Then that long absence with Jy-ying. It’s hard to explain why Janet, with her great involvement and interest in Ed’s work, would absent herself so long from our discussion.” John was silent, and scratched his head. “Maybe it’s Little Wei. You know how women are about little dogs. She might just have found it more fun playing with him than jawing with us.”

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“Okay, why did she look like she’d been crying?” John smiled at that. “Guess she got something in her eye, as she said.” “Hmmm,” Joy mused, frowning.

aaa Janet Ed and Janet changed their travel plans so that they could stay in San Francisco for a month. Ed had many telegram exchanges, trying to reschedule his meetings and appointments in Liverpool, and adjusting his publication deadlines for the West African Mail. John also told his office manager that he and Joy would be taking a month-long vacation immediately, but to call if there was a problem or an important decision to be made. They asked Hands, Sal, and Dolphy to come and meet Ed and Janet. Dolphy brought his new girlfriend, Mariko, whom he’d met at college. Janet noted that there was some tension and distance between Sal and Jy-ying. When Janet had a moment with Joy, she said, “Sal seemed to avoid Jy-ying during the evening. Is there a problem between them?” “Yes. They had a close relationship for a short while and Jy-ying broke it up. Personality differences, I gather. Although Sal has said he’s over it, that’s still not quite true.” “Obviously,” Janet responded. After that the Morels and Joy and John spent much time together, touring San Francisco, having relaxing picnics that included Jy-ying, and discussing their missions. Janet and Jy-ying also had frequent private discussions about Sabah, China, and England, and about their experiences in this “primitive” world. But mostly about Joy and John. Janet was growing close to Joy, who always seemed interested in what she had to say, especially about her amnesia and subsequent education. She finally told Joy about her work for Camille, and Joy was sympathetic. What she seemed to have difficulty understanding was Janet’s majoring in Middle Eastern studies, a rare field for a woman. Joy kept asking how her interest in that field developed—what “sparked it,” in Joy’s words. Janet was having a hard time with this, and was getting uncomfortable with her lies. It was becoming difficult to keep her stories straight. But if she had difficulty, Joy’s lies were so creaky as to fall down like termite-eaten outhouses if Janet gave them a slight push. But she

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didn’t. She knew Joy was lying about being born in New York of SinoVietnamese immigrants, her father training her in martial arts, university schooling in government and applied math, her job with the Tor Import and Export Company when it was started in New York, her growing close relationship with John, and the death of both their parents and their large inheritances when their parents died. But Janet listened attentively and asked appropriate questions. And she laughed about it all with Jy-ying when describing Joy’s open-eyed, sincere look when telling her lies. “It’s a circus of lies,” Jy-ying murmured unhappily. “Me to Joy, John, Ed, and the three guys; you to them all; and Joy and John to you, Ed, and the guys.” Janet looked away, into her own thoughts, and mentally sighed. I hate it. But it comes with my pledge to my dead father and to Sabah. It’s what I have to do, like working at Madam Camille’s.

aaa About a week before Ed and Janet were scheduled to leave, Janet lamented to Jy-ying, “I don’t want to kill them. I really don’t. I like them. They have good hearts. But I know—they have to die to save Sabah. And it would be my father’s wish. I’ve never killed anyone, Jyying. I’ve never killed anything, not even a rat. I hate to step on cockroaches in the kitchen. But I’ve got to. We’ve got to.” Jy-ying nodded with understanding. She told her, “Let us think about this. They are doing what we want them to do in preparing the world for Sabah’s Great Victory. But,” and Jy-ying smiled, “John is the historian and is the one who knows what to do for their mission. Joy is his guardian and keeps him happy in body and soul. I could replace her in that. So, she is dispensable. The question is how to get rid of Joy without alienating John.” Ah ha, thought Janet. I knew she had this growing thing for John. I’ve got my love Ed. She has only Little Wei. Cute as he is, he’s no replacement for a man. But still, she’s right. We need only eliminate Joy. Jy-ying continued with, “We must kill her in a way that will look natural, given their mission. There are many ways of doing this. We have to think about it.” Now that it had come down to actual killing, Janet was emotionally repelled and morally queasy. She could not do it directly, nor even be present at the killing. Oh merciful God, Jy-ying’s got to do it.

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They were in Jy-ying’s apartment. Little Wei had his forepaws on the front windowsill and was barking at a bird that had landed on a tree branch close to the window. Janet was glad for the distraction and watched him as he leaped up against the window several times. Deep in thought, Jy-ying ignored him. Thoughtfully, she put her fingers alongside her mouth with her thumb under her chin. Her eyes narrowed. “Do you have any contacts in Mexico?” The question appeared irrelevant to anything they were discussing and surprised Janet, but she responded, glad for the different topic. “Why, yes, many contacts. Especially among the Indians, who feel that they live under Spanish and French inherited colonialism. Some of the rich with Indian blood in them have been contributing to Ed’s work. They see his Congo Reform Association as the only major effort to deal with colonialism and—” Jy-ying held up her hand to stop the flow. “Well, I now know enough about Joy and John to say that the sooner we kill Joy, the better.” Oh God, Janet thought again. Jy-ying finally realized that Little Wei’s barking was distracting. She got up, went to the window, and picked him up. As he struggled to get back to the window, she placed him on the floor by her armchair, wagged her finger at him, and commanded, “Dai—Stay.” His ears partly back, tail down, he settled on his stomach, put his head on his paws, and looked up at her sadly. Jy-ying immediately turned to Janet. “I have an idea.”

aaa Joy The three of them—John, Joy, and Jy-ying—saw Ed and Janet off at the train station with much hand-shaking and kisses. Joy had grown close to Janet despite the strangeness she sensed about her, and John and Morel had also become good friends. They saw each other as warriors, together fighting the evils destroying so many lives. Joy was surprised that, given all the powerful toes Ed had stepped on, no one had yet tried to assassinate him. She told John about her fear and together they armed Ed and Janet. She would carry a holster purse and a gun identical to Jy-ying’s, who helped her buy it. Joy could not find an appropriate purse, even in the many cowboy equipment stores,

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and Jy-ying said Chinese Security had made hers. So Joy bought a purse of roughly similar design to hers and hired a tailor to rebuild the inside into a holster, while leaving space for the normal female clutter. Getting a good shoulder holster for Ed and a military Browning 1903 to put in it was no problem. Almost every day, Joy and John had taken the Morels and Jy-ying to the weapons range to practice. Ed and Janet were now well over the stage of “What is this little curved piece sticking down with a metal rim around it—a trigger, you say. What’s it do?” Joy was also happy to see that Jy-ying knew her own Browning 1900 pistol very well, and was an excellent shot with it. To Joy’s annoyance, Jy-ying tried to instruct John on the proper shooting stance. With an amused glance at Joy, he continued to get it wrong. Jy-ying often challenged Joy to shooting contests, to the amusement of the others, and neither one turned out clearly superior. It was clear to Joy that Jy-ying considered it more than a sporting contest, the way she concentrated, and her sour mood when she lost. Joy also was growing concerned about their martial arts sparring— it was getting too serious. While John watched one session, Joy had barely blocked a hard knuckle fist to the face. It had landed on her shoulder, which was sore for days afterward. Then Jy-ying had thrown Joy so hard to the mat, she heard her joints crack. She was also sore from that. She had gotten tougher herself as a result, but they couldn’t get much tougher with each other without serious injury. Joy didn’t understand why Jy-ying had gotten so competitive lately. Joy had watched John carefully during their practice with the Morels, and felt she still had a few things to teach John about weapons and martial arts—she was not about to leave that to Jy-ying. But until his speed and accuracy improved, she’d stand behind him and wear her armored vest during his target practices. After Janet and Ed left, it was back to work for Joy and John. They had neglected their company and John had put off his investments. It was not as bad for Joy, since Jy-ying had continued working and had taken up some of the slack for her. Now they had much to do, including preparing for their first political intervention in Mexico.

Chapter 23 Joy 1908

B

y September, Joy and John were ready for their first foreign intervention to promote democratic peace. Their goal was to prevent the Mexican Revolution of 1910–1920, which in the Old Universe had cost about two million lives, many killed in cold blood. They traveled to Mexico City and there arranged to have Pancho Villa and Emiliana Zapata assassinated. Those two assassinations saved tens of thousands of Mexican lives. They also supported democrat Francisco Medero with twenty million dollars, and in 1911 he was elected president. To General Victoriano Huerta, who had led a successful coup against President Medero in 1913 in the Old Universe, they made an offer to immigrate to Spain that he could not refuse. On their way home with Sal, who had set up their office in Mexico City and had made many useful contacts, Joy almost regretted how well it had gone. Having been trained as a warrior from the age of four, she wanted to be tested against more than incompetent sex slavers or thugs with bats. She’d been sure she would have this test in Mexico, but John had persuaded her that they should not perform any assassinations themselves. Joy’s opportunity came in a totally unexpected way. With no first class accommodations on the Mexican train they took to return to the United States, they were stuck in a coach. It smelled like a San Francisco homeless shelter on a windless August night, and looked just like the train cars seen in old cowboy movies. In the desert in the State of Durango, the train came to a sudden stop. They couldn’t see anything but desert outside the windows, but Sal was immediately concerned. He got up and hurried to the coach’s vestibule and looked out. Rushing back, he warned them, “Trouble. Rough looking men on horses have stopped the train. They’ve all got guns. It’s probably a holdup.”

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They all checked their guns. Then they waited. John and Sal looked nervous; John’s leg shook slightly where it touched hers. She did what she was trained to do. She breathed deeply, relaxed her muscles, sharpened her awareness of everything going on around her, and centered her energy. This was as natural to her as a driver getting into his favorite car, an artist picking up his brush, a violinist lifting his instrument to play a concerto. This was what she did. In minutes, four men with dirty sombreros, sweat-soaked bandanas, and dusty shirts and leggings came into the coach. Three of them started taking money and jewelry from the passengers, while one kept his gun trained on them. John whispered to Sal, “How many do you think there are?” “Probably about a dozen.” “Will they all be on the train, or will some be on their horses waiting at a little distance?” “I think some will be watching the train while the others are inside.” Sal looked at Joy and whispered, “They will try to rape you and take you with them. That’s what they do to young, attractive women.” Joy smiled easily. “Thank you, Sal. Nice compliment.” He gave her a strange look, and returned to watching the men coming down the aisle. Joy and John had left their armored vests in their luggage. It was very hot in the desert, and they had not thought there would be danger on the train. Joy silently cursed their stupidity as she slipped her magnum onto her lap and set her purse over it. The only way they would get her body was when she was dead, and not before a fight. Meanwhile, John doubled over and coughed with one hand over his mouth to hide his movements as he tucked his .45 against his hip, between himself and Joy. Sal, who was sitting across from them, put his gun under a Mexican magazine he had been reading. Soon it was their turn. With one of the bandits watching the rest of the car, three others approached their seats. The bandits were stereotypical, as though playing the role in a B-grade Western movie of the era. They were short, stocky, rough-looking, dirty, and stank like rotting meat. One of them had a black curly beard, and another a bushy black mustache. The third one had a livid scar down the side of his face. Joy suspected he shaved so that the scar would be prominent. A skinny boy, maybe in his early teens, nervously guarded the rest of the coach. He carried a rifle in addition to his pistol. Black Beard saw Joy sitting at the window and with raised eyebrows quietly studied her. Then he looked at John, and back to Joy. He

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turned his head to Mustache and said something in Spanish. Mustache nodded, and Black Beard looked back at Joy and made some laughing remarks. Joy glanced at Sal, across from her, and saw his face change from a look of surprise to angry red. Black Beard was the closest to her. Holding his gun loosely in one hand, he bent over and reached across John to feel her breasts. She shot him in the chest and John pushed his collapsing body into the other three bandits. Mustache tried to get clear of the dead man and bring his gun up. Joy exploded his head with a shot to the forehead and John shot Scar Face in the heart. Sal had his gun pointed at the boy; as he hesitated over shooting one so young, the boy brought his rifle around. John shot him as he almost had it pointed at Joy. Two more bandits rushed in from the vestibule behind them. Sal saw them and shot one in the chest, but the second got a shot off. It grazed John’s scalp. Joy whipped around and shot the bandit in the head. “Holy mother,” Sal exclaimed. John let out his breath with a Pheeeuu and looked around in disbelief. Six dead or near-dead bandits lay around the coach. “Okay,” John said, “no time for celebration. If Sal is right, there are still six or seven bandits in and around the train, and we now have a war on our hands. We have only a few minutes to take action.” Joy saw the blood on John’s head and blurted, “Shit, you’re wounded.” She pulled a handkerchief out of her purse and wiped his face and head, and was relieved to see that the bullet had only grazed his skin. While it bled a lot, as such wounds do, it was not serious. John took out his own handkerchief and wiped her blood-spattered face with it. She ignored him and reloaded her magnum from the box she carried in her purse. One of the passengers in the front of the coach, an American, approached them. He had a Derringer in one hand—a useless gun except at close range, and even then, his was only a one-shot. He started to go through the dead bandit’s pockets. “I’m after my wallet,” he said. John pointed his gun at him and told him to get back to his seat and stay there until this was over. Sal stood and yelled in Spanish, instructing everyone to get down on the floor and stay out of the aisle. At that moment, the bandits outside opened fire on their coach. Bullets whizzed by; window glass and pieces of wood flew. They dropped to the floor. “Just like an old Western movie,” John yelled.

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This was not the place Joy wanted to fight from, but surprisingly, John took the initiative. He hollered above the noise, “They can come at us from three directions. They can ride up to the windows on their horses and shoot at us inside. They can come down the coach cars from the front or come at us from the rear. We can’t wait for them to do that.” He looked at Sal. “Sal, you have a full magazine of eight rounds, minus one?” “Yes.” John looked at Joy. “You’ve got a box of fifty cartridges, minus the three you’ve reloaded, right baby?” “Right.” “I have nine left in my magazine, with another magazine in my coat pocket. Still, we can’t waste bullets. We also have these pistols the bandits were carrying, although I don’t know how many cartridges they have left.” Joy asked Sal to hand her the rifle the young bandit had been carrying. “This is a bolt action Springfield 03. They must have stolen this from the American Army.” She took out a magazine and checked it. “It’s got seven rounds.” Another volley of shots came through the sides and windows of the coach. Ducking down, John shouted, “I’ll cover us from the front coach vestibule. You take the back one, baby, and Sal, you try to get them from the windows. Keep them guessing by moving around.” I’ll be damned, Joy thought. He may not know how to throw a knife or aim a gun, but he’s a natural combat leader. John kissed her quickly and duck walked rapidly up the aisle. Joy lay on the seat and unbuttoned and removed her skirt and petticoat. They restricted her movement too much, especially if she had to use her knives or her hands. She also removed her hat, leaving on her blouse and her Old Universe white cotton panties. She took out fifteen cartridges from her box and put them in her handkerchief, twisted it, tied the ends in back of her neck, and unbuttoned the top of her blouse enough to let the handkerchief pouch hang over her locket inside. One last thing. She took her red headband out of her purse, turned it inside out to show a lightning bolt against a red background, and put it on. Then she waved goodbye to Sal, who had been watching her in amazement, and headed toward the rear vestibule. She knew that one of her most vivid memories of this battle, if she survived, would be Sal’s face when he saw her bare-legged, knives strapped to her hip and leg, armed with her magnum and the Springfield as she crept over the bodies of two dead bandits and into battle.

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There were no windows in the vestibule, just exits on both sides with three steps to the ground. Opposite Joy was the door to the next coach. She entered the vestibule just as a bandit was coming in from the outside. He hesitated, taken aback by how she looked, and she shot him in the head. He fell out of sight and another bandit rushed into the opening, shooting with pistols in both hands. He thought Joy was standing. She had dropped on the floor. She shot him in the chest. He screamed and fell away. With the .357 hollow points she was using, a body shot was as good as one between the eyes. Joy heard shots coming from the front of the coach, but she couldn’t take a chance on looking. What bandits she could see outside were just dismounting from their horses at what they thought was beyond handgun range. They lay down on their stomachs with their rifles. Clearly, they intended to wait them out until nightfall, and sneak up on them in the dark. Shit on that. She duck walked through the back two coaches, making sure they were free of bandits, and headed toward the caboose. The passengers all were aghast at the sight of an armed and half-clad woman creeping slowly past them, wisps of black hair falling over her face and her head no higher than the armrests. Just as she got to the last row of seats before the caboose, a bandit reared up from behind a seat with his rifle aimed at her. She threw herself forward and while still in the air got a shot off at him with the magnum. The hollow point blew his head apart. Joy landed and rolled. A bandit hidden between the seats across the aisle shot and missed; she came up, more hair whirling loose from her bun, and saw through the raven strands his gun, pointed at her. Throwing herself sideways, she shot him in the heart. His gun went off and a bullet dug a furrow in the floor. Joy dashed into the caboose and jumped over the trainman lying dead on the floor. She scurried out the rear, down the steps, and into a gully along the right side of the rails, zigzagging down the gully to avoid flying bullets. When she was out of range, she ran up a little hill that overlooked the train and the bandits lying on the ground facing it, keeping the rifle along her left side and pointed down so that the bandits wouldn’t see it. Since her legs were bare, she wanted them to think that she was trying to escape a rape. One of the bandits rushed to his horse. No fun letting a woman get away, he must have thought. This was just what Joy wanted. She im-

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mediately fell on her stomach, hastily wound the rifle sling around her left arm to anchor it, planted her elbows solidly, and sighted the Springfield carefully on the man now riding toward her. She slowly pulled the trigger. The rifle went off with satisfying recoil and the bandit slumped forward and slowly fell off the horse. She jerked the rifle’s bolt back and forth to reset another cartridge, sighted on one of the three bandits lying down facing the train, picked him off, and with rapid bolt action she picked off the other two in succession. The last one ran for his horse, and she brought him down as he tried to jump on it. Joy ran down to the dead bandits to get their rifles. One was not dead yet, and rolled toward her, pistol in hand. She shot him in the chest with her magnum. She picked up their rifles and ran to the coach with them in her arms. When she got to the front vestibule of their coach, she threw them in with a loud clatter and shouted for John. When he stuck his head out she yelled, “Here’s their rifles. Pin the bandits down on the other side of the train.” Joy had only a few rounds left in the Springfield. She picked out another rifle and rapidly checked its magazine—five rounds left. John yelled at her, “Wait, I’m going with you.” She released the knot holding her handkerchief pouch of cartridges to her neck, quickly reloaded her magnum. Finished, she shouted, “Don’t be stupid. I need you to keep their heads down. Sal isn’t enough.” “No.” Retying the handkerchief with the remaining cartridges around her neck, she yelled, “Goddam it, I know what I’m doing. It’s riskier with two of us. Stay and shoot.” Without waiting for a response, she ran up the train toward the engine as Sal, and then John, returned to shooting at the bandits. Rifle in one hand, her magnum pointed in front of her, Joy ran around the train’s engine and into the gully on the other side of the tracks. The remaining bandits hadn’t seen her. She moved down the gully about five hundred feet. Crouching, she climbed out of the gully and tried to come up on the bandits’ flank. She couldn’t move behind them for fear of being accidentally shot by John and Sal. As Joy crept toward the bandits, she heard their voices. They were still too far away for her to shoot them and she had no high ground. She got down on her stomach and shoved the magnum down the back of her panties to rest on her rear; she turned the pouch of cartridges to rest on

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her back, and did the same with her locket. Then, with the rifle in the crook of her arms, her chin almost dragging on the baked earth, she slithered on her elbows toward the voices. She softly gasped several times as she badly scratched her legs and stomach, but this was the only way. Joy heard shots from the train, and loud shouts from the bandits, doubtless choice words that it was just as well she didn’t understand. Sliding forward little by little, she finally saw the bandits lying on the ground in a slight depression, facing the train. Their horses were about one hundred feet away, hitched to some desert shrubs. The bandits were arguing about something and gesturing at the train. Keeping her elbow down and one cheek on the ground, she inched her magnum out from the back of her panties, gripped it with two hands, and with her chin now propped on the ground, she aimed and gently squeezed the trigger. Bang. The closest bandit threw up his hands and collapsed backwards. She shot again but missed the second one when he jerked away. Stupid, she thought as he raised himself to run. She shot him in the side. The third bandit got up on his knees and was bringing his rifle to bear on her when he suddenly jerked, screamed, dropped his rifle, and fell sideways at the same time she heard a rifle shot from the train. Joy was not going to take a chance of being shot by friendly fire. She slowly got up and waved her rifle at the train while keeping her eyes on the bandits’ bodies. Now certain she was recognized, she cautiously approached them. The one she’d shot in the side was still alive, watching her. His organs were peeking out of the large exit wound the hollow point created, and his slow, painful death was certain. She pointed her magnum at his heart, drew her finger across her throat, and looked at him with raised eyebrows. Pain distorted his voice as he croaked in mixed English and Spanish, “You ángel el vengarse?” Joy thought he was asking if she were an avenging angel. He lay back and relaxed, and with a resigned expression weakly pointed to his chest. Joy shot him. She stood shakily and stared at the three bodies. It’s over. I can’t believe it. She pulled her locket around to her front and rested the rifle against her leg. Holding the magnum loosely in her hand, she opened the locket

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and kissed the picture of her mother. Her voice husky, she said aloud so that her mother’s soul could hear, “Thanks for the training, Mom.” Joy closed the locket and let it hang outside her blouse. She twisted the handkerchief pouch with the cartridges around to her front and when it touched her right breast, she discovered that it was painfully bruised. Shifting the handkerchief to her left, she opened it and again reloaded her magnum. Rifle and magnum hanging loosely in each hand, she took several steps toward the train then slowed to a stop as her legs began to shake uncontrollably. Oh my God, am I tired. She was feeling the steep energy collapse as the adrenaline drained from her body. She was also bleeding from numerous scratches and had a nasty cut on her stomach that she hadn’t noticed until now. The pain in her right breast felt like a rib had been broken. Her white blouse and panties were dirty gray and blood-spattered. Her elbows were rubbed raw. Her long hair was all over the place, several thick strands hanging over her face, her headband almost hidden by them. Her knife sheaths stood out like bands of blood on her dirty leg and hip. But Joy had been tested, survived, and won a warrior’s battle. I can’t say I’m happy, she thought. I’m . . . pleased. Yes, that’s the right word. Pleased. A crowd of passengers had already left the train and more were descending the steps from the vestibules. John and Sal rushed toward her, still carrying their own guns. John got to her first, and lifted her up in his arms and carried her to the train. As they passed through the crowd, people started clapping and several of the men tried to approach and thank her. Sal refused to let any of them near and roughly made way through the crowd for John and Joy. When they got to their seats and John put her down, Sal brought her skirt and petticoat. She was sprawled against the window. John stood looking at her in amazement, as though she had turned into a fire-breathing dragon. John at last broke the spell, and wet his shirt with water from their jug. He tried to clean Joy’s scratches and cuts. He said not a word. Sal finally emerged from his own paralysis, and went to check on the train’s engineer. When John finished cleaning her, he gave her a long kiss, which elicited more clapping from people watching them from both vestibules. Holding her shoulders and looking her in the eyes, he said in mock gruffness, “Show-off. Anyway, what took you so long?” “I’ll remember that,” she mumbled.

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The banter suddenly went out of him. He pulled her to him and held her so tightly Joy could hardly breathe. Her breast hurt. “I love you,” he said. “I thought I lost you. I love you so much.” She kissed him in return then, realizing they were still being watched, she pulled back and murmured, “I’m a wreck. I had better get dressed.” Joy pushed John away when he tried to help her dress. She found the pins she had taken out of her hair, pinned it up into something she hoped resembled a bun, and put her wide-brimmed, flowery hat on it. Sal came back about fifteen minutes later and said that the engineer and coalman were dead, and he couldn’t find anyone who knew how to operate the train. Sal looked at Joy and quipped, “You don’t know how to operate the train, do you?” She couldn’t even smile. John muttered something about being surprised, and suggested that he would take one of the bandits’ horses and ride up the line until he found a station from which he could call for Mexican troops. Weakly, Joy objected, “No. Sal and I are going also.” “Are you crazy? You rest here with Sal while I go.” “Not on your life. I’m going and so is Sal.” John gave her a long look, sighed, threw up his hands and said, “You’re hopeless. Let’s go.” He and Sal got their things together and found their luggage. Sal explained to the people nearby what they were going to do and asked them to tell the others. They rounded up three of the bandits’ horses, and John and Sal tied their luggage on one. John got up on the biggest horse, and told Joy to get up behind him. Joy was too exhausted to argue any longer. She put up her hand, and he pulled her up behind the saddle. She circled him with her arms for support and rested her head on his back. Two hours later, they found a police post beside a railroad crossing and little train station. By then Joy had some of her energy back. Sal told the policemen, as John translated his Spanish for Joy, “Our train was attacked by bandits. The trainmen are all dead.” They called their captain. The captain came galloping up on his horse about fifteen minutes later. Sal repeated the story and added in Spanish, “There were sixteen bandits altogether.” That was the number John and Sal agreed on while on the way. “They were going through the train, stealing everything people had. They are all dead now.”

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The captain looked surprised. “All sixteen?” “Si.” “I didn’t know Federal soldiers were around here,” the captain said. “Do you know who commanded them?” “There were no troops,” John responded in Spanish. Joy didn’t know what he said, but she recognized his patented mischievous grin. She watched the captain’s face for his reaction. He looked confused. “How did they all die?” the captain asked. John and Sal had been waiting for this. Both of them pointed at Joy, who at that moment looked liked she had been gang raped and abandoned. Looking glib, Sal said in flippant Spanish, “She killed them.” The captain looked at Joy in utter disbelief. At that moment she didn’t look like she could fight off a child. His expression grew knowing, and with half a grin, he repeated, “She killed them?” “Si,” John and Sal said, now with unmistakable pride in their voices. John added in English, “We killed three. She got thirteen.” Playing along with what he thought was a joke, his grin even wider, the captain asked in English, “She killed thirteen?” “Si,” John answered, somewhat tartly. Joy put her hand over her heart and tried to look demure. She whispered, hoarse with fatigue, “Me? Look at me, captain. How could I possibly kill a chicken? They’re joking.” With that the captain laughed uproariously, and said in English, “Of course.” He told Sal that he would send an engineer and troops, and that they could wait for the train in the station. Sounding a little irritated, Sal responded, “Thanks, we will.” John lifted Joy off his horse, and Sal turned all the horses over to the captain. With the help of one of the captain’s men, he lugged their suitcases into the station. John had carried Joy there already and had laid her down on a hard bench with her head on his lap. Joy was asleep in half a second. The train arrived about four hours later, the noise of its arrival waking Joy. She felt much better. She walked with John and Sal toward their coach, but were stopped by an outpouring of passengers who surrounded them. John told her they were being thanked for what they did. A troop of Mexican soldiers gently pushed the passengers back and formed a line leading to their coach. They were the ones who had been sent to the train, and saw the bodies. The passengers had told them what happened.

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The captain, now very solemn and apologetic looking, walked up to Sal and said, “The passengers have taken up a collection for your beautiful Amazon, and asked that I give it to her. Would you please explain while I hand this to her?” He turned around to the man behind him, who passed him the box. He took it, turned stiffly, and offered it to Joy with a bow while Sal explained that it contained thank-you gifts from the passengers. Joy took the box and looked around at the crowd. They looked back at her expectantly. What could she say? Most of them were poor Indians and peons probably visiting their relatives, with a few obvious middle-class Mexicans mixed into the crowd. Joy opened the box, and amidst coins and Mexican pesos were little figurines and homemade art objects that she knew would be precious to their owners. She held the box close to her, bowed to them all, and said in the only Spanish she knew, her voice breaking, “Gracias, mis amigos. Gracias mucho— Thanks, my friends. Thanks much.” They clapped and the captain turned to his men and said, “Attention. Salute these warriors.” As the two lines of Mexican soldiers saluted them, Joy, John, and Sal walked between them to their coach. Tears ran down Joy’s cheeks, and John and Sal’s eyes glittered.

aaa Joy didn’t recover her energy until they returned home. That surprised her. This had been her first serious combat and she had thought beforehand that her conditioning through regular jogging and martial arts practice would, barring wounds, see her through short-lived combat without loss of energy. John calculated later that the whole affair with the bandits, from the time the train stopped until the last bandit’s death, had taken about thirty minutes. She felt afterward as if it had been twenty-four hours. She had not counted on the effect of the chemicals flooding her body in response to the danger, or what absolute focus and the total alertness of combat would do to her when it was over. Yes, I was cool and composed throughout, she thought back later, but fear was there like a dim shadow, ready to show itself if invited. The cut on her stomach became infected during the trip back, and John got increasingly worried about it. As soon as they got home, he rushed to their medical capsule and treated it with an antibacterial

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ointment and gave her a shot of penicillin. Joy put the ointment on his head wound as well and he strongly protested as she cut his red mop around it to do so. For several weeks he wore a golf cap at the office. Of course they planned with Sal to get together with Jy-ying, Hands, and Dolphy as soon as they could to brief them on the trip. But beforehand, Joy and John decided the wall between Jy-ying and Sal was getting bothersome. Joy talked to Jy-ying and John to Sal about it. Jy-ying told Joy, “Regardless, for the sake of the company, my friendship with you and John, and our mission, I’ll try to put our broken relationship behind me.” Sal was the most difficult As John told Joy, he was almost in tears as he’d said, “I thought she was perfect for me and I was falling in love with her. It hurts. But I’m a big man. There are billions of chicks. Anyway, you know these Chinese gals—flighty, so insecure they can’t stand a real man.” “Don’t let Joy hear you say that.” Sal smiled. “She’s different, you know—Sino-Vietnamese, she keeps telling us.” Sal perked up. “That reminds me. I told Dolphy and Hands nothing about what happened on the train. Let me handle that.” When they all gathered in John’s apartment, Jy-ying and Sal still refused to sit near each other at the dinner table. Sal had brought with him a Spanish newspaper and a self-satisfied expression on his face. Joy glanced askance at Jy-ying and saw her dour expression. She was hugging Little Wei to her on her lap and he seemed happy with the attention. What’s with her? Joy asked herself. She’s the one who broke up with Sal, and it’s been quite a while. Once they were settled and Joy had given Jy-ying tea and the rest of them cold Anchor Steam beer, Sal held up his hand to stop their idle conversation about the temperature in Mexico. He slowly opened the newspaper and pointed to the large, bold, front page headline. Only John and he could read it. Sal exclaimed, “Well, what do you know? Isn’t this amazing. I’ll be doggoned.” Dolphy urged in exasperation, “Get on with it, Sal. Enough of the elephant cr . . . patties. What’s it say?” Sal hesitated. “Okay, if you really want me to read this from the Sol de Durango—” Before Hands could slap his shoulder, Sal started freely translating the double column news item.

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AMERICAN WOMAN ANNIHILATES BANDIT GANG Durango, September 26, 1908. An American woman exterminated the famous Toraido gang that has been operating in Durango for ten years. Twenty-five members of the gang, including Toraido himself, were found in and around the train by Federal troops after the woman’s companions directed them to the stalled train. The gang killed three of the trainmen. Passengers said that the woman shot several of the gang members when they were aboard the train. Then she decided to fight the bandits on their own ground. She prepared herself by taking off her clothes in order to distract them and jumped from the train, guns blazing. Passengers who saw the battle from their train windows say that, armed with a rifle and a pistol, the woman ran nude from one side of the train to the other in a hail of bullets, shooting the gang members down one by one. She had numerous wounds. One shot grazed her stomach. After she killed the last bandit, her wounds were so serious that she had to be carried back to the train by her companion. As passengers averted their eyes, her companions treated her wounds and dressed her. The names of the woman and her companions are unknown. Governor Cesar Velasco of Durango has asked for help in finding this incredible woman so he can present her with a gold medal and make her an honorary citizen of the state. With a smirk, Sal stopped reading and waited. Hands asked, “So?” “You must have been on the train, “Dolphy said with interest. “Did you see all this stuff happen?” Sal just sat looking smug. Joy glanced at John, and he looked smugger. Where do men get this look? Joy wondered. Dolphy looked at Sal, at John, and finally at Joy’s utterly innocent expression. He looked away for a moment, did a double take, and looked back at her sharply. With growing amazement he pointed at her and said, “Joy?” Hands said, “No! Our Joy?” Sal nodded haughtily, and Joy saw John’s smirk cleave his face.

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Dolphy exclaimed, “Well, I’ll be God . . . darned.” He and Hands sat there staring at her. Finally Hands said, “Nude, eh. Any pictures?” “I’m selling them for ten cents each,” Sal said, laughing. “What? Only ten cents each?” Joy said, straight-faced. “You have no sense of value, Sal.” Hands replied, “What? Ten cents? Way overpriced. I’ll give you two cents.” Joy gave Hands a look that frosted his eyebrows. John could not let this opportunity go by. “Actually,” he said, “the story was incorrect. It was so hot she rode naked the whole trip. And when she ran outside to fight the gang, she only had a .22 caliber handgun. And the count is wrong. There were fifty of them.” This all was too much for Joy. She punched John in the shoulder and banged Sal on the head. He cringed and yelled, “Help! Keep her away from me.” Hands only got away by leaping off his chair. “Are you guys having fun?” she asked. “Really, there were only sixteen of them, and I only shot thirteen. And without Sal and John, I couldn’t have done anything. They set it up for me and kept the bandits’ heads down so that I could . . . ” Suddenly realizing what she was admitting to, she finished lamely, “. . . help.” She felt her face get hot. “Yes,” John said in a pseudo-serious voice, “it is nice having a woman along who can give us men some . . . help.” Joy punched him again and they all broke up in laughter. John and Sal then told Hands and Dolphy the whole story. Joy noted that Jy-ying had been surprisingly quiet throughout the exchange. Joy winked at her. Jy-ying gently put sleeping Little Wei on the floor and got up and came around the table. She put one hand on Joy’s shoulder, and her head close to Joy’s ear. She whispered huskily, “Congratulations, Joy. You are a true warrior and you do us proud. Let’s get together whenever.” Squeezing Joy’s shoulder, she added, “I would like to hear the details. I have much to learn from you.”

aaa When they were alone in bed that night, Joy and John talked about their battle with the bandits. Joy remembered each shot, her position during each phase of the battle, what the desert felt like under her feet and stomach, and even the heat of the sun on her back. She was like a

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tennis pro who, when asked about her winning volley in a second set tiebreaker, can recall it exactly. John asked, “Did you know what the black bearded bandit said when he was looking at you in the coach?” “No, and why should I care?” “I don’t know. I had forgotten about it until Sal brought it up. He said, ‘Ella es la’—she is the one.” “I am the one what?” “I don’t know. Maybe he meant something like ‘She is the one we should rape.’ Or, ‘The one to save for later.’ Whatever. Who can read the minds of those savages, anyway?” Joy waved the whole question away. John was quiet for several seconds as Joy cuddled up to him. His body was pleasantly warm in the cooling evening air. He asked, “Have you ever killed someone before we were attacked?” “No,” Joy murmured. “Have you ever seen a person killed before? “No, “ she sighed. I wanna sleep. “Have you ever seen a dead body before?” “No.” She put a finger on his lips. “I’m sleepy.” He took her finger away from his lips and whispered, “You’re so beautiful and so feminine. You’re a passionate and loving woman. Nothing cold or steely about you at all. Yet, and I can’t get over this, you killed those bandits with cold calculation, without hesitation, without a tear, as though you were a professional executioner. Even Sal hesitated before killing the boy, and I couldn’t shoot him until he looked like he was going to shoot us.” He stopped for a moment and she felt him shift to his side, brush her hair back from her face, and lift himself to one elbow. She opened one eye a slit to see him staring at her. “What ya want?” “You killed thirteen bandits. Thirteen. And afterward you acted as though you had pulled up a patch of weeds. This is no criticism or complaint, baby, God forbid. But it’s just that I’m having difficulty bringing the two sides of you together.” Joy opened both eyes, pulled his hand from under his head, and watched his head flop onto the pillow. “Okay. I don’t sleep; nobody sleeps.” Joy really hadn’t given this any thought, but he was right about the

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cold-mindedness. So she did think about it, and after a few moments she responded, “I have been trained through countless repetitive moves to disarm or disable when attacked and to kill if my life is threatened. It’s almost as automatic as breathing. But as far as my emotions or tears are concerned, these bandits were to me like all the actual or potential mass murderers we will have to deal with. They were like those that murdered my mother’s and Gu’s husbands, and tens of millions more. I was not sorry to have killed them. Not at all. They were evil and I was happy to rid the world of them.” John nodded, but they had been so close now for over two years that Joy could sense a new reserve in him. As though trying to cover it, he took her in his arms and said, “I guess I was as cold-blooded. I suppose it’s kind of sexist. Men are the warriors and our culture expects them to go into battle and climb over the dead and dying with cold eyes and fierce concentration. It’s just that I have difficulty seeing my loving and feminine partner being such a warrior.” He paused, and she could see his eyes getting moist. “Anyway, sweetheart, again you saved yourself from sexual slavery and death. And you saved the lives of Sal and me. He and I had talked about this. We knew what would happen to you if they took you off the train. If they had tried to do that, we would have died shooting, but each of us would have saved one bullet for you. Do you understand that one or both of us would have shot you dead before we died?” Joy put her head on his shoulder and he put his arm around her. “I’d have done the same for you, my dearest. It is the very greatest we can do for each other.” He continued, “Thanks to you, we are all alive, my sweetheart. And thanks to your training, and to your mother. She was right. The world can be an ugly place and someday, you did need the training.” Joy idly moved a finger through his orange chest hair. “We are now even, you know. We’ve saved each other’s life.” “How did I save your life?” “I’m surprised you’ve forgotten. In the warehouse. I was just about to kill myself. You stopped me.” John pulled her head off his chest, turned on his side, and put his hands on both sides of her face. He brought her eyes close to his and, looking into them, he said, “You know, baby, I am the luckiest man alive.” Joy kissed him and told him the truth. “My dearest, you are no

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luckier than I am. And the bandits? I could not have done what I did without you and Sal. Honestly.” John lay back with his arm around her and she lay on his shoulder. She waited patiently and he began to snore. She gave him another minute, and poked him hard in the ribs. He jerked awake. “Huh? What?” “I didn’t say ‘Good night,’ dearest,” she purred, and was soon asleep before he fell asleep again. She put that Mexican newspaper article in her scrapbook the next day. John never complained about her training methods again. And after finding out that he was a natural combat leader, she never again felt like being sarcastic about his efforts to learn.

Chapter 24 Jy-ying

J

y-ying and Janet had been corresponding with each other regularly, conveying through hints and innuendo the progress of their personal mission to save Sabah. As to their secondary goal to promote decolonization and democracy, they could write about that openly. But as soon as Jy-ying found out about Joy’s safe return from Mexico, she did not want Janet to remain ignorant of it until a letter from Jy-ying arrived weeks later. A day after Joy and John’s return from Mexico, Jy-ying sent Janet a personal telegram. Dear Janet: Thank you for your help on my little project. Did not work out. Have other ideas. Keep in touch. Jy-ying Jy-ying knew from talking to Joy that in 1909 she and John would make their next intervention in Japan, but Joy had been unclear about their subsequent moves. Japan offered Jy-ying no opportunity to have Joy killed. She had no contacts there outside of the company office that Joy was setting up, and being Chinese, her traveling secretly to Japan would probably be fruitless, if not too hard to hide. But if their intervention also involved a trip to China, that surely would be the end of Joy. Still, Jy-ying reminded herself, there was no need to hurry this. She would know when they would try to eliminate Sabah’s parents or kill him. At that point, Jy-ying could kill Joy herself. As to John, he turned her on whenever they all got together. He obviously loved Joy, and Jy-ying envied the special attention John gave her during their meetings or socials. So Jy-ying had made no overt move, except to show wide-eyed interest in whatever he said. She was increasingly lonely in spite of Little Wei, but that was not why she would now seduce John. She told herself it wasn’t because he was a

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man she hungered for, but because he was . . . John. And he and Joy were not married. It wasn’t as though she would be seducing Joy’s husband. The next day, she went to Joy and John’s offices and asked their secretary, Agnes Hammond, if she could see John. She looked up at Jy-ying in surprise and immediate appraisal. Jyying had been careful to cultivate good relations with her, and had given her an inexpensive carving of a dragon for her birthday. Her expression changed from appraisal to approval. “Don’t you look scrumptious,” Agnes said, raising a finger and waving it in a circle. “How do you keep the men away? And for a moment there, I thought you were Joy. You two should each wear a different colored ribbon on your wrists.” Jy-ying had studied Joy’s dress and hairstyles, and tried to be as different as possible while maintaining a certain decorum. She wore her favorite yellow and black Chinese cheongsam with red accents. It had a modest slit halfway to the knee—any more and she would look like a Chinese whore. It was open at the neck to display a jade necklace. She wore no hat. And while Joy was currently wearing her hair piled up and fluffed out in a Gibson girl look, Jy-ying had spent half an hour combing and brushing her long hair. She paid special attention to parting it so that it framed her face like an open curtain before falling to her shoulders and down her back to her waist. She knew how risqué she already looked. In this age women let their hair down just before their lover took them to bed or as a bold hint that he should. But this was the company and people close to Joy and John, as Agnes was, knew John, Joy, and Jy-ying were counterculture. Anyway, John was from Jy-ying’s time; she wasn’t trying to make it with some man from this age. Jy-ying had spent more time brushing Little Wei’s hair, resolving by the time she was through to only adopt a short-haired dog next time. She put a shiny new red collar around his neck and stepped back from him to get a good look at the result. He wagged his tail and looked back at her with his round black eyes, the tip of his little red tongue sticking out of his mouth. She told him, “You are quite a handsome fellow, you know.” Now, responding to Agnes, Jy-ying said, “I have an important meeting with an exporter after seeing John.” She laughed. “I am trying to seduce a concession out of him.” Agnes twittered. “Careful John doesn’t mistake you for Joy.”

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“Would that be bad?” The secretary rose behind her desk, leaned toward Jy-ying, put her open palm next to her mouth, and whispered, “Joy would kill you.” Jy-ying thought, She could only wish. Instead she said, “I hope that she doesn’t get any mistaken ideas.” “Well, I won’t be passing on any,” Agnes whispered with a conspiratorial grin. She waved at John’s door. “Just knock and go in. I’m sure he won’t mind, if it’s you.” Jy-ying stepped to John’s office door and knocked, opened it, looked in, and said, “Can I come in?” “Yes, why do you ask?” Jy-ying entered with a smile. John looked up from the ledger on his desk and asked with a little exasperation, “Baby, what are you doing? And why are you dressed like that?” “I’m Jy-ying.” John gaped. When he recovered, he explained, “I’m sorry, Jy-ying. The lighting beyond my desk is not too good and you kind of look like her.” He chuckled self-consciously, and reddened as he took in her dress and hair when she approached the desk. Little Wei walked around the desk and stood up to put his paws on top of John’s leg. Thankful for the distraction, John gave him a couple of scratches behind the ears. “Hi Little Wei.” He looked at Jy-ying. “Ahh, what’s up?” “I don’t mind the endearment,” Jy-ying said sweetly. “What endearment?” “Baby.” John got redder. She sat on a padded office chair next to the desk, letting the slit in her dress show more of her leg. He now considered her their friend and partner, and she didn’t have to wait for his invitation to sit. Here goes. Plan A, tactic 1A. Clasping her hands on her lap and sitting straight, she told him, “I know we are getting close to our intervention regarding the Japanese colonization of Korea. And soon after that we will intervene in my former homeland—I really consider myself American, now. But,” and she looked down at her hands and softened her voice, “I’m so ignorant of history. All my studies have been technical. I really don’t understand what we are doing—the history of it.” She tilted her head and looked at him from under her lashes. “I really want to understand.”

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John’s face was recovering its normal pale hue. “Joy can fill you in. Have you asked her?” “Well, I have talked to her and she knows so much more than I do.” She hesitated, looked up and directly into his eyes. “I do not want to take anything away from her. She is so good at what she does. But, she does not have your knowledge and insight into history, and that is what I need.” John seemed to mull that over. “I suppose we could get together to go over our chronology of future events and I can give you the background on them, and their relationship to our mission.” “Oh, would you? That would be so nice.” John furrowed his brow and rubbed his hands together. “There is so much there; I’ll need more than just an afternoon. Let’s see, how can we do this?” He mulled it over. “Hmm. Joy and I always eat lunch together, so that time is out. I have some stuff here, but I’ll need what I have at home, and I don’t want to bring that to work. Well, let’s try this. Why don’t you come down to our apartment in the evening about seven, and we can spend some time on it, and do as many evenings as you need to catch up on this.” “That is so nice of you, John. But my humble brain is muddled by evening. I am a morning person, and will fall asleep over anything so deep in the evening. May I make a suggestion?” “Why, yes.” “You are so patient with me. Since Joy and I sometimes spar on Monday morning, maybe we can set aside that time on the other weekdays for me to be your pupil.” “No, we have been using some of that time for Joy’s training of me. That and part of the weekends. I’ll tell you what. If your eyes won’t glaze over, how about three days in a row in the afternoon, beginning tomorrow at three. If we need more than three days, I’ll put them aside.” Jy-ying beamed at him. “Oh, you’re so kind. How can I ever thank you?”

aaa Joy While they were eating their usual takeout of egg foo young, stuffed tofu, and vegetables from the Kin Wah Restaurant in New

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China Town—Joy prepared the hot rice—John commented, “I don’t know whether Jy-ying told you, but I will be teaching her history in the late afternoon for the next three days, at least.” “She told me.” Her lips tight, she roughly split the stuffed tofu on the center plate with her chopsticks and put half on top of the rice in her bowl. With her chopsticks she picked that up with a dollop of rice and with such concentration it might have been her last meal, she put it all in her mouth, chewed three times, and swallowed. Is he really so stupid? she wondered. She put her rice bowl down and looked up at John, trying to read his expression. He cut his egg foo young with a fork and put it in his mouth. He picked up some rice with his fork and shoveled that in behind it and chewed it all while looking at her, his eyes so bland he could have been watching a detergent commercial. Swallowing, he twiddled his fork at her and in a flat voice explained, “She needs it to understand what we are doing—our interventions—so she can help us better.” “I gathered that,” Joy responded, her tone even flatter. “We’ll be doing it here, since most of what I need will be here. Ahh, in mid-afternoon.” “I assumed so,” she replied, as crisp as burnt toast. John took the other half of the stuffed tofu, put rice in his mouth and the tofu in after it. After chewing and swallowing, he asked, “Is something wrong?” “Whatever gave you that idea?” She brought her rice bowl up to her mouth and scooped the rest of her rice into it with chopsticks until not a grain remained. She shoved her dining chair back with a scraping noise, sprang up, grabbed her plate and bowl, and dumped them into the sink with a clatter. She turned around, propped one hand on the sink, put the other hand on her outthrust hip, and glared at him. She didn’t try to keep the icicles out of her voice. “I was coming out of my office and saw what she looked like when she went into yours. She could have been on her way to a Chinese beauty contest. She has the hots for you, John, and you stupidly helped her set up her seduction ploy.” John looked amused. “Baby, she dropped in to see me before an important appointment she had with a Chinese exporter, so Agnes said, and—” “She is my assistant, John. She had no appointment.” As though answering a student’s inane question, John replied, “Well, Jy-ying must have got it wrong. Number one: she needs to be

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given the historical background on our interventions. She will be able to help us all the better. Number two: she has to know how much I love you, that I would do anything for you. And conversely, I would do nothing to hurt you. Ever! Number three: I love you. And number four, I’m not some teenage boy, a walking hard-on whose quest is only interrupted occasionally for food and sleep.” He gave Joy a big smile at his metaphor. She glared at him. “She looks like me, John. You could easily, very easily, think she was me. She is a trained agent, a former spy. I bet she could have you believing she was me and lead you by your . . . nose into her bed. No, our bed, since it will be afternoon. Jesus, John.” Joy took a long, growling breath. John was beginning to look like he had swallowed a spoonful of vinegar. He raised an eyebrow and his face hardened. “Yes, I remember in the Old Universe the first time you came to my university office and our ride to your mother’s dinner party. You vamped me and that’s why—well, almost why—I’m here. But that doesn’t take away my love for you.” He slapped the table, just missing his plate, and glared in return. “Enough of this, Joy! You’ve insulted my love, my heart, my loyalty, my steadfastness, my intelligence, my man—” “Cut the crap,” Joy spat. John ignored her. “In short, I see beneath your ambiguous rhetoric and its elusive meaning. I deduce that you don’t trust me. I wish you would stop beating around the bush.” She glowered at him. “This isn’t funny, John.” John went on inexorably, “And I would have thought by now that you would trust me in a room full of naked virgins, beckoning me with various parts of their bodies.” Joy could not help envisioning that and fought down the mirth trying to bubble up. She was not about to be humored on this. John continued relentlessly. “I was going to cancel this thing with Jy-ying so as not to worry you when, with my typical insight, I saw how you interpreted it. But now I’m going to go ahead. Just to show you what a granite rock I am about my love for you.” He stood and picked up the empty food dishes. Bumping Joy aside with his hip, he dropped them in the sink and ran hot water on them. As Joy scowled, he started washing the dishes. She stomped out of the kitchen and refused to say another word to him the rest of the evening. When she got into bed that night, she lay with her back toward him, and as close to the edge of the bed as possible without falling off.

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He tapped her on the shoulder. “Sweetheart, let’s talk.” He talked to her back and soon she turned around and nodded, and sighed with relief.

aaa Jy-ying Jy-ying moved her arm carefully as she got ready for her meeting with John. During sparring this morning, Joy had put an unusually hard twist on her arm during a throw. She had apologized afterward, and Jyying told her to forget it. Still, it hurt, and now she could hardly lift it above her head. Now that she had gotten this far, Jy-ying decided subtlety was best. She would wait a meeting or so before brushing against him and initiating the first gentle kiss. Unless, of course, he shows more interest. She dressed in her comfortable Chinese house clothes—baggy gray slacks and long blue shirt with short, wide sleeves—but she still brushed her hair and let it fall free. She also brushed Little Wei and dressed him in his black collar for a change. At five minutes after three—mustn’t seem too eager—she left her apartment, descended the stairs, and knocked on John’s door. He opened the door and waved her in with a big flourish, wearing a huge smile that almost split his head in half. She stood at the door for a moment, stunned. He only had his robe on and it was open to the waist; she could see his reddish chest hair and his belly button. He seemed totally naked underneath. “Hello, hello,” he bellowed. “Whatcha waiting for, Jy? Come in,” and he whispered, “said the naked virgin to her boyfriend.” He laughed uproariously. Confused by John’s dress and behavior, she followed Little Wei into the living room. John ostentatiously locked the door and followed close behind her. She didn’t know whether to sit on their new gondola couch in the living room or at the dining room table for her lessons, and turned to see what he wanted her to do. He was close behind her when she turned, and said with his smile undiminished, “Here we are. You and me. Alone. Shall we get right to it?” Perplexed, she asked, “Where do you want me to sit?” “Sit? Is that how you screw? Sitting? Well, that’s something new. I’m willing to try anything!”

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“Screw? I do not understand.” John leered. “Fuck.” Jy-ying could not have been more shocked if she had put her finger in an electric light fixture. She stood gasping, trying to clear her mind, her hand over her mouth. Beyond her control, the words tumbled through her fingers. “How could you? What kind of woman do you think I am? What kind of man are you, trying to cheat on Joy?” John ignored her and crooned, “Oh Jy, to bed. Oh, to bed we go. I have a camera set up.” He grabbed her arm as though to lead her to the bedroom. She pulled away and stared at him. “What are you doing?” He gave her a lascivious grin. “I want to see your asshole Jy; that turns me on.” “You are crude.” Then she heard, “He’s not as crude as I am, honey.” Jy-ying jerked her head around, and saw Joy leaning against the bedroom doorjamb. She had a sexy grin on her face similar to John’s leer, and she was dressed in her own robe, also open past her navel, with one breast almost showing. Little Wei had run over to Joy and was jumping up and down on her robe. Joy leaned over to pet him, her breast almost slipping free of the robe, while keeping her smile and eyes on Jy-ying. Jy-ying could not believe this. She gaped bug-eyed at John and back to Joy. Unconsciously, she put her hand back on her cheek, where it seemed to be spending most of its time. She couldn’t get the words out. Little Wei scampered back to Jy-ying, looked up at her, sat on his haunches, and barked once. That helped. She brought her hand down, stiffened her back, and thrust out her chin. Her eyes narrowed and she closed her mouth and compressed it into a thin line as she composed herself. She huffed, “I am not that kind of person. I’m shocked—” She ran out of words. John was laughing so hard he could hardly stand up. Laughing as well, Joy came over and put her hand on Jy-ying’s shoulder. She instinctively pulled away. With an apologetic grin, Joy said, “We got you, Jy-ying. Come sit down at the table and we’ll tell you what’s going on.” She gently pulled Jy-ying to the table and pulled out a chair for her. She and John tightened their robes around themselves and sat down as well. Joy and John looked at each other, still amused.

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As if by mutual agreement, John spoke first. “I love Joy and would do nothing to hurt her. I am unavailable. I can understand, however, why you want to seduce me. Were I a woman, I would—” “John!” John grinned at Joy, and continued. “Our little act was our way of showing you that we know what you were trying to do, and I am not seducible. Also, I tell Joy everything.” Jy-ying felt her face getting red hot. Her rage boiled up. She looked at Joy and let her fury show. Joy had stopped laughing and looked at her calmly. “I know that you want him. I know that you were trying to seduce him, although today was only the beginning. I don’t blame you. He is a lovable man.” John looked smug. Her eyes narrowed to slits and her voice became lethal. “But he is mine. I love him with all my heart. I would die for him, and with our mission, maybe sometime I will. Without an iota of regret.” Joy reached across the table and took Jy-ying’s stiff hand. She smiled and relaxed her eyes. “I want you to continue to work for us, for me. I want you to continue to be our partner. I hope you’re not too insulted to forgive us for our little play. True, it was at your expense. But after all, you were trying to seduce my man.” John waited a moment, as if hoping for more of these delicious words. He finally added, “If I spurned your hints or outright suggestions, Jy-ying, if I simply told you I was not available, you might have thought you could eventually break down my resistance. It might have been a challenge to you. I think that you are like Joy in that a ‘no’ is a wall to scale. You are beautiful, with a great body, and I’m sure you know that, since you seem to emphasize its best parts. You might have thought yourself irresistible in time. So, our stupid play was just to convince you that I am unavailable. But other than that, I want to continue to work with you. We both like you as a person; we have much in common. We enjoy your company. And above all, you have been helpful to our mission.” He put out his hand to shake hers. Jy-ying’s emotions swirled through her stomach and muddled her thoughts. She was angry. She was insulted. She felt guilty over what she had intended to do with John, over her deceiving them, and over what she eventually intended to do to Joy. She was a trained warrior; she was a security officer; she was a spy; and she was ashamed. The sobs came out of nowhere, beyond her control. She cupped her elbow in one hand and the other up to her face and sobbed into it. “I’m

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sorry. I’m so sorry,” she cried, knowing they would not know the full extent of her sorrow and apology. Little Wei was whining and jumping up and down on the side of her leg, and she reached down and pulled him up on her lap. As he tried to lick her face, she hugged him and shook with her tears. Joy came around the table and put her arm around her. “Let’s forget it and move on,” she said. “We have too much to do.” John let his outstretched hand rest of the table, and said loudly, “It’s almost supper time. We have rice, Bavarian ham sausage—Joy’s once a month concession to my tastes—veggies, and a huge salad. Come join us, Jy-ying.” Jy-ying soon stopped crying and Joy got her tissue from the bathroom to wipe her face. She turned to look into John’s eyes. She could see how sincere he was. She took his still outstretched hand and shook it, reveling in his touch. She nodded to him, reached out for Joy’s hand with her other one, and shook both of them. “So,” she whispered, “Do I also get my history lesson?” That night, after a bath and her prayers, she cuddled around Little Wei in bed and cried herself to sleep. She had never been so embarrassed in her life, or so guilty. Or so very alone.

aaa Joy That same night in bed, as Joy lay with her leg across John’s, she whispered, “That was your idea. Did you think of what you would have done if she had accepted your crude proposal?” “I know character, baby. No way would she have accepted it.” “Hypothetically, what would you have done?” “I would have taken her to the bedroom where you were waiting, and said to her, ‘Whoopee, Joy will be joining us.’ Then what would you have done, baby?” Joy imagined the situation and laughed. Through her laughter she tried to ask, “Before or after I broke her leg and turned you into a eunuch?” John briefly joined her laughter, and asked again, “Seriously, what would you have done?” She didn’t need to think about it at all. She said simply, “Dearest, let’s just be happy it worked out.”

Chapter 25 Joy 1909

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hey soon started planning their next intervention, which would be Japan. “We will intervene in the first of a series of events that led to the Japanese invasion of China in 1937, and her attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941,” John told Jy-ying. “Well,” Joy added, to prevent him from falling too far into lecture mode, “we have a base of operations—our new office in Tokyo, thanks to Mariko.” “Yeah, “ John said, turning to smile at Joy. Mariko had enlisted the help of her father during a trip home to visit her mother. As assistant foreign minister, Mariko’s father was eager to help Japanese foreign trade, to which he saw the company his daughter worked for contributing. The office now had seven Japanese employees. He had also helped them work through the Japanese bureaucracy to establish a similar office in Korea, which hired mainly Japanese employees. Joy and John had tried to get her to accept some money for her work, but all she said was, “Dai jobu. Shimpai nai—It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” John had asked Dolphy to be sure she understood their appreciation. Dolphy smiled and said with a wink, “Oh, I’ll make sure she knows how appreciative you are.” Now John asked Joy and Jy-ying, “Have you both recently looked at the chronology the Society’s researchers prepared for us? It’s clear from that how dependent later events and indeed, the growth of militarism in Japan, was on what happened in these early years—” Joy, raising her finger, finished the sentence for him “—particularly in Korea and with regard to China. Right?” “Yes. We’ve got to stop the Korean assassination of Ito Hirobumi, the Japanese statesman and member of the governing inner circle. That killing, above all, gave the military an excuse to not only demand annexation of Korea, but to increase their power over the politicians in Japan.”

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“I know, dearest,” Joy responded dryly. “I do too,” Jy-ying threw in. “I got that in your second lesson, John.” “We’ll soon be off to Japan and from there to China,” Joy said, “where we’ll try to provide funds for the Korean Righteous Army—” Now John interrupted to conclude her sentence: “—in its struggle against Japanese occupation of Korea.” Joy replied with a little exasperation, “Okay, we’ll concede history to you, since we’re your superiors in everything else.” “So you wish,” he replied. Jy-ying asked, “Have you picked your ship yet?” “Yes, it’s one carrying lumber from Oregon. That should help keep it afloat if it begins to fill with water during a bad storm.” Shaking her head, Joy said, “I don’t think it makes a difference, love.” He replied with a touch of concern, “It’s more dangerous crossing the Pacific than it is the Atlantic. The voyage is longer and there’s the danger of typhoons. I’ll take a good look at weather reports before we leave.” Little Wei had an old pork bone he’d brought downstairs to John’s apartment with him, and Jy-ying started tugging on it as the little guy got a good grip with his teeth, growled, dug his feet into the throw rug and tried to jerk the bone out of her hand. Smiling, Joy and John watched. John yelled, “C’mon, little guy, pull, pull. Grrr.” Still tugging on her end, Jy-ying asked, “When will you be in China? I don’t remember you mentioning dates.” “We plan on being in Peking on March 8th,” Joy responded, “then we will be going down to our office in Shanghai for our business. We do have a business; it’s sometimes hard to remember. And then a week on vacation to play tourist. We’ll be shipping home on the 25th.” John looked up from watching the tugging contest. “Say, did I mention that Dolphy is raring to go with us? How about Mariko?” A happy note, Joy thought, and replied, “Mariko can’t wait. Her father gave her permission for the trip, and although he was concerned that Mariko and Dolphy’s rooms are next to each other, he gave his approval when her mother told him in a non-Japanese manner, ‘Do it.’ We would have a hard time without Mariko, since she’s the contact with our office, and can help us getting around Japan.”

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Jy-ying The day after Joy and John left for Japan, Jy-ying traveled to Gibb Street in New Chinatown, to see Lin Huifeng. He was the major source of opium and heroin for Chinese and, she had found out, the major contact for the San Francisco Sue Yop tong, who itself had contacts with the leaders of the most notorious secret societies in China. She had left Little Wei whining behind the door in her apartment. She could not take a chance on his being stolen and eaten. After settling with Lin on what she requested, paying him an advance of $6,000 in real money—she did not want him, of all people, discovering she had given him counterfeit money, no matter how remote—she sent a wire to Janet: Dear Janet: Sabah be with us. Joy and John off to Japan and China. My little project looks good. Wish me success. Jy-ying

aaa Joy Halfway through their voyage to Japan, during dinner at the captain’s table—there were only five cabins available for passengers, and passengers always ate with the captain—Dolphy told them, “Mariko has proposed to me and I accepted.” Mariko hit Dolphy on the shoulder. Blushing, she said, “Iie—No. Warui—wrong. He get down on both knees and beg me marry him. If I say no, he say he would throw himself off ship. So I am—what you say?—Jiha-bukai.” “Merciful,” Joy translated. “Yes, merciful. I say yes.” They all laughed. John looked at Dolphy, whose whole face had collapsed into a grin, and asked, “What took you so long?” Mariko was twenty years old and a Japanese beauty. She was majoring in an ad hoc collection of courses that would later in the century evolve into American Studies. She had hoped to get a job in the Japanese Foreign Ministry when she returned. If she married an American,

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however, that would not be possible, and most likely she would try for a job in the United States as a translator. With pleasure, Joy told her, “You always have a good a job with us.” Oddly, Dolphy managed to speak through the huge gap his grin created in his face. “Yeah, she can be my assistant and translator.” “Of course,” Joy pointed out, “a job filled only by the best.” They made it to Japan without incident, just missing by several days a powerful typhoon that spun through the central Pacific. The captain did not think they would have survived it if it hit their ship directly. All John could say to Joy for a week was, “You see? We should have traveled separately.” Joy’s response was always, “You see? It didn’t hit us, did it?” In Japan, they had their meeting with the venerable Japanese statesman and oligarch Ito Hirobumi, the critical historical pivot. This had been arranged by Mariko through her father and, as far as she knew, was part of their company business. When Joy and John were alone with Ito, they warned him that a Korean would try to assassinate him in October at Harbin, and this would be the pretext for Japanese annexation of Korea. After much discussion and with a proper offer of financial compensation in dollars for his canceling the trip to Harbin, they overcame his doubt about their motives. They also secretly provided ten million dollars for Prime Minister Saionji’s democratically oriented political party and for use in bribing the oligarchs into conceding more power to parliament. Afterward, while finally alone together in the evening, Joy told John, “I hate to lie to Mariko and Dolphy about what we’re doing in Japan, you know.” He replied sadly, “I know, but we have no choice.” During the rest of the week in Japan they toured the historical sites, especially in Kyoto, and had a lovely visit with Mariko’s mother. What a sweet woman, Joy thought. She’d seemed to like Dolphy right away. It helped that Mariko had taught him to bow properly before he met her. They sailed for Shanghai on the new Japanese passenger ship Tenjo Maru. From there they took an incredibly old train to Peking—even older than the ones they rode in Mexico. Through their office in Peking they had arranged an appointment with General Jung Il Han, a Korean Righteous Army general who was seeking aid to free Korea from being a Japanese imposed protectorate.

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While the train puffed through Shandong Province, Joy wrote down what she remembered, then hid it. She fidgeted. Across from her, John was reading Volume Two of Edward Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Finally, she could wait no longer and kicked his foot. When he looked up at her, she said above the chugging of the train and the almost hypnotic clickity-clack of its wheels, “Where’s my lecture? I’m bored.” His brow furrowed. He looked around, as though wondering where this strange woman sitting across from him had come from. He looked back at her. “You want a lecture?” “On Han.” “You’re asking me for a lecture on Han?” “Yes.” “I must be dreaming.” He mimicked pinching himself. “No. I’m awake.” John studied Joy’s face suspiciously, but she was very attentive. “I can’t believe this,” he mumbled. “You just want to say, ‘I know,’ a million times again.” “No, I promise. No I knows.” “Not one?” “Not one!” John peered at her. “Okay, you asked for it. Here goes. Now, listen carefully. “Now, Han is in Peking meeting with foreign diplomats, but they are reluctant to aid him and thus anger the Japanese. Anyway, except for China, which doesn’t have the means to provide aid, no one, including the United States, really cares about Japan’s dominance over Korea.” He waited, still watching her suspiciously. Leaning toward him, Joy looked back wide-eyed, lips slightly parted, as though fascinated. John raised an eyebrow, shook his head in disbelief, and continued. “Ah, it is critical to discourage the Japanese military in their aggressive interests in Korea, Manchuria, and eventually China. This is a very high-stakes game, involving as it does the possible militarization of Japan, invasion of China, and even Pearl Harbor several decades uptime. We’d agreed, you know, that we’d offer Han ten million in gold and another twenty million in American dollars, with the usual threat that if he used the money for other than its intended purpose, we would have him painfully assassinated.” “Are you done?” Joy asked sweetly.

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“Yes,” and he hopefully added, “for the moment.” “Ha-ha!” Joy reached under the large map of China on her lap and pulled out two sheets of paper. She shook them at him. “I have that little lecture here, word for word. I wrote it down an hour before you gave it. I can now repeat your lectures verbatim, I’ve heard them so often.” John ripped the papers out of her hand and started reading what she’d written. “I’ll be damned,” he said, looking up. “You missed the most important part of my absolutely stimulating historical presentation.” Joy’s eyebrows shot up. “I can’t believe it. What did I miss?” “Why, baby, I’m shocked that you already forget my incredible course lectures. You know, the part where I say, ‘The defeat of Han likely would be followed by the Japanese military demanding, and the quivering politicians accepting, the complete colonization of Korea.’ That’s the key to understanding all this. And you missed it. I should never have given you an ‘A’ for my course.” “You didn’t say that.” “Ha-ha, yourself. You don’t even remember it. You need more lectures, girl.” He handed the papers back with a flourish, and went back to his reading, the dimples deepening at the corners of his mouth. Joy held the papers in one hand as she crossed her arms and tapped her foot. He’s lying. I think. Okay, next time I’ll have our digital recorder with me. She reached over and hit him on the knee with the papers. “Beast.” “Hey, why’d you do that?” “On principle,” she explained with a smile. When they got to Peking, Joy received a surprising report from the Zhao Detective Agency on Han’s character. She’d had Han investigated to make sure they could trust giving him so much money. She told John what they found. “You won’t like this,” she said. “The agency discovered that except for fighting the occasional battle, Chinese and especially foreign women were the center of his life. Regardless of his age and girth, he was a walking erection.” John was startled. “They wrote that?” “No. That’s my mature female interpolation. They did write that he had forced a number of high-ranking Koreans to make their wives available to him, and he brags about a woman a day while here. The agency warns us of rumors that, with the help of his guards, he has resorted to rape if a woman resists him.”

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John gaped at her for only a moment before exploding. “No way are you going with me to meet with Han. Apparently wearing a wedding ring—and he won’t know it’s false—and my being with you as your supposed husband will mean nothing. I know of his attitude. In Asian society of this age, women are only for procreation and men’s pleasure. Husbands donating their wives for an evening at the request of the powerful is not unusual.” Getting even more worked up, he actually shouted at her, “This man will have nothing to do with it. You are not for barter.” Just on general principles, and with a little irritation, she replied, “Excuse me, isn’t that my decision? Since when do you decide by your male lonesome what we do together? What are you afraid of? I can take care of myself, I think you know.” He replied a little defensively, “No, your taking care of yourself is not the problem. It’s my fear that he would refuse our aid or have anything to do with us once you deny him your body.” Looking at her with raised eyebrows and a pouting mouth, he revealed what he feared most. “What would you do if he made accepting the aid conditional on you sleeping with him?” “The aid is too important, Korea too important, for him to do that.” “Come on, baby, you’re not that naive. What would you do?” She didn’t answer. “Okay, you don’t have to say anything. I know how important the mission is to you. And because of your training in sex, I know you could treat it with Han as would a prostitute with a particularly unsavory customer.” He mimicked her feminine voice, while giving a loosewristed wave. “‘Oh, it’s just part of our job. I’ll just do it and get it over with.’ Right?” She didn’t answer. Shaking his head, he told her a might too loudly, “I’m going alone, damn it.”

aaa Through their Peking office, John made sure that Han would have a Chinese interpreter during the appointment. Joy actually was not needed anyway. Two days after they’d checked into the old Peking Hotel, John donned his armor, holstered and pocketed his guns, and went to the afternoon meeting with Han to make his offer. This would be the first

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meeting of their mission where Joy and John would not be together. And Joy was scared that he was doing it alone. She expected him back by dinner, but no John. Nor did he come back that evening by midnight. Nor did he use his communicator to tell her why he was delayed. She was frantic. Growing worry and fear prevented her from sleeping at all that night. There was nothing Joy could do, either. If she took a rickshaw to the Palace Hotel on Goldfish Lane where Han was staying, John might be on his way back at that moment and they would miss each other. They had agreed when they first arrived never to initiate contact if one of them were delayed, unless in a dire emergency. They could easily endanger the other person if they distracted them at a critical moment. Moreover, if in a meeting or otherwise involved with other people, one could not respond to the call. This would only raise the anxiety or worry of both the caller and the recipient. So she decided to wait until midmorning before calling him, and if she received no answer, she intended to storm Han’s hotel room. A little after 8 a.m., when Joy felt and must have looked like one of those passengers standing on the deck of the Titanic just before it sank, she heard the knob of their hotel room door turn. She was lying down on the bed, fighting panic, and immediately sat up straight. The door started opening; she was halfway there before it opened completely. In stumbled John, his face flushed, unsteady on his feet. She was all over him before he could shut the door. She threw her arms around him and cried, “You’re safe. You’re okay. Thank God. I was so worried.” Getting some control of herself, Joy could finally ask, “What happened? Why didn’t you communicate with me?” Then she smelled the alcohol. She had never seen him drunk. Only a little high at celebrations, but during any part of their mission, he never took a drink. There was something else. A female-in-heat smell. Joy dropped her arms and stepped back, amazed and with growing disgust. “What happened to you?” she asked again, now giving different meaning to the “happened.” John looked sheepish and then defensive, and muttered, “Let me sleep. I’ll tell both of you afterward.” “That’s not funny,” she threw at him as he flopped on the bed. Angry, she only took his shoes off and left him to sleep in his clothes. She put a Do not disturb sign on their hotel door, and left for their company

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office on Damochang Road to help prepare a large consignment of sixteenth century jade statues they were importing in return for Singer sewing machines. She was glad for the distraction. That afternoon, exhausted from lack of sleep, Joy returned to their hotel room. John was snoring, so she climbed into bed. With his snores assuring her he was with her and safe, regardless of anything else, she fell into sleep. It was evening when John woke her up as he got out of bed to relieve himself. When he came back, she reached out her arms to hug him, and the words tumbled out, “You scared me, darling. I thought something happened to you. You were somewhat drunk when you came home. Why didn’t you communicate with me? What happened?” Then Joy remembered. “You also smelled of woman.” He looked at her for several moments, and said, “I have to take a shower first. Want to take one with me?” So they showered, and toweled each other’s back dry, and after they put their hotel guest robes on, he took her by the hand and seated her on the bed. “Now,” he said, “I want to tell you what happened. There must always be truth between us, not only because it is right for us, baby, but because it is important to our mission.” Joy tensed. Where’s this bullshit going? He stopped, looked down for a moment, and added, “Please listen and don’t say anything until I finish. Okay?” As Joy was about to say something, he put two fingers on her mouth, and went on, “I met with Han—a real bastard, but we have dealt with bastards before, and it’s part of our mission. I made our offer, but he would not believe I was a secret agent and kept demanding, ‘Who is the money from?’ “I simply said, ‘The money is yours. The only stipulation is that you spend it to fight the Japanese.’ “He wanted to know when he’d get it. I told him, ‘Four days for the money transfer, and ten days to get the gold to you.’ He seemed satisfied with that, and had his guards bring in food and drink. He demanded, ‘You must drink with me to seal the bargain. It is an old Korean custom. It’s like what you Westerners do—a handshake.’ “Okay, I thought, I can sip along. After about thirty minutes, his guards brought in four Chinese dancing girls. They not only danced, but while doing so they slowly . . . ahh, discarded their clothes. Ahh, all of them.

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“At that point Han toasted me, and said something the interpreter had trouble with: ‘Those who do business with me must drink with me; those who drink with me must fuck with me.’ “I told him we didn’t do these things in the West, and that besides, I’m a happily married man. He laughed uproariously and said, ‘So, don’t tell her.’ “Anyway he insisted, saying, ‘I will not trust someone who is not a man, like this,’ and he started stroking one of the dancers between the legs.” “And what did you do?” Joy asked, her voice causing ice crystals to form in the air between them. “Umm . . . . ah . . . I made love to . . . two of the dancers.” Her brain went numb and retreated from consciousness. Something deep inside her that Joy didn’t know existed grabbed hold of her voice and squeezed it into a spitting shriek. “Two of them? You screwed two women? One was not enough? Why did you stop at two? Why not all four? Why didn’t you ask for four more? I’m sure Han would have trusted you even more.” Joy had never been so angry with John. She felt so betrayed. Knowledge of his unfaithfulness took over and turned her shriek into a screech. “I was worried sick and you were screwing—” He tried to pull her down, but she beat on his chest with her fists, tears coming out of her eyes. She couldn’t get her breath even to screech. Finally she filled her lungs and screamed at him loud enough for the rickshaw men outside the hotel to hear, “How could you, John?” He pushed her back on the bed and lay on top of her, pressing her into the soft mattress with his weight, and holding her arms down with his hands. He looked into her blazing eyes with understanding, and pointed out in a calm voice, “Our mission, sweetheart, think of our mission. It has to be above all. Han was stupid. The freedom of his country was at stake. I was offering him the means of defeating the Japanese. But he would only trust me, and thus accept my offer, if he saw himself in me.” Joy lay there with him on top of her, her stomach twisted into a knot, her heart thudding, her breath rasping in her aching throat. Her brain still cowered before an anger she’d never felt before. All she could do was rasp, “You screwed two women all night?” “It was nothing to me.” Joy’s cowardly mind supplied, “Of course. You had to tie it to a chopstick to get it up. You bastard.”

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“No, I fantasized I was making love to you.” Joy roared, risking losing her voice altogether, “You WHAT?” “It was only physical, baby. It was like exercise. I did nothing but go in, come, and pull out. The girls must have been disappointed and probably thought that Westerners didn’t know how to make love. But Han watched and actually tried to show me with one of the girls how I should be doing it. He asked me if I wanted to take one of the girls back to my hotel room and practice, but I declined, saying I had to leave Peking shortly. As I left him, he smiled and told me practice makes perfect. “Anyway, baby,” John added, seemingly oblivious to her fury, “we are secret agents. And we are at war against war and democide. As a secret agent, I must do what I must do as a man.” “What a pile of shit,” Joy croaked. She threw him off her with a body perch and leg twist, and broke down in body-shaking sobs. When John tried to put his arms around her, she threw them off, staggered into the European bathroom, and slammed the door so hard the wall shook. She sat on the toilet seat, utterly miserable. He not only betrayed me by screwing two whores, he tried to excuse infidelity with that self-righteous crap. Joy did not know how long she sat there, but she began to calm down. Her real mind began to assert itself over the cowardly one. Yes, I know intellectually I was unreasonable. Yes, we have our mission. True, this third universe depends on us, and untold millions of lives are at stake. But she loved John so deeply that she found it impossible to emotionally accept what he had done. It was not in her character. I would never betray him like that. I would have to be raped. The door to the bathroom opened a crack and John stuck his head inside, looking very apologetic. “Can I come in?” Joy was torn between her love for him and her jealousy. She could not trust herself to speak. Her real mind motioned him in. He came in and sat on the edge of the bathtub, took her cold, listless hand, and said nothing. She whispered, “You bastard.” He said nothing. After a long silence, she looked at him and cried, her voice breaking, “I hate this. I hate the mission. I hate these appointments. I just want to be with you. I want to adopt children. I want to raise a family. I want to get old together. But that can’t be. We may not even grow old together.”

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Joy put her head in her hands and broke down again in shuddering sobs. He caressed her back, and waited. Between sobs, she managed to get out, “What makes it so much worse is that I know . . . I know my love for you must not interfere.” John gently lifted her off the toilet and carried her to the bed, and they cried together. Half-heartedly at first, then with all her strength, she hugged him and let her misery flow out of her with her tears. He is mine. He is with me. We have our whole lives to be together. They slept in each other’s arms and in the morning they bathed together, returned to bed, and made slow, gentle, tender love, a lovemaking that she was certain only they shared. Long afterward, Joy finally asked, “Why, at no time during that whole night, did you contact me? I was so scared something had happened to you.” John replied, “I felt what I was doing was not right for us. It violated what was special between us. If I communicated to you, I would either have had to lie or tell you what I was doing. I didn’t want to lie and I didn’t want to tell you the truth over the communicator. Can you understand that?” “Yes, my darling, I can.” And that ended it. Joy would never feel such anger toward him again. But it taught her one thing. In spite of all her training, even in the arts of love; in spite of all her allusions to her Asian background and how it differed from the West in being more accepting of sex; in spite of her self image as a very rational person, she was still a woman. She was just as prone as any to jealousy and rage over her man.

Chapter 26 Joy Shanghai

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hat a lovely evening,” Joy commented as they left their room at the Peace Hotel to go to a Shanghai music festival. “Let’s take a walk afterward through the International Settlement. I can’t get over how it’s a virtual independent city-state within China, run by foreign governments. I don’t blame the Chinese for being upset about it.” They were just about to step into a rickshaw when two men suddenly came up behind them and threw a net over their heads. Joy and John reacted almost instantly, but the net was being pulled tight around them and hampered their movement. They both got their guns out, but couldn’t see their attackers to take aim; they couldn’t turn because of the net. A stupid net, Joy fumed as she struggled against the cords. I never thought we would be attacked with a stupid net. Cowardly. A voice behind them said in Chinese, “Drop your guns and be still or we will shoot you.” Joy stopped struggling and immediately told John to do the same. The attackers wound the net around them and tied its ends tight so that they were completely immobilized. Passersby averted their eyes and walked on. They all knew that interference in such attacks or kidnappings could mean instant death. A small, three-wheeled, Chinese truck puttered to the wooden curb in front of them and four men picked them up, dumped them on the truck bed, and covered them with a bamboo mat that stretched from side to side. They felt the truck rattle forward in a loud clashing of gears and a backfire and soon they were bouncing from one side of the bed to the other. John remained calm. Trying to speak while being thrown about wasn’t easy, but he managed to say, “It must be a kidnapping for money. We should get out of this if we don’t anger them.”

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They were jiggled, bounced, jerked, and bruised by the bed of the truck and its rough sides for about an hour. Finally, the truck rattled to a stop. More clashing of gears and a clatter, and the truck backed up to stop again. The driver killed the engine. Someone took the mat off them, and Joy saw that they were at the delivery door to a warehouse in what must be an outlying industrial sector. Since it was Sunday there was no one around. Three men drove up in a smoking, noisy, old Buick. They got out, came over and lifted Joy and John out of the truck. They carried them inside the warehouse and stood them up, then stepped back, their guns still pointed at their captives. Two men had been waiting. They slowly took the net from around Joy and John, picked up their guns, and frisked them. They were experts. They hiked up her dress and found her knives. They took her magnum from her purse, emptied John’s shoulder holster, and found the S&W he carried in his coat pocket. They threw all the weapons on a scarred and chipped work table nearby. They said nothing. They showed no emotion. Joy began to worry. These were not normal kidnappers. Still, what to do if kidnapped was one of the scenarios Joy had been trained for, and she had passed this training on to John. So they played it very scared and helpless. They kept their heads down, and wouldn’t look at their kidnappers. As the kidnappers tied them by their hands and feet to separate pillars, she tensed the muscles in her hands and wrists so that she would have wiggle room in the ropes when she relaxed her muscles. But they tied her wrists tightly and the wriggle room just wasn’t there. One of the men, who had been standing in the back during all this, came forward and stopped in front of John. He was thin and tall, with a clump of black hair hanging from his chin and eyes so narrow they looked like slits in his round face. He asked John in Chinese, “Your name?” Joy answered in Chinese, “He does not speak Chinese. I will translate.” And she did so. John answered, “John Banks.” “What are you doing here?” “I am a businessman. I own the Tor Import and Export Company and am negotiating a deal for Chinese paintings.” Slit Eyes then asked for the gardener’s pruning shears on the table. When one of the men handed them to him, he looked at John and

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threatened, “I will take off a finger for each lie you tell me. If you continue to lie, I will work my way around your body until you are nothing more than a quivering torso only held up by the ropes.” Joy almost choked in translating this. She was so scared for John her heart was shaking her whole body and she could feel the sweat beginning to wet the inside of her armor. Slit Eyes looked at one of his men and said, “Show him.” The man went to a cabinet and brought back a long-handled branch pruner and a machete, which he placed on the table. Slit Eyes asked, “Why are you here?” “On business,” John said without hesitation. The man moved behind him, and in seconds John let out a sharp scream and almost immediately gurgled, trying to suppress it. Joy shrieked at the man, “Stop it. He is telling you the truth. What do you want from him?” The man came back in front of John and held out his bloody finger. He asked again, “Why are you here?” She could hardly translate; her voice was for long moments beyond her control. She now knew it would be their death if John told him the truth. She finally got the translation out. Sweat now dripped from John’s chin, but he looked at the man and firmed his voice to say, “You can cut off all my fingers and toes. You can cut off my ears and nose and lips. But my answer will always be ‘business.’” She barely managed to translate this as well. “We will see,” the man said, and walked behind John again. This time John managed to squelch his scream, but he couldn’t prevent his face from distorting and reddening in pain. Slit Eyes brought out another bloody finger and now held two in front of John. He asked, “Well?” Joy refused to translate. Slit Eyes looked at her and said in a soft voice, “Will you translate.” “No.” “Okay,” he said with a smile, “I speak English.” He turned to John and asked in English, “Why you here?” John’s face was blotched red and white, and he was sweating even more. But, his face was also rigid with determination. “Business,” he spit out. “Okay, we do pretty woman.” And in Chinese he said to two men, “Untie and strip her.”

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Joy closed her mind to John and tried to relax her muscles, calm her mind, and gather her strength. Her mind filled with the image of her karate sensei standing over her when she was six years old and on the verge of crying from a very painful throw to the wooden floor. “Calm your mind,” he said in a soothing voice, as he hit her on the arm with a stick. “Calm, calm, like the reflection in a still mountain lake, a reflection of summer clouds floating across a peaceful blue sky. Empty your mind of all but the clouds,” and he hit her with the stick again. She had to learn to ignore pain and distracting emotion. It was only when her face and body looked calm and relaxed that he stopped hitting her. In spite of the pain of the blows, she had not uttered a sound. From then on she knew she was his special student. That image of her sensei helped her extinguish the burning hot fury and terror tearing at her guts, trying to destroy her thoughts. In their place she found her calm core and let it expand and gather strength from her training and move up her arms and down her legs and into her toes and fingers until she was fully encased in it. Inside that calm bubble, multiple pieces of her aligned themselves. The last thing she thought before she closed down her mind to all extraneous thought was, “I love you, John. Help me, Mom.” Outwardly, she was a helpless and scared woman, her head hanging and shoulders sloping, as she pleaded in Chinese, “No, no, please don’t.” In spite of John’s pain, he played his role in trying to provide a distraction. He struggled against his ropes and shouted and yelled in English for them to leave her alone, and although the words may not have been understood, his frantic fear for her certainly was. Two men untied her. Joy faked a scared, weak woman’s resistance as they started to take off her long skirt. She could hardly fight well in that and they were doing her a favor. She waited until they got down to her cotton panties. At that moment there was no expanse of time, no thought, no analysis; no fear, worry, anxiety; no feeling at all. She was a pure weapon, a deadly spirit. She struck. She drove her knee into the face of the one bending over to pull down her panties, smashing his nose and flipping him unconscious to the floor at the same moment she mortally injured the other one, who had just got hold of her blouse to rip it off, with a fore knuckle fist punch to his upper throat.

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Still standing in front of John, Slit Eyes reached for his gun, but she sent him sprawling with a reverse kick to his face and the remaining two came at her with knives and she did a leaping roll and came up alongside the table with their weapons on it, but the only thing within reach was her throwing knife. She grabbed it barely in time to dodge a killing knife thrust, parried a side thrust, and stabbed the man through the solar plexus and into the heart with an upward cut; and the other man reached for a gun in his pocket and she flipped her knife at him. He went down in a gush of blood with the knife in his lower throat. Panting, Joy went to each of the men on the floor to make sure they were dead or unconscious. The two she had knifed were dead and the others unconscious. She pulled her knife out of the throat of a dead man and hit each of the unconscious ones in the temple with its hard handle to make sure they would stay out for a while. She didn’t worry about killing them. That done, Joy rushed over to John. Through his pain he mumbled, “Nice work, baby.” She kissed him on the cheek, and went around him to cut his hands free. His index and little fingers had been cut from his left hand and the stumps were dribbling blood. She cut his feet free, and checked whether he had gone into traumatic shock. Just as she was looking into John’s eyes for shock, the truck driver appeared from a side door and saw the others sprawled on the floor. He immediately took out his gun and crouched, opening fire. She heard John grunt, and he started to fall. She couldn’t help him at the moment and survive. She ran zigzagging to the table and grabbed her magnum as the man fired two more times. Without looking, she threw herself head first to the floor and twisted to land on her back with her magnum pointed to where the bullets had come from; she shot the man as he was running toward her and raising his gun to shoot at her on the floor. She got up and dashed over to John. He had been shot in the back and the bullet had come out his lower left chest. She couldn’t believe it. He had not worn his armor. She got her skirt and rapidly folded it and put it under his shirt on his back wound to act as a compress, and folded up his shirt and pushed it against the hole in his chest and put his hand on it. He was pale and gasping for breath. She had to move him. She got her holster purse off the table, put all their weapons in it, and hung it around her neck. She levered John to a half standing position, got her back under his chest, and with all her strength she slowly carried him,

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his feet dragging, through the door they had been brought through, and to the Buick. She opened the car’s high back door and levered John up and into the car and onto the rear floor. She rushed over to the driver’s side. She switched the magneto on, checked to make sure the car was out of gear so that it would not jerk forward and hit her when she tried to start it, retarded the spark, and advanced the throttle lever to halfway to enrich the fuel-air ratio and make it easier to start the car. She took the crank from its hook, leaped out and ran to the front of the Buick, and inserted the crank in the engine. She had to use both hands and exert all her strength to turn the crank and hoped that she had retarded the spark sufficiently to prevent a backfire. A little off and the resulting backfire might violently jerk the crank and break her thumbs or arms. No, she didn’t pray. She scared the engine. As she cranked two revolutions, she screamed at it, “Start, or I’ll turn you into goddam junk!” The two-cylinder engine fired, shaking the car violently as she rushed to the steering wheel to advance the spark and retard the throttle before the engine died. She made it; the engine settled into a loud rattle as she jumped up behind the wheel. She frantically released the hand brake, hit the low speed pedal with her foot, and in moments crushed the high speed clutch to the floor and shifted into top second gear. The Buick jack-rabbitted fiercely as she pointed the car toward the bright skyline of downtown Shanghai. Given the condition that John was in, their office on Ningbo Lu was too far away. As soon as she saw pedestrians, she stopped and yelled out that she had an emergency and asked if there was a doctor close by. After stopping several people, she was directed to the Baptist Missionary Academy about five minutes away. Joy drove there at high speed, passing cars, horses, wagons, and carts, driving rickshaws off the road, and continually beeping her pipsqueak horn. She bounced John all over the back floor and she was afraid he would fall out. She had no choice. She would apologize later, if he lived. She left behind her a chaotic crowd of Chinese pedestrians who would forever curse woman drivers. She finally found the Academy, skidded to a halt on the gravel in front of it, and rushed inside, oblivious to her torn blouse, revealed gray armor, and white panties. She yelled at a shocked woman in the reception area that her husband had been shot protecting her from rape and was in the car outside. The receptionist called down the hallway and a man and woman, both dressed in well-worn medical whites, came out of a room.

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Joy said, “Husband shot,” in English, and the three followed her as she rushed back to the car. They got John out of the car and she helped them carry him into a medical office with a paper-covered examination table. They laid him on the table and the doctor began examining his wounds. John was still alive, but unconscious, pale, and breathing shallowly. Joy watched as the doctor looked at his bullet holes, cleaned the entry and exit wounds, and gave him injections of what, she did not know. He treated the wound for infection. Good thing that the man who shot him had used ordinary bullets, she thought abstractedly, which from the entry wound look like a .32 caliber. Finally the doctor, with his nurse’s help, put compresses on the two wounds and heavily bandaged John’s chest from back to front. He had no idea that he should also treat John for traumatic shock. General practitioners had yet to know much about it; World War I had not yet occurred. John was lucky. The bullet passed through his left side horizontally and almost at a right angle to his back; it went through below his rib cage and left lung, missing his stomach and, as far as Joy could tell, also missing his large intestine. Still, he was not looking good at all, and sometimes the shock of a serious bullet wound could kill. She had to get John to her medical supplies and under her care. She used the Academy’s phone, viciously cranked it to get the operator, and asked to be connected to Deng Buwei, their manager at their Shanghai office. She hastily warned him that John was seriously wounded and she was bringing him there. Still running on adrenaline, Joy asked the doctor and nurse to help her carry John to their car so that she could take him to a hospital. The doctor protested, saying it was dangerous to move him. But she insisted. As they carried him to the car, they asked what happened. She said it was an attempted rape and John had tried to protect her. They seemed to accept that, given the way she looked. Once she had John in the car, they helped her start it with the crank, and Joy drove off in a cloud of oily smoke for Shanghai. When she could see distinct buildings on its skyline, she was able to navigate toward their office near the International Settlement and the docks. Deng Bu-wei and two assistants were waiting outside. She told them to carry John gently to his private office, one of which they always made sure was available in any company offices they set up, and rushed into it ahead of them to jerk out of a cabinet their locked medi-

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cal case. When Deng and his assistants carried John in, she told them to lay him out on the lacquered desk and asked Deng to stay, while his assistants brought her a bottle of water. She unlocked the case, revealing their medical equipment and medicine. She hooked John up to a heart, blood pressure, and body temperature monitor, and went to work on him. She had been trained by the Society to manage a variety of emergencies, including gunshot wounds to the torso, and this office contained the essential medicine and supplies for handling this, among other emergencies. Anticipating a need, the Society had stocked well the medical time capsule it sent. Joy gave John several injections for infection and trauma, hoping there would be no incompatibility with what he had already received. This was a gunshot wound and she thus feared a Group A betahemolytic strep, and gave him a penicillin-spectrum antibiotic. She had no way of giving him a blood transfusion, but he had not bled that much. She cut off his bandages with medical scissors, sniffed the discharge from his wounds for feces to be sure his intestines were not hit, washed his wounds with medical soap, and treated them with antibiotics. She left the wounds open so that they could drain. She put special antibacterial compresses on them from her supplies and with Deng’s help she loosely rewound his back and chest wounds with antibacterial bandages. She also rebandaged his finger stumps, after disinfecting and putting antibiotics on them. Joy asked Deng to bring in cushions and an ornate Chinese room separator from their reception room, and when he and an assistant did so, she laid the separator on the floor, with a large cushion under one end and cushions on top. With their help, she laid John on the cushions with his head at the low end. She pulled down the cotton curtains covering the office window, folded them into a blanket, and covered him with it, making sure he would be warm but not overheated. Done, Joy asked that they be left alone. She sat cross-legged on the floor next to him. He remained unconscious. She was so scared he would die. She took his cold hand in both of hers. She began to shake uncontrollably, and had to release his hand to stop shaking him as well. The post-combat fatigue had set in hours ago. She was exhausted. But all she could feel was fear. She kept her eyes glued to the monitor and his rising heartbeat and falling blood pressure. His skin was cool to the touch and slightly moist. No good. No good at all.

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Hours, it seemed, went by. She began to plead with him, “Don’t you dare die, my love in heart and soul. Don’t you dare die. I want to have a few words with you about you not wearing your armored vest.” She waited. His heartbeat went up to 123 beats per minute while his systolic had fallen to 78. HE’S DYING. Joy begged, “No, no, darling, don’t die.” Tears almost blinded her. She grabbed her right wrist to stop her hand from trembling, and took his hand in it again. She held it gently and sobbed. With her free hand Joy took out her locket and flipped it open with her finger. She put it down alongside John and beseeched her mother to help save him. She felt so helpless, so alone. She was trained for action, not sitting and watching her lover die. She cried until she could not cry anymore. She prayed for him to live. She tried to persuade him that it would be grossly unfair to him, to them, to her for him to die. She again begged her mother for help. Above all, and before and after whatever else she said, she told him how much she loved him and what he meant to her. She could not let him die without hearing that. She whispered it. She leaned over and gently caressed his hair from his forehead. She kissed him on his cold white cheeks and said it. She kissed her fingers and touched his lips with them and said it again. The monitor was her whole world now. It swam before her tearfilled eyes as his pulse slowly increased and blood pressure declined, taking his life away. Death seemed inevitable. Watching the red digital numbers with horror, Joy reached behind her for her purse. She pulled it around in front of her and reached in for her tactical knife. She put the knife on her lap. There was no thought to this. No plan. No consideration of their mission. It was so very simple. If John died, she had failed to protect him. She had failed. She would join him in seconds. It would be their final togetherness in this world. Our souls will ascend as one to the other world. His blood pressure continued to edge downward. Never taking her eyes off the monitor, she released John’s hand from her right and took it gently into her left. She picked up the knife in her right hand and waited. Now ready to do what she must, waiting for the deaths that might come in the next minute or so, she reached a state of utter calm that she had never felt before. Death and release will come soon, I know.

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His pulse and blood pressure stabilized. But he wasn’t out of danger yet. Joy held the knife ready. Her absolute calm didn’t break. She did not know how much time went by. The sky lightened. Deng knocked on the door several times, but each time she said simply, “Go away.” It got hot. It must have been midday. His blood pressure turned upward; his pulse started to fall. Joy released his hand and felt his head. It was dry and slightly warm. Normal color had returned to his face. She dropped the knife and released a howling cry of happiness. “JOHN WILL LIVE.” She put her head in her hands and her whole body shook with her sobs. She had found within her more tears. Happy ones. It was turning dark outside when John opened his eyes, saw her distraught face, swollen, bloodshot eyes, wild hair, and torn blouse, and croaked, “You look like hell. Don’t you care what people will say?” He gave her a pathetic grin. Joy’s tears flowed down her cheeks. She instantly forgot all the smart-alecky things she was going to say when he gained consciousness. She took his hand and brushed her cheeks with it. She leaned over and kissed his dry lips, and made the greatest understatement of her life: “I was worried about you, dearest. I love you.” “I love you too, baby. Is it possible for a man to get a drink around here?” Joy got up, painfully, since she wasn’t used to sitting on the floor cross-legged for so long. At first she couldn’t straighten her back. She was not too steady on her feet as she opened the office door and called for Deng. He came almost immediately; his wife Lizhen was with him. Joy apologized for her rudeness, and asked Deng to bring water for John. He did so in moments, and Lizhen brought clothes she had bought for Joy. Joy thanked Lizhen, promised to pay for them, and took the water to John. She gently raised his head and helped him sip. His blood pressure was up to 89 over 68. Lizhen left for a moment and came back with blankets for Joy, and asked if she wanted anything to eat. Joy told her that she wasn’t hungry. Before they left, she told Deng to make sure the hotel extended their stay for a month. John’s eyes were closed again and he looked like he was sleeping. So tired she was barely able to talk, Joy asked Deng to send a telegram to Jy-ying:

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Jy-ying, John tortured and shot. Think he will live. Will stay for month more while he heals. Please tell Hands. Ask him to handle company for us. Give him all the help you can. More in few days. Thank you. Joy Joy suddenly realized that she hadn’t taken off her stinking armor, and did so. She picked up her open locket and kissed her mother’s picture, and told her, “I know you were with me through all this. I know you helped. Thanks, Mom. I would not have lived many seconds beyond his death.” She closed the locket and put it back over her head to hang above her heart. After putting one of the blankets on the floor next to John, she laid down on it. She rested her head next to his, put her hand on his, and whispered, “I’ve never been so scared in my life. Please don’t do that again, my love.” She plunged into sleep almost instantly.

aaa Jy-ying Having left whining Little Wei in her apartment for his protection, Jy-ying stomped alone into the rear of Lin Huifeng’s restaurant. Gruffly she asked the Chinese cook, who was holding at arm’s length his flaming wok, “Is Lin upstairs?” When he said yes, she rushed to the stairs, jumped up them two at a time, and pounded on Lin’s door. He opened it, wearing a surprised look. She pushed him aside and went in. As he closed the door, she turned on him, took her Browning pistol out of her purse, and pointed it between his eyes. “I could tear you apart with my hands, but you would not believe I can do that until your arms and legs were quivering on the floor. But you will believe this gun. I paid you to have a certain person eliminated. Instead, those you contracted tortured and shot her partner. I did not want him killed.” She spat at him, “Did you understand that?” He clasped his shaking hands in front of him and bowed, unable to speak. She rocked with anger. Grabbing his receding hair, she pulled up his head to look at her and shoved the gun barrel into his stomach. She hissed, “They almost killed him!”

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Trembling, voice wavering in fear, Lin tried to respond. “I don’t know . . . what happened.” “I will give you five days to find out. If he dies, you die.” She put her gun away, took a step toward him, grabbed his long shirt, and threw him over her hip onto the floor. As he lay on the wooden floor, she kicked him in the quadriceps so he would have several days of pain to remind him of her anger. “Five days,” she repeated as he held his leg, moaning. “Don’t think you can pay some tong find and get rid of me,” she warned. “I have friends here who will avenge me, and you will take a long time to die. I’ll let myself out, thank you.” She left.

aaa Joy It was morning and light outside when she woke up. She raised her head and looked at John. His eyes were open and he was looking at her. “I’m horny. Let’s make love.” Joy jerked with surprise and looked at him incredulously until she saw his attempt at a smile. “But first things first—I’ve got to piss.” She got up, feeling much better after the rest, and brought over the metal wastebasket. She helped him turn on his side to use it. She called Deng and handed him the bucket with apologies, and asked him to come back after he disposed of the urine. When he returned, Joy asked him to remain with John while she used the toilet—a little room with a porcelain-lined hole in the floor and a removable bucket underneath—and got into the clothes that Lizhen had brought her. When she returned to the office, Lizhen had brought green tea, thin soup for John, and hot rice, vegetables, and chicken for Joy that she had cooked at home. Before eating, Joy had to change the bandages, treat John’s wounds again to prevent infection, make sure the entrance and exit holes were draining well, and give him another injection. She fed him the soup and gave him some tea before eating herself. While doing this, she explained to Deng what had happened, and to John as well, filling him in on events after he lost consciousness.

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Deng later brought in two assistants, who moved the desk and other furniture out of the way, set up a double bed, and gently lifted John onto it. Over the next two weeks, John gradually gained strength and was able to get up and move slowly about with little pain. She had kept his wounds open with a sterile saline solution so that they could freely drain, had carefully studied and smelled what came out, and checked his temperature and blood pressure every four hours, even if she had to wake from a dead sleep. There was no evidence of a general infection. She grew increasingly confident that in another two weeks they could leave for home, confident enough to finally tell him, “You were so lucky. That bullet that went through you missed your spine and every important organ. And the bullet missed me as it came out of your lower chest. But, stupid man, I had my armored vest on.” After giving him that opening to confess his sin, she waited, but he said nothing. Okay, she thought, I’ll draw it out of him. “Why didn’t you wear your damn armor?” she asked, proud under the circumstances of her well-formed question and patient tone. “I forgot.” “You forgot?” “Yes” “You forgot to wear your armored vest?” “Yes.” Joy rolled her eyes to the ceiling, then looked outside. “Nice weather today, isn’t it? Although it’s turning cool.” It got colder in the room for a while, but no need to say what was self-evident.

aaa Jy-ying Five days later, Jy-ying approached Lin’s restaurant cautiously, her Browning hidden under a light coat thrown over her hand, Little Wei following along. He was now too useful to leave behind. He might smell the danger before she did. She picked her time so that the restaurant would most likely be crowded, and it was. The busy cooks paid no attention to her as she strode through the kitchen with Little Wei trying to keep up, and bounded up the stairs. She didn’t knock, but threw it open and stepped to one side.

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Lin was waiting for her. He sat at his half moon table in his wingbacked wicker chair, smoking his long pipe. Without expression, he motioned her to sit down across from him. She made sure Little Wei had come in, looked around the room, checking for hiding places and, since sitting where he had motioned would put her back to the door and most of the room, she commanded, “You sit there. I will sit where you are.” He got up and took the elmwood Chinese chair. She sat down and placed her gun on the table, pointed at him and within easy reach. She knew he had people assassinated in Chinatown and took no chances. Little Wei was having a great time sniffing around this new world of smells. Several times, he sneezed. Jy-ying raised an eyebrow and waited. “Tea?” “No.” “I have spent a modest fortune on secret telegrams. My contacts at the Western Union office here and in Shanghai are getting rich. Can I expect you will cover my costs?” “You are lucky to be alive.” “I hope you will have mercy on my humble person when you hear what happened.” “Get on with it.” Her tone of voice made Little Wei stop sniffing at a bedroll and look up at her, his tail down. When he saw she wasn’t looking at him, he went back to his fun. Lin took a nervous puff on his pipe and explained, “I contracted with the Green Lotus Society through the Sue Yop tong to have your friend removed. Imperial Intelligence had a spy in the organization, and he reported my request to his contact.” Lin was relaxing as he talked and he did not try to hide his curiosity. “Intelligence was carrying on a secret investigation of your friend and her partner, believing that their business might be a cover for antiimperial spying. Because of what they heard from the spy, they became even more interested and picked up my contact in the society and tortured him to find out more.” His face fell into an ugly, gap-toothed grimace. “All they could find out was that someone had made this contract. Such contracts are done all the time. Fortunately, I have a secret way of doing this through my relatives, so Intelligence will not trace the source to your servant, not even that it came from the United States.

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“I am sorry at what happened. If you so desire, I can have those who almost killed your friend’s partner . . . disciplined for their eagerness.” “How much?” “Considering the terrible amount I have already spent on your behalf, $5,000 would be humble repayment.” “Was the Green Lotus member who was picked up released?” “Yes, he is in the hospital.” “Then do what you suggest, and include him.” She watched Lin as she reached into her purse with one hand and felt for her roll of bills. She took it out and counted out ten hundred-dollar bills while still watching his eyes. “This is what you will get. Also, I will know what happens through my own sources.” She got up and sidled to the door while keeping an eye on him. Little Wei immediately followed her and they both left.

aaa Joy Just before Joy and John left for the Shanghai docks to voyage home, they had two visitors to the office: Hong Dong-po, the head of the local Triad Society, and another man. They carried in a large, ornate Chinese chest and put it down near the door. Opening it, Hong took out a bamboo mat and unrolled it on the floor next to the chest. His face inscrutable, he next pulled out a man’s head by its hair and held it up for them to see, as though it were some treasure that he was selling. After giving the head’s name as Wang Wulong, he placed it on the mat. Soon, he had lined up seven heads facing John. Pointing to the first three, Hong said to Joy in Chinese, “These men you killed. He pointed to the next three and said, “These were our pleasure.” They were the ones Joy had knocked unconscious. She thought she recognized Slit Eyes, the one who had cut off John’s fingers, but she couldn’t be sure. None of the heads had any ears, noses, eyes, or lips. Hong pointed do the seventh head and said with disgust, “This was a minor Green Lotus member. He had told the others about both of you. His wife was tortured to get him to divulge what he knew, and we are sorry about that. Still, one does not tell secrets.” The head had no hair, eyebrows, or beard—it had been completely skinned.

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Hong added, “We will send the seven heads to Imperial Intelligence headquarters with our compliments. We don’t believe you will be bothered again.” Joy translated all this for John. He looked at the head of what he also thought was Slit Eyes, shook his finger at it, and said, “I told you to leave her alone, and you wouldn’t listen. I hope that you’ve learned your lesson.” She didn’t think this would translate well, so she simply said, “He wants to thank you, and give you $1,000 a head.” “No,” Dong said. “This was a matter of honor. You are Chinese. Do you understand?” “Of course,” Joy responded, feeling her face heat up. She stood and, facing Dong, bowed deeply. “Yes. You are an honorable person. I hope that you will accept our humble thanks.” Dong and his helper put the heads back into the chest. When John saw they were going to leave, he motioned Dong over to his bed. He put out his hand. Dong did not understand at first, so Joy explained that John wanted to shake hands. Dong took his hand, and John shook it vigorously. When they were alone again, John asked Joy, “Why did they do that? What’s in it for them? And what is it about us that interested Imperial Intelligence?” Joy was puzzled herself. “It is an iron rule among these secret societies that no one snitches. They will not only torture and kill their own members for doing so, but also members of other societies. As to us, I don’t know what they know or why they are interested in us. When we get back, we should ask Jy-ying if she can guess or find out.”

Chapter 27 Joy

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fter four weeks, John had healed enough for them to board the Santa Maria for their trip home. Joy hand-carried their medical equipment aboard, intent on making damn sure John continued to heal well. Near the middle of the voyage he got obstreperous about Joy not letting him exercise. So she started walking him around the first class deck, and told him to leave his shirt open so that the bandage around his chest could be seen. This answered the unspoken question other passengers might have as to why he was so pale and walking so slowly for a relatively young man. The blond beauty came out of nowhere. She must have been watching them, and thought Joy was his nurse. “Hello,” she said to John in a saccharine voice, ignoring Joy. “Whatever happened to you? Here, can I help?” And she moved to his other side and put her arm through his to give him support. She motioned with her head for Joy to get lost. John stopped and looked at the girl. She had lovely, sparkling blue eyes, full lips, and hair that curled around her head and shoulders in a blond shower. She wore a red shirt, open at the throat to reveal a gold chain from which hung a little gold plate with Chinese calligraphy on it that Joy automatically translated to herself as “lifang—beautiful virtue.” She had on a currently risqué hip- and bottom-hugging woolen dress. What Joy noticed most was her large breasts, pushed up and out by some kind of undergarment. Enough there for three of me, Joy chuckled to herself. “Dressed to kill,” was invented for her. Definitely a wife’s worst nightmare. When the blond looked back at John with a beguiling smile, he smiled in return, looked at Joy, and said, “Thank you for your help. I’ll be in touch, and don’t forget scenario B.” He winked. They went off together down the deck. The last thing Joy heard was, “And your name is, my pretty?”

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“Honey.” What else would it be? “What a nice . . . . ” They disappeared down the deck. Joy had heard of the sea floozies who traveled back and forth firstclass on the liners, seducing rich male passengers. Their “husband” would catch them in a compromising position, and demand satisfaction, for which a small fortune would suffice. Just out of fun, Joy and John had imagined several scenarios they might use if such a floozy tried to seduce John, and had even lettered them. She found an isolated deck chair, sat down on it, and waited. They were three days out of Shanghai, and the ship was slowly rocked by a medium swell as it made steady progress. A brisk breeze blew across her face the strands of hair sticking out from under her narrow brimmed deck hat. On the horizon there was a rainsquall, and the sun was partly hidden by a towering cumulus cloud. It was a great view and a pleasant time to be alive. She soon fell asleep while watching a school of flying fish. “KK. Hi baby. You there?” Joy woke up with a start. The sun had gone down and she was getting chilled. “KK. I’m here. What’s up?” “Ha-ha. Funny girl. I’m with the blonde in her cabin. It’s A33. I know she has tipped off her partner. I guess he should be along after he thinks she has had enough time to look indecent. I’m in her toilet to call you, and will now leave the communicator on so that you will know when to come in. I’m looking forward to the fun.” “Yes, I bet you are,” Joy couldn’t help saying. “Now I’ve got to somehow get my hands on her for her partner’s show.” “Don’t strain yourself.” That hung in the air with little icicles forming on the edges. “We’re into this now, baby. Let’s carry it though.” Before Joy could respond, John hastened to add, “When it’s all set up, I’ll cough and that will be your cue. Signing off.” Joy stomped around the A-deck looking for A33. She must have looked like she had bitten into a rotting fish, for several passengers gave her a second look as she pushed past them, her hands balled up into fists at her side. After finding A33, it was only the world’s greatest willpower that prevented her from barging in on John, and scaring that whore to near-death with her magnum.

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She waited in the corridor at a distance from A33, looking in her purse, as though she couldn’t find her key. She heard giggling and sighing in John’s communicator, and words exchanged that indicated things were getting hot between the pair. When Joy had fantasized about this scenario with John, she thought it would be fun. Hearing them now, she thought, This reverse scam is a stupid idea. Of course, it would be John’s idea. Make that: idiotic idea. Joy heard a moan and her mind hissed, If I hear one more moan out of that slut, I’m going in. Just then, a heavyset man walked down the corridor, stopped in front of A33, and with his back to her, put his ear to the door. They both heard the moans. He rushed in, beating Joy to it. Over the communicator, she heard the man’s voice. “What’s going on here? What’re you doing with my wife? You son of a bitch. I’m going to knock the shit out of you!” John acted surprised. “I didn’t know she was married. She led me on. Honey, why didn’t you tell me, for Christ’s sake? I’m sorry. I’ll just leave.” It was the whore’s turn. Faking her tears, she pleaded, “Please Bruno, don’t hurt me, don’t beat me again. He made me do it,” and so on. It was fine theater and made Joy forget her jealousy. Finally John coughed, and Joy rushed down the corridor and burst in to A33. John had his hand with the bandaged finger stumps on Bruno’s arm. Honey was topless, with only her bloomers on. Joy yelled at John, “Thank God I found you. The purser said he saw you come in here.” Then she looked at Honey, who was staring at her in utter surprise. Apparently horrified, Joy exclaimed, “Oh my God, did he touch you with his hand?” And she pointed to John’s bandaged hand. Honey nodded, picking up her flimsy shirt and holding it across her large breasts. Joy made believe she’d just noticed that John had his hand on Bruno, and she screamed at the man, “You let him touch you with that hand?” Bruno backed away, beginning to look nervous. “Jesus Christ, I can’t believe this.” Joy worked up some crocodile tears. “It’s my fault, I should have known. I trusted him not to touch anybody. My God, I’ve got to tell the captain.” And she turned and started for the door.

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John yelled, “I’m sorry, nurse Chang! I couldn’t help it. She’s so lovely. You don’t know what it’s like for a man, and I haven’t had a woman since I caught this disease—” Yes, Joy thought at that moment, the way she looked when I barged in, it may be a long time before you do have a woman. “Holy Christ, what have I done?” John screwed up his face in, Joy thought, a crummy imitation of crying. Bruno was now obviously scared. “What ya got, pal?” “You don’t want to know.” John got up to leave with Joy. Bruno grabbed John’s shirt and demanded, “What is it?” “Leprosy. See, I’ve already lost two fingers.” John showed him his two bandaged stumps. “It’s now around my chest.” John pulled his shirt apart and displayed the bandages. Emulating a doctor telling his patient that he has terminal cancer, with every line of her face pointing down and her voice somber, Joy pointed out, “Now you two have it.” She hesitated, then with the greatest apparent reluctance, added, “I’ve got to tell the captain. He knows about him.” She nodded at John. “I was supposed to keep him in his cabin. The captain will shoot me.” Honey and Bruno were very frightened. Honey had lost her coloring and Bruno could barely squeak out, “What will the captain do?” “He’ll quarantine you in your cabin and when we get to San Francisco, he’ll turn you over to the health authorities. What you now have is highly contagious and they will send you to a leper colony. You will have to spend the rest of your life there. That is where I was taking this fellow. The disease is horrible. Your skin rots away and your appendages rot off, like his fingers.” Joy looked at Honey, and put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, did he touch your . . . breasts?” Yes, you bastard, she thought at John. Honey turned even whiter and started shaking. All she could do was nod. Joy said in a rush, “They are going to rot away.” Good. Couldn’t be happier. She said nothing for a moment, as though she was horrified at what she had said, then added in a sorrowful voice, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told you that.” Bruno was as white as a fish belly. He too was shaking, and had broken out in a sweat. “You mean my arm will rot off?” “Yes, slowly, and after it goes, the rot will extend to the rest of your body. There is no cure for it. Come,” Joy said to John, “we’ve got to rush to the captain.”

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She headed for the door and he got up to join her, trying to hide the huge grin struggling to erupt on his face. Bruno pulled a gun out of his pocket and said, “No.” Joy looked at Bruno sadly. “This is a Portuguese ship, and the purser knows we are here. If you murder us, he’ll suspect you did it, and you’ll be tried for murder in Portugal. Execution is by the garrote.” “What’s that?” “The executioner puts a metal band around your neck and slowly tightens it with a screw until you’re unable to take even a tiny breath. You die by slow suffocation.” Shaking even more, his face slack with horror, Bruno lowered his gun. Tremulously, he said, “Don’t tell the captain. I’ll give you money.” “What do you think I am? I’m a nurse. I’m concerned about the health of everyone on board this ship. I can’t have you two running around and infecting people with leprosy.” He pleaded, “We’ll stay in our cabin the rest of the trip and never touch anyone again. I’ll give you $3,000.” Joy hesitated, as though considering it. “No, you two are too much of a health risk.” “Five thousand.” More hesitation. “No, not worth it. Come on, let’s go, Mr. Silver,” she said to John. “Wait.” Frantically, Bruno almost screamed, “Honey, get your stash.” She hurriedly put on her shirt, got off the bed, and tottered to the cabin’s small closet. She pulled a roll of bills out of a shoe and gave it to Bruno. He tried to count it, but was shaking so badly, he had to start over twice. Finally, he added it to a roll he had in his own pocket, and cried, “Here, take it all. About $7,260. This is all we have. Please don’t tell the captain.” “I’ll tell you what,” Joy said reluctantly, holding out her hand for the money. “I feel sorry for you two. It’s not your fault. I won’t tell the captain unless I see you anywhere on this ship, and I will ask the purser to keep an eye out for me. I will also get your address from the purser and tell the state health department to keep a watch on you two. Now, do I have your promise? You will never touch another human being, including each other? That would only speed up the rot.” Bruno replied, with relief, “Yes, yes.” “Do you promise that as soon as the rot sets in, you will turn yourselves over to your state health department?”

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“We will, I promise.” “Good luck.” Joy put the money in her holster purse, opened the door for John, and they left. They had a long walk around the ship to get to their cabin, and she was sure that many passengers who saw their contorted faces wondered what was the matter. They tried to hold it all in until they got back to their cabin, where they just exploded in laughter and rolled on their bunks and the floor until their sides hurt. Finally, John held up his bandaged hand and, pointing with the other at his bandaged stumps, said, “It was worth it. I haven’t had so much fun since I put a large snake in an outhouse while a school bully was inside, and jammed the door shut with a branch.” Once they had calmed down, Joy squeezed the laughter out of her voice and asked, “Did you really touch her breasts?” “Yes, but only with my bandaged hand. You know, it was part of the scenario. I had to.” John looked like a little boy telling his mother, “The cookies just happened to fall out of the jar.” “Poor boy. Nipples?” Mock horror on his face, he replied, “Really, baby, what do you think I am? But you’ll never believe what she did to me. It was so embarrassing.” John laughed as Joy picked up a pillow and beat him gently on the head with it. “Beast!” she yelled. Truth be told, she may have hidden it pretty well, but she couldn’t help the glimmer of jealousy that she felt at the time. Since then, she’d stopped berating herself for being jealous. For a person of her training and background, it was so unbecoming. She just recognized it for what it was—the aura of love. Like John’s jealousy over her just talking to men, when he would tell her later, “You’re flirting again.” They never saw that couple again. In the months that followed, they sometimes wondered what had happened to them. They would imagine their hypochondria about the slightest sore or rash on their bodies, and thought that, had they known the truth, they would probably have preferred a jail term to the constant fear in which they lived.

aaa By the time they docked, they had communicated to Jy-ying the details of what had happened in China, and asked her to tell the others. Although they hadn’t expected it, she, the guys, and Mariko met them at San Francisco Pier 8.

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When they spied Joy and John coming down the ship’s ramp, they broke through the crowd of people waiting and scampered onto the ramp and past the port authorities who tried to stop them. The guys came to a gleeful halt just in front of John and shook his hand, gently hugged him, and patted him on the shoulder. Joy’s turn. Hands lifted her up in a bear hug. Her feet never touched the ramp as he passed her to Dolphy to hug before passing her to Sal, who complained about being last. Jy-ying and Mariko gave John a careful hug and kissed Joy on the cheek. That night, Joy and John threw a party and invited all their company executives and their wives over as well, and John told everyone an edited version of what had happened, claiming that extortion was the aim of those who kidnapped them, and that they’d been rescued by the police. During the toasts, Joy looked around and reflected, Our company is doing well. It looks like we forestalled the colonization of Korea and have set back the Japanese military in favor of civilian rule. I’ve grown to really like the guys, Mariko, and Jy-ying. I can’t blame her for her crush on John, and it’s now under control. We’re alive, and John is healing well. And I know the spirit of Mom is close. For the first time in her life, Joy got drunk—eye-glazing, mindnumbing, universe-spinning drunk. Jy-ying, who as a Muslim could not touch alcohol, told Joy afterward that she led the singing of some ribald ballads and before she fell into a stupor on the floor with her locket in her hands, she tried to do the dance of the seven veils. Smiling, Jy-ying kindly refused to tell her whether she got to the seventh. Joy remembered none of it. Jy-ying and Mariko said they put her to bed, and that the guys gently laid John, stupidly drunk as well, next to her. Nobody would tell her what John did before he passed out. Probably tried to touch some woman’s breasts with his stumps, she thought Their trip to Japan and China and the lobbying on behalf of Korea was successful, they found out in the following years. John read her one revealing headline from The New York Times: “Congress Passes Angry Resolution Over Jap-Imposed Korean Protectorate.” In return, she read him headlines from the Chinese and Japanese newspapers to which she subscribed, including “General Han’s Korean Righteous Army Defeats Japanese Army at Taejon.” Where did Han find the time and energy? she wondered.

Chapter 28 Joy 1909–1910

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hey’d barely had time to unpack their bags in San Francisco before they received Janet’s terrible message: Dear Joy and John, My loving Ed was assassinated two days ago. Will have him cremated, as he desired. I will carry on his project with all my strength. I loved him dearly. What more can I say? Yours, Janet

They were all stunned and saddened, and after two seconds of silent communication between Joy and John, she knew what to do. They would travel to Liverpool to give Janet support through this tough time, and help her tidy up her affairs and move to San Francisco. John called Western Union to telegraph their reply. Dear Janet: Out deepest condolences and sympathy. Mankind has lost a great man. We are coming to help. We invite you to move to San Francisco with us when we return. Joy and John They knew that Jy-ying was close to Janet also, but Joy thought it best she stay and handle company matters. Jy-ying was very saddened by the news, as were the guys and Mariko. John told Joy, “I was afraid of something like this. Ed had become too prominent, too successful against colonialism. He made too many enemies among the rich and powerful. We could easily be killed in the same way. What may save us is that we are only known widely for our business success. Everything else we do secretly.”

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Joy responded, “We’ve got to do all we can for Janet. She is now critical to the success of decolonization. Besides, she is like a sister to me.” “Like Jy-ying?” John asked without expression. “No, not the same. Oh, I like her, and she is really good at her work for me, and I enjoy our sparring, but there is a distance there I can’t put my finger on.” “Maybe you’re still troubled by her having spied on us, or her attempted seduc—” “Maybe.” It came out too loud and too fast. She took a deep breath, and calmed her voice. “But she has behaved herself since.” She looked sidelong at John. “Hasn’t she?” “You betcha.” They spent two days with Jy-ying and the others, laying out what needed to be done with the company while they were gone, and left on a four-day express to New York, where they were able to get a third class berth on the famous R.M.S. Mauritania. It took them over six days to reach Liverpool, during which they kept in wireless contact with Janet. She was staying with the Wilsons, her foster parents, who were providing her with the emotional support she now needed. They also helped Joy and John arrange for Janet to move to San Francisco. Only Joy and John, however, could help tie up all the loose strings of Ed’s anticolonial work. They made sure the Wilsons understood that Janet’s move and their involvement must be kept secret, for she or all of them might be assassinated as well. Janet bought a beautiful native Congo urn for Ed’s ashes. They were able to get first class accommodations on the R.M.S. Lusitania, with a stateroom for Janet next to theirs. Janet carried Ed’s ashes onto the ship and tenderly placed the urn on a little dresser in her room. She carefully secured it against the ship’s motion, and placed a photograph of the two of them next to it. Sometimes when they stopped by her cabin to take her to dinner, Joy and John found her with her eyes red and swollen. They communicated with Jy-ying by telegram while in England, and by wireless from their ship, about what they wanted done for Janet. By the time they returned to San Francisco with her, the apartment across the hall from Jy-ying had been furnished with early Victorian furniture—Janet’s favorite. Once Janet was settled in her new apartment, they helped her take over the editing of the weekly West African Mail and set up post office

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boxes to which people could send her sensitive insider information. She still had Ed’s secret contacts through which she could funnel funds for lobbying and distribution to sympathetic people. It had been a difficult operation with Ed, and much harder now that Janet had to do it alone. John, Joy, and Jy-ying helped as best they could, and in a number of instances, John acted as a go-between when a male presence was required, as was often the case in this age. Joy and John set up an office in their company where Janet could work, and she hired assistants who made the repetitive part of the work easier. But when not at work on what they called the Colonial Project, for the first several months she was either across the hall with Jy-ying and Little Wei, or downstairs with Joy and John. Once Janet was settled, Joy and John tried to move on. Joy found it especially hard. Her deep sympathy for Janet went beyond normal compassion. She kept imagining that Ed’s ashes were John’s, and was overwhelmed by the rapid emotional destruction she would suffer, were it true. She couldn’t shake it. It hung over her and soured her days. Months later, when they were alone in the evening, she put down the 1909 Sears Roebuck Catalogue she was leafing through, and told the living room, “I know Ed was among the best of humanity. That his life was snuffed out as fast as I could snap my fingers, in a way no armor or weapons could protect against, was a warning we can’t ignore.” John looked up, brows furrowed, from Volume 2 of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, which he was still trying to finish. “What?” She realized she had been thinking aloud. She looked at him. “I love you, dearest.” “Oh, I see you noticed my manly hair, my perfect nose, my piercing eyes, and my lush lips; and especially, my incredibly masculine handlebar mustache. I love you too, baby.” He cocked his head, twirled the ends of his carrot-colored mustache, and looked at her with a lascivious grin. She stuck her tongue out at him, and looked back down at the catalogue without seeing it. I would even miss his horrible humor.

aaa Jy-ying How fortuitous, Jy-ying thought when Janet moved in across the hall. She never did like Janet being so far away—it made their conspir-

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acy and companionship difficult. Now they could do so much together. The problem at first was keeping their true identities from Joy and John, and the three pesky guys. They had to continue to act like they belonged in this age; they had to watch that they didn’t say things about the future they couldn’t have known. It was hard enough with Jy-ying alone, but when they were talking to each other with the others around, they had to carefully guard what they said. After well over a year, it became routine. A new problem slowly emerged, to eat at Jy-ying’s relationship with Janet like a cancer. And then, as when an x-ray and biopsy show the lethal tumor for what it is, in two short discussions, Jy-ying’s view of Janet went from coconspirator and friend to potential enemy. They had never really discussed religion. It seemed enough that they were both Sabah Muslims, and both did their Contact Prayers five times a day. But somehow, while visiting Janet, Jy-ying brought up the subject of the Hanafi sect: “We cannot have these Hanafi Sabahs spreading their false interpretations of his teaching and prophesies. We have to adhere strictly to what Sabah said. No liberal interpretations, but strict adherence. He was the Prophet of God and it is not for us to read between his lines. I think the National Council of Clerics should have been tougher with the Hanafis from the beginning.” Janet blanched. “My father was a Hanafi, and our leading imam in Britain was sympathetic to the Hanafi school—that’s why he favored my dad’s work. I really don’t know. I’m not into these religious distinctions, myself. What was the Council doing about the Hanafi school?” Jy-ying leaned over and snapped her fingers for Little Wei to come to her. He came and rolled over for her to scratch his stomach. As she gave him the full benefit of her nails, she tried to think of what to say. This was a shock to her. Everyone in Sabah’s Security Guard had believed that the Hanafis had to be rooted out, first in China and then elsewhere. Their beliefs could seriously undermine Sabahism; the sect was in some ways no less an enemy than Christianity or Judaism. Lists were being developed and the first arrests of leaders under one guise or another had taken place a month before her time travel. She had to be sure. Time for a Q & A. She smiled up at Janet. “Well, it’s a matter of your own faith.” She went through the major tenets of Islam, its basic pillars, on which there was virtually no disagreement. But when it got to the principles of Sabah, there was a gulf.

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Janet put it this way. “I do not believe that the Ahmedi’s green book, Principles of Obedience, is necessarily correct, and that the Supreme Imam of Sabahism is the only source of holy understanding and rules.” She bowed her head. “Peace be unto Sabah. I think each Sabahist is responsible for his or her own interpretation, and that different interpretations should be able to coexist in harmony. Also, I don’t see why Sabah cannot compete with other religions peacefully.” Jy-ying was aghast. This is almost heresy. It’s what Security was trying to stamp out. There is only one truth of Sabah, and that is the truth laid down by the first Supreme Imam Abduvahit Ahmedi. A shiver ran down her spine at her final thought. Janet is a Hanafi. Although she had just done so an hour before, she claimed that Little Wei needed to got out. She left with him as Janet returned to her apartment. The next discussion with Janet days later scared her even more. “I am impressed with the freedom people in the United States have,” Janet said reflectively. “Oh, I know that women can’t vote, and blacks are segregated, and there are other problems. But compared to the Sabahs’ Great Britain, I love it here and in my country during this age. I think the exclusiveness of Sabah and the absolute rule by the clerics is wrong. People should be free to choose their religion and their government.” If Janet had hit her in the face with her fist, Jy-ying could not have felt a greater blow. But that was only the first punch. The second sent Jy-ying reeling. Janet said, “I believe that Sabah was a prophet of God. But there have been other prophets, such as Mohammed himself. There will be other prophets, as God wills it. We obey His prophets, as each of us understands His words. But I don’t believe God has said through any of His prophets that we should kill Joy. I think if Sabah were here, he would tell us to persuade Joy, as you intend to do with John, not to kill Sabah. Anyway, I think she is doing great work, and we should help her, not kill her.” Jy-ying’s face showed none of her shock. She smiled, as emotionally painful as it was, and changed the subject to Janet’s work on decolonization. Soon she claimed she was tired from her sparring with Joy that morning, and she was going to bed early. Alone after Janet left, Jy-ying tried to think through what was going on with Janet. She was more than worried. Janet frightened her.

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aaa Joy After all their foreign trips in 1908 and 1909, they had a breather until they would intervene in the Chinese Revolution in 1912. They continued to keep a close eye on events in Europe, making sure they exactly followed the Old Universe chronology prepared by the Society. Although it was still too early for them to personally intervene, they prepared to do so eventually by establishing offices in Moscow, St. Petersburg, Berlin, Belgrade, and other potentially important cities in Europe. They also spent tens of millions of dollars on antiwar propaganda and an informational campaign throughout Europe. John was convinced that, if they could stop World War I, they would have gone a long way toward preventing World War II as well. If he’s right, Joy thought, it will make all the work worth it. They also concentrated on further building up their business. Their separate brokerage accounts—Joy had opened one also—now had to be split among five brokerage houses; it was getting difficult to manage them. By early 1911, they were worth close to $735 million. They’d more than made up for the funds transferred to Ed and Janet, and spent on the interventions in Mexico, Japan, and Korea. Joy continued to do her weekly correlation between the current New York Stock Exchange stock prices and those recorded in the Old Universe, and the gap was growing. From a perfect 100 percent in 1908, it slipped to 96 percent in 1909. By February 1911, it was down to 83 percent. “That makes sense, “ John said when Joy told him. “It must be due to the success of democracy in Mexico, and the changes we instigated in Korea and Japan. And above all, the success of Ed and Janet’s Colonial Project.” “What?” Joy asked. “You mean that our company being the largest import and export firm in the Western part of the United States has nothing to do with it? You’re so humble.” The three guys happily accepted Janet, as they had Jy-ying. But there seemed something special about Janet. “Janet is very much like you in her openness and natural assumption of equality, and crazy, often risqué, sense of humor,” John told Joy. “The guys like that.” Sal seemed to feel that maybe Janet would be like Joy in other ways. One day when Jy-ying was not around, he asked her jokingly,

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“Can you beat up five men with one hand, while holding your dress out of the way with the other?” Janet gave him a mock steely look, and said, “Don’t piss me off, mister, or you’ll see. Anyway, from the stories I’ve heard, she takes all her clothes off first. I wouldn’t do that. I’m too modest.” They both laughed. After Jy-ying, Sal went through girlfriends like a child through popcorn. Joy gave up trying to keep track. Hands had broken up with his girlfriend, Jane, and had no serious relationship for several months afterward. Then he took an interest in Janet. Although she was more than ten years older than Hands, she was youthful in her behavior and very pretty. For Janet, Hands’ attentions came too soon after Ed’s death. She tried to discourage him in a kind way. Joy tried to help her. She gently hinted to Hands that Janet’s lack of interest had nothing to do with him personally, but was due to her love for Ed. Mariko finally overcame her mother’s resistance to her daughter marrying a non-Japanese, and she and Dolphy got married in Hawaii in a Western, white gown ceremony. Joy was her bridesmaid, and John was best man. Sal, Hands, Janet and Jy-ying also attended at company expense, and they spent a week touring Kauai, Maui, and the Big Island. Joy and John learned to surfboard on moderate sized waves, although Joy hated the old-style swimsuits that covered her from neck to knee. Hawaii was their last good time before their China intervention. They returned to San Francisco to put their business in order for their trip to China. John was very concerned, almost frightened by the proposed intervention. “We will be trying to assassinate the leading and most unscrupulous general in the country, a man who has the Chinese army behind him,” he admitted frankly. “We’ll also be dealing with one or another secret society, made up of hardened criminals who could make a game out of who can keep a person alive the longest while slicing him apart piece by piece.” “But now, if we’re killed, Janet and Jy-ying can carry on our mission,” Joy commented. “And there are Hands, Sal, and Dolphy, who know our company well enough to run it themselves.” John looked like he found only cold comfort in that.

Chapter 29 Joy 1912

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hortly before their departure, John called everyone together to discuss the China trip, and “everyone” now included Mariko. After Joy passed Chinese Harbin beer around and heated up Japanese Oolong tea for Jy-ying and Janet, John opened the meeting with, “As you already know, Joy and I will be taking a dangerous trip to China to build up the company’s offices there, and in a small way, to further the democratic revolution now underway.” They had revised their wills. Now if something happened to them, Janet, Jy-ying, Hands, Sal, and Dolphy and Mariko together would each receive 20 percent of their liquid assets and stocks, and 20 percent ownership in the company. Hands was willed executive control of the company, with a Board of Directors made up of the six of them. They’d also added a secret codicil for Jy-ying, giving her the code to their capsules and discretion in the distribution and management of the funds and supplies in them for the mission and the assassination of Sabah. “It’s especially important while we’re gone, and especially if we don’t return,” John said, “that you all continue to help Janet with her Colonial Project. Joy and I consider it of prime importance, but it is too much for her to do alone.” He looked at Janet. “Janet, can you update us on your progress?” She seemed surprised by the request and gazed into space for a few seconds, apparently thinking about what to say. “Well, I don’t know how much of it you’ve been following. John may remember the International Commission on the Future of Colonial Peoples—ICFCP for short—that was set up in 1911 at the Washington Conference. Ed was partly responsible for that. It finally achieved its aim. “Colonial powers have been increasingly embarrassed by my actual and encouraged disclosures of their treatment of colonial people. World public opinion has turned strongly against colonization—” Jy-ying interrupted to say, “Thanks much to those horrible photographs of murdered indigenous peoples you widely published.”

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“Yes,” John added, “and this outraged public opinion has muscle, thanks to the spreading and deepening democratization of the world.” Janet nodded and went on. “As I’ve already told some of you, two months ago a multilateral Self Government Treaty was signed by all colonial powers. This obligated them to turn all their colonies over to the ICFCP over a period of five years. The ICFCP would be responsible for the administration of the colonies and their development toward self-government. In this, education, training in self-government, and free trade would be emphasized. At the end of ten years, the people of each colony would vote on their future self-government.” “It couldn’t be that easy,” Joy interjected wryly. “I know how governments work.” “It wasn’t,” Janet replied. “The greatest resistance to this divestiture of colonies came from Great Britain, where many politicians argued that they were already doing what the ICFCP was supposed to do, and could do it better. However, President Taft applied great political pressure. And I had published in Britain evidence of the obscene profits twelve House of Commons members made from their relationship to British monopolies in the colonies. I also included photographs of eight-year-old children working in British-owned textile sweatshops in Madras. All this was too much to ignore, and the House voted to sign the ICFCP Treaty by a narrow margin.” They all clapped. John toasted her and said, “That is the greatest tribute Ed could ever have had.” She smiled at that, eyes glistening.

aaa In February of 1912, they took the passenger ship Manchuria to Hong Kong, and from there a coastal vessel to Shanghai. From their office there, they would try to work their intervention. They’d timed their arrival carefully. The Emperor has just abdicated, the centuries old Manchu Dynasty had fallen. General Yüan Shih-k’ai, head of the Northern Army, was trying to set up a new dynasty of his own. In the interim, democratic leaders had declared a new republic and “elected” Sun Yat-sen its new president. These events were as important as the complete collapse of the USSR in 1991. Their timing had much to do with John’s reading of Chinese history, he reminded Joy one evening when she made the mistake of bringing up the subject. Joy recognized his tone, and cringed.

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“The pivot of these events is General Yüan,” John droned. “He has the military power and will use it to his political advantage—” He’s lecturing. There is no God. “In the Old Universe, he was directly responsible for the disastrous and bloody War Lord Period, during which hundreds of local wars were fought.” He paused to draw breath. Joy seized the opening. “Do you really mean to say ‘hundreds’? That’s a lot of wars in one country.” “Actually, baby, believe it or not, there were hundreds of wars. And there was the even bloodier civil war between the Nationalists led by Chiang Kai-shek and the communist Mao Tse-tung. Millions were killed.” In the Old Universe, Yüan had assassinated Sung Chiao-jen who, as the leader of the most powerful parliamentary party and the democratic movement next to Sun Yat-sen, was the only real hope of democracy in China. We’ll have to arrange the assassinations of Yüan, Chiang, Mao, and Chou En-lai, who would be his influential second in command. “I’ll set up an appointment for Sun to teach at Harvard that he cannot refuse,” John concluded, “and provide the funds that Sung needs to solidify democracy in China.” Joy shifted, not meeting his eyes. John studied her. “You don’t think we are going to do the assassinations personally, do you?” “Why not? I thought that was our job description.” He got that irritating lecturing tone in his voice again. “Baby, China is a large and complex country with all kinds of interwoven alliances, friendships, secret societies, regional conflicts, and on and on. We don’t know our way around in that historical-cultural-social-political complex. It’s a sure way of getting ourselves killed.” His tone turned commanding. “We contract the assassinations with a secret society.” Joy thought he was wrong, but took it calmly at first. “I speak the most common Chinese languages; I look Chinese; I can act Chinese. I should do it. That way we know it’s done.” “No!” Joy yelled, “Then why the hell have I been keeping up my skills? Why have I been training you in them? I don’t even need to be able to push a child off its potty, to contract this out. Even you can do that.” “Ahh, sweetheart. Aren’t you forgetting one little thing?” “What?” “You need all your skills to protect me.” “Oh. Yes, of course.”

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aaa Jy-ying Jy-ying watched Joy and John’s ship sail off, then hurried to Lin’s Chinese restaurant to put out another contract on Joy. She had not even hinted to Janet that she was going to do this, but she knew that Janet was concerned about what Jy-ying intended to do. Holding Little Wei in one arm, Jy-ying entered the restaurant at suppertime, and found only a few tourists there. She went through the kitchen, where a cook was reading a Chinese newspaper, and climbed the stairs to Lin’s rooms. A young man answered when she knocked. He looked at her curiously and asked in Chinese, “What do you want?” “I want to see Lin Huifeng.” “He is dead.” Jy-ying tried to push open the door and enter the room, but the man held the door partly closed and would not make way for her. She explained, “I have done . . . business with him. I want to know what happened.” He tried to close the door on her. She quickly stepped back, put Little Wei down, and did a thrust kick at the door, slamming it open and almost knocking the man off his feet. She pulled her Taiyang .38 out of her holster purse before rushing inside the room. There she whirled and kicked the man behind the knee. He fell hard on the floor. She pushed the door closed, pointed the gun at him, and informed him in a sweet voice, “I could kill you with my hands. This gun is for your protection. This way, you won’t try your muscles on me and I won’t have to protect myself, and possibly kill you.” Little Wei stayed out of the way and watched with interest. He attended all her sparring matches with Joy and had early learned, after almost being stepped on, to find a comfortable niche. The man sat on the floor, holding one leg and rubbing it. He glared at her. “What do you want?” “What happened to Lin?” “Why?” “That is my business.” She waved the gun at him. “Are you going to tell me, or do you need some persuasion?” He tried to get up and she kicked him in the leg again. He fell back. “Stay down.”

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Holding the gun in one hand, she reached into her false bustle and pulled out her thin combat knife. She put her gun away and pointed the knife at the frightened face of the man now trembling on the floor. “This knife is quieter and of more use for what I have in mind,” she told him in a cold voice. “Tell me, now. Who are you?” “I am Lin Desheng, his son.” “Where is your father?” “He is dead.” She waited. So did Little Wei, who sat back on his behind to watch. Jy-ying suddenly leaned forward and nicked the man’s arm with her knife. He yelled at the pain and tried to scuttle away from her, but a Chinese cabinet stopped him. She followed him, leaned over him with her knife, and asked, “How did he die?” He spoke in a tremulous rush. “He was tortured to death.” She waved her knife. “They wanted to know who he did some business with. They would not believe he didn’t know.” She now knew what happened. She asked anyway, “Who?” Lin Desheng’s face showed his anguish and fear. His mouth moved, but nothing came out. She could almost taste his sweat. She waited, and wrinkled her nose. He had soiled his pants. She took mercy on him. “It was the Sue Yop tong, and this had to do with what happened to the Green Lotus Society in China, correct? It has to do with a contract he made.” He barely nodded, the fear not leaving his eyes. Still holding the knife, Jy-ying opened the door, scooped up Little Wei, and left. She passed the cook on her way out but paid him little mind. Until she was putting Little Wei in the passenger seat of her new self-starting Cadillac she didn’t realize the cook must have followed her out of the kitchen and signaled to someone. A man with a black slouch hat pulled down nearly over his eyes came up behind her and knocked her brimless lawn hat off as he grabbed her hair and jerked her head back with his left hand to put a chokehold on her with his right arm. Her trained reflexes took charge. She reached up with both hands and pulled down on his arm, tucking her chin in and dropping her weight down heavily while with her right arm she thrust an elbow strike into his ribs and shifted her center of gravity over her left leg to put her right hip below his. Lifting up with her legs and twisting, she threw him into the fender of the car.

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The man grunted and fell off the fender to the ground, but rolled to his feet while Jy-ying leaned back, weight toward her heels, fists turned down, right one held out from her cheek, her left farther from her chest, in her own wing chun chong sau—ready stance. Jy-ying saw immediately from the man’s roll and his own ready stance that he would not be easy. He had lost his black hat and she could see the queue wrapped around his head. She knew immediately that he was a boo how doy—a fighting man—employed by the tongs. He was thin, and shorter than her, but that made no difference. He was clearly trained, a specialist, but in what martial art, it was too early to tell. Her waist to ankle dress and flat-heeled, pointed shoes limited her ability to maneuver as well as her choice of moves. Dressed in this straitjacket, she thought, I have no time for play. He came at her in a twirling motion, both hands raised in fists close to his head, the move timed so that he would be in position to hurl straight-knuckle punches at her face. He did not anticipate her swift sideways step and the knife she whipped out of her bustle and thrust under his arm and deep between his ribs. He twisted away from her, fell to one knee with the knife still in him, and leaned on one arm as he reached into his coat pocket. A gun. Shit. Okay, anything that works. In a blur, she spun her body at him, the flounces on her dress spinning out; she reached him just as he was raising his gun to shoot her, and with the full force of her spin she did a front leg kick up and under his chin, snapping his head back. She heard the crack as his neck broke and he fell backward, dead. Maybe six seconds had passed, but she was gasping for breath. Gradually she became aware of the world, and Little Wei’s loud barking. He was at the Cadillac’s passenger window, jumping up and down and growling and barking to be let out to help her. He knew the real thing. She picked up the dead man’s gun and looked around. Several people had stopped at a distance to watch, and the driver of a loaded cart had halted his horse in the middle of Gibb Street. When they saw her looking at them, they all averted their eyes and made off. This was Chinatown, after all, and a dangerous place to be nosy. She searched the dead man’s pockets. He had no identity, no wallet. In an inner coat pocket he carried an olive green card the size of a business card. It had a bright green border and nothing else. That was all she needed. It proved he was a tong fighting man and that the Sue Yop tong were looking for her.

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“They have a long memory for slights,” she said to herself, shaking her head over the years that had passed. She retrieved her knife and cleaned it on the dead man’s coat. When she tried to get into the car, Little Wei was all over her, aiming his tongue at her face. She got him calmed down, put him firmly down on the passenger side, and told him to stay in Chinese. She drove away from the restaurant, watching in front and behind her for another car. She saw a Ransom Olds pull away from the wooden curb behind her, two stores down. She did a left at the next intersection, and another left, and saw the car also make the turns while keeping its distance. It had its canvas top down and she saw two men inside. She grabbed Little Wei by his scruff with one hand and pushed him onto the floor between her left leg and the door, again telling him to stay. As she made sure her door was solidly shut, she explained to him, “It is going to get a little rough.” She saw the bullet break part of the windshield to her right, but she couldn’t hear the shot above the engine noise. She hunkered down as far as she could without blinding herself to the road, and pushed the accelerator down to the floor. These streets were not meant for racing at thirty or forty miles per hour, and the car bounced and skidded as it hit one wagon rut or pothole after another. She swerved around wagons and carts, almost hitting two horses, a donkey, and a bicycle, and when she saw the chaos she created, she knew what to do. She headed for congested Stockton and Broadway Streets, and when she reached the traffic of horse riders, bicycles, and diverse horse-drawn wagons and carriages, she hoped her steel fenders were made strong enough. She aimed and timed her destruction well. She hit the wooden hub of a front wheel on a farm wagon loaded with caged chickens. The wheel was knocked off, and the two mules pulled the wagon over when the axle dug into the brick street. She drove alongside another farm wagon loaded with pigs, pulled close to the horse’s head, and blew her horn. Its peripheral vision blocked by the bridle’s blinders, the startled horse screamed, reared, kicked, then tried to run off at a right angle, spilling the pigs to the street. Jy-ying caused two more wagons and a cart to overturn. Looking behind her, she could see nothing but angry drivers, scared horses, mules, and pigs, and wagons and carts stopped at all angles as their drivers had tried to avoid the wreckage. No car was going to get through that easily.

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She pulled around a traffic jam and swerved in front of a two-horse water wagon and across the lane, barely missing another horse, then swerved down a side street. Another right and left, and she felt certain no one was following her. When she got to John’s apartment building and parked behind it, she picked up excited Little Wei and inspected the damage to her fenders. The paint had been scratched off of one and the other had a slight dent in it. She patted the fender affectionately. That evening, she checked the telephone book, the newspaper advertising pages, and put the CD that Security had prepared for her in her laptop. She searched for potential contacts in San Francisco. She found another tong contact, and a possible intermediary to the Triad Society. But after sitting back and thinking about it, she decided it was too dangerous now to deal through Chinatown. These local tong and China’s secret societies were all interwoven. The Sue Yop tong would now put out a special contract on her. She could not trust anyone. She petted Little Wei, who was twitching in his sleep after all the excitement, and told him, “She’s escaped again. There’s no way I can get to her in China. Now I must do it myself.”

aaa Joy In Shanghai, John started negotiations with the secret Triad Society for the assassinations of Yüan, Chiang, Mao, and Chou En-lai. Chiang, Mao, and Chou were not yet widely known, so they cost John only $5,000 each. But after the fall of the Manchu Dynasty, General Yüan became, as he schemed, the most important political and military figure in China. For the assassination of such a national figure, John had to put up $100,000. John told Joy happily, “Just by these assassinations alone, we may have saved perhaps fifty or sixty million lives, when all the internal wars and mass murders for which they were responsible are added up.” “Are you sure of that?” “No. In the fascist culture now prevalent in China, others may take their place. I hope the vast sums we have given to support democracy may avoid this, especially the fifteen million dollars you promised Sung to help him consolidate his democratically oriented party and replace Sun as president of the Republic. I understand that Sung will

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soon conduct true national democratic elections for the first representative national legislature.” They waited for their contract on Yüan to be carried out. After two anxious weeks, a trusted guard killed the General and escaped before the assassination became known. News about Yüan’s murder exploded in China and was second in importance only to the abdication of the Emperor. Assassinations were not enough. They waited to see what would happen as a result. In a week, Sun Yat-sen resigned his presidency for the good of the country and left for the new teaching position at Harvard that John had arranged. Sung’s position was strengthened and it looked like democracy was on a roll. They left for home tired, not looking forward to another interminable voyage, but happy that they seemed successful, at least for the moment. Joy did notice during the voyage that John seemed to have a special interest in studying each young blonde woman he saw around the ship. “Don’t get your hopes up, dearest,” she told him in a voice that would chill the Sahara Desert. “You no longer have the bandaged stumps for it.” “But if I spy a sea floozy, maybe I’ll tie a bandage around them. Aren’t you in favor of cleaning up these ships for honest travelers?” Her answer was to punch him in the shoulder. He doubled up holding his shoulder, wincing, and yelling, “I’m injured. Help me. Where’s a blonde?”

Chapter 30 Janet

I

t was a happy time for Janet. Joy and John had returned from their China intervention and it had worked out well; she was overjoyed, especially for Ed’s soul, that progress on his Colonial Project had gone so well; and now, most important to her, she felt at home with Joy, John, and the guys, and even Jy-ying had gotten over her inexplicable coolness. She and Jy-ying had recently been discussing in detail what would happen in the future: the rise of Sabah, his seizure of China, and his takeover of the democracies. She saw that Jy-ying also hated the horrible mass murder leading up to it, and could barely justify it by the Great Victory of Sabah and Islam. But she did. Janet had come to a decision. She invited Jy-ying over for her special English potato, tomato, onion, and cheese casserole to tell her about it. After they finished the meal, Janet served her special chocolate mousse. “What an awful, un-Chinese dessert,” Jy-ying murmured, smiling and trying to scrape the last bead of chocolate from inside her dessert cup. Little Wei was jumping up and down for his share, but she had saved a little of her casserole, and gave him that instead. “Don’t you feel guilty?” Janet asked. “Yes, but the vet told me chocolate was bad for him.” After they did the dishes and cleaned up, Janet filled their porcelain teacups with the remaining jasmine tea. They both sat on the sofa, half facing each other, sipping their tea and talking about the opposition of Portugal’s colonial bureaucracy to turning Angola over to the ICFCP. Already, because of the pressure added by Janet’s Colonial Project, they had been forced to make reforms in the colony, such as opening it to economic competition. There was a moment of silence as Jy-ying sipped her tea, and Janet seized the moment to announce, “I’m going to tell Joy and John about us. I can’t stand lying anymore. I’m now against killing Joy. We will have to find another way to protect Sabah, God be with him. This would be Ed’s way.”

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Jy-ying blanched, and her teacup trembled on its saucer as she put it down gently. She stared at Janet. Janet stared back at her. This was the moment she feared. She knew that she did not have the mental strength and training, if it came to a test of wills between them. Finally Jy-ying whispered in a tone that made Little Wei jerk up his head and look at her, “You dare make that decision for me, as well?” Janet started shivering. She clasped her hands on her lap and looked down at them. “Won’t it be obvious that you are included if I tell them about me? I will leave you out; I won’t mention your name. I will tell them only about me, but if they ask about you, I will not lie anymore. I will just tell them to ask you.” A tear started down her cheek. “I cannot live these lies anymore, Jy-ying. Joy has been like a sister to me, and John has been sweet. The thought of killing her, and what it would do to John, sickens me. I get nauseous thinking about it.” She began to cry. “I’m sorry, Jy-ying. I’m so very sorry.” Little Wei had jumped on the sofa. He was trying to lick Janet’s cheeks while she held him. Jy-ying sighed and asked, “When will you tell them?” Janet let her determination show in her tone. “I’ve asked Joy if I can see them tomorrow evening after supper. I’ll tell them then.” She dabbed at her eyes with hands. “I don’t know what they’ll do. Maybe kick me out. Fire me. There’s not much more I can do on colonialism— maybe it’s time to close down the project, anyway. I’ll return to them what funds are left.” “What about your determination to do what your father lost his life for?” “My father was a good man. I don’t believe any longer that he would want me to kill Joy. I’m now sure he would try to find another way to protect Sabah.” Jy-ying’s tone turned conversational. “What will you do, once you tell them?” “Return to England. Live with my foster parents, if they’ll have me. I love them, you know. And try to forget all this.” Having said what she’d dreaded throughout the day, she was suddenly exhausted. She simply wanted to be alone. She stood up, conveying the social hint. “Thank you, Jy-ying, for being so good to me, and for all the help you have given me.” She reached over and touched Jy-ying on the arm as she got up. “I hope that it works out well, if they also find out about you.”

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Jy-ying walked to the door, followed by Little Wei. As she opened it, she turned around and gave Janet a hug. “What God wills, He wills. We are only His to command.” She looked reflective, as though talking to herself. “You have to do what you must.” Following Little Wei out, Jy-ying gently closed the door behind her. Janet put her back to the door, slid down it, and pulled her knees up to her chin. She wept. “Oh Ed, I miss you,” she whispered. “I’m so scared of telling them. Please help me.”

aaa Janet took her morning bath, did her Dawn Contact Prayers, and had a breakfast of tea, toast, and jam. She dressed, picked up what in this age passed for a “lady’s” briefcase, and shut and locked the apartment door behind her. She had worked out her fears the night before, and finally felt relief at having told Jy-ying her intentions. By the time she fell asleep, she had grown confident that telling Joy and John would work out. The mood had carried over to this morning, and she was almost happy that this huge burden would soon be off her shoulders. She reached the back of the apartments and went down the stairs to the outside door. She opened it and walked across the gravel alley to the former horse stable that John had remodeled into a four-car garage. She unlocked and lifted the garage door where her Ford was parked, and walked into the dark interior. A slight swish of sound. She began to turn her head toward it. She felt a sudden smack in the head, a diminishing sense of falling. Nothingness.

aaa Joy As Joy and John approached their garage, Joy thought, Strange. Janet left the garage door up. But her Ford is still there. John, apparently suspicious as well, rushed ahead of her. When Joy entered, she found him kneeling beside Janet, who lay on her back on the floor, her head turned toward them, her eyes closed. She looked like she was sleeping, and that the pool under her head was spilled red paint.

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John yelled, “Shit!” Joy’s heart stopped. She didn’t have to look closely to know that Janet was dead. The blood from her head said it all. Assassinated, Joy’s mind supplied. Her eyes opened wide as her hand rushed to cover her cheek. She screamed. John leaned over and lifted Janet’s wrist to feel for a pulse. He shook his head, and sat down between Janet’s body and her car. “Shit. Shit. SHIT.” Joy dropped onto the concrete floor on the other side of Janet, took her cold, chalk-white hand in hers, and broke down in body wrenching, keening sobs. Janet had become her best friend—an intimate part of her life. John moved to sit beside Joy. He put his arm around her and sobbed with her. Gulping air, Joy finally looked at John. His face was red and tearstreaked, his lips trembling, eyes blazing with anger. Joy was trembling all over. She still held Janet’s cold, stiff hand in hers. She rubbed her fingers over Janet’s, and with her other hand caressed Janet’s palm as though she could communicate her affection to the dead woman’s soul. Joy could hardly get a word out between her sobs. She succeeded at last in saying to John, “No police. We’ll . . . handle this ourselves. We can’t have them . . . prying into her Colonial Project. Or our company. Could you get Jy-ying . . . the guys? I can’t.” John released her, stood up shakily and left to tell the others. Joy felt no passage of time. She was lost in the agony of her grief. She was still holding Janet’s cold hand when the others arrived and gathered around. John backed the cars out of the garage and parked them in the alley so that they had room. Everyone wept. Sal beat the garage wall with his fist in helpless anger. Mariko held struggling Little Wei; Jyying was sobbing something in Chinese that Joy could not understand. While also shedding tears, Hands was the most restrained of them all, although Joy knew he held a special place in his heart for Janet. He leaned over her head and kissed her cheek. Jy-ying was the first to finally ask through her tears, “Okay, what do we do?” Joy hissed, “I’ll find the son of a bitch who did this.” Hesitantly at first, the others began to discuss what to do next. Joy was too wracked with grief to think straight, and could only sit still holding Janet’s hand. “We will handle this ourselves,” John said. “We have the money to hire the best detective agencies and pursue whatever clues they find.”

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The others agreed. Jy-ying pointed out, “It had to be a professional job. I noticed that the glass had been removed from the garage window with a glass cutter.” She bent over and looked closely at the hole in Janet’s head. “From the size of the hole, a .22 caliber gun was used—quiet and efficient. The killer must have tracked her movements for some time, and knew that she was usually the first in the garage to leave in the morning. He must have waited inside, next to the garage door, until Janet opened it and walked toward her car, then shot her in the back of the head.” The guys and Mariko were too shocked by the murder to wonder how Jy-ying knew all this. Jy-ying picked up Janet’s purse and looked inside. She added, “Her wallet is still in her purse, along with her Colt.” “Whoever murdered Ed has now finished the job,” Hands said.

aaa Within an hour Hands and Dolphy had rented a truck, bought a large insulated meat box from a butcher’s storehouse, a hundred pound block of ice, and trucked them to the garage. Joy finally released Janet’s hand when they arrived, and John and the guys gently lifted her body and placed it in the meat box. Joy yelled, “Wait.” She rose and leaned over the box. She smoothed out Janet’s clothes and tried to comb her dark brown hair with her fingers so that it neatly framed her face. She took off her silk blouse and wet it from the melting ice block, then rubbed the blood off Janet’s ear, hair, and neck with it. The bullet that killed her had lodged in her brain, and left her face undisturbed. She looked at peace. Joy caressed her cold cheek, kissed her forehead, and told her, “Now, my friend, my sister, you are with Ed again. You succeeded beyond your hopes and dreams. You’ve saved millions of lives and made the world a better place. Rest in peace.” She turned away. John put his arms around her. Everyone said farewell in their own way. Finally the men chipped ice from the block and packed it around Janet’s body, and closed and locked the chest. As an importer, John had all kinds of labels, stamps, manifests, and billings, and he and the others immediately prepared appropriate documents and attachments. They certified that inside the box was 165

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pounds of specially prepared frozen steaks freighted from Texas, and that they had been bought for export. They rented space in the Cut Rite Meat Market’s cold storage, claiming that their export of the steaks was delayed over billing problems. Within three days they made it worthwhile for the Morrison Funeral Home to cremate Janet without a formal death certificate. They brought her ashes to their apartment in a simple container, and when they all could get together, they had a private funeral for her. They toasted the woman they knew and loved so well, and thanked God for allowing her to see the good results of her and Ed’s crusade against the horrors of colonialism. Then they mixed Janet’s ashes with Ed’s in the beautiful urn she had bought for him. Many days later, when Joy was able to absorb the pain of Janet’s death into her life, she persuaded John that even in death, which would come eventually to all of them, they could remain together. She suggested that they have a crypt built that would eventually house all of them at Cypress Lawn Memorial Park, outside of San Francisco. Their wealth made it easy. They built a modest crypt and bought the plots around it so that it could be expanded, if necessary. When it was ready, Joy, carrying the urn, led the others toward the crypt along a narrow lane lined with a variety of roses. The crypt was not very big, but solid, squarish, and constructed of beautiful blue Purbeck marble. There were no windows. Nor were there decorations or carvings on the exterior. But there was a bed of well-tended, variegated pink, red, and white roses surrounding the crypt, and red and orange bougainvillea climbed a trellis framing the entrance. A little granite plate over the door was incised with Banks and Team. John unlocked the door, went inside, and flicked a switch; the interior was bathed in diffused light. Joy felt as though the inside of the crypt was bathed in a golden sunrise, with the sun’s first rays reflecting off of green leaves and plants. Indeed, the inside lighting was suffused with sunlight that penetrated the inch or so thick marble walls and cast a light blue wash over everything. On the far wall were three Italian rose-veined marble shelves made to eventually hold all their urns. Another wall held a photograph of Janet, another of Ed, and a third of them together. Joy placed the urn containing Janet and Ed’s ashes on the top shelf, above an engraved plaque:

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Edward Dene Morel, 1873–1909. Janet Morel, –1912 Unrivaled Humanists, they truly loved each other. They live on in the hearts of their friends and the many whose lives they saved and freed. Together again, now for eternity. RIP As they all left, Jy-ying turned at the entrance. Facing the urn, she stiffened her back and gave a crisp salute.

aaa Joy 1913 John hired the Anderson Detective Agency in San Francisco and gave them a blank check to do what was necessary to find Janet’s murderer. The agency not only hired many additional detectives to work for them on this case, but also sought help from similar agencies in Europe and Africa. What they earned from John in their international search enabled the agency to build up to become one of the best known agencies in the country. Joy and John refused to micromanage the agency’s efforts and would not rush them, recognizing the difficulties involved. They only wanted a weekly progress briefing. When asked why this murder had not been reported to the police, they were forthright—they didn’t want the police prying into their or the company’s affairs. Money overcame any other questions the agency might have had. In early 1913, all the small pieces of the puzzle that had been collected from Europe and Southwest Africa over the year finally fit together and pointed to the owner of the Portuguese company Castelbranco, which had a government-enforced shipping monopoly on all Portuguese trade with the Angolan colony. With Portugal’s reforms and the adoption of free trade for the colony, Castelbranco’s monopoly ended and it went into bankruptcy when Angola was opened to competitive shipping. Carlos Folha, the president of the company, knew how dependent his family’s wealth was on this monopoly and had tried to stop Ed’s crusade by having him assassinated. The agency reported they were 99 percent sure that Folha contracted with the Spanish professional killer known as The Tooth, an alias of Felipe Parda. They also believed, although the evidence was

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scanty, that Folha had him assassinate Janet Morel years later, out of revenge for his company’s bankruptcy. Joy and John shared this conclusion with the others, but invited only Hands and Jy-ying to Portugal to handle it, leaving Sal, Dolphy, and Mariko behind to manage the company. During the trip, Joy commented to John that Hands and Jy-ying seemed to be spending much time together, and since their staterooms were across from theirs, John added with a wink, “Yes, two-gether.” The next chance she got, Joy asked Jy-ying about it. “Yes,” she said frankly, “I like him. He is an honest and sincere man.” When they arrived in Portugal, they talked to Folha’s former mistress and his first wife, both discarded by Folha, and both ready to spit on his grave. John made it well worth their while to provide information about how Folha communicated with Parda. They determined when Parda would be in his Madrid apartment, and had a package sent to him on a Monday, containing 10,000 Portuguese escudo and a forged message in Folha’s handwriting that simply read Segres, Friday, 12:30. Segres was a little Portuguese town on Cape St. Vincent, with a small harbor. Nearby was Baleeir, its picturesque fishing port. Folha and Parda often met at the Hotel Da Baleeita restaurant to discuss what Folha wanted Parda to do for him, and they’d sometimes spent a day sailing off southern Portugal in a small sailboat Folha kept there, until his bankruptcy forced him to sell it. Once they’d determined Folha had contracted Parda for the assassinations, and that Segres was where they made personal contact, they telephoned Mateus Cardenas about their plans. He made some helpful suggestions, and invited them to stay in his home. Cardenas had been a regional manager of a Portuguese rubber plantation in Angola until its financial collapse. He had returned to Portugal and, with money he had saved in Angola, he bought a small fishing boat and made a living fishing off of Segres. He had been a major source of inside information for Ed, and after his murder, for Janet. She had commented on him often and thought that his revelations, along with those of dozens of other whistle-blowers throughout Europe and in the former colonies, were one of the major reasons for the collapse of African colonialism. He had warned Janet over the years that there might be an attempt to assassinate her; he and Isabel, his Angolan wife, had been devastated by Janet’s death. As soon as they heard about

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Janet’s assassination, they offered to help in any way they could to find the murderers. Joy and the others arrived in Segres two days ahead of time and were met by Mateus and Isabel. Hands, Jy-ying, Joy, and John all slept on blankets and rugs in a small spare room in the Cardenas’ home that night, after convincing the Cardenas that they would go to a hotel rather than depriving them of their bed. Nobody enjoyed their time there more than Little Wei, who was an immediate hit with Isabel. He seemed to think that all of them sleeping on the floor together was the greatest adventure, and enjoyed jumping from one sleeping body to another. They all had discussed what to do when Parda arrived, and they made very careful plans. This was a dangerous man who lived off his contracts for assassinations. Murder was his business. They had to assume that he was as well-armed as they were, and knew his weapons and how to use his hands, as well. They knew Parda’s pattern was to get a hotel room at Hotel Da Baleeita in the morning and meet Folha in the restaurant at the appointed time. Their easiest course, then, would have been to shoot Parda while walking past him in the hotel hallway when he arrived or left his room for the restaurant. Joy would have none of this, and Jy-ying agreed with her. “I will not kill him unless I am absolutely certain he murdered Ed, and especially Janet,” Joy said. John and Hands tried to argue that the detective agency had provided all the evidence they needed. John even retrieved from his luggage the documents that the agency had sent them. She waved them away. “I know, I know it’s all there. But I must hear it from him.” “Now, how are you going to do that?” John asked, his tone really saying, “Oh no you don’t, baby.” Looking at John from under her eyelashes, she answered, “As a woman.” Jy-ying smiled knowingly, and Hands looked shocked. John’s face immediately darkened. Leaning over Joy and waving a finger under her nose, he yelled, “No way. No sex. If you think you’re going to do that, I’m going over there as soon as he arrives to shoot the son of a bitch.” For once, Joy saw the finger as justified, and ignored it. Laughing, she took his hand in hers. “Please. I would rather boil in oil than have sex with him. But there are different ways of using sex.” So they discussed it, and Joy got him to agree—reluctantly—to what she had in mind. At one point he told her that, at thirty-two, she wasn’t young anymore, and she should act her age. Joy was about to

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show him how young she was, when Jy-ying saved him from bodily harm by telling him, “Do not be stupid.” They left for the hotel, leaving Little Wei in the good hands of Isabel, who had taken over his entertainment and care from the moment they arrived. They didn’t know when Parda would arrive at the hotel, but they knew what he looked like and Joy and John watched for him to arrive outside, while Jy-ying and Hands waited in the lobby, looking like happy tourists enjoying the view of Baleeita Bay from the lobby windows. Parda arrived in a small, smoking bus along with two other guests. He was known by the receptionists, who gave him a key to a secondfloor room. Hands had strolled over to the receptionist’s desk and waited as if wanting to ask a question; he was able to see what room number Parda got. Hands and Jy-ying went outside to tell Joy, then took up their stations. Jy-ying went to watch the rear of the hotel in case Parda tried to escape, and Hands watched the front. Both of them were well armed. Joy and John strolled into the lobby and up the stairs to the second floor. She tested her communicator to be sure that John could hear it okay. She left it on so that he could follow her exchange with Parda and rush into the room if her plan didn’t work out. She had covered herself with a coat and hat before they entered the hotel. Now, near Parda’s door, she took off her hat, unpinned her hair, and let it fall naturally to her waist. She automatically looked for gray hair, and damned John for making her self-conscious about her age. She took off her coat and gave that and the hat to John to drop somewhere. She had lightly rouged her cheeks and painted her lips with rose-red lipstick. She could not wear a low-cut bodice because of her armor, and since the armor tended to flatten her breasts, she had inserted in her blouse, over the armor, rounded cups that Isabel cut from cork for her. John had looked at the result with amusement. Hands whistled and looked at Jy-ying, saying, “Hey, why don’t you do that?” Jy-ying threw him on the floor and Little Wei happily jumped on his stomach. Joy wore a tight, long-sleeved, pink silk blouse with lace at the neck, which she tucked into a tight, woolen worsted maroon skirt that fell straight down to cover the tops of her high-heeled black boots. She was trying to give the impression of a very feminine-looking hooker— feminine for weakness; hooker for availability. The only thing that was

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out of place was the red headband on her forehead. John told her it was sexy. With John out of sight down the hallway, she paused and calmed herself, as she usually did before battle. She slowed her heartbeat, cleared her mind, focused her energy, took two deep breaths, and said to herself, “Here we go.” She knocked on the door to Parda’s room. Parda opened the door just enough to look around it with one wary eye. After a brief hesitation, he opened the door farther. With only his head and one shoulder showing, he slowly looked her up and down. Joy felt as though he’d already created an image of her naked on his bed. He smiled and said, “Sim?”—“Yes?” in Portuguese, she guessed. She had discussed with John and Mateus how to handle the language problem. Parda spoke English as part of his profession. But she had to use Portuguese initially to get into his room. So Mateus taught her how to say, “Hello. I am a Chinese gift to you from Folha.” She gave Parda a very sexy smile and said, “Hello. Eu sou-lhe um presente chinês de Folha.” He opened the door wider, looked her up and down again. She pointed to him and to herself and made a circle of her thumb and index finger, then slid her other index finger through the circle to simulate sex. Muttering something in Spanish that may have been, “I can’t believe this,” he waved her into the room. As she passed him, he caressed her behind. She hoped he didn’t feel her cringe away at his touch. She couldn’t help it. As she walked over to the window, she carefully surveyed the room, noting where all the furniture was and the empty spaces between. She turned to face him so that the light streamed into the room behind her and into his eyes. She studied him as she would any opponent before battle. He was an exceptionally athletic and muscular man, with a cocky pose. His hair was a mess of dark brown curls, which he let collect around his head as though never disciplined by a comb. He was clean-shaven, with a beak nose and strong, heavy lips. His eyes were coal black and unusually large. They dominated his swarthy, hard-looking face. He wore course, dark work clothes. He looked like a killer. He stepped toward her with one hand raised to pull her onto the double bed.

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Coldly and carefully enunciating each word, Joy demanded in English, “Stop and listen, you bastard.” He halted suddenly, cupped his right fist with his left hand, and thrust his head forward, looking at her curiously. She had assumed her unique readiness stance, with hands hanging loosely at her side, head slightly tilted, knees slightly bent, and her weight on the balls of her feet. She coolly looked him in the eye. In a tone not even Hell could have melted, she hurled at him, “In San Francisco you assassinated my best friend, Janet Morel.” His eyes narrowed. He looked for the slightest hint of fear or stupid innocence in her eyes. His brow furrowed as he thought through who she might be and how dangerous to him she was. He again looked her up and down, this time looking for weapons and judging her strength, Joy was sure. But she knew he was a typical male of this era and saw only a naive, weak woman. Finally, he spit at her in English, “Who sent you?” “Nobody.” Looking her over again, he said gruffly, “I killed no one.” Unblinking, Joy continued to look him in the eye. “I know that you are a professional assassin,” she said, no less coldly, “and you murdered Janet Morel in 1912, and her husband Ed in 1909.” “Who told you these fucking lies?” “Folha, who paid you to do the assassinations. In bed, he revealed everything. A lot of alcohol and a little bit of teasing his cock, and he was a fountain of information.” “Folha.” He spit it out like rotten fish. “That fucking . . . ” and he added some Portuguese words she thought were hardly complementary. Joy stood ready, waiting, unmoving, and watched his eyes very carefully. She could see that he was feeling in control as he asked, “Who’d you tell?” “No one.” Adopting a matter-of-fact tone, she added, “I wanted to see your face when I told you. Now I’m going to the police.” He looked puzzled again. She could see him flexing his right fist as he asked, “You’re not scared of me?” Still looking him in the eye, she smiled and replied lightly, “No.” His mouth turned down at the corners and his face hardened even more. His eyes glittered. He growled, “You know I killed your friends. Killing is what I do. And you stand there, and you are not afraid of me?” He nearly shouted the last word.

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“You killed Janet and Ed Morel?” “Yes!” he shot at her, and sneered. Joy had what she wanted. He is so certain that I will not leave this room alive, she thought, watching him. She gave him a lethal smile. Eyes locked on his, she reached up to her red headband and twisted it inside out. She had not displayed the lightning bolt symbol now shown on the headband since she fought the Mexican bandits. In hand to hand combat, it was the symbol of death. She brought her hand down and said in the sweetest voice she could manage, “No, you don’t scare me at all.” “You fucking whore. You’re crazy. I’m going to kill you, but I’m going to fuck you first. I’m going to fuck your cunt. I’m going to fuck your asshole. I’m going to fuck your mouth. By the time I’m done, you’ll be begging for death. And when I’m done killing you, I’m going to slowly kill that fucking Folha.” “Try me,” she said. He rushed to grab her and throw her on the bed. She did a scooping inward to outward block and a side thrust kick, knocking him into a chest of drawers. Twisting behind him, she front kicked him into the window. He turned his body so that his shoulder took the blow and bounced off the window frame; crouching, he faced her. For a second he looked at her with surprise, then reached down with his right hand to snatch a knife from his boot. Before it even cleared the boot, she palmed the knife she had hidden up her sleeve and threw it into his right shoulder. As she intended, it cut his rotator cuff and paralyzed his arm. Just then the door to the room burst open to smack against its stop and John rushed into the room with his gun pointed at Parda. “Hands up, Parda,” he shouted. His one arm useless, Parda tried to pull the knife out of his shoulder with his other hand, but Joy chopped down on his wrist before he could reach it. His breath came in gasps. He looked from her to John and back. Joy whipped her hand up and jerked the knife from his shoulder with a sideways slice. He grunted with pain and covered his shoulder with his hand as blood flowed out between his fingers. He went into a semi-crouch and scowled at her venomously. Joy held the bloody end of the knife up before his nose, and informed him as though passing a verdict, “You murdered two wonderful people I respected and who did you no harm. You did it for money. You didn’t care what decent people they were. You did it in spite of

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their great work for humanity. Parda, you are shitty scum. I’m going to send you to Hell where you belong.” “Fuck you,” he yelled as he moved fast to the side, where Joy’s body blocked John’s line of fire. He leaped directly at her to girdle and crush her throat with his good arm, but she reflexed a sideways twist while ducking under his arm and smashing his throat with an upward backhanded death chop. He went down heavily on the bed, thrashing about and choking for breath through his crushed trachea and esophagus. His chest heaving, holding his throat with his hand, he looked at her with watering eyes full of pain and bewilderment. She took Janet’s picture from under her blouse with one hand and, still holding her knife in the other, she stepped to the side of the bed and held Janet’s picture before his bulging eyes. She told him, “This is the woman you murdered.” She waited for him to focus on it through his agony. Then she thrust the knife below his sternum and up into his heart. Joy sat hard on the bed next to his twitching body. Holding Janet’s picture to her heart, she started to cry. John came over, put his arm around her, and said softly, “It’s over, baby.” He kissed her wet cheek and added, “I’ll get Hands and Jyying.” By the time they arrived, she had pulled herself together, taken off her headband, and was cleaning up the blood. Hands and John carried in a trunk that they had bought the day before. Hands held his nose, as Parda had soiled himself in death. Jy-ying studied the body for a moment, then said, “Good work, Joy. I couldn’t have done better.” She turned to Hands, who was looking sick. Smiling, she tried out a new word she had just learned, “See, do not mess with us women.” They had lined the trunk with cut canvas sail, and the four of them fitted Parda’s body inside. They also included the blood-soaked blanket from the bed, and made double sure there were no other signs of blood. John brought in Joy’s hat and coat so that she could look like a decent woman again. They left, with John and Hands carrying the trunk, and Jy-ying carrying Parda’s overnight bag stuffed with all his belongings, including two guns and a knife. They exited the hotel by a side entrance. Mateus was waiting for them with a rented truck. They loaded up, drove to his boat, and chugged out into the Atlantic Ocean. About two miles out, they wrapped Parda’s body—minus his

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head—in the bloodied and soiled canvas and secured it with an old anchor chain. They dropped him into the sea without a word. Joy spit into the swirl his body created as it disappeared on its way to the bottom. By suppertime they were back on shore. Four days later, a courier delivered to Folha’s rundown office in Lisbon a box labeled with his name and, in large red letters in Portuguese, Personal. Inside was Parda’s head wrapped in wax paper, unseeing eyes still open. Tied to his ear was a note in Portuguese that Joy had dictated to Mateus: Dear Mr. Folha Here is the head of the assassin you paid to murder two very good people. You are next, unless you save me the trouble. The Knife. Three days later, Mateus translated for them an item from Diario de Noticias, a Lisbon newspaper. BUSINESSMAN COMMITS SUICIDE Well-known businessman Carlos Folha was found dead in his office yesterday morning by his wife, after failing to return home from work. He had shot himself in the head. A suicide note gave the failure of his businesses as the reason for his suicide. His wife said that he had been despondent ever since the collapse of his shipping company, and blamed the government for his suicide. Folha was well known and highly respected in business and political circles, and at one time managed all trade with Angola.

Chapter 31 Jy-ying

J

y-ying had spent all morning shopping and had filled three large bags. After her noon prayers, she went to her supply capsule and filled another bag before driving to Barbara’s orphanage. She gave a small personal gift to each of the girls—a doll for Mary, a stuffed bear for Shirley, a music box for Wanying, and so on. It was the happiest Jy-ying had felt in months, and Little Wei seemed to feel the same way. After an hour with the girls, she asked to see Barbara privately, and when they were alone, she told her, “I may be going on a long trip to China and I may not come back. If I don’t, I want you to have this for your orphanage.” She bowed and gave her a package containing $100,000, saying, “Please only open this fifteen minutes after I leave.” She also gave her a bulkier package that contained most of her jewelry. “Please don’t open this right away, either.” Barbara was surprised and wanted to hear all about her trip. Jy-ying said, “I do not have the time; I must rush off.” At the door, Barbara hugged her and tearfully wished Jy-ying a good trip, and the girls crowded around her, thanking her cheerfully. They waved and said goodbye, not knowing it might be for forever. Jy-ying fought tears all the way back to her apartment. When she got there, she wrote a will. She put it and a large envelope on the counter next to the sink. It couldn’t be missed there. Jy-ying sat on her sofa for hours, staring at nothing, her mind a maelstrom of thought and memories. Little Wei was asleep next to her on the sofa, his head tight against her thigh. Only when he awoke and rushed to the door to whine with his back against it, signaling a need to go out, did she take him on his evening walk. All she remembered about it was getting twisted in his leash when he saw a cat and darted around her. She still could not believe it. She had thought it impossible, but she could not deny what she had heard, and her own memory. She had been

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confronting this over and over, twisting it around in her mind, dancing around it with her emotions, but always the conclusion was the same. She still must save Sabah. And there was only one way to save him. Eliminate Joy. Jy-ying knew that Joy was beyond persuasion on this. John? She still thought he was manageable, especially with what she now knew. But if not, he could also be eliminated later. She was beginning to hate herself, to hate her lies, to hate what she had to do. “To Joy,” she whispered, and a shiver went up her spine when she spoke that name aloud. She gave a shuddering sigh. I wish I were dead. All Jy-ying’s dedication, all her passion about saving Sabah, all her singular focus was seeping away. She felt like an empty shell, with little left worth holding onto. A light had dimmed. It had started with the death of Janet. She had felt close to Janet, in spite of her apostasy. And when Janet said she would tell Joy, Jy-ying had not slept that night, believing that the following day she would have to kill her. But when dawn came, she knew she could not. She had sighed with relief and prepared the new lies she would tell Joy and John when they found out about her from Janet. Although terribly convenient, the death of Janet was too awful. When she’d first seen Janet’s body, Jy-ying had felt released from a huge weight, but that was fleeting, a matter of seconds. Janet’s death more than grieved her, it shook her. Jy-ying’s tears were real; her anger at the killer was real. Her feelings for Janet had weakened the iron bubble she had erected around her perceived necessity for killing Joy. Janet’s death had begun softening the wall, and now with her latest discovery, it was melting. Then Hands. She put her head in her hand and let the tears flow. Sal was a nice man who had helped her with her needs and assuaged her loneliness for a while. But she’d fallen for Hands. He was not John. He was a different man. But he had both a hardness and a tenderness about him that she liked. She thought there was something developing between them, until that second night on the ship when, as they sat on his bed, he told her that he had a girlfriend in Germany—an actress. And he was in love with her. Hands also admitted that he was afraid if Sal knew that he and Jy-ying were “getting together,” it would hurt their friendship, regardless of how much time had gone by since she broke up with Sal. “I understand,” she told Hands. “There will be no . . . . What is the English word for this? Ahh, complications. Yes, there will be no com-

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plications.” But after the last night on the return voyage, he had been so tender and considerate that she found it hard to just treat it as a shipboard romance. She cried. Hands held her tight. And when she was down to sniffles, she told him, “Do not worry. No complications. Yes.” Yes, she, Security Captain Khoo Jy-ying, time traveler, trained in the arts of defense and killing, and soon-to-be murderer of Joy, had cried. Jy-ying had fallen in love with Hands. Yes, there were no complications. Not overt ones. They were all in her head. Anyway, there was John, she told herself. He really was her deeper love. And she would have him. Especially when he found out what she now knew. She would have him, but she felt dirty about it. No, maybe not dirty. Guilty? No, that wasn’t the right word either. She felt . . . wrong. I have got to kill Joy tomorrow morning during sparring. Tomorrow. I can’t let this go on. I must do it. I know her weakness and she does not know mine. I know which combination of punches, kicks, and blocks will open her up to the death knife chop. Oh God, let her die quickly; let it be painless. I could not stand to see her suffer. But she is so strong. I yet may lose, she reminded herself. Calming herself, she sat at her desk and composed a letter to John: Dear John: If you are reading this, I am dead. Joy may also be dead. If she is, I am so sorry. It was God’s will. If she is not, that is also God’s will, and this letter is also addressed to her—to me from a different universe. I leave everything I own to you, and this includes the supply capsule you will find in my warehouse. The code to unlock it and the ownership documents for the warehouse are in the top envelope. Yes, I am a time traveler. Yes, I was sent here to save Sabah, to prevent his murder by whomever received that message from the future about him, which turned out to be you and Joy. I pray to God that I have not failed. But if I do, I pray that you will see the light and leave Sabah alive. He will be the true prophet of God, and maybe if you guide him after his birth, many of the terrible things done in his name will be no more. Say my fond goodbyes to Hands, Sal, Dolphy, and Mariko. Love, Jy-ying

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She picked up her Book of Sabah, which she had brought with her from the future. She turned to a well-marked page and read it again, as she had repeatedly for the last four hours. She had drawn a red box around the words. Do not kill the infidel unless you must for your protection or the defense of Sabah. Rather, educate him in the way of God and of his Prophet Sabah. Teach him what is Right and True, teach him God’s Way, and you will lead him to happiness and Paradise, and save his soul. It helped a little, but the light of dedication within her was still dim, almost flickering. She picked up Little Wei, startling him, and held him close to her chest and rested her head on him. “I love you, little guy. You are all I have in this world.” She cried again. She didn’t care about the tears. Only he would know.

aaa Joy Something was wrong with Jy-ying. She didn’t have to intuit it. She could see it as they changed clothes for their now bimonthly sparring. Even Little Wei seemed to have a nervousness about him. Joy tried to speak to Jy-ying, but she only responded in grim monosyllables, her expression sour. She had noticed a gradual deterioration in Jy-ying’s mood ever since they returned from her execution of Parda. She and John had tried to bring Jy-ying out of it. But nothing, including John’s awful humor, had worked. Joy had asked Jy-ying several times if there was a problem they could help with, and each time her eyes grew moist and she shook her head as though she did not trust her voice. They left the little locker-bath room and entered the large gym. They had the mats laid out in the center, near a little weight lifting area, and circled by a narrow jogging track that ran along the walls. Jy-ying seemed to be in an unusual hurry as they walked to the mats. Oblivious to his mistress’s mood, Little Wei started his routine search for strange smells.

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Joy had on her usual red, and now frayed, headband, with her hair back in a ponytail. She had worn just a sweatshirt and shorts for a change. Jy-ying had braided her hair into one long black braid, and had doubled it back and somehow tucked it into a tight knot close to her neck, apparently to prevent the braid from whipping her face. She wore her standard sloppy black sparring outfit, with the yellow trim. When they reached the center of the mats, Jy-ying stopped at an unusual distance from Joy and stared at her for a long moment. Finally, taking a deep breath, she took a long green cloth from beneath her shirt and tied it around her forehead. It bore a red crescent and star on a deep green background. When she saw the crescent, a warning went off in Joy’s mind like a gunshot. She gaped, and reflexively backed up a step. She couldn’t have been more shocked if Jy-ying had pointed a submachine gun at her. That was the battle crescent of Sabah’s Islam. Only a Sabah would wear it, Lora’s message had said. She blurted, “KK. What the hell?” Bowing stiffly from the waist, her arms and hands held against her sides, her face a picture of gloom, Jy-ying said, “I am Captain Khoo Jyying of the Sabah Security Guards. I am from the Second Universe year 2002, and the School of Shaolin Wing Chun Kung Fu. I am here to prevent you from killing Sabah, or his parents before he is born. To do so I must kill you—me—since you are beyond persuasion. Prepare yourself for combat and death.” Joy needed no instruction. The cloth crescent told her immediately that this was to the death. She only sought explanation while her body drew on all its training for just such a moment. She had to know. “What do you mean, that I am you?” Jy-ying now stood seemingly relaxed. But Joy knew that stance. It was similar to her own. Jy-ying spoke, her voice stripped of any emotion. “You told me all I needed to know during our supper together two nights ago. You were found alone and almost dead on a boat when, the doctors estimated, you were four years old. Your parents apparently had tried to escape persecution in Vietnam and were killed by pirates. Your foster mother Tor named you and adopted you, and you named your company after her. “I tried to find out what you remembered. You told me the name

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‘Tien Yen’ often came to mind. I was surprised. I asked if any other words or names came to mind, and you said ‘Hua,’ accompanied by a vague image of your mother. I was even more surprised. ‘Do you remember your name?’ I asked. You said several names worked in and out of your memory, all vague. You think you had a baby sister, maybe named Tang. Your name might have been something like Jy-cheng, but it was too hazy.” No longer flat, Jy-ying’s voice seemed to waver out of her control. It fell into a soft whisper. “Joy. You are Jy-ying. Our mother was from the Hua family in China, a family with a long history. Her parents immigrated to Vietnam, where she met and married our father, a Chinese man named Shihao. I think you also vaguely recall his name. Our sister was named Ting. Your father died with your mother in the 1984 rebellion against Sabah; Ting was killed months later. Our parents were in the secret police and fought for Sabah.” Joy’s question seemed to fall out of a mind that her training had sidelined for the battle. “I thought time travelers could not go back in time and meet themselves.” “You are from the Old Universe. I am from the Second Universe. We are now in the Third Universe. This makes it possible. And it must be possible, since you and I are standing here.” Her words spilled out again; they seemed to come from outside of Joy—outside of a body now prepared for a fight to the death. “But while you look like me . . . my scar aside, you also look different. If you’re me, how can you look as different as you do? And be two inches shorter?” Jy-ying’s own voice was unsteady. “My parents suffered from the Vietnamese government’s attempt to force all first and second generation Chinese to return to China. They were unable to get much food or medical help, and lived in a refugee camp after they fled across the border into China. I didn’t have your healthy diet. And when I was five, I caught a mild case of noma. It is a gangrene that affects the mouth and face. The worst cases suffer extreme facial disfigurement and can die from septicemia or pneumonia. Although my noma was not too serious, it was bad enough to scar my lower face. When I was sixteen my foster father, a high official in the Sabah Guards, had a sympathetic Security doctor perform a series of plastic surgeries on me. If you looked carefully under my chin, you would see the scars.” Her voice had been growing strained and it trailed off at the end.

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Little Wei stopped his sniffing and looked at her from across the gym, his tail half-down.

aaa Jy-ying The questions were over. The explanations done. There was nothing more but death. She waited for Joy’s bow, and thus her acceptance of what was to come. She took two deep breaths and turned inward, and calmed herself by envisioning herself sitting beside a murmuring forest brook on a cloudless day and watching a leaf float gently by. She had not been at peace with herself like this since she came to this new world. There was nothing now to disturb her mind. It was dead to all thought; only her superbly trained body existed. Jy-ying waited, her stance perfect, her planned offense inscrutable. Joy backed up another two steps. She gave Jy-ying a long stare, assessing her. Jy-ying could see her eyes narrow as calculation was replaced by deadly seriousness. Hers were now the eyes of one tiger challenged by another. She reached up to her headband and folded it over, turning it inside out. It was still red, but now had a white lightning bolt emblazoned across the red background. Jy-ying knew that symbol. It was famous throughout Asian martial arts. Joy had not told her that she had trained in that hidden and outlawed dojo. That Joy should show that symbol now meant that no mercy would be shown. It was their code. To display that symbol meant this battle must end in one or the other’s death. Joy glided forward three paces, and bowed. “I am Joy Phim of the secret Sensei Jigoro Ueshiba bushinota dojo. I am Sino-Vietnamese and of the family of Tor Phim. I come from the First Universe. I am duty bound by the bushinota dojo to warn you that this combat must be to the death. If you do not so desire, you may bow and retire.” Jy-ying assumed her ready stance. Joy gave up her usual and seemingly relaxed ready stance, and adopted what Jy-ying could only guess must be the battle stance of the bushinota dojo. She slightly turned her right foot to a precise angle from the vertical alignment of her body, and her left foot to the opposite side at its own precise angle. She bent her knees and lifted the heel of her front foot a little off the mat. Her center of gravity was slightly

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forward. She loosely clenched her hands into turned-down fists and straight-armed them forward from her hips. Jy-ying waited no longer than the precise second their wu shi dao— code of the warrior—allowed before her attack, which was when Joy finished her ready stance. Now! Jy-ying launched a whirlwind of twirling, swinging, side and thrust kicks, punches, and knife chops, calculated to expose Joy’s face and neck while staying out of reach of her superior grappling judo skills as Joy blocked, whirled, kicked, knuckle punched, blocked, twirled and edged in to grapple; she caught Jy-ying’s foot in an underhand swoop and twisted it back on her with both hands as Jy-ying backhanded her in the cheek with a knuckle punch. Joy dropped to the mat and rolled to recover and Jy-ying did a swinging drop kick to Joy’s knee, pushing it backwards, tearing the meniscus and almost dislocating the joint. The leg was now almost useless for heavy work. Joy tried to recover with a one-legged straight armed punch to Jyying’s solar plexus; blocking it, Jy-ying did a swooping heel kick to Joy’s other leg and knocked Joy into a rolling and unsteady-looking recovery—a ploy—which she converted into a forward jump roll, catching Jy-ying’s head in a scissor grip with her legs and throwing Jyying forward to the mat with her legs still around her neck. The grip must have been terribly painful for Joy to hold, but she held it and now she could use her grapples. Jy-ying tried to reach Joy’s head, but Joy slithered under Jy-ying’s arms and elbow piston-punched her stomach and face; when Jy-ying tried to exploit the resulting opening, Joy grabbed her wrist and twisted. Jy-ying used her shoulders as a pivot and rolled up and over Joy’s legs and out of both grips, then solidly thrust-kicked Joy’s left arm just below the shoulder. Joy rolled away and up, virtually supporting herself on one leg, her left arm hanging, her body angled to protect that vulnerable side. Jy-ying had the advantage and she pressed it. Chop, kick, fist, fist, and Joy hand blocked, twisted, shoulder blocked, slide blocked. Jy-ying saw her leg slowly giving way. Only about eight seconds had passed since their death struggle began, and Jy-ying now could see Joy’s lethal weakness, could almost smell it. She looked into Joy’s eyes. They were clear and unafraid, but resigned—no, not resigned, accepting—to what was to come, like the

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eyes of a wolf whose foot is caught in a trap as it calmly watches the hunter approach with his rifle. Jy-ying knew precisely how to end it now. A simple angled kick, and Joy would have to do a one-legged jump sideways; a punch to her left side, and as she would have to block that with her right arm; Jyying would then give her the death knife chop to her neck. Joy waited, eyes bright. There was no offensive left in her body. Jy-ying did not savor this moment; she dreaded that it had come. With certain victory only a few moves away, her warrior self relaxed control over her mind. And her thoughts and feelings tumbled out. She had grown proud of Joy and what she had become, as though of herself. She thought of Joy’s life, her life, in another universe. She thought of her being saved from the boat when she was a child. She thought of their parents, who had died so heroically, and their dead sister. She thought of what Joy had missed by never really knowing them—her family that she would have loved. She thought of how Joy had been deprived of her identity. Now she, Jy-ying, would deprive her— herself—of life. She had to do it now. Even an hour from now, she would no longer have the will. She shifted her center of gravity to make her opening angled kick. God be with you, Jo— Jy-ying felt a sharp sting in the side of her chest and heard the shot at the same time. Her solid stance held her up as she looked down at the blood beginning to flow out of the hole underneath her armpit. She jerked her head up to see John racing toward her with his gun still pointed at her. She turned her heavy head toward Joy and tried to say, “I’m sorry,” but the room was beginning to spin and she barely could make out John holding his gun as he disappeared into the haze. She felt the mat as she dropped to her knees, and supported herself by leaning on one arm until that gave way and she fell on her back. She felt so light-headed, but so wonderfully at peace. She barely made out Little Wei frantically licking her face, and she managed to lift both hands to hug him to her. “I love you, my little ma . . . ”

aaa Joy Joy heard the shot and saw Jy-ying’s surprise, her expression as she tried to say something to her. She watched Jy-ying’s slow motion col-

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lapse. Joy fell to the mat herself, gulping in air, just beginning to feel the flood of pain from her bruises, strained muscles, and injured arm and leg. As soon as Jy-ying was down, John ran to kneel beside Joy. “Are you alright?” he yelled. She could barely move her head to nod. She tried to point at Jyying, but her arm would not work. She screamed, “Save her!” John turned and looked at Jy-ying. A pool of blood was forming under her, and she held Little Wei as he frantically licked her face, his tail between his legs and his ears back. John tried to approach her, but he wiggled out of her limp hands and growled and nipped at John, obviously ready to do battle to save his mistress. John tore off his coat and held it wide open in both hands as he approached Little Wei. He threw it on him, wrapping it around the little dog as he madly struggled and whined. John put one arm around the coat to hold Little Wei within it, and felt for Jy-ying’s pulse. He backed up and released her guardian, and shook his head at Joy. Jy-ying was dead. She collapsed on the mat, her body succumbing to exhaustion and agony. It took a moment for her mind to emerge from the wreckage, and then all that Jy-ying said flooded in. Joy released a long shriek of sorrow and loss. Gulping for air, crying hysterically, she tried to crawl toward Jy-ying. When John saw what she was doing, he walked in front of her with his coat open toward Little Wei so that he wouldn’t attack her, and slowly pushed the growling dog away. Little Wei hovered nearby, lifted his muzzle toward the ceiling, and howled his loss. John had never before heard the howl of a wolf that had lost its mate. It was the saddest sound he had ever heard. Joy pulled her body over Jy-ying in a hug and kissed her cooling face. And cried and cried. John tried to pull Joy up several times, but she shrugged him off. “You don’t understand,” she whimpered. “She is me.” John sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulder. “I do. You turned our communicator on with that ‘KK.’ I heard everything, and broke every speed record getting here.” Joy twisted painfully to look up at him and he tenderly pulled her into a sitting position. She buried her head in his chest and cried, “She could have killed me. She didn’t. She hesitated. I think she knew you were coming and waited for her own death.”

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John whispered, “She didn’t know about the communicators, and even if she did, she didn’t know the toggle code.” Joy was coming out of it, and wiped her tears on his shirt. She was so exhausted she could barely push the words out. “She had been a spy. She knew more about us than we think.” She fainted.

aaa They had the funeral for Jy-ying in John’s apartment. She had been cremated, the mortician’s concern about the police being eased with a large contribution to the O’Conner Mortuary, and the story that she had been shot in a rape attempt that was being kept quiet to avoid embarrassment to her family. The urn with Jy-ying’s ashes was placed on a pedestal against one plain wall, with a colored photograph next to it that John had taken a year ago with his Old Universe digital camera. Little Wei stood guard underneath, his tail half down, motionless, his ears partly back. He had barely eaten in three days. Hands, Sal, Dolphy, and Mariko were there, and some people Jyying had worked with at the company. Outside of the mortician, nobody but Joy and John knew that she had been shot. John told them all that Joy and Jy-ying were on their way to shop when the front wheel of Jy-ying’s car came off and she hit a tree. She was thrown into the tree and killed. Joy had ducked beneath the dashboard and survived with bruises and minor injuries. John gave the oration. Sal had his say about this wonderful woman he had met, and John was impressed by an eloquence he didn’t know Sal had. Hands also said a few words, only a little less warm and affectionate than Sal’s. Joy had to say something at the end. She limped painfully to the urn, almost every inch of her body black, blue, and purple, and turned her swollen face to gaze at Sal and Hands. She looked at John, and silent words passed between them. She stared down at the floor for many seconds in the absolute silence. She raised her head and stood as tall as she could. She found the words. “What can I say about Jy-ying? People say they saw much of me in her. If that’s true, it makes me very happy, for it tells me what kind of person I really am.” She kissed her fingers and waved them toward the urn. “Goodbye, Jy-ying.”

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She started to collapse. John rushed to pick her up in his arms, and carried her back to the sofa and let her cry on his shoulder. One by one the others left. Hands left with his arm around Sal’s shaking shoulders. Only Little Wei remained. He was now their—her— responsibility. That night, Joy rolled off the bed onto her knees and slowly pushed herself upright. She still could not sit on the edge of the bed to stand. She limped into the living room, quietly closing the bedroom door behind her, and gingerly sat on the sofa. Just enough moonlight came through the windows for her to see Jy-ying’s urn and Little Wei below it, watching her. She had a long conversation with Jy-ying. She told her again about what little snatches she remembered of her—their—family. She tried to dredge up every elusive sound she remembered and form it into a word for Jy-ying. She tried to put it all together into some picture of what she had lost. Then she repeated what she already had told Jy-ying about her life with Tor, who adopted her; of her growing love for her new mother, and her happiness. She told Jy-ying how John entered her life and what he meant to her. She didn’t stop when Little Wei jumped on the sofa and lay down next to her, his head tight against her thigh. She bared her soul to Jy-ying, and told her everything she would never tell another person, not even John. It was alright, she knew. For Jy-ying was her; it was as though she were only telling herself. John found her asleep on the sofa early in the morning with Little Wei curled up next to her. For the first time since the battle, she looked at peace.

aaa They all went together to permanently place Jy-ying’s urn in the crypt. John placed the urn on a white marble shelf next to Janet and Ed’s urn, and hung a framed colored photograph of Jy-ying on a nearby wall. On the shelf’s edge below the urn, an epitaph had been engraved on a little plaque: Khoo Jy-ying –1913 God’s loyal Subject to the end. She is now in His hands. He should treat her well. RIP

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Joy bowed her head in respect, thinking, There, but for the throw of the die, go I. As they left the crypt, Little Wei sat down under Jy-ying’s urn and refused to leave. John picked him up and carried him, struggling, to their car. He passed Little Wei to Joy, who kissed him and held him close as he drove them back to their apartment. The next morning when John opened the door to bring in the milk delivery, Little Wei ran out into the hallway and out the open door of the building. John ran after him, but the terrier disappeared down the street. That evening, John received a phone call. “Hello,” a man’s voice said, “this is the manager of the Cypress Lawn Memorial Park. Do you own a little white dog?” “Yes, I do.” “The crypt with ‘Bank’s Team’ above the door is yours?” “Yes.” “Your dog is at the door trying to get in. When my gardener tries to pick him up, he growls at him. Can you come and get him?” Joy and John drove there immediately, and found Little Wei lying against the crypt door. Joy unlocked it and let him in. He ran to Jyying’s urn, sat in front of it with his tail wagging, and barked. They left him there for about twenty minutes while they walked around the cemetery. When they returned to the crypt, Little Wei was in the same position. When he heard them he looked over his shoulder at them, then back at the urn. John picked him up and held him tight as he struggled. They took him back to the apartment.

Chapter 32 Joy 1913–1914

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oy and John made three trips to Europe during 1913 and 1914 to prevent World War I and the Russian Revolution. They were successful beyond all hopes. The propaganda and lobbying campaigns they funded helped prevent public opinion and legislators from accepting war as a solution to political conflict. And of special importance, the legislatures of England, Germany, and France passed legislation curtailing the military. This might not have been enough, had Joy and John not also taken direct action. During each trip they extended their web of business relationships with many of the most important European power brokers and secret societies, with their company at the center. This potentially subversive web cost them $125 million alone, but it was worth it, because they were able to use it to remove from office those high officials whose actions led to World War I in the Old Universe, and replace them with officials who had a much more moderate or accommodating view of their potential enemies. Joy wanted to assassinate them for causing the deaths of millions in the Old Universe. John did not, and argued that they were not directly responsible for those deaths, as were Hitler and Stalin for those murdered under their rule and by their commands. They compromised on removing them from office by bribery, or frame-up, or some other nonviolent means. John therefore was happy with the way it worked out, except for Foreign Secretary Gottfried von Jagow. German police and a passing photographer found him drunk. No problem in itself, except he was in an alley, in the arms of a young boy who claimed that Jagow forced him to commit sodomy. A photograph of the two magically appeared in newspaper and magazine offices, and within days Von Jagow resigned. Three days later, he committed suicide. John was stunned by this, but felt better when Joy set up their laptop and inserted the DVD containing photographs and news videos of

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World War I—a massacre costing in battle alone some nine million lives, and a possible cause of the 1918 worldwide influenza epidemic that ended only after eighteen million or more people had died from it. The most dangerous of their interventions involved the fanatical Black Hand Society of Serbia, whose leader, Apis, had been responsible for the assassination of the heir to the Austrian throne on June 28th, 1914 when he and his wife were driven down the streets of Sarajevo. This was the trigger for World War I. To prevent this assassination, John framed Apis with forged secret government documents and wireless communications with the German General Staff. Apis was arrested as a traitor and the Serbian police systematically uprooted the Black Hand Society. In Austria, Hands and his German fiancée had themselves invited to a diplomatic party attended by the Archduke. While Hands told the Archduke a fictional story about an English duchess he had seduced, his fiancée stealthily dropped a powder into his drink. The next day the Archduke could not get out of bed. He had a fever, was vomiting, and felt dizzy when he tried to stand. His doctor advised that he stay in bed and cancel his scheduled trip to Sarajevo. The Archduke did gradually recover, but there was no longer a reason to visit Sarajevo until nine years later, which then turned out to be an uneventful trip. June 28th, 1914, passed without notice, except by Joy and John. And when midnight passed by peacefully, they didn’t notice it either. They were stuporiously, gloriously, happily drunk in celebration. World War I or something like it could still break out, as John warned Joy. “Avoiding the Archduke’s assassination, which triggered Word War I in the Old Universe, does not mean the war will not eventually occur. There could be other triggers. We also must continue our work at the underlying conditions, which is fundamentally the lack of democracy.” They did, but it was not as though they were fighting a political tide. Democracy was growing in popularity. They simply added as much of their funds as they could to the democratically oriented parties and politicians in Germany, Russia, and Serbia. They also put funds into getting the democratic peace message across, one aspect of which was the building of a huge statue of Immanuel Kant, the father of the idea of a democratic peace, in front of the German parliament. With a little pushing, the Kaiser gave the keynote address and President Wilson of the United States gave a widely acclaimed speech on democracy.

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One assassination Joy and John agreed on, and because they would soon be dealing with Abul Sabah, with the outcome of that unknown, they would do it earlier than necessary. They had him tracked down to the art colony in Munich, where he had moved in 1913. He was only a struggling artist, selling his touristy paintings to survive. They discussed at length how to do the assassination. On September 1, the day and month in the Old Universe that the man had initiated the European theater of World War II with his invasion of Poland, John knocked on his door. When Hitler answered the door, John shot him dead. John was dazed by what he had done. He had taught college students about Hitler’s aggressions, his Holocaust, and his war crimes, and now he had killed the very man who had been such a horrible subject of his professional study and research. It was days before John could function normally, and two days before he could sleep. Over and over again, he murmured, “I can’t believe it. I killed Hitler. Me.” An unknown, Hitler’s death went unreported in the German newspapers.

aaa John had told—lectured, as usual—Joy that making Russia democratic was even more important than preventing World War I. Just from democide alone, Lenin, Stalin, and their successors had killed or been responsbile for the death of about 62 million people. So, to promote democracy in Russia they provided tens of millions of dollars to the democratic forces, and funneled much of the funds to Prince G.E. Lvov and moderate lawyer A.F. Kerensky. They also contracted for the assassinations of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, who was writing his revolutionary documents from Krakow, and Leon Trotsky, then living in Vienna after escaping forced exile in Siberia for his revolutionary activities. John did Hitler. Stalin was Joy’s. Through aid, training, and subversion, he’d fostered the spread of communism to China and ultimately to Vietnam and Cambodia. And thus he bore some responsibility for the horrors that Joy’s mom, her godmother Gu, and so many others in their Society had suffered. Joy wanted him, but she couldn’t get to him easily. In 1913, he had been exiled to Siberia for revolutionary activities. They weren’t going to make the long trip there, just for him. So John let her handle the con-

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tract, at least. To the same royalist group that had arranged for the assassinations of Lenin and Trotsky, Joy paid $15,000 for Stalin’s death. They didn’t dicker over the price.

Chapter 33 Joy 1915

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en years, Joy reflected. We have now been in this age for ten years. What incredible things we have done; so much has happened to us in that time. What great tales we could tell, except everyone in the Old Universe would think them science fiction. Now they would try to save as many as two billion lives. It was time to kill Sabah. But first, they had something sad to do. They had a short walk along a rose lined path to their crypt. John unlocked the door and handed the small, light green urn containing Little Wei’s ashes to Joy, who kissed it and placed it alongside Jy-ying’s. They’d found a digital photograph of Little Wei among Jy-ying’s effects; it showed the white terrier with his perky ears up, little red tongue showing, and head tilted questioningly at the photographer. His tail, of course, was a blur. John hung it on the adjacent wall. On the shelf below the urn, John placed a framed clipping from the San Francisco Courier: THE DOG THAT WOULDN’T FORGET At a private ceremony, John Banks, owner of the Banks & Team crypt at Cypress Lawn Memorial Park, plans to place the ashes of Little Wei beside those of his mistress, Khoo Jy-ying. Mr. Banks had tried to take care of Little Wei after Miss Khoo died, but whenever the dog was left unattended, he would walk ten miles to the crypt and take up station outside. Finally, Banks let him stay there and made sure he was fed, and constructed a little doghouse nearby to protect him from the weather. But come rain or shine, Little Wei could be found huddled against the crypt door.

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Whenever anyone opened the door, he dashed inside to sit before Khoo’s urn with his tail wagging. Yesterday morning, he was found dead by the crypt door. Banks suggests he died of a broken heart. Finally, John attached a little white plaque on the edge of the shelf underneath the urn: Little Wei, –1915 Now take my paw, my mistress, So that the sounds of my joy Be music to your heart.

Chapter 34 Joy

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hey knew that the world had avoided World War I and that the European movement toward greater democracy appeared selfreinforcing. Sabah had been born the previous year, and they could not let him get much older. They made their plans; they were ready. John could hardly look at them when he lied to the three guys and Mariko, as he had so often, about what Joy and he would be doing. “Middle Asia produces many products that we can buy cheaply and import to the United States. We should make a handsome profit, if we can set this up. But we have no offices in Middle Asia. Our closest is Peking, a long distance away. So we will set up an office in Kashgar, Uighuristan, which is central to the area, and do some exploring. You know, play tourists. Besides, I’ve developed a personal interest in this region, which Janet encouraged. It’s my new hobby. I’m fascinated by the Silk Road that Marco Polo traveled and through which much prized silk was imported into Europe from China. It still exists, and we will be using that ourselves.” Dolphy asked, “How much time will you be gone?” “Probably about five months. The four of you do good work, and Joy and I have no fear about leaving the company in your hands for that long. We both will leave detailed instructions . . . ” And new wills, Joy thought. “Anyway, we think the trip will be worth it.” John didn’t say what the detailed instructions were. In them they admitted they were from the future, described the information they had received from Lora and Mark, and provided instructions on how to use Joy’s laptop to insert and watch the CD and DVD they’d put in their safe. They were asking a lot, but they knew the four would go through it all as testament to Joy and John. They had included detailed instructions on the route to Kashgar, and expressed their hope that the guys would assassinate Sabah if Joy and John failed. Joy insisted that they also describe with compassion Jy-ying’s failed mission from the future, and that all Jy-ying had left them, including her supply capsule, be willed to the guys.

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Joy and John had worked months on all these details, testing them for possible misunderstanding, and trying to keep them as simple as possible without losing the importance of the message. “We don’t expect to die, of course,” John hastened to add. “But there are warlords and bandits, not to mention opportunists who try to fleece supposedly rich Westerners, and who may get angry if they fail.” Sal smirked. “Good idea, taking Joy for your protection.”

aaa Uighuristan Since they would be traveling through the high Karakorem Mountains that divided northwestern India from Uighuristan, John and Joy waited until early summer of 1915 to make the trip. This trip was the most fascinating, fatiguing, and dangerous one yet. It took them three ships and two ports to reach Karachi. They had to transfer ships in Hong Kong and Singapore. It would have been romantic if it was their first-ever trip, maybe even their fifth. But they were traveled out and now getting a little old for this. Even John no longer felt up to carrying her from the rail of the ship to their cabin in a burst of crazy lust. Nor did Joy really regret it. The flimsy, careening train they took from Karachi to Islamabad was so overcrowded, people sat on the roof with their baggage. They took two days to recover from the experience, then traveled on an old Fraser bus to Gilgit. The bus was no better than the train, with old and young Indians of all descriptions toting chickens, goats, straw bundles, and large bags. The smell was overwhelming. There was no such thing as first class. Gilgit was the gateway to the foothills of the impressive and snowpeaked Karakorem Mountains. There they waited four days for a guide to form a horse and camel caravan of Indians and returning Uighur businessmen, bound for Kashgar. They bought horses, and were able to buy themselves into the caravan by virtue of their business. They had their armor, handguns, and knives, but they also bought the best rifles they could find. Everyone around here had rifles, including all those in their caravan. Language was difficult, but Joy spoke the Mandarin, Hakka, and Cantonese Chinese languages, and there were usually a few Chinese speakers around who also spoke the local dialect or language. In Gilgit

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they found one fellow, named Fadi, who spoke Mandarin and Uighur. Joy hired him as a translator for the whole trip to Kashgar and their return to Gilgit. She suspected he would be able to retire for life on what they paid him. From Gilgit they traveled by caravan about seventy miles up into the mountains to Hunza on the winding Silk Road, and from there the 175 miles through the Khunjerab Pass, the highest border crossing in the world, into Uighuristan. There they slowly trekked some 230 more miles to Tashkorgan. After a day’s rest, they traveled with the caravan the final 200 or so miles to Kashgar, located in the utterly desolate western end of the Takliman Desert. There were weeks of awful cold, and weeks of dry, lip-chapping heat. There were beautiful mountain views and monotonous gray landscapes of rock after rock, with nothing green anywhere; dry, flat expanses of sandy, gravely land, and wondrous foliage. They stank so bad, Joy was sure she saw a greenish, oily mist surrounding them all after just a few days. They considered themselves fortunate that their noses soon became inured to the stench. But she still could taste it. And feel it. After two weeks, she thought she could peel the stench off. Joy told John she’d have preferred to view all the scenery on a DVD for an hour, take a shower, and go to bed afterward. By the time they reached Kashgar, they could hardly walk. Joy swore that her legs were so bowed, she could keep her ankles together and push her upper torso through the gap at her knees. She noticed that John had developed a cowboy swagger. They decided to rest for several days and become familiar with Kashgar. They found the Kashgar Guesthouse for businessmen near the famous Idgah Kah Mosque, and a place to stable their horses. Within two seconds of completing these arrangements, Joy was immersed in what passed for a bath—cold water filling a plastered hole in the ground. Heaven! John hated cold water baths and insisted he didn’t need one, but when she told him nicely that he either join her or sleep on the other side of Kashgar, he gave up the joking. They and their translator walked all over the small city—more what Joy would call a town, with a population of about ten or fifteen thousand people. It was strictly Muslim; most of the women completely covered their bodies and wore the customary rust-colored veil. Unlike many Muslim countries, however, they wore colorful clothes. Joy and John stood out as foreigners, though they dressed very conservatively and Joy covered her hair with brightly colored scarves.

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Kashgar was the most fundamentalist Muslim city of all Uighuristan. There were mosques scattered throughout, and the call for prayers was dutifully observed. Those living here were mainly Uighur and Kyrgyz ethnic groups, with a smattering of other Turkish ethnic groups as well. Clearly, this region had much more in common with the other ethnic groupings to the west than with the Han Chinese on the eastern border. Culturally, it belonged to the transcaspian khanates, like Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan. Joy and John’s declared purpose for coming to Kashgar was to buy locally woven carpets for their company, and possibly to set up a company office here to sell Western goods. This gave them an excuse to ask questions and check the mosque and civic registers for the Sabah family. There were sixteen such families, but only one had a baby boy. His name was Abul and his father was Aisha. Aisha Sabah owned a small farm about five miles outside of Kashgar. He husbanded sheep and goats, and grew barley and a variety of fruits, including the delicious hami melon. They knew what they wanted to do. Following the directions they got from the Guesthouse, they rode their horses out to the farm and pulled up before a small, three room, clay brick home surrounded by barley and vegetable fields. When they arrived, Aisha was herding several dozen sheep into a small corral, and ignored them until he drove all the sheep inside and closed the gate. He turned and looked obliquely at Joy and John, studying them carefully with deeply sunken eyes in a long, thin, heavily bearded face. He wore an embroidered square cap, several long, grayish shirts that hung at different lengths over his waist, and baggy brown pants, tight at the ankle above woven slippers. What struck Joy at first was his jetblack beard of straight hair and his equally black mustache, which covered his mouth. Joy did not know how he ate through it. He had a tanned and deeply furrowed face. Joy’s first thought, before he and their translator Fadi exchanged any words, was that his photograph would be a natural for the National Geographic. Fadi seemed to be introducing them; they heard, “John Banks . . . Joy Phim . . . America.” Aisha’s eyes opened wide when he heard that, and he emitted a deep grunt of surprise that sounded something like, “Haaaa.” Joy had told Fadi to say: “They are in your country to buy Uighur products for their company. Perhaps you have something you would like to sell them. May we talk to you about it?” After each exchange in

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Uighur, Fadi would translate it into Chinese for Joy, and she would repeat it in English for John. Aisha responded, “I don’t think I have anything to sell, but I want to hear about America. Come inside and tell me about it.” He led them into his home, where he introduced them to his wife Niyasam, telling her, “We have guests who come from the United States.” She immediately put her hands together and bowed deeply to them. “God be praised,” she said. “Thank you for coming to our little home.” Niyasam was a short, heavyset woman. She wore a kimono-like light blue dress that fell straight from her shoulders to her bare feet. She had a multicolored scarf around her head that she had pulled off her shoulders as soon as they entered the house. Aisha invited them to sit at his only table, while Niyasam hurried to a cupboard at one end of the main room and pulled out a plate of buns that she put in the middle of the table. She dropped some tea leaves into a teapot hanging from a rod beside the fireplace, stoked up the fire, and swung the pot to hang over it. Aisha said nothing as they watched her move about the room. She served them the boiling tea then looked at Aisha; when he nodded, she left the room. Turning to Fadi, he said, “Ask them if it is true that everyone in the United States is rich.” John answered, “We have our rich and poor, as you do, but our poor are in many ways richer than are your rich. Not in comparable money perhaps, but in what is available to many of them, such as running hot and cold water, indoor toilets, good medical care, free education, and so on.” This initiated a long conversation about the United States, throughout which Aisha expressed his awe. Joy was getting impatient. This was taking too long. She was going to have Fadi mention the child, when they heard him crying in another room. She smiled and told Fadi, “Ask if we can see him.” Fadi translated, and Aisha yelled out something to Niyasam. She appeared almost immediately with the boy wrapped in a light blanket and balanced in her right arm. The child had stopped crying and was looking back and forth between Niyasam and those at the table. Abul was a cute child, with rosy cheeks and bright round eyes in an absolutely round face. Already he had a head of stubby black hair. At the sight of him, Joy and John began their little play in English, repeated by Joy in Chinese for Fadi to pass on to Aisha in Uighur. “Oh, what a beautiful child,” Joy said. John added, “He is handsome. And he already looks strong. I’m impressed.”

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Joy feigned tears. “I’m so sad that I can’t have a child like this.” John put a comforting arm about her. “I have never seen a child like this, one that I wanted so much.” And so on. Finally, Joy asked, “Can I hold him?” and held out her arms. Niyasam proudly put the child in her arms. Joy hugged him and kissed him on the face, and looked imploringly at John. Joy didn’t think their acting would have received rave reviews, but in that context it was sufficient to introduce their question. Looking at Aisha, John assumed a pleading expression. “We want so much to have a child, but cannot. We have fallen in love with your child, and want to buy him from you. Would you sell him to us?” After Joy translated that into Chinese, Fadi hesitated, then asked her if that was what she really meant. Joy couldn’t believe she would ask to buy a child, it was so foreign to her own culture. But as John had explained to her after his study of the culture of this area in preparation for this trip, it was not that uncommon in this part of the world to sell one’s child. The poor and lower middle class sometimes sold their children to those who could support them, or to religious institutions. They even were sold into prostitution. For those without sons, buying a male child was the only way to pass on their name and inheritance, especially their farm or business. John’s question would not be considered immoral or crazy, although when it finally got to Aisha, Fadi told Joy that he was surprised that they, as foreigners, had asked. When Joy and John realized in Kashgar that Abul was the Sabahs’ only son, and then found out that Niyasam was Aisha’s only wife, they didn’t feel right about secretly poisoning Abul or kidnapping and killing the child, leaving Aisha and Niyasam to their grief. Sons were held in very high esteem in this part of the world, and to the grief of too many families, many of them died in their first year. Abul had survived for a year and they knew he would reach manhood. They felt that since they were going to take the boy from the Sabahs one way or another, they had to do it in a morally acceptable way in this culture, and compensate them handsomely. Joy knew she was just trying to make it easier to kill the child. In answer to John’s question, Niyasam blurted, “No!” Her reaction was so obvious, from her expression and the sharp slice of her hand through the air, that even John understood it. She looked at Aisha. Before Aisha could respond, John said, “If you sell your son to us, he will live happily in the United States and become a citizen there. He will be rich and happy. I own a company that is very large and imports

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and exports all over the world, and Abul would inherit this company. He could easily make trips here to visit you.” When the chain of translations got to him, Aisha began to shake his head vigorously, but John continued, “We will pay you 18,000 Uighuristan som for your child.” They had discussed the amount they would offer before arriving here. This was the equivalent of about $6,000, which in local currency would make the couple very rich. The average local income was about thirty dollars a year. Fadi gaped at Joy when she put that in Chinese. He asked her to repeat it, and she did, thinking, Now I bet he thinks he should have held out for more before agreeing to be our translator. When he heard the figure, Aisha sat staring at them, obviously stunned. Niyasam, who had heard the conversation from the other room, came in to stand behind him. She stared at the back of his head. Her face resigned, she began to cry. By local Muslim custom, she had no choice in the matter, and knew by Aisha’s voice that he had decided to sell their child. But he was middle-Asian, and nothing gets sold without haggling. He seemed to think for several moments, and said, “No, I can’t sell the child. He is too valuable to us.” In preparation for just this response, they had made a list of which neighboring families had children near the same age. “Well,” John said, “we’ll look around. Maybe we can find another child. We know the Abliz and Yusup families have beautiful children, and we will take a look at them, now that you have aroused our interest in buying a local child.” Aisha and Fadi and Joy began an exchange, often punctuated by Joy appearing to ask John about a figure. Joy was stunned herself when the dickering ended and she and John had actually bought the child for what amounted to about $7,500. They had talked to two banks before the trip, and were told that they would find it almost impossible to convert American dollars into so much local currency here. Therefore, they had done so through their business and the National Currency Exchange in New York, which at their request sent the money to them in San Francisco by courier. Throughout the trip to Kashgar, Joy had carried the money in a waterproof pouch that looked like it contained, and did at the top, women’s menstrual wear. No man here or in India would have touched it unless at gunpoint, and only if death were a certain alternative. With Niyasam in tears, a stern-faced Aisha accepted the money. While he counted it with shaking hands, Niyasam ran into the other

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room and emerged in minutes with her arms full of blankets and baby clothes, which she almost threw at Joy. “Go,” she said, sobbing. “Go, quick.” Aisha yelled something at her, but Joy carried Abul over to her and lifted him for her to say her farewell. Niyasam took the child and lovingly kissed his face, hugged him, and now keening in sobs she handed him back to Joy. As she did so, Abul started crying. Joy took him, cuddled him, and tried to soothe him. She was no longer acting, but weeping along with Niyasam as she moved toward the door. John tried to say something to Niyasam, but his voice broke. They left the house. Joy and John didn’t look at each other as she gave the crying child to him to hold while she mounted her horse. Without looking at Joy, he lifted the child into her arms. The continuous keening of Niyasam was a dagger in her heart. Before riding off, Joy told Aisha, “You can have more children. I wish you all the happiness in this world with them, and may you and your family forever be blessed by God.” Still stern-faced, Aisha was nevertheless holding back tears, and was afraid to speak. He nodded, and they rode off. John had hardly said a word since buying the child. Now he finally broke his silence. Raising his voice above Abul’s crying, John exclaimed, “I feel like shit.” Joy had no response. She sniffled almost the whole way back to the Guesthouse. Lulled by the horse ride, Abul soon stopped crying and looked around with curiosity at the horses, the scenery, and his new parents. In their room at the Guesthouse, Joy put the child on their bed—a spring mattress on a bed of bricks—and she and John sat on the floor. They planned to take the boy into the desert and give him an injection of pentobarbital, which they had brought with them. He would die without pain or discomfort, and they would bury the body in the desert. “Okay,” John said in a strained voice. “Here he is. Here we are. This is it. The moment we’ve waited for, planned for . . .” He looked at the baby on the bed. “We now have in our hands the way of forever preventing Sabah’s nuclear strike and takeover of the world in this universe, under the banner of Sabahism.” As though trying to give both of them courage, John whispered, “He will kill nearly two billion people.” His voice climbed to what sounded like a lament. “Shall we do it tonight and get it over with?” Joy just looked at him. “Don’t look at me that way,” John huffed, his jaw hard, his face suddenly lined. He started to rub his neck.

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Joy continued to look at him. A tear ran down her face. “The goddam stupidest thing we did was not contracting a professional to do this.” John almost sounded disgusted, but the softness in his eyes betrayed him. “Out of pity for the family, we got ourselves personally involved. Now look at you. For humanity’s sake, we’ve got to carry this through. I repeat, this child will grow into a man who will kill billions of people. Think of that. Keep the image of what you saw on the DVD in your mind. Remember Lora and Mark. They died just hoping for this day. They sacrificed their last earthly moments together working for this day.” John looked from Joy to the child, who was now sleeping on his back, with his angelic round face toward them. “He’s just a baby,” Joy moaned. John shouted, “Shit. Do I have to do this myself?” Joy stared at the baby’s face. John just sat on the floor, obviously miserable. “I’ll do it tonight,” he finally whispered. “I’ll do it alone.” By late afternoon, Joy had stopped crying and had resigned herself to what they—John—had to do. He picked up soup and goat’s milk for Abul to keep him quiet. Neither of them felt like eating, however. As Joy fed Abul, she could not describe adequately the new feelings this baby boy stirred in her. She had never before cooed over a child or animal, but she did so now. She hadn’t known she had baby talk in her. It just came out naturally, and at first she didn’t realize what she was doing, until John said sadly, “My dear warrior, you should hear yourself.” Late in the evening, John came over to the bed where Joy was rocking Abul in her arms, and said quietly, “Its time, sweetheart.” Joy had killed without a touch of regret or sadness. But those had all been grown men who had chosen their path, who knew what they were doing and the risks they took. Abul was a child, a baby. She tried to steel her emotions as she put Abul down. None of her warrior training was up to this. She stood and moved aside to let John pick up Abul. He lifted him in one arm, and picked up the bag containing the candy, pentobarbital, and a trowel to dig a hole in the sand. Abul had awakened and was gurgling while he tried to pull John’s hat off. When he succeeded and it landed on the floor, he gurgled louder and waved his hands happily. John stood for a long time by the door, looking down at the child. Joy did nothing to stop him, but tears ran down her face as she stood back from the door, her hands falling at her sides, her head slightly tilted.

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This tableau seemed to Joy to stretch for hours. She stared at John’s face. She could see the tears began to trickle from his eyes as his face seemed to sag, transformed by the horror of the job he had to do. He looked up from Abul and stared at Joy for a long moment. Silent words passed between them. She felt the beating of her heart and the throb of her tension headache; the tears on her cheek felt hot in the chill air. Her eyes focused on the lone tear falling down John’s cheek. He sighed, looked back down at Abul, and put down his bag. He gave Abul a hug and kissed him on the forehead. He turned from the door and brought Abul over to her. She reached out with welcoming arms. “Here, mother. Take your son,” John said, wearing the happiest expression she seen on his face since this trip started. His words filled her mind. She screamed out of pure joy and utter relief. “Thank you. Oh, thank you!” She kissed the child. John hugged them both and kissed Joy. “We’re adopting him,” Joy shouted at John, finally revealing what she now knew had been well hidden inside her—the desire for motherhood. That was it. They had made the decision, and now had to work it out within their general mission. They celebrated that night over a strong alcoholic drink made of sorghum that John bought in the Guesthouse. John had to wake up their translator and the manager to get it, but when he explained that it was for the celebration of motherhood, the manager was happy to open the cabinet where he kept the liquor. Afterward, when Joy and John were in bed with the sleeping Abul between them, she told him, “I know our mission is at the center of our life. I know that we must succeed, even if it’s the death of us. I know what this child would have done to the world if he had grown up here. I know this, sweetheart, but as human beings we are made up of intangibles that will not bow to reason. I know what had to be done, and that’s why I stood back from what I could not do myself. But if you had murdered this child, you would also have killed something in my heart. Did you know this?” John reached across the sleeping child and took her hand. “If I had murdered this child, I would have killed what I believe in my heart that I am. If you had been willing to kill the child, I would have gone along. That you would not, that you showed such compassion for him, just

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showed me why I love you.” John gently picked up Abul and placed him on the other side of her, and pulled her to him. “Hello, my love,” he whispered in her ear, nibbling on it. “Hello, my love,” Joy said. They shamelessly introduced their son to his new parents.

aaa They would now adopt a child. But something was missing and, Joy thought, My lovely man is oblivious to it. Her heart’s intuition went after big game. It took over, while her dormant mind watched, hoping. The next morning, just for exercise, they took Abul on an early morning walk, without their translator. “There is this little problem,” Joy said as soon as possible after they returned to the Guesthouse. Molding her face into a most serious look, she pointed out, “We are unmarried, yet we will adopt a child. This generation is not as accepting of live-in relationships as ours was—will be, that is. Aren’t you afraid of what this will do to our adopted son-to-be?” “I hadn’t thought of that.” John mulled this over. “But we have a mission and travel frequently, and I don’t want to create more difficulty for ourselves than necessary. We’ve already added a new level of complications with Abul. But I think hiring a nanny can take care of many of those. As to how he will be treated, we can invent a cover story about something happening to his parents.” He’s putting me on. But unsure, her heart let it hang there. If he wasn’t joking, she didn’t want to push him too hard yet. He would see what was beautiful and necessary himself, she hoped. John seemed unusually quiet for a few minutes until, almost absentmindedly, it seemed, he said, “Of course, we could get married—” Yippee, he got it! “—but, you know, if our future enemies know we’re married, they could use that against me or you, or even Abul, depending on the circumstances.” So, screw them. “And,” he continued relentlessly, “with our relationship being simply employer and employee, while we keep Abul in the background, they presumably would not know about our love for each other and thus will have one less lever to exploit.” Her mind bowed to her heart and got out of the way. She put a concerned look on her face, and placed her hand on her chest. “Even if we

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travel together, I will be doing a lot of things independent of you; I’ll have my own work to do in Paris, London, Rome, Peking—you know. I won’t be wearing a wedding ring. I’m afraid I’m going to have a lot of men hitting on me. Of course, dearest, they won’t get anywhere.” John looked concerned, then jealous, then happy over his solution. “I’ve got it. I’ll buy you a garish wedding ring to wear when you go out alone. As we did in China.” Joy’s heart thumped. “Why not make it a real wedding ring?” John went on, “Better yet, I could hire a woman in each place to chaperone you.” When he leaned forward to look into her eyes, she finally saw the dimples at the sides of his mouth. They deepened, and soon he was grinning from ear to ear. He quickly erased it and, deadpan, asked, “Woman, are you proposing to me?” Her heart beating rapidly, she put on an insulted look and responded, “Of course not. What makes you think I would propose to you, presumptuous man?” “Good, that’s my role.” His grin returned. John rose, came over to her, got down on one knee, and took her hand. “I love you more than anything in this world,” he said. “Will you marry me, my darling?” Joy’s heart, her mind, her stomach, all of her, exploded in emotional fireworks. She had dreamed of this moment. She had tried to help him come to it. Almost playfully. But when it came, she couldn’t believe the passion that suddenly overwhelmed her. Joy’s eyes filled with happy tears. She kissed him all over his face. “Yes, my dearest. Yes, a thousand times yes, I love you so much.” She put Abul on the bed and threw herself on him and they rolled on the floor holding each other, and kissed, and caressed each other, and finally, inevitably, as though to consecrate their new and glorious relationship, they made love on the floor like teenagers discovering its joys for the first time. “For shame,” he said, gasping for breath afterward. “We’re not even married yet.” She caressed his chest and said in as sexy a voice as she could, “Just wait until our honeymoon for what I’ve been saving up for you.” Laughing, he replied, “We’ll be arres—” Flash. Thunder. Pain. Nothingness.

Epilogue

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ven before all the debris from the explosion had settled, the two terrorists of the New Islamic Front hurried toward the Guesthouse. One clambered over the fallen bricks and pulled himself into a large hole in the shattered wall, disappearing into the smoky interior. Minutes later, he came out of the front entrance carrying a heavy bag and gesturing and exclaiming about the horrible explosion. He melted into the growing crowd and joined his fellow terrorists on the other side. They quickly strode down the street and ducked into the small brick house nearby that a supporter owned. They were greeted by a nervous looking Fadi, who immediately asked in Uighur, “I heard the blast—did it kill them?” “Yes,” the older man exclaimed. “Your bomb killed them all.” “The child, Sabah?” “Yes, him too.” The man tossed the heavy bag on the floor. “This is their weapons and valuables.” As Fadi eagerly opened the bag, he commented, “Devil take those foreign infidels. They will steal no more Muslim children. Better that Abul is dead than be made a heathen.”

aaa Outside, as the crowd in front of the Guesthouse began to disperse, an unusually tall couple stood looking toward the destruction. Her face pale, the woman cried quietly into the chest of the black man. In oddly accented English, she whispered, “Our timing was off. How could the coordinates be so wrong?” The man held her tight and stroked her back. “It was a narrow window of opportunity we had. Only seconds. As for Joy and John, they struggled for ten years against the probabilities. One can walk among poisonous snakes only so many times without being bitten.” She lifted up her head, and the shawl covering her head slipped a little, revealing blond curly hair. She focused wet blue eyes on where the window had been. “So sad. We must risk this again.”

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The man pointed toward the destruction. “Like them, the probabilities may not be kind to us. But if we fail again, at least Abul Sabah died with them.” “Right now it doesn’t make me any happier,” she murmured. They turned and walked toward the building the terrorists had entered. Minutes later, the two emerged from the building with the heavy bag the terrorist had carried from the Guesthouse. The man slung it over his shoulder and held it there with one hand. With the other he gently took hold of the woman’s hand and they walked into the distance to where they could be unobserved.

Afterword You may find my description of the nuclear attack on the democracies impossible, or at least as improbable as a large asteroid striking earth this year. That may be true for this year, but as dictatorships with nuclear weapons or the desire to obtain them continue to exist, a nuclear attack of some kind is an increasing possibility. Indeed, many democratic leaders fear it. This supreme and growing danger are one reason the American coalition is now using covert and overt force in a global war to prevent any more actual or possible enemy states, and their allied terrorist gangs from acquiring nuclear weapons and the capability to deliver them. It is the major reason the United States invaded and occupied Iraq and is democratizing the country. And not chancing that this is enough, the United States is preparing a missile defense against nuclear tipped missiles; and in collaboration with many other democracies, it is working on a homeland defense against just such “suitcase” nuclear weapons as those exploded in this novel. The rise of an Islamic “Prophet” in Middle Asia and a coup by his followers also is possible, as happened in this novel in Uighuristan— witness the Iranian revolution and the seizure of absolute power by Ayatollah Khomeini in 1979; the 1996 seizure of power in Afghanistan by the fundamentalist Islamic Taliban (upon whom I have modeled Sabahism). Moreover, a coup in China is always a possibility, as is so for every regime that lives by the sword. It already happened in China in 1976 when Hua Guofeng seized power from Mao’s wife Jiang Qing and nephew, and arrested numerous ministers and Mao supporters. It could happen again, but this time by a dictator less conservative about the exploitation of China’s nuclear weapons. As to the story told by Mark Twain about Nzanba’s horrible experience in the Congo Free State—from the bloody invasion of his village, the forced search for rubber, soldiers cutting off hands to prove they did not waste a bullet, to the deadly chain linked portage—it is what actually was inflicted on hundreds of thousands of Congolese. Millions more died in other kinds of slave labor, exploitation, repression, and outright murder. Possibly 10 million were murdered or more from 1885 when The Berlin Conference formally recognized the Congo Free State

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(now the Democratic Republic of the Congo—formerly Zaire) to 1908 when Belgium took it over as a colony. The Congo Free State was the private land, not a colony, of King Leopold II of Belgium to do with whatever he wanted. And the massive killing did not stop when Belgium took it over. But, amazingly, although the death toll is many millions, the incredible terror, slavery, and death imposed on the Congo natives by one man has been virtually ignored in general history books, and particularly surprising, by those on genocide and mass murder. This neglect cannot be due to lack of historical information. There was a vigorous international movement at the time led by the Congo Reform Movement, as noted in the novel, and involving many notables of the day, such as Mark Twain (yes, he really was a member), Joseph Conrad, Booker T. Washington, and Bertrand Russell. The hero of this humanitarian struggle is Edmund Dene Morel, as he is in this novel. He created the Congo Reform Movement, and published his West African Mail. First a clerk and freelance economic reporter, and subsequently an unknown shipping company executive who dealt with the Congo, he came to see the horrors of King Leopold’s rule there, and fought to focus international attention and public opinion on it. He stimulated debates over what to do about the Congo that involved the legislatures and leaders of the United States, England, France, and Germany. He became Leopold’s most formidable enemy and was largely responsible for Belgium finally taking over legal control. I hope that in this novel, I treated this great man and humanitarian with the respect he is due. This democide in the Congo far surpassed in human corpses most every democide in the 20th Century except by Stalin, Mao, and Hitler. This mind-boggling democide has been sucked into a black memory hole. Why this should be so is beyond this Afterword, but should be the subject of research in itself. To add embarrassment to this neglect, the French in their Congo they took over in 1900 (now the Republic of the Congo) copied Leopold's system of rule and exploitation and thus may have murdered several million Africans as well. No work on genocide that I have read mentions this either. Just to see how far off I was in my eight-year search for all 20th Century democide, I checked all the tables in my Statistics of Democide and tabulated cases of colonial democide I recorded there. For colonies by Belgium, France, Germany, Italy, Netherlands, Portugal, Spain, and

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the United Kingdom, in Africa and Asia, 1900 and after, my grand democide total was 870,000 murdered, 1900-1987. This number alone measures a human catastrophe, but is nonetheless puny in comparison with just the many millions murdered by Leopold in his private Congo Free State. I had only a low of 25,000 killed for this from 1900-1908. I recorded no democide for Belgium, although I now know that it might have been responsible for close to a million once it took over the Congo. And I got just 22,000 forced laborers murdered by the French in building a railroad in the French Congo. Now, we have these estimates: Britannica article on the "Congo Free State" claims that the population declined from 20 or 30 million to 8 million. A 1904 report by Roger Casement estimated that as many as 3 million Congolese died since 1888—cited in Gilbert's History of the Twentieth Century; also in Colin Legum, Congo Disaster (1972). Peter Forbath, The River Congo (1977), claims that at least 5 million killed. John Gunther, Inside Africa (1953), estimates 5-8 million deaths. Adam Hochschild, Leopold's Ghost (1999), estimates 10 million, or half the original population from 1885 to 1920. Fredric Wertham, A Sign For Cain: A Exploration of Human Violence (1966), estimates that the population of the Congo dropped from 30 million to 8.5 million. I have reevaluated the colonial toll, therefore. Where exploitation of a colony's natural resources or portering was carried out by forced labor (in effect slavery of a modern kind), as it was in all the European and Asian colonies, then the forced labor system built in its own death toll from beatings, whippings, coercion, terror, and forced deprivation. There were differences in the brutality of the system, the British being the least brutal and Leopold and the French, Germans, and Portuguese the worst. We all know what the Soviet gulag was like. These colonizers turned Africa into one giant gulag, with each colony being a separate camp.

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As John Banks estimated in this novel, over all colonized Africa and Asia 1900 to independence, the democide probably was near 50 million. This is way above my original 870,000. Even 50 million may be too conservative. If this figure were roughly close, however, then I must raise my total murdered by governments in the 20th Century from 174,000,000 to 223,000,000. I will send a message back in time to inform John and Joy of this. I know they will weep. We all should. My statistics mentioned above are at www.hawaii.edu/powerkills. R.J. Rummel Professor Emeritus Kaneohe, Hawaii [email protected]

Praise for books by Nobel Peace Prize finalist

R. J. Rummel "26th in a Random House poll on the best nonfiction book of the 20th Century" Random House (Modern Library) “. . . the most important . . . in the history of international relations.” John Norton Moore Professor of Law and Director, Center for National Security Law, former Chairman of the Board of Directors of the U. S. Institute of Peace “. . . among the most exciting . . . in years.” Jim Powell “. . . most comprehensive . . . I have ever encountered . . . illuminating . . . .” Storm Russell “One more home run . . . .” Bruce Russett, Professor of International Relations “. . . has profoundly affected my political and social views.” Lurner B Williams “. . . truly brilliant . . . ought to be mandatory reading.” Robert F. Turner, Professor of Law, former President of U.S. Institute of Peace ". . . highly recommend . . . ." Cutting Edge “We all walk a little taller by climbing on the shoulders of Rummel’s work.” Irving Louis Horowitz, Professor Of Sociology. ". . . everyone in leadership should read and understand . . . ." DivinePrinciple.com “. . .exciting . . . pushes aside all the theories, propaganda, and wishful thinking . . . .” www.alphane.com “. . . world's foremost authority on the phenomenon of ‘democide.’” American Opinion Publishing “. . . excellent . . . .” Brian Carnell “. . . bound to be become a standard work . . . .” James Lee Ray, Professor of Political Science

“. . . major intellectual accomplishment . . .will be cited far into the next century” Jack Vincent, Professor of Political Science.” “. . . most important . . . required reading . . . .” thewizardofuz (Amazon.com) “. . . valuable perspective . . . .” R.W. Rasband “ . . . offers a desperately needed perspective . . . .” Andrew Johnstone “. . . eloquent . . . very important . . . .” Doug Vaughn “. . . should be required reading . . .shocking an sobering . . . .” Sugi Sorensen

NEVER AGAIN Book 3

RESET NEVER AGAIN R.J. RUMMEL

Llumina Press

Copyright 2004 R. J. Rummel All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher. Requests for permission to make copies of any part of this work should be mailed to Permissions Department, Llumina Press, PO Box 772246, Coral Springs, FL 33077-2246 ISBN: HC 1-59526-355-1 PB 1-59526-354-3 Printed in the United States of America by Llumina Press

Relevant books by R.J. Rummel Understanding Conflict and War (five volumes) Lethal Politics: Soviet Genocide and Mass Murder since 1917 China’s Bloody Century: Genocide and Mass Murder since 1900 Democide: Nazi Genocide and Mass Murder Death By Government Power Kills: Democracy as a Method of Nonviolence Saving Lives, Enriching Life: Freedom as a Right and a Moral Good (online book) Never Again Series War and Democide Never Again Nuclear Holocaust Never Again

Loves dark enemy Power, like a deadly plague, kills what it touches

Acknowledgements Again, I owe many thanks to the thorough evaluation, many helpful suggestions, and careful editing of Marg Gilks. I continue to be indebted to the many visitors to my website at www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/ who commented on or questioned the material there. They often had an impact on this series, and this novel in particular. And foremost, always, is my wife Grace. She made this series and this novel possible. Without her, I could not have written it. Come here, sweetheart. To be sure, this is a book of fiction. Although some characters may in name and position bear a striking resemblance to historical figures, they are fictional. Nonetheless, I must say again that whatever errors of fictional facts exist are mine, and wholly mine.

Chapter 1 Early Afternoon, Thursday November 15, 1906, Fourth Universe San Francisco Joy Phim

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o roar of automobile engines, no exhaust-heavy air; instead, the swish of leather and bridles, rattling chains, creaking wooden wagons and thumping wagon doors, and the clomping and sloshing of horses’ hooves. Drivers shouted at their horses or each other. One yelled to another with a wave as they passed, “Yo, Fred! You still driving that old nag? Time to turn her into dog food.” Smiling, Fred shouted back, “Don’t talk about my wife like that!” Horses bearing riders, horse-drawn carriages, bicycles, trucks, and wagons of all descriptions passed continuously as Joy Phim and John Banks sauntered along San Francisco’s Market Street. The stench of horse dung and urine permeated the air, and flies were everywhere; stop for a moment, and they attacked any bare flesh. The flounced hem of Joy’s shoe-length walking skirt was muddy where it brushed the boards that passed for a sidewalk. The boardwalk dipped and rose, and was slick in places where mud had splashed up from the gutter. Here and there, broken boards created a hole that rivaled the potholes in the street, and an occasional broken board stuck up at an angle, waiting to catch the unwary dress or pants leg. But the boards were better then slipping and sliding on the puddled, potholed street. Overhead, wires looped either singly or in bundles from pole to pole, and from poles to buildings. They cut the cloudless blue sky into sections that could have been pieces of a child’s jigsaw puzzle. “There must be a million of these wires,” John commented, eyes wide, as he looked up for the first time. Many of the wires had deteriorated; the insulation hung from some, and others curled dangerously close to the ground from leaning poles. “San Francisco still must be recovering from the earthquake and fire; the condition of the street and utility wires in this section of town show that there still is much to do.” Joy grunted in response, while her nose wrinkled and her upper lip curled as if drawing away from the smells assaulting her nose. All her senses were quivering antenna automatically cataloguing what was to

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be ignored, remembered, or what demanded an instantaneous response in the form of a defensive move or offensive attack. This was a background to her thoughts. She felt they were on their way. With the help of the three guys they met and hired soon after their arrival in this universe a couple of hours after midnight, she and John were able to get around San Francisco easily. They now had hotel rooms to live in. Actually, the Fairfax Hotel was theirs. John had bought it when its manager wouldn’t give them rooms because Joy was Asian. They had registered their new Tor Import and Export Company this morning. Just an hour ago, they had bought from the Bank of California the 8th Street warehouse in which their time machine had landed. And Joy had almost put behind her for a while the deep, heart-rending sadness she felt over leaving her mother behind, and the absolute horror of the message from the future of this new universe they were about to create that had awaited them on their arrival. Their mission? To prevent war and democide—genocide and mass murder—by fostering democracy. The Survivor’s Benevolent Society, of which Joy’s adopted mother Tor was a leading member, had discovered the research that proved democracy is a method of nonviolence and a way to perpetual peace. They therefore sent volunteers Joy and John back in time to 1906 San Francisco to foster democracy, lobby for peace, and assassinate the warmongers and mass murderers, such as Hitler and Stalin. They staked their resources and the lives of Joy and John on preventing the horrible wars and democides of the twentieth century—the wars and murders that had so victimized members of the Society. But within hours of Joy and John arriving in this time, their mission had changed. For they received a message from the future, impossibly, from far in the very future they were here to create—their new universe. It told of a nuclear attack on the democracies by the fundamentalist Islamic Abul Sabah, and his resulting victory and radical new world order. It was a horrible message. Although it told them that they did succeed in their mission to prevent the wars and democides that had happened in the world they left, they realized they’d created the conditions that made possible Sabah’s nuclear attack, the defeat of the democracies, and the death of possibly two billion people. Two billion loving, thinking, feeling human beings! Joy had been crushed by this toll. She had been shocked to her core by her responsibility for it. As she remembered this again for the hundredth time, her head lowered, and her eyes focused unseeingly on her moving feet. She

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had failed her mother, who had given up her loving daughter to this mission. She had horribly bungled the Society’s deepest hopes for peace, hopes that it had placed on her and John’s shoulders. Suicide. It was all that remained for the shamed and dishonored warrior. And she had reached for that peace of death. Her knife had been but a second away from the carotid vein in her neck when John, no warrior, had done the perfect thing. At the last second, he had slapped her head away from the knife and yelled, “Kill Sabah! We’ll kill him soon after he’s born in 1914.” Yes, she had realized, touching her burning cheek. Yes. That was it. They could kill him and save the world from his nuclear attack and radical Islamic world totalitarianism. This challenge overcame her shame. It was worthy of a warrior. Her thoughts kept returning to that nuclear war, to the sheer horror of some two billion people murdered for the sake of one religious sect, by the power of one man. The message they had received from the far future about Sabah played like a video loop in her mind, interrupted only with the repeated question, How and when can we—I—assassinate him? This is no good, Joy finally chided herself. Let Sabah go. He will not be born until 1914 and what happened in the New Universe will happen. It is set. We can’t do anything about it. We can only change this one—the Third Universe. She visualized the whole question of Sabah, his nuclear attack, and his world victory over the democracies as wrapped up in solid ball. She imagined putting that ball in a metal strongbox, locking it, and putting it into a vault with a massive steel door, then closing and locking the ponderous door and walking away. It worked. She sighed with relief as her mind cleared. Now, face forward, head up, and shoulders squared, she was ready to meet head-on the overwhelming challenge they faced. She and John, alone, pitting their lives against the armies, secret services, and tyrants of the world. The excitement of her new life and surroundings, awful smells and pesky flies notwithstanding, was invigorating. Joy now looked with fascination at this new world about her. They walked far behind the three guys—Sal Garcia, Dolphy Docker, and Hands Reeves—who had been squatting in the warehouse where their time machine came to rest. The drifters were now their first company employees. She and John watched the horse traffic so new to their eyes and noses, and ogled the eye-catching store window displays. There was a

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Graphophone Grand for $25.00 that played music or voice from a cylinder, a precursor of the disk record player. Here was a Swiss Calendar pocket watch for $4.95. And next to it a Delmar folding camera for $3.75. At another store was a Kit Carson Cowboy saddle for $20.00. John had to almost drag Joy past the gun shop displaying in its window the Marlin repeating rifle for $10.00, the Winchester repeating rifle for $12.50, and that which almost transfixed her, a 50-caliber Springfield government breech loading rifle with leaf sight and twenty rounds for $2.90. Now, with her mind clear, she enjoyed pointing out in mock horror the women’s clothes displayed in some of the shop windows. There was a taffeteen silk waist with a tight blue collar, and three hemstitched straps down the front that ended in buckles; it had wide cuffs, and three rows of tucking in the back. In another window was a lady’s wash suit, with waist and skirt made of percale and trimmed with white cord and strips of white braid; it had cording around a high standing collar. Then there were the capes, the current rage among middle-class women. Capes with bows, capes with buttons, capes that were decorated like mid-twentieth century modern art, and capes made of silk, mohair, brocaded satin, and wool. Joy kept muttering, “I’ll give up eating rice before I wear those stupid clothes.” John nodded toward a shop that displayed corsets and corset covers in its window and, apparently never tiring of the joke he’d been repeating since they arrived, told Joy in mock seriousness, brows deeply furrowed, “You’re gonna have to get one of those things, the way your stomach bounces like Jell-O.” Slim but curvaceous and lithe from her daily martial arts practice, Joy raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes heavenward before looking down at his crotch. Waving her finger at it, she told him, “I’ll wear one of those when you wear a jockstrap and cup, big boy, the way you allow yourself to bulge out.” John’s face went red and he quickly glanced around, then joined her laughter with a breathy, “Ha-ha.” He kissed his index finger, pointed it at her, and jiggled it for a moment, as they continued their stroll toward his newly purchased Hotel Fairfax, still a mile away. Carla Akwal From across the street, Hadad al Jaber watched Joy and John with wide eyes, raised brows, and gaping mouth. He could not seem to take

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his eyes away from them, and had almost tripped or slipped on the boardwalk twice. He exclaimed to Carla Akwal, his time travel partner from 2013, “I cannot believe it. Here they are. I am actually seeing alive the most famous couple in history. Some countries even have set aside a day of remembrance in their honor. There are statues of them all over; paintings of them hang in many a government building.” He sneered. “Stupid. Dumb.” He eyed Joy. “But Joy Phim is even more beautiful than her paintings, even at this distance. No wonder Joy was able to spin webs around people.” “You mean men,” Carla corrected, drawing away from him and crossing her arms. “She will spin no web around me.” She glared at him, then stepped toward him, grabbed his arm, and shook it. “Come on,” she said, “have you become so mesmerized by that woman that you have forgotten why we are here? We are to kill them, not lick their feet.” “Okay,” he replied, lifting his chin and trying to stand tall. He looked for a gap in the slow horse and wagon traffic, so they could cross the street. Impatient, he yelled to Carla, “Go!” and dashed forward. Dodging a horse-drawn cart, he slithered across the street, his shoes making slurping noises in the puddles. Carla followed him, but he had cut too close to the cart, and she ran into the horse’s nose. The horse reared up, screamed, and skittered at an angle, almost upsetting the cart it was pulling. Carla tripped over a pile of horse manure and slid to her knee. She hurriedly got to her feet, dodging the frightened horse. She waved her fist at the shouting, red-faced driver as she pulled up on the boardwalk next to Hadad, who was waiting, hands on hips. He growled, “What took you so long?” Without looking at him, Carla headed rapidly toward Joy and John. They were ambling down the boardwalk about fifty feet away, and seemed so entranced with what they were seeing that they had not heard the horse’s scream. A sudden clacking noise behind her made her turn. Hadad was kicking a broken board that stuck out of the boardwalk. “Damn thing caught my pants leg,” he hissed. Carla sneered, “What is taking you so long?” Hadad gave her a steely stare when he caught up, and then both of them riveted their attention on Joy and John’s backs as they hurried toward them. Twenty feet. Joy was giggling to John about something.

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Fifteen feet. John walked around a hole in the boardwalk and, pointing to it, said something to Joy. Ten feet. Hadad and Carla took out their Stahls. Five feet. Already exulting with triumph, Hadad aimed at Joy’s head and Carla coolly did the same for John’s. Khoo Jy-ying Her second day in this “primitive age,” Khoo Jy-ying meandered down Market Street. She gazed here and there, at the people and their clothing, the small stores and their goods on display, and at the traffic, the incredible traffic of horse-drawn carts, wagons, carriages, surreys, and cabriolets, with an occasional rider on horseback or bicycle, and a rare automobile or truck, each adding its oily exhaust to the stench. She twitched her nose and licked her lips, as though that could wash away the reeking air. The unusually humid warmth of the air bore down on her; she could feel the sweat accumulating under her arms. When she had left 2002, it had been winter and below freezing in northeast China; here, the average high for November was in the sixties Fahrenheit, using that crazy American way of measuring temperature. A comfortable temperature, but the high relative humidity got her. She sensed things around her as a warrior would, while a portion of her mind recorded and evaluated this new world. This was a different world to be sure, but she had not really appreciated how different and grimy it would be. Now that she had succeeded in arriving here safely with all the supplies required for her one assassination, her thoughts kept skirting the whole purpose of her new life. I will kill that time traveler when I find him. Me. Sabah Security Guard Captain Khoo will save a world. Alone. But, no hurry. I have so much time to relax and explore this primitive world and try to discover what is good about it. I have seven or eight years, maybe even nine years, before that time traveler will try to kill Abul Sabah, or his parents before he is born—that is plenty of time to save the world of Sabah and ensure his Great Victory over the infidel democracies and heathenism. She looked ahead when she heard a horse scream, and saw that a short man had run into a horse. As the horse bolted, the man slid and

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shuffled to the other side of the road, where another man, arms akimbo, waited for him. Jy-ying was about to look away when she saw them intently stare at the man and woman sauntering farther down the walk. The two men suddenly rushed toward the unsuspecting couple. I do not need my security training to know those two men are stalking that couple. She had no intention of intervening. The stalkers could be undercover cops, as far as she knew. But then she saw them draw handguns and point them at the couple with the obvious intention of shooting them in the back. She scowled. Not right. She gave it not another thought. She dashed across the street to intervene. Had the couple turned into dragons, she would not have been more surprised at what she saw next. Joy Out of the corner of her eye, Joy caught movement close by, and a glint reflected in the store window next to her. Absently, she turned her head to get a better look at the reflection. It was like having someone pass a photograph rapidly before one’s eyes. In the first instant it didn’t make sense—she just glimpsed lines, dark patches, and colors outlined against moving horses, wagons, and buildings on the other side of the street. Half a heartbeat later, it all clicked into place. Men with guns pointed at us! Trained since the age of four in karate and judo, Joy’s body almost instantaneously reacted. As she screamed at John, “Gun behind you!” she hunched down to get the best center of gravity, and launched into a swinging back flip. The man behind her desperately tried to track her movements with his gun. Joy’s feet whipped from within a blossoming mass of skirt ruffles and underskirt to smack his gun at an angle, knocking it painfully out of his hand. It twirled through the air, hit the edge of the boardwalk, and bounced into the street. Responding reflexively, John ducked down and rotated his hips for a swift back kick, the sole of his boot knocking the second attacker’s gun flying into a store window. Broken glass cascaded onto the boardwalk. The attackers fled.

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Carla Akwal As Hadad and Carla fled down the boardwalk, Carla looked over her shoulder to see whether Joy and John were pursuing them, and almost tripped on a loose board. Hadad grabbed her arm before she could fall. Eyes flashing, he rasped, “Damn it, Carla.” He jerked her along with him, almost tugging her off her feet again before he released her. Suddenly a woman jumped from the roadway and stopped in front of them, loosely pointing a gun at them. “Stop! Hands up,” she shouted. Even before the sound of her command died away, Hadad zigged to one side and front kicked the gun out of the woman’s hand while Carla zagged to the other side and, twirling, swoop kicked her in the face with her boot heel. The blow knocked the woman onto her behind in the muddy gutter. Hadad ran into a store entrance and tried to turn toward the door, but the mud on his shoes from the street made him slide past. Right behind him, Carla gripped his arm and held him up until he got his balance. “Damn it, Hadad,” she hissed with a smirk. Hadad ignored her and darted into the store with Carla behind him. Joy After kicking the attacker’s gun out of his hand, Joy slammed flat onto the boardwalk, her wide-brimmed hat slipping over her face, its decorative egret feather sticking straight up in the air. She brushed the hat away and tried to roll into her fighting stance, but her long skirt and underskirt had gathered completely around her and her cape had twisted up her shoulders. She ended in a flop. Pushing up to her knees, she down fisted her hands in front of her chest, ready to fight from the ground. As soon as she saw the attackers fleeing, she stood up as best she could and jerkily untwisted her clothes and pulled her skirt back down to her shoes. John had remained on his feet. Reaching for her arm, he yelled, “You okay?” “Yeah,” she barked as he picked up her hat and moved to help further straighten out her clothes. Anger flared her nostrils and narrowed her eyes further. The words boiled out: “That does it. I’m never, ever again going to wear an underskirt, petticoat, or one of these circular skirts with all these stupid ruffles. It’s like trying to fight while covered with a net. Damn it.”

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John seemed relieved, and mumbled, “I’m glad that look wasn’t directed at me.” She stared in the direction the attackers had fled. They were gone, but Joy saw a woman—a Chinese woman!—just getting to her feet in the muddy gutter. She had obviously been pushed off the walk. Joy pointed her out to John, and they hurried down the boardwalk to help her. Hadad With Carla behind him, Hadad rushed toward the rear of the store, turning his head from side to side in search of a way out. A heavily bearded young man emerged from behind a counter, looking surprised, and seemed about to ask what they wanted. Hadad yelled at him, “Police. Where is your exit?” They followed the pointing finger to a service entrance, and ran out into a walled alley filled with garbage cans and empty boxes. They ran down the alley, surprising a black cat that dashed before them in fright, until they emerged onto a muddy side street with no boardwalk. Hadad had to slow down in the mud. A glance at Carla showed a flushed face, drawn lips, and contracted eyebrows. She sputtered at him, “Satan be damned, what were you doing? Why did you not shoot her?” Stabbing at her with his finger, Hadad spit out, “Ha! You did not shoot him. What is your excuse?” Not caring whether she followed, he stomped down the street for several minutes, splashing muddy water, until he cooled down. He stopped and turned; she had been right behind him and almost ran into him. He crossed his arms. “I wanted to be sure to get her in the head. Remember their damn armor. It is useless to take an easy body shot.” Drawing her eyebrows down over narrowed eyes, Carla yelled, “You screwed this up. Now they know someone wants to kill them.” “Yes, but they do not know us.” He looked down at the mud, studying it without really seeing it, and shrugged his shoulders. “I do not think they got a good look at our faces, just our backs.” He looked up. “And they must think you are a man.” Hadad reached out, palm up, and touched her arm. “We have years, Carla, years—and they cannot protect themselves every minute of every day. I want to go back to our room to check some details in Hands’ Mission Humanity and John’s Remembrance.” He turned and

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headed for the next intersection, glancing back once. Carla hung back for a few seconds, shook her head, and hurried to catch up. At the intersection, Hadad got out his map to see where they were. Once he was oriented, he led the way to their room at the New California Resort on Montgomery Street, just off the Barbary Coast. As they approached the three-story gray building that covered half a block, Carla wrinkled her nose and waved at the shabby building. “How nice to return to our ‘resort,’” she commented sourly, “with its stinking saloon, whore’s dance hall, talentless cabaret, and seedy hotel rooms.” She grabbed Hadad’s arm and made him stop. “I want to move,” she railed, emphasizing the announcement by chopping the air with her free hand. “God, Hadad, we have all this money.” “I told you, Carla. This is our cover. We will live like rich capitalists—better, like monarchs with oil wells—after we kill them.” Joy Sal, Dolphy, and Hands had been walking ahead of Joy and John, who constantly stopped or slowed down to look in store windows. The three men kept looking back at Joy and John, but they still missed seeing the attack. They did hear Joy yell, and then the noise of breaking glass. And suddenly turning around, they saw Joy in disarray rising angrily to her knees. They ran back to her and John while she was still on her knees, her back to them, pushing aside clumps of straight black hair that had fallen out of her bun. John, crouched beside her holding her hat in one hand, straightened as Sal, boot knife in hand, and the others dashed up to them. Hands asked John, “What happened?” “Ah . . . somebody tried to . . . kill us,” he stuttered, turning slightly pale. The guys followed them to the Chinese woman getting up from the street. She had just picked up a gun and was trying to wipe the mud off its grip with her dress. Her nose was red and bleeding. Joy reached a firm hand out to her and helped her onto the walk. The woman took a good look at Joy. Her slanted almond eyes widened and her eyebrows reached up for her hairline. She stared at Joy. “What?” was all Joy could say, gaping in return. Even with her bloody and swelling red nose, the woman looked like her sister. Almost her twin, except slightly shorter. Joy knew people had doubles, but she’d never thought she would meet hers.

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A stunned silence fell between them, which was finally broken by Sal. Idly holding his knife at his side, he waved at Joy and the other woman and asked nonchalantly, “Are you two sisters or something?” Still wide-eyed, Joy shook her head. John cleared his throat. The color was returning to his face. He asked the woman, “Are you okay? Your nose is bleeding.” “Yes. It is nothing,” she said, using her white lace sleeve to wipe the blood from her nose and chin. Then she straightened, a stern, commanding look coming over her. “We must get their guns. They may help identify the attackers.” Joy broke out of her paralysis, put her hand out to John for her hat, plopped it on, and self-consciously shoved her errant hair under it as they all watched. She flashed a little smile at John, and turned to lead them back to the spot where they’d been attacked. There, ignoring the store clerk staring at her through the broken window, she reached into the glass-littered display and picked up the gun John had knocked into it. She gave it a quick glance, frowned, and put it into her purse. Then she waved on two horsemen and a wagon that had stopped to see what was going on. John nonchalantly leaned over the gutter, gripped the muddy gun Joy had knocked there, and shoved it deep into his worsted coat’s side pocket. Sal half-turned his body to John, while keeping his distance. Waving a circle in the air with the point of his knife, Sal squinted at him and blurted in a tense voice, “Hey, boss. What the fu—what ya got us into?” John held up his hand, and in a firm voice replied, “Wait until we get to my hotel room. Just be watchful until then. Okay?” Sal mumbled something in Spanish, but nodded. He continued to hold his knife tightly, however, as he reached into his coat with his other hand for a half-smoked Abajo cigar, and after putting it his mouth, he lit it with a match he scratched on his boot. John asked Hands, who was standing near Sal with his hands on his hips, one cheek puffed out by a wad of Red Man chewing tobacco, “How does one catch a cab here?” “Wait,” Joy exclaimed. She turned to the other woman. She was now almost able to accept her double for what she was. “Are you sure you’re okay?” “Yes,” the woman replied, her eyes narrowed, lips pursed. She seem to come to a decision. Pointing to Joy and then John, she said, “You two. You are martial arts experts, yes? That is the only way I can explain what you did to your attackers.”

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Joy’s eyebrows popped up, and her eyes widened. She hesitated. Then, gaining control, she pulled her shoulders back and nodded. John beamed. The woman straightened her back, looked squarely at Joy, and went on. “I am a former teacher of wing chun kung fu.” When Joy nodded in understanding, she continued. “I had a gun on those two men, but they both attacked me unexpectedly. I think they are experts in some martial art, which, going by their movements, may be Western or Southern Chinese.” Taking a half step toward the woman and holding her gaze with her own, Joy smiled. “I would like to get to know you; maybe you would like to join John and me in sparring sometime. Anyway, if you don’t have something you must do, would you like to come back to our hotel with us?” The woman pinched her nose, frowned, and looked down at her bloody sleeve. John took out his handkerchief and handed it to her. “Your nose is still bleeding.” Lips pursed, she wiped her face. John said, “Hold it to your nose until the bleeding stops, but to return the handkerchief to me, you will have to come to our hotel with us.” The woman raised one eyebrow, then finally grinned. “Thank you. I will do that.” John turned to Hands and asked, “Cab?” “Cab?” Hands asked in return. Joy supplied, “We want to rent something to take us back to our hotel.” “Oh, you mean a Hansom. But we won’t all fit into it. I’ll find a coach.” Hands stepped into the street, spit out what remained of his chewing tobacco, and soon hailed a four-wheeled open coach with a yellow stripe on its side, what looked like a canvas automobile top, one driver, and two horses—one red chestnut and the other a dun. The six of them squeezed into it. Sal, seeing how confined they would be, glanced at the two women, cut off the glowing end of his cigar, and pocketed it. With all the swaying that sent them bouncing against each other, no one tried to say anything on the way. Dolphy was sitting next to Joy and seemed embarrassed by constantly rubbing against her. He pressed himself against Sal on the other side, pushing him hard against the door. Lost for the moment in her thoughts about what had happened, Joy paid no attention.

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Sitting across from them with Hands and the Chinese woman, John again looked distracted, probably still thinking of the attack, Joy guessed. He didn’t even notice that the woman was bouncing against him. Joy did. When they arrived at the Fairfax Hotel, John asked the driver, “How much for the ride?” “Fifty cents.” “Fifty cents?” John repeated, brows knitted. “Hey, look buddy,” the cabby exclaimed, leaning down toward John from his wooden seat with narrowed eyes. He pointed his whip at him. “That’s what I charge. You can’t find anybody cheaper.” “No, no,” John replied, waving his palms at the driver. “It’s fine. Here, keep the change.” The cabbie looked at the dollar bill as though John were crazy, as did the three guys waiting close by. The Chinese woman raised her eyebrows.

Chapter 2 Mid-Afternoon, Thursday Joy

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he Fairfax Hotel was a solid, square, three-story wooden building standing by itself amidst overgrown, rat-infested, vacant lots. The hotel’s remoteness from the center of the San Francisco earthquake and the flexibility of its wooden structure had enabled it to survive the earthquake. This was not true of adjacent brick and hollow tile buildings that had been condemned by the city after the earthquake and torn down. One lot was the site of pre-earthquake redevelopment, but no work had been done on it since. The hotel had a large marquee in front, and a vertical sign with “Fairfax” painted in large white letters outlined in black against a red background. Inside, the lobby was decorated in the typical Victorian style of middle-class, middle price range hotels in the western United States—plush blue velour sofas and chairs with curved armrests, here and there a Versailles chair, heavy blue and green drapes on the windows, three garish landscapes on the walls, numerous potted ferns, a Macarthur palm outgrowing an oxblood china bowl planter, and an imitation Persian rug, its convoluted colors and designs a mixture no Persian would confess to, even under torture, covering the floor. The place was stuffy, with an underlying odor that suggested someone’s bad breath, perhaps emanating from the two spittoons. As they entered the lobby, Joy sniffed the air and told herself again, “This place is so ugly and smelly it has to be on purpose. I bet it’s so guests don’t linger.” Once they were all packed into John’s second floor hotel room, one of the largest in the hotel as befitted the owner, Joy turned to the woman, bowed slightly, and said, “I am sorry for being so rude. My name is Joy Phim.” She introduced John as their boss and owner of an import-export company, and each of the three guys as fellow workers. John said, “Nice meeting you.” Hands and Dolphy nodded and touched their cap rims; Sal waved his greeting with a grin, giving Jy-ying an open-eyed look.

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Jy-ying bowed to each of them and then looked at Joy. “I am Khoo Jy-ying. I am from Tianjin, China. Where in China are you from?” “I’m from Vietnam; no one knows my true ancestry, but by my looks it’s probably Sino-Vietnamese. My name comes from Tor Phim, who adopted me. More later. We have some things to do first.” She turned to John and, eyes narrowed, hand out, asked, “Could I see the attacker’s gun that you have?” He pulled it out of his pocket, saw that it was encrusted with mud, and turned to Jy-ying. “You no longer need my handkerchief for your nose. Could I have it back?” “No, no,” she said, “I will wash it.” “I’ll give it back after I wipe the gun. Okay?” She nodded, took it out of her purse, and handed it to him. He started to wipe the gun. Joy jerked her head close to his ear and hissed, “The safety, John!” He looked up at her with a Charlie Brown smile, flipped up what must have been the safety, knowing Joy would tell him if it weren’t, and finished wiping the gun. He handed it to her. She saw mud that John had missed, took the handkerchief out of his hand, shook her head, and wiped the remaining dried mud off the gun. She laid it on the bed next to the one she had recovered from the store window. Then she started to disassemble them. The three guys watched what she was doing with huge eyes, as though she were performing a magic trick. Jy-ying stood off to the side, brows furrowed, and watched Joy easily disassemble the guns. Sal asked in surprise, “You know about guns?” “Sure. Ask me anything about guns and I’ll give you an answer.” Hands responded, “I used to shoot with my uncle’s old Civil War rifle when I was a boy.” Smirking, he asked, “What was the rifle musket 1863 Type 1?” Looking up from the guns on the bed, she replied, “Answer.” “What?” Dolphy asked. “Answer.” “What kind of answer is that?” Hands asked. Joy gave him a broad smile, and pointed out, “Well, I told you I would give you an ‘answer,’ and I did, didn’t I?” Sal chuckled and Dolphy waved his finger at Hands. Hands crossed his arms over his chest and chided Joy, “You don’t know, do you?” Joy’s smile turned to a grin. “The 1863 was based on Colt’s Special Model 1861. Springfield modified it in four ways—made a flat S-

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shaped hammer with faceted sides; shortened the flat-faced bolster without a clean out screw; included round clamping barrel bands; and eliminated the band springs—a ramrod spoon held the ramrod in the stock. Despite all that, it was still a musket.” Good thing the guys had shoes on, or as their jaws fell open, they would have crushed their toes. Even John goggled. Jy-ying’s eyes narrowed further. She began to look carefully around the room, and at John and Joy’s clothes. When they spoke, she was also unusually attentive, like a cat eyeing a bird on the ground. As the guys tried to put their jaws back in place, Joy turned again to the guns on the bed. Accentuating her movements a little more than necessary, she ejected the magazine from each, took out a cartridge from one and looked at the bullet. Then she sat next to the gun pieces with a sigh and said, “These are good weapons. Our attackers are not cheap gangsters or thugs. They are professionals.” Jy-ying stepped over to the bed, picked up the weapons, and carefully examined them, holding each of the parts in her hands and eyeing them closely. She put them down and looked Joy in the eye, a curious light in her own. “You are correct. You are a weapons expert also. Yes?” “And so are you,” Joy said, surprised. She belatedly closed her sagging jaw. Jy-ying was not only her double, she also knew martial arts. And weapons. Christ. This is beyond probability, she thought. Some god is playing with us. Hands looked from Joy to Jy-ying to John and back. “I can’t believe you people, especially the ladies. But even you, boss . . . can I be frank?” John mumbled something incredulous about “another Joy” before focusing on Hands to jerk his head up and down in a nod. Dolphy put his hand on Hands’ arm and whispered, “He’s the boss and we got jobs. Don’t ruin it.” Hands ignored him. “I’ve never worked for someone like you. Although you’ve been our boss as of this morning, you are very relaxed with us. You’re more like a coworker than a boss. Same with Miss Phim. And although she’s a woman, you treat her like you do us. And forgive me Miss Phim, but Mr. Banks told us you are his assistant and translator. What do you assist Mr. Banks in doing? Beating up your competitors? Buying guns?” Sal and Dolphy went stone still. Jy-ying stood back, her face intent and eyes focused on Joy as though only she existed.

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John combed his unruly, carrot-colored hair with his fingers and glanced at Joy, who just sat on the bed looking down at the guns beside her and rubbing her arm. A door slammed down the hall, and voices passed by the room. Outside, a steam-powered automobile coughed its way down the street. Just as Hands waved his hand as though to apologize, Joy began with, “I help—” John interrupted with a cough and a wave in Joy’s direction. “She’s my Girl Friday.” His smirk broke through his attempt to hide it. “What’s that mean?” Sal asked, winking at Hands. “Does she do something special on Friday?” His grin looked suspiciously like a leer. “She does whatever needs to be done for me,” John said, finally achieving a poker face. Joy stared at him. Doesn’t he know what he is saying? Correction, with his stupid ego, maybe he does. John’s face turned red, and he took sudden interest in the gun parts on the bed. He tugged at his earlobe as the three guys grinned at Joy. Joy had to stop it. She glowered at John for a moment and then fixed the three guys with her stare. “In business, you guys. Don’t get any ideas.” She flashed another cold look at John, and continued. “And as far as my knowledge of guns is concerned, I’m just your ordinary woman who took up weapons to protect herself. Goes to show you, you never know what you’re getting into when you mess with a woman.” With a grin that created those dimples at the corner of his mouth that Joy hated so much, John looked up at her. Hiding his mouth from the guys with his hand, he silently mouthed, “Getting into,” and raised an eyebrow. Joy realized what she had said. My God. My face feels so hot. I must be blushing. Me, who attended a Chinese school of the erotic arts when I was seventeen, blushing? John is going to have insufferable fun chiding me about this. The beast. Joy was speechless for a few moments before she insisted to the room, “Let’s get back to these guns. As I was saying, this was an attempted professional hit.” Jy-ying looked amused, but not distracted. She seemed to listen especially to John’s voice and study his gestures. Hands and Dolphy looked at each other, and Sal took out his Abajo and put it in his mouth. He pulled a wooden match from another pocket and scratched it against a nearby ceramic pillow ashtray that had one

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rough side for that purpose, and “Fairfax Hotel” stenciled on the opposite side. He applied the flame to his cigar, puffed, and put the match in the ashtray. When he looked back at Joy, he was startled by the black look she was giving him. He gave her a “what did I do?” look, shrugged, put his foot on the room’s only chair, and leaned on his knee. She turned away. I’ve got to remember what age this is, Joy reproved herself. Almost twice as many cigars are sold as cigarettes, and John said that each day, eighty percent of all American men smoke one or more cigars. Still stinks no less. John again looked at the disassembled guns for several seconds, and that drew the guys’ attention back to them. Their demeanor changed and Hands loudly repeated the question Sal had asked on the street. “What have you gotten us into? You just hired us this morning, and now somebody wants to kill you two.” Emboldened by Hands’ question, Dolphy went further. “I don’t know whether what you’re paying us is worth the risk. Why were you attacked . . . ah . . . boss?” John sat down next to the guns. He rested his elbows on his knees and, leaning his chin on them, gazed at each of the guys in turn. When the guys began to fidget, John replied in a deep tone, “The why, we don’t know. These may be killers hired by crazy people. They may have been hired by someone out east who felt our business robbed or cheated them when it was there, or by competitors who have heard of our company’s success before coming here, and are afraid of our competition. This is still the wild frontier, you know. Anyway, I don’t think either of us got a look at their faces. Can you describe them, Jy-ying? You saw them head-on.” As the guys turned their heads to look at Jy-ying, she answered, “They both are short and look a mixture of Caucasian and Oriental with strong, dark features. The shorter one looked almost effeminate, and may be a disguised woman. They might have seemed clumsy as they ran toward me, since one tripped and almost fell on the boardwalk, and the other held him up for a moment, but they actually moved well, almost gracefully. They were dressed in ordinary clothes, even to their hats, which they managed to keep on somehow. As I mentioned before, I think the way they attacked me indicates they are also trained in the martial arts.” John looked impressed. “What’s a martial arts?” Sal asked, taking his foot off the chair and standing up, shoulders back, to face Jy-ying.

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Joy answered, “It’s a form of person to person combat, either hand to hand, or weapon to weapon. There are many forms, such as judo, ka—” “Yes,” John interrupted, “I’m sure that Joy will teach you more about it some other time, but—” Sal exhaled cigar smoke, smoothed down a tobacco leaf sticking out of the side of his cigar, and asked, “So, why are you and, ah . . . Jyhing—” “Jy-ying,” Jy-ying corrected. “—into martial arts?” Joy looked at Jy-ying to answer first. Jy-ying gave Sal an intense look, then said, “My father was a teacher of wing chun, a form of kung fu martial arts, and when my mother was gang raped and killed when I was very young, he started to teach me wing chun so that I could protect myself when I grew up.” She stopped and looked at Joy. Joy’s shoulders slumped. She swallowed several times, and gazed down at a finger that was fidgeting with one of the gun parts next to her. The memory of her mother was too fresh, too painful, and the question brought it all back—her leaving her mother forever, the last good-bye forever. Forever—less than a day ago. Her eyes moistened; she fought back tears. I don’t want to cry. Not here. Not now. Not with all these people around. She felt her face flush. John put his hand on her shoulder, and answered softly for her. “She was found alone and almost dead on a Vietnamese boat when she was four. She was taken to a hospital, and her story got into an American newspaper. Tor Phim, a Cambodian immigrant, saw the story and adopted her. She herself had suffered under a dictatorship—its thugs killed her husband, and she barely escaped alive. She adopted Joy, and had her trained in the martial arts so that she could always defend herself against the thugs of this world. Joy left her loving mother to come here with me. She died a couple of days ago.” Joy let out a quiet gasp and buried her face in her hand. John quickly put his arm around Joy’s shoulder and pulled her toward him. He whispered in her ear, “I’m sorry, baby.” Joy pushed gently away, shook her hair back from her face, tightly pressed her palms together on her lap, and looked up at nobody. “Thank you, boss, for telling us,” Hands said softly, with a slight bow of his head. Straightening up, he looked at Joy and then Jy-ying. Gesturing toward each, he said, “I think I speak for my friends, Sal and Dolphy. We’re very sorry about what happened to you. If you need a shoulder to cry on, ours are free.”

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Dolphy and Sal nodded. Joy finally focused her eyes on them and nodded in return. Jy-ying moved to where the three guys could easily see her, and bowed to them from the waist. John Banks John was getting to like these guys. They were strong-willed and independently-minded, but sensitive. Just the kind of employees he wanted. He was also surprised by Hands’ speech. Although he did not have much of an education, he had learned much as a professional baseball player. John held up his hand to still further comments. Pointing to the guys, he said, “I want to see your muscles. Take off your shirts and whatever you have underneath.” “Hey,” Dolphy responded immediately, “we’re not into that stuff.” Leering at Jy-ying, Sal blurted, “Speak for yourself. Girls first.” Hands grinned and asked, “In front of the ladies?” Joy looked at John with raised eyebrows. He chuckled, and said, “Nothing like that. Just take your shirts off, not your pants—although I don’t think you have anything that would surprise them.” “John!” Joy exclaimed, giving him a look from which a tiger would slink. But she confounded the look with the giggle that followed. Finally shedding the look altogether, she playfully leered at the guys’ chests, one after another. John thought, This was just the humor moment she needed. “Ah, shucks,” one of guys whispered under his breath. John guessed it was Sal, who at that moment was trying to put out his cigar in the ashtray so he could save it. When the three guys had their shirts off, John walked around them looking at their physiques. There was no fat on any of them. Sal was lean but sinewy. Hands was the most muscular. John then put his hand out to each in turn and said, “Grip my hand as tight as you can.” Only Joy probably saw the pain in his eyes when Hands complied. “Very good,” John said to Hands, his voice even. “Your baseball background is showing.” John then looked at each of them and said, “You guys have the physiques for what I have in mind. Do you know how to use handguns?” “Yes,” they responded together, as though John were asking them whether they knew how to pee.

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“I will triple your pay if you will be our guards.” “Wow,” Sal exclaimed, “that’s a lot of money. What do we do for it?” “You go with us wherever we go, and you keep an eye out for the killers. I don’t want you jumping in the way of a bullet meant for us— no way. I want that understood now. Your job is more to scare the killers off than actually engage in a shoot-out. But you should be armed. Aside from Sal’s knife, do you have weapons?” “We just don’t have the money to buy guns,” Dolphy replied. John reached into his wallet, took out $100, and gave it to Hands. “Use this money to buy the best guns. Not engraved grips and such, but the best mechanical ones. And a couple of boxes of cartridges. Now, go. And come back here when you’ve bought them.” Just as he was about to leave, Sal turned at the door and asked John, “What do you need us for? You got Miss Phim to guard you, us, your company, San Francisco—” “And the United States,” Dolphy interjected. Joy laughed and replied, “Because I can’t protect the United States alone.” Smiling, Sal pointed at Jy-ying. “You should hire her also.” John shooed them out with his hands. After they left, he turned to Jy-ying, who had been standing all this time. He invited her to sit on the cushioned wicker chair by the side table, while he and Joy sat on the edge of the bed facing her. John told her, “Thanks for trying to help us. I’m sorry your nose got bloodied as a result.” Jy-ying looked for a second at the footprint Sal had made on the seat, glanced at the mud on her dress, and sat down. She leaned toward John. “Oh, excuse me. May I have your handkerchief back? I will wash it for you.” While John handed it to her, Joy asked, “Where do you live?” “I just came here from Oakland yesterday. I did not want to stay there after my father died. I’m living here temporarily at the All Nations Hotel.” “Do you have a job?” “Not yet.” “Well,” John said, “I’m looking for good people. I just moved my company from the east coast, as you heard, and I’m hiring. Would you like to work for me?” “Thank you, but what would I do?”

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Joy held her hand up to John to stop him from answering. She turned to Jy-ying, and asked in Mandarin Chinese, “Do you know much about China?” Jy-ying answered in the same major dialect, “Yes, I was born and grew up there, and I’ve traveled there often with my father. And I have studied China in college.” Joy tried Shanghainese. “Do you understand me?” “Yes, I know that Chinese.” Joy tried Cantonese, and then two other Chinese language groups. Jy-ying knew them all. Brows raised and eyes wide, Joy turned to John and announced, “Her Chinese is excellent. She can work under me. I’ll need all the help I can get in our future business with China. As you told me, this will be our major business for a while.” “Okay,” John said. He smiled at Jy-ying. Jy-ying She could not believe it. Her heart began to flutter, and she felt warm. Distracted, she did not hear the first words he said. “ . . . most useful skills, I will pay you a professional salary of . . . .” John hesitated, took a notepad out of his coat pocket, and did some quick calculations. Finally he asked, “How about an annual salary of $1,100?” She unconsciously licked her lips and leaned back, pushing out her chest. “I accept, John. Thank you. You treat this humble person with such honor.” “Very good. I am in the process of getting organized. When I am ready to start work, I will give you a call at your hotel the day before. In the meantime, your salary starts now. Do you need an advance?” “You are too kind, but no,” Jy-ying said, smiling into his eyes and holding them before looking away. Then she looked back. “I must go now.” She sprang up, faced Joy, and bowed. Joy stood, looked at her with raised brows and tight lips, bowed, and said nothing. Jy-ying turned at the door, smiled at John again, and left. Jy-ying walked thoughtfully down the hallway to the stairs. When she reached the stairs, she pursed her lips and looked back at the closed door to John’s room. Warmth rushed through her. She fluffed her hair and almost bounced down the stairs wearing a happy, satisfied smile.

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She stopped at the reception desk and registered for a room. “I’m a friend of John Banks,” she told the clerk. She got the room she wanted. She returned to John’s room and knocked on the door. John answered it; before he could say anything, she informed him that this hotel was so much better than the shabby one that she was staying in that she had decided to get a room here. “I will move into it by evening.” “Oh, good. Convenient. I should have thought of that,” John said, as Joy nodded—too abruptly. As John was about to close the door, Jy-ying announced with a smile she could not help, “I will be right across the hall from Joy.” Joy John had to use the bathroom on their floor; when he returned, he found Joy frowning as she studied the pieces of the disassembled guns. He sat down next to her on the bed, turned her head toward him with his fingers, and asked, “How did you know about that 1863 musket?” Just the right question. Her frown turned into a grin that felt as though it had split her face in two. She asked in return, “Why dearest, am I not a weapons expert?” John made beckoning motions with both hands while giving her a “who are you kidding?” look. “Oh, okay, spoilsport. One of my weapons teachers collected Civil War weapons, and would occasionally bring several of them to the weapons range so that his students could handle and shoot them. The 1863 was among the last line of muskets. It was one of my favorites. I learned to take it apart and put it together again. Young boys tinkered with cars; I tinkered with guns.” “I thought young girls played with dolls and doll houses.” Joy’s face turned dark, and she glowered. “Not when my parents had been murdered by pirates. Not when my dear adopted mother’s husband had been murdered by the Khmer Rouge, and my godmother had her loving husband murdered in Mao’s Cultural Revolution. Not when they barely escaped with their own lives. Not when most of the other adults I loved in my youth had suffered similar horrors in the Holocaust, Stalin’s forced Ukrainian famine, Rwanda’s Great Genocide, and World War One. John, you were almost killed in the 9/11 terrorist attacks on the World Towers; your cousin was. You should understand.”

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John held his palms up toward her and said apologetically, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He sat down next to her and rubbed her back. “Okay, Miss Weapons Expert,” he said, changing the subject, “tell me about the attackers’ guns.” Joy just looked down at her lap, at her clenched hands. The mention of her mother had flooded her with the emotional pain of their separation. Again. It overwhelmed her and this time she didn’t fight the tears. They coursed down her cheeks and dripped onto her lap. John saw them. He put his arms around her, held her close. “I’m really sorry, baby. I’m so stupid, causing you to think about your mother again.” Joy soon disengaged herself, leaned over, and picked up an edge of the bed cover. She wiped her face and dabbed at her wet eyes. She sighed, put her hands back in her lap and kept her eyes on them as she said softly, “Not your fault. I’m still just too close to our good-byes.” She put her head in her hand and waved John away. “Give me a moment,” she whispered. Nearby was the inevitable porcelain water pitcher of the era on the universal hotel chest of drawers. John poured Joy a glass of water from the pitcher and gave it to her. She took a few sips, then shook her head as if to clear it. “I’m okay now. On to the guns,” she murmured. She cleared her throat and narrowed her eyes. “Ah . . . ” She made herself speak normally. “I’ve never seen this kind of gun before.” John’s eyebrows jerked up. Getting into one of her favorite subjects gave Joy the focus she needed. She looked up at John and noted his astonishment. “I’m not saying I don’t know anything about the guns, only that I’ve never seen them before.” “Oh, stupid me,” John replied, shaking his head. Joy was now into it. “I can tell that they are both 9mm double action, each with an ambidextrous manual safety, automatic firing pin block, combat-style trigger guard, and loaded-chamber indicator. They have a strange, but clever, rackable slide and firing mechanism. The plaque on the bottom of the grip says ‘Shultz 703 Hanover.’ The magazine carries sixteen rounds.” Her voice now firm, she added, “The bullets are a type of hollow point I haven’t seen before, either. But, I know they would leave a hole larger than a fist where they exit a human body. If they had shot us in the head or body, no matter. We would be dead.” John turned to look at the gun parts. Suddenly, his voice a mixture of amazement and fear, he asked, “The guns were produced . . . when?”

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Her almond eyes widened as what she was going to say finally hit home. She gulped, turned her head to look at John directly, put her hand on her cheek and, enunciating each word, announced, “They were made in the 1990s, or thereabouts.” “Thereabouts?” John nearly shouted. “You don’t know the date of manufacture or more specifics about the gun?” “No. I don’t need to be more specific, damn it. They are from the future, John.” John It was automatic with John. No matter whether his attempted humor was atrocious or ill timed, it was his cigarette or drink in time of stress. “Good thing the guys aren’t here,” John said, raising an eyebrow. “With your confession of ignorance on such an important matter, they would think less highly of you, Miss Phim.” “John. I’m not amused.” What Joy said electrified his mind. It was impossible. No, he realized, it wasn’t. The hair on his arms bristled, and he was surprised his voice didn’t waver as he repeated, “The future?” “Certainly. The far future.” “No chance of being wrong.” “No! John, this is serious.” “Jesus Christ.” John took a moment to control his voice and draw out the implications of what Joy had said. He put both his hands on his head, and groaned, “They are from our time. They followed us here. They are trying to kill us. And they have modern weapons, and who knows what else, to use against us.” He lifted his hands from his head and shook them at the ceiling. “Holy shit!” Joy Joy glanced behind her at the disassembled guns on the bed before again looking at her hands on her lap. She called on her training to calm herself so that she could think this through. She took several deep breaths and visualized her muscles relaxing, beginning with her toes. After a few minutes, she looked up at John’s pale, sweaty face. “First,” she said, “they could not have happened on us accidentally. They had to know where we would be at a certain time. That place was the bank. Second, they had to have some kind of road map of our ac-

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tivities after we arrived. Third, there is only one way the attackers could have gotten that, which is from the Survivor’s Benevolent Society that sent us here.” John jumped up. Hands clasped behind him and head down, he began pacing around the room. Joy knew he needed this, and waited. Minutes later, and now much calmer, John pointed out, “But the attackers wouldn’t know that we were going to Bank of California today to buy the warehouse.” “Still,” Joy said, “the Society has to be the key. With a knowledge of the time and place to which we were sent, and the name of the Tor Import and Export Company we were to set up, someone who had access to information about our mission through the Society could reason that we would soon visit the bank to buy the warehouse.” John shook his head. “No one in the Society would talk.” Joy shook her head as well. “You’re forgetting how our time travel happened. That FBI SWAT team that rushed into the Society’s headquarters to search for the time machine forced us to leave months before schedule.” John nodded. Joy knew he was remembering the circumstances of their departure. The SWAT team had just reached the lab when her mom had hustled them into the machine, and they’d been sent off with barely enough time to say good-bye. “Supposedly, the equipment and notes were to be destroyed right after our machine left,” Joy continued. “Perhaps the scientists were prevented from doing that. Maybe notes were found. Somebody down the line talked. I don’t know who, but the Society has to be the only source.” Scowling, John replied, “I don’t believe it. But okay, let’s assume that, as distasteful as it is.” He waved his finger at her. “But then, they can’t know about this hotel, because we didn’t know we were going to be here until it was suggested by one of the guys. And the attackers couldn’t know the details of any of our other movements. They will know in general, however, that we probably want to prevent the bloodbath of the Mexican Revolution, the First and Second World Wars, and so on. They will know the timing of these interventions.” “And that raises the big question,” Joy said, too involved to really notice his hated finger shaking. “Why are they trying to stop us ending war and democide, and promoting democracy? I would think any sane person would be for this.” John shook his head as he waved his finger again. “You know better, baby. Think fanatics. Think Nazis, communists, radical Is-

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lamic terrorists. Think what power it would give any of them to be able to go back into the past and, with their knowledge of events and historically critical people, promote their ism, and assassinate those in the way.” “Yes,” Joy said, unthinkingly waving her finger in return. “Just the opposite of our mission. Well, we’re safe here, and they don’t know about our warehouse or the precise time of our arrival. Otherwise, they would have killed us as we stepped out of our time machine. I thought we wouldn’t have to arm ourselves until we traveled to Mexico for our first intervention, but we’d better do so now.” John put his finger on his chin, brows knitted. “There is an error in our reasoning. If it’s through the Society that they knew we were going to buy the warehouse, then they should have known the time and place of our arrival. And if they knew that, it doesn’t make sense for them to have waited until we went to the bank, as public a place as that is, to kill us.” “You’re right. We need more information. Meanwhile, dearest, time for our weapons.” She froze for a couple of seconds. “By the way, Jy-ying likes you.” “What healthy young woman wouldn’t?” he replied, seeming relieved at the chance to make a joke. I should’ve known better, Joy chided herself. Hadad At the New California Resort, in their small room above the bar, Hadad and Carla sat on the double bed with Hands’ Mission Humanity, a biography of Joy and John, and John’s Remembrance between them. They had just gone through a printed summary of the details in both books, to refresh their memory. Carla gripped the Remembrance so tightly, her knuckles were white. Her eyes flashed at Hadad, and she snarled, “How could you forget? We memorized this stuff. Did that woman also hypnotize you? It is clear in printout—they did not start wearing armor until the thugs from that stupid anti-Oriental league attacked them. I should have shot John in the back instead of listening to you.” “If you are so smart, Carla, how come you did not remember they wore no armor? Huh? Why did you listen to me?” As Carla’s eyes glinted steel and the corners of her mouth headed toward the floor, Hadad shrugged his shoulders, looked down to avoid

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her eyes, and waved it away. “Nothing lost, anyway,” he muttered. “We know where they are staying, and they don’t know we know that. We also know about the three guys, as they call them.” He tilted his head back, raised his eyebrows, and met her eyes. “So, Carla,” he declared, “I have a plan.”

Chapter 3 Late Afternoon, Thursday John

J

ohn left a message at the reception desk for the guys to wait for them in their rooms when they came back with their new weapons. Then he and Joy cautiously left the hotel, keeping close to buildings and walking one behind the other on the way to their warehouse on 8th Street. They unlocked the side entrance and entered, John with a sigh of relief. The warehouse was large and dark, with a strongly supported floor meant for heavy equipment, and a high ceiling. With the dust, dirt, and debris scattered about, it looked more like the floor of a barn in heavy use. The owner had gone bankrupt because of the San Francisco earthquake and fire, and had sold off all the equipment and boxes that he had stored there. Not far from the entrance, clustered together along one wall, were the supply time capsules that the Society had sent to be here when Joy and John arrived from 2002. Next to the capsules were broken boxes, cots, and other items the three homeless guys had accumulated while they squatted in the warehouse. It was here, upon entering the warehouse from whatever part-time jobs that they’d found, that the guys had discovered Joy and John soon after their arrival from the future. Joy walked over to the weapons capsule, identified by a small W painted on its side, and opened an almost invisible lid to access the keypad. She keyed in the code, opened the capsule door, then reached around the door and switched off the automatic destruct switch—she had ten seconds to do so. She started looking around inside. “Here,” Joy said as she pulled out two armored vests, “let’s put these on first.” She handed John’s vest to him. The armor had been molded to their torsos—there was no doubt which was Joy’s. She reached up and removed the pins holding on her hat, then took it off and held it out in front of her. Shaking her head, she stared at the fashionable wide-brimmed monstrosity of folded lace, imitation flowers, and white egret feathers sticking out at the side. She did not look at

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John, obviously to avoid seeing his face red from the laughter he had learned to squelch when it came to these ridiculous clothes. She tossed the hat into the capsule. She took off her cloth cape, pulled the shirt this era called a lady’s white satin waist out of her long walking skirt, and unbuttoned the waist and its collar held tight at her throat. She let her stomach out with a sigh. She refused to wear a corset, but all these waists were cut as though she did wear one. And she unhooked her modern brassiere—she refused to give it up for what was available in this age. Holding his armor loose in one hand, head tilted to the side, John watched her in a mood that invited no humor. When she was topless, he reached out, breathing rapidly, to touch her nipple with a finger. Joy gently pulled away. “Darling, this is not the time for that.” He withdrew his finger, shrugged, and took off his fedora. He tossed it on Joy’s hat, smoothing back his carrot-colored hair with his hand. Then he removed his blue, diagonally-worsted suit coat, maroon bow tie, and separate linen collar. As he started to take off his madras shirt, his brow furrowed, and he said wistfully, “It’s just . . . sometimes I have to assure myself that you’re real and not some glorious image or dream. I can’t believe . . . .” His voice quavered, and then he choked altogether. It was the nipple. Touching it brought home to him that he’d almost lost her— twice. And that he’d almost lost his own life just a little more than an hour ago. He stood by the capsule and started to shake. The stark fact that two attackers from the future had tried to kill them struck him with an emotional sledgehammer. He was like a man walking away from his trashed car after an accident and calmly telling those that come to help that he is okay. He tells the police what happened. And then maybe ten, maybe thirty minutes later, with perhaps another look at his wrecked car, he begins to shudder with the realization that he somehow escaped death or critical injury, and he suddenly has to sit on the curb. Although John had studied violence as a graduate student and did his dissertation on war and democide, that violence was abstract, not personal. He was an innocent. Now though, he would actually carry guns. He was not a pacifist, but he had been a professor and had never shot a gun until Joy started training him. He had never killed an animal. He had never seen a dead body until the 9/11 terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. Since the age of twelve, he hadn’t been in a fight. His combat had always been with words, the weapon of choice in his profession.

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Now, it was all as real as Joy’s nipple. They had been seconds from violent death, and only the luck of Joy’s glancing in a store window had saved them. And they had yet to be in this primitive age for even a full day. Fear washed over him and swamped his mind. He was terrified by his commitment to the mission; terrified by the risks he would take; terrified by his likely violent death; terrified by the probable agony he would suffer. Most of all, he was terrified by the possibility, even the likelihood, that Joy would be killed before him. Although he was sweating, he felt chilled. Looking over the weapons in the capsule, Joy started to say, “Did you see that ugly carving knife—” She glanced up at John and saw his flashbulb-wide eyes. “What’s the matter, dearest?” Now shaking all over, John dropped his armor, reached for support from the capsule, and crouched down to lean his back against it. He cleared his throat but couldn’t speak. He patted the floor next to him for Joy to join him. Lips pursed, she raised her dress around her waist and sat next to him. She lifted the flounced hem of her dress and wiped his face with it. Seeing his shaking, she put one arm around him and pulled him close, then put her head on his shoulder and took his hand in hers, squeezing it tightly. No words. She just held him to her. John slowly emerged from the shock and gradually stopped shaking. He pulled away from Joy and shook his head to clear his mind. He ran his finger along her cheek, and then kissed her lightly. Holding up his index finger and thumb so that their tips were barely separated, he whispered, “This close. We came this close, you know. To death.” His voice gained strength. “How can you remain so calm? Have you come so close to being killed before?” “No. I’ve not even seen death before in person. But I’m trained to kill and to accept death.” She tousled his hair and smiled. “Twenty-one of my twenty-five years in judo, karate, and weapons training did have an effect. If it didn’t, my mother should ask for her money back.” She kissed him on the forehead, on the cheek, brushed his lips with hers. “I’m proud of you, my man. I’ve been trained through a lifetime to react suddenly to danger. You have only my training of about five weeks. Yet, you did what a highly skilled specialist would have done. I really didn’t know you had that back kick down pat like that. Had you missed or been a second slower, we both might be dead. After kicking the gun out of the hand of that killer behind me, I could not have righted myself in time to prevent the other one from shooting us.”

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Joy hesitated a moment, turned to rest on her knees in front of him, and leaned forward to take his head in both her hands. Their heads were inches apart. Her black eyes were now his universe; unblinking, they stared deep into his, and he could see and feel her sincerity. She whispered, “I would have been worried about you if you had not been shaken by what happened. But, my dearest, we worked as a team when we had to.” His brows rose. He murmured, “Aren’t you afraid of anything?” Joy sat back and nodded. “Plenty of things.” “What’s your worst fear? I mean, besides big spiders and a lack of rice.” “That we will fail. That I will let down my mother and the Society. You know that. You saved my life when I couldn’t stand the awful, awful thought that we’d caused the mass death of two billion people, and tried to commit suicide. You slapped my mind into working, and persuaded me we could kill Sabah and prevent the horror from happening.” She tilted her head, and ran her finger down his cheek. “You were very frightened after the attempt on our lives, although at the time you acted fearlessly. For me, fear is a constant. It’s not fear of death or physical pain. I’ve been trained to be fearless—calm, centered—when so threatened. I carry with me the fear of what Asians call loss of face. It’s the fear of shame.” Joy leaned forward and pulled his face to hers for a long, gentle kiss. Then she stood and held her hand out to pull him up. John took her hand and rose. “Thanks, baby, for the hand and everything else.” Smiling—really smiling—he asked, “Weren’t you about to say something before I began to shake with utter happiness and joy at our being together?” Then he looked down at her bare breasts and added, “And seeing your boobs.” Joy giggled, waved her hand as though fanning noxious fumes away from her face, and asked in return, “What was I talking about?” “Something about a knife.” “Oh, yeah. That awful knife that Sal carries. I wouldn’t fight a chicken with it.” She looked around in the capsule and pulled out a seven-inch combat knife with a double-edged, bead blasted blade, stainless steel guard, and linen micarda handle. She held it up to the light and looked at it with a little smile as she turned it one way and the other, feeling its balance in her hand. “This is better,” she said, and put it into a holster purse that she’d taken out of the capsule. They put their armor vests on and then pulled their clothes back on over them. Joy reached into the capsule and got her leg and hip knife

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sheaths, and slid her six-inch throwing knife and five-inch tactical knife into them. She slung the leather straps of her holster purse over her shoulder, with her prized Ruger SP101 .357 Magnum five-shot inside. She handed John his shoulder holster, the H&K USP .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol for it, and the .40 caliber S&W double-action and its pocket holster. “I feel better,” Joy exclaimed. “So do I,” John replied, holding a gun in each hand and trying to narrow his eyes in John Wayne’s image. “I’m not a gun man. I favored gun control. But there’s nothing like someone trying to kill you to make these babies look like bars of gold.” Joy Joy and John had no sooner returned to the hotel and entered John’s room, than there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” John yelled, and their three new guards came into the room. “We bought them,” Hands announced gleefully, as though they had found a ten-dollar bill. Joy put out her hand. “Let me see them.” Hands looked from Joy to John and back. With a smile, John told him, “She wants to show off again.” The guys pulled their new guns out of their coat pockets and put them on the bed next to Joy. “You bought them, just like that?” “I don’t understand,” Hands said. John replied, “She means, you walked in, picked out your guns, bought them, and walked out with them in your pocket?” “Of course.” John looked at Joy, and said with a shrug, “The good old days. No background check. No waiting period. Nothing to sign.” “Anyway,” Joy said with emphasis, “these are Colt’s pocket hammerless, .32 caliber, 1903 models.” She picked up one, checked the safety, and as the guys watched in amazement, hefted it, opened it, looked at the chamber, closed it, and nodded. She handed all three guns back to the guys. “Good guns,” she said. Then she and John showed them their own weapons, and the guys were even more amazed. Joy also lifted her dress and showed them her leg sheath, and then dropped her dress, sucked in her stomach, and took out her five-inch tactical knife.

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“Why are you so well armed?” Sal asked. John answered, “Our business. We’ve been threatened. Some people want us out of business. And now you see that two men tried to kill us. Now, as to your guns, we want to make sure that you can shoot those things. Meet us here at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow, and we’ll rent a car, buggy, whatever, and find a place along the shore where we can see how good you can shoot.” He waved his hand toward the door. “Have a good sleep.” As they were leaving, Joy asked Sal to stay for a moment. “Can I see that thing you call a knife?” she asked. Sal reached down and pulled it out of his boot, and handed it to her. She looked at it, and then handed it back. “Imagine I’m going to attack you. How would you defend yourself with that knife?” “I can’t do that, Miss Phim.” “Yes you can.” Joy reached into her purse, pulled out the knife she’d brought for him, and assumed a knife-fighting stance. She narrowed her eyes, thrust her jaw toward him, and growled, “I’m going to cut your arm if you don’t protect yourself.” John’s brows shot up. “Joy!” he exclaimed. Sal ignored him and went into crouch, blocking hand forward of his chest, and knife hand behind it. He slowly circled the tip of his knife through the air, keeping it pointed toward Joy. Joy waved John away with her free hand. Then she looked at Sal’s position, straightened, turned the knife around in her hand, and said, “Time out.” When she was sure that Sal understood, she tossed her knife, grip first, to John, stepped toward Sal, and took his knife hand in hers. “No Sal, with that ice-pick grip, you open your chest to attack, at the very least. Here, grip the knife tightly, as though it were a hammer, and put your thumb here.” She showed him with her own thumb. “And loosen your wrist. When you grip the knife in this way, it won’t be knocked out of your hand, and you also can attack with its butt. “As to your stance, are you trying to commit suicide? Did you see my fencer’s stance—right foot forward, left behind, and torso slightly angled, knife way out in front? And you keep it out there between you and your opponent, and always pointed at him. Your free hand is held to shield your heart or throat, top part of your arm facing your opponent so that he doesn’t cut a vein. Anyway, you should be willing to sacrifice your arm to save your vitals. “When you go on the offensive—”

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John put his hand on Joy’s shoulder, and shook his head at Sal. “This is her favorite weapon, as you may be able to tell. There will be a lot of opportunity for this once we get settled.” Joy shrugged John’s hand off and gave him a sour look. She turned back to Sal. “One more thing.” She raised her voice on the last word. “Practice my stance until it becomes automatic. When you have done that—” “You are getting into two things,” John pointed out. “Judging by your stance, I don’t think you know that knife fighting is a matter of split seconds. A lunge here, a leap there, a kick in the groin, dirt thrown in your face, a couple of feints from one side to the other, a different level of attack, a twisting thrust, and you’re dead, faster than it took for me to say that. After you get the stance down, I’ll show you some tricks.” Next, she drew a two-inch diameter circle with her lipstick on the room’s door, and locked and tested it to make sure nobody would open it from the hallway. Standing fifteen feet back, she held out her hand to John for the knife. “Three things,” he said, grinning as he tossed the knife to her. In one flowing motion, she caught it, turned toward the door, and cocked her arm back as though she were going to throw a baseball, automatically adjusting her grip so that her thumb was along the back edge of the knife, and the handle rested gently between her fingertips and the uppermost part of her palm. When her arm was fully cocked back with the knife blade level with her eyes and wrist and the tip pointed at the circle, she uncocked her arm toward the target and gently released the knife when her arm was fully extended. No wrist snap, no whirling rotations. Only a half-rotation, and the knife stuck perpendicular to the door and solidly within the circle, although a touch off-center. “You missed the center,” John observed dryly. She stuck out her tongue at him, and with an angled jerk, pulled the still quivering knife out of the door. Giving it to Sal, she said, “Your turn. That’s a combat knife, and not the best for throwing, but I want to see what you can do.” He took the knife and his eyes widened; he was obviously impressed by the feel and heft. Then he faced the target, gripped the tip between thumb and forefinger, and flipped it in a rotation and a half through the air. It stuck in the door at an angle, missing the circle by a fraction of an inch.

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Joy withdrew the knife from the door and handed it back to Sal. “Give that primitive thing you call a knife a decent burial and keep this,” she told him. “As my bodyguard, I want you to practice throwing it from this distance until you get it in a circle that size nine out of ten times. Then do twenty feet. Then thirty. You never know when throwing it is the only alternative you’ll have to death.” She said the last for John’s benefit. He still couldn’t throw a knife into a circle that size from fifteen feet more that a quarter of the time. Sal stood for a moment, staring at Joy with large eyes, lifted brows, and drooping jaw. He finally shook his head as if to clear it, then nodded and thanked her. He tossed his old knife into the room’s garbage pot, and slid the new knife into his boot. He stopped at the door on the way out and looked back at John with raised eyebrows. “Can I have my own . . . assistant and . . . translator?”

aaa That evening, as they lay naked under the heavy blankets, wrapped in each other’s arms, Joy mused, “You know, dearest, history is a series of contingencies. A little thing here or something missed there, and the whole world is changed. When I was four and my parents apparently tried to escape from Vietnam and were probably killed by pirates, the pirates must have just happened to overlook me on the boat. And the boat just happened to drift to the Philippines. A fisherman just happened to see it. A journalist just happened to be around writing a story. The New York Times just happened to pick up the story of this child lost on the ocean. My future mom just happened to read the newspaper on the day the story came out, and just happened to see the story. If any of these things happened just a little differently, I wouldn’t be here and neither would you. Perhaps those who would have been here in our place, if anyone, would have been killed by the attack this afternoon. “And I just happened to glance in the store window when I did. The billions of lives we are trying to save hung on just a glance. Just a little, fleeting, random glance. So much, hanging on so little.” The old building creaked quietly. “Hmmm,” John finally murmured, cuddling close to her. She felt his warm body on hers and thought, It was so close, so close. My dearest would be dead. His body cold. Joy caressed the orange hair on his chest. “John, now is the time.” “Time for what?” he mumbled. “You remember while we were standing by the weapons capsule, you touched my nipple and I said that it wasn’t the time?”

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“Hmmm.” “Now’s the time. You can touch my nipple.” Deep breathing. He’s asleep. I can’t believe it. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and in moments was about to fall sleep herself, when he suddenly rolled on top of her, laughing. “Where’s my foreplay?” she whispered huskily, tightening her legs together. “This is the appetizer,” John said softly, nibbling the lobe of her ear. As she later opened her legs for him, she murmured, “Should’ve known better.”

Chapter 4 Past Midnight, Friday Carla

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eads up, eyes front, Hadad and Carla strode into the deserted lobby of the Fairfax Hotel as though going to their room. Hadad carried a large, battered suitcase. It was after midnight and no one was at the reception desk. The night clerk was likely in the office behind the desk, doing the day’s bookkeeping. As they nonchalantly climbed the worn carpeted stairs, Hadad looked back over his shoulder and mentioned to Carla, “Nice lobby.” When they reached the second floor, they checked the floor’s bathroom to make sure no one was using it. Then, in the dim hallway light, Hadad checked his notepad to make sure of the room number, although he had memorized it. Returning the pad to his pocket, he motioned Carla to get behind him. Holding the suitcase across his chest, he sidled along the hallway’s wall to avoid creaking floorboards and stopped at Room 205. The previous afternoon, Hadad had boldly ambled up to the hotel reception desk, leaned on the counter and, looking unwaveringly at the receptionist, announced loud enough to be heard half the lobby, “I am a friend of Mr. John Banks and Miss Joy Phim. What rooms are they in?” After he got the room numbers, he acted as though he had forgotten something, and left the hotel. Soon after, Carla entered the hotel and asked to see a room. When a surly bellhop showed her one, she looked around, memorized the location of the bed and window and especially the light switch near the door, and asked, “Are all the rooms like this?” “More or less,” the bellhop replied, crossing his arms and looking away. “Well,” she said, her face glacial, “this is less,” and she stomped out without another word. Now, by John’s door, Hadad gently put down the suitcase and quietly unlatched and opened it. He took out a Raducha OT-15 submachine gun and slowly inserted a modified magazine with sixty

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rounds. Eyes bright enough to light the hallway, he grinned at Carla as he handed the gun to her. She pulled it to her, kissed the barrel, and gave Hadad a grin in return. Nothing can go wrong now, she thought. They are dead. Hadad pulled out another OT-15 for himself, put in the magazine, and leaned it against the wall. He lifted a little toolbox out of the suitcase and flipped it open. He took out what looked like half a chopstick, but with a small, bent metal prong at one end. He got down on one knee and inserted it in the lock, put his ear right next to it, and silently picked the door’s lock. It was a standard hotel lock of the era and only slightly more difficult to pick than a child’s piggy bank. Nonetheless, Carla guessed that his hand was sweating in the chill air since he had to rub it on his denim pants several times. There was a slight click as the lock’s final tumbler fell into place. He turned to Carla, nodded, and for some reason put his finger to his lips as though she were going to say something. She looked skyward, shaking her head. The hotel creaked. Hadad grabbed his OT-15, whirled, and pointed it up and down the hallway. Nothing. Only his heavy breathing. Carla raised her chin to look down her nose at him, clutched her OT, and signaled “let us do it” with her hand. Hadad put down his OT and tried the doorknob, twisting it very gently. It turned. He slowly turned it all the way, and ever so gently pushed in on the door. It quietly opened a crack. Hadad grinned and pumped the air with his fist. Then he rose, took three deep breaths, and picked up his OT-15. Holding it in his right hand with its butt against his side, he put his left shoulder against the door. He nodded at Carla. Again, she made a “get on with it” gesture with her free hand. In one swift motion he swung the door open, swept his hand over the adjacent wall to hit the light switch by the door, and rushed into the room with the OT pointed at the bed, his finger firm on the trigger, gun set on automatic fire. “Bokg—shit!” Hadad and Carla hissed in Turkmen. The bed was empty. The room was empty. Joy Joy had asked John to sleep in her room. She didn’t know why, she just wanted him to sleep in her room. It was November, getting

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cold at night—good cuddling weather. Maybe she needed that in her own bed for a change. As soon as Joy heard the door in John’s room slam against its stop, she was wide awake, swiftly rolling out of bed to her feet, and reaching for her magnum. John, as naked as she, was only a second behind her with his .45. She leapt to the door and pressed her back against the wall, holding her magnum in front of her. She motioned for John to do the same. Then she opened the door a crack. No one she could see. She squatted down, motioned for John to get down on the floor next to the wall, and opened the door wide. Even as the door was swinging open, she jerked her gun and head through the doorway and swept the hallway with her magnum in both directions. Empty. She stood. Magnum held out in front of her in both hands and traversing the hallway, she rushed out and sidled rapidly along the wall to the open door to John’s room. John followed close behind. She pointed to him to get down on the floor. She pointed to herself and then to the open door. He shook his head vigorously. She didn’t pause to argue. She threw herself through the door opening, landing hard on her stomach with her magnum in both hands, pointed forward. The room was empty. The window was open, with the white lace curtain blowing into the room. John turned out the light and rushed past Joy to the wall next to the window while she covered him. He reached out, pushed the window sash down, locked it, and pulled the blind down. Joy lifted a pillow from the bed. Holding it in her left hand, gun ready in her right, she cautiously moved into the hallway again and along the wall. She stopped just before the open door to her room and dropped down onto the floor without showing herself in the doorway. She looked behind her and motioned John down. Just then, Jy-ying emerged from her room across the hall. She wore azure silk panties and a black kung fu top with loose white fastenings down its length. She held her .38 in front of her. A swift glance at their naked bodies sent her eyebrows first up, then down; then, after a quick look up and down the hallway, she leapt across the hall and pressed herself against the wall beside the door to Joy’s room. Joy nodded up at her, and put a finger on her lips. Bracing herself on her right elbow, she threw the pillow around the doorframe and into her room.

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Automatic fire shredded the pillow apart, tore splinters from the doorframe, and studded the wall opposite the door. Joy immediately shifted the gun to her left hand; when the shooting stopped, she pointed her gun around the doorjamb only a second ahead of Jy-ying and they both fired two rapid shots into the room, toward the window. Another long burst of automatic fire shredded more of the doorjamb and wall. Joy immediately lowered her head to the floor and peeked around the doorjamb. Squinting against the dust, smoke, and floating goose feathers, she fired three more times through the open window. Then she held her gun behind her and whispered, “Take my gun and give me your .45.” From her standing position, Jy-ying also peeked around the doorjamb and fired two more shots through the window. Almost before the sounds died away, Joy yelled at her, “Watch the window.” She stood, got a tight combat grip on John’s gun, and ran past the open door and down the hallway. People were just beginning to open doors to find out what was happening. Hands gaped as he opened his and glimpsed the light olivecolored skin of her naked body as she darted past. She sprang down the stairs and ran past the night clerk, who dropped the receiver of the wall phone he was using to call the police. She burst out the front door in a crouch, .45 held in two hands in front of her. She was about to run across the street so she could see her room’s window and the top of the hotel marquee below it, when a black Buick roared out of the hotel service alley, skidded around the corner, and almost rolled over when it hit a deep rut. It regained its balance, skidded again, and, backfiring, fled down the street in a cloud of fumes. Joy made sure she could see all the windows, two of which had people looking out at her, and then she ran down the alley with John’s gun still held at the ready. In the light coming from a nearby window, she saw the dark spot left by the car’s leaking radiator where it had been parked. Just to be sure that the killers had not set up an ambush, she moved along the wall from dark area to dark area behind the hotel, looking for any possible hiding place. John came running down the alley with her magnum in his hand, and joined Joy in searching around the rear of the hotel. Not far behind followed Hands, Dolphy, and Sal in various states of undress, clutching their Colts. Jy-ying remained behind to be sure the attackers did not try to escape through Joy’s room, or lie in wait there.

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The three guys stopped dead when they saw that Joy was naked. “Holy shit,” Sal exclaimed, and he and Dolphy looked away. Hands turned around and ran back into the hotel. He returned moments later with one of the hotel lobby curtains billowing behind him, and almost ran into Sal and Dolphy. Behind them, John was walking close in front of Joy, obviously to shield her nakedness. Hands threw the curtain to John, who used it to cover Joy and himself as they walked into the lobby. By this time, a number of hastily dressed quests had gathered near the receptionist’s desk. They all turned as one and gaped as Hands, holding a gun in one hand, came through the front door in his long underwear. He was followed by Sal and Dolphy, equally undressed and armed. Finally, Joy and John appeared, moving in lockstep, hip to hip, holding up the curtain wound around their torsos with one hand and gripping guns at the ready with their other. John yelled at the guys to join him in his room. Then as shocked quests made way for them, he shouted at the night clerk, “I’ll be down to explain after I’m dressed.”

aaa For the rest of their lives, those who witnessed this scene would tell the story at every bar, at every dinner party, to every new acquaintance; each time, it would get a little more embellished. Even if the facts were told straight, the story was just too absurd to believe. Only the night clerk never told the tale. He was well aware of how crazy it would sound, were he to admit that he’d seen a beautiful, naked Asian woman running through the lobby with breasts bouncing and guns in both hands, to disappear out the front door in a flash of perfectly rounded buttocks and long legs, and how much crazier it would sound if he added that she’d been followed seconds later by a guntoting, orange-haired man, equally naked, and then three more men dressed in only their underwear. In years to follow, he would come to question what he’d seen, and discount it as a dream experienced after falling asleep at the desk. But then, there was Ryan, the detective. Hadad When Hadad looked back and could no longer see the hotel, he let the Buick slow down. With a grimace, then a scowl, he looked at Carla.

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She was slumped down in her seat, head bowed, clutching the OT-15. “What the hell made you think they would be in John’s room?” he snapped. It was minutes before she responded, and then she did so haltingly. “He always screws her in his room; they do that all the time—you should know. You get hot pants every time you read about it.” “Now, wait a minute,” he barked. “I remember John mentioning in his Remembrance that they used her room so that her bed would look used for the Puritan prudes.” Carla slammed the dashboard, her face red, eyes slitted. “That was later.” “We will see,” Hadad shouted, jutting his chin at her. They coldly ignored each other until they got to their room at the Resort. Without delay, Carla unlocked their metal case, took out John’s Remembrance, and almost ripped out the pages as she whipped by one page after another. “Goddam it, there is nothing here about the Fairfax or their rooms at a hotel, those first days.” “You have the wrong book,” Hadad exclaimed, grabbing for Hands’ Mission Humanity. While Carla’s eyes bored a hole through him, he turned and scanned pages until he found the reference. He read a few paragraphs, looked up at Carla with raised eyebrows, and with more than a hint of triumph in his voice, said, “All it really says here is that John joined Joy in her room and they exchanged vows of love. It does not say they screwed, or if they did, that they slept together in her room. They might have gone to his room.” Carla responded with a smirk, “Yeah, sure.” “After all, Carla, he is the man. If we had separate rooms, we would always sleep in mine.” “Oh yes, why of course,” she muttered. She drew a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap. She tilted her head at Hadad and, in a level tone, told him, “It does no good to argue about it. Already history is being changed, and we are in another universe. Think about it. Joy and John were transported in time from the Old Universe to 1906 with a mission to prevent war and democide by imposing on the world their Godless democracy.” Hadad was about to respond, when Carla held up her palm. “We have got to think this through carefully, from the beginning. John and Joy were not so clever after all. Hands’ biography describes the New Universe they created, which ultimately led to the brilliant nuclear strike of Abul Sabah, and Sabah’s great Islamization of the world. But, some of his clerics controlling the former democracies were stupid, and

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their security services incompetent. They allowed enemy scientists to construct a small time machine and send a message back in time to warn Joy and John about Sabah and his Great Victory. As Hands described it in his biography, they got the message when they arrived yesterday. As a result, they added another goal to their mission: killing Sabah.” “Carla! I know—” She went on. “That message, their new mission, and associated actions created a Third Universe. In 1915, rather than kill the child Sabah born the previous year, they decided to adopt him. But Joy, John, and Sabah were killed in a bombing of their room by the heroic Fadi Mohammed Habib. Hands found this out from those at the guest house where the bombing took place and through a team of Uighur investigators he hired.” “God be praised. But Carla—” Carla ignored him, apparently thinking aloud. “But Joy and John had done so much to foster democracy before their deaths that by then they had largely succeeded. With no Sabah, there was no Islamic takeover of China, and no Islamic League.” She stopped for breath, and steepled her fingers. Hadad spoke quickly into the void. “I am happy to say that there was also no nuclear attack, and no killing of so many people, even though they were infidels.” Frowning, he pointed his finger at her. “But, I know all this. It is engraved on my brain. Why—” She continued. “With our being here, and with our attempt to kill them yesterday and today, we have initiated a Fourth Universe.” She scratched her chin, and looked into the middle distance. “A universe with an unknown future. We are now facing an unknown universe; one we must shape. And there’s no better way to do that than by killing—” “It’s so incredible,” Hadad broke in. “I have often wondered how those heathen scientists could build a time machine to send a message back to Joy and John about Sabah.” His shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes and shook his head. “It had to be done under the very noses of security. They had electronic sniffers, satellite surveillance, hidden video cameras everywhere, and spies under every bed. I don’t understand it.” “Will you listen?” Carla said, rolling her eyes. “A new universe! We are now in a new universe. Got that, Hadad? So, we cannot depend on either John’s Remembrance of the New Universe or Hands’ biography of the Third for detailed predictions of their behavior.”

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Hadad idly turned a few pages of Hands’ biography, then fingered his earlobe. “Okay,” he responded after a few moments, “you are right. Since we don’t know anymore what they are going to do, I have a plan . . . .”

aaa After Carla agreed to the plan, Hadad reached for the buttons on the top of her new silk and lace blouse. They had dressed in black, Ninjalike outfits for the assassination attempt, and had changed into street clothes afterwards in the Buick before coming into the Resort. “This talk of them making love has made me horny,” he said. “Well, I am not,” Carla snapped, shoving his hand away.

Chapter 5 Predawn, Friday Joy

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hree policemen and an older black man with graying hair arrived at the hotel in two Stanley Steamers and one horse-drawn police wagon. John and Joy, now decently dressed for the age, met them in the lobby with Jy-ying. John informed them that he owned the hotel and introduced Joy as his assistant and translator, and Jy-ying as her assistant. With a Philip Morris cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, the older man introduced himself as Police Lieutenant Gary Ryan and showed John his badge. Removing his cigarette, he tipped his derby to Joy and Jy-ying. His bushy eyebrows rose, creating deep wrinkles in his narrow forehead, as he looked back and forth from Joy to Jy-ying. Waving the hand holding the cigarette to encompass them, he asked, “Are you two sisters, or twins?” Both waved the smoke away from their faces and shook their heads. It burst out of her before Joy could bite her tongue: “She’s my double, present so my attackers will go for her first.” “No, no,” Jy-ying jumped in. “She is my double, present so that they will shoot her and not me.” Ryan looked at Jy-ying and back to Joy. He stared at her for a long moment, stroking his salt and pepper beard. John looked away and put his hand over his mouth. Around it, his face reddened and bulged. “I see,” Ryan finally said. He shrugged and tapped his cigarette ash into a spittoon at the end of the reception counter. A murmuring crowd of wide-eyed hotel quests had gathered at a distance, so John, his face still slightly red, motioned the police, Joy, Jy-ying, and the night clerk into his hotel office. He unbuttoned his gray corduroy suit coat and sat in his leather office chair behind his flattop desk, indicating to Ryan the cushioned armchair in front of it. Ryan sat down. John tilted his chair back and pointed his chin at Ryan, waiting. Joy wanted to sit on the corner of the desk with one foot on the floor, but her floor-length percale skirt would not let her. Grimacing,

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she plopped onto a hard-backed reception chair nearby. With a little smile at Joy, Jy-ying took the remaining reception chair next to her. The policemen leaned against the walls or door frame, looking idly around the office. One lit a Flor Fina cigar, another British Derby cigarette. The night clerk stood off by himself, his hands fluttering at his side; finally he shoved them in his pants pockets. Joy was immediately struck by how much this seemed like a scene in the conclusion of a theater mystery. A brilliant private eye gathers everyone, including a stupid police detective, one or two beautiful women—she laughed at herself at that thought—and a few policemen for safety, together in his office. After a logical summation of the evidence and an insightful description of how the murderer did it, he points to the one among them who is the dastardly perpetrator. Still amused by the image, Joy crossed one arm over her stomach, rested her other elbow on it, and supported her chin in her hand. She tapped her foot, waiting for Ryan to say something. For the fun of it, I hope I look guilty. Ryan squashed his cigarette in an onyx stone ashtray at the edge of the desk, crossed his legs, and put his derby on his knee. He pulled a worn notepad from a deep pocket inside his wrinkled double-breasted sack suit coat, and bent over it. After flipping a few pages, he stopped to study one. Intent on the page, he said, “I was told there was a lot of gunfire here, and people were running around with guns.” John nodded, and drew both his lips and brows together for a couple of seconds, looking as though he was reflecting on the state of the universe. “Yes, lots of gunfire.” Still looking at the note page, Ryan asked, “Do you have a gun?” “Yes, we three have guns to protect ourselves.” He looked up at Joy. “Do you carry a gun?” “Yes,” Joy answered. He narrowed his eyes and turned them on Jy-ying. “Miss . . . Khoo, is it? You carry a gun?” She nodded. The policemen around the office straightened up, and one unconsciously rested his hand on his holstered pistol. Ryan waved his pad at John and both women. “Did you run through the lobby without any clothes on, carrying guns?” The policemen perked up even more. While Jy-ying put her hand on her chest and raised her eyebrows at Ryan, John answered, “No, Miss Phim and I were partly dressed. And yes, we were carrying guns. Miss Khoo was not involved.”

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“The receptionist said you two were . . . nude.” John reared back and tapped the desktop with his knuckles. “Absurd. Nobody was nude. Obviously, Detective, that is somebody’s overactive imagination, stimulated by all the excitement.” He lowered his voice, tilted his head toward Joy, and winked. “Or, their lust.” “I see. Okay. Tell me about the shooting.” John leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk. “I just moved my Tor Export and Import Company here from the northeast. Yesterday, I bought this hotel as a place where traveling businessmen visiting my company can stay. I paid cash. Word of this must have gotten around, and someone thought I had tons of money secreted in my room. They came in to hold me up, but I wasn’t there. I was going over company plans with my assistant, Miss Phim, in her room. We just arrived here yesterday, and after long naps to recover from the trip, we wanted to start preparations for getting our company up and running—” Ryan raised his hand to stop him. “In her room?” “Yes.” “I see,” Ryan responded too evenly, looking askance at Joy and then staring at her as though really seeing her for the first time. He shifted his eyes to stare at Jy-ying. After several seconds, he stared again at Joy. Standing at Ryan’s back as they were, the policemen did not try to hide their smirks. John glanced at them, covered a grin with his hand, and barked the world’s—universe’s—worst fake cough into it. Joy returned Ryan’s stare with what she thought was a look of innocence. The policemen behind Ryan shifted; one leered. Apparently her attempt at innocence had conjured the opposite effect. Finally, Ryan asked Joy, “You and Khoo are Chinese?” “No, American.” Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “You are of the Chinese race?” Joy narrowed her eyes to slits. “No.” Jutting his chin at her, Ryan asked loudly, “You are Oriental?” Joy’s nostrils flared. “Yes,” she answered softly. “You’re black?” Ryan drew himself up and huffed, “What does my skin color have to do with anything?” Joy tossed her head and answered, “Okay, you’re Negro.” Ryan leaned back in his chair. “Don’t get smart with me,” he replied gruffly. Then he leaned toward her and pointed his notepad at her face. “The mayor is still having some of you people collected in the Presidio camp, and if you are going to smart off, I’ll have one of my boys take you there now.”

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Okay, fun time’s over, Joy thought. She was just about to let him have it when John waved toward her as though he was her protector, and said, “Miss Phim came with me from New York because she always wanted to live in San Francisco. She has long worked for me as a trusted employee. Miss Khoo started to work for me yesterday. I need both of them if I’m going to set up my company here, since I will be doing much trade with Asia. I’m sure the mayor approves of new businesses coming into San Francisco. If I’m going to have a hard time because of who works for me, I’m going to take my business to Seattle or Los Angeles.” “I see,” Ryan said. He fingered his notepad; his Adam’s apple bobbed—he understood the politics of the threat. He scratched his nose, seemed to look for another page in his notepad, and then replied, “You had better be careful here. There is a powerful labor organization and an Oriental exclusion league that won’t be happy that you have Orientals working for you, even if they are lovely . . . assistants.” Ryan hesitated, and then shifted in his chair to directly face John. “So, you were in Miss Phim’s room, and what?” John clasped his hands on the desk again. “I heard burglars go into my room. It must have been around 3:00 a.m. I can’t believe how fast time flew, with our work and all.” Beside Joy, Jy-ying squeezed her eyes shut, and seemed to have trouble breathing. She coughed into her hand. Joy found something intensely interesting under a fingernail; she felt her face get hot when she heard a few barely suppressed chuckles from the policemen. “I see,” Ryan responded again. “I understand from your clerk that there were an awful lot of shots.” The night clerk broke in. “Yeah, it was like bangbangbangban—” Ryan stopped him with his hand, saying, “Thank you, we get the idea.” “Yes,” John said, “I think there were five or six of them, a real gang. It’s a wonder they didn’t shoot each other. Once we left Miss Phim’s room to find out about the noise in my room, they escaped through the window and then tried to enter Miss Phim’s room. We heard them and had a firefight there. They all escaped.” “I see,” Ryan repeated. “By ‘firefight,’ you mean that they threw burning wood or something at you?” “No. I invented that word. It means we exchanged shots.” “I see. Did they take anything of yours?” “No.”

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Looking sidelong at Joy, Ryan reached inside his suit coat and pulled out a Philip Morris and put it in his mouth. Still looking at Joy, he reached into another pocket for a wooden match, and lit it on the bottom of his shoe. He took his eyes off Joy for a moment to apply the flame to the cigarette and toss the match into the ashtray. Then he turned his head to look more directly at Joy. His tone incredulous, he summarized what he had heard. “Let’s see, Mr. Banks. There were five or six armed men in your room, who left it when you got there and went to Miss Phim’s room. When you returned there, you had a . . . firefight—nice word—in this one room. They all escaped out the window. And there were only two of you? And neither of you was wounded?” “Yes,” John replied, lowering his brows and making it sound as if he were asking, “How could you even question it?” “I see.” Ryan turned his eyes on John. Two of the policemen leaning against the back wall grinned at each other and shook their heads. “And in this firefight in your room against five or six men shooting at you, you shot at them?” “Yes.” John looked down at his folded hands. Ryan tipped his head back, puffed on the cigarette, and blew a huge cloud of smoke up into the air. “And you didn’t hit any of them?” John looked at a long scratch on the desktop and traced it with his eyes while responding. “I don’t know. I didn’t see any blood in our room, however. But, their clothing initially could have soaked up the blood from their wounds. After all, they left by the window as soon as the firefight began.” Ryan straightened and leaned forward. “Let me get this straight. You mean that as five or six men squeezed through your window to escape, one after the other, you didn’t wound one enough to leave blood in the room or on the sill, and you weren’t wounded yourselves as they returned shots on the way out. Is that right, Mr. Banks?” “Right.” John crossed his arms on his chest and looked Ryan in the eye. Ryan tapped ashes into the ashtray. “I see.” The three policemen put their heads together. They started whispering, gesturing toward John, and snickering. Stone-faced, Ryan leaned over the arm of his chair and stared back at the policemen until they stopped. He returned to his questioning of John. “How do you explain this?” John tilted his head, raised his brows, and asked, “What?”

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“That you two were not hit, and apparently none of the five or six in the gang was, either.” “Well now, it was completely dark and I was blinded, as the burglars probably were, by the gun flashes. Anyway, Miss Phim is a woman, you know, and of course, a rotten shot. And she was taking cover behind me.” Joy felt her face grow hot as she went into a sudden coughing fit, struggling to choke down what she wanted to yell at John. Jy-ying put her hand up to her mouth to hide a big grin. “It is all this cigarette smoke,” she muttered to those staring. Ryan took out a handkerchief and handed it to Joy. Still unable to speak, Joy nodded her thanks, took it, and covered her mouth. She gave John a look over the edge of the handkerchief that should have turned him into an ice statue. Putting out his cigarette, Ryan grumped as though talking to himself, “The night man at headquarters got me out of bed saying several people had been shot in a gang battle here. Now I understand it was you two, and the burglars. And it seems no one was hurt.” Ryan slammed his notebook closed with a sigh. He stood, his suit wrinkling into place around him, and told John, “I want to take a look at your rooms.” Everyone except the hotel night clerk followed John, Joy, and Jyying up the stairs to John’s room, where the three guys were waiting. John introduced them as his new company employees, who were also living in the hotel. Ryan shook their hands, looked at Hispanic Sal closely, and then ignored them. Ryan looked around, studied the window area, and peered at the door lock. Done, he said, “I want to look at Miss Phim’s room.” There, he looked at all the bullet holes, especially in the wall across from the room. He picked up some of the remains of the pillow and let the feathers and shredded material sift through his fingers. He kicked around the slivers from the doorjamb with his toe. He took out his notepad and made notes. Turning to one of the policemen, he ordered, “Make a count of all the bullet holes.” Turning to another, he demanded, “Make an independent count.” Then Ryan turned to John and Joy, and with a flourish of his hand, commanded, “Show me your guns.” John led them back to his room and pulled Hands’ and Dolphy’s Colt automatics from under the bed’s mattress. Ryan looked at the guns and took out their magazines, which were fully loaded with eight car-

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tridges. He sniffed the barrel of each then, putting the guns down slowly and carefully on the chest of drawers, he looked John directly in the eyes. “These haven’t been fired.” John swept both hands expansively toward Ryan. “Of course! That just shows that Miss Phim and I did a good job in cleaning them before you came. Then we reloaded them because I didn’t know whether the burglars would be back or not. I wasn’t going to take a chance. And we didn’t want the guns to jam on us. You know,” John added, as though stating that water flows downhill. “I see. Could I see your cleaning equipment?” Fortunately, John had brought the 1906 cleaning kit with him after they’d armed themselves. Joy had taught him about the danger of the loading slide sticking when one needed the gun most. John went to his bureau, opened a drawer, took out his kit of brushes, rush fibers, woolen mops, and gun oil, and handed it to Ryan. Ryan took the cap off the oil, sniffed it, and sniffed the gun barrels again. He nodded at John. He turned to Joy. Holding the Colt out to her, he asked, “You shot this?” “Yes.” Ryan took the magazine out of the gun, checked to make sure there wasn’t a cartridge in its chamber and that the safety was on, then tossed the gun to Joy, saying, “Here, catch.” Joy easily caught it in one hand. Ryan’s request sounded more like an order. “Show me how you shot this.” Joy took up a two-handed shooting stance, partly crouched with legs apart. “Here’s the magazine.” Ryan tossed that to her also. “Take a bullet—” “Don’t you mean a cartridge, Lieutenant?” Joy asked sweetly. “A cartridge out of the magazine.” Joy did so. “Okay, put it back in, and load the gun.” Joy complied, slamming the magazine into the grip with a sharp click, and taking up a two-handed shooting stance again. “Is that a woman’s stance?” Ryan asked. “I’ve never seen a gun held with two hands like that before.” “Right. We weak women can only hold this heavy iron thingie with two hands, not with one hand like you strong men. And there is that terrible recoil. Why, even if I could hold it with one hand, the recoil might break—”

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“I understand,” Ryan said, seeming to believe her. That’s it! Joy silently exclaimed. She strode to the window, pulled up the blind, unlocked and opened the sash, and looked out into the unusually clear light of emerging dawn to make sure there was no one in the vacant lot across the street, and no buildings within range of the Colt. The remaining policeman was on the verge of grabbing her, thinking she was going to jump out and try to run away, but the gun in her hand made him hesitate. She returned to face Ryan. In the most feminine voice she could muster, she asked him, “Do you see the little pull cord hanging from the blind?” “You’re not going to—” “Oh yes, I am,” Joy said, motioning everyone to the side of the room. When she was sure they were all clear, she looked at John and said, “Mr. Banks, please count to three.” John shook his head. Joy arched her eyebrows and gave him a hard look. “Only another San Francisco earthquake will prevent me from doing this, Mr. Banks.” That hung in the air surrounded by little ice crystals. Probably realizing an earthquake was unlikely at this moment, John shrugged his shoulders and counted, “One, two, thre—” Bangbangbang. Joy couldn’t help it. As she came out of her two-handed crouch, she put the muzzle to her lips, blew the smoke away, and smugly tucked the gun under the waistband of her dress. She folded her arms across her chest and stood smiling at the gaping policeman and Ryan. John gazed at the ceiling, lips pursed as if whistling silently to himself. She had cut off successive one-inch segments of the cord. Joy glanced at John and knew from his expression that he was thinking, Your damn ego again. The two policemen who had been counting bullet holes in the hallway and in Joy’s room rushed in with their guns drawn. Ryan waved them back to their counting. He took out a Philip Morris, lit it, walked over to the ceramic ashtray by the bed, and dropped the glowing match into it. “I see,” he said as he turned to Joy. Then he looked at John, eyebrows raised. “I thought you said she was a poor shot.” At first, John flashed a “see what you did?” look at Joy, but that changed almost immediately to dimples on either side of his mouth. He peered at Ryan through the smoke surrounding his face. The dimples turned into a smirk. “Next to me,” he replied. “Didn’t I say that?”

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Joy looked down, crossed one arm over her chest to support her other elbow, and covered her face with her hand. She struggled not to say anything, but couldn’t contain a muffled, “Hmmhuumm.” Jy-ying Standing behind the policeman through all this, and all but forgotten by everyone, Jy-ying had at first watched Joy and John’s behavior as would a biologist that of a new animal species. But soon, she alternated between rapt attention to John and admiring nods at what Joy was doing to the condescending detective—although, as a former captain in the Sabah Security Guard, she had a certain sympathy for him. At John’s latest quip, she turned to lean one palm against the wall, rested her forehead against the wall beneath it, and shook with repressed laughter. Joy His smirk even deeper, John stared off into the distance as though occupied with solving some deep mathematical puzzle. Ryan stared at John and then at Joy as she regained her selfcontrol. He shook his head, frowned, put his hands thumbs forward on his hips, and stared at John. “Mr. Banks,” he asked, “you believe there were five or six intruders and neither of you hit any of them in the . . . firefight?” “Well,” John said, straightening out his face, “there was no blood we could see. Anyway, times are hard and we’re sympathetic to the desperation that people feel without a job. We just wanted to shoot the guns out of their hands and scare them off.” Jy-ying suddenly banged her head against the wall twice and covered her mouth. Joy bent over to adjust her shoe. An inner force seemed to bulge John’s cheeks. That brought a longer silence, while Ryan turned his stare on Joy and puffed deeply on his cigarette. His eyebrows had come to rest by the time he repeated to her, “You were trying to shoot the guns out of their hands?” Joy exhaled sharply, gave John a quick, decapitating look, and applied her warrior training to calm herself. In seconds, she was able respond to Ryan. “Yes,” she said breathlessly, as though answering an intimate question for her lover.

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Ryan put his cigarette in his mouth and let it hang there while he reached a finger under his derby and scratched his head. He tilted his head to the side to keep the smoke out of his eyes as he tried to write something in his notepad, but he dropped his blunt pencil. He bent over to pick it up, but Joy beat him to it, and handed it to him with a slight nod of her head and a beautiful smile. “I see,” Ryan finally replied. The policeman was silently laughing into his hand, the movement making his ears seem to dance up and down. In a moment, Ryan called out to the policemen who had returned to their bullet hole inventory, “Pete, Al, are you done counting?” “All done,” the one named Pete replied as they came into the room. “I got eighty-three holes, nicks, and grazings, Al got eighty-six.” Ryan asked, “Any around the window?” “Three.” Ryan nodded his thanks, flipped to a new page on his notepad, and did the arithmetic. He put the pad down, glanced at Joy, and then gazed unblinking at John, his bushy eyebrows almost hiding his eyes. Waving his pad, he noted evenly, with a hint of gruffness, “Six intruders. You two make eight shooters altogether. And at least eighty-three bullets were fired. Since the three bullet holes around the window had to come from your guns, each of the burglars must have fired thirteen bullets.” “Thirteen point three-three,” Joy corrected, straight-faced. “Some must have fired thirteen, some fourteen bullets. Probabilistically, four of them fired thirteen and two fired fourteen.” Ryan took a puff on his cigarette without even glancing her way. He waved his pad vigorously at John and said, his voice rising, “No guns do that without reloading. How do you explain this?” John answered, “They each must have had two guns, or were able to rapidly reload or change magazines.” One of the policemen behind Ryan lip-synched him as he said, “I see.” Ryan stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. Then, brows pinched, he added, “That could do it. Barely.” Ryan turned to the policemen behind him and told them, “Go outside, check for blood and anything odd that you can find. I was told there was an automobile speeding away, and it was parked in the alley. See whether you can get tire tracks from that.” He turned to John and straightened to his full five feet, eight-inch height. The same as me, Joy realized. “We’ll be looking around for a couple of days, and asking questions of your clerk and guests. We don’t

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often have these Wild West shootouts anymore. We are now a civilized city, you understand. If I need more information, would you mind coming down to the station?” John answered, “Not at all, Detective, and thank you for digging into this for us.” Ryan nodded at John, gave Joy a lingering look as he tipped his derby to her, glanced at Jy-ying, who still looked as though she had just been tickled, and started to leave the room. He stopped at the doorway, turned with one finger in the air to look at Joy, and asked, “How do you explain, Miss Phim, that five people, including the desk clerk, claim they saw you run through the lobby without any clothes on?” Before Joy could respond, Jy-ying answered, “Men! Wishful thinking.” “Two women witnessed it.” “Well,” Joy said, “this is San Francisco.” “I—” Ryan got no more out before Joy preempted him by shouting, “— see.” “See what?” Ryan asked, forehead constricted into a question mark. Joy lifted the hem of her skirt and curtsied with a huge smile. John, his face red again and his cheeks twitching, swept his hand toward Joy as if to say, “Here she is,” and bowed. Shaking his head, Ryan left. Ryan Ryan had been so distracted on his arrival that he’d turned off his Stanley Steamer. He had to reheat his steam and oil valves and turn the Steamer’s water to steam. Since the eighteen-inch boiler had not completely cooled, it took him only about fifteen minutes to get the steam up. Now the ten horsepower engine had enough power to overtake virtually any other automobile on the road. That, to him, was worth the bother. Deep in thought, he automatically pulled a Philip Morris and wooden match from his pockets and scratched the match across the dashboard to light it. Once he got his cigarette glowing, he puffed on it and smiled at the swirling smoke cloud it made. He was again thankful for the technique his white grandfather, the great San Francisco detective James Q. Ryan, had taught him. Make people laugh at you, make them think you are befuddled, and they will throw clues at you. Banks is fucking Phim, and they both are involved in something secret and

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illegal. They are lying from A to Z. So is Khoo, although I bet she is involved in something different. And they all have an odd strangeness about them, as well. Something big here. “Well, Pa, as you always used to say,” Ryan spoke to the empty seat beside him, exhaling smoke away from it, “now that I have it in my teeth, I will enjoy unraveling this yarn.” Then he yelled, “I see,” and laughed uproariously.

Chapter 6 Dawn, Friday John

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oy held up a finger as if to say “wait,” and looked down the hallway to see Ryan just starting down the stairs behind his policemen. She closed the door to the room and nodded to a snickering Jy-ying and a still red-faced John, who was bent over, holding his sides, in the room’s only chair. Joy staggered over and dropped onto the bed, then doubled up with body-shaking howls. By that time, John was rolling on the floor, and Jy-ying had slid down the wall and was laughing into her hands. Many minutes later, when they were down to bubbling giggles and chuckles, John said, “I see,” and they were off again. John finally crawled onto the bed, still laughing, and tried to put his arm around Joy, but he had to hold his sides. Tears were streaming from their eyes by the time the three of them gradually wound down and tried to catch their breath. “Oh my,” John managed to chortle, “we’ve got to talk to the guys.” Holding his stomach, he left the room, walked down the hallway to Hands’ room, and knocked. When Hands answered, he looked at John’s watery eyes and red face and put his hand on John’s shoulder. “Are you okay, boss?” John waved away Hands’ concern and replied in a voice weak from laughter, “I’m all right. I’ve just been laughing.” Dolphy and Sal were also in the room. Sal squinted at John through his cigar smoke and rubbed his hands together. “A gang tries to kill you with a million bullets, and you’re laughing.” John almost started laughing again. He gestured for them to follow him. Then he turned back, pointed at Sal’s cigar, and explained with a smile, “I have an allergy to cigar and cigarette smoke.” Sal nodded, went to the room’s ashtray, and cut the glowing end off with his new combat knife. He put the cigar in his mouth and cleaned the edge of his knife on his denim pants. When they all entered John’s room, they saw Joy on the bed holding her sides, still chuckling, and Jy-ying sitting on the floor wearing a

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huge smile. The three guys stopped, jaws drooping, and stared. Their expressions broke Joy and Jy-ying up again, and that started John going, as well. Finally, seeing that the three men were beginning to look insulted, John calmed enough to say, “I’m sorry, guys, but Ryan—the whole exchange with him—was so funny. Give us a few minutes. Sit down on the bed . . . chair . . . or whatever.” After a few minutes, Joy was able to look at the guys and tell them in a reasonably steady voice, “Thank you Hands, Dolphy, and Sal, our bodyguards, for running out with your guns and helping us.” She looked at Jy-ying. “And thank you for helping us. It could have been very dangerous. You didn’t know how many armed intruders were out there, and any of you could have been killed. We owe the four of you.” She pointed to the guys’ guns still resting on the bed and added, “You can take your guns back, and thanks.” John shook each of their hands in turn, and gave Jy-ying a hand up, then hugged her. Jy-ying gave him a glowing smile that Joy did not miss. He said to them all, “Thanks, folks, for your help. Now, no work today. Try to catch up on your sleep, and let’s get together for supper in the hotel restaurant at 6:00. We’ll talk about what happened then. Okay?” After agreeing, the guys left. Jy-ying turned at the door and looked from John to Joy. “Which one of you actually is the best shot?” she asked. “I am,” they both answered. Joy tilted her head, looked askance at John, and said, “We will see, won’t we?” Lips pursed, John glanced up at the ceiling and shrugged as though tolerating the absurd. Laughing once more, Jy-ying left, shutting the door behind her. Hands Dolphy and Sal joined Hands in his room again. Dolphy was the first to speak. “All this isn’t right. Somebody tried to kill them twice today, and there must have been a lot of armed gunmen, to have shot up Joy’s room like that.” Hands took a bite out of his Red Man and rolled it around in his mouth, shaking his head. “I know the boss has big ideas for the com-

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pany. And he seems to have tons of money; he spends dollar bills as if they were pennies. I couldn’t believe he bought this hotel. And just because it wouldn’t give Orientals—Joy—a room.” Sal smirked while he relit his cigar. “And she is only his assistant, you know.” Hands rubbed his hand through his thin brown hair. “I cannot believe Joy. Who ever heard of a babe being able to fight like that? My God, I wouldn’t want to get in a fight with either one of them. Not even arm wrestling.” “Yeah,” Sal agreed, glancing down at his knife and fingering the sharp edge. “She could slice me into little pieces with her knife. Mierda—shit, what a woman. I can’t get out of my mind her naked body, and that long black hair of hers, blowing around her. It was like one of those dirty French postcards. Except for the gun.” Hands jerked his head around to stare at Sal with narrowed eyes. “Haven’t you seen a naked woman before? For Christ’s sake, Sal, she was running after those killers, not trying to show off her body. Anyway, don’t get any ideas. She belongs to the boss,” he warned, wagging his finger at the other man. “You’d have to be blind not to see how close they are,” Dolphy added as he took one of his Non Plus Ultra cigars out of his pocket. “I like her a lot, and our boss also. They’ve been good to us, and honest, so far as I can tell. And they’re paying us a hell of a lot more than we can ever get elsewhere.” His voice grew stern, and he pointed at each of the others with his cigar. “I don’t want any of us—any of us,” he glared at Sal, “to ruin it.” Hands gave Sal a long look. Sal worried him. He’s a good friend, but trouble with women and girls. He couldn’t help remembering how many times he and Dolphy had saved Sal from angry brothers or fathers. Sal nodded at Dolphy. “I wish I could find someone like that. But I know what you’re saying. No problem.” I’ll be watching, Hands thought, spitting tobacco juice into the room’s water bowl. Unaware of Hands’ concern, Sal brightened. “I’m going to ask Jyying out. I get first try. Don’t you guys ruin it for me, okay?” He rose and headed for the door, saying, “I’m going to get some sleep, and hope I don’t have a wet dream.” “Yes,” Hands replied, covering his thoughts, “you don’t want to embarrass the hotel maid when she makes up the bed, do you.”

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Dolphy chuckled, took a puff on his cigar, and exclaimed through the resulting smoke, “Man’s curse.” He got up to leave as well. Jy-ying Her gun under her pillow in case of another attack, Jy-ying lay in bed and reviewed what had happened, and what she had learned. She was surprised by her strong attraction to John. Only two men had ever evoked this sudden feeling in her. One was Shu Kuo, the director of the time machine project that sent her here. The other man was a Sabah intelligence agent killed by democratic guerrillas soon after she had fallen in love with him, and he had proposed. It is John’s masculine good looks, his male charisma, and especially his sense of humor that get me, Jy-ying mused. I also like the way he treats Joy, and it is as obvious as a pimple on a nose that they are intimate. I would like to get to know him better—better than better— but I do not want to alienate Joy. I like Joy; I like the way she handles herself. I felt close to her immediately. We have much in common, including emotionally. She could be my good friend, I am sure. What more have I learned? Joy and John are calm under fire. They are bold and fearless. They can joke about the lethal danger they face. And the police do not intimate them. And whoever tried to kill them last night must be the same gang that tried to shoot them on the street. This time they had submachine guns or automatic rifles. Those could only come from the future. Are the killers friends or enemies? she wondered again. Could they help me find and kill that time traveler who will try to assassinate Sabah? Or would they try to stop me? Maybe they are the ones who received the message. And who, really, are Joy and John? Maybe they are just what they appear to be—a rich businessman and his Asian mistress. No, no. That is not right. Not with the martial arts and weapons skills they have. Only their being secret agents would explain that. But then, for whom? Why their cover? What is their mission? Well, I will help defend them, at least until I get some answers. Now, if Joy were killed . . . . She shook her head, imagined drawing a red line through that thought, and chided herself, “Do not think that way.” She sighed, put her hand under the pillow, and grasped the cool grip of her Taiyang .38. Okay, Captain Jy-ying Khoo, formerly of the Sabah Security Guard of 2001, you are trained to answer such questions.

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Joy Joy, with John behind her, descended the hotel stairs like a cat entering a strange building. She had her gun concealed under the cape draped over her arm, and she kept her eyes moving, examining each person in the lobby and seeking possible ambush sites. John tried several times to get in front of her, but she used her elbows to keep him back. When they reached the lobby, they ignored the sudden silence and the rude stares from the little knots of guests. Joy also ignored John’s scowl as she let him move in front of her. She kept glancing over her shoulder. At the reception desk, John asked the still bug-eyed night clerk for a list of vacant rooms. One of his eyes seemed to have developed a nervous tic. Stepping back from the counter until has back was against the mail slots, the clerk pointed a shaking hand over his shoulder and haltingly responded, “Yes sir, all those with keys in the slots are vacant.” John waved the clerk aside and perused the keys on the third shelf. “Give me the keys to the two best third-floor rooms in the back,” he requested. “Also, tell the manager when he arrives later this morning that I will speak with him about the damage, but not to disturb me before then. Also keep the maids out of the rooms we had on the second floor.” The clerk emitted a tremulous, “Yes sir.” John turned and stood waiting for Joy to move toward the stairs so that he could guard their rear. She took three small steps toward the stairs, moving so slowly that John, returning the stare of two guests nearby, almost ran into her. She sidestepped quickly to the right and slipped in behind him. John looked back at the gawking guests, circled his finger at his temple, shrugged, and then headed for his second-floor room, ignoring Joy as she guarded their backs. Inside, he turned on her, shaking his finger. “I am the man. I am your protector. I go first. It’s like me walking on your street side to protect you against runaway horses and cars, and being splashed. Got that?” Joy purred, “Fair’s fair. We split fifty-fifty. I went first going down. You went first coming back.” Chuckling together, they gathered their belongings in two sheets. John had clearly planned ahead. Holding his loaded sheet over his shoulder with his left hand, right hand close to his holstered .45, he exited Joy’s room first. Joy glared at his back.

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They slipped notes under Jy-ying’s and Hands’ doors to inform them of the room changes, trusting Hands to tell Sal and Dolphy. Then they cautiously climbed the stairs to their third-floor rooms. The first thing they did in each room was lock the window, pull down the blind, and close the white lace and cotton curtains. Then Joy joined John in his room, and he propped the room’s hard-backed chair against the doorknob to prevent the door from being easily opened. Feeling as though she’d be safe for the rest of the night, Joy plopped down on the bed. She rolled onto her back and waved her hand in front of her face, wrinkling her nose. “God, this room also stinks of cigarette and cigar smoke. And body odor.” “Well, “ John pointed out as he sat next to her on the bed, “our noses will get used to it and we won’t smell it after a while. I worked on a farm one summer vacation, and one of my chores was pitching horse and cow manure around and cleaning the chicken coop. Eventually I didn’t smell a thing.” “That may be so,” Joy replied, “but you had better take a bath every day anyway, if you are going to sleep with me.” John grinned. “You mean after my joy ride. Right?” Joy rolled her eyes as John laughed, never seeming to tire of that pun. “Try me and see,” she warned. After a moment of silence, she said, “I’m too hyped up to sleep. Let’s talk about what happened.” John John had started to relax in the heavy quiet and growing warmth of the stuffy room, but now Joy’s mention of “what happened” began to get to him. No threat now focused his mind; no Ryan distracted his emotions; nothing needed to be done immediately; and no guys required his response. His mind was finally free to face what had happened to them. Fear settled on him like a wet woolen blanket. Again, they had been close to death. Again, he or Joy could have been killed. Again, his body reacted. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees, and looked down at his boots. His heart beat loudly in his inner ears as his body shook in harmony. “We only arrived here . . . yesterday . . . morning,” he stammered. God, that sounded awful, he realized.

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He rubbed his hands together and blurted, trying to clear his throat, “Testing—one, two, three.” He actually felt his voice get stronger. Still hunched forward, he looked at Joy as she sat up, leaned toward him, and put her hand on his arm. He tried again. “We’ve now been here for just over one day.” Thankful that he now could speak clearly, he went on. “And we’ve already been attacked twice. Jesus! The second time was with submachine guns, or something like that. And we don’t even know if it was the same people. There might be a large gang out to kill us.” “I know,” Joy murmured. She gently caressed his back. John gave a final shudder, and that was it. His heart calmed its wild dance within his body. Yesterday, at their weapons capsule, he’d remained frightened by what was happening, by the potential of Joy’s and his deaths. Today he felt more in control. He was grateful. Surprised. He sat up straighter. “Thanks, baby. I’m okay. I guess there is such a thing as getting used to people trying to kill you.” Joy nodded, smiling, and caressed his cheek with the backs of her fingers. “Maybe it’s like shoveling manure. As you said, one gets used to it.” He was now able to put together the semblance of a smile. Adopting an accusing tone, he said, “Speaking of what happened, I’ve been waiting to bring up your display of your charms to the world. You could have at least covered your breasts with the arm holding the gun, and used your other hand to cover your crotch, but no. You let everything hang out. Perverted woman.” Joy gaped just for a moment, and her eyes glinted, but then she realized the expression on his face was a lopsided smile. The corners of her mouth turned up as her full lips parted in a grin. “You! You, with your joystick swinging all over the place. It’s a wonder . . . that . . . it didn’t knock . . . the gun out of your . . . hand.” She collapsed into body-shaking belly laughs. This was just what John needed. He managed to get out amidst his own laughter, “Good thing . . . they didn’t shoot at me. . . they couldn’t have missed it. You poor thing—to almost be so deprived.” Joy laughed louder. “Don’t get carried way.” After a few minutes, Joy lay back on the bed and put her hands under her head. She asked, “Ah, why were you chasing after me outside with my empty gun?” “Empty?” “How many shots did I fire into my room?”

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John leaned over and tugged off his boots, grunting and grimacing with the effort. “Stupid things,” he exclaimed. With less speed than a slug slithering across a street, he rolled off his cotton half-hose socks, held them with two fingers for a second while he smelled them, and tossed them away from the bed. He glanced sideways at Joy, and could tell by her raised brows and steady stare that she was still waiting for an answer. Releasing a quiet sigh, he half turned toward her while keeping his feet as far away from her as possible. He scratched his chin. “I don’t know. Four or five? Six?” “Six, dearest? What’s the load of my magnum?” “Six, baby,” John replied, nodding emphatically. “Damn it, John, it’s five. How many times have I told you to count your shots, and those being shot at you? Jesus, what were you going to do if you came up on the attackers? Throw my gun at them?” “Shucks. My secret is out. I’m more accurate that way.” Under Drill Sergeant Phim’s steely look, he silently gazed over the edge of the bed at the worn carpet, which looked like a satellite photograph of the Sahara Desert. From experience, he knew what was going to happen when they got their weapons practice range built. She’s going to fire off a thousand bullets and make me count each one. After some seconds, he looked up at her from under his brows, waved his hand, and tried to change the subject. “Okay, now that we’ve had another humor moment, down to business. Let’s see.” He watched her face from the corner of his eye, as a meteorologist watches for a coming hurricane. “We know two things about our attackers. They have brought a supply of weapons from the future. That machine gun or machine pistol they used could not have been produced in this era. More importantly, they knew we were in this hotel. Now, how the hell could they have known that, since we didn’t know ourselves we would be here until this hotel was suggested by Hands?” Joy’s stern face fell into gloom. She curled her hands on her chest. “One of the guys must be in on this.” A new face, thought John. I haven’t seen this dark face of hers before. This must be the hundredth in her repertoire. She has more faces than all the characters in Shakespeare’s Macbeth. But— “No,” he exclaimed. “Any of them could have killed us many times since we arrived. But, maybe the killers got the information from one of the guys. After all, our staying in this hotel is not a secret, and sure—” Her shoulders slumping further, Joy interrupted with, “Yes, one of them might have told other people about his new job and boss and your

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buying this hotel—we are kind of odd for this era—and the information got to our attackers. But I can’t believe that would happen so fast. Anyway, how would our attackers from the future know about our hiring the guys? We just did that yesterday morning, and we didn’t know anything about them before we arrived in this time.” She flipped onto her side and leaned on her elbow toward him. “Strange, isn’t it. Our attackers knew this hotel. They knew we were going to the bank—if they’re the same ones who attacked us near there, which I’m sure they are. But they didn’t know about the warehouse we would arrive in from the future.” John added, “Also, their handguns are from our future time, you say, but they are new types of weapons that you—you—can’t identify.” She pushed up to a sitting position facing him, and gave him a long look that almost frosted his eyebrows and lashes. Her icy voice did. “Are you trying to irritate me?” My mistake, John admitted to himself. Tapping his chest, he asked, “Me? Why should a nice, sensitive man like me try to irritate such a beautiful, loving woman like you? Anyway, don’t be so uptight. You should learn to take jests about your superior weapons knowledge, and a few other things. I mean, as I do about my own incredible and vast knowledge. Use me as a model.” John ended with a toothy smile that would have melted an iceberg. He hoped. Joy glared at him at first, and then tossed her head, threw both hands up in the air, and fell back onto her pillow. “You’re impossible,” she exclaimed. Secretly savoring his victory, John asked, “Where were we? Oh, yes.” He clasped his hands around one knee and mused, “Given what we now know or don’t know about our attackers, I bet they’re from the future of this new universe we are creating. Even if we are somewhat successful in our mission, technology will be changed. Not at its roots, but in terms of major companies, brands, and products.” Relaxed again, Joy looked thoughtful before adding, “Well, they know all about our movements. We are very vulnerable, love. Especially with the warehouse tying us down to a location around which they can have lookouts, and set ambushes. We’re fortunate that they don’t know about it yet.” John held up a finger, brow furrowed, lips pursed in thought. After a few seconds he waved his finger at the ceiling. “We both like to write. I remember your excellent term papers for my class. And I completed a Ph.D. dissertation and was working on a book when you vamped me into this mission—”

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“I did no such thing, John.” Oops, she’s used my name again. He had learned that when she did that instead of addressing him with an endearment, he had better change the subject, or prepare for combat. “I’m sorry.” He knocked on his head. “I misspoke. I meant your allure got me into this mission.” He rubbed the end of his nose to hide an invading grin. Joy gave him a “Who are you kidding?” squint. He hastened on. “Anyway, baby, we both can write well, and I wonder if, toward the end of our mission here, we wrote some kind of history of what we did. That would make sense, you know. Especially for me, the wordsmith of our partnership.” He ignored the pink tongue she stuck out at him. “I’m a historian. I believe in history as the guide to the future. If we succeeded, I might have felt that people of this new universe should know about the how and why of their peaceful and prosperous world. And I could believe that this would assure their continued support of democratic freedom.” Joy swept her long black hair forward over her shoulders and started looking for split ends. “Well, I don’t think you should ever write such a history. I wouldn’t. The mere thought that I’d be informing scientists that a workable time machine existed would freeze my fingers. All the scientists would need to know is that it’s possible, and those men would work like mad to build it. Just think of a time machine in the hands of someone like Hitler or Stalin.” “People!” “Huh?” “People.” John emphasized with his finger. “You said ‘men.’ Many scientists are women, you know.” He tipped his head back and favored her with a smug expression. Joy’s eyebrows vanished under her bangs as her eyes grew round. She stared at him. The ends of her hair now lay forgotten across her fingers. Neither of them drew breath. The only sound was the air molecules rubbing against each other. He finally raised his eyebrows as if to ask, “What? Did I say something?” Then he nodded and said, “Yes, I agree, we shouldn’t write anything. But then, how do our attackers know the details about us that they do? You know, whatever future they come from is now being changed by our actions—” “And theirs,” Joy interjected, her eyebrows visible again. “Which already must be a different universe from the one we created before, the one from which our attackers came. I’ve got to think about this.”

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John laid back on the bed and put his hands behind his head, unconsciously mirroring Joy’s posture of moments before. “Now, we originally came from what we call the old—first—universe. We created the second universe, where we succeeded in eliminating major international wars and democide, but that gave Abul Sabah a chance to seize power over his country of Uighuristan, and eventually, China. After years of preparations, he launched a nuclear attack on the democracies, and forced them to concede to his power. But the president of the Joy Phim Democratic Peace Institute, Hands’ granddaughter, caught on the fringe of the nuclear destruction of New York, survived radiation poisoning long enough to have a message sent back in time to warn us about Sabah on our arrival yesterday. That message and our response created a third universe. And our attackers have come from this universe’s future. They had to. They can’t cross universes. If they could, so could we—we’d be able to return to our old universe. But the best scientists in our universe assured us that is impossible, that time travel is a one-way trip.” Joy nodded, her face expressionless. “While toddling along in this third universe, we have been attacked twice by two or more people from upstream in time. This means . . . dearest, we now are in a fourth universe created by their changes and our reaction to those changes.” John rubbed his forehead and left his hand there, letting his mouth hang open for a moment. He lifted his other hand and circled a finger through the air. “So we’ve been here from the old universe only one day, and in that time we’ve slid through two universes of which we know nothing, other than what was in the message we received about our success in the second universe, followed by Sabah and his nuclear attacks and the message back to us that led to our creating a third universe. And attackers from that third universe have come back in time to do us in and, as a result, we are in the beginning of a fourth universe. Wow!” Joy frowned. “Okay. We are in the fourth universe. So?” John put his hand on her shoulder. “So, I’m getting a headache from this, baby. Let’s move on. And here’s what I suggest regarding the danger we’re now in.”

Chapter 7 8:00 a.m. Friday Hadad

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hen the Bank of California on California Street at Sansome was about to open, cold, wind-driven rain had forced all but the hardiest pedestrians off the street. The number of horsedrawn wagons seemed hardly diminished, however; their drivers huddled beneath black umbrellas that all but covered them. Well dressed in a gray Hockmeyer corduroy suit and narrowbrimmed Dakota hat, Hadad waited under the bank portico, dry and out of the wind. When the bank guard unlocked and opened the high doors, Hadad strode into the bank carrying a newly purchased leather briefcase, his shoulders back, his chin thrust forward. He stopped at a large oak desk near the back, across the aisle from a counter running below barred cashier windows. A polished walnut block at the front of the desk bore the stenciled announcement “Kenneth Dole, Assistant Manager.” Except for a report that Dole hunched over, reading, the desk was surprising bare, inhabited only by the invariable green banker’s desk lamp, a desk calendar, a pen and ink stand, and a green blotter mat. Hadad did not hesitate. He knocked on the desktop with his blue sapphire ring. The skinny man behind the desk jumped in his seat, then jerked his head up and scowled at Hadad. Unfortunately for Dole, his wire-framed glasses slowly slid down to the end of his narrow nose, making him appear more comical than threatening. Hadad had to stifle a laugh as he tipped his head back to glower down his nose at Dole. The chatter of customers and clerks echoing against the marble walls and columns paused for a moment, and a clerk walking by Dole’s desk glanced with raised eyebrows at the two men staring at each other. Hadad jutted his chin at Dole and promised himself, l will convert to Christianity before I will speak first. Finally, holding the edge of his desk with both hands, Dole growled, “You Orientals have your own ban—” “Tell your manager that someone wishes to speak with him privately,” Hadad demanded. Dole sat rigidly erect; he clenched the paper he had been reading in one hand while he looked Hadad up and down over the top of his narrow glasses. Finally he grunted, “Who are you?”

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“Just say, ‘A very rich man.’” Dole glared at Hadad for a moment, then pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger, shoved his swivel chair back, and in one motion stood and turned his back on Hadad. He marched to the office at the back of the bank and knocked on its ornate koa wood door. Hadad heard a muffled “Come in.” He watched Dole enter and pause to bow slightly before he closed the door behind him. I was taught well about this stupid culture, Hadad thought, thanking his teachers, as he often had since arriving in this time. It is so dependent on artifacts for judging people—a briefcase, an expensive suit, a clipboard, a long white coat, a lineup of pencils and pens in the shirt pocket . . . . Dole emerged and motioned with a jerk of his hand for Hadad to go into the office. Hadad strode straight-backed and proud to the half-open door. Without waiting to be asked, he pushed the door farther open, stepped through, and shut it behind him vigorously enough to qualify as an ambiguous slam. The office was large and ornate, with blue velvet drapes and a thick, interlaced mohair rug, and paintings of cowboys herding cattle and shooting buffalo on the walls. A couch rested against the wall opposite the manager’s desk, and two light blue cushioned armchairs faced the desk. A little statue of a naked female reaching for the sky rested on a side table; on the desk, another small statue of a naked woman, this one on her knees, held her arms outstretched to support a gold letter opener. The desk itself was made of rosewood, and its strong reddish hue clashed with the many blues in the room. The decor displayed well the tension between new wealth and old elegance. It is a wonder that he does not have incense burning somewhere, Hadad thought. Without even looking at the man behind it, he advanced to the bank manager’s desk, and pulled out of his inner suit pocket a thick roll of bills held together by a jeweled clip. Unhurriedly, he removed the clip and counted out five ten-dollar bills. He laid each on the desktop, overlapping them so that the “10” showed on each. Hadad mentally shook his head. I almost cannot believe this is worth $1,800 in 2013. He had yet to make eye contact with the manager, but from the teak name block he had glanced at, he knew the man’s name was Skinner. Hadad clipped his roll, put it away, and smiled to himself. The scene is set. I am so good at this. Could have been an actor.

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He stood straight, clasped his hands behind his back, and at last looked down at Skinner, who was leaning back in a high backed captain’s chair behind the desk. He had yet to utter a sound. Hadad’s brows shot up for a moment. He had expected someone fat—or at least stout—and well groomed. Instead, Skinner was thin to the point of being emaciated—his checked cheviot suit hung off his shoulders as though draped on a wire hanger. He had combed his few gray hairs over a bald pate; they resembled the horizontal dividing lines on shiny graph paper. He crossed his arms over his sunken chest and peered at the money on the desk through sunken eyes. Sensing that Hadad was looking at him, he looked back with one narrow eyebrow lifted. He didn’t seem to know whether to be haughty or subservient. He decided on neither. He reached into a desk drawer—Hadad immediately grabbed for the Stahl in his shoulder holster—pulled out two Havana cigars, looked up at Hadad, and held one out to him in bony fingers. Hadad dropped his hand and shook his head. Skinner dropped his eyes to look at Hadad’s hand for a moment, and then down at the cigar. He frowned as he bit off the end, put the cigar in his mouth, and took a match from his Diamond Matchbook. Warily striking it on the scratch plate—too many of the clusters of matches in these matchbooks had caught fire, since the scratch plate was on the inside—he lit the cigar, then tossed the match into his white marble ashtray. He leaned back in his chair, puffed on his cigar, and studied the smoke with half-lidded eyes. Then he looked up at Hadad again, now with a wisp of a conspiratorial smile. Expressionless, Hadad tilted his head back a little. He said nothing. Skinner leaned forward and waved his cigar at him, creating a faint cloud of gray smoke between them. “My good man, who do you want me to kill?” he asked in a gravelly voice, then showed his nicotinestained teeth in a grin. Hadad hesitated. Is the man serious? he wondered. This is the American Old West. No, it just must be one of their crazy expressions. He finally pointed to the money and said authoritatively, “That is for your pocket in return for simple information. Yesterday, a man named John Banks bought from you a deserted warehouse formerly owned by a company that had gone bankrupt. Provide me with the address of the warehouse, and that money is yours.” Skinner’s brow jumped up down, and his eyes widened for just a second; he shoved his cigar in his mouth when it fell open. “That’s all? May I ask why?”

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Hadad squared his shoulders and gave Skinner an unblinking look. After a pause of several seconds, he responded sternly, “No you may not.” He paused again for effect, then narrowed his eyes, and said in a lower and harsher tone, “But, I will tell you anyway, if you promise that it will remain in this office.” “Of course,” Skinner responded in a puff of smoke. His gravelly voice made Hadad want to wince. “Very well. This is secret government business. You understand?” Skinner rose from his chair to stand at round-shouldered attention, his suit coat flapping open. “I do,” he said in a low voice that sounded like paper ripping. “I will get you the address. You can trust me.” He charged out of the office. While he waited, Hadad looked around. There were chocolate candy squares neatly stacked in a crystal bowl on the desk; he put half of them in his pants pocket. He leaned over the desk and opened the drawer containing the humidor and took a handful of the cigars, which he dropped into his larger coat pocket. After a quick glance at the door, he caressed the naked statue on the desk with a finger, his lips pursed. Then he shook his head. With a shrug, he lifted the gold letter opener from the statue’s hands and shoved it into his inner coat pocket. Hadad was about to go through the other drawers in the desk when the manager returned. With his cigar clenched between his teeth, he held out a slip of paper to Hadad. Gazing down at it as though it were the only thing in the room, he whispered confidentially, “Here’s the address. The warehouse is at 8th and Hooper Streets.” He sounded like a hand rubbing across a blackboard. Hadad’s nerve endings twitched. Hadad put the paper in his pants pocket, saying, “The money is yours.” He strode briskly out of the office, then through the bank as though he owned it. With a vigorous shove, he pushed open the bank’s large double doors, ignoring the guard who was reaching to push them open for him. He knew the assistant manager watched him all the way, his mind one huge question mark. He was sure the manager would leave it that way. Carla The rain had stopped, and fog was moving in. Carla, wearing a black Melton automobile coat with a heavily ruffled, lawn hat, waited down Sansome Street in their Buick. She looked at Hadad expectantly as he approached, her raised eyebrows disappearing underneath the

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hat’s low brim. Smiling broadly, he tossed his briefcase on the rear seat, pulled open the wet driver’s side door, climbed slowly into the high seat, and nonchalantly pulled the door closed. She wondered for a moment what the strange sound was, and then realized he was humming. It spiked to a stop when Hadad saw his door had not latched. He pushed it open and jerked it closed with a slam, spraying drops of water onto his lap. It still did not latch. This time he used two hands and pulled it hard. It shut, spraying more drops, and shaking the Buick. That ruined his moment, she thought. Nonetheless, he gave her a smirk, and seemed to be waiting for her inevitable question. “Well, did you get it?” Carla asked, not hiding her impatience. “Of course,” he replied, as though she had asked if San Francisco was in California. It was just the tone to irritate Carla. “It is about time you did something right,” she replied coolly. Hadad reached into the glove compartment for the map of post1906 earthquake San Francisco they had brought with them from the future. As he unfolded it, Carla reached into her purse, pulled out The Official Map of the San Francisco Police Department that she had bought locally, and opened it on her lap. “What is the address?” she asked. “I have it on a piece of paper.” Sitting as he was behind the steering wheel, he had to squirm around to get his hand into his tight pants pocket, and when he did, he stopped abruptly. Something between distaste and dismay crossed his face. He withdrew his hand, holding something covered in brown goo between two fingers. “What is that?” Carla asked. After a long pause, Hadad replied, “Chocolate candy.” He held the chocolate-coated paper up to let the sunlight fall on it, and tried to read the address. Carla leaned closer to peer at it too. Not only had the chocolate oozed over the address, the ink had become blotched and smeared. Hadad gritted his teeth. “This is Satan’s work. I cannot read the goddam address.” Carla looked heavenward for help, and then demanded, “Here, give it to me.” She snatched it from his hand. She squinted at it, then shook her head. “I cannot believe this.” She leaned toward him, rubbed the sticky paper across his nose, and dropped it onto his lap. She licked her fingers clean. Refusing to look at him, she told the windshield, “You will just have to go back and get the address again.”

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“I cannot do that. What am I going to say? ‘I am very sorry. The address you gave me got smeared by your candy I took.’ Anyway, I remember it well enough. It was . . . ah . . . 8th and Cooper.” Carla looked at him, head tilted. She scowled. “You sure?” “Yes,” Hadad said emphatically, removing the paper from his lap with two fingers. He threw it out of the car and wiped his fingers on the outside of the wet door. They both started looking at their maps. Hadad traced with his fingers the various intersections and streets. Carla watched him, knowing there was no street index on his map. After a few minutes of searching, he looked sideways at Carla. He looked at his map again. “So many streets. Where the hell is it?” he muttered. “Cannot find it?” Carla finally asked. “I suppose you found it.” “Certainly,” she answered. “Look for the intersection of Kearny and Jackson, then run your finger east on Jackson and it is the first alley on the south side of the street.” “How did you find that?” “My map has an index. Throw that stupid thing of yours away. It must have been made by one of your many girlfriends.” Ignoring her, Hadad pulled a red pencil out of his inside suit pocket and circled the street. He studied the map a moment, then said, “Let us go look at it.” “That is dumb,” Carla said. “They might have seen this car last night, and there are not many Buicks in the city. We should find a cab and tell them to take us past the warehouse and return us here.” “Good idea,” Hadad said, getting out of the car. Carla followed. They stood on the sidewalk trying to stop a cab. Eventually, a twowheeled Hansom cabriolet sloshed through the puddles, damp harness fittings thumping, and stopped in front of them. Hadad and Carla climbed in. The wet seats were upholstered with machine buffed something-orother, and apparently captured body odor like an old towel. The driver sat on a high seat behind them, the reins running over a partial black canvas top to a sorrowful, swaybacked, chestnut horse. The front of the Hansom was open, except for a high footboard, giving them a magnificent view of the horse’s behind. Even as open as it was, the cab stank like a football locker room. They sat down. Reluctantly. Carla wrinkled her nose and exclaimed, “What a stench.” Then she grinned and looked at Hadad, and asked in mock disgust, “Is that you? Did you change your underwear?”

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Hadad knitted his brows together and suddenly inhaled. “What? Of course I did. It is the seats. Can you not tell?” Carla sighed and did not respond. The driver leaned around the top to glare at Hadad for a moment. As though making a decision, he asked gruffly, “Where to?” Hadad gave him the address and added, “We just want to look at the place and return here.” The cabby’s bushy eyebrows flew up as he put out his hand. “You pay first. Thirty-five cents.” Hadad took out his change purse and gave the cabby a half-dollar, “Here, and keep the change.” The cabby looked closely at them again, turned around, and yelled, “Hiiyaa” as he whipped his horse’s flank. Hadad The driver made the horse pull the cab along at more that a trot. It was almost running, bouncing Hadad and Carla against each other, forcing them to hold onto the sides as the horse’s hooves splashed muddy water on them. After what seemed a rather long ride with many turns, they came to a camp of some sort, with police standing by a gate. The cabby pulled up in front and leaned out to yell, “Got two more for ya, Alex.” Alex had graying hair curling from under his helmet, and what little remained of an Abajo cigar clamped in the side of his mouth. He came over to the side of the Hansom, put his hands on his hips, and stared up at Carla and Hadad. After scrutinizing them as though they were for sale, he demanded, “Get out.” Mystified, Hadad asked, “What is the problem, officer?” Alex pointed to the ground and barked, “Down. Now.” He leaned toward them and stabbed his finger at the ground again while he put his other hand on the grip of his holstered police Colt .45 automatic. Sitting up straight and puffing out his chest, the driver loudly announced, “I picked them up near Sansome; they wanted to go past somewhere on that Chink Cooper Alley and then return.” As he spoke, Hadad and Carla stepped down onto a much-rutted, black dirt entrance area by the police post. Their heads swiveled around, their eyes flitting from police, to guard shack, to tents, to those around them. Two other policemen joined Alex and stood warily, holding their billy clubs. They ignored Hadad and leered at Carla.

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Alex whispered to one of the policemen, who went into the guard shack and came out with something in his hand, which he handed to the driver. The driver glanced at what he got, then lightly whipped his horse and drove off. Hadad scowled at the back of the retreating Hansom, his nostrils flaring and his mouth a thin line. Meanwhile, Alex had turned to directly stare at Carla and Hadad. Clenching his fists, Hadad, growled, “Who do you think—” Alex ignored him and demanded in a gruff tone that seemed to shoot from the cigar close to burning his lips, “What are you people doing in that white man’s section of town? And who’d you steal those clothes from?” “We have business in the city,” Hadad responded, narrowing his eyes. He could feel his ears heating with anger. “You dare to—” Alex tightened his hand on his holster. “You people have no business anywhere but in this camp.” Hadad compressed his lips and clenched his jaw. He stared back at Alex. Carla eyed the large, gray and brown canvas tents beyond the post. She nudged Hadad, and he followed her gaze. As far as he could see from this distance, there were only Orientals walking around. Smoke hung in the air over the camp; he smelled a disgusting mixture of cooking, unwashed people, and their waste. Almost gagging, Carla asked, “What camp is this?” One of the policemen answered, spitting out Bull Durham tobacco, “It’s for you people.” “Us? Who do you think we are?” The policemen laughed, and Alex answered, “Chinese, Japanese, some kind of bloodsucking Oriental.” Hadad hissed through his teeth, “Satan damn you. I am not going to—” Carla raised her voice above his. “We are not Oriental. We are Kazakhs from Kazakhstan.” “Where’s that?” Alex demanded. Confident his reply would settle whatever the problem was, Hadad tilted his head back, pointed his chin at Alex, and responded, “Middle Asia. We are not Oriental. Our ancestors were Mongols.” Alex smirked. “I thought so. You’re Asian. I don’t care whether you’re Chinese, Japanese, Turkish, Somethingese, or Whateverese.” He glanced at the two policemen. “Take them in, men. You know where to take her.”

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One of the policemen pointed to Hadad with his billy club and then to a large, dirty canvas tent to the left of the lane on the other side of the gate. “You see it?” “Yes, but you do not think—” “You follow me,” a second policeman yelled, pulling on Carla’s sleeve, expecting only mild resistance. “XX,” Carla whispered to Hadad through the communicator implanted in her throat. “Remember Joy’s experience—the tent, the old Chinese woman, drugged tea, sex slave ring?” Hadad heard her through the shortwave receiver anchored in the bone behind his ear. Satan be damned, he thought. He whipped his Stahl out of his shoulder holster to point it at the policemen, barking, “Get your—” Another policeman in the guard shack just behind him brought down his billy club on Hadad’s wrist. Hadad’s gun corkscrewed through the air as he bellowed, “Ouwww!” He grabbed his paralyzed hand with the other and bent over it, starting a little jig of pain. The pain instantly evaporated into nothingness as one of the other policemen clubbed him on the head. Carla Hearing Hadad’s agonized cry behind her, Carla thrust her hand into her purse for her own Stahl as she flung herself to the side. She expected to land on her shoulder and roll to her feet out of reach of the policeman, with her gun pointed at him. But the toe of her pointed shoe caught in the glazed flounce lining at the bottom of her dress, and she tripped stomach first into the muddy gravel, her dress collecting in a swirl high on her back and exposing her translucent silk panties—she’d worn no petticoat or slip. Her hat flew off in a spray of lace, feathers, and imitation flower buds; her purse was pinned painfully under her breasts; and her hair tumbled out of its fashionable bun. Before she could move her body to get her gun out of her muddied purse, the policeman had his heavy boot on her back and one hand gripping her hair, pulling her head back. “Behave, you fucking Chink, or I’ll drag you by your stinking hair.” Carla was shocked more by his comment than her fall. Stinking hair? The stinking idiot! I will get— Sharp pain cut her reaction short as the policeman twisted one of her arms behind her and pulled her up by her hair and the arm.

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Without releasing her, he pushed her in front of him toward the brown tent and through the flap. “I got another one for you,” he told the old Chinese woman inside. “She put up a fight. Force the tea down her throat.” No way, Carla thought, and went limp, dropping her full weight on the policeman. She reached back with her free arm and got it around the policeman’s head then, getting both feet under her for balance, she flipped the shocked policeman over her shoulder onto the ground. Just as he landed and she was about to jump on him and hand chop him unconscious, a smothering, reeking blanket enveloped her head. A second later, the world disappeared into blackness. Alex Alex spit out his cigar butt and yelled, “That son of a bitch pulled a gun on me. Did you see that?” He kicked the unconscious Asian in the side several times. Then he stopped and raised his eyebrows. “Damn, this Chink has a hard body.” The man’s suit coat was wide open, and two top buttons on his shirt had popped, exposing a dull gray surface underneath. “What’s this?” Alex asked, bending over and ripping the shirt further open, popping more buttons. He tapped his fingers on what he saw, and told the two policemen who were watching, “Take off his coat and shirt; I want to see what this is.” Minutes later, they had the still unconscious Oriental leaning against the guard shack, stripped of his coat, shirt, collar, and bow tie, but with what appeared a tight vest covering his upper torso. Alex looked at it carefully and noted, “It’s some kind of vest, and hard. But I don’t know how he gets it on. I don’t see any buttons.” One of the policemen took his billy club and lightly smacked the vest. There was a mild thump. He hit it harder, causing only a slightly louder thump. “Never seen anything like it,” he said. Alex looked for buttons and couldn’t find any. “This is too tight for him to put it on over his head. But that’s the only way he can get it on. Here, help me,” he asked the other policeman bending over to look at the vest. “Raise his arms and I’ll try to pull this over them.” As Alex tugged on the vest, the top front of it opened a couple of inches. “Ah, what’s this?” Alex shouted, widening his eyes. “It’s opening.” He put his hands into the opening and pulled in opposite directions. The vest came apart with a ripping sound. “I’ll be goddamned,” Alex exclaimed.

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He now easily removed the vest from the man’s torso. Then he played with pushing the front edges together and taking them apart. “What the hell is this, anyway?” Finally, Alex turned to one of the policemen and said, “Call the station to send a wagon for the Chink. He pulled a gun and assaulted me. He’s going to jail. And be sure to take his gun and this crazy vest to the station.”

Chapter 8 Mid-Morning, Friday Carla

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arla abruptly regained consciousness. She felt a chilly draft. Her head hurt. From having studied Hands’ biography, she instantly knew her danger. She still felt drugged, but knew that would soon pass. Timing is now everything. Be patient, she warned herself. She relaxed to let her five senses fully explore. That draft on my breasts and thighs—Satan be damned, I am naked. She could feel a soft, lumpy mattress under her back—It stinks— and there was something soft lifting up her behind. And then, she realized that the draft was reaching between her legs. Shit! My legs are spread. She tried to move her arms, but they were tied behind her. With her keen hearing, she caught the sounds of breathing and movement. A small room, with no more than two other people in it. She had almost recovered from the drug, and could ignore the headache caused by the blow she had received. She waited unmoving for what she knew was going to be said and attempted. Within minutes, a man with a low, heavy voice spoke. “What a beauty. Look at those tits. Too bad that thick black bush hides her cunt. We’re going to have to shave it off later. But then, look at that spread of black hair on her head. Have you ever seen hair that full and black before? You know, she doesn’t look like a Chink or a Jap. Maybe she’s Eurasian. Doesn’t matter. She’s made me hot as hell, and I’m going to enjoy this. You’re next, Tim.” An even heavier voice responded, “Yeah, Ben, you always go first.” She opened her eyes just enough to see who was talking. Ben was a portly, middle-aged man who was just taking down his pants. Beside him stood a huge, heavyset man with a large head and no neck. His small eyes were focused on her body, and his lustful grin looked as if it were painted on his round, flat face. Oh shit, Tim must be the enforcer that Hands described when Joy was in this position. Before she could move, Ben had his pants off, had knelt down, and was on the verge of entering her. Oh Great Allah, I am going to be screwed.

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Ben entered her with a powerful thrust, causing sudden pain. She was too dry. Ignoring it, she slitted her eyes and moaned in seeming pleasure. She thrust her hips back at Ben and tightened the muscles around her vagina. “Harder, harder,” she murmured, moving her head back and forth, swishing her hair around, all the while checking out the room. It looked like a hotel room, with one window, a closet, a chest of drawers, a water pitcher and bowl, and a hard-backed chair with her clothes piled on it. On the chest, she could see her armor—armor? How did they get that off me? She also saw her purse, and beside it her Stahl. She was ready. She moaned, “Yes, yes. That is it. I want to feel your balls when you come.” She squirmed against Ben’s thrusting and whined, “My hands are tied. I want to have fun too. Let me at it.” Ben was so shocked he stopped his thrusting for a moment. Then, supporting himself on one arm, swaying with sexual heat, he motioned Tim to untie her. Ben jiggled around inside her while the enforcer took out his knife and turned her shoulders sideways to reveal her wrists. He cut the rope around them. Hands free, she put her legs around Ben’s back and held him tightly inside her so that he could hardly move. She pretended to embrace him with her arms until she saw Tim put his knife away. Then she pulled her right hand back as though for support, flattened it, and put all her anger behind it as she gave Ben a death chop on the neck. Air gushed out through his gaping mouth in a loud whoosh as his body shuddered a last time. Dead, his body dropped over onto its side, pulling his still erect penis out of her. Tim stood paralyzed, shocked by what he saw. She leaped up into a crouching position and in the same motion did a front jump kick at Tim’s face. As he tried to grab her, she caught him on the nose and forehead with her heel, snapping his head sharply back and knocking him backwards. Before he could regain his balance, she rushed to the chest and grabbed her Stahl. She whirled into a crouch and, with two hands and a mirthless grin, she aimed the gun at Tim as he tried to lumber to his feet. She spit at him, “Rape this,” and shot him three times in the chest with her hollow points, exploding his insides like little bombs and blasting blood from his mouth, nose, and eyes. He was dead before his body dropped onto the floor like a pile of wet clothes. Quickly, Carla locked the door to the room and opened the window. She saw that she was on the second floor, facing a yard and a fence. She threw on her wool dress, leaving it unbuttoned to hurry into her

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automobile coat. She tossed her hat and armor out the window. Then she put her gun in her holster purse, swung it by its strap across her back, and climbed out the window to hang from the windowsill by her hands. Fists started pounding on the door to the room. Under her she saw garbage cans and, to one side, an untended, weedy area. Swinging back and forth, she got the momentum and angle she wanted, and let go. She arched eleven feet into the weeds, and managed to roll in them to soften her fall. She jumped up, grabbed her armor and hat, ran to the side of the house out of sight of the window, and climbed the fence to the empty yard next door. She ran around the neighbor’s house and into the street. She found herself on 11th Avenue. The area was mixed industrial and residential. It had not been touched by the 1906 fire and showed no damage from the earthquake. Horse-drawn carts and wagons and a dark green Model B Ford waited in front of a nearby store. She shoved her hat onto her head and buttoned her dress underneath her coat. Brushing the leaves and twigs out of her hair, she sauntered down the street and crossed it to stop by the Ford. Two elderly women passing by gave her a dirty look, and a well-dressed man ogled her, but she paid no attention to them. The Ford was unlocked, so she climbed in and hunkered down on the capacious floor so she could not be seen while looking for the starter. “Damn,” she hissed. There was no starter. I forgot. It has not been invented yet. The crank was in a fixture on the inside sidewall. Remembering what she had been taught about primitive autos in preparation for her time travel, she advanced the throttle and spark levers on opposite sides of the steering post, but not too much. Then, looking as though she owned the car, she walked around to the front, inserted the crank and, in two revolutions, got the Ford’s four cylinders working. They shook the body back and forth, and put-putting, donut-shaped rings of black smoke popped out of the exhaust pipe. As she was about to climb up into the Ford, it backfired with a sound like a gun shot. She immediately reached for her Stahl, and sent her hat flying off as she dropped into a spread-legged crouch. When she realized what the sound was, she laughed at herself, picked up her ruined hat, shrugged, and got into the auto. She adjusted the throttle and spark and pressed one foot onto the reverse pedal, causing the Ford to jackrabbit and almost stall. She immediately raised both feet and let the auto coast backward as she

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carefully readjusted the throttle. Then she pressed the reverse pedal again, and gradually opened the throttle two-thirds. Just missing a wagon, she was able to circle backwards until she faced the street. She stomped on the brake pedal to the right of reverse, pulling the gearshift out of neutral and drawing it toward her into low gear even before the Ford stopped. Two teeth-rattling jerks, and she had it heading for the street. The owner came running out of the store to chase after her. He ran almost as fast as the Ford at first, until she shifted full forward into high gear, pushed the throttle to its stop, upped the spark, and engaged the full twenty horsepower of the engine. She left the control alone and just clung to the steering wheel as she skidded around into a side street, almost tipping over and losing control, and then did a sliding turn into another, using the sidewalk to give her a wider angle and grazing a street sign. When she was sure that the owner had lost sight of the car, she slowed the Ford to a respectable ten miles per hour, and smiled to herself. I will accept even these small victories. The Ford’s top was down and even with her coat on and the sun out, she began to shiver in the wind. She looked for street signs and finally saw that she was on Geary Street. Gauging direction by the sun, she drove east to Gough, north to Pacific, and then east again. Almost a half-hour later, she drove past the New California Resort and parked on a side street three blocks away. Allah be praised, she thought as she walked toward the Resort. The first thing I am going to do is take a bath. The second thing I am going to do is take another bath. Hadad Hadad opened his eyes inside a horse-drawn wagon and winced at a roaring headache and a pain in his right wrist. He was bouncing on the floor with each movement of the swaying wagon, and each bump felt like a hammer hitting his skull. He looked around and saw the tightly screened windows on the back door and the cab wall, and guessed that this was a police wagon. He looked down at himself. His shirt was unbuttoned under his open coat. No armor. He tried to move his hands from behind him and felt the handcuffs. They made the throbbing in his bruised wrist worse. But his feet were free. And he was alone in the back. God be praised; they are so dumb in this age.

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Squirming, ignoring the pain, he drew his legs tightly up to his chest and slid his handcuffed hands under his buttocks and over his feet. With his hands now in front, he searched the littered floor, finding a bent nail with a quarter-inch head under the bench. He was bouncing around too much to even insert the head into the keyhole on the cuffs. Finally, the wagon hit a much smoother stretch of road, and he could insert the head. With a few deft wiggles of the nail, he had the cuffs loose. He fixed them around his wrists so that they still looked locked, but he could easily shake them off. The good stretch of road ended. Hadad’s bottom was getting sore from all the bumping when the wagon finally stopped in front of a squat, red brick building with “Police Headquarters” painted on an obviously temporary cloth banner stretched over the front entrance. Two policemen came to the door in the back of the wagon; one unbolted it and motioned Hadad to get out. As he did so, Hadad noted that they were on the cracked and broken concrete in a delivery area near the front entrance. He looked around. No others nearby. No one watching. Good. He front kicked the closest policeman in the groin; as the man screamed and bent over grabbing at his crotch, Hadad threw off the cuffs and kneed him in the face. Shocked motionless at first, the other policeman tried to swing his billy club at Hadad’s head, but Hadad ducked, rotated, and side kicked his boot heel into the policeman’s chin. Hadad again quickly scanned the area to make sure no one was approaching. Still safe. He propped the unconscious policemen against the wagon’s back, then lifted and flopped first one, then the other into the back of the wagon. He bolted the door. “Enjoy,” he told them. Hadad turned and walked to the sorrel draft horse patiently standing in its traces at the front of the wagon. He looked at the old concord truck harness with which it was hitched to the wagon. The ill-fitting bridle had worn the horse’s skin raw. Hadad shook his head. Stroking the horse’s nose, he murmured, “Poor guy. I will let you out of this as soon as I can.” The horse tossed his head and nickered in response, sensing a friend. Hadad climbed onto the cracked driver’s seat, lifted the worn leather reins in one hand, and lightly tapped the horse with the whip— the best he could do, with his painful wrist. The horse started forward at a slow trot. Hadad guided the wagon around other police wagons and a Stanley Steamer. Two policemen talking to each other as they walked nearby gave him no attention as he slowly drove past.

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He saw from the street signs that he was at the corner of Pine and Larkin Streets. Not knowing where this was, he headed up Larkin. When he hit Pacific, a name he recognized, he sighed with relief. He headed east, toward the taller buildings. Good choice. After traveling about three-quarters of a mile, he recognized Montgomery Street, and knew how to reach the Resort. When he saw the Resort in the distance, he directed the horse into a side street, and then into an alley alongside a boarded-up store of some sort. He stopped the horse, climbed down, and unharnessed and unstrapped him, including removing his blinders. He threw a blanket he found in the wagon’s cab over the horse’s bare back, then backed up several feet. A running jump landed him on the horse’s back, and he righted himself. He had not ridden a horse like this since he was a boy, happily riding his favorite Mongolian horse bareback across his family’s farm. The horse neighed when he felt Hadad’s weight, and stomped a few steps with his head up, but he settled down when Hadad patted his neck and talked softly to him. Hadad slapped him gently on the rear, dug his heels into his sides, and gripped the reins, yelling, “Ya, ya!” The horse started at a trot. Hadad was just one of many horse riders, although he was the only one he could see without a saddle. Despite his headache and the pain in his wrist, this was the happiest he had been since he and Carla had arrived in this stupid country in this awful age. Knowing he couldn’t reproduce the unique Mongol throat-singing style, he hummed the Mongol warrior’s song that expressed his happiness in returning safely from battle . . . until he noticed some people staring at him, and he suddenly realized that a policeman had better not see him—he might recognize the horse. He sought out the narrow side streets, walking the horse down them until he spied the back of the Resort. He launched into a rendition of “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain,” an American song he just learned from Carla. Carla? Carla! What happened to her? His mood crashed as he remembered her being taken to that tent. I cannot believe that they would be able to subdue her. Not Carla. She is either free, or dead, or unconscious somewhere. He knew he had to seriously think of the alternatives, unpleasant though they were. If she is dead, I am alone on this mission, and I had better plan on that right away. If she is unconscious, she will be killed trying to escape or succeed in escaping when

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she comes to. No way would she accept sexual slavery, not for a moment. Not Carla. So, if I do not see her in a couple of days, that is it. I am alone. Maybe it will be easier with just me. He felt his face sag. He stared down at the blanket and let his shoulders droop and his mouth turn down at the corners. I would miss her. Then, realizing he would really be pursuing their mission alone, he gulped. His heartbeat speeded up, and he blinked rapidly. No Carla? Never to see her again? No! He urged the horse into a canter, riding several more blocks and turning into narrow Gold Street. He dismounted and patted the horse on the head. “Good boy. Now you are free. At least for a while,” he said in a rush, and rapidly removed the horse’s bridle and reins and draped them over his shoulder with the blanket. A good thump on its rear got the horse to move a short distance away. His head still hurting from the blow of the policeman’s club, his wrist now only aching, Hadad hastened onto Montgomery and headed toward the nearby Resort. “It is about time,” Carla said from the bed as Hadad entered their room. She had a damp cloth across her forehead. “Did you have fun while I was knocked unconscious, kidnapped, raped, and had to kill two fucking rapists to get away?” Hadad momentarily froze with his hand still on the doorknob, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide. Then he smiled and was about to rush to her with open arms when her irritated tone registered. He stood straighter and narrowed his eyes. “I guess you are one up on me,” he responded brusquely. “I only got knocked out and had my armor and gun taken. Then I was handcuffed and hauled to the police station in a wagon, where I had to knock two policemen out to get away. I rode a police horse here. My misfortune. I was not raped, and I did not kill anyone. You lucky woman.” He gaped when Carla’s irritated look collapsed into tears. Carla! Tears! Then it hit him. Rape? “You were really raped?” he gasped. “I thought you said that no man alive would ever be able to rape you, my master of White Crane kung fu.” He stood looking at her while she wiped at her tears with the damp rag. He shuffled his feet and did not know what to do with his hands, which he finally rubbed together. “I was unconscious, you ass,” Carla finally whispered. Hadad straightened up and rubbed his chin. “Was it your fertile time? I do not want to think of you getting pregnant.”

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“It does not matter. I killed the rapist before he could come.” Hadad took a step back and grimaced at the thought. He said softly, “Well, I am happy you are okay, and I’m glad you killed the Bokshil— shithead.” Carla sat up and motioned for Hadad to sit on the bed next to her. She put an arm around him and rested her head on his shoulder. In a voice he had heard rarely since they arrived, she told him tenderly, “I am happy you are okay, too.” She lifted her head and, with a little more of the usual firmness in her voice, said, “We could have contacted each other with our communicators. What is the use of having them implanted if we do not use them?” Hadad was adamant. “No, it is not wise, as we agreed. When we try to communicate in combat situations, when we are out of sight of each other, we cannot know what the other is doing. We may inadvertently distract the other at a dangerous moment.” “Okay, I guess I agree,” Carla responded. “Now what do we do to kill those two?” No names were necessary. Hadad thought for a moment. “We have to go to our supply capsule to replace my lost Stahl again, and get more ammunition for our OT15s. Then we are going to buy another car so we are not dependent on these cabs if we do not want the Buick to be seen. Never again will we take another cab. And we are finally going to kill them.” “Ah, one thing.” “What?” “We have to change our looks somehow. Mongoloid-Asian is out, white is in.”

Chapter 9 Late Morning, Friday John

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ohn woke up disoriented. At first he thought he’d been dreaming about the night attack on Joy and him, but then he looked around the room and realized it was not the second floor one he had been in. He remembered they had moved to safer rooms. No dream. He looked at Joy, sleeping on her back next to him with the covers pulled up to her shoulders in the chilly room. Her head was turned toward him, her jet-black hair spread across the pillow behind her. He saw the outline of her hands under the covers, resting on her stomach. She looked so peaceful, so feminine, so sweet, so fresh. A sleeping beauty. Seeing her sleeping like this, who would ever guess she was a warrior in the old Asian tradition? he reflected. He shook his head. I can’t believe my life now, with its narrow escapes, and the mission to which I have committed myself. He looked more closely at Joy’s closed eyes, at their unlidded Asian slant he found so attractive; at the pert, slightly off-center nose— broken and repaired twice—and the tilt of her strong chin; at her full lips, open as though in a pout; at the off-white scar running from her cheek to her chin, contrasting with her otherwise unblemished, light olive-colored skin; and at the way her waist-long hair always seemed to open like a curtain on her beauty, whether escaping in tendrils from a bun on her head, in a pigtail in martial arts practice, or flowing free and wild in sleep or lovemaking. I would die to save this woman. She is all that love means to me. And I know with equal certainty that she would die for me. I would also die for the mission, but I could not, would not, will not sacrifice her for the mission. I will not lie to myself about this, no matter what my mind says. My heart dictates otherwise. He knew this to be absolute truth. His eyes moistened as he rested on one elbow and just let his eyes and heart wallow in her presence. My God, what is it now? Almost two months, I think, since I was a new professor of history. She was just one of the students in my class—

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or so she pretended, while she checked me out for this mission. Almost two months. That was a lifetime ago; a world away—a universe! Now three universes. Has anyone in world history every undergone such a mammoth change in one lifetime? Well, doesn’t matter. I’m here. And she is here next to me. I love you, baby. He leaned over and lightly brushed her lips with his. She meowed and, still asleep, put her arms around his head. He kissed her harder, waking her. She purred, “I love you, my dearest.” He drew back the covers and pulled her into his arms and held her body tightly to his. He buried his face in her hair, luxuriating in the heavenly smell of her hair and body. He wet her face and her hair with his happy tears. When he leaned back, tilted his head, and melted into her teary eyes, he knew that she understood. With gentle passion and unhurried caressing and play, they made delicious love. It was neither wild nor complicated, acrobatic or physically trying. It was sweet and loving. And tender—the lovemaking of lovers who realize they are lucky to be alive, and there may be no tomorrow. Later in the morning, John went to Hands’ room and woke him up. “Change in plans,” he said. “Please wake up Sal and Dolphy and come to my room.” He knocked on Jy-ying’s door and when she answered with a blanket over her shoulders and a welcome smile, he also invited her to his room. She nodded, eyes wide, and was about to say something when, preoccupied, John turned away and started down the hallway. Dolphy entered the room yawning, and Sal looked sleepy—but wide awake enough to spot Jy-ying and stand near her. When they’d all arrived, John didn’t waste time. “Killers are after us, and we have to hurry, so this is what I want to do . . . .”

aaa Afterwards, looking John in the eye, Hands pointed out, “We have agreed to be your guards. We are putting our lives on the line for you, and we’re well paid for it. But, since one of us might get killed, shouldn’t you tell us what’s going on?” “I agree,” Jy-ying said. “I am now involved also, and want to help you all I can. But I should know what is involved. The full story.” John smiled and replied, “Now it’s a matter of urgency. Let’s do what we have to, and then when we have time for a long discussion tonight, I’ll explain as best I can. I owe it to all of you. Okay?” Hands gave a mock salute and smiled in return, saying, “To work.”

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aaa John finished his phone call and turned to Joy, who had set up her Mac laptop to type the document they planned. Grinning, he told her what she’d expected. “It’s a go. Good thing the telephone company has the system up and running for most of San Francisco. If they didn’t, we’d be having a tough time doing all this.” He stepped around behind her and leaned over her shoulder to read what she had started typing. “Now, to get that letter out,” he said. “When you finish typing and printing it, I’ll have it hand delivered.” John started packing what little they had in the room into his suitcase and a shopping bag. When he finished, he left them on the bed and walked down to the manager’s office, his eyes flicking from side to side, looking for anyone suspicious, and his hand close to his holstered gun. He felt like a parody of a spy in a trench coat, collar turned up, eyes swiveling back and forth as if he were watching a tennis match. Foster, the previous owner of the hotel and John’s new manager, was standing with the day receptionist, talking excitedly about what the night clerk had told them. When they saw John, they stared at him as if he had on a cowboy hat and two smoking pistols strapped to his hips. John greeted both of them with a pleasant “Good morning.” Then, looking at Foster, he asked, “Can I see you in your office?” Without a word, acting more frightened by John than curious, Foster opened the varnished door to his office, motioned John in, and nervously followed him. John suspected he did not want a crazy gunman at his back. Foster waited for John to sit at the desk, and then seated himself in the armchair. Blinking rapidly, he clasped his hands in front of his chest as though they would protect him. Twenty minutes later, John and Foster emerged from the office. A grin split Foster’s shining face. He looked as though he had won a taxfree, million-dollar lottery. John tucked a roll of bills into his pocket, tipped his fedora to the receptionist, and navigated the lobby, again carefully watching for anyone suspicious as he climbed the stairs. When he got to the third floor, he exhaled with a whoosh of breath, relaxed, and headed for his room. “All set?” he asked Joy after he’d closed the door behind him. “Okay,” she said, “I’ve got everything.” They gathered up their suitcases and bags. Carrying them in their left hands to leave their right hands free for defense, they left the room. When they got to the stairs, Joy squirmed in front of John and slowly descended with him muttering behind her, keeping as close to the wall

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as possible. When they reached the lobby, John caught up to her and, side by side, they headed for the doors, their eyes studying every hiding place and every guest present. Even more watchful, John exited the front entrance first before Joy could preempt him, and then they strode together down the street without saying a word. Joy After two blocks, John went into the street and waved down a horse-drawn farm wagon loaded with vegetables. “Hey, mister,” he yelled at the driver in duck overalls and straw hat. “I’ll give you one dollar to take us to this address.” He pulled out a slip of paper and held it up so that the driver sitting high on the wagon’s spring seat could read it. “Holy cow,” the driver exclaimed, “you could buy a lot of my vegetables for that.” John responded, “Good, just take us to this address and you can keep the vegetables.” The driver pushed the address aside. “I can’t read it.” John stepped up on the front wheel hub to give the driver a closer look at the address. The driver’s face changed from cheer to gloom. “I can’t read it, I said.” Then, perking up a little, he added, “I can read the names of my vegetables, and I can write my name and address.” John quickly responded, “Good for you,” and read off the address. “You know how to get there?” “You bet,” the driver replied, nodding, the gloom over his illiteracy again submerged for a while. Joy and John slung their suitcases and bags on top of the vegetables, and the driver made room for them on the narrow seat beside him. It was not made for more than two people, and Joy had to squeeze against John. The driver pulled out of his overalls pocket a thick, handrolled cigarette and lit it with a wooden match. He took a deep puff before picking up the reins. Joy hated cigarette smoke, but knew, as she had when Sal first lit his cigar, that if she said anything she would be thought rude, even strange. She again resigned herself to the smoke. Maybe the wind will keep the smoke away. The driver snapped the reins and his Belgian workhorse started pulling the wagon at a walk. The seat’s springs were not designed for the weight of three people. Pushed down to their base, they provided no

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relief from the road’s ruts and potholes, some of which Joy recognized from her own age as universal in time and space. The wooden seat hated strangers. By the time Joy and John got to their destination, they would not have been able to persuade their bruised bottoms that there was a difference between a glide, a jolt, a bump, or a jerk. John asked the driver to wait and, for another dollar, take them to the address of their warehouse. Just before he jumped down, Joy whispered, “Glutton for punishment, eh?” She stayed with the driver while John dropped off the letter at the address and signed some documents. While John was gone, the driver took out a blanket and told Joy, “Shame to hide you, pretty girl, but you had better cover yourself with this. All Chinatown burned down, you know. The mayor didn’t want it rebuilt, but couldn’t stop it. It’s far from finished yet. So the mayor is still rounding up Chin . . . Chinese—Orientals—appearing in white man’s neighborhoods, and putting them in the Presidio camp.” “Thanks for telling me that. I’ll use the blanket. You’re a nice man.” The driver was still blushing a little when John returned, and they headed for the warehouse. About a block away, John asked the man to let them off and gave him the two dollars, receiving an effusive thanks in return. Joy also returned the blanket. As they walked toward the warehouse, Joy asked, “You didn’t give him counterfeit money, did you?” “No, those were real bucks.” “Good. He was so nice I wouldn’t feel right otherwise, even though the bogus money is undetectable in this age.” They approached the warehouse from the rear, warily, keeping a good distance between themselves. John tried to go first, but Joy skipped past him and led in a shuffling semicrouch, her free hand holding her magnum at the ready. She noted that John tried to follow in the same way with his .45, although he looked uncomfortable. They put their suitcases and bags next to the warehouse side door, and Joy motioned John against the wall. Making sure he’d be out of the line of sight once she opened the door, she quietly released the corroded outdoor catch and turned the doorknob slowly until she could open the door a fraction. Then, with a final look at John, she shoved the door with her shoulder, jumped inside, and immediately backed against the adjacent wall, rapidly panning her gun from left to right across the warehouse floor. Then John rushed in and backed to the wall on the other side of the door, also sweeping his gun back and forth before him. Joy looked at him with approval. Then they carefully checked all possible hiding places.

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When they were sure they were alone, John exploded with, “Whew! What a relief. So far, I haven’t wet my pants. I won’t even ask how you’re doing. I assume you’re having a ball.” “Don’t be fooled,” she responded with a little asperity. “I’m human too, you know.” They brought in their suitcases and bags; John closed and barred the door. Now they both could let their guard down. Joy took John’s hand, and they strolled to the capsules filled with supplies and equipment the Society had sent them. They finally could talk, an opportunity for which Joy had been waiting. “How much did you get for the hotel?” she asked. “I sold it back to Foster for $60,000.” “Sixty thousand?” “Yes.” “One day ago you bought it from him for about $69,000. If the gun damage is no more than $500, you lost over $8,500 in one day. If I were training you to shoot the way you’re handling our finances, you still wouldn’t know where the trigger is. I hope your stock transactions will be better.” John averted his eyes. “No choice about the hotel. Our attackers knew we were there, and we couldn’t even have our business visitors stay there, for the killers might connect them to us.” He changed the subject. “We need a good defensive weapon and a good long-distance rifle, besides our handguns and your crazy knives.” He walked over to the weapons capsule, punched in the code, opened its door, and turned off the self-destruct mechanism. “Do we have such weapons among these rifle cases, if that’s what they are?” Joy responded without looking. “Those are rifle cases, and they’re sealed against moisture. For more protection, each case contains only one new rifle in a vapor corrosion inhibiting bag, and the rifle has been thoroughly treated with a top grade, very long-lasting, polarizing oil. Also, there—” “Why such care?” “It’s very humid in San Francisco, and it might be many years before we need a particular rifle. Moisture is the enemy of guns, as I’ve told you a thousand times.” John just puckered his lips. “Anyway, we have the Mossberg 590 12-gauge shotgun, with shortened barrel, extended magazine, and mounted halogen beam—” “You sound like you’re trying to sell it to me.”

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Joy ignored him. “I would use the birdshot load for our purposes, since we will be defending ourselves inside a building in the city. For the rifle, I suggest the AK-47 assault rifle for short or medium range combat, and the combat M16A2 5.56mm rifle for longer range. It’s automatic and semiautomatic, and has a point accuracy up to 853 yards.” John’s eyebrows were going up and his jaw dropping, but she continued mercilessly. “But for real distance and accuracy, we also have the British Accuracy International sniper rifle, Model PM, bolt-action 7.62 with telescopic sight, flash hider, and silencing suppressor. I’m going to pull out each of these for us. That will exhaust our supply of these weapons, but no sense saving them. Our lives are endangered now. The guys should buy what is currently available.” John asked in amazement, “How can you know and remember all these weapons?” “Dearest. How can you remember all the words and grammar for French, German, and Spanish, as you do? And all the names and dates in history that pepper your constant lectures.” “What? You don’t like my lectures?” Joy ignored him again. “I bet if I ask you who was the foreign minister of Russia in 1914, you’d know. You’re trained as a historian, with all that to remember plus the languages you had to learn. And I’m trained in weapons.” She turned full face to him, gave him the glorious smile she knew always turned his insides to mush, and added, “Among other things.” Even though he was now as soft as an ice cream cone in July, ever the professional, he started to say, “The foreign minister was—” A horn sounded outside. Joy rushed to the side door, unbarred it, and with her magnum at the ready, she peeked out. “It’s our guys and Jy-ying,” she told John. He ran over to the large cargo doors and forced them open. They were just in time.

Chapter 10 Early Afternoon, Friday Carla

“D

amn it, Carla, I can do it. If the motor kicks back on you, the crank could injure, even kill you. This is a man’s job.” “Hadad! This is a Model F Buick, not some Ford. It has a safety-something that eliminates the possibility of a kickback on cranking. Do you not remember anything of what we were taught?” Hadad hissed back, “I do not trust it.” That did it. Carla threw up her hands, shook her head, and stepped back from the front of the Buick to let Hadad insert the crank in the crank hole beneath the radiator. He then clenched the crank handle in his left hand and put his black and blue right wrist behind his back to keep it out of the way. Before he could start cranking, Carla moved in, put both hands over his on the handle, and began the cranking. Hadad had no choice but to let her help. Together they pushed down and pulled up and down and up and down on the crank. The engine finally caught with a pop and a clank and the smell of gasoline. While the whole automobile shook to life, Carla rushed ahead of Hadad to jump on the right running board and adjust the spark and throttle. When the Buick settled down to a mild jerking, Carla yelled at him, “You cannot drive with that wrist.” Rather than answer, Hadad quickly stepped onto the running board and climbed up to sit on the high, tufted leather driver’s seat before she could stop him. Realizing that there was no way she was going to get him out of that seat to drive herself, she simply said, “Dumb! With the driver’s seat, gearshift, and high speed clutch side lever on the right, you are going to have to use your right hand and bad wrist to shift.” With a little curl of her lip, she added, “I cannot do it for you.” Hadad’s fashionable green golf cap almost fell off as he shook his head. “Satan take the wrist. I do not need you to shift, Carla.” With a smirk, Carla nodded and said, “Of course, you could just keep your foot on the low speed pedal.” Carla climbed onto the passenger seat, and Hadad hit the low speed pedal with his foot. He almost stalled the car when it jerked forward. He let up on the pedal, moved both the spark and throttle up, then, as

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the car gained speed, he flipped the clutch lever, gripped the head of the rod sticking out of the floor with his right hand, and gasped from the pain when he had to wrestle the bulky gear forward into high speed. “See!” Carla shouted. Under her breath she added, “Kot—asshole.” Eyes watering, Hadad gritted his teeth and steered the Buick away from the boardwalk and into the horse and wagon traffic. Several times, he had to shift down into neutral and use the low speed pedal and then shift back up to high speed, and each time the grinding of the gears and jerking of the Buick got worse. By the time they arrived at the downtown office building where they had hidden their supply capsules, Hadad had to use his left hand to lift his right off the gear handle. Inside the condemned, partially burned building, Carla breathed through her mouth as she opened their blue supply capsule and took out their cosmetics. “I will never get used to the stench of whatever was burned here. Our planners should have known and picked a deserted, unburned building, like the one found for Joy and John.” Hadad did not respond. He tenderly held his wrist and focused on avoiding bumping it against the capsule, his side, or Carla’s body as she moved about. She picked out a vanity mirror and used shadow and skin coloring to heighten her low forehead, and to make her black eyebrows appear rounder. She also widened her eyes and made their double lids more prominent. Some rouge and eye shadow helped make her high cheekbones look lower and less prominent, and her chin less round. She had worn her hair in the standard bun, loose enough so that it rounded around the back and sides of her head. That had to change. While Hadad held the mirror up for her, she pulled her hair tightly back into a bun packed behind her head, which made her face look narrower. “Hey, this is fun,” Carla said as she put a big black mark on the end of Hadad’s nose with her eye shadow brush. Hadad stepped back, pressed his lips together, and arched his eyebrows, wrinkling his forehead. “You are childish.” Her smile disappeared. He stepped toward her and took the rouge pad out of the box she was holding. He patted it heavily against her nose. “Ha. So.” She grabbed her lipstick and drew a thick, pale red line from his cheek across his lips to his chin. She then whisked the mirror out of his hand and held it up to him. He looked, preened, and they both laughed. He seemed to forget about his wrist. Carla cleaned their faces. After again making up her face, she did Hadad’s. She stood back, inspected his face and then her own in the

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mirror, and sighed. “Well, it will not fool someone looking closely, but they have to be looking at us in a good light.” She looked at his face again, and was surprised at the emotion that suddenly stirred her insides. She turned her head slightly and looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “You are a handsome man, Hadad.” “What brought that on?” “Does it matter?” Hadad looked into the capsule, scratched his nose with his good hand, and after several empty seconds, he commented nonchalantly, “You are a beautiful woman, Carla. But, you know that.” The moment exploded like a pricked soap bubble. Her insides suddenly felt empty. Carla went to their green clothing capsule, unlocked it, and pulled out two hats. One was a Texas Steer sombrero for Hadad, and for herself a misses’ lawn hat fully stacked with tasseled fine lace. She put the sombrero on Hadad’s head and swallowed the laugh that struggled to escape. Quickly she put her own hat on, and looked in the mirror. She guffawed. Hadad joined her in laughing. “God preserve us. That looks awful. But if you wear it low over your forehead, it will help hide your forehead and eyes.” Carla grabbed the rim of Hadad’s sombrero and pulled it down until it reached his thick eyelashes. “You are right,” she exclaimed, exploding in another laugh. With a tolerant grin, Hadad want back to their supply capsule and took out a huge roll of counterfeit hundred-dollar bills. “These are our fake ones. No one will know in this age. Here, split these with me.” As she counted out the bills, he moved over to their red weapons capsule, unlocked it, and retrieved his backup armored vest. He also withdrew another Stahl 9mm and its shoulder holster, a Bashirova 613 sniper rifle and case, night scope, and sniper day and night binoculars, and replaced their empty OT-15 magazines. Carla helped him put his vest on, and in doing so bumped his swollen wrist. “Ouch. Careful, damn it,” he growled. She also helped him put on his shoulder holster, but with less care. Too bad, she thought as she got it on him without touching his bad wrist. He leaned down, picked up his Stahl, and put it in his holster. Then Carla helped him into his coat. “What would your life be like without me?” she murmured. “What?”

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“Nothing.” With one eyebrow raised, Hadad eyed her for a moment, and then picked up the ammunition and weapons next to the capsule and shoved them into her arms. After he locked the three capsules, he led the way out. When they got to the Buick, Carla skipped around Hadad, tossed everything up into the back seat, and jumped into the driver’s seat before he could say anything. He quietly and carefully climbed into the front passenger seat, and then asked with a smirk, “How are you going to start the car?” “Bokg,” she exclaimed. She took the crank off its inside hook, climbed down from her seat, and went to the front of the car. She inserted the crank and cranked two revolutions; after a pause, she cranked another two; quickly tiring, she tried another revolution. Finally, breathing hard, she yelled, “Are the damn throttle and spark advanced?” “No. You should have looked.” “Well, did you adjust them now, Hadad?” “Yes.” Muttering, “The drip-drip-drip water torture is too good for him,” she again cranked. The Buick’s engine almost caught several times, but with only a half-hearted shake and a rattle. “Have you adjusted the spark lever?” she hollered. “No. Now I have.” “Did you do that on purpose?” she roared, the crank in her hand trembling from her desire to throw it at him. “Grow up, Carla. I cannot help it if you do not have the muscle to start a car.” No, I am going to boil him in oil. Slowly. Very slowly. A half-adegree increase per minute, she snarled to herself. Face hot with rage, knuckles white on the crank, she jerked the crank another revolution, jolting the Buick and Hadad; then the engine caught with its usual clanking, shaking, and stench, and settled down when Hadad adjusted the controls. Her lips a thin line, Carla clambered back up into the driver’s seat. Her arms felt ready to fall off. Hadad did not even try to hide his smirk. “Have you forgotten? The Buick might have been seen at the Fairfax Hotel by Joy or John, and these automobiles are not yet common here.” “I know, Hadad,” she barked. “We should just leave it on the street somewhere,” he said. “While you were busy doing something else, I used the telephone to ask an op-

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erator about the number of companies selling new cars. One of the numbers she gave me was Hughson & Merton. I called them and found out that they have the franchise for the Ford, and have just gotten in the new Ford Model K. I told them I will be coming in to buy one.” She pushed the low speed pedal, and as they got moving, she flipped the clutch and engaged the planetary transmission. When the Buick settled down to fifteen miles per hour, she glanced at Hadad and responded, “Wow, Hadad. You did that all by yourself.” She kept her grin to herself. He sat up, pushed the sombrero higher on his forehead with his finger, and looked down his nose at her. “Somebody has to be in charge,” he informed her. Hadad Carla drove the Buick past Hughson & Merton on Golden Gate Avenue and parked about half a mile beyond, on a dead end street. As they walked back to the dealer, they stayed in the shadows and kept their faces averted from passersby. An hour later, they owned a new, royal blue, six cylinder, forty horsepower Ford Model K with top and gas lamps, for $3,200. Hadad beat Carla to the driver’s seat, and sat there wearing a pleased grin at his little victory. As their salesman cranked up the car, Carla leaned over to look at the throttle and spark levers. Hadad grinned again—he had properly adjusted them. The Ford started easily with one rotation of the new engine, and the exhaust blew a perfect smoke ring before idling. Hadad used two hands to shift the gear while trying to ignore the pain in his wrist. He drove in low gear the short distance to where they had parked the Buick. They transferred everything they had in the Buick into the Ford, making sure they left nothing behind. Seated again in the Ford, Carla double-checked the city map for the location of Joy and John’s warehouse, as Hadad remembered it. She looked up at him. “You said 8th and Cooper, right?” Hadad nodded. “There is no 8th and Cooper. You must mean 8 Cooper.” Hadad nodded. When they drove off Jackson onto Cooper, they found it was a dead end dirt alley full of stinking tin garbage cans and litter from the nearby buildings undergoing reconstruction after the earthquake. There was no

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number 8. Hadad stopped the car at the end of the alley and held his throbbing wrist in one hand. He stared down at it while Carla glowered at him. Then he brightened. “Of course! I remember it now. It is 8 Hooker.” Frowning, Carla found the street in the index and located it on the map. “Looks like another dead end alley,” she observed. “You sure?” “Of course.” When they got there, the alley was cleaner than Cooper, but again there was no number 8. Hadad parked and again held his bad wrist, and stared out the side of the Ford at a red brick wall. “I know I am close,” he insisted. “The address must be something like what I said.” Carla shook her head, wrinkled her nose, and refused to look at Hadad. She unfolded her map and ran her finger slowly down the index, occasionally checking a street name against the map. Hadad shrugged his shoulders and told the brick wall, “Okay, I will go back to the damn ban—” “Maybe this is it,” Carla said. She frowned and shook her head, then cleared her throat. “Ah, there is an intersection of 8th and Hooper Streets.” “That is it!” Hadad exclaimed, waving his good arm. “I am sure. I would bet my life on it.” Carla kept her eyes on the map. “Yes, well, we will see. And do not bet your life. By now you would not have survived even a cat’s nine lives.” She sighed. “Okay. Start driving. I have my finger on the location and will direct you. Again.” Then, apparently obeying some strange urge Hadad did not understand, she reached over and pushed his sombrero down to his eyebrows. And smiled. What a strange woman, he thought, seeing her smile. He gave her a small grin in return. He left his sombrero as it was, although he had to tilt his head back to see the road. A half-hour later, they reached the intersection of 8th and Hooper. It was occupied by a large warehouse. Hadad jubilantly slammed his left hand on the steering wheel. “There it is! That is it! God is great.” Face brightened by a broad smile, Carla nodded. Hadad drove southeast past the warehouse. A large cab-over Manhattan truck was parked at the warehouse loading door. Carla suddenly whooped, “We have them, Hadad,” and pointed at the backs of two men just going inside.

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Well past the warehouse, Hadad angled right onto Wisconsin Street and parked. He left the engine running. “Now,” he said, leaning back in his seat with his head tipped high, “I will plan our moves. I took a good look at the warehouse as I drove by. I could see only one other entrance besides the loading doors, which is a side door next to it. Take the OT15 and hide it under your dress—” “Hadad, do you see how tight this dress is? I could not hide a derringer.” “Okay, hide it wherever you can. I will hide mine under my coat. First we have to reload the magazines.” As they did so, Hadad chortled. “They must be loading things onto the truck to hide elsewhere. They will not be expecting us,” he said as they clicked in the magazines. He looked at Carla. “Did you see the side door?” “Yes.” She bit off the word as if wanting to say more. Hadad suspected it would have been laden with unwarranted sarcasm anyway, and chose to ignore her sour look. “Very good,” he said, grinning with gleeful anticipation. “Now, I am going to drive up to the loading doors. I will enter through those, ready to shoot. At the same time, you go in through the other door. Do not show your OT-15 until you spot where they are. They do not know what we look like, so just walk toward them as though you belong there, and when you are within automatic fire range, let them have it. I will be doing the same thing from a different angle. One of us should get them.” “What about the others in there?” Hadad shook his head. “I do not want to kill anyone unnecessarily, but if they get in the way, I cannot help it. We must kill Joy and John. After all, we cannot carry on our own mission without killing them.” He put his left hand on her shoulder and said, “Good luck, Carla. I do not want anything to happen to you.” Carla’s eyes opened wide, and her mouth fell open. She answered reflexively, “Same to you, Hadad.” Hadad shifted the Ford into low gear with two hands, removed his left to push the throttle lever forward, and started turning the steering wheel to make a U-turn and drive back to the warehouse. Nothing happened. The engine had stopped. He pulled the crank away from the sidewall and was about to get out of the Ford when Carla jumped from her side, ran around the front of the car, and held out her hand for the crank. Halfway out of the Ford, he stopped and looked into her eyes. Her mouth was set in a firm line. He nodded and handed the crank to her.

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She made sure the throttle and spark levers were set properly, inserted the crank, and tried to crank the motor into starting. The engine backfired and kicked back the crank. Hadad leaned forward, concerned that she had forgotten not to hold the crank with her thumbs, but she bent to try another crank, uninjured. There was a sputter, a put-put or so, and nothing else. Panting, she tried again. Nothing more. She straightened, holding her back. Muttering in Turkmen, Hadad slowly climbed from the driver’s seat, removed the lid of the gas tank situated under the seat, and pulled out the gas stick. He wiped it on his suit trousers, dipped it back into the tank, and withdrew it. “Bokg,” he exclaimed to Carla, who was watching him. “That Bokshil dealer did not put any gas in it.” He threw the stick on the street and bellowed, “Walk. We will goddam walk.” Carla stared at him, the crank still hanging from her hand. He calmed down. “Let’s walk now. I will drive their truck back here after we kill them.” Carla threw the crank into the Ford while Hadad retrieved the OT15s and handed Carla’s to her. As he tucked his gun under his coat, he thought, We got them. In an hour, we can concentrate on just our mission. His heart beat faster and his body tingled as he realized, In an hour, I will have killed the most famous lovers in history. Me. Hadad turned to walk across the street. In his rapture, he forgot that Americans drove on the right side of the road. He automatically looked the wrong way. “Watch out!” Carla and the driver of a farm wagon shrieked simultaneously. Hadad walked into the side of a horse. It whinnied with fright and reared up on its hind legs to strike out with its front hoofs at the attacking animal its blinders hid. Hadad bounced backwards into Carla, then sideways onto the ground, his sombrero flying. He had been holding the OT-15 under his coat with his left hand, finger on the trigger. When the stock of the gun hit the street, the sudden jar caused him to pull the trigger. A stream of bullets drilled the horse in the chest and side. With a shudder that ran the length of its body and a shrill scream, the horse collapsed on its side, dead. Its falling weight twisted the wagon tongue to which it was hitched, flipping the wagon on its side, and throwing three squealing pigs onto the street. The 250-pound animals heaved themselves to their feet and tried to escape these crazy humans with all the speed their pumping legs could give them.

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Hadad saw none of this. His mind filled with shock and pain as the odd angle of the gun’s recoil and its jolt against the street twisted his trigger finger back, dislocating and breaking it. He instinctively looked down at the injury and gripped his painfully throbbing left hand with his right, hardly conscious of the added pain in his right wrist—he had instinctively used that hand to break his fall. Agony made his eyes water and his mouth gape wide. He gasped air in short breaths. He was barely able to see, let alone register in his mind, the grunting and snorting pigs lumbering past him. He did see through his watery eyes the driver and his helper rising from the street where they had jumped. The pair rushed toward him. “What the fuck are you doing, you fucking Jap?” the driver screamed at him. “You idiot. You shot my Lucy.” Hadad tried to get up, but the driver, a heavyset, bearded young man in heavy woolen work pants, suspenders, and a straw hat, kicked him in the side and knocked him over again. Red-faced and scowling, he picked up Hadad’s OT-15 from the street where its recoil had thrown it, gripped it by the barrel, and took two big steps over to the Ford. He wound up like a Major League batter and swung the OT-15 twice at the Ford’s dashboard. Hadad heard the glass over the instruments breaking. Just warming up, the driver turned from the dented dashboard to batter the motor cover and the canvas top and its struts until the OT-15’s stock broke in two. He threw them into the Ford. Not even winded, he bounded back to Hadad, who had gingerly stood and was holding his left hand in his right, with his injured finger sticking out. The farmer wrapped one muscular hand in Hadad’s coat and lifted Hadad’s face up to his. Hadad’s agony had diminished to pulsing pain, but now he screamed in renewed agony. Eye to eye, the driver spit into Hadad’s face, “You killed Lucy, my fucking horse.” “Yeough!” Hadad yelped, still hanging from the driver’s large fist, still holding his right hand in his left. “My finger is broken. Be careful.” “Fuck your finger—you owe me,” the driver growled. Carla had just moved into an offensive stance facing the driver, her fists ready, when Hadad cried, “I will pay you. Let me go, damn it.” The driver tightened his hold on Hadad instead. “You better have $300, or I’m going to flatten your fucking face,” he bellowed, spewing spit. The driver’s helper stepped close behind Hadad to back up the threat. Carla still held her position a few feet away, obviously ready to take care of both men, if necessary. Even with a broken finger and bruised wrist, Hadad felt he could handle these two in spite of the pain,

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but he also was aware of the crowd that was gathering—a truck and several horse-drawn wagons and carts had stopped in the street to see what was going on, and pedestrians were collecting. He saw Carla get ready to attack. She was looking at him as though she had a peeled lemon stuck in her mouth. He hollered at her, “Give him the money, Carla.” Carla relaxed, unfisted her hands, and brushed the dirt off her dress. She shook and rubbed her holster purse to knock the dirt off it, and stomped a few steps to pick up her hat. She straightened out the stacked lace and fluffed up the artificial flower buds, then carefully put it on her head, making sure it was straight. “Damn it, Carla, hurry up,” Hadad hollered as the farmer adjusted his tight grip on Hadad’s coat. Apparently now satisfied with her hat, she stood straight, her head held high and her chin out. She gave Hadad an “I will kill you later” look, then slowly reached into her holster purse. Her hand paused briefly at some bulky object, then moved past and pulled out her roll of bills. When the driver saw the money, he loosened his grip on Hadad. Spraying more spittle in Hadad’s face, he yelled, “I forgot the fucking pigs. You owe me $400.” As Carla ambled the few steps to the farmer, Hadad misinterpreted her face. “Do not do anything, Carla,” he warned. “Just give him the money.” Carla scowled. “What did you think I was going to do? I’m saving it for you.” She took out five one hundred-dollar bills and handed them to the farmer when he released Hadad. The farmer’s eyes grew large as he counted the money. His mouth sagged and he stood still for a moment, simply holding the money. Then he turned and motioned to his helper to unhitch the dead horse from the wagon. He turned and gave Hadad a final foul look, shoved the money deep into his pants pocket, and ran down the street after the pigs. Hadad’s broken, dislocated finger now just ached. He picked up the battered OT-15 magazine and tossed it into the Ford with the other pieces, then turned to Carla. He could feel the blood surging into his face. “Where’s your OT?” he growled. “Let me have it.” Carla looked at him, her hand on her hip, and told him through her teeth, “I would like nothing more.” She pointed to her OT-15. It was stuck barrel first in the dirt and horse manure alongside the street, where it had fallen when he fell into her.

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Hadad put out his right hand. Carla hesitated, then picked up the gun and handed it to him. Grimacing at the renewed pain in his right wrist, he turned the weapon around with one hand, looked at the dirty barrel, and then tried to look down it. “It is plugged with dirt.” He cussed for several moments in Turkmen and rolled his eyes upward as though asking God, “Why me?” Finally he tossed the weapon into the Ford and hissed, “Come on. We still have our Stahls. They are not going to escape.” Hadad picked up his sombrero, put it on with a flourish, and tilted it forward to almost cover his eyes. With two sharp nods, he motioned Carla to follow him, and walked around the dead horse. Carla advised, “Look both ways, Hadad.” He ignored her, and looked both ways. Traffic had resumed, albeit slowly, as people still rubbernecked over the dead horse and upset wagon in the street. When there was a long break in traffic, Hadad, still cradling his left hand in his right, stalked across the street. When he stood safely on the boardwalk, he waited for Carla to hurry across. She looked him over. “You’re a mess.” Hadad stood with his back to the street. “I do not care what I look like as long as we get them,” he said, and added gruffly, “With my busted finger, I cannot get my gun out of my holster, and I cannot turn my wrist to take it out with my right. Reach into my holster and get it for me.” Carla scowled at him for a long moment. She put her hand on her hip. “Say please,” she demanded. Then she seemed to feel remorse for what he had gone through. Opening her hand to him, she softly said, “Let me see your left hand.” He released the throbbing finger from his right hand and held his hand out to her. She took it gently in hers and studied the finger. It was bent back on itself at a right angle, with the fingertip beyond the last digit hanging sideways. She sighed. “We need to go to our medical capsule so that I can fix it. But you have to pack it in ice first to take the swelling down.” “No. Screw it. We have to get those two. Take my gun out of its holster . . . please.” Carla released his hand and reached into his suit coat and took his Stahl from his shoulder holster. She put it in his right hand. “Can you shoot with that bruised wrist?” “I’ll try to get close enough so that I can’t miss. You have your Stahl, right?”

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“Yes.” “Here we go,” he said, holding his gun under his coat and starting to walk toward the warehouse. As they approached the building, Hadad was praying to God that the truck was still there, with everyone inside. When he saw the truck and nobody around it, he told Carla with a grin, “I did not think they could hear the shots from inside the building, not this far away.” Almost skipping along the boardwalk, he added, “We got them.” Calming his happy feet, Hadad did his best to look casual as he sauntered up to the wall next to the loading entrance. When Carla got into position next to him, he gave her a final toothful smile. He pointed to the entrance and whispered, “Ready?” When she nodded, he entered the warehouse nonchalantly, still holding the gun hidden under his coat. Carla was right behind him. I cannot believe this, he thought. It is the end for them, and the beginning for us. No way can they escape! Inside, Hadad kept watch on Carla out of the corner of his eye so that they would attack as a team. Like her, he tried to look as though they had important business there, and walked straight toward the center of the warehouse. He took a quick glance around to see what everyone was doing. Several men were working on some boxes close to the loading doors. On the other side of the warehouse, a man and woman stood by a table, their attention focused on a paper lying on its surface. Their backs were toward the doors; they had not seen Carla and Hadad enter. Carla and Hadad exchanged looks and Hadad nodded toward the man and woman. They walked briskly toward the pair. Carla put her hand in her purse as Hadad tightened his grip on has Stahl. Even if Hadad’s wrist had erupted in agony, he would not have felt it. Or anything else. He heard nothing. He smelled nothing. He saw nothing but those two who would soon be dead. We have them. We have them, Hadad thought. God is great.

Chapter 11 Mid-Afternoon, Friday Martha Clark

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artha thought about it for a moment, feeling the wrinkles deepening across her forehead, and then drew another line one third of the way down the right side of the paper. “I think the second partition should go about here,” she said to Keith, the stocky, plainly dressed man standing next to her. He looked at the drawing for a moment and suggested, “Then my desk should go somewhere around here.” He drew a small box at the appropriate point on the paper. At that moment, Martha heard a board squeak behind her. She turned around to see a man and woman approaching. Keith also turned to see who was there. “Hello,” she said, not recognizing them. “You must be the volunteers.” The man had his hand inside his suit coat; the woman’s was thrust into her purse. They both stopped dead, their eyes wide. Martha and Keith looked at them, eyebrows raised. Finally the man jerked his eyes from Martha to Keith and back to Martha, then looked at the woman with him and seemed to squeak something to her. Martha could not catch the words. The strange woman stared at Keith, spread the fingers of her free hand across her chest, and moaned something to the man. Martha tried to make sense out of their expressions. Unable to hear what they said, she decided Orientals were strange anyway, and the two must be greeting her. She nodded her head at them, bouncing her shortcut, graying red hair around her lined face, smiled, and walked over to them with her hands out. “Hello. My name is Martha Clark. And this is my assistant, Keith Tyson. I’m glad that Jimmy sent you over to help us. We have a lot to do.” Then she looked closely at both of them. “Oh, you poor things. Did someone feed you before sending you here? We have some food in the truck, if you’re hungry.” His right hand still stuck in his suit coat, the man waved dismissal of the idea with his left hand. Martha put her hand to her mouth and exclaimed, “Oh my good-

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ness. You broke your finger. Did you do that here? I’m terribly sorry. We didn’t mean to work you so hard. Poor man. Let me look at it. I was a nurse in the war against Spain, and know what to do. Are you injured elsewhere? Why are you holding your hand inside your coat like that? Is it injured too?” Looking bewildered, the man looked at the equally confusedlooking woman and exclaimed loud enough for Martha to hear something in a foreign language. He turned to leave. The woman followed. “My dear,” Martha said, watching them rapidly walk out of the building, “those poor people are in need of help. Did I insult them or something, Keith?” Keith shook his head. “I don’t know what’s the matter with them. They come in to help, you offer food, the fellow has a broken finger you offer to treat, and they leave in a huff. I don’t understand these Chinamen.” Carla Hadad and Carla rushed out the loading doors and over to the truck, which was angled backwards to the loading doors, with the cab out of sight of those inside. The truck’s four cylinders had been left idling, and as Hadad and Carla approached the cab, they could hear the engine cover chattering. Hadad hurried to climb into the driver’s seat, beating Carla to it. Shrugging her shoulders, knowing what had to happen, she scampered around the front of the truck and clambered into the passenger seat. Hadad just sat grimacing, staring down at the steering wheel, thumping his thigh with his right fist, seeming not to feel the pain of his badly bruised wrist. “Hadad! Come out of it. We have to go,” Carla yelled, poking his side. “Bokg. Bokg,” he swore in Turkmen. “How did they do that?” Carla needed no explanation as to his meaning. Hadad shook his head and glared around the cab as though wondering how he got there. He gazed down at the gearshift and cupped his broken finger in his right hand. “Bokg,” he swore again. “Can you drive this?” he asked Carla, his voice seeming to emerge lifeless from his sunken chest. She has waited for this. “Why not? Let me over there.” As they shimmied across each other, Hadad yelled, “Be careful, damn it,” when she bumped his wrist.

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Giving in to her disappointment over their failure, she screeched back, “Keep your damn wrist out of the way and it will not get hurt!” She did not even try to get comfortable in the seat before snapping, “How many gears does this stupid truck have?” “Oh no,” Hadad groaned, “you do not know how to drive this?” She put both hands in her lap, steepled her fingers, closed her eyes, and took two deep breaths. Calmer, she opened her eyes and studied the levers on the steering column, the foot pedals, and the dashboard. Fortunately, in front of the gearshift there was a little diagram of the gearshift locations for the truck’s three speeds. “I can drive this for sure,” she answered. Since the truck was backed into the loading area, she needed only to drive forward. With the gears presently in neutral, she inched the throttle forward, stepped on the odd cone-shaped pedal that must be the clutch, and pulled the gearshift straight toward her into low gear. The truck bucked and almost stalled when she released the clutch. Quickly, she shifted into neutral, fingered the throttle back a little, then shifted back to low gear with two hands. With several teeth-rattling jerks, she finally got the truck turning down the warehouse alley just as two men emerged from the warehouse. “Stop!” they shouted, running after the truck. “Go, Carla. Go. Go,” Hadad roared. She pushed the throttle up, flipped the spark lever forward, and held on as the massive seven and a half-ton truck rolled toward the street. She tried to turn into the southbound right lane of 8th Street, crossing the northbound lane to do so, but the street was too narrow for the truck’s large turning radius so that she drove over the boardwalk on the opposite side, tearing it up with the truck’s weight and coming off it onto the street still in a turn. Before Carla could reverse the steering wheel and straighten out the truck, it had crossed into the northbound lane and headed for an oncoming milk wagon. Hadad screamed, “Watch out!” as the milk wagon driver jerked his horse across lanes. The truck’s fender collided with the rear wheel of the wagon, knocking it off, and its axle dug into the street. The horse suddenly panicked, jerking the wagon onto its side. Milk bottles flew onto the street, spraying milk and broken glass in all directions. Two horses pulling a carriage bucked at the disaster at their feet and tried to escape, wrenching the carriage from one side of the street to the other as its driver hauled back as much as he could on the reins to stop them; two frightened men stuck their heads out of the carriage windows, while another man had its door half open, ready to jump.

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The street turned dirty white as milk continued to pour from broken glass milk bottles. Unbroken bottles of various sizes rolled in different directions, causing more pandemonium among horse riders, bicyclists, and cart and wagon drivers, all of whom were already doing their best to avoid the wild horses, the skittering milk truck, and the careening carriage. Carla clashed gears loudly, smelling gasoline and hot grease as she forcibly shifted into second gear by pushing the shift with her foot. Ah, got it, she thought, but when she looked up from the gearshift, she was still in the wrong lane and headed for a large farm wagon pulled by two mules. She pulled hard on the heavy steering wheel, and the truck lumbered into the right lane, just missing the mules. Terrorized by the monstrous shape that had almost hit them, they reared up, cried frightfully, and turned and headed for the lane next to the warehouse entrance, pulling the wagon behind them. The wagon driver was half-standing, heaving back on the reins as the mules almost trampled the two men who had run into the street after the truck; the mules veered off at an angle at the last moment to avoid them, and broke free from the wagon. It freewheeled into a cart loaded with chickens, whose driver had been meticulously avoiding the milk bottles. The much smaller cart overturned, throwing its caged chickens into the street amidst a cacophony of loud screeches and screaming cackles. Some of the cages broke open, and scared chickens started running all over the street, adding to the awful confusion. Finally in the right lane and in control, Carla shifted into the final third gear. She leaned back and relaxed her grip on the steering wheel, allowing blood to again flow to her white knuckles. “I told you I could drive this,” she informed the windshield. Seconds later she added, “There it is,” and pointed at their damaged Ford along Wisconsin Street. “But we can’t stop. Those men chasing us will catch up.” Hadad held the corner of his coat around his left hand and tried to cushion his oddly angled, dislocated finger against the cab’s bouncing and jerking. Every line and corner of his face was turned down, even the corners of his eyes, as he replied in a monotone Carla could barely hear above the roar of the truck, “We will come back late tonight with a can of gas.” He kicked his foot into the side of the cab, again and again. In a flat tone, Carla counseled, “Be careful you do not injure your foot, also.”

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Hadad’s injured finger was easy to fix. First, Carla packed the hand in ice chipped from a twenty-five pound block she had bought. When the wrapped ice had almost frozen Hadad’s hand fifteen minutes later, she gave him a local anesthetic from the modern medical kit they kept in their room. When she was sure that his hand was numbed, she asked him to sit on the edge of the bed, and then told him, “Put your right arm straight out.” He did so, clearly trying to look blasé. Carefully avoiding the broken digit, Carla firmly gripped his dislocated finger beneath the knuckle, put her foot on his chest, and jerked the knuckle back into place. “Yeohhh!” He pulled his straightened finger out of her hand. “I thought you deadened it.” Irritated, she replied, “No, I left it alive enough to purposely cause you pain.” Next, she put a small splint on the broken fingertip and wrapped a bandage around the splint and finger just tight enough to hold the splint in place. She again packed his hand in ice to keep down the swelling, and did the same for his swollen and purple right wrist. Then she took a half-step back, pushed her hand through her loose hair, and told him, “I don’t know how you could walk into the side of a horse, and then end up shooting it.” Her brows shot up and her eyes widened in sudden realization. “You could have shot me.” Hadad took back his ice-packed right wrist and used that hand to hold his left. He glared up at her as she stood over him. She glared back. Then his face softened and he said lamely, “I am sorry, Carla. I do not want anything to happen to you.” On an upbeat note, he finished, “You are my partner.” She looked at him coldly and sat down in the wooden chair near the bed. She avoided touching him with her knees. “Yes,” she said sarcastically, “you do not want to lose a . . . partner, do you.” She stared at him, waiting for a response. Hadad seemed not to hear her. He looked thoughtful for a few minutes, then he said, “We have to pick up our Ford, or at least see whether it still runs. We have to get our weapons. And then dump the truck.” “Whatever.” Carla waved her hand as though swatting at flies. Thinking, He is hopeless, she changed the subject. “I am hungry, but I am not going to eat with you until you take a bath. You stink. And we have to get out of these dirty clothes. I am glad that they have a side entrance to this hotel. They would have never let us in through the

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lobby, the way we look. And it is a good thing this resort has a bathtub, even if it is the only one, and it has no hot running water. We should be even more grateful it is on this floor.” “I am paying enough for it.” “We are paying enough for it.” “Okay, Carla. You are so prickly. What is the matter with you, anyway?” She refused to answer. No one else in the Resort seemed to use the nickel and white enamel-plated iron bathtub; it seemed still clean from the last time Carla and Hadad had used it and she had scrubbed it, although in places where the enamel had worn off, it was hard to tell. This time Carla bathed first. When she was through, she unbandaged Hadad, removed the halfmelted ice chips so they would not freeze his skin, and rebandaged his finger. While Carla sat on an upside-down bucket nearby to make sure nothing happened to him—again—Hadad lowered himself slowly into the foot of cold water. “Bokg, this water is cold,” he whined, his teeth almost chattering. Carla smirked. “Remember our Mongol ancestors, in whom you take such great pride. If they ever washed themselves, it was in ice water, I am sure.” Finally sitting in the bathtub, Hadad started lathering himself with the witch hazel soap supplied by the Resort. After a few moments, he called to Carla, “I am having a hard time reaching part of me with this bad wrist.” Carla sighed. Yes, my master. “Stand up,” she commanded. When he stood in the bathwater, she started to wash him. As she worked around his thigh, his erection seemed to jump out of the soapy tangle of black pubic hairs. She stood back, looked at his pleased expression, and shook her head. She flicked his erection with her fingertips. It disappeared back into the soap bubbles at nearly the speed of light. “Hey, what’s the matter with you? That hurt.” “Life’s hard,” she replied acidly, and resumed her washing. When she was done, she pulled the plug and, after the tub emptied, she grinned as she slowly poured several buckets of cold water over Hadad to rinse away the dirty bath water. When he stepped out of the tub, she dried him with a towel, warning him, “If that thing comes up again, I am going to take my knife to it.” “But we often screw after a bath.”

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“You screw. I usually provide the asshole.” His eyes downcast, he protested in a low, almost pleading voice, “I do not know what has gotten into you, Carla. You have never been like this before.” She looked at his sagging shoulders, his purple wrist, his swollen left knuckle, and his broken finger, and she started to melt. In seconds, her lower lip trembled, and a tear rolled from her eye. She turned away and waved a hand in dismissal. Speaking to the room, she said softly, “Forget it, Hadad. I am tired. Let us put on clean clothes and get something to eat. I am hungry.” At Carla’s insistence, they again tried to use cosmetics to look less Asian before leaving their room. On the way to the restaurant, Carla put her hand through Hadad’s arm and tried to fight her depression. Hadad is Hadad. I knew that from the start. We have a mission. And we will succeed in ridding the world of that pair, and then the universe will be ours—Hadad’s and mine. Then he will see me for the woman I am. Then it all will be worth it. They went to the Resort’s restaurant to eat. During the meal, Hadad tried to discuss what to do next about John and Joy. “They clearly have moved out of their warehouse and must have left their hotel permanently. There is still the Tor Import and Export Company that they will set up. However, since they know somebody is after them, they may change its name. To carry out their mission, they have to create some company that will enable them to set up foreign offices or subsidiaries. Right?” Still in a pout she couldn’t shake, Carla answered, “I guess so . . . partner.” He seemed oblivious to her mood. He poked his knife into the rare top sirloin on his plate and watched the blood ooze out as he continued. “We have two choices. One is to wait the two years until they carry out their first intervention in Mexico. We know whom they will see, and in what order. We should then be able to ambush them. “Or there is the second choice.” He almost looked at Carla directly. “We know several things that can help us. One is that they had to get a truck to move everything out of their warehouse so fast. Another is that they must set up their company store sometime soon, and it has to be oriented to foreign trade. And John is connected more than at the hip to that beautiful Oriental doll Joy, which certainly should attract attention.” “Oh boy,” Carla responded in a monotone, “you must have a thrilling plan.”

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“Is something still bothering you, Carla?” “No, nothing.” “Good. I have a plan.”

Chapter 12 Late Afternoon, Friday John

“I

s this it?” Hands asked as he brought the five-ton Sampson truck to a stop in front of an apartment building. “It looks like it,” John said. “It’s supposed to be three stories with two apartments to a floor, but I don’t see the address. Let me out and I’ll check.” He got out of the cab, opened the entrance gate, and looked around. The building was so new that there was only a small cardboard sign nailed to a wooden post. Written in pen, the address had been smeared by rain, but it was still legible. “Back it in here,” John yelled to Hands, motioning to the driveway next to the building that led to a back entrance and yard. The apartment building was box shaped, built out of cement blocks, with a flat tarred roof and a front and a rear entrance. No porches or balconies. Each apartment had two bedrooms, a living room and dining room, a kitchen, and what was becoming customary in homes, a separate bathroom with toilet, wash sink, and enamel-plated steel bathtub. A basement contained the newly marketed gas hot water heater and a storage cage for each apartment. A large area in the basement had been set aside for recreational activities and parties. John hadn’t believed his luck when he saw the for sale advertisement in The San Francisco Courier. He had immediately phoned the real estate agent about it, liked what he heard, and told him he would be there later in the day to buy it. After loading the truck with the time capsules, they had driven to the agent’s office and bought the apartment on the spot for $53,000— a little more than one million in 2002 dollars. A businessman had built it so that his family, the families of his children, and other relatives could all live in the same building as an extended family. But after the earthquake and fire, they wanted to escape San Francisco, and had moved to Seattle. The building was on Haight Street, and far enough away from adjacent property to enable John to build a good security system. Moreover, because the previous owner had been about to move in before the earthquake, it was already equipped with all utilities. All John had to do

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was ask the real estate agent to have the electricity and water turned on, and the telephones connected—all of which would be done by the next day, thanks to the ten dollar “tip” he’d offered the agent. Hands backed up the truck to the rear of the building so they could unload the time capsules, one of which, unbeknownst to the guys, was actually a time machine. Hands had rented the truck from Central Builders for two days. Its most important feature was the chain hoist that enabled them to lift the capsules on and off the truck. With the aid of a wheeled mover’s pallet they’d borrowed from the builders, they’d easily move the capsules into the basement. “Isn’t money wonderful?” Sal had asked John rhetorically when the three guys and Jy-ying showed up at the warehouse with the truck. “The Central Builders people said no when we asked to rent their truck, and kept staring at Miss Khoo. Hands offered fifty-dollars of the money you gave him for two days’ use, with the mover’s pallet thrown in. The foreman didn’t even crack a smile when he said, ‘Yes, why didn’t you say so?’” The group entered the apartment building and looked around. It had the fresh smell of a newly constructed building—of mortar, concrete, new wood, and fresh paint. Joy wiggled her nose and sniffed. “We’re going to have to burn incense to get rid of that smell. Even here, there is still a slightly burnt wood smell from the great fire, even though that was way back in April. It’s competing with that awful street stench.” Once they’d all had a look at the ground floor apartments, John told them, “Joy and I will take the two apartments on the third floor.” He turned to Jy-ying, who had been strangely silent, and asked her, “Would you like one of the second floor apartments? Free, as part of your job?” Joy looked startled for a moment, then unconsciously swallowed, and clasped and unclasped her holster purse. Jy-ying answered, “You are too kind. Yes, thank you. I cannot believe how lucky I was when I happened to be on the street to aid you when you were about to be attacked.” “Okay,” John said, looking from one to another of the three guys. “That leaves three apartments. Agree among yourselves who gets which one—also for free, of course. This is now our company building, and as our guards, you pay no rent.” “Is Miss Khoo a guard?” Sal asked, grinning. Jy-ying smiled, looked from one to the other, and told them, “Please, all of you. Call me Jy-ying.” She looked at Joy, and then let

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her eyes linger on John. “Like Joy, I know martial arts and guns, and have my own. I will be happy to be a guard, among my other dut— jobs.” John glanced at Joy and saw her frown. He hesitated, but then quickly nodded at Jy-ying and pointed out, “You already have acted as our guard, twice.” John turned to smile at the guys, wagging his finger at them. “Now, you must live by company rules. All lights out at 10 p.m., and no visitors after that time. And no unchaperoned women in your closed apartments—if they’re unchaperoned, the apartment door must be open. Yes, I know what you’re going to ask. Two or three or more women are okay, since they will be chaperoning each other.” They gaped at him. Sal was first to break the silence. “That goes for Jy-ying?” “Yes, no unchaperoned women in her room, either.” John fought and lost the battle; he broke down and convulsed with laughter. Joy punched him in the shoulder. “You’re a cruel man,” she said, giggling. When the guys realized John was joking, they chuckled. Dolphy, his face slightly flushed, said, “It wouldn’t have been too bad. I like especially the last part about women chaperoning each other.” Sal had to add, “And you know, that rule about lights out would have given me an excuse to turn out the lights. Boss said nothing about having to be alone then.” Joy motioned to Sal and observed with a wide smile, “There is always someone who will take advantage of the small print. John, you should think of making Sal your official contact man when you want to break a contract.” Sal bowed, and Dolphy patted him on the back. John’s eyes touched on Jy-ying as he turned away. She seemed distracted, looking sidelong at John with half-lidded eyes instead of sharing in the laughter. With waves to the others, Joy and John headed up the stairs with their bags and suitcases. They paused at the top of the third floor stairs. The door to one apartment was on their immediate left, and the door to the other apartment was farther down the hallway, on the right. John pointed to that door and told Joy in a matter-offact tone, “You get the end apartment. I’ll take the one next to the stairs.” Joy put down what she was carrying, put her hands on her hips, and stared at him with arched eyebrows, her lips in a slight pout and her

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head at what John had learned was a dangerous angle. “Oh no, you don’t. I’m going to guard this hallway, and I have to be next to the stairs to do that.” “Is that right?” John said, putting down his luggage. He put both hands on his hips, leaned toward her, and tried to imitate the tilt of her head and her expression. “Jy-ying is on the lower floor to guard us.” Oops. John immediately regretted saying that as Joy’s eyes narrowed. Thinking fast, he looked down the hallway, pointed, and exclaimed, “Who’s that?” Joy turned to look, and John quickly lifted all 125 pounds of her off her feet. Holding her in his arms, he strode down the hallway. With a scowl, she blurted, “John, what do you think you—” Then she must have realized what he was doing. She put her arm around his neck as he opened the end apartment’s door with one hand and carried her across the threshold. “Hmmm,” she murmured, “you know how to soften me up. This is so romantic. You know, this is our first, really our first, home. I forgot. The other apartment is for appearances.” She caressed his cheek with the backs of her fingers and purred, “I love you, my dearest.” Then she looked at the empty apartment. “But where’s the bed?” John kicked the door closed and looked around at the bare walls. He stood Joy up, and said huskily, “I love you more that anything, baby. Don’t you dare move.” He undressed and, ignoring the chilly air, put his armor and holstered .45 aside and laid out his clothes on the dusty floor underneath the living room window. She let down her hair and tossed the pins against the wall. Bending over, she shook her hair out, and ran her hands through it until it fell around her in a lush black curtain. She put her armor and weapons on top of his armor, and spread her clothes on top of his. Brushing her hair back from her head and body with a graceful motion so feminine and sexy it charged John with sexual heat, she lay down on top of their clothes. About a half-hour later, John caressed the end of her nose with his index finger and said, “Now we’ve suitably inaugurated our first home.” Her smile was radiant, her cheeks flushed. “You surely know how to deal with my objections.” John put on a knowing smile. “Always.” He got up and put on his baggy shorts, then cracked open the apartment door and looked out to make sure none of the guys had come upstairs for some reason. He squeezed through the door, crept down the hall, and brought their bags and suitcases back into the end apartment.

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John donned his comfortable, at-home denim jeans and Norwegian wool pullover sweater, and waited while Joy dressed. “I miss these clothes,” she said with a smile as she gracefully jiggled up and down to slide her favorite pair of tight denims over her white cotton panties. She wiggled her bottom and shook her bare breasts with unconscious sexuality. John just stood near the window, mesmerized by the soft play of light on her body as she dressed. I’ve got to grip this image, he told himself, and secure it in a special place in my memory. I’ve got to pull this image out when I’m scared, when I’m down on her, when I wonder about accepting this mission. Finally in her denims, Joy put on her fitted armor and over that, what had been her inevitable gray sweatshirt in the Old Universe. She pulled her blue and white Nike jogging shoes out of her suitcase and put them on. Humming to herself, she pulled her hair tightly back and tied it in a ponytail. Suddenly she stopped and looked from under her lashes at John. “Did you forget, my man?” That broke his trance. “What?” “Your armor. You forgot to put it on, didn’t you?” He tried to cover his chagrin. “Well, a man would forget his name with you lying bare ass naked on the floor, or doing your reverse strip tease.” “John!” “Okay, okay.” As Joy watched, John took off his pullover and put on his armor, then donned his pullover again, slipped on his shoulder holster with his .45 in it, and pulled his coat on over that, with his S&W in a pocket holster. Then, bringing his hand up to his mouth and gasping melodramatically, he asked in mock horror, “My God, where are your knives? You don’t have them on.” She smiled. “How could you notice? Actually, I can’t wear the hip knife; these denims are too tight. And I was about to strap on my lower leg sheath when you mentioned it. I will have my holster purse with me; one knife less around here doesn’t concern me. Anyway,” and she looked at him from under her lashes again, “I’ve always got my hands and feet. They’re enough to take care of you, big man.” As she put on her sheath, John grinned. “Watch it, little woman, or I’m going to have to put you in your place.” They both laughed, Joy more than John, as they left the apartment. Joy let John go first as they walked downstairs, but shook her head when he started play-act the caution necessary to descend

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into a room full of armed thugs. On the first floor, John grinned as he walked in front of her to the truck, to help the guys move the capsules. Jy-ying Having learned all that she needed to know by studying the capsules, Jy-ying was standing aside, trying to direct the work, when Joy and John reappeared. When the guys saw Joy, they stopped work and followed her with large eyes as she climbed into the truck. Joy noticed the work stoppage, looked at the men, curtsied, and said to John loud enough for them all to hear, “One would think these guys had never seen a woman in pants before.” John looked up from the chain he was connecting to a capsule, and answered, “I don’t think they have. At least, not the way you look in them.” All Jy-ying needed was to glance at Joy’s clothes, and she nodded to herself. With a wide grin, his eyes still on Joy, Sal asked John, “Where did you get this long-haired Chinese boy? He has curves in strange places, if you know what I mean.” The guys laughed. Jy-ying’s mind now was beyond humor of any kind. Still chuckling, John answered Sal, “He’s my personal bodyguard. Don’t mess with him, or he’ll break your leg.” That brought more laughter, and they went back to working a capsule off the truck and onto the mover’s pallet. Joy As they struggled with one especially heavy capsule, Hands asked, “What do you have in this? Gold?” Actually, it was the capsule containing their gold bars. “Of course,” John replied. “I’ve got to have enough to pay you guys and Jy-ying.” When they finally had all the capsules in a corner of the basement, John said, “We’ll buy the basic furniture we need tomorrow. Let’s find a hotel for the night that also has a restaurant. It has to be far from both the hotel we left and our warehouse. Any suggestions?” Dolphy offered, “I used to pass by a place called Colby’s Inn. Looked good, and there’s a restaurant I always wanted to go to within walking distance. It’s Forda Italy—”

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“Fior d’Italia,” Hands corrected. “I’ve heard about it from my baseball buddies.” Dolphy continued. “It’s on Union Street. They are supposed to have the greatest Italian food.” “Fancy, fancy,” Sal commented, shaking his finger in the air. Dolphy ignored him, but not without giving John a quick glance. “I know the way to the Inn. But they are expensive, I think.” “No problem,” John responded. To all of them he said, “I suggest you leave your bags and suitcases in the truck, since we’ll be staying at least overnight at the Inn. Okay, let’s go.” As they moved toward the truck, John told Joy and Jy-ying to get in the cab with Hands. Jy-ying refused. Bowing to John, she told him, “Boss and Number One Assistant sit in front.” “Thanks, but you—” John started to say, but Joy kicked him in the ankle. He unnecessarily added, his voice running out at the end, “I meant Number One Translator and I—you know, Number One Assistant and Translator.” He turned slightly red. “But, of course.” Jy-ying replied, nodding, her full lips slightly parted. Already, Sal was leaning over from the truck bed to give her a hand up. “Come on, Jy-ying, you can sit next to me.” As Hands drove off, everyone in place, John suddenly realized how out of time Joy’s clothes were. “You can’t go to the restaurant dressed like that. This is 1906. No woman wears tight pants—no woman even wears pants. We’ve got to go back so you can change.” “No. I’m not changing.” “Baby!” “Maybe I’ll start a revolution, and women will start dressing more sensibly and independently.” “You just want to show off.” “So?” “Okay, I’m going to buy a codpiece for my jewels.” “Is that right? Well, you’ll have to stuff it with tissue.” Hands guffawed and continued to laugh so hard, he almost drove into a wagon. “Do we go back?” he sputtered. “No.” Joy got out between laughs. “Yes,” John barked, apparently still smarting from Joy’s comment. “I’m sorry, Miss Phim, but he’s the boss.” “Yes, but I’ll pull your arm out of its socket and beat you over the head with it if you turn around.” “Sorry boss, she’s the muscle.” And he roared, hardly able to steer.

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John leaned to whisper in Joy’s ear, “Joy, your are being stupid. The way you look in this age will be the talk of the restaurant, and then perhaps the talk of the town. Those trying to kill us may hear about it, and realize it must be you. Then they may stake out the restaurant. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Why not send up a flare with our names on it?” Joy crossed her arms and turned toward him. She tried to simulate his lecture tone. “One. Nobody would know these are clothes from the future. Two. Even the killers may not know, if they are from a time or place where women do not wear pants. Three. The gossip about what I wear will be,” and she twisted her voice into an old woman’s cackle, “‘Oh, she wore pants. How brazen.’” Back in the lecture tone, she continued with, “Then some woman will try to find out where she can buy such pants. Four. The killers would not believe I would so exhibit myself, and thus will ignore such gossip. It’s like leaving something you want to conceal out in the open, the least expected place. Five. My dear John, I’m most comfortable in these clothes, I’m tired, I’m homesick, and right now, I don’t want to get into one of those stupid, neckchoking, chest-smothering, waist-crushing, leg-binding dresses women are forced to wear.” She hesitated, uncrossed her arms, and touched the end of his nose with her forefinger. She softened her voice. “And six. You said one ‘stupid’ and three ‘dumbs,’ which makes four negatives. Four negatives equal one positive, so I’m glad you agree.” John’s jaw dropped and he gawked at her, then shook his head and finally shrugged and laughed. He leaned over close to her ear again and whispered, “Stuff it with tissue, eh? I’ll get you for that.” Joy sat back and gave him a big grin. She put her hand on John’s leg and gently squeezed it. An hour later, they had found a place to park the truck, and had checked into the Inn, John and Joy in different rooms. Unlike the Fairfax Hotel, which John had bought as a result, the Inn had no prejudice against Orientals. They gave Joy and Jy-ying rooms without raising an eyebrow or twitching a nose. But the male reservation clerk was all eyes at the way Joy was dressed. Each room had a hot water bath, one of the reasons for the cost of the rooms, and Joy luxuriated in the steaming water for such a long time that John had to remind her that they were going to meet the others in the Italian restaurant for supper. When they entered the restaurant, the guys were waiting by the cashier’s counter. The cashier, who also acted as headwaiter—he was probably an assistant manager who would not trust the cash handling to

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anyone else—came from behind his counter and stepped in front of them. With Joy standing on one side and Sal and Jy-ying slightly behind John on the other, he asked the man for a table for six. The cashier looked at Joy, glanced at Jy-ying, then swung his gaze back to stare at Joy and her jeans. He frowned, looked down his nose at John, and told him, “I’m sorry, sir. I cannot seat the Oriental . . . lady . . . the way she is . . . dressed.” Immediately, Joy whispered in John’s ear, “Don’t you dare buy this restaurant.” Hands reached out to grab the cashier by his coat, but John pushed down Hands’ arm while reaching with his other hand for his wallet. John took out a dollar and tried to hand it to the cashier. The man shook his hand and refused to take the money. “We have a dress code, and I would be fired if anybody complained.” John added another dollar. After a noticeable hesitation, the man said, “I’m sorry.” Sal exclaimed, “You shit!” John added still another dollar. The cashier looked out of the corner of his eye at the guys, who appeared ready to dismember him. His hand shook visibly as he reached for the pile of menus on the counter. He simpered, “Well, if you don’t mind where I seat you.” Holding the menus across his chest, he led them to a large table located in the corner of the restaurant, just to the left of the swinging kitchen door. He pulled out a chair for Joy, and motioned her into it. She was now seated right in the corner, her denims hidden from other tables. The cashier walked over to a waiter nearby and whispered something to him. The waiter served them immediately. Obviously, the cashier wanted to get them out of the restaurant as soon as possible. During the meal, John told the guys and Jy-ying, “I want you to come to my room after we’re through eating. It’s time to give you background on Joy and me. You no doubt are curious about us.” “Of course not,” Hands said with mock seriousness. “You are just ordinary people.” Sal added, “So ordinary—really boring people.” Dolphy appeared thoughtful. “There is this one small thing.” John looked at him. “Yeah?” “It’s Miss Phim.” “Yeah?” “Well, it’s her behavior.”

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“Yeah?” John’s voice now held a slight edge. “She treats us as though she’s equal to us men. She doesn’t know her place as a woman. She even tries to wear men’s pants,” Dolphy replied, emphasizing the last word. For a moment, John looked as if he was about to explode. Then he saw Dolphy’s grin. He sat back and grinned himself. “No,” he responded, “she thinks she’s better than any man but one.” “Oh? Who is that?” Sal asked with raised eyebrows. “Your humble boss,” John replied. “Isn’t that right, Joy?” “Oh yes,” Joy said. “I am your humble assistant and translator and bow to your great superiority as a man.” She punched him in the shoulder. “You men never know your place,” she added, laughing. When the laughter died down, Joy glanced at Jy-ying, who was studying her menu, and didn’t seem to be amused. Indeed, Joy realized, she had been too quiet, too aloof. I wonder if we insulted her in some way. Well, I’m looking forward to our first conversation alone together, so I can understand her better. Sal turned serious and asked John, “What are you going to do with the warehouse, now that you’ve moved out?” “I gifted it to the American Red Cross. They’ve been doing a great job of helping people here after the earthquake and fire. I thought they could use the warehouse as another office and distribution center. I called them, and they said they could use it immediately. So, on the way to the warehouse I stopped at their local headquarters and gave them a signed transfer of ownership from me to them.” Dolphy’s eyes sprang wide as he blurted, “You can afford to give away the warehouse? Just like that? And buy a new apartment building? Did you rob a bank, or something?” John looked amused, and answered, “Later. In my room. All will become clear.” When they’d finished their meal and were about to leave, Joy said sweetly, “I have to go to the rest room. Be back shortly.” She nodded at Jy-ying, inviting her along. As both of them were getting up, Sal advised, “Jy-ying, make sure she doesn’t go into the wrong room, now.” Hands added, “We’ll wait to hear the women scream when you walk into their rest room.” With Jy-ying leading the way, Joy slowly and gracefully walked across the restaurant to the rest rooms.

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John John knew what Joy was doing. She no more has to use the rest room than I need to go to the North Pole. She loves showing it off. She’s got it and she knows it. Pure female. Then he noticed how similar her figure was to Jy-ying’s—a similarity not lost on everyone else in the restaurant. People stopped in mid-conversation to watch what none of them had seen before, a vision the men would hug in their dreams from then on—a longlegged, beautiful, and curvaceous Asian woman with a long pigtail, dressed in pants that hugged her tush like a second skin. And preceding her, an equally beautiful Asian with curves emphasized by a hiphugging, taffeta silk skirt. Many a woman at the tables followed the pair with envious eyes, or gazed insulted at her boyfriend or husband, who sat with a forkful of food frozen halfway to his mouth and lust shining in his eyes. Finally Hands said, “If I had a store selling pants like that, they would be sold out tomorrow.” Grinning, Dolphy offered, “If I had a store selling that, I would close up and keep it all to myself.” “What’s the ‘that’?” Sal asked in mock innocence. John frowned; he’d let this go on too long. He looked at the guys, then waved his hand to get their attention. He wagged his finger at them as, articulating each word, he admonished, “‘That’ is hands off, you guys. Joy is my translator and assistant. Understand?” They all nodded, and Dolphy said hastily, “We’re joking, boss. But you can’t deny us the pleasure of looking at her. What a tootsie wootsie. And her twin is a knockout, also. I bet she’d look like Joy, in those pants.” Sal looked sideways at John, his face serious. “Is Jy-ying now your . . . assistant and translator . . . too?” This was getting out of bounds; it was reaching a dangerous point, and John knew he had been contributing to it. “Okay, enough. Listen up, guys. I want to be clear about this. You all work for me. What any of you and Jy-ying do on your off time is not my business. What you do while you are working for me is my business. But, our work is too important to me to let your personal lives interfere with your jobs. Keep them separate. Okay?” Hands asked quietly, “What about Joy?” John fixed Hands with his eyes. He whispered, “Back off. She is my business.” He thrust his jaw out. “Do I need to say more?”

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A pretty young woman stood up at a nearby table, catching their attention. They watched as she bent over the fellow with her; she seemed to be arguing with him. It looked as though they were finished with their meal, but he seemed to want to drink more coffee and kept motioning with his hand for her to sit down. She finally did so, but not without slamming her hand on the table. What the woman’s companion and many an eye in the restaurant was waiting for finally occurred—Joy and Jy-ying emerged from the rest room and sashayed back to the table. They said nothing. John and the guys said nothing. They all returned to eating their food. Soon, idle chatter resumed, and they discussed life in postearthquake San Francisco before the fire, and the alleged corruption in Mayor Schmitz’s administration. When they finished their meal and got up to leave, John purposely walked closely behind Joy. Why am I doing this? he wondered. She wouldn’t care if she were naked. Correction. She’d probably like that better. Jy-ying When they returned to the apartment building, John asked the guys and Jy-ying to come up to his apartment, and retrieved a tarpaulin from the truck. He spread the tarp on the floor for all of them to sit on. None of the guys commented—not even Sal—on seeing Joy’s bags and suitcases alongside John’s. Jy-ying now gave it no thought. Everything was clear to her; it seemed her heart had been thumping over her discovery for hours, leaving her so distracted, she’d hardly been able to speak with Joy when they had gone to the ladies’ room together at the restaurant. Joy opened her suitcase and took out a laptop computer. She also took out a plastic case containing two disks. Jy-ying glanced around. The guys had their eyes riveted on Joy and the strange things she was bringing out, their expressions one huge question mark. Eyes intent, face severe, one hand ready to punctuate each sentence with a sharp gesture, John began. “You are now our guards; all of you have put your lives on the line to protect us. We pay you very well for this. But that is irrelevant. Although we have known you guys and Jy-ying for only two days, we have come to trust and respect you.” He stopped to see what impact he was having. The guys were intent on his words. Joy nodded approval. He continued. “You deserve an ex-

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planation of what is going on with us, but before we tell you, we want your pledge to keep what we say a secret. Only if you get married will you be free to tell someone—your wife.” He looked at Jy-ying. “Or your husband.” She met his gaze unblinkingly, but before she could raise her eyebrow, Hands, not hiding his irritation, asked John, “Does that mean you will stop giving us the poison—” In the same tone of voice, Dolphy interjected, “For which we need an antidote once a month—” “An antidote that only you have, boss,” Sal finished. Jy-ying had overheard the guys talking enough to know the history of their relationship with Joy and John. When John and Joy had first hired the three guys, they were homeless and living off odd jobs and, she suspected, what they could steal. To assure their security and that of the goods of their new import and export company, John had given them a poison that required an antidote once a month, an antidote that would also contain a fresh infusion of poison. Jy-ying wondered what the poison was. Until today, she had doubted the story altogether, but with her new knowledge. . . . John held up both hands. “Let’s wait on that,” he replied. He smiled and added lightly, “If you run screaming from the room after you’ve heard what I have to say, only the need for the antidote may keep you from telling people about your crazy boss.” “To be sure,” Joy seconded. Her comment seemed to carry more weight with the guys than what John had said. They leaned forward, eager to hear more. Jy-ying looked from one guy to another, let her eyes rest on John for a time, and then looked around the room. She caught Joy looking at her and smoothed the sour expression her thoughts had no doubt put on her face before nodding at Joy. I know who you are, Joy. You no longer fool me. But there is a war raging inside of me, tearing me up, and the winner of that will determine whether you or I will die. She turned her gaze to John. He looked at the guys one by one, then at Jy-ying. Then his voice settled into lecture mode. “Okay, here’s why we’re here.” Joy Two hours later, the guys sat looking overwhelmed, wide-eyed, and convinced. Apparently, wasn’t the video about the wars and democide of the twentieth century that did it. It wasn’t images of Sabah’s nuclear

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attack on New York. It wasn’t even the incredible laptop, with such clear images flowing across its screen. What seemed to convince them was Joy’s sobs when John read aloud to them Lora Reeves’ letter from 1994. In it, Lora, the president of the Joy Phim Democratic Peace Institute, described in detail the nuclear attack. The letter ended with a note from the director of her affiliate scientific institute in Santa Barbara, stating that Lora and her husband Mark had chosen suicide when near death with terminal radiation poisoning. The guys had looked on Joy as the iron lady, and to see her in tears for the first time meant it all had to be true. Jy-ying had turned white, and vomited over her dress. She excused herself with, “I’ll catch up later,” and almost ran out of the room with tears in her eyes. Joy tried to help her, but she shook her head vigorously and motioned Joy back; she fled to her room at the Inn. When Joy returned to her seat, Dolphy leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked from Joy to John. “I’m speaking for us all. We want to help. I don’t know what we can do—we don’t have much of an education; we don’t know much of the world; we don’t understand a lot of what we saw in the moving pictures you showed us. But whatever we can do, you can count on us to do it.” Blinking back new tears, Joy went to each of the guys and kissed them on their cheeks. Then she wiped her eyes and said, “Thanks, guys. No more poison pills.”

Chapter 13 Early Evening, Friday Jy-ying

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er eyes still filled with tears, Jy-ying slammed the door of her hotel room behind her. She sagged backwards against the door, then slid down it, her face in her hands. She was mentally exhausted. Not even what she now had confirmed made her feel triumphant. From the time she had seen Joy and John’s capsules, she had no longer suspected; she had known. The capsules were not too different from the one sent down time to her by Shu Kuo, the director of China’s time travel-assassination project. Half crawling, half staggering, she moved over to the bed and threw herself across it. She writhed on the bed, struggling with the knowledge she now did not want to have. Since arriving in this time, her whole purpose had been to find and kill the time traveler who would assassinate God’s Prophet, Abul Sabah. Yes, I have found the time traveler I must kill—except, it is two travelers. Still, I must kill both of them. That is my mission. As a dedicated Sabahist, that is what I should do. Her mind lingered on the “should do.” The only question should be when and how. Since seeing the capsules in the warehouse and realizing what they were, she had tried to get her mind around that truth. She still could not absorb it; she still could not digest that those she should now kill were people with whom she already shared so much—everything except religion. It would have been so easy if they had been only names, people she could hate in the abstract until the assassination, people whose faces she might not even see as she walked up behind them and shot them in the back of the head. But John, for whom I feel more than a growing attraction? But Joy, almost my double in appearance and—yes, I will admit it—a future soul mate with whom I have so much to share? Kill both of them? She still could have done it. She was a captain of the Sabah Security Guards; she was a teacher of martial arts, a warrior; she had seen her parents and sister murdered at the hands of the anti-Sabahs; she had killed pro-democracy revolutionaries to protect Sabah. Yes, I still could

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have done it. My mind would have been clear. Yes, were it not for that documentary of Sabah’s nuclear attack on the democracies. It is as though they showed that on purpose, to destroy my mission. The horror of it, the sheer, awful monstrousness of so many human beings murdered . . . She’d loathed it when, as a new lieutenant in the Security Guards back in China, she first found out about Sabah’s nuclear attack. She had planned to resign and, while keeping her Islamic faith, have nothing more to do with Sabah’s rule. But she had been counseled by an Imam, a friend, to keep her faith and position, and to concentrate on all those many billions of souls then and in the future who would be saved for God and Paradise. It was bad enough to know about the nuclear attacks in the abstract. The government had allowed no pictures of the destruction, no description of what happened in the major cities that were destroyed. Now, to see the images of the dead, burned and disfigured, along with only pieces of bodies, all stacked like cordwood or strewn with the debris on streets; to see the twisted and scorched remains of what had been thriving cities, and to know that her mission was to kill the two who would try to prevent all that by assassinating Sabah . . . Jy-ying no longer could square this circle. She was sick, nauseated by the ambivalence wracking her emotions and turning her dedication to mush. She cried with the awful frustration of it all. She pounded on the mattress with her fists. She screamed into her hands. She wished she was dead. Without a thought, she took off her clothes to commit wudu—ritual washing for spiritual purity. She sat in the bathtub and poured water over herself, soaped her body thoroughly, and rinsed the soap off, not even feeling the cold water. She toweled herself dry, then took her Makka-Madina prayer rug from her suitcase and unfolded it on the floor. She covered her head and made the shahada—the profession of belief: “Ash-Hadu Allaa Elaaha Ellaa Allah, Wahdahu Laa Shareeka Lah—I bear witness that there is no other god beside God. He alone is God; He has no partner.” Shoulders drooping, she faced eastward toward Mecca, and made the required raka’at—symbolic movements—along with the appropriate invocations and Koranic recitations. In the end, she said, “Allahu Akbar—God is Great.” She bowed her head and softly, humbly, added in a low voice, “I believe in your Prophet Abul Sabah, but I cannot accept his murder of as many as two billion people. Nor can I kill two good people, although heathens, who trust me, and have told me the truth about themselves,

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without knowing that my mission is to kill them. But if I do not kill them, they will kill Your Prophet and I will be a traitor to Sabah, a traitor to Islam, a traitor to my country, and a traitor to my profession. More billions will then not learn your truth, and Paradise will not be for them.” She vomited on the floor beside her knees and sobbed, her whole body shaking; she vomited again. “I cannot stand this,” she cried. “Oh my God, Oh Sabah, please forgive me.” She could no longer think, only do what her heart and soul dictated. She reached into her mouth with the forefingers of each hand and pried up the false gold cap on her right rear molar with her fingernails. She plugged it with her finger as she withdrew it from her mouth, and then let the cyanide pill that Sabah Security had inserted there fall into her hand. Deliverance. She released a shuddering sigh. She did not need the cap anymore; she just left it on the sink. She wrapped the pill in tissue and put it gently in her purse. She cleaned up the vomit, then sat in the bathtub and poured water as hot as she could stand over her body and hair. She washed both and rinsed herself off, refilling the tub until the rinse water was clear. She toweled, being especially careful to dry her hair, and dressed in the captain’s Security uniform she had secreted in a false bottom of her suitcase; she put aside her brimless captain’s hat until she was ready. She was proud of her uniform; it was the mark of a rare achievement for a woman in her China. She had intended to wear it when she assassinated the time traveler, but it was appropriate for this occasion— she would die clothed in her highest honor. Again, she went into the bathroom and checked the sink for scum. She felt the bottom of the bathtub with her finger. She looked at the toilet and, to make sure it was clean, she pulled the long chain hanging from the high tank to flush it. Then she looked for the slightest suggestion of a toilet ring; seeing none, she folded her towel and washrag and neatly laid out her toiletries and cosmetics on the counter next to the sink. Lastly, she studied the bed, removed the few wrinkles from the blanket, and then put her suitcases by the bedroom door. She put on her officer’s hat, put the pill still wrapped in tissue into her pocket, put her holster purse next to her suitcases. Her emotions had yet to allow coherent thought. She fixed her hair in the approved Sabah Security fashion for women: braided and wound into a cup on the back of her neck. She turned the one chair in the room to face the side table, took hotel stationery out of its lone drawer. Her back was

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now stiff, her tears gone forever; there were no more decisions to be made, only two more things to be done. Utterly calm, her mind now channeled only in one direction by her will, the warrior on the verge of death wrote her death letter. Dear Joy and John: When you read this, I will be dead. Please do not search for my worthless body. I will have disposed of it. She stopped, sighed, and decided to tell the whole truth. What did it matter now? She told them about her background in the Sabah Security Guards and her faith in Islam and Sabah; she revealed how she had maneuvered to be the one sent back in time to prevent the assassination of Sabah, and that, with her new knowledge of their mission, she now realized it was they she would have to kill. She told them that, after seeing the documentary of Sabah’s nuclear destruction, she no longer could do what she had been willing to give up her life to do—cause their deaths. She ended with: I cannot choose between the horror of killing both of you and enabling that nuclear holocaust, or the horror of letting you live and thus letting you kill Sabah and my religion. There is only one choice left to me, and that is death. I have attached information about my equipment capsule, its door code, and its location. All I have is now yours. I do wish you success in your democratic peace efforts. Cry not for me. I have been successful beyond my dreams and have experienced a life, including this time travel, beyond that of the richest person. A final wish: spare Sabah and educate him. He will be a Great Prophet of God, and with your good advice, he might well avoid the horrors he inflicted on the world in his zeal. With the greatest respect, Most Sincerely, Khoo Jy-ying

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She had no envelope, but she folded the papers once, and placed them in the center of her chest of drawers, next to the water pitcher and bowl, for the time being. She stretched out on the bed, closed her eyes and, finally at peace, she let the memories of the happy times with her family, her youthful joys, her successes in martial arts and the Security Guards, and her love affairs flow into her mind until it was time.

Chapter 14 Past Midnight, Saturday Jy-ying

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y-ying sensed it was very late. How early or late, she did not know, nor did she care. Her core psyche, the center of her emotions and feeling, told her it was time. She gave what she was doing and what she was going to do no thought. Colby’s Inn was quiet. Not a sound came from outside. She walked out of her room, quietly shut the door, leaving it unlocked, and strode briskly along the hallway and down the stairs. There was no night clerk; she assumed he was in the office behind the registration desk, probably balancing the day’s accounts. She walked behind the registration counter and put her folded death letter in the mail slot for John’s room. Union Street was empty when she walked out of the Inn. She looked up at the stars she could see between the few clouds, and guided herself by them. At the first intersection, she turned north toward San Francisco Bay. It was all automatic. Her body knew what her mind had planned many hours ago—find a pier, jetty, or dock, walk to the end, swallow the pill as she jumped into the water. The tide would take her dead body away. No one would be bothered. She would disappear from this world and time as if she had never come. It was dark, the sky slightly clouded; she walked from one dim bubble of light cast by the street’s gas lamps to another. A drunken man on horseback went by, holding a bottle of liquor and singing happily to himself. Two intersections closer to the bay, she heard loud yelling and the thumping of horses’ hooves as two young men raced their horses on the asphalt street. None of it registered—mentally, she was already dead. It was only a matter of time, only a while longer doing its duty, before her body was physically dead to match. But then a special sound burst into her mind and awakened it—a loud yelp, a scream of pain. Her head jerked around. She saw a ball of fur, barely discernable on the dark street, rolling in the wake of the two racing horses as they clattered off into the night. She stopped. A small animal lay on its side in the street—a dog. It whimpered, and started licking its front paw.

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She shuffled forward a step, continuing her death walk. The dog heard her. It stopped its frantic licking and looked at her. She stopped again. She stared at the dog, and it stared back. On a level of communication that has always existed between humans and dogs, defying scientific understanding, something passed between them. For Jy-ying, it was a subconscious recognition of some sort. Unthinkingly, she turned and stepped into the street and walked up to the dog. In the dark, she could not tell how badly it was injured, so she gently picked it up and carried it to a nearby gas lamp. She felt the animal shivering in her arms. She sat down with her back to the lamppost and carefully checked the dog for injuries. There was blood only on its front paw; the bleeding had stopped, but it looked like the paw was beginning to swell. As the dog tried to get out of the way of the racing horses, its paw must have been clipped by one of their hooves. The dog—a male—was filthy; his long hair was matted in clumps, and she saw the effects of mange on his rear and one leg. She patted his head and rubbed his back for several moments, feeling his ribs and noting how thin he was. She finally put him on the sidewalk. He wobbled on three legs at first, then steadied himself and licked her arm. She stood, gave him one last sympathetic look, and continued down the street, as mindless as before. At the next corner, two men sat on the curb smoking and a third leaned against a lamppost with a bottle in his hand. He spotted Jy-ying when she came out of the dark, walking toward their cone of light. He leaned over to the other two and said something. They stood and all three started toward Jy-ying, spreading out to prevent her from getting by them. They were bearded and stocky, dressed in gray and black work clothes; one wore a military cap, and another had one of the very popular golf caps tilted back on his head. The one who had been standing paused to put down the bottle. “Hey buddy, you got money for us, eh?” he yelled and, pulling a threeinch jackknife from his pocket, he brandished it at her. One of other men took a folding razor from his pocket, opened it, and held out the blade so she could see it. For the first time in hours, she had thoughts. God be merciful, it is a mugging. I could let them kill me, but I intend to die on my terms, not theirs. A good thing I am wearing my uniform. Its pants are made for this. “Come. You want money. See if you take,” she said sweetly, purposely using pidgin English. She wanted them to know she was a woman, and Chinese.

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“Hey, it’s a woman, a Chink.” The knife-man snarled menacingly, “Down on your knees, bitch. We’ll take all you got when we’re done with you.” As the man reached out to knock off her cap and grab her hair, loud barking and growling suddenly erupted at Jy-ying’s feet. The man jumped back, his brows shooting up, and jerked his head down to look at Jy-ying’s feet. Jy-ying looked too. A snarling little dog stood in front of her, balancing on three feet and holding his injured paw off the ground as he threatened the man. Jy-ying yelled, “No boy, back.” The dog ignored her. Ears tight against his head, tail bristling, he alternated barking, snarling, and growling at the knife-man. “Fucking dog,” knife-man yelled, and tried to kick him. The dog avoided the foot, seized the man’s pants leg in his teeth, and violently shook his head as though trying to tear off the leg inside. The man tried unsuccessfully to shake him off. The man with the razor swiped at the struggling dog. Yelping in pain, the dog released the leg. That was it. Jy-ying launched her attack with a straight-arm finger punch to the knife-man’s eyes, then grabbed the arm of razor-man and yanked his elbow down on her lifting knee, breaking it. Twirling, she side kicked the unarmed man in the throat with the toe of her boot. Five seconds had passed. She was still wearing her cap. Amidst the screams and gurgles of the injured men, she heard the renewed growling of the little dog. She glanced down at him. Blood flowed freely from his back. He was trying to get to his feet to attack the man who was bent over, nursing a broken arm. The knife-man had dropped his knife to cover his eyes, and was jumping up and down in a circle, groaning. The third man thrashed on the ground clutching his throat, trying to breathe. She picked up the knife in her right hand and the little dog in her left. She held him tight against her to prevent him from hurting himself further, and hoped that the cut was not mortal. She stood over the three helpless men with the knife in her hand, looking at them. They would have raped her, mugged her, and possibly killed her afterwards. The little dog tried to get free to protect her again. She glanced down at him. She glanced at the men. She glanced at the knife. Her mind was working again. She gazed down at the little dog in wonder, marveling at what had happened. As he recognized that the men were no longer a danger, he seemed calm and content, as if he had won the day for his mistress.

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She laid him gently on the sidewalk. When he tried to struggle to his three feet, she held him down and said gently, “Stay, my protector. Please stay.” She stepped over to the men and knocked each of them unconscious with a neck chop to the carotid vein switch. Then she cut into each of their foreheads a shallow crescent and star, the battle symbols of Sabah. The cuts would heal into livid scars. She went back to her little protector. Eyes wet, she picked him up and hurried back to the Inn. He needed her care. She ran the last two blocks, and dashed into the Inn, only stopping to take the death letter out of John’s mail slot. Holding the dog to her side with her arm, her hand under his chest for support, Jy-ying rushed around her room and threw open her suitcases, getting what she needed to treat his injuries, including a first aid kit. Finally ready, she gently put him down on the hotel towel she had placed on the bed. He lay unmoving, panting and looking at her. She cut the dirty hair around his injured paw and the bloody hair around the slice on his back. Wrapping the towel around him, she took him into the bathroom, where she ran the bathtub’s water until it was hot, letting it drain, and then put him in the tub. Tenderly, she washed his injuries with hot water and soap, ignoring his whimpering. She gently toweled his injuries dry, and smeared an antibiotic on the top of the paw where skin had been scraped off. The cut on his back was not deep, but it still dribbled blood. She rubbed an antibiotic into it out of her tube, placed an antibacterial bandage over it, and held it in place by wrapping a gauze bandage around his body. She had no ice yet to put around his paw, but she wound sterile gauze tightly around it in spite of his resistance, and hoped that would keep the swelling from injuring adjacent tissue. Done, she petted his head and bent over to look closely into his black eyes. No longer panting, he licked her nose and stared back. “You honor me with your Yinghao—brave heroism, my little one. You were so courageous,” she cooed. “I am going to honor you with your new name, Little Ying—little brave one.” She poured some water from the ever-present, half-full pitcher into the water bowl and brought it to him. He was clearly thirsty. There was no food in the room, but she promised, “Tomorrow, Little Ying, you will have a feast. I hope you can wait.” She wrapped a dry towel around Little Ying and placed him on the bedcovers next to her pillow. She knew he would probably urinate on

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the towel or elsewhere on the bed, but she did not care. She would leave a generous tip for the maid. And she did not think he had eaten enough to poop, not that it made any difference, either. She did not take off her clothes or pull back the blanket; she just laid down next to him. She saw that his eyes were closed and he seemed to be breathing evenly. She put one hand on his good leg, whispered, “I owe you my life, Little Ying,” and was instantly asleep.

Chapter 15 Early Morning, Saturday Ryan

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t the Pine and Larkin police headquarters, Captain James O’Reilly lifted his tall body from the chair behind his antique Manchester desk and stalked around it to confront Lieutenant Gary Ryan, stopping no more than a foot from where the shorter lieutenant stood and leaning down to stare into his face. Gesturing so violently he almost hit Ryan in the face, he complained, “We’ve got to do something about this.” The words rode into Ryan’s face on a guttural blast of air. “That goddamn General Frederick Funston is still here, even though the army pulled out months ago when it completed its job of keeping order and assisting in relief after the earthquake. He’s hot on my ass. He yelled—yelled, goddam it!—that he is not going to stand for this fucking cowboy crap going on here. He threatened to bring the goddam army back in.” Captain O’Reilly paused for breath, and then emphasized his words by speaking even louder. “In two days, we have had an attack on two civilians walking on the street, a gun thrown through a store window, a wild shoot-out between gangs at a hotel, the killing of a police officer and undercover policemen at a whorehouse while they were doing their duty, a gun drawn on a policeman, two policemen beaten up, a police wagon and horse—and the goddam horse!—stolen, a horse killed with a ton of bullets, a new Ford destroyed, a Red Cross truck stolen, two old ladies murdered, three burglaries, a holdup at City Bank, two drunken brawls, a race riot in the Presidio, and a naked oriental woman being chased by a naked man with a gun through a respectable hotel. Need I mention that incredible vest and the guns we took from a fugitive? Then there are those crazy rifles, if that’s what they are, that we found in the Ford that someone attacked. “Now, first thing this morning, I get a report of three men in the hospital after a street beating last night. Whoever sliced tattoos into their foreheads—” When the captain paused again for breath, the lieutenant added, “You forgot about the three house fires, the five auto on auto accidents, and the two auto on horse accidents.”

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“Are you trying to be a smart-ass?” the captain asked, leaning even closer to the lieutenant’s face. “No, sir.” The captain shook his head, looking as if he were trying to shake out a bug stuck in his nose, and pounded his fist into his other hand. Then he was off again, like a runaway steam engine. “All this in less than forty-eight hours. We’ve got to do something about this crime wave; otherwise, General Funston said he has the authority to declare another goddam emergency and take over all policing. The bast— general—has already been sticking his nose in where it goddam-well doesn’t belong, and the chief has gone to Washington to complain about it.” “I see,” the lieutenant replied. “Don’t give me that ‘I see’ crap,” the captain yelled, moving inches closer. “This has got to stop. Period. Do you understand what ‘stop’ means, Lieutenant?” “Yes, sir.” O’Reilly backed up a step and gave the lieutenant a long look, barbecuing him with his eyes. After what seemed like long seconds, he came to a decision; the fire in his eyes cooled, and his voice calmed. “I’m putting you in charge of a detail of six men. Get to the bottom of this.” “Yes, sir.” O’Reilly started back to his antique Mexican desk chair, but stopped halfway around his desk, turned, and jabbed a finger in the lieutenant’s direction. “And don’t come back to me in a week and say that all this ‘just happened.’ Nothing like this just happens. Only shit happens. There’s a goddam gang at work out there, and I want them stopped. Stopped as though a safe dropped on them.” He paused. “One of public safe-ty.” Pleased with his pun, he let his voice return to its normal harsh timbre. “You understand me, Gary?” “Yes, sir.” “And if you don’t get to the bottom of this, you will be underneath it all.” “Underneath what, sir?” “The shit that will happen,” O’Reilly bellowed. “I se—yes, sir,” Gary acknowledged. O’Reilly returned to his plush chair. “Pick your men,” he said wearily, “and inform Sergeant Simpson who they are. You have a reasonably open expense account, but don’t get goddam carried away.” Waving a dismissal, he concluded with, “One week, Gary, no more. I want this gang in jail.”

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Joy Joy knocked on the door to Jy-ying’s room. No answer. She knocked again, a little harder. No answer. She debated whether to knock again. After Jy-ying had fled the discussion in distress, Joy had waited until they finished explaining their mission and the guys had left before coming to Jy-ying’s room to commiserate with her. It took a while for Jy-ying to answer, and then her red and swollen eyes had made her look even sicker. But she had dismissed Joy’s compassion and, without inviting her in, had told Joy that what she had seen had been a shock, but she would have to deal with it herself. With, “I will be all right,” and, “Good night,” she had softly closed her door. Even more concerned now, Joy knocked again, harder. This time Jy-ying answered the door. She opened it halfway, to help conceal the blanket wrapped around her. Joy’s brows went up when she saw how tired Jy-ying’s face looked, and especially how lackluster her eyes seemed. Seeing Joy, Jy-ying invited her in. Joy did not need to go into the apartment. She told Jy-ying, “We’re all going shopping for furniture, kitchenware, food, and all else we’ll need for our new apartments. Would you like to come along? It’s at company expen—” She stopped and jerked back, almost going into a defensive stance, when she felt something ruffling the hem of her long, German linen skirt. She snapped her eyes down and saw a little dog sniffing her. One bandaged paw was held off the floor, and the ends of a compress on its back stuck out from under a gauze bandage wrapped around its midsection. Joy stepped back farther and put her hand up to her mouth. “What is this? A little dog, I think? But he’s all bandaged. What happened?” “I found him last night. I will tell you all about it later. You go shopping while I take the dog to a veterinarian for his injuries and get food for him.” Jy-ying didn’t immediately close the door. She hesitated for several seconds, staring at Joy with contemplative eyes. Then she nodded to herself as though she had made a very important decision. Looking at Joy with a face and eyes suddenly turned deadly serious, she repeated, “Later, Joy, later.” She picked up the little dog, nodded at Joy, and closed her door.

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Hadad Refusing to trust taking a cab again, Hadad insisted they walk the whole distance. After over half an hour, they reached Wisconsin Street, where they had left the Ford. “Where is it?” Carla looked up and down the street. “Is this the right street?” Hadad answered in a helpful tone, “Of course, Carla. There is 8th Street—I am sure you remember it—and here is Wisconsin, where we turned off.” He added with a tolerant grin, “You never know where you are.” Then he frowned and looked up and down the street. He walked to the spot where the Ford had been and turned a complete circle, arms out, staring down at the ground as though the Ford would materialize under him. “Bokg, somebody stole our damn Ford,” he yelled. Crossing her arms over her chest, Carla added, “And our OT-15s.” Hadad threw his sombrero on the ground, the sudden movement causing a stab of pain in his bruised wrist. He was barely able to stop himself from kicking the hat into the street. “Bokg. I am not walking back to the Resort. Let us steal a horse, car—whatever.” He bent down, picked up his hat, and slapped it against his leg to knock off the dirt. He pushed his hat squarely onto his head and stomped briskly down the boardwalk. “Keep your eyes open,” he threw over his shoulder, and almost tripped over a rock. “It is you who needs to keep his eyes open,” she threw at his back as she followed him. They soon came to a small factory of some sort with a lot in front containing carts, wagons, horses hitched to posts, two trucks, and two automobiles. They walked into the lot to examine the autos. Hadad pointed out with glee, “That’s the American Mercedes. Look at it, will you? No American car could match it. I’ve always wanted to drive one of those antiques.” Grinning, Carla deflated him immediately. “You cannot drive because of your broken finger and your swollen wrist. I guess the driving falls to poor me again.” They walked up to the Mercedes and Hadad looked at it fondly and rubbed his hand along its hood. It’s the 1905 model,” he said. “It was assembled at Steinway Piano Company. Can you believe it? The engines are Daimler and were built in the U.S. But the body was imported from Germany. It has got four big cylinders producing forty-five horsepower. It is—”

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“How do you know all this?” Carla asked, putting one hand on her hip and raising an eyebrow. “I know many things you do not know, Carla. One of my many, many useful hobbies is antique cars. I often went to the antique car shows in the capital while preparing for this mission in the United States. I wanted to pick up a Mercedes when we first came here, but I did not think there would be a dealer yet in this primitive, backwater town. Did I not I tell you that?” Hadad then reached in with his right hand and opened the door. He climbed inside and unhooked the crank. Grinning, he handed it to Carla. Carla She grabbed the crank out of his hand and, after a quick glance at the dashboard and levers to assure herself that the Mercedes was in the mood to be started, stomped to the front of the Mercedes. She was barely able to turn the crank, but the Mercedes engine was still warm and started in half a rotation with a roar and the smell of gasoline. She jumped up in the driver’s seat to readjust the levers and prevent the engine from being flooded, and it settled down to the usual body-shaking put-put. Eyeing Hadad from the corner of her eye to make sure he was looking at her, she smirked as she shifted into the first of the Mercedes’ three forward gears, then suppressed a grunt when she had to muscle the hard-steering car around to drive it off the lot. This time there were no backfires, and she was careful to drive on the right side of the road. The Mercedes had a flat canvas top without sides or windows, and cold wind blew around the windshield, threatening to blow off her “genteel turban” hat. She hunched her shoulders within her plush seal cape, although the current temperature of forty-five degrees was like summer compared to the freezing winters in Kazakhstan, where the temperature sometimes plunged to minus fifty degrees. Glancing over at Hadad, she yelled into the wind, “Hey, this is fun to drive.” Hadad sat in glum silence. They eventually reached the Resort without incident, and she drove a block past it into a side street. Still smiling broadly, she parked the Mercedes. As they got out, Carla commented, “Pretty soon, I am going to know all these side streets.” “Funny, Carla,” Hadad said. “I was going to say the same thing.”

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Hadad called the telephone operator from their room. Flashing Carla a smile, he asked for the telephone number of the new Mercedes distributor or franchise. While waiting for the number, he whispered to Carla, “You see, I’m not entirely helpless.” “Hopeless?” “Helpless,” he enunciated loudly, swinging the receiver he held between the little finger and thumb of his right hand. He almost dropped it. And almost missed the number the operator gave him. “Excuse me,” he said into the phone. Obviously keeping his whole right hand stiff to prevent pain from flaring through his wrist, he wrote the number the operator repeated. He hung up and held out his right hand toward Carla. She looked at it carefully, studied it, took one of its fingers between two of hers and shook it, and looked up at Hadad’s face, eyebrows raised. “Map, Carla. Your damn map.” She formed her mouth into an O and pulled the map out of her purse and handed it to him. After unfolding the map with some difficulty and laying it on the floor, Hadad searched the index. Running the tip of a finger all over the map, he finally stopped his finger at one location. After studying it, he looked up at Carla, who was standing with her arms crossed and her mouth a thin line. “It’s not much of a walk from here,” he said. “Let us go.” The California Wagon & Auto Company had a small sign out front and two Mercedes on a lot next to it. Apparently they were just newly opened for business. Two hours later, a visibly happy and surprised dealer had $8,500 in new-looking greenbacks in his hand, as Carla drove off the lot in a new American Mercedes that had cost over six times as much as a new Buick. Hadad was slumped down in his seat, looking disgusted that he could not drive. They bounced along on the potholed macadam street. Carla’s eyes were wide with pleasure as she hummed “My Gal Sal” over the noise of the engine, the clatter caused by the ruts and potholes, and the flapping of the top. She hummed even more loudly after glancing at Hadad’s downcast face. “Okay cripple, you can be of some help,” Carla said, rubbing it in further. “Look at the map so we can find the Bloodhound Detective Agency. You wrote down the address, did you not?” Hadad felt through his pockets as best he could with his right hand, and finally admitted, “Bokg, I didn’t bring it.”

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Carla pulled the Mercedes over to a concrete sidewalk. She turned and stared at Hadad, shook her head, and asked, “Can you piss by yourself?” That hung there for a moment. As Hadad looked ready to send wisps of smoke out his ears, she said, “Okay, okay, back to the Resort for the address.” When they approached the Resort, they saw three police automobiles and two mounted policemen nearby. They pulled their hats down low on their foreheads and tried to keep their faces averted as Carla drove past and parked a block away. Carla jumped down from the Mercedes and started to hurry to the Resort. Hadad yelled, “Hey. Forget something?” She turned to look back at him, threw up her hands, and returned to the Mercedes to help Hadad out of the car. In their room, Hadad found the address he needed, Carla looked it up on the map, and then they left again. Carla drove in the opposite direction as they pulled away from the Resort, mindful of the parked police vehicles. Hadad The detective agency was at 463 Pacific Street. They walked into a closet-sized reception room where a thin, gray haired secretary sat at a small desk to one side of a large door. There was an opaque glass window set in the door, and below that was lettered “Detective C. E. Follet.” Hadad pulled his shoulders back, tapped on the desk with the knuckles of his good hand, and looked down his nose at the secretary. He demanded, “I want to see the head detective.” The secretary continued typing on his Underwood typewriter. Finally he flipped the carriage back with a clang and slowly raised his head to stare up at Hadad over the tops of his narrow glasses. After a few seconds of the man’s challenging stare, Hadad appeared unsettled. He put one hand in his pants pocket and began to fidget with the coins there. The man shoved his glasses up his nose, tilted his head back, and coolly asked, “You have an appointment?” “No.” In words slurred together as though pushed by a cold wind, the secretary asserted, “You cannot see Detective Follet without an appointment.” The last syllable climbed upward in tone.

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“Tell him that someone is here with a lot of money to give him.” Another stare. Then, “I’m sor—” “Kotakka ket—fuck you,” Hadad exclaimed. Without knocking, he opened the door to the right of the desk and strode through. Carla shrugged a “What am I going to do with him?” at the secretary, and followed him. Follet’s office was much bigger, and dimmer. Light was barely able to filter through two dusty looking curtains. A large desk lamp with a sealskin shade provided additional, though inadequate, light. The office contained two dull gray metal file cabinets within reach of a small desk, an overhead fan, and scattered piles of papers, newspapers, magazines, and folders. On one wall was a large framed poster advertising in French, “Moulin Rouge, 11 mai 1880.” Its banner headline was “Can Can” and in the middle of the poster in red calligraphy was “Comporter Beau Colette Follet;” below that was a painting of the beau Colette with her leg kicking high in the air. She was almost naked, by the standards of the day. The room was uncomfortably warm, and a quick glance told Hadad the reason why was the fire going in an Acme stove in the corner. Next to it sat a bucket containing coal, an ash bucket, a small shovel, a poker, and a brush. The air was heavy with cigar smoke, the odor of burning coal, and the stench of Follet’s unwashed body, which the overhead fan’s enforced circulation inflicted upon every inch of the office. Hadad twitched his nose. He felt like gagging. God almighty, I need a gas mask. Then, halfway to the desk, he stopped and stared. Next to him, Carla stood agape. Follet was a fleshy, middle-aged woman with small eyes, one whose lid drooped, and naturally arched eyebrows. Her pointed nose was off-center, as though it had been broken at one time. She had a tiny mouth with large, heart-shaped lips, from the corner of which a small white scar curved upward for an inch, making her mouth look fixed in a lopsided, toothless grin. A black cowboy hat perched on the back of her head; her shoulder-length hair was a burst of yellow in the dreary office. She wore a black Directoire coat with white guipure embroidery and a tight white lace collar. She showed no surprise at the intrusion, or their gaping. She took a puff on her Flor Del Arte cigar as she looked up at them, and tried to blow a smoke ring. It came out looking like a ruptured balloon. She showed them a disquietingly blank face, waiting.

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Carla recovered and gave Hadad a glance that said, “Of course you picked this place.” She sat down on a cushioned, straight-backed chair in front of the desk without being asked. Hadad tried to decide whether the Follet behind the desk or the Follet on the poster behind her was more worthy of his stare. He finally took the other chair and, decision made, he frowned at Follet. He shrugged and said, “I have a job for you.” Carla glared at Hadad for a moment, and then looked at Follet. “Yes, we have a job for you.” “What might that be, sweetie?” Follet asked in a low, full, contralto voice. Before Hadad had a chance to answer, Carla responded with, “Information. We are new to San Francisco, and we have to locate a person named John Banks which, I can tell you, will not be easy.” Follet took a puff, caressed Carla with her eyes, and then said, “One dollar an hour, fifty hours in advance, all expenses paid.” Smoke mingled with her words. As Follet again tried to blow a smoke ring at the ceiling, Hadad took out a thick roll of bills with a flourish to attract her attention. He flipped off a $100 bill with a snap that made his wrist twitch in sudden pain, and threw it on top of the papers on the desk. “Keep whatever is left over if that is not exhausted by the time you get us the information.” Both Follet’s eyebrows shot up as her eyes stroked the money. She put the cigar on the edge of her overflowing ceramic ashtray, picked up the greenback, and slid it inside her coat between the top two white buttons. She took a yellow writing tablet out of a squeaky drawer and shuffled papers around on her desk until she found a stubby pencil. Then she leaned forward, her bosom falling over the top of the desk, cocked her head, and looked up at Hadad from under her short eyelashes, pencil at the ready. “Okay, let me hear about him.” The cigar cutter Follet had uncovered on her desk mesmerized Hadad. It looked like a pair of scissors, except that one handle was crafted into a man with an erection, and the other a woman with a slot under her belly. When the cigar end was clipped and the scissors thus closed, the two figures were tummy to tummy, making love. Hadad could not take his eyes away. Carla saw what he was looking at and kicked him. Hadad cleared his throat, focused on Follet, and passed on all the information he knew about the Fairfax Hotel, the location of the ware-

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house, and the possible formation of a Tor Import and Export Company; he described John Banks and “his mistress and supposed employee” Joy Phim as best he could from Hands’ biography. He concluded, “Banks has probably bought a new hotel or house or similar to live in, and has set up a new company. We want his new hotel or home address and his new company’s name and address.” Follet asked, “Is he a white man?” “Yes.” “What if he’s not in San Francisco anymore?” “Well, we are paying you to find out if he is.” Follet picked up her cigar, took a puff on it, and slowly blew the smoke toward the ceiling fan. “How can I get in touch with you?” “You can’t. Give me your phone number and we will call you every one or two days to find out how you are progressing. Okay?” “Fine. You do that.” When they got up to leave, Follet remained at her desk, puffing on her cigar, seeming to study the information she had written down. Hadad stood by he door for a moment looking at Follet, and then he turned and followed Carla out and to their new Mercedes. On the way, Carla commented, “That thing was crude.” “What thing?” “The pair of scissors on Follet’s desk.” Hadad tilted his head back and looked at her. “That was not a pair of scissors. It was a cigar cutter. Cigars are pointed at the mouth end, so the cutter is used to cut this end off so that one can smoke the cigar. I thought the little man and woman molded into the handles were well done. You have no taste.” She knocked off his Dakota hat and strode to the Mercedes while he picked it up. “She never could take criticism,” he told himself.

aaa As soon as Carla and Hadad left the building, the secretary entered Detective Follet’s office without knocking. “What was that about, honey?” he asked. “Merde—shit, those Japs want me to find a white man for them. I am not about to help those Japs. But I got their money. And zute— damn it to hell, I’ll get more. I’ll drain them dry. Wait until my friend Tveitmoe—you must have heard of him, he’s head of the Japanese and Korean Exclusion League—wait until he hears about what I am doing. He will have a good laugh.”

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Puffing more smoke out of her cigar, she added as cheerily as her voice allowed, “When they call from now on, tell them I’m out, and I left a note saying that I’m hot on the trail.”

Chapter 16 Late Morning, Saturday Jy-ying

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y-ying first stopped at a butcher store and bought a T-bone steak, which she asked the butcher to cut from the bone in little pieces, and include the bone when he wrapped them up. She carried Little Ying outside with the steak and found a grassy stretch near a Southern Magnolia tree, its large fragrant flowers white spots of delight in the dreary, foggy morning. She sat underneath it with her back to the trunk and Little Ying on her lap, and fed him one piece of steak after another. When he had gobbled up half the steak, she repackaged the rest in the wax paper and put it in her purse for later. Now to find a veterinarian. The third store Jy-ying checked had a public phone. She should have realized that a drugstore would have one, so that customers could call their doctors for advice on the drugs they might buy. In minutes, the telephone operator gave her the address of a veterinarian nearby. Her arm was getting tired from carrying Little Ying, but he seemed content, and she refused to put him down. A half-hour later she had a veterinarian, Doctor Waracka, looking at him. “My specialty is horses,” he told her, “but I also do dogs and cats occasionally.” He cut the bandages off the dog and looked closely at his injuries. “Bad cut there,” he remarked, shaking his head, and added, “I can see you took care of it. It’s clean, and I don’t see any reason it shouldn’t heal. Fortunately, it’s more on his side than his back, and it looks like the knife—knife, was it?” “No, razor.” Waracka took another look at the cut. “The razor only nicked his spine. Don’t see any problem in its healing, as long as you keep it bandaged.” He glanced at Jy-ying, tilted his head, and asked, “By the way, where did you get these bandages? I’ve never seen this amazing quality before.” “Oh, I picked them up in China. I do not know who makes them.” “Well, I hope they’re available here soon,” he said as he put ointment on the wound and rebandaged it. Jy-ying knew that she would put her own bandage on it back at her apartment, after cleaning out the ointment and smearing her antibiotic in it again.

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Waracka also put ointment on Little Ying’s mange and studied his injured paw from different angles. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Nothing I need to do there.” Jy-ying asked him, “What kind of dog is this?” “Well,” Waracka said, “I’m not sure. There are so many breeds running loose these days, it’s hard to keep track. Hmm. Let me see. Is this your dog?” “No. I found him yesterday. He had no collar.” “Well, since he is not yours, you won’t mind my mentioning how dirty he is. He’s full of fleas and ticks. If you keep him, you’ll have to do something about that. I think his dirty hair is really white in places, with black spots. He has a nice configuration—pert ears, normal muzzle, clear eyes, legs in proportion, and bushy tail. I think he’s a mutt.” “What is a mutt?” “He seems a mixture of breeds, but mainly terrier. He’s a goodlooking mutt, and I think young yet. You don’t want any pure breeds anyway. They often have problems.” Jy-ying paid him the $1.30 for his services, then bought a leash and red collar, which she put on Little Ying before she left. She decided to return to her apartment and make Little Ying comfortable there, then go shopping for food. She could get the furniture she needed later, or the next day. Walking back, she passed the Nickel Hardware store and spied a two-door, two-seater automobile out in front of its shop window. The sign on its windshield proclaimed “Like New, $525.” She liked the car immediately. “It is cute,” she exclaimed to herself. “Just what I want.” A little bell above the door jingled as she entered the store, and an elderly man wearing a green visor emerged from a side door and approached her. He was startled at first. He looked at Little Ying and then returned his gaze to her and asked belligerently, “What ya want?” She felt the rumble begin in Little Ying’s chest, and heard his low growl. Well, she thought, game time. She tilted her head back, narrowed her eyes, and looked down her nose at the man for a few seconds. Then she sniffed the air and exclaimed, “You stink! Have you been petting a skunk?” The man jerked a step back, and gawked at her. Pleased with the effect, she allowed several seconds of cold silence before saying, “I was going to buy your little automobile outside.” She

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motioned demurely at what she could see of it through the store window. “But you are a rude man. I will take my business elsewhere, thank you.” She turned and started opening the front door. “You got $550, cash?” The question sounded more like a challenge. When she turned back the man was regarding her with knitted brow and jutting chin. “I pay you $500 cash, or no deal.” “Okay,” the man said, clearly trying to make his voice sound normal. “What the sign says—$525 cash, no less.” “No. I get a twenty-five dollar deduction for rudeness.” She opened the door. She was halfway out when the man said, “Sold, you . . . . Okay, you bought yourself a car. When I see the $500.” She put Little Ying down, wound his leash around her wrist, and counted out from her holster purse five $100 counterfeit bills. “Where is my title?” she asked, holding the money in one hand. The man disappeared into the back and returned minutes later with the title. She read it and saw that she was buying a 1905 Bebe Peugeot. Included with the title was an advertisement that described the Bebe as “A twoseater sports automobile” with a “safety four wheel braking system, a six horsepower, single cylinder engine,” and a “contact breaker start and chain drive.” It proudly announced that the Bebe would drive other automobiles off the road at forty kilometers an hour—twenty-five miles an hour. She handed the man the $500. “You want gas?” he asked. “Yes.” He went into the back and came out with a gas can that said “two gallons” on the side. “Thirty-two cents,” he said. She gave him one dollar and waited for the change, which she put along with her title in her holster purse. She swung her purse around to her back, picked up Little Ying in one hand and the gas can in the other, and waited at the door. The man stared at her, then finally stepped around her and opened the door. She strode out without a word. She put Little Ying on the high seat of the Bebe, searched for and found the gas tank, and poured in the gas. She looked at the dash and guessed which were the magneto, throttle, and spark, set them, and then cranked the engine to start it, keeping her thumb back just in case a backfire made the crank kick back. The engine caught, shook, and

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nicely put-putted within one revolution, and she got behind the wheel. It was perfect. Like most cars of this age, it had the steering wheel on the right side—just what she had grown used to in China. Now that she had an automobile, she decided to do her shopping for her new apartment. She made sure that Little Ying was secure, shifted into low, and drove off. She now had her own snappy little auto. She had Little Ying beside her. She was the happiest she had been since arriving in this backward world.

Chapter 17 Late Afternoon, Saturday Jy-ying

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aving filled the Bebe with nonperishable food, tableware, dishes, and other immediate essentials, along with the supplies she needed for a big job she was looking forward to, she parked behind John’s apartments. John had given her a key to the back entrance. With Little Ying in one arm, she gathered a load in her other arm and carried everything into her apartment. She released Little Ying from his leash and let him roam happily while she made a number of trips to the car to haul everything inside. Good exercise, she thought. I am getting out of condition. After storing and distributing what she had bought, she was ready. She filled a bucket with hot soapy water and undressed. She put the bucket in the empty bathtub along with Little Ying, put tweezers nearby on the toilet lid, and sat on the edge of the tub. She got to work. She first took off all Little Ying’s bandages, and then washed him with a washrag and the soapy water, making sure he got soaking wet. She let him try to shake the water off, and started to pull the ticks out of his skin with her tweezers. She also checked for fleas, and if she found any alive she did another wash cycle, tick disposal, and flea check. He did not like it and resisted, but she cooed her threats to dunk his head in the water, and after a while he just lowered his head and tail, and endured it. Throughout each cycle of washing, during his attempts to shake the water off, and while she searched for fleas and ticks, she murmured to him her thoughts and decisions. “You got my mind working, my little one, and you and those bad men made me see that I have a God-given mission. There are millions like those men, who could be saved by God and his Prophet Sabah. Billions of infidels could be made to see the truth, their lives filled with the faith that will lead them to Paradise. Even so, the nuclear bomb attacks were . . . will be . . . wrong. I will prevent them. My way!” Her vehemence frightened him, and he tried to jump out of the tub. She put him on her lap for a moment, stroked his head, and let him lick her face.

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She sighed, and told him in a much softer tone, “I will save Sabah, little one. I will work with him. I will try to prove to him that patience and well-timed coups or revolutions, rather than nuclear mass murder, will also lead to world victory. No one else will have my knowledge of the future. No one else could advise him as effectively as I can. No one else will know the traps he would fall into and the mistakes he would make without me. With my power, he should succeed in globalizing Sabahism ten or twenty years earlier than he did. Right, Little Ying?” she murmured. She put him back in the bathtub and checked again for fleas. Still more. She refilled the bucket with warm soapy water, and started another wash cycle. “But, what should I do about Joy and John? Two things are certain. They are out to kill Sabah. And their democratic peace mission must be successful, for the resulting lack of international war, general disarmament, and the slumber of the democracies will be, under my guidance, the conditions that will assure Sabah’s world victory.” She automatically pulled a bloody tick from Little Ying’s jaw and crushed it in her tweezers. She asked him, “What to do? If I kill Joy and John, so much for their mission. I cannot do it alone. Then a global victory of Sabahism will be impossible in the teeth of the wary and wellarmed democracies and the heathen nondemocracies. If I let them live, they will kill Sabah.” Little Ying shook the soapy water off, and Jy-ying had to wipe the soap out of her eyes. He was beginning to tremble and look at her with his ears flat and his tail between his legs. She could not find any more ticks, but she did find two live fleas. “Once more and no more,” she promised him. She was quite thorough with the final wash, and in drying him with her new towels. Her mind continued to work; she was quiet while she patted his cut with a sterile bandage and put an antibiotic into it. She decided to let the wound air until evening. Now, time for him to learn what inside versus outside meant. She put on his collar and leash and took him outside. She walked him until he found the right smell to relieve himself, and then took him back to the apartment. Leaving him there, she took bleach down to her Bebe and washed the seat and floor to kill any fleas and ticks left from Little Ying; she was especially concerned to get the bleach into cracks. Finished, she rushed back to her apartment; he greeted her at the door by jumping up and down on her dress in spite of the torture she had inflicted. She

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picked him up and held him away from her with two hands. Looking into his questioning black eyes, she told him her decision. “I will not kill John. Nor will I kill Joy, my double, either, unless all else fails. But she must die, Little Ying. If I can help it, she will die at the hands of the assassins. I must try to arrange it so, when they next attack, I appear to try to save Joy’s life, but fail; I will succeed in saving John’s life from them, killing them in the process. “This will endear me to him. And I will eventually replace Joy in John’s heart. He is malleable, like all men, and I can get him to love me as much as he loves Joy, especially since I am so much like her. Together, John and I can continue the democratic peace mission, and I am certain I can persuade him to save Sabah—to educate him. I sense that Joy would never have gone along with this. She hates him too much. “But how? I know nothing of the assassins, except one thing—they are tracking Joy and John and when they find them again, they will attack. Then I should be ready. But it must be sooner than later; I cannot wait long, or it will be harder to convert John, and harder for me to set up Joy to be killed. I like her now. As time goes on, I am sure I will like her more and more. “Oh God, help me in this. It is your Prophet I want to save.” She sat down on the floor, stiffened her back, crossed her legs, and rested the backs of both hands on her knees. This was her favorite position for deep thought. When Little Ying licked her legs, distracting her, she looked at him and asked, “Will you protect me against the assassins, my hero?” Pink tongue lolling out, Little Ying tilted his head and looked at Jyying with eyes that seemed blacker within the clean white hair around them. She studied the black strip of hair running up from his muzzle to take over one perky ear, and realized she was falling in love with him. Joy “I’ve never done so much shopping in my life,” Joy exclaimed, slouching in her seat as John drove toward their apartment—their new home. “But we did it. We bought this ugly Model N Ford and now have our two apartments fully furnished. That is, we will when everything is delivered tomorrow. I love Victorian. It’s a good thing you didn’t care, darling, about what kind of furniture we bought. Otherwise, we might have had some fights over it. And those beautiful rings and necklaces I got! So cheap. I couldn’t believe it. A star sapphire as large as my thumb for only $843.”

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Eyes twinkling, John admitted, “It was a trade-off. I got the car; you got the furniture, clothes, kitchenware, food, and jewelry.” With a little grin, he added, “That saved you from losing a fight to your man, my woman.” “Well, your ego will be secure, since it won’t be tested,” Joy quickly responded, looking up at him from under her long black lashes. “Will it?” With a wider grin, he pointed at her with that finger she hated so much and warned, “Watch out, or I’ll put you in your place.” Matching his grin and ignoring his finger for once, Joy murmured, “Yes, my man.” There was an alley alongside their apartment that led to a delivery and parking area and a horse stable in the rear, and John pulled into it. As they turned the corner into the back lot of the apartment building, they saw the Bebe. “What’s that?” Joy asked, pointing to the automobile. “Snazzy. Why didn’t we get one like that?” “It’s only a two-seater,” John said, frowning. “Not practical.” They got out, left their packages inside the Ford, and walked around the Bebe. “See?” John said. “Not practical. No top, no windshield, and we couldn’t carry the guys—our guards, remember—with us.” Joy asked, “Are you naturally stingy? We have enough money to buy every car in San Francisco. I’m going to buy this one for me. That is, when I find out who owns it.” “Baby. Do we really need two cars?” Joy turned to look at John, put her hand on one hip, jutted out the other hip, and tilted her head. She was about to say something when her tall, three-tiered hat with the red feather sticking up in the back started sliding off her head. She caught it, straightened up and, her pose ruined, she bopped John on the top of his golf cap with her hat. When that failed to dislodge the cap, she flipped its brim with her other hand. “Yes,” she said as the cap fell backwards off his head. “I see,” John replied, mimicking Lieutenant Ryan’s tone of voice. That got them laughing. John picked up his hat and they carried their packages into the apartment building. When they stopped at Joy’s apartment to drop off her packages, she said, “The guys should be done buying their furniture soon. I can’t wait to see what they got. I bet Dolphy has the best taste among them. I also want to ask Hands about the woman he introduced us to in Oxford’s

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World Furniture. Just looking at her, I was turned off. I know—she has those sulky blue eyes, and she’s a blond beauty, but there has to be more to a woman than looks. When Hands introduced her, she was so shy and awkward . . . I think she’s missing a chopstick.” John pursed his lips. “Hmm. Great figure, from what I could see beneath her loose dress.” More tartly than she intended, she responded, “Chewed gum all the time.” “Come on, baby, it’s not our business.” “Hands deserves better.” “Baby!” “Well, he could do much better. I don’t mean to interfere. It’s just that the woman didn’t impress me.” “No matchmaking or unmaking, sweetheart. Okay?” “Okay.” She mixed sugar into her voice and put her hand over her heart. “Surely, dearest, you don’t think I would ever interfere in the guys’ love lives?” John put his hand over his mouth in mock horror and exclaimed through his fingers, “How could you ever get that idea? Of course not.” Joy changed the subject. “Oh, I want to see Jy-ying. I told you about her little dog. But something is wrong with her, and I fear that telling her about our travel through time from the future was too much for her. She may think we’re crazy, want to quit her new job with us, and flee. I’ll see her as soon as we take a bath.” John frowned. “Take a bath?” Joy hardened her voice. “Take a bath. B.A.T.H.” John looked both ways as though checking that no one was around to hear, then cupped one hand to the side of his mouth and leaned toward her to whisper, “Have you become . . . incontinent?” “Bastard,” she yelled and swung at his shoulder, but John stepped sideways and slapped her on the behind. “Okay,” he laughed, “bath time. I know, we’re all sweaty from the overheated stores, and you’re going to haul me to the sewage disposal plant if I don’t bathe before we go to bed.” Joy grinned. “Yes, smart man. Finally.” As they undressed in John’s apartment, he said, “I almost forgot. We now have to discard the idea of a Tor Import and Export Company. Since our attackers knew about the Fairfax Hotel, they have to know about the company, as well. They’ll be looking for it. I know that naming the company after your beloved mother means a lot to you, but we

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have no choice but to change the name. We should look for an existing company to buy that we can convert to do the same thing we intended anyway . . . .” It had been almost three days since Joy had left her mother in such a rush, she’d been unable to say a real good-bye before never seeing her again. At the mention of her mother, Joy again experienced the heartrending loss, and silent tears rolled down her cheeks. Half undressed, John put his arm around her and pulled her to him. He stroked her back as she grieved. “I know, baby, I know.” Joy cried her anguish out, then pulled back and wiped her eyes. She managed to sigh, “I understand, darling.” She took a handkerchief out of her purse and blew her nose. She gave John a wintry smile. “Let’s look in the classified ads later and see what we can find.” Ryan In their small headquarters squad room, Lieutenant Ryan met the six policemen he had selected to work with him. Two of them had been with him when he investigated the shoot-out at the Fairfax Hotel, one was Alex Reardon, who had been involved in the assault at the Presidio camp gate, and the rest of them had investigated the other attacks or crimes that had occurred recently. Ryan led off with a brief overview of the crime wave, the possibility of army takeover of the police under their post-earthquake emergency mandate if nothing were done, and the captain’s ultimatum that they have the perpetrators in jail within a week. He then appointed Alex as his second in command. With that out of the way, he stretched his arm out to point to a corner table. “We have a handgun, rifles of some sort—one broken—and a strange vest. There is also the much beaten-on Ford in the lot outside, in which we found the rifles. As to the stuff in the corner, we haven’t had time for real tests yet, but our weapons expert Steve has taken a preliminary look at them. When I’m done, I want each of you to look at these things carefully to see whether you can add to what we know about them. “And that is this. The handgun may be of German make and is the most advanced handgun we have ever seen. It has ‘Shultz 703 Hanover’ engraved on the bottom of the grip. It fires a 9mm bullet that is

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strange also, with an unusual construction in its head. Steve believes that it is similar to the illegal dum-dum bullets, but will cause much greater injury on entering and exiting a human body.” One of the policeman asked, “You mean there is a law against them?” “No,” Ryan answered. “It’s not our law. The Hague Convention of some years ago outlawed expanding or exploding bullets. Since we were using them in the Philippine War, we didn’t ratify the convention.” The policeman who had asked puckered his lips and wagged his hand. “Oh-ho, a college man,” he said and laughed, as did the others. Ryan grinned, and waited until he again had their attention. “I have sent a telegram to the German Mauser Company describing the handgun, the engravings, the cartridge, and the bullet. I assume that we will soon know more about the gun. I’ll tell you this: if I find out who produces it, I’m going to order one for myself, and recommend that it become the weapon of our police force. “With the rifles, the mystery deepens. Steve took the unbroken one to the armory and had to clean out the barrel, which for some reason was plugged with dirt. Then he aimed it down range and pulled the trigger. When he told me what happened, he was almost gibbering with amazement. Now, some of you may know of the Maxim machine gun that the British Army loves to use. It’s a heavy son of a bitch, Steve tells me; it sits on a tripod, and has to be operated by several soldiers. You won’t believe it, but those two rifles on the table are like that machine gun in that they can rapidly fire a stream of bullets. The bullets are not in a belt, but in a curved metal contraption that fits into a slot in front of the trigger. It holds sixty rounds, and feeds them one by one into the firing chamber. From what I hear, all I need to do is pull the trigger and swing the rifle from side to side, and I will shoot you all dead in a second.” Above the sudden murmurs, Alex exclaimed, “That’s impossible.” Ryan tried to quiet them all down with his hands, and turned to Alex. “Tell Steve that. He says that a country could rule the world if every one of its soldiers had one. Anyway, it shoots 45-calibers, so it’s possible we could load it. But I don’t know if our cartridges will fit. We’ll see. Anyway, I also described this rifle to Mauser and will find out if they know anything about it. All I can say is that the gang that has it is going to be dangerous beyond anything we’ve experienced. “Now for the vest. It is an armored vest, closed by some new fastening method. Where there would be buttons, it has filaments of

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unknown material that mingle tightly together until force is applied to pull them apart. To join them, you need only press the two sides together. Never seen the likes of it. As to the stopping power of the vest—” Ryan let that echo around the squad room as he looked from one to another of his six men “—a .32-, .38-, or .45-caliber handgun bullet will not go through it. Nor will any of the high-powered rifle bullets we’ve tried so far. We have yet to try an elephant gun. Yet, gentlemen, it’s lightweight and fits beneath a shirt without being too bulky. It is made of unknown material. If Mexican soldiers all wore these vests and carried that machine gun-like rifle, Mexico could take over the United States. “Anyway, just on an off chance the Germans know something about it, I also included a description of the vest in my telegram. I’ve also sent similar telegrams to Remington and Colt, with copies to General Funston. “There you have it. The gang we are going to have to find within a week and put behind bars—” Ryan again hesitated for emphasis “—has these handguns, rifles, and vests. I only hope we don’t get in a firefight with them.” One of the policemen asked, “What’s a firefight?” “Oh, that’s a new word I learned. It means a shoot-out. Time to get to work, men.” Ryan assigned his men to conducting interviews and chasing leads. Then he advised, “You each are to see Steve and arm yourselves with a shotgun, Remington, knife, and two Colt 45s. This is not a billy club job. And you all will work in pairs, at a minimum.” When he was done, he released them to handle and inspect the incredible weapons and vest on the table

Chapter 18 Saturday Evening Joy

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ohn and Joy had decided to sleep another night in Colby’s Inn, since the furniture they bought would not be delivered until the next day, and they still had food and an icebox to buy. They had already arranged to meet the guys in the Fior d’Italia restaurant for supper, and Joy had gone to Jy-ying’s room to invite her and her new dog to stay at the Inn at company expense. After knocking several times without an answer, she’d left a note to that effect on the door. She told John, “Since you and the guys made such a big fuss over my attire last time, this time I’m going to dress in girlie clothes. Ones I bought myself,” she added. She opened a large bag she’d brought with her and took out what she had bought that afternoon from the Marie Antoinette dress shop while John had been studying women’s undergarments, in some cases taking them off the hangers and holding them at arm’s length to look at them and feel their fabric, sometimes puckering his lips or raising his eyebrows. The clerks were quite embarrassed and tried to hurry Joy and John out of the shop. When Joy realized what was going on, she took her time, and even modeled several bloomers for him, which, of course, she didn’t buy. She put on a waist—shirt—of fine French pink batiste, with baby Irish lace around the wrists and at the Gibson collar. It was tucked in the back and trimmed with a Val lace insertion. She slipped the waist into a shapely maroon taffeta silk skirt with a black velvet flounce. Not even her toe showed beneath it. She let her gold locket hang outside the high collar, donned pearl earrings, and pinned her hair up in the wide swirl look so popular among upper class ladies. When she was finished, she woke up John, who had fallen asleep on the bed. Yawning, he glanced at her and grumbled, “I spend my life waiting for you.” Just as Joy was about to respond appropriately, he added, “And it’s worth it.” Smiling, she kissed her finger and touched his nose with it. When he stood, she put her arm in his and said, “Shall we, my man?”

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Due to the time it took for Joy to dress, she and John were a little late arriving at the restaurant. As soon as they came in, the cashier stared at Joy, looked at John with raised eyebrows as though to ask if she was the same woman, and shrugged almost imperceptibly. He motioned for them to follow him. They ended up at the same table they’d had the day before, but this time Hands’ gum-chewing, blond friend was sitting back to the corner. When they approached the table, the guys rose in greeting; Sal and Dolphy smiled and said, “You look beautiful, Joy.” John waved them down. Hands spoke almost immediately to John. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought my friend, Jill Halverson.” As John replied, “No not at—” Jill half rose as though to give a little bow in greeting, and spilled the glass of water in front of her. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so clumsy. Oh my.” She put her hand over her mouth in obvious distress. John motioned over a waiter, while Joy went over to Jill. She put her hand on Jill’s shoulder and said warmly, “Forget about it. It’s only water, and who hasn’t spilled a glass now and then?” The front of Jill’s dress was wet, so Joy lifted a napkin, wiped off the chair next to Jill, and sat down to wipe the excess water off Jill’s dress. The waiter reset the table with a new tablecloth. Joy looked up at Jill’s face and got her first good look at the woman’s large blue eyes, flawless pink complexion, full lips, and the blond hair that curled to her shoulders from under her hat. She thought, This girl could have an IQ of 65 and I don’t think it would matter to Hands. Joy could not help herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she tried to get a measure of Jill’s figure, and what she saw was enough for her to correct her thoughts. Make that an IQ of 35. She also noticed that the girl wore no makeup and no jewelry, except for a tinny-looking ring on her right hand. It resembled a prize that one would get at the penny arcade. That’s what the crane must have plucked from the pile of trinkets and dropped into the slot for her penny. Jill wore an inexpensive light brown walking skirt and a loose white blouse. On her head was a simple Mexican braid hat trimmed with a plaid scarf. Poor thing, Joy thought, she must be barely living from day to day. While John talked to the guys about what he had in mind for the following day, Joy tried to engage Jill in conversation, but the poor girl

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was apparently intimidated by eating at the same table with Hands’ boss and assistant, about whom it appeared Hands had already told the girl too much. Jill could only look at her hands or her plate as Joy tried to kick start her into talking. “Do you like it here?” “Yes, I like San Francisco,” Jill answered, fiddling with her napkin. “Are you living with your parents?” “No, my parents died when I was young,” she replied, staring down at what her hands were doing. “Do you have relatives here?” “Ah . . . my aunt,” she said in a low voice, as though being questioned in a court of law by the prosecutor. “The earthquake must have been awful.” “Yes, it was awful.” She nodded, still refusing to meet Joy’s eyes. “Are you working?” “I was a waitress at the Fairfax restaurant,” she answered, rubbing her nose. “Is that where you met Hands?” “Yes.” She peeked at Hands. Then she took chewing gum out of her mouth and stuck it under the table. Joy’s eyes went wide as her eyebrows climbed up her forehead. She turned her head away from Jill to hide her disapproval. She also gave up trying to talk to Jill—the more she pressed, the more Jill looked ready to faint. She had hardly eaten anything on her plate, either. Besides, Hands was giving Joy sour looks. So Joy turned to Hands and asked him if he thought the earthquake and fire would prevent the San Francisco Seals from playing a new season of baseball. He had been a catcher for them until he broke his right arm, and Joy had purposely asked him the big question. He commanded the conversation for the rest of the meal. That night, as they settled into bed in John’s room, Joy started to say, “I think Jill is beautiful and all that, but Hands can do—” John interrupted her. “Hands off.” He hesitated as he realized he’d made a pun. He looked sideways at her, waiting for her appreciative groan. Finding her looking heavenward sufficient reward, he went on. “Not your business. No interfering. No matchmaking. No match breaking. Okay?” “Okay, boss.” But she knew that the promise was only as good as the evening was long.

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Hadad Because of the ache in his finger and his preoccupation with finding John and Joy, Hadad was having a hard time getting to sleep. Finally he gently shook Carla and whispered, “Let us talk.” Almost asleep, she muttered, “You talk, I will listen.” “I have been thinking—” Carla mumbled a barely audible, “Good to hear it.” “I cannot wait for information from Follet,” he said, fingering his right earlobe. “I have got to start organizing our own mission. I will get John and Joy soon. If not this week, then the next. But I should not wait for that. I have an awful lot to do to create a fundamentalist Islamic world. Tomorrow I think I will start looking for a company to buy. You know, the biography that Hands wrote and John’s diary are so helpful as guidebooks.” He refocused on their primary mission. “I doubt that John will now set up the Tor Import and Export Company, since he knows someone is after them, and that we have inside information, what with our attack on his hotel.” Hadad leaned out of bed and reached for his coat on a nearby chair. He pulled one of his purloined Havana cigars out of a pocket, bit off the end, and spit it across the room at the spittoon. He missed. Putting the cigar in his mouth, he settled back and steepled his hands on his stomach. The cigar helped him think, lit or not. “Anyway,” Hadad resumed, “John surely will set up or buy some sort of company as a cover for their mission. And like him, I’ll pick a company that will enable me to create foreign subsidiaries or offices to provide me with a cover while organizing my foreign interventions on behalf of Islam.” Hadad took a moment stick the cigar under his nose and sniff it. Smiling, he added, “Oh yes, and I also should set up a broker’s account so that I can start investing in the market and reaping the profits from those stocks I know will be winners. Then I can also buy majority stock interests in companies whose products I know will be successful, like the Edison Company, Ford Motors, and Westinghouse. I can become the richest and most influential person in the world. All I need to do is invest in the automobile, phonograph, and movie industry, and . . . . Carla, are you listening?” He heard only the sound of deep breathing.

Chapter 19 Sunday Ryan

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ith Captain O’Reilly yelling for action, Lieutenant Ryan had told his team they would have to work through Sunday. One of his team members, Sergeant Schubert, actually complained about missing church, and exploded, “My woman will make the rest of the week hell.” Ryan checked Schubert’s records and telephoned the contact name—it was Elise—before church. He explained the rush his team was under, and promised that when they’d completed their task, he would give Schubert a week’s vacation. “You mean he’ll be moping around here for a week,” she replied with some irritation. Ryan’s eyebrows went up at that. “Well . . . how about a bonus in addition to his overtime pay, with no time off?” “As long as he brings the money to me without stopping in some saloon to souse it away.” Ryan stood back from the wall phone’s mouthpiece and frowned at it for a moment. He shook his head. Maintaining his distance from the phone, he asked, “Why don’t you come down to police headquarters and pick up his pay and bonus from our paymaster? I can arrange it.” “I couldn’t do that. What would people say?” The blood fled from his knuckles as Ryan’s grip tightened on the telephone receiver. He leaned his head against the wall. After taking two deep breaths, he said, “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I will put his pay in an iron box with a combination lock on it, and I will call and give you the combination of the lock when he’s not around to overhear me.” There was silence at the other end, finally broken by a slow-spoken, “I don’t know. Are you sure he won’t be able to get in the box? He could shoot off the lock, you know.” Ryan rubbed his forehead and looked up at the ceiling. “We’ll figure something out. Good-bye.” Later, when Schubert reported in, Ryan told him, “I called your wife Elise, and explained to her why I was keeping you on duty today. And—”

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“Elise is not my wife.” “Not your wife? She certainly sounded like it.” “Gee, Lieutenant, I hope you didn’t say anything to upset her. She loves me and hates for us to be separated.” Ryan exclaimed, “Who is she?” “She is my . . . ah . . . girlfriend.” Ryan hesitated, but he did have to ask. “You do have a wife?” “Yes, a lovely woman. She takes good care of me.” Ryan threw up his hands and changed the subject. “You have something to report?” “Yes,” Schubert said with a sigh. “We obtained the name of the owner of the busted up Ford from the distributor. It is Joe Smith, residing at the Fairfax Hotel. I checked at the hotel, and no Joe Smith has registered there in the last month.” “Clever,” Ryan responded. “How did this . . . Smith . . . pay for the auto?” “With cash.” “Yes, of course. Big bills? Small bills?” “In hundred-dollar bills.” “Okay. Sign out a C-note from our cashier and exchange that for one of those that Smith used to pay the distributor.” The telephone rang; Ryan answered. One of his policemen at the Fairfax Hotel reported, “John Banks and Joy Phim have checked out of the hotel. They left no forwarding address. I got a strange story about Banks from the previous manager and new owner, Foster. Three days ago, Banks bought the hotel from Foster and made him manager. Then yesterday, the day after the shoot-out there, Banks sold it back to Foster. And get this. He sold it back for a $9,000 loss. Jesus, in two days. I don’t think Rockefeller would do that.” “That’s interesting,” Ryan said slowly and thoughtfully. “I want you to do two things. One, pry a bullet out of the wall across from the window. Two, I’m going to send three more men over to help you. I want you to interview everyone in the hotel who was there on the days Banks was, and ask them what they saw of Banks and his . . . assistant, Phim. And then, interview people who live or work within two blocks of the hotel. Class A interview all around.” Ryan put down the phone just as Alex came into the office. He waited until Alex approached his desk, then stood up straight, crossed his arms across his chest, and coldly stared at Alex for several seconds. Uncrossing his arms, he pointed a finger at Alex and barked, “You

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were involved in that fucking sex ring Ben was operating out of the Chinese camp, weren’t you.” Alex paled; he stood, wide-eyed and paralyzed, for seconds. Then he broke contact with Ryan’s accusing eyes, spread his hand on his chest, and let out a burst of strained laughter. “What? Me?” he replied in a high voice. “Not really. Ben just asked me to send the pretty ones to a certain tent. It was just to . . . protect them, Ben told me. You know, from the Chinese men. They are so sex crazed, you know. That’s all.” “How much?” “How much what?” “What did Ben give you, besides free cunt?” “Nothing. I thought I was helping the girls!” “I’ll tell you what. I’m gonna accept that, Alex. I need your expertise. But, God help you if I find out you’re lying. Now, I want you to find out who was in that Red Cross building where the Mac truck was stolen. I want all the details. So, interview everyone who was there.” Alex almost bumped into the desk near the door in his haste to get out the office. Ryan plopped down on his stiff-backed chair and took a long deep breath. He let it out slowly. He closed his eyes, clasped his hands on his cluttered desk, and counted slowly to ten; he felt the tension deflate. He took out one of his Philip Morris cigarettes, lit it, and puffed on it reflectively. Yes, he concluded. He pulled his wrinkled notebook out of a suit pocket and wrote down what he had asked his detail to do, the exchange with Alex regarding the sex ring, and the time. He then called the homicide detective assigned to the case of the two policemen murdered in the whorehouse. After a long conversation with him, he left for the Presidio. Jy-ying Jy-ying stood back and looked at Little Ying. Clean, his short hair shiny, his white spots standing out against the black, and with his red collar, he was a handsome little dog. She had covered his cut with an antibacterial bandage just large enough to cover it and used just enough medical tape to hold that in place. The swelling in his paw had gone down slightly, but he still avoided putting his weight on it. Mirroring the tilt of his head with her own, she told him, “Now it is time to show you off.”

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She carried him down the hallway to Joy’s room, put him down, and knocked. After a moment, John stuck his head out of his door one room farther down the hallway, and yelled, “She’s here. Come join us.” Of course, Jy-ying thought as she approached John’s room with a smile. Stupid me. As John greeted her, Little Ying started smelling his feet and pants. John bent down and petted him. “So this is the little guy Joy told me about. Come in.” As soon as Joy saw Little Ying, she exclaimed, “Oh, how cute.” Squatting down, she petted him and let him lick her face. “He looks so much better cleaned up.” Joy pointed to the Anchor Steam beer bottles on the side table and the ice bucket with two bottles left in it, and grinned. “Celebrating our new furniture. Take one.” “I thought you could not buy alcohol here on Sunday,” Jy-ying said. While uncapping the bottle for her, John replied, “This is San Francisco, you know.” John invited Jy-ying to sit in the one chair by the side table, while he and Joy took their beers and got comfortable on the bed. They all spent a few moments watching Little Ying smell their feet, explore their suitcases, and find other odoriferous things of interest. Jy-ying cleared her throat and, assuming a downcast expression, she looked from John to Joy and then down at her hands, which she twisted in her lap. In a low, solemn voice, she told them, “I was so upset by the movie of the . . . what you call it? Nuker attack?” “Nuclear attack,” Joy answered. Still staring at her hands, Jy-ying continued. “I could not sleep. I kept seeing in my mind all the bodies and the horrible destruction. So, I went for a walk. It was late, and the streets were almost empty.” She then mentioned the racing horses, the injured dog, and later the mugging and rape attempt by three men. She suddenly looked up at John and pointed at Little Ying. “That brave little one, injured as he was, tried to protect me against three men! That is how he got the razor cut on his back. He truly is my hero.” Joy nodded. “Ah, so that’s why you named him in Chinese, Little ‘brave one.’” Jy-ying glanced at her. “Yes.” Looking back at John, she added, “Then I disposed of the men and brought Little Ying back to the apartment for first aid and cuddling.”

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Joy’s eyes were huge as she asked, “What did you do to the three men? Were they armed?” “Yes, one of them had a knife, and another had a folding razor. I used some elementary defense moves—I would be too embarrassed to show them to you—and chopped them unconscious.” Joy blurted, “That’s all you did to them?” Jy-ying again looked at her. “I did carve my initials in their foreheads. What would you have done?” Joy thought for a moment and replied, “If you hadn’t been able to fight them, they would have robbed and raped you, and possibly afterwards they would have kidnapped you for future pleasure or killed you as a witness. Or carved you up with their knives because they didn’t like Orientals. Also, I have no doubt there were other victims—or soon would be again.” John frowned at her. Joy hesitated, looked at John, and said, “I don’t know what I would have done. But they are wild animals preying on women, and I might have killed them.” John shook his head. “No, ba—” he remembered Jy-ying was there “—Joy. You wouldn’t. You might have done what Jy-ying did, or break each of their legs as a lesson, but I don’t think you would have set yourself up as public executioner.” Joy’s voice turned cold. “I hate rapists, John. I think they all should be castrated, at least, and when they do it to children, execution is too good for them.” John put up his hands and leaned back, shaking his head. Noting that with a smile to herself, Jy-ying took a long, deliberate sip from the beer bottle, carefully put it down, and tilted her head at John as she asserted, “I don’t agree with executing men just because they committed rape—or would have done so.” She smiled to signal a change in subject. “Anyway, can we talk about your mission? I want to help you in any way I can. I want to democratize the world, and I want to prevent Sabah’s . . . nuker attack. Sabah must have been brilliant to do what you said—gain control over China, and then the whole world. Maybe we need not kill him—need not execute a child,” and she gave John a soft look, as though commiserating with a father whose child was ill, “but we can educate him instead.” Joy Something is wrong here, Joy thought. She wanted to probe Jyying’s eyes, but the other woman kept looking at John. Maybe it’s that.

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Frowning, putting her finger under her chin, and speaking louder than she realized, Joy pointed out, “That is far into the future. He will not be born until 1914. We have lots of time to discuss it. Now, however, we have a little problem with those trying to kill us.” Jy-ying asked, “You will build your new apartments into a fort. Yes?” John nodded. “Excuse me,” Jy-ying said. “I am so ignorant of these things, but would it not be better for us to find and kill them rather than wait for their attack? Or, get them to come to us on our terms?” Joy was quiet for a moment as her finger migrated to the tip of her nose. Still frowning, she finally asked, “But how? They come from nowhere and disappear into nowhere.” John leaned forward, put his elbow on his knee and his chin on his hand, and thought aloud while gazing at Jy-ying. “I’ve been thinking too defensively. You’ve started me thinking about what we can do offensively. Hmm.” Joy looked at John. “This is a new kind of challenge, isn’t it,” she said. “First, we should think about what we know about these assassins. Let’s see . . . .” She looked back at Jy-ying. “Well, first, they are out to kill John and me.” Jy-ying glanced again at Joy before returning her gaze to John. “They are short for men,” she added. “One is maybe my height, the other maybe three inches shorter. And—” John held up his finger. “And they are well armed and from the future.” Joy grabbed John’s finger and forced it down onto his lap. “Most important, they know things about our activities that we don’t know ourselves, until we do them, such as where we would be Thursday afternoon, and which room we got in the hotel John bought that day.” “That’s it!” John exclaimed, leaning back and shaking his finger in the air. “They know what we had planned on doing. They must know our mission. Therefore, if we go ahead and do what we had planned before the assassination attempts, we can expect them to attack us again.” “And we ambush them,” Jy-ying said, emphasizing the “we” again. John still had his finger in the air, now waving it in a circle. “They surely must know about our setting up the Tor Import and Export Company—” “And they must realize that we now know that they are from the fu-

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ture and have information about our mission and activities,” Joy interrupted, putting her finger up and simulating a sword fight with John’s. Jy-ying Jy-ying watched the two, wondering, How can they be so relaxed and joyful with each other? Oh! I think I punned in English. Joy looked from John to Jy-ying, and said, “You seem pleased about something. Have you got an idea?” Jy-ying puckered her mouth for a second. Then, putting up her own finger and waving it with a little smile, she pointed out, “Since they must think that we will no longer go ahead with the Tor Company, but must believe that we need a company of some sort for our mission, especially one involved in international trade—that is correct, yes?” “Yes,” John answered. “Then they will expect us to buy or form a company with another name.” “Good point,” John said, and Jy-ying couldn’t help but beam at that. “What else would they expect we will now do differently? We were going to buy enough acres close to San Francisco to set up a weapons range for practice and for a place where I can continue to train Joy—” Joy looked at Jy-ying, tilted her head toward John, and raised her eyebrows, as though saying, “What do you expect from the crazy man?” John ignored her. “Now they will think we won’t buy such property while they’re around. But, they might still expect us to buy an empty factory or warehouse, and convert it for martial arts sparring and weapons practice and training.” “Ah-ha,” Joy responded, “that means that they’ll watch the classified For Sale ads in the newspapers for anything we might want, and probably hire a private detective firm.” “I got it,” John said, thumping his fist into his hand. “Here’s what we should do today.”

Chapter 20 Monday Morning Hadad

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adad let Carla sleep while he picked up the morning San Francisco Call at the nearest kiosk. On the way back to the Resort he glanced at some of the news stories: Roosevelt Makes History— Again: Trip To Panama First By A President To A Foreign Country; London Selected To Host 1908 Olympics; Steamer Dix Cut In Half—45 People Die; and Miles’ ‘Anchors Aweigh’ Deemed Most Popular Song. Trivial. All the news is trivial, Hadad thought. Just wait a couple of years after I take care of Satan’s two time travelers. As he entered his room at the Resort, he was still thinking of the future headlines for which he would be responsible. His favorite was Second Pope Assassinated—Church In Disarray As Moslem Forces Enter Rome. He pulled the room’s old rickety chair up to the bed and noisily opened the paper across Carla’s sleeping body. Carla stirred and sleepily asked, “What are you doing?” “I’m looking up the want ads.” “About time you got a job,” Carla murmured as she rolled over onto her side with her back to him and tried to go back to sleep. Hadad ignored the noise of the crackling, rustling, and swishing pages as he rapidly turned them to find the classified ads. Nor did he give any attention to Carla as she pulled the covers over her head, the movement shaking some of the sheets of newsprint onto the floor. All the papers could fall on the floor and be trampled, as far as Hadad was concerned. Except for the one page he now pinned to the bed with his pointed finger. He had found what he was searching for in the Businesses For Sale section. It was the only ad of its kind, and perfect. He wrote down the address and telephone number, planning to use the Resort’s public telephone to call after 8:00 a.m. and make an appointment. Humming to himself, he brushed the newspapers off the bed, pulled his Svoik gun oil kit from his bag next to the bed, and prepared to clean and oil his Stahl again, even though he had done so the night before. He did not bother to look elsewhere in the classifieds, and missed the Businesses Wanted ad:

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John John drove to the Anderson Detective Agency and hired them to watch for any suspicious characters loitering around P.O. Box 327, to simulate opening the box and checking inside, and then to shadow and report on the particulars of anyone watching or trying to follow them. They were also to keep watch on John’s apartment building and report immediately any suspicious characters or activities around the building. John offered a flat fee of $100 a month plus expenses. The detective agency hiked that to $150 when John warned that the job might involve men who were armed and dangerous. Joy The furniture Joy and the guys had bought arrived in the morning, thanks to large tips that John had spread around. Jy-ying’s arrived about the same time, and for the same reason. The dozen or more trucks and wagons took hours to unload, and created a traffic jam on the street in front of the apartment building. A policeman happened along on his horse and, after hitching it to a tree, he tried to help unjam the traffic. Joy got so exasperated with how slow the unloading was going that she told the delivery men to just drop the furniture somewhere in John’s and her apartments, and they would arrange it later—except for the beds. She made sure they were properly put together and placed in the bedrooms. After the last truck left, Joy and John went down to the guys’ apartments to see what they had done with their furniture. They had yet to visit any of the other apartments and did not know who was placed where, not even on which side of the hall Jy-ying’s second floor apartment was. All the apartment doors were open on the second floor, so they just walked into the first apartment, and saw Sal and Dolphy arranging furniture in the living room. “Whose apartment is this?” John asked. “Mine,” Sal responded in a puff of smoke, an Abajo stuck firmly in his mouth.

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Dolphy supplied, “Mine is down below.” He pointed toward the floor. “Oh,” John replied, “then Hands must have the other one.” He pointed down at an angle, indicating the approximate location of the apartment on the other side of the first floor hallway. Sal and Dolphy exchanged looks, and Sal replied, “Yep, that’s what he wanted.” Cheerily, Joy suggested, “Let’s all go out to eat in about a halfhour, okay?” She looked at John and added, “On me.” “Okay,” Sal and Dolphy answered as Joy and John turned to leave the apartment. Joy knocked on Jy-ying’s door, and when she opened it, Joy smiled at her and Little Ying, standing near Jy-ying’s feet. “Do you and your hero want to join us and the guys for lunch?” Jy-ying bent down and asked Little Ying, “Do you want to eat with these nice people?” He looked at her with his ears thrust forward and his tail a blur. “He is a little shy, but I think his tail says, ‘Yes.’ Oh, have you seen my new car in the back?” she added. “It is a Bebe.” Joy’s eyes widened and she arched her brows. “That cute car is yours? Can I drive it sometime?” Jy-ying’s face split into a grin. “Of course. I have room for one or two more persons. Then your horseless carriage will not be so crowded. Yes?” That was the first time Joy had seen her grin like that, and she was happy to see it. John finally said something. “No need for the cars. It’s only a short walk.” “Shucks,” Joy exclaimed. On the first floor, they found Hands’ apartment door closed. They knocked. No answer. John knocked harder, suggesting that Hands must be moving some new furniture and hadn’t heard him. Finally, Hands opened the door. He held up his pants with one hand, and his shirt was open. His face was flushed, and he stammered something about sleeping. Joy made her lunch invitation, and when Hands nodded, Joy motioned to John that they should leave. When they were on the stairs going up to their apartments, Joy smiled knowingly and said, “I bet Jill is in the apartment, helping him.” “Whatever gave you that idea?” John asked, the corners of his mouth turning into dimples. “Men!” she replied with knowing grin.

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John couldn’t let that go. “You women always have one thing in mind.” “Yes,” Joy responded with eyebrows raised, looking at John from the corner of her eye, “and who put it there?” A short time later, they all met outside the apartments, including Hands, who was alone. John suggested that they eat at the U.S. Café, about two blocks down the street. For a fifty cent tip and John’s threat to eat elsewhere otherwise, Jy-ying was able to bring Little Ying into the Café on his leash. Sal pulled out Jy-ying’s chair for her to sit down, sat next to her, and answered her shyly when she asked him what he would recommend to eat. He even kept his elbows off the table, put a napkin on his lap, and did not slurp his food or clean his teeth with his fingernail. As Joy watched him bend over his coffee to sip it, she wondered what had happened to the real Sal. Then she saw Dolphy acting much the same way. Well, she is fair game, Joy thought, enjoying the show, and she can more than take care of herself. John After lunch, Hands wanted to have a word with John. So, as they walked back to the apartments, John and Hands hung back. “I’m sorry about what happened when you knocked on my door before,” Hands began. “Jill was with me, and I was in deep . . . conversation with her.” “No problem and not my business, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your job.” “I would like Jill to move in with me.” “Oh; is that wise?” “I know you will make our apartment building secure. I think it would be better if she lived inside, rather than always coming and going with or without me. I would in any case want to give her the keys to my apartment. You see boss, Jill really has nowhere to live. I saw her room above the Montana Saloon on Pacific Street. I wouldn’t keep a dog there. And three times already, she’s had to strongly discourage drunks who were propositioning her. I’m sure they’ll soon gang rape her. She doesn’t deserve that kind of life. I feel sorry for her. And beneath her shyness, she really is a nice person.” “Are you sure her beauty and sex aren’t short-circuiting your good sense?”

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Hands looked at John for a moment, puzzled. Then he burst out laughing. “Of course it is. Wouldn’t it for you, if she were Joy?” Then he stopped laughing and looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. But I have to tell you, Jill has already taught me some things.” John put his hand on Hands’ shoulder and said, “No. You’re right. If she were Joy and I were you, I would be doing the same thing. Go ahead. But don’t hide her. She is invited along with you to our nonwork-related get-togethers.” “Thanks, boss.” “One more thing,” John added. “Not a hint to her of where we came from and what we are doing here. Aside from frightening her, it’s so incredible that she surely would tell others this great secret, and that would increase our danger. Yours, as well. You understand?” Hands seemed to want to say something in response, and finally admitted, “I know that she isn’t the brightest star in the sky and I don’t think she would really understand if I told her about you two. But, I feel so sorry for her.” “And she is a beauty. Right, Hands?” Hands smiled. “Yes, she surely is. You should see all of her.” When they reached their apartments and John was alone with Joy, he told her in general about the conversation. Joy’s immediate response was, “I don’t like it. I wonder if Jill is bright enough to live in these apartments with all of us. We have so many secrets here, and we will be making this place as secure as we can. Having a dumb lass here with us may be the chink in our armor.” “She’s Caucasian.” “John! I can’t believe you said that.” She hit him on the head with a folded newspaper. Her scathing stare melted into a grin. “Anyway, I like Hands, so I’m going to make an effort to get to know her better. Maybe I can get more than two words out of her at a time. Not that it matters to Hands.” “Come on now, baby. Give her a chance.” “Yes, you’re right, of course.” “Of course. Again.” For that, John got another whack with the newspaper. Hadad To give Follet more time to collect information, Hadad did not telephone her until after lunch.

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“No, she’s not in,” her secretary told Hadad. “Has she found anything?” “No, nothing yet, but she’s working hard on it.” Too soon anyway, Hadad thought as he hung up. “Are you ready, Carla? I have an appointment to check out this company that is for sale.” “Why do you want me along if you are going to be doing all this yourself?” “Okay, okay. God be blessed. We will check it out. I do not know what has gotten into you lately, Carla. You are so sensitive.” Carla stared at him while one hand fiddled with the lacy sleeve of her blouse. The corners of her mouth turned down. Then she stood abruptly and said coldly, “Go. I will be in my place, two steps behind you.” John “Let’s go, baby.” Looking at the furniture scattered all over their apartment, John added, “We’ve got an awful lot to do today, but most important is getting the business started and our apartment building secured.” “Okay.” Joy put on a hat shaped like a sailor’s cap and trimmed with white coque feathers and an embroidered band. “You know, sweetheart, I could grow to like the women’s hats of this age.” John smiled at her appearance. “I couldn’t. Not on you. I like you without a hat—with your straight black hair free and cascading almost to your waist.” “Yeah, but if I went out like that the police would pick me up as a prostitute. Okay, I’m ready. Let’s get the guys—that is, our bodyguards. What about Jy-ying?” “I asked her earlier and she said if she weren’t needed, she wanted to do more shopping and later work on straightening out her apartment.” He sighed. “This stair-climbing communication system is ridiculous. I’m going to have to set up an intercommunication system between all our apartments. Anyway . . . are you armed?” “Of course. You have the address for the company?” “Got it. And you.” He took her hand as they left the apartment.

Chapter 21 Early Afternoon, Monday Abraham Levy

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orld Trading Company on Townsend Street had barely survived the fire. It had been on the edge of the downtown fire, and only an empty lot next to it saved it from burning down. As it was, the side of the building facing uptown was scorched, and the inside still suggested the acrid odor of smoke. Abraham Levy had invested heavily in Lieberman’s Furs, which had burnt to the ground, and without sufficient insurance to cover his losses, he was now badly in debt. World Trading was one of the companies he had to unload as soon as possible. He had made a special trip to the company to see two prospective buyers, and he hoped that he could get them bidding against each other. With a subdued grunt, Levy braced one hand on his office desk to help him push up from his executive chair to greet the first of his appointments. His round belly pushed out uncomfortably on his brown worsted pants and buttoned suit coat, despite his corset-like vest, which he wore one size too small. Standing as erect as he could, he held his hand out to the Oriental fellow that his secretary led into his office. “Hello,” he said, “I am Abe Levy, the owner of this company.” Startled at first that one of the prospective buyers was Oriental, as was the woman with him, he didn’t like the thought of his company being taken over by them. But, he sighed to himself, if he has tons of money, so be it. “I am happy to meet you,” the man said, taking his hand. “I am Hadad al Jaber.” After waiting a moment for Hadad to introduce her, the woman with him finally gave him a “You’re hopeless” look, smiled at Levy, and said, “My name is Carla Akwal. I’m Mr. al Jaber’s assistant and translator.” Hadad quickly glanced at Carla, brows raised in surprise. Levy bowed slightly and waved them to two cushioned chairs. He dropped heavily back into his own. Levy gave Carla a closedmouth smile to hide his missing front tooth, and asked, “What do you translate?”

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“Oh, besides my ancestral language, Chinese, Farsi, Arabic, and Turkish.” Immediately, Levy asked in Arabic, “Where were you born?” Surprised, Carla took a moment to answer. “I was born in Kazakhstan, which is now under Russian control. My parents moved to the United States when I was thirteen years old, but I returned there . . . I mean, I visited—” Understanding the Arabic, Hadad interrupted in English, “Yes, she has had a very interesting—” Carla interrupted in turn, still in Arabic, “And you, sir, how come you speak Arabic?” “I’m a Jew from Jerusalem. Are you Jews from that part of the world?” Hadad cut off Carla’s response with, “No, we’re both Muslims. Now, as to your company—” Shifting to English, Levy raised his hand. “Ah, yes, that’s right. You are interested in buying my prosperous company. Aren’t you?” “Yes. How much?” “The price is $235,000.” Hadad was silent as he did a fast conversion. God almighty. He wants almost five million uptime dollars. He could not help his background. Even though he had the money and more in ten thousand dollar counterfeit bills in the case he carried, he just had to bargain. One never accepted a first offer. He tipped his head back and puffed up his chest. “You cannot be serious—” There was a hard knock on the office door. The secretary partially opened it and put her head through. “The second gentleman is here, Mr. Levy. Should I have him wait?” Couldn’t be better, Levy thought. “No,” he hastened to say, “send him in.” The secretary opened the door farther for another man and woman. Ryan With a cup of Golden Santos coffee in one hand, Ryan leafed through the reports the department secretary had received from the men he’d sent out, along with Steve’s report regarding the bullet extracted from the wall at the Fairfax Hotel. Finished, he leaned back, put his kip-booted feet on the metal desktop, and tried to put together what he had learned. After a few minutes, he realized that his mind was twisting around too many things, and that he had to get mentally organized.

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He got up and stepped to the small chalkboard against the wall. It had a cleaning rag hung nearby, and chalk hanging on a string from the board. After wiping the board clean, in different locations around its edges he chalked in, Killed, standing for the two murdered policemen; Sex ring; Super weapons; Ford; Truck, for the one stolen from the Red Cross; Escapee, for the man who beat up two policemen and escaped from the police wagon, stealing its horse; Fairfax bullet; Fairfax firefight; Stolen, for the stolen autos; Attempt, for the attempt to kill two pedestrians; and Other, for other questionable events of the last four days. He put time estimates next to each event, and drew solid lines between those events or things undoubtedly connected, and dots between those whose connection he suspected. He returned to his chair, lit a Philip Morris, and put both his feet back on his desk. Puffing on his cigarette, he studied what he had done through the smoke. How interesting, he thought minutes later, stubbing out his cigarette in a metal ashtray, I’ve got something. Jill Jill waited for a half-hour just to make sure that everyone was gone, and they would not return to the apartments to get something they forgot. She got out of Hands’ bed, put on her old robe and slippers, picked up her ratty shoulder bag, and opened the apartment door. She listened carefully for several minutes before walking over to the basement stairs. She switched on the light and descended. Eyes big, lips parted, she studied the capsules stored in a corner. She walked around them, tapped on them with her fingers, and then hit them a couple of times with the flat of her hand. She checked to see whether their doors were locked; they were. Then she found the time machine—its door was unlocked. It opened to reveal a compartment just large enough for two people to sit, or barely stand. She climbed inside, looked around at the dials and wire trunks, and then saw the time locator’s digital reading in red: San Francisco. November 14, 1906, 2:51 a.m. She stood stone still, her eyes locked on the digits. Finally, taking a deep breath, she reached out a trembling hand and touched the locator. Closing her eyes, she let what she had done and the meaning of this moment wash over her. She had no idea how much time had passed when she realized she still had much to check on, and slowly removed her hand. With a last

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glance at the locator, Jill looked down at the floor, seeing the manufacturing debris and dust—pockmarked with Joy’s tears—still strewn there. She shook her head sharply, left the machine, and climbed the stairs to the first floor and from there to the third. She checked the door on the first apartment, which was unlocked; aside from scattered furniture, the apartment seemed vacant—this was clearly not the one John and Joy were staying in. The door to the end apartment was locked. She took a small pick with a digital window on it out of her bag, and had the door unlocked in seconds. She went in and began to explore. She opened the bedroom closet and looked at the few clothes hanging there. Ignoring John’s clothes, she fingered Joy’s two dresses and her street suit and held them out to the light. On a top shelf of the closet, she found Joy’s top-of-the-line Mac PowerBook 17 inch G4. Her heart beat rapidly. She took it down, surprised by its weight, and carried it to the bed. She felt all around it, and it suddenly clicked partially open. Jill lifted the lid up, then stood back and gazed down at the keyboard and dead screen. As she fingered some of the keys and rubbed the back of a finger on the screen, her eyes grew moist, and a tear wet her cheek. She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her robe and gently closed the lid. She put the PowerBook back where she found it. She looked through the rest of the apartment. On a shelf of their new bookcase, she found the box within which Joy kept the DVDs. One was labeled Nuclear Horror. She lifted the DVD and looked at it closely, and her tears started again. She put it back; she had to sit on a chair until she could collect herself. More exploration turned up Joy and John’s new five-flange, fireproof safe. They had yet to activate a combination for its lock, and its door was open a crack. She looked inside and saw some envelopes. They turned out to be John and Joy’s birth certificates dated 1881 and 1882, their university records, John’s Yale Ph.D. diploma dated 1903, and the registration certificate for the Tor Import and Export Company in New York. No money. She carefully put everything back, then stood at the door before leaving, giving the apartment one last look. She threw a kiss to it, closed the door softly behind her, locked it, and returned to Hands’ apartment. She glanced at his new Parker alarm clock. It would probably be a half-hour before Hands returned. Chanting a strange melody, she started to rearrange the furniture and put the kitchenware away.

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Ryan Ryan searched first the squad room and then the check-in counter for Alex. He found him talking to a patrolman and motioned him to come to his office. “There.” He pointed to his chalkboard as Alex entered. “You see that? It’s pretty clear.” “What is? All I see is a bunch of lines and dots.” “Okay, I’ll read it for you. The man you arrested and sent off to the station in the police wagon had one of the super guns. Super guns were found in the Ford. The man who bought the Ford matches the description of the one you arrested. The woman who was with him when he bought the Ford also matches the description of the one who was with the man you arrested, who escaped.” Ryan sat back, put his hands behind his head, and put one foot on his desk. Wearing a self-satisfied expression, he continued. “And as to the firefight at the Fairfax Hotel, two of the super machineguns were involved, judging by the bullet taken out of a wall. And we know that two of those guns could have made all the bullet holes or marks.” He stood and stepped up to the chalkboard. Pointing vigorously at the notation for the man Alex arrested and then at the one for the woman who was with him, he said, “And these two match the description of those who stole the truck from the Red Cross, and shot and killed that horse whose body was near that beaten-up Ford.” Ryan remained at the board, gripping the piece of chalk, as though he were a teacher waiting for an especially dumb student to respond. Alex stared at the board. Finally he pointed at it and said, “You are telling me that the lines connect the two Chinks that we briefly had in custody?” Ryan frowned at Alex for a moment, and then replied carefully in a low voice, “Yes—well, they are some kind of Orientals.” Yes, the thought come unbidden to Ryan, behind my back I am undoubtedly “that stupid nigger” to him. He mentally shook the thought off. “And now, about the woman.” Ryan took out his note pad, rapidly ruffled through its pages, then paused at a page and asked, “Does the name Mei mean anything to you?” “No,” Alex responded too quickly, his voice high. Ryan stared at him. Alex stared at the chalkboard as though deciphering hieroglyphics. Returning to his desk, Ryan sat on its edge and crossed his arms on his chest. Just as Alex pointed to something on the board and asked,

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“Does that dead horse—” Ryan interrupted in a subterranean rumble, his pointing finger adding thrust to his words, “Some policemen have been sending pretty girls to the old Chinese woman Mei—a procurer. She would drug them so they could be kidnapped for a sex slave ring. As to that woman who was with the man you arrested, Mei confessed that she hit her over the head. She was dragged unconscious into a wagon by Tim, and taken to a bagnios—the whorehouse where Tim and Ben were killed. Nobody saw what happened there, but the woman disappeared after Tim and Ben were killed. The coroner’s report that just came in says that a blow to the neck killed Ben. And he had been engaged in sex at the time.” Ryan added as an afterthought, “His erection never went down.” Alex gave a tense chuckle. “I bet they had to hammer it into the coffin to close the lid.” Ryan narrowed his eyes even more, and raised his voice slightly. “I’ve had Mei jailed, and I suspect we will find out much from her.” He stared at Alex, tapping a finger on his desk, waiting for Alex to respond. When Alex neither responded nor looked him in the eye, he added, “The three bullets that killed Tim were extracted from his body; squashed as they were, they still could be identified as similar to those in the super handgun.” Without releasing Alex from his stare, Ryan sat down and put a foot back on the desk. “In any case, the sex slave ring is not my problem. That’s under investigation by another detail. Regarding our investigation,” and he waved at the chalkboard, “this much is now clear. There is no gang. There are two Orientals—a man and a woman—who, I think, are responsible for much of the crime wave of the last four days. What we need to find out now is why they attacked the two at the Fairfax Hotel.” Ryan looked at his notebook, still clutched in his left hand, and flipped some wrinkled pages. “The names of the two are John Banks and Joy Phim. I want to question them further. Go find them and bring them in, Alex.” “Arrest them?” “Heavens, no. Just ask them to come in to help us solve a case of murder related to the attack on them, that’s all. Tell them we think we know who did it.”

Chapter 22 Early Afternoon, Monday Levy

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r. John Banks,” the secretary announced as the second prospective buyer entered. Levy again heaved himself up from his chair to greet the second couple, but he was startled when Hadad rose from his chair so abruptly, he knocked it over. Carla was up almost as fast; she had her hand in her purse, but seemed to change her mind. She withdrew her hand and leaned over Hadad as though she were helping him pick up the chair. Levy heard her hiss to him, “Control yourself.” “I am sorry,” Hadad said, looking apologetically at Levy, “I got a cramp in my leg as I stood.” He then grimaced what he must have intended to be a smile of greeting to the other couple. Levy gave a little chuckle and held his hand out as he introduced himself. Banks took his hand and responded, “Glad to meet you, Mr. Levy.” He gestured at the woman beside him. “This is my assistant and translator, Miss Joy Phim.” Joy seemed unable to take her narrowed eyes from Carla, but she finally turned to Levy, smiled, and said, “Hello.” Levy introduced Hadad and Carla to them; they all exchanged stiff greetings. Looking at Joy quizzically, Levy tilted his head and said, “What a coincidence. Miss Akwal is Mr. al Jaber’s assistant and translator, also. And what languages do you translate, Miss Phim?” Smiling at Carla, Joy answered, “The major Chinese languages, Japanese, some Cambodian and Vietnamese.” “How interesting,” Levy said. “Miss Akwal also speaks Chinese. I understand it’s a beautiful language, but I’ve never heard anybody speak it. Could I hear you two speak Chinese, just to please an old man? Oh, but wait. You don’t have chairs.” Levy went to the door and yelled to his secretary to bring two more chairs.

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Joy While she waited for the chairs, Joy studied Carla. She smiled pleasantly and asked in Mandarin Chinese, “Are you from the western part of China or from Mongolia?” Carla seemed to have a hard time finding her voice. She coughed into her hand, looked embarrassed, and finally replied in Chinese, “No, I am from Central Asia—from Kazakhstan. Do you know where that is?” Crude Chinese, Joy thought automatically. No wonder she looks embarrassed. Still speaking Chinese while scrutinizing Carla from head to foot, Joy responded, “Roughly.” John Watching the exchange, John immediately saw an almost imperceptible change in Joy’s posture. Her relaxed and open demeanor now covered for a hard, supercharged calm; she seemed coiled, ready to spring. It was like her warrior’s ready stance, without the stance. Jesus, he thought, something is going on here. There is danger in the air, and Joy smells it. But what is it? Joy’s eyes were still on Carla. She switched to English, and in a pleasant tone, she suggested, “Since these men have business to conduct, let’s you and I step into the reception room to talk about our similar jobs. There is our interest in China, also.” To John, her tone crackled with electricity. Carla quickly glanced at Hadad, then looked back into Joy’s eyes. After a second she nodded, and Joy turned to John and gave the slightest nod of her head. Then she said in English, loud enough for Hadad to hear, “This is fun. I haven’t spoken Chinese for months. Carla and I have much in common, and we’re going outside to talk. Oh, Mr. Banks, don’t forget this. You can’t buy the company without it.” She reached into her holster purse and took out a piece of paper and her pencil, and wrote a note. She handed the paper to John. It read They are the killers—got guns—be careful. He looked at it without a change in expression, then shoved it into his suit coat pocket alongside his S&W’s holster. His hand remained in his pocket, clutching the gun’s grip. He hoped that his pounding heart was not visibly shaking his body. As the two women left, Levy thanked them for speaking Chinese. When the door closed behind them, he turned to John. “Well,” he said, “I understand you want to buy my company also.”

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Joy As soon as Joy and Carla were in the outer office, Joy introduced her to the guys. As Carla concentrated on each one to say hello, Joy stood slightly behind her and soundlessly mouthed, “Danger” to the guys. She toggled on her communicator to John with a subvocalized “KK.” Then she told a large-eyed Hands and Dolphy that, since they were his purchasing consultants, they should join John in the inner office. She knew John would hear that and act appropriately. She motioned Carla to sit next to Sal, and she sat down on the edge of the chair on the other side of her, her body almost squarely facing Carla. Hoping that her exchange with this woman would not distract John too much, Joy said in English so Sal would understand, “You are carrying a holster purse with a gun in it. Don’t reach for it, or you are dead. Who are you and—” Yelling, “XX. Run for it, Hadad!” Carla backhanded a knife chop to Joy’s nose that, had it hit, would have driven her septal cartilage into her brain, killing her instantly. The strike came so suddenly that Joy’s reflexive sweeping block with her arm was only able to deflect it into a glancing blow that knocked her off her chair. Sal grabbed for his new knife, but Carla elbowed him in the nose, knocking him against the back of his chair; he slid slowly down to the floor. Trying to regain her senses as she fell to the floor, Joy rolled on her shoulder, her skirt twisting around her. She reached for her own holster purse, but Carla’s boot kicked it out of the way. Then she hurled a death kick to Joy’s temple. Joy writhed sideways but, hampered by her clothes, she suffered a painful glancing blow. She coiled her feet under her, fists ready. Carla shrugged off her holster purse. Her eyes fixed on Joy’s, she rapidly stripped down to her Persian lawn waist and lace briefs. She gave Joy a chilling grin. Bowing, she introduced herself, making each word seem a lethal threat in itself: “I am Carla Akwal from Astana, Kazakhstan. I am here to kill you. You are the enemy of my people and my God, Joy Phim.” Joy’s head was recovering from the deflected blow, but she still needed more time. Seeing that Carla was now adhering to their warrior code, she took a step back and asked, “Why am I your enemy?” “You destroyed the Prophet Abul Sabah and the holy and great Sabah faith. You created a world dominated by infidels. You killed the true faith and love of God.”

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Joy responded, “I am here to save millions of lives and make the world free for people like you and your religion.” Carla’s voice took on a chilling remoteness, as though she spoke at a great distance. “I am also here to save lives for God, and to enable the millions you would consign to an unholy and evil life to reach Paradise. I must stop you. I must kill you.” That was all Joy needed. “You can try,” she said quietly. Keeping watchful eyes on Carla, just in case, Joy also stripped down for combat, but before removing her chiffon Panama skirt, she reached into its pocket to pull out her red headband. Now, standing straight in white cotton panties and her French Batiste waist over her armor, she faced Carla, flipped her headband inside out, and put it around her forehead. It showed a white lightning bolt against a red background. Joy bowed and made her own introduction, her voice reflecting her cold calm. “My real name I don’t know. I am of the family of Tor Phim, who adopted me. It is my duty to warn you that I am of the secret Sensei Jigoro Ueshiba bushinota dojo. Since I am now telling you this, by the code of my dojo our fight must be to the death. If you do not accept this, leave and I will not follow you.” Carla showed by her smile that she knew about it, and was hardly intimidated. It took a split second for Joy to move from her bow into the dojo’s unique ready stance. She had already divided her inner self. Her mind had carried on the exchange while her core prepared for combat. Now, the mind could only be a hindrance, and before fleeing the field of battle, it allowed one last thought: I love you, John. Help me, Mom. For Joy—and, she assumed, for Carla—her world now collapsed into the other’s eyes, hands, elbows, and feet. She did not feel the cold dampness in the air; she did not hear the sounds that came through the office door—a crashing chair, a muffled scream, a shot; she was unaware of the terrified secretary’s high-pitched cry for help. She was under the command of her selftwo, that part of her inner being—often mistakenly termed the unconscious—that centered her energy, her power, and her self through almost a lifetime of training. She was honed into death machine. As was Carla. Based on her initial strikes and her introduction, Joy’s self-two knew this without thought, and it prepared her.

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John No sooner did Hadad hear Carla’s muffled yell to him, than he grabbed his chair with his left hand and jumped up. He spun it at John, who deflected it with one arm while pulling his S&W out of his pocket holster. Hadad swiftly grabbed a confused Hands by his arm and flipped him over his left shoulder into John, sending him staggering back. John heard a loud crack just before Hands screamed. Hadad grabbed another chair, hurled it through the office window, and jumped out through the hole. John ran to the window and shot at the figure dodging through the fog and misty rain. He missed. He jumped out the window too, with Dolphy close behind him, his Colt drawn. “Spread out and be careful, Dolphy. He’s got a gun.” “What about Joy?” Dolphy yelled. “She can take care of herself,” John yelled back, as they began a careful search along Townsend Street and its alleys. Carla Carla slowly assumed her Fukienese White Crane chin na—seizing and controlling— fighting stance; she pressed downward with her knees to root herself, straightened her back, held her head up, positioned her elbows inward and forward, absolutely relaxed her body, and put her weight on her heels; in all, she was perfectly balanced. She concentrated on Joy’s eyes while feeling with her toes for her ideal center of gravity for attack. Joy Her eyes locked with Carla’s in a deadly perceptual duel of their own, Joy let her trained peripheral vision watch Carla’s hands and feet. She saw from Carla’s stance, the slow moves of her fists and feet, and her center of gravity, that she was an expert in some esoteric version of the Eastern martial arts, perhaps some version of kung fu. Joy’s selftwo knew then that she was in deadly danger. Carla had apparently prepared for this battle with Joy and had the advantage of knowing everything about her techniques; the subtleties of Carla’s would be largely unknown to Joy.

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But this unconscious realization had no effect. Five seconds. Another five seconds. Their eyes remained locked, unblinking; their faces, calm and resolute. Carla swayed slightly, like a cobra. Another five seconds. In a soundless blur, Carla struck with her side kick, almost instantly followed by a series of high and low spear hands, fist punches, front and back elbow strikes, and high kicks, all whizzing at Joy like whip snaps; Joy reflexively parried, evaded, sidestepped, and blocked with two hands or by rapid sweeps of her arms. Her eyes missed nothing. They sought only one thing—the opening that would end the battle. Joy moved swiftly to the attack with body chops meant to disable and open Carla’s head to the kill, but they only caused Joy pain as her hands and elbows connected with Carla’s own body armor. Joy went low and high, releasing her own series of knife chops, thrust punches, hammer-fist strikes, elbow punches, and then a side kick to Carla’s inner knee to unbalance her. This was to be followed by a hammer fist strike to Carla’s unbalanced side—Joy knew instinctively that as Carla shifted to protect that side, she would be further unbalanced, opening her head to a full, disabling forward jump kick. But Carla recovered by doing a back flip and increasing the distance between them to absorb Joy’s energy and momentum, and void her judo skill at grappling. She absorbed Joy’s attack, countering, twirling, and sidestepping, then again drove into her with a flurry of swirling kicks, chops, fists, and elbows to drive Joy back one step at a time, until she backed into the desk. Joy did a sideslip and tried to sweep her leg into Carla’s, but she jumped above the sweep and came down on one foot, instantly pivoting to swing the other for Joy’s exposed throat. Joy just managed to twist out of the way and grab Carla’s kick with her left hand to throw her, but she misjudged the distance by a fraction of an inch and the full force of the kick struck Joy’s index finger, dislocating it, and knocking her off balance against one of the office chairs. She collapsed with it to the floor. With a loud “Hayaiii!” Carla moved in for the kill. John Soaked by the rain, John and Dolphy gave up and returned to the building. Just as they reached the lot where the Ford was parked, a woman John suddenly recognized as Carla drove a Mercedes out of the

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lot. It hurtled right at them. He and Dolphy both jumped out of the way, diving in opposite directions. John splash-landed in puddle, rolled onto his stomach, and emptied his gun at the Mercedes. The shots didn’t stop it. Dolphy had smacked into the side of the building and was lying, dazed, in another puddle. By the time John got to him, he was shaking his head and muttering something about demanding a raise. Joy. JOY. What happened to Joy? exploded in John’s mind. He raced into the building and skidded to a stop in the outer office, almost falling over Joy. His heart beat wildly. Panting for breath, he tried get his words of utter relief out. Joy was bending over Sal, who was sitting on the floor with his Colt in one hand, blood streaming from his nose. Sal uttered the first words after the battle. When he saw John and then Dolphy come in, he waved his free hand and gasped, “No woman messes with Sal Garcia.” Still out of breath herself, Joy looked up and, in a weak voice, said, “He only has a bloody and bruised nose. Nothing broken.” She finished in a voice barely above a whisper, “He pointed his gun at Carla and shouted, ‘Hands up or I’ll shoot.’” Joy put her hand on Sal’s, and smiled wanly at him. “She fled. He saved my life.” John hardly heard any of that. His mind was filled with one thought, which he finally got out in a happy blast. “You’re alive. Thank God.” Then her appearance broke through to him, and he whispered, “My God!” One of her eyes was puffing up and turning black. She had an eggsized purplish bruise on her temple; a sleeve of her waist was torn off, and the bare arm and her bare legs were splotched with large, spreading black and blue bruises. A long fingernail cut on her leg oozed blood. And she stood awkwardly, holding her hip as though in great pain. When he saw her finger bent at an odd angle, he broke free from his shock and covered the few steps to her in an instant. He gently took her in his arms, not knowing where or how to hold her to avoid her many bruises, kissed her tenderly, and told her, “I’ve told you a thousand times, baby. Pick on men, not women.” Already sagging with post-adrenaline let-down and combat fatigue, Joy was just able to squeak, “I’m okay. Really. Just a few bruises.” She waved away his concerns with the hand possessing the dislocated finger. Levy came out of his office with one arm around Hands and a gun in the other. Hands’ arm hung at an odd angle, clearly broken. Levy looked at John and said, “I’ve called the police.” Dolphy helped Hands to a chair while Levy gave his thoroughly frightened secretary a hand up from the wall she’d been cowering

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against. He guided her into her chair. Then he approached John and stared at Joy’s face, arms, and finger. Rubbing his hand over his bald head, he looked at John, then Hands, then back to John. “Well,” he said conversationally, with the slightest hint of a smile, “I didn’t realize you two couples would be so competitive about buying my business.” John started to ask, “Where is a hospital—” Joy interrupted in a voice barely above a sigh, “No. I’ll fix Hands’ arm . . . there is nothing wrong with me . . . I can’t deal with.” She put her head to John’s as though to kiss him, and whispered in his ear, “Hospital . . . vulnerable.” She shrugged herself free from John’s arms and stood, bent at an odd angle, slightly swaying. John immediately put his arm around her shoulders to hold her steady. She held onto his arm, looked at Levy, and said in a voice flat with exhaustion, “Thank you for the excitement. Now we must go. I hope you sell your business.” That was all John needed to come to his senses. He recognized Joy’s skirt among the clothes on the floor, and while all the guys looked away, he opened it wide and held it near the floor so that she could put her feet into it. She did so, using his shoulders for support. He then pulled it up and buttoned it for her as best he could, then carried her out to their Ford. Dolphy helped Hands out while Sal made sure they left nothing behind, including Joy and Carla’s purses, and all the remaining clothes. They all squeezed into the Ford. Hands sat with his broken arm pillowed on Joy’s lap. John hurriedly did all the monkey work to set up the Ford for starting, cranked it into a clattering start, then drove it out of the lot and down Townsend Street, in the direction opposite the one from which John assumed the police would come. He could barely steer, he was shaking so much.

Chapter 23 Mid-Afternoon, Monday Ryan

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s soon as he heard about the call, Ryan just knew he had to check this out. He took two other policemen with him and directed his Stanley Steamer toward Townsend Street. When they entered the outer office, they found Levy comforting his distraught secretary, still holding a gun in his hand. Ryan looked around. He saw the upturned chair, and the blood on the floor near another chair. In the inner office, he found a broken chair and a bustedout window. No bodies, no bullet holes anywhere, no reason for him to be there. That is, until he asked what happened. When he heard about the two Oriental beauties, a Carla Akwal and a Joy Phim who both spoke Chinese, followed by the description of the Oriental man and John Banks, he knew that the trip here was worth it. He took out his notebook and tried to calm the secretary enough to get a description of what had happened in the outer office. Although her trembling never stopped, he found out enough from her to know that a hand-to-hand fight had taken place between Akwal and Phim, and that one of them was out to kill the other. The man who was there had been knocked to the floor, and his head was all bloody as he drew his gun and tried to shoot Akwal, who then ran away. As the man tried to help the remaining woman, other men came in from the outside; Levy and one of the men, now with a broken arm, came out of the inner office, and all the visitors left. From Levy he found out about Hadad al Jaber, the Oriental man with Akwal, who for no reason suddenly launched an attack on John Banks, and broke the arm of another man there with Banks. After throwing a chair through the window, al Jaber jumped through as Banks shot at him. Banks and the second man with him also went through the window. So, Ryan thought, Joy Phim and John Banks were attacked here also. After asking a number of questions, Ryan was sure that al Jaber was the man who escaped from the police wagon, and Akwal was the woman implicated in the murder of the two policemen. Ryan did not

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have the names of the three other men involved with Banks, but he was sure they were the same ones he met at the Fairfax after the . . . firefight. Their names were in his notebook. After an hour and eight utterances of “I see,” Ryan felt he was making very good progress on this case. If I find Phim and Banks, he thought, I should soon get Akwal and al Jaber. Funny names for Orientals. Carla Carla soaked in the cold bath water, knowing it was just right for her bruised body, and she would feel better when she got out. She had a black eye, and her left cheek and half her forehead were black and blue. She laid her head back on rim of the bathtub dejectedly. Joy is good and smart, but I had her in my hands. I should have known that man had a gun. Bokg. I could have easily put him away first. Dumb. She added more water to the bathtub, and lowered herself until only her knees and swelling nose were above water. A halo of black hair floated around her head. I now know I can take her. Aloud, she vowed, “Next time, Joy, you are dead.” Ears underwater, she felt rather than heard the door to the room slam. She popped her head up to see Hadad slouched in the doorway, dripping water from his soaked, muddy clothes. He put one hand on the doorjamb, as though it alone held him up, and looked at her with his head cocked and his eyes wide. “You look awful.” Then he smiled. “But you killed her. Very good.” Carla thwacked the bath water with her flat palm, accidentally splashing Hadad, and breathed heavily for some seconds. “I had her! She was mine.” “You didn’t kill her? But all those sounds I heard over the communicator—it sounded like you killed her ten times over.” She then splashed water on her head, and as it ran off her sagging, mottled face, she looked down into the water and told him in a low voice, “I would have beat her, killed her, but for that Pidaras— dickhead Sal. You should remember him from the biography. He pulled a gun on me when I had her down. Bokg.” Making a shooting gesture with his free hand, Hadad growled, “Why didn’t you shoot them, damn it?” Carla raised her chin up. Helped by the cold water, she gave Hadad a lopsided, icy look. She tipped her head farther back to stare

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down her nose at him. “If you had her weaponless,” she snapped, “you would have pumped fifty bullets into her with your OT-15. Right?” She looked back down at the water and compressed her split lips for a moment. Then she looked directly at him and explained in a quiet voice, “When I had her face to face, no weapons, it had to be hand-tohand, warrior to warrior—a match made in Paradise. I had trained for this; I had dreamed of it. I was ready. You do not understand, Hadad. I respect her. She is a great woman. But she is my enemy. I must, and will, kill her. But as a warrior; not your way.” Frowning, Hadad sat on the edge of the bathtub. “I do not understand you. You were going to shoot her in the back on the street, or kill her in the hotel room with the OT. Now, you will not kill her unless it is with your own hands?” Carla pushed herself upright in the water. “You are right; you do not understand.” She pulled the plug, and as the bathwater drained, she rinsed herself off with a small wooden bucket she kept nearby for that purpose. Hadad had become distracted, watching her. Ignoring his growing arousal, she shoved him off the bathtub, and tried to step out of the tub. Her injured leg had stiffened and she could hardly raise it. As Hadad stood watching, she sat on the edge of the tub and, with a grunt, just managed to lift her legs over its rim. She pushed herself up to a standing position, picked up a towel, and started gingerly drying herself. “I do not expect you to understand, Hadad,” she said. “You would shoot her in the back of the head from ambush, if you could. And you tried, by the bank. Like a coward, you would give her no chance to fight, to confront you. And it was you who fired both our OTs at her, not me. I will only use my gun on her if she is similarly armed.” “You Kugan—crazy bitch. Who do you think you are? You have forgotten why we are here. You have forgotten how important our mission is and what it means to our faith and God to stop those two. This warrior bokg cannot get in the way.” Carla threw down the towel, put her battered hands on her bruised hips, and stepped forward until she stood a foot from Hadad. She glared up at him and hissed, “You zhopoyeb—ass fucker. You do not need to remind me. I know as well as you why we are here and how important it is. We will kill them. But we will do it right, and not as whimpering cowards. Or you will do it alone,” she spat. “Do I make myself clear?” Hadad had not moved. His mouth hung open; he seemed speechless.

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She stepped back and picked up the towel, but she had used what little energy remained. She just threw the towel around her shoulders and plopped down on the toilet seat. Her upper body sagged under the weight of the towel. She peered at her broken fingernail and sighed, “Since you are not already bragging, I guess you didn’t kill John.” Hadad Hadad sat down on the edge of the bathtub again, leaned his elbows on his knees, and found something interesting to stare at on the floor. He whined, “I would have, if you did not put the stu . . . ah . . . splint on my finger. I could not get my gun out in time. I barely escaped when he pulled his gun. I had to walk here in the goddam rain. Oh yes—why did not you drive around looking for me?” Carla shook her head, pushed herself off the toilet with one hand, and staggered out of the bathroom. She lifted her cotton robe from the bed. Hadad followed her and looked more carefully at her in the light from the window. “Are you sure you can take her? You look a mess. Your lip is split and swollen, your cheek is raw, you have a black eye, and your arms and legs are all bruised. You also have big ones on your thigh.” “Thanks for telling me. I would not have known, otherwise. You should see her. She must look worse. And I broke her finger.” “Well, good for you. That will surely interfere with her changing the world.” Carla put on her robe and gingerly sat down on the edge of the bed. A tear rolled down her cheek. She glanced up at Hadad and murmured, “Truce, Hadad. Come here and hold me. I hurt all over.” That, more than anything she had said before; that, more than her battered and bruised body; that, more than Joy escaping again; that got to him. Compassion moved him. He sat down next to her and gingerly put his arm around her back. She put her head on his damp shoulder and began to cry. “It was so close. I had her, Hadad. She was mine in a fair fight. I’ve prepared and waited years for that moment, and some fool with a gun saved her.” She sobbed. He put his free hand on her head and ran it through her wet hair, hiding his amazement. She is so tough. And yet, in some ways, so . . . so womanish. He rested his chin on her head and softly told her, “I am glad you’re alive, Carla. I would have missed you.” He hesitated, then added, “You should have another chance soon. I know what to do.”

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Joy The rain had stopped, the fog had retreated back to the bay, and the sun had found a hole in the heavy, gray clouds by the time they reached the apartment building. The slightest movement of Hands’ broken arm was obviously painful as Dolphy helped him out of the Ford. Joy just sat in the front seat, holding her dislocated finger away from her body with her other hand, and waited until John came around. As he lifted her out in his arms, she looked at Hands, smiled weakly, and said, “Sometimes it’s great being a small and helpless woman.” Then she whispered to John, “I’m okay, dearest. You can put me down.” When John did so she hailed bloody Sal, who was already walking toward the apartment. He turned and looked startled as she slowly shuffled over to him. She put her good hand on his neck and pulled his face down so she could kiss him on the cheek. Smiling, she said again, “You saved my life, Sal. I will never forget that. Thank you.” As she released him and started to walk slowly back to John, Sal turned a bright red. He tried several times to get a word out, and finally succeeded. “You’re welcome, Joy,” was all he could say, as he unconsciously puffed out his chest. His proud smile reached from ear to ear. Joy put her hand on John’s arm for support and held her other one away from her body. As they walked slowly toward the apartment building, she looked over at Hands and asked, “How ya doing, big man?” Hands smiled grimly and replied, “Aside from the broken arm and bruises, it’s a great day. How ya doing?” “Well,” Joy said, “you’re right. Aside from the dislocated finger and bruises, it has been a nice day.” Just being alive is enough to make this day great. John and Dolphy looked at each other and shook their heads. John then told them all, “Let’s discuss what happened when everyone is fixed up, and we have a chance to drink something.” John directed them to the apartment’s basement and the capsule containing the medical equipment. Joy pointed to what she wanted, including the bandages, spray cast, anesthetic, antibiotic, and needles. John then turned to Dolphy and said, “Please take the Ford and get ice for all our iceboxes. I need to break off some ice chips for treatment. Also, pick up a case of beer for all of us—whatever you like. Can you drive?” “I did once. I know how to start the car and shift.”

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“Okay. Here, take this.” John took some bills out of his wallet and gave them to him. When Dolphy left, John carried the medical supplies upstairs behind Joy. Holding onto the railing, she slowly pulled herself up. Her abused muscles were stiffening. Finally John couldn’t stand watching her any longer. He handed the supplies to Sal, checked to make sure Hands was making it okay, and then picked up Joy. She didn’t protest as he carried her into Hands’ apartment on the first floor. Jill When they walked in, Jill was standing on a table trying to hang curtains on the living room window. She turned around, dropped the curtains, and jumped off the table to run over to them. Without a word, she looked at the finger Joy was protecting. She pointed to the couch, and John carried Joy over there and gently put her down. By that time, Hands and Sal had come through the door. Jill stood for a moment, looking back and forth between Joy’s broken finger and Hands’ arm, thrust out at an odd angle. She took Hands by his good arm, led him to the kitchen table, and helped him sit down on it. Meanwhile, Sal had dumped the medical supplies on the kitchen counter. He looked curiously at Jill, and she noticed the dried blood caked beneath his nose and on the front of his shirt and coat. His nose had swelled to nearly twice its normal size. She went to him, and held the top of his head with one hand while looking at his nose with the other. She got a little vanity mirror out of her purse and held it beneath his nose to reflect light up his nose so she could see better. Next, she checked his facial profile, and gently probed the bridge of his nose. Sal’s eyes turned watery from the pain, but he made no sound. Patting him on the shoulder, she smiled and assured him, “Yes, Sal, I am sure you will live.” Returning to Hands, she said to John, “Help me remove his coat. Gently now, and only over the good arm.” Once the coat was off all but the broken arm, she held the coat’s shoulder above the break in one hand and slowly pulled the sleeve down and over the break. Hands clenched his eyes shut and pressed his lips together, but he could not completely suppress a groan. Jill turned to Sal. “Let me have your knife.” He reached down, took it out of his boot, and asked as he handed it over, “You’re not going to cut his arm off with it, are you?” Silence, except for Hands’ sudden, heavy breathing.

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Jill cut off Hands’ shirtsleeve. She looked carefully at the break from every direction, and then helped him lie down on the kitchen table. Joy finally seemed to cast off the spell Jill had created, and said, “I can handle—” Jill gave Joy a stern look, and put a finger to her lips. She kissed Hands lightly on the mouth, and then dragged over a high-backed kitchen chair and raised Hands’ feet so that they rested on it about a foot higher than his body. Joy was still holding her bad hand with the other. Jill walked over to her and got down on one knee to look the finger over. After Joy was hushed, no one said anything. It was as though what Jill was doing mesmerized them all. With authority in her voice that seem to shock them even more, she said, “Okay, first, the local anesthetic.” She lifted the bottle of Lidocaine Joy had picked out and partially filled a hypodermic with it. She tested it, and then injected it into Hands’ arm near the break. She took out another hypodermic, partially filled it, and was going to inject it near the nerves to Joy’s dislocated finger when Joy said, “No need.” Jill replied evenly, “You want to fight me too?” and gently inserted the needle. Astonished, Joy gaped at Jill before realizing her mouth was hanging open. Then she watched Jill carefully, trying to look into her eyes, but Jill was entirely focused on what she was doing. Jill felt Joy’s forehead with the back of her hand and then checked her pulse, murmuring, “One-thousand, two-thousand, three-thousand,” all the way up to ten-thousand as she counted off the seconds. She did the same for Hands, and then for Sal, who was by now sitting in an easy chair. Since about ten minutes had gone by, Jill went to Joy again, and softly tapped the back of the knuckle of her dislocated finger. “Is it numb?” Joy tapped it harder with the fingers of her good hand, and nodded. “Okay John, straddle Joy facing me and hold out the hand with the dislocated finger. Hold it tightly, now.” “I won’t be able to see,” Joy objected. “Good,” Jill answered. She put her foot on John’s chest, gripped the dislocated finger, and pulled straight back along the axis of Joy’s hand. With a crack, the finger joint clicked into place. Taking a close look at the result, Jill told John, “We need ice to put on it.” “It’s coming,” he said as he got off of Joy and released her hand. He turned to her and asked, “How you doing, baby?”

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Joy tried to smile. “As I told Hands, it would otherwise be a nice day.” Jill tapped John on the shoulder. “Carry Miss Phim into the bedroom and help her undress down to her bloomers. She has some nasty bruises, and that’s only on the arm that I can see. If she has on long bloomers, take those off as well. I need to check all over for bad contusions.” John blurted, “How do you—” “Later,” Jill responded. Sal’s eyes twinkled as he yelled out to John, “Need help?” As John carried Joy to the bedroom, Jill began to work on setting Hands’ broken arm, and asked Sal to help her. Then she began a continuous stream of instructions about what he should do.

aaa John sat Joy on the edge of the mattress in the bedroom, and started to help her remove her clothes, including her armor. Joy’s eyes had recovered some of their natural sparkle, but her voice was still weak as she asked, “Are you going to take advantage of me when I’m naked and helpless?” His eyes grew moist. “You can only hope.”

Chapter 24 Late Afternoon, Monday Ryan

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yan had called in everyone on his detail. They now stood or sat around his desk. Waving the Philip Morris stuck between his fingers, the nicotine stains invisible against his dark brown skin, he said, “Light up or chew, if you want to; here’s the spittoon.” He shoved it out from under his desk where the cleaning lady always left it. When all were settled and a good cloud of tobacco smoke was lifting toward the stained ceiling, Ryan started briefing them on the battle at the World Trading Company, and what else he had found out. “I have one aim now,” he told them, taking a puff on his cigarette, “I want to find out where John Banks has gone. He and his Chinese assistant have moved out of the Fairfax Hotel. He is in this city. If you can’t find him, you don’t deserve your badges. “We can suppose this. He is living in a hotel room, an apartment building, or a house. So, I’m going to split you guys up into three groups. One group will check out all hotels that are not fleabags, firetraps, or whorehouses. The second group will check out all respectable homes that have been rented or sold and occupied in the last two days. The third group is to do the same for apartments. “The key is that Banks is apparently rich and can buy a place outright. He might still use his own name. A second key is his gorgeous Chinese assistant; she would attract the attention of a eunuch. Her name is Joy Phim.” One of the policemen laughed. “Assistant? Yeah, sure.” Several others laughed with him, and one of them commented, “I saw her at the hotel. She can assist me any day.” He made a pumping motion. His buddy sitting next to him added, “If she could find it.” More laughter. Blowing a near perfect smoke ring, Ryan unsmilingly waited for the laughter and ribald comments to die down before he continued. “If their names are not recognized, follow up with their description as a white man and gorgeous Chinese woman, both in their twenties. They seem to do everything together.”

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Ryan waited through more ribald jokes. “I want all of you to use the police call boxes and call in your progress every hour. If you locate them, phone me directly and do nothing else. You are then free to go home. As to the rest of you, the next time you call in, the dispatcher will let you know that we found them, and you also are finished for the day. Okay. Questions?” One of the policemen asked, “Do we work through the night?” “Yes, for the whole night, if that’s what it takes. Don’t be afraid to wake up people.” Alex leaned forward in his chair. “Do we also check on those two Orientals?” Ryan stared at him for a moment, then looked down at his metal ashtray as he stubbed out his cigarette among the dozens of butts. He answered, “Use your head, Alex. Of course you do. Make best use of this opportunity to also ask those you are interviewing if they know of two Orientals, one a male, and the other a beautiful female. But, those two might have gotten a place to live well before this crime spree began.” Waving his Mixed Pickles cigar, one of the policemen suggested, “We should check the Japanese and Korean—really Oriental— Exclusion League They might have received information on the location of these Orientals.” “Good suggestion. If we don’t succeed in finding Banks today, we should also try that tomorrow. Now, go.” Hadad Hadad had bought a twenty-five pound block of ice, which was now melting in the tub. After chipping off suitably-sized chunks, he had put them in his socks and tied them around Carla’s worst bruises. She was sleeping out her exhaustion now. He used the time to go carefully back through the classified sections in the pile of newspapers that he had collected over the last week. Convinced by Hands’ biography that Banks would seek a permanent home rather than a temporary place to stay, Hadad was especially careful to look at each house and apartment complex for sale since their attack at the Fairfax. He even looked at whole apartment houses for sale. In each case, he placed a telephone call and, when the operator connected him, he began with, “Hello, I am a lawyer for the legal firm of Wilson and Westervelt. I am trying to locate a John Banks, who has inherited a large estate. We have reason to believe that he might have

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bought or rented the place you advertised. He might have carried out the (purchase, rental) attended by his lovely Chinese assistant. We are willing to give you a reward of $100 for any information you have that leads to our finding him.” Some of the calls were to banks, mortgage companies, or real estate firms. Most were closed for the day. Other calls brought no answer. So far, of those he could call, no one had sold or rented to someone named Banks, or to people who resembled the description he gave. In each case, he wrote a large X on their classified ads. He had yet to look in the Business Wanted classifieds. Finished with all those he had circled, he sighed and thought, I am sure to find them this way. He joined Carla on the bed, removed the ice from around her body, emptied the remaining ice in the tub, and laid his socks to dry over every available edge in the room. He went back to the bed and lay down next to her. She opened her weary eyes briefly, took his hand in hers, and went back to sleep. He closed his eyes, thinking, Soon, soon they will be no more, and nothing then will stand in my way. He soon fell asleep himself. Joy “Oh, that was so good,” Dolphy said, finishing off his cold steak. Discarding the pork chop he had been chewing on, Hands leaned his back against Jill and agreed. His arm was in a blown cast and hanging in a sling that Jill had cut and tied from a large towel. Joy picked up her third large tomato and asked Sal, “Pass the salt please.” She was wearing Jill’s robe, and was managing fairly well to use the hand with the dislocated finger. She just didn’t try to move or bend the finger. Jill had wanted to put on a semi-cast just to protect it for a couple of days, but Joy had refused. The knuckle had throbbed for a while, but Joy periodically rubbed it with a large piece of ice covered by a thin cloth. This had reduced the swelling. Jill had also fixed three ice packs for the worst of Joy’s bruises, especially a huge one on her hip. Joy had removed them temporarily to eat. “Anyone want more Michelob?” John asked as he rose from the floor and went into the kitchen. He opened the top door of Hands’ new Seroco icebox, where the beers were chilling on the partially chipped block of ice. “Me,” Joy yelled, showing that she had recovered some of her energy.

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“Me too,” Jill added, almost too softly for John to hear. Hands took out his Red Man and was going to bite off a chunk when Jill put her hand on his arm and, looking askance at him, gently shook her head. He tilted his head and looked at her sparkling eyes for a couple of seconds, nodded, and put it away. John brought out the beers, gave Joy and Jill theirs, and sat down with his back against the sofa. Stretching out his legs, he looked around at them, and began. “We’ve had an exciting day and hardly a thing to eat since breakfast. So, I wanted to hold off any serious talk until after we had a chance to rest and eat. But first,” John raised his bottle, “I want to toast our capable nurse. Jill, on behalf of all of us, thanks for what you did.” “Yeah,” Sal said, the swelling of his nose a little reduced by the ice pack Jill had given him to apply to it. “I second that.” Then the Sal gleam came into his eyes, and he added, “Hands can thank you in his own way.” Jill flushed. Hands wrapped his good arm around her head and brought it down to his to give her a kiss. “Me too,” he said. Dolphy raised his half-full second bottle and exclaimed, “For the friends I saved from an awful fate and put into your hands, I thank you.” Pushing with her good hand, Joy carefully slid over to Jill. She leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, and told her, “That was very well done. Thank you.” She could not explain what followed. She didn’t know where it came from. Maybe it was because she missed her mother terribly. And Gu, her godmother. Maybe she needed friendship with another woman near her age. Since coming here, she had been surrounded for the most part by men, and although she loved John dearly, she suddenly felt a need for more female companionship. Jy-ying helped, but there was an inexplicable aloofness to her, as though Joy had some kind of disease she didn’t want to contract. Jill had appeared as a dumb blond, not a woman she could easily share her thoughts and feelings with, but now, all that had changed. Jill was clearly smart and competent in what she chose to do. And Joy took a great and inexplicable liking to her. John Given all that Joy had said before about Jill, John was completely mystified when he saw her take Jill’s hand in her good one and hold it

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on her lap as she sat next to her and Hands, who still leaned his back against Jill. When Joy was thus settled, John went on. “It’s hard to believe, but our fine nurse Jill has not asked, and we have not told her, what happened. We owe her an explanation. But, also, we have not asked, and Jill has not told us, how she knows so much about medicine and nursing. Jill, would you like to go first?” As they had been eating, John had seen Jill’s personality shift from a confident, in-control woman back into the shy, awkward young woman they had met before. She tried to answer, but appeared flustered. “I . . . ah . . . nothing, really. I volunteered to . . . ah . . . help the Red Cross. During the fire, I was given a nurse’s uniform. There was not enough help. I ended up in the middle of the doctors and nurses. Everyone thought I was a nurse.” Suddenly she looked concerned. “I didn’t lie. Everyone was so busy, nobody asked. I worked with them for a month. I got all the free food I could eat. And I could sleep with the patients.” Hands asked, clearly to help her along, “So you learned on the job?” “Yes; I pray that I didn’t kill anyone. Sometimes . . . .” For the first time, Jill’s eyes seemed to grow moist. “They would . . . turn a patient over to me. I even may have . . . saved some lives.” She suddenly smiled beautifully, lighting up her whole face. Instinctively, John rose, went over, and kissed her on the forehead, just as Joy squeezed her hand. “I’m sure that you did, Jill,” he said, “and thank you again. And I mean it not only for us here, but for all the people you helped during that awful disaster.” Jill nodded and stared at the floor, but the remnant of her smile remained. John sat down next to Joy and said, “Okay, what happened to us?” He began to feel uncomfortable. He knew he had to lie to her, and in front of the others. Also, he did not want to scare her away from Hands. “Ah . . . you see . . . .” he started, beginning to feel like Jill looked and sounded when she was asked about her nursing background. Dolphy broke in. “Our boss doesn’t want to embarrass modest Hands in front of you, but Hands is a hero. This is what happened. We were all walking down the street in this shopping district, but Hands and Joy were several steps behind us. Hands was telling her something. I think he was bragging about you, Jill. A truck pulled up, and four men jumped out and tried to drag Joy into the truck, yelling something about Chinks. She fought like a wild demon and

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wouldn’t even stop when they broke her finger. Hands tried to protect her and three of the men leaped on him and broke his arm, but he laid out two of them on the ground with his good one. Then our boss and Sal jumped in and fought the remaining two, and they fled to the truck. The two on the ground got up and ran to the truck as well, and it took off with a loud backfire.” John, Sal, Hands, and Joy stared at Dolphy. John recognized a special talent when he saw it. Finally Joy turned to Hands and said sweetly, “Thank you, Hands. You saved me.” Hands waved a hand in dismissal and replied modestly, “It was nothing.” Jill looked impressed. She leaned down and kissed Hands on the cheek, and then asked Dolphy, “What did you do?” Dolphy waved his hand, echoing Hands’ gesture of dismissal, and replied, “I was the backup in case they needed help. But they took care of it themselves.” He grinned broadly. “From what I saw, Jill, with these three guys and Joy, you would be safe anywhere, no matter how many hooligans attacked you. Why, I—” John launched into a spurt of sudden coughing. He bent over and covered his mouth. Joy turned her face away from Jill, and looked as though she were going to explode. Sal continued to look dumbfoundedly at Dolphy, while Hands wore a smirk that cut his face in two. John finally managed to sputter, “Now . . . you know, Jill. Well, thanks . . . again.” He threw a wave to the room. “Okay, people. It’s been fun. Now, I have to go and start straightening out my apartment.” John stood and looked at Joy. “You can’t do much with your bad finger, so I’ll help you with your apartment first.” He helped her up, then went over and picked up her ice packs. Joy looked at the leftover food and garbage and offered to Hands, “Let us help you clear up here first.” Jill was firm. “No, I’ll do it. You have too much to do.” Joy nodded. “Thanks again, Jill. Let’s get together real soon and gossip.” She limped out with John. Sal and Dolphy also stood to leave; Joy and John waited for them by the stairs. John patted Dolphy on the back and said, “You have a real skill there. I’m not going to believe another word you say unless it’s verified by ten people.” Joy added, “I will want sworn and notarized statements from witnesses.”

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While Dolphy bowed an acknowledgment of the compliment, Sal smiled, pulled out one of his Abajos, bit off the end, and spit it into his hand. “It still can’t beat what really happened.” Almost transfixed by what Sal did with the cigar, John nodded. “That’s right. I want to get you three guys alone tonight with Jy-ying, if she returns in time, so we can go over all this and what we learned from it. Also, later this afternoon we’ve got to start making this place as much of a fortress as possible.” John glanced at Joy and saw that she was starting to climb the stairs by leaning on the railing and pulling her body up along it. “Oh no, you don’t,” John yelled at her. He told the two guys, “We’ll see you later. Joy needs her beauty nap.” As John picked Joy up, she gave the guys a little wave. He carried her up the stairs but, breathing heavily, he had to put her down when he got to the third floor. With his arm around her, they walked slowly to John’s apartment. When they got inside, Joy simply said, “No more now. I’m too tired and want to sleep.” John nodded. “Me too. But icing you comes first.” Joy The ice on her face and body temporarily stimulated her thoughts. As she lay on John’s new bed, Joy thought back over what had happened since John carried her into Hands’ apartment. “Dearest, you know, Jill’s explanation for her nursing expertise was almost perfect. But it still raises some questions.” John lay down on his side next to her and caressed her hair. “I think so, too. I’m more interested in what happened at the company offices, but let’s start with Jill.” “Okay,” Joy replied. “The bottle of Lidocaine is not of this era. Lidocaine didn’t come into use until the mid-1940s. But she handled it as though it were very familiar to her.” “Didn’t the bottle say ‘local’ and ‘anesthetic’ among other things? That would clue her in.” “Maybe. But then there’s the way she used the bottle of spray-cast. That was new in our age. In fact, I don’t think spray bottles were invented during this age. Yet, although we weren’t in the room to see it, she had to know how to use the spray to put the cast on Hands’ arm.” “Baby. She could have experimented first. After all, didn’t the bottle say ‘spray cast’? What are you thinking, that she’s a time traveler

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from our time? If she were, why hasn’t she told us? And if she were here to do us harm, to get into our safety net so to speak, she could have already killed us.” Joy thought about that for awhile, and finally responded, “I guess you’re right. But, how did she know we were so intimate that she could ask you to help me take off my clothes? We’re not married.” “Big Mouth.” “Big mouth?” “Yeah, Hands. Surely you realize that the three guys must know we’re intimate—we hardly hide it. He must have told Jill.” “Oh. Okay. Anyway, my mind is still awake, even though I’m so physically weary, I just want to lie here and never move again. Tell me what happened in Levy’s office.” John After John complied, Joy described what had happened in the outer office. Her voice grew weaker as she went along. John responded, “I owe Sal for saving your life, and I’ll tell him that. But why didn’t he shoot that woman instead of warning her?” Joy could barely smile as she murmured, “You forget. This is still the age of chivalry. He told me later, ‘I can’t shoot a woman.’” “I’ll be damned. In our age it would be ‘Bang. You’re dead, bitch.’” John thought for a moment. “That woman is that good, though—to beat you?” No answer. Joy’s eyes were closed, and she was breathing evenly. John checked the ice around her and either moved some of the packs to new locations, or took them away temporarily, putting them on the ice block in his new Puritan Refrigerator ice box. He returned to the bed and sat on the edge, looking at Joy. It did not matter that one eye was almost completely black and puffed up, that her cheek was raw and bruised, that her facial scar was livid. He saw nothing but beauty, honesty, and courage. And love. What are all the clichés? he asked himself. “You fill my heart”; “My heart beats with my love for you”; “I would die for you”? Yes, all of those and more are what I mean when I say simply, “I love you.” John had no idea how much time he spent beholding her before he leaned over, kissed her lightly on the forehead, and whispered, “I love you, baby.” He slipped under the comforter himself, with a thankful sigh.

Chapter 25 Early Evening, Monday John

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ohn turned on his side and put his arm across Joy’s chest, as he usually did. Then, subconsciously realizing that he may be hurting her injuries, he jerked his arm back, and woke up. She was staring at him. In a much stronger voice, she told him, “I’ve been lying here for hours waiting for you to wake up. You sleep half your life away, you know. I kicked the ice packs off the bed. I think the ice all melted.” She slid closer to him on her back and lifted one leg over his. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking while waiting for you to come out of your coma. I replayed over and over in my mind each of the moves in my duel with the woman, Carla. I still don’t know if she is the stronger. In our practice clothes, which would provide something to grab, and with a lot of room for maneuvering, I don’t know. She uses some kind of kung fu unknown to me. I’m as fast as she is. We both know the standard moves across the martial arts. What gave her a slight advantage, and I’m not sure she can dominate me with it, is a strange set of additional moves. I wish I knew a kung fu sensei here.” “Okay,” John said, stretching his arms out of the comforter. He began doing rapid sit-ups on the bed to increase his circulation and transport him into the world of the living. Finally, he stretched his arms again, yawned, scratched his head, and smiled at Joy. “Hi, I’m John. Did you tell me your name last night, my pretty?” Joy grinned, and that was all the encouragement he needed to get back on topic. “Let’s see. Ah, we’ve learned this much from this boring day: the names of the killers after us are Hadad al Jaber and Carla Akwal. The woman is as strong as you are in martial arts, and I would assume from the way al Jaber handled himself in the inner office that he also is a martial arts specialist. “Next, they are here not just to kill us; they have a world-changing mission, as we do. And, like us, they need a trading company as a cover. From what the woman told you, their mission is to create a fundamentalist Islamic world government and society, much like Abul Sabah achieved through his nuclear attack.”

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Eyes wide, Joy jumped on that thought. “That means one did not exist in their time. We must have been—rather, will be—successful in stopping Sabah. Yippee!” “Yup,” John replied, smiling and clapping his hands. “We now know that Carla is from Kazakhstan, and since Hadad’s ethnicity looks the same as Carla’s, we can assume he is from there also. This is a very remote Muslim country, and probably authoritarian as a result. Geographically, they would be well insulated from the democratization that we are—will be— introducing or creating.” John laughed. “Like you, I can’t get used to this time travel shift required in our tenses.” He went on. “We also know that Hadad has a finger in a splint, which takes the one hand out of action.” “Probably done by Carla,” Joy added, grinning. “We know also that they drive a new Mercedes. That, also like us, they must have a huge supply of funds and an ability to get practically all the money they need through their knowledge of what the markets will do. They also have submachine guns, modern handguns, are well holstered, and wear armor similar to ours. Is that it?” Joy thought for a moment. “No. One critical fact—Hadad will shoot me from ambush, as he tried to do outside the bank four days ago. Has it only been four days? My God . . . . Anyway, Hadad had the gun pointed at my head, not Carla. In the outer office, she had a gun and could have shot me when I was weaponless on the floor. Remember, she managed to kick my holster purse away. She still had hers, but she threw it aside.” “Why did she do a crazy thing like that, when she’s out to kill you?” “Sweetheart, now that I know her, I could not kill her from ambush, either. Nor could I kill her when she can’t defend herself.” Surprise lifted his eyebrows. He swept his hand through the air and exclaimed, “Baby, she’s trying to kill you.” Joy started to turn onto her side, but groaned and sat up instead. She turned slightly to look into John’s eyes. Softly, she told him, “Carla and I are warriors. We are trained to fight and kill with our hands. We respect anyone who is a warrior so trained. This is not just a matter of my self-esteem, dearest; it’s me. If I were to shoot her from behind without giving her a chance to defend herself, it would be such a shameful, cowardly, dishonorable act that I could not live with myself as a result. Do you understand?” “No, and I’ll shoot her dead as soon as I can, including if you two are in battle. I will never allow that woman to kill you. No way.”

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Joy drew in her breath sharply. With a grimace, she turned her body fully toward him and put his hand over her heart. “I want you to promise, dearest. If we are together, you must leave her to me unless you are personally in danger. And if she and I are in combat, you are to do nothing. Nothing! Promise me.” “No. If you think I’m gong to stand by and let you be killed because of some stupid warrior code, you’re crazy.” Joy Joy dropped his hand and looked into his outraged eyes for a few moments. She ignored his words, understanding that they simply reflected his love for her. She wanted to gauge his resolve. It was unmistakable, and she finally asked rhetorically, “You’re serious, aren’t you?” “Yes, damn serious. No one is going to kill you while I’m around. Period. Besides, aren’t you forgetting about our mission? Isn’t it more important to save the millions of lives that we can, and promote a democratic world, than throw it all away because of some warrior code? If we both get killed, that’s it, you know. Even if I survive alone, it makes the success of our mission more difficult and less probable.” He didn’t state it, but she knew it intuitively—he could not live without her. She shook her head and countered softly, “You made your point. Now, please tell me what you would do in this situation. You are captured, and your captors will only set you free if you rape and sodomize a thirteen-year-old girl in front of them, and then you must participate in slowly torturing her to death. Would you do this on behalf of our mission?” John’s eyes opened wide and his mouth hung open; he sat frozen in place for many seconds. Finally, shaking himself, he answered, “I . . . don’t know.” “Think, sweetheart. Your captors are holding the girl down for you. They have stripped her. She is terrorized and hysterical. I know you would die before harming the girl, but think of the mission. Believe that your captors are testing your credibility. What would you do to be set free to save the world? What would you really do?” His anguish showed in his knotted brows, tightly clenched eyes, and drawn lips.

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John John agonized over this question. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize the panicked girl and her captors holding her. He tried to frame it against the images of piles of burned and mutilated Japanese bodies in Hiroshima, the killing fields of Cambodia, the pits full of dead and dying Jews shot by the Nazis. His head began to ache as he strained for an answer. What would I do? Deep in his soul he could not accept the logical answer, the rational answer, the easy answer. He fought it. He would die first. He could barely reply, “I couldn’t. I just . . . could not. Not to save the world. All that I am would be . . . negated, destroyed. I . . . could not live with myself.” Joy leaned over and kissed him. “I know. I knew this about you when I sat in your class. It’s one reason I fell in love with you, my dearest. Now do you understand my warrior code? We are who we are. We cannot be untrue to what our nature has become anymore than a cat could build a bird’s nest.” “Okay.” His voice was now back to normal, and deliberate. “But nothing is stopping me from killing Carla in any way I can before your warrior code lets her kill you.” “You know what?” “What?” “You’re sweet.”

aaa John searched through a dozen boxes before he found what he sought. He helped Joy out of bed and then into her new Japanese challie kimono. It had no belt, no constriction at the waist, no pleats, and huge sleeves that easily could be folded up—it was like a tent and thus, merciful to Joy’s bruises. Pouting, she lamented, “I guess I won’t be wearing my denim jeans for a while.” “Oh gee,” John exclaimed, hiding his grin. “Too bad. You’ll just have to wear one of your fashionable dresses. Oh well, good things have to come to an end sometime.” He smiled at his devilish cleverness. Joy stared at him, her good eye and her swollen eye making the look seem lopsided.

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John raised his eyebrows. “You know, your tight denims? Good things come to an end?” Joy started to say, “Are you trying—” But John hurried on with, “The guys are going to wonder if you’re still alive. Time to have our discussion about what happened. I’ll go get them.” He left without waiting for her response. He checked the second- and first-floor apartments one by one, and found all the guys awake. Jy-ying had also returned. He invited them all to come to his apartment for a briefing, and apologized to Jill for taking Hands away from her, explaining that it was company business. When she saw Hands’ sling, Jy-ying wanted to know what had happened to Hands. John told her all would be explained in his apartment. They all trooped in with Little Ying tagging behind, and tailwaggingly happy to find all Jy-ying’s friends in one place to lick. John looked into the kitchen to see how Joy was doing, and saw her making her first pot of coffee in this new world—a Mandahling java she’d bought as soon as she saw it on display. With John beside her, she limped into the living room and said, “I’m taking orders for Pepsi, Budweiser, java, or Oolong tea.” She unconsciously waved her swollen, formerly dislocated finger in the air and added, “There is also a jug of chilled California mountain red wine, if anyone is interested.” As the guys shouted their orders, John realized he had forgotten the ice for Joy, and returned to the kitchen. He’d started chipping ice from the fifty-pound block in the top of the icebox when he found himself thrust aside. Without saying a word, Jy-ying pulled out her knife and chipped several chunks out of the block. “Towels?” she directed at John. He rushed over to the boxes of stuff that Joy and he had bought, searched through two of them, and brought several dish towels to Jyying. She wrapped the ice chunks in three of them, then took a handkerchief out of her purse and wrapped slivers in that. Joy came into the kitchen. Jy-ying looked at the violet bruises on her face and arms and yelled in apparent exasperation, “Will you stop serving those guys and lie down on the couch?” John knew what Jy-ying was doing, and he was sure Joy did, too. But her instant appreciation of Joy’s injuries and her tone of voice surprised him. Joy waved at Jy-ying, again displaying her bad finger. “No need. Jill put—”

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“Joy! On the couch.” Jy-ying gently pushed her into the living room and nodded vigorously toward the couch. “Make room, Sal.” Joy Out of shock more than anything else, Joy laid down on the couch after Sal quickly moved to a chair. Little Ying tried to jump on the couch, but Jy-ying grabbed him and gave him to Sal. “Keep him occupied,” she ordered. Then she explained to Sal and the others, “I have seen these sparring injuries many times. I know how to treat them.” She bent over Joy and studied her bad finger. She wrapped around it the handkerchief filled with ice slivers, then turned Joy’s head to the side and put one towel-wrapped ice pack under her badly bruised cheek, another on her swollen eye, and the others on the worst of the bruises on her arm. Jy-ying yelled, “Look away, guys,” and lifted the bottom of Joy’s kimono up to her chest. She looked at Joy’s legs and hips, asked her to move from one side to another, and started putting ice on the worst of the bruises. After pulling the robe back down, Jy-ying whispered, “You have not worked or used ointment enough to toughen up your skin, have you?” “No,” Joy answered. “My various sensei were always critical of me for not doing sufficient skin and body conditioning. When I was very young, I sometimes came home from a dojo covered with bruises. My skin naturally toughened up over the years, but not enough, obviously. Anyway, I refused to go around hitting myself all over with a stick. This was my one feminine foible.” “I know,” Jy-ying sympathized. “Me too.” Jy-ying turned her head and looked at John, who had one ear stretched their way. “Do you have a watch?” He went to their dresser in the bedroom and came back with his Hamilton pocket watch. He handed it to her. “The ice has to be removed for an hour or so in about twenty minutes,” she explained. “I will watch the time.” She looked intently at Hands’ sling and then at Sal’s bulbous nose. “Did you guys do this to Joy?” Joy knew she meant the question as a joke. Joy was too strong for them. But it came out sounding like an accusation. Hands exploded, “Jesus Christ, no!” Sal’s eyes turned into saucers. “No—do you think I could?”

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Joy tried to smile, but her face was starting to hurt too much, even with the ice packs. “Of course not,” John exclaimed. “Let me explain what happened. I’m sure you guys have been talking about it among yourselves, but none of you may have the complete picture. I want to make sure it’s all clear. Here’s what happened.” John He proceeded to fall into his lecture mode, even to weighting different events by his gestures and standing to pace a little as his way of stirring up the right word. Joy interrupted only once, to John’s surprise, but he put that down to her injuries. She pointed out that Carla had a gun and could have shot her, and explained the warrior code, getting the same incredulous responses that John had given her the night before. Joy then brought up Sal’s inability to shoot Carla because she was a woman. Dolphy and Hands said they understood this. Joy simply pointed out that they had their warrior code, and Carla had hers. Jy-ying nodded, but said nothing. She looked at the watch and removed the ice packs from Joy, putting them on the block of ice in the icebox. When she returned, John summarized what they had learned from the previous day, and ended with two conclusions. “We now have to fortify this place, starting now. After supper, we will continue late into this evening. But we can’t just sit in our fort and wait for an attack. I believe the best defense is offense, and I intend to take the battle to this Hadad and Carla.” Sal responded, “They don’t know about this place. Why worry?” John answered, “By calling around, they’ll track us down. I bought this place from a real estate firm that had placed an ad in the newspaper. The killers must know when we moved out of the hotel, and they should expect that we are still in San Francisco, or close to it. All they need to do is check the ads, and call. They can describe Joy and me.” He paused. “And we can do the same thing to find them.” “How?” Dolphy asked. John described the classified ad he put in the newspapers and his hiring of a detective agency. “Remember that we were almost run down by a Mercedes,” he added. “It looked new. I don’t know what the model was, but we can call the distributor. We do have their description now. People in this town should remember Orientals—although not

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truly Oriental, they look it enough—buying a Mercedes, and dealers are required by law to take down essential information.” He looked around. “Questions?” There were none. “Okay, let’s start planning how to turn this place into a fortress, and what to buy to do so. We have one car—” “Two cars, with my Bebe,” Jy-ying interrupted.

Chapter 26 Early Morning, Tuesday Ryan

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yan was at his desk early, waiting for the calls from his units, reporting on what they had found so far. He passed the time by smoking, trying to read reports, or making a log cabin out of his matchsticks. He had hardly finished his second cup of thick, officebrewed, peaberry coffee when a call came in from those checking out apartments. He listened, said, “Very good,” and instructed the policemen to come in to the station. He had the day sergeant do the same when the other two units called in. When they all had assembled around his desk later that morning, and sufficient smoke had gathered above them, he cut through the chitchat and explained to them what he wanted done. “For one, we have no reason to believe that Banks or his Chinese assistant has committed any crimes. We are not after them. For that reason, we simply can’t enter Banks’ apartments and search them or demand that he answer questions. But they are our bait for this Akwal and al Jaber that we are after. “To remind you, Akwal is the prime suspect in the murder of two policemen found dead in a whorehouse. They were trafficking in sex . . . ” he stared for a moment at Alex, who refused to look at him “ . . . but regardless, they were murdered. “Al Jaber was arrested by Alex for pulling his gun on a policeman. He was picked up by our police wagon, and at the station, he attacked the two policemen who brought him here, and stole the horse pulling the wagon.” He leisurely puffed on his cigarette, then waved the hand holding the cigarette at his men, creating a smoky trail through the air. “I also believe that this al Jaber and Akwal are out to kill Banks and his Chinese assistant. They are probably heavily armed with weapons far more advanced than what we have. So, they are very dangerous and must be approached with the greatest caution. Also, they probably will be wearing that strange armor over their torsos, so if you must shoot to kill, aim for their heads. That is, only if your life is in danger. I want them alive, so otherwise go for their legs. I’m going

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to station you all around the apartment building to watch for al Jaber and Akwal. Stay out of sight. I don’t want to scare them off. This is a good chance to capture them.” Ryan softened his face and voice, and looked at each of his men in turn. “These two are the most dangerous criminals we have ever faced. Don’t take unnecessary chances. Don’t be heroes. I want each of you alive when this is over.” John “I’m tired, and coffee and stale muffins no longer fill me,” John complained after he and Dolphy carried a large iron gate into the apartment building, the last thing unloaded. “Let’s eat. You get the guys and I’ll round up the girls. We’ll meet by the front entrance.” When they later gathered there, Joy limping and leaning on John for support, Little Ying on a long leash smelling everyone’s shoes, Hands looked embarrassed. He asked, “Is it okay to invite Jill along? I don’t want her to eat alone in my apartment.” Dolphy and Sal were about to make a bawdy comment, but Joy caught their eyes and shook her head, eyes narrowed. She turned to Hands and said, “You’re a kind man, Hands.” Suddenly realizing how that could be interpreted as sarcasm, she added, “Really. Yes, please invite her along to our social gatherings, as long as we won’t be talking about our mission and your assignment to guard us. I like her, Hands. She’s a good woman.” John saw the guys’ surprise, and realized that they might be taken aback by Joy acting as though she were the boss. Their faces showed confusion when John turned to look at Joy with raised eyebrows—obviously questioning her stepping into his shoes—and she responded to John’s look with a lopsided smile and a wink with her good eye. He smiled back. They are just not used to a modern woman, John thought. He turned to Hands and said, “Well, as Joy said, go get her, Hands.” Hands hesitated and then said, “Jill hasn’t asked, but I know she must be curious. What are we going to tell her about our turning this place into a fort?” John and Joy automatically turned to look at Dolphy. John dipped his head and waved his hands as if to say, “Let’s hear it.” Dolphy cleared his throat. Looking as if he had received an A on a quiz, he responded, “Ah, easy. Boss is going buy and run a big

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company. And, ah, he doesn’t trust banks. So he keeps the money here—like, you know, under his mattress. Of course, he must protect it.” John nodded, clapped twice, and replied, “Excellent. Just add that I also have hidden here documents on available goods in China, Japan, England, and so on, that other trading companies would kill to get.” Sal was chuckling to himself, loud enough for John to hear. He turned to him and commanded, “Out with it, Sal.” “No, no.” Come on,” Hands insisted, “let’s hear it.” “Okay,” Sal replied, clearly pleased that he now had an excuse, “I would have explained to Jill that the boss wants to fortify the apartments to protect Joy’s virtue.” Joy They all broke out in laughter at that, except for Joy, who managed to keep a straight face. When the laughter died down, Joy frowned, started to put her bruised hands on her hips but thought better of it, and instead leaned toward Sal. “What’s so funny about that?” she snapped. She couldn’t hold the severe look and posture, and joined the outbreak of laughter at Sal’s red face. When Hands returned with Jill, Joy asked Jill to join her and Jyying, and they whispered among themselves for a few minutes. She turned to John with a grin and informed him, “We ladies have settled among ourselves how we are going to do this. Jy-ying will drive Jill and me in her Bebe to wherever we’re going. You men get the ugly Ford.” Sal pointed out, “Little Sing—” Jy-ying looked at him as though she were his mother and he was a little boy who had wet his pants. “No, Sal. Listen: Y as in ‘yes’; ing as in ‘sing.’ Thus, Y-ing—Ying.” “Little Ying,” Sal repeated with a grin, and Joy thought, He mispronounced that on purpose. Several mynah birds were having an argument in a tree nearby, accompanied by a rustling of branches. A cold wind was picking up, and it looked like it might rain soon. It was blowing away the usual fog that had come in from the bay. Showing her impatience, Jy-ying put one hand on her hip and stared at Sal. She asked, “What about my Little Ying?” Sal grinned wider. “He is a male and should go with us males.”

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Jy-ying leaned back, looked at Sal down her nose, and pointed at the little dog. Little Ying looked back, head cocked, tail wagging, knowing he was the center of attention. “He is the sweetest male I know, and deserves the best of female companionship.” Joy clapped her palms, avoiding her injured finger, as Jill picked Little Ying up and gave him a kiss on his black nose. They had a late breakfast at the Doughnut House, a stopover restaurant and bakery for those seeking a fast breakfast on their way to work, or a quick lunch. John had seen the restaurant’s advertisement in the San Francisco Courier. The restaurant had five tables, no waitresses, and a server behind a long counter. It was a forerunner of the ubiquitous fast food restaurants of the future. Someone had written its menu in large print with chalk on a wooden board that was hung on the wall behind the server, about midway along the counter. Ordering was done at the counter, and when the food was ready, the server yelled out the customer’s name. John and the others pulled two empty tables together. Joy sat down next to Jill. She was dressed in the same walking skirt and white blouse she’d had on the day before, but clearly both had been washed and let dry overnight. She must have ironed them in the morning. Even her Mexican braid hat was the same. As the others talked among themselves, and after some opening pleasantries with Jill, Joy got to the point. “Hands says you no longer are working at the Fairfax Hotel’s restaurant.” Jill looked down at the table. In a voice so soft Joy could barely hear it, she replied, “I got fired.” “Why?” Jill didn’t look up. “My boss said I was clumsy and too slow waiting on tables. I dropped a plate of food.” From what she had seen of Jill’s nursing, Joy couldn’t believe she was so clumsy or slow. She responded, “I’m sorry to hear about that. But I don’t think that matters. From what I’ve seen of you and heard from you about your work for the Red Cross, you are a competent and courageous woman. I think John would like to hire you for our new company here. What are you good at?” Jill looked up with her narrow brows arched, large eyes wide. “I don’t know, Miss Phim . . . .” “Joy, please.” “I don’t know . . . Joy. I didn’t go to high school. My parents didn’t teach me anything special, except women’s work. You know.”

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“Think, Jill. It’s not what you learned, but what you are good at. Like singing, dancing, drawing, painting—things like that. Do you have a good memory?” Jill sat up straight for the first time. “I’m good at numbers. My boss and the other waitresses at the hotel restaurant didn’t understand how I could rapidly calculate figures in my head. My mother always had me add up the numbers when she had to figure out how much she could spend for food.” Joy brightened. “How much is twenty-three and forty-five?” “Sixty-eight.” What about 247 and 891?” “That’s 1,138.” “Okay: 3,311 plus 7,923 minus 145?” “That would be 11,089.” Joy added the numbers on napkin and got the same answer. She sat up in her chair, now excited, and asked Jill, “Do you know how to multiply and divide?” “Yes, we got into that the year before I left school.” Writing down the figures herself, she asked, “What’s 378 times 219, divided by 134?” Without hesitation, Jill answered, “It’s 617 and some remainder.” Joy took some time working out the multiplication and long division. I’ve almost forgotten how do to this, she thought. Wish I could use my calculator. When she was done, she looked up at Jill with large eyes and slightly parted lips. Jill was sitting quietly, taking bird-sized bites of her food. Joy exclaimed, “That’s right.” Joy stared at Jill for a few seconds, as though seeing a strange animal for the first time. “You are a phenom.” “What’s that?” “It’s a person who has a very special talent greater than that of norm—of other people. Some phenoms are able to remember and play a piece of music without missing a note, even though they have heard the music only once. Some, like you, can do mathematical operations in their head almost instantly. Others have an incredible memory.” “Oh, I have a good memory.” “Let’s see.” Joy looked around, and then saw the menu board. Pointing to the board, she told Jill, “Look at me. When I say ‘go,’ I want you to look at all the choices on the menu board until I count to five. Then I want you to look back at me and tell me everything that’s on it, starting at the top. Okay?” “Okay.”

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“Go. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five. Look at me. What is the menu for today?” The others at the table must have heard by this time, for they were now all looking at Jill. Without hesitation, Jill rattled off, “Menu. Breakfast. Sandwich and coffee or juice, twenty-five cents; croissant and coffee or juice, twenty cents; donut—” Jill stopped to spell it. “D.o.n.u.t.” Then she went on. “—and coffee or juice, eighteen cents; muffin and coffee or juice, fifteen cents. Sandwich choices: sausage and egg; bacon, egg and cheese; ham, egg, and cheese. Bakery: doughnuts, each five cents; bagel, five cents; bagel with cream cheese, nine cents; croissants, eight cents. Drinks: coffee, five cents; cold milk, eight cents; juice—orange or tomato—seven cents. American cash only. No gold accepted. Indians welcome. Below that is a painting of an American flag, and the words, ‘Remember the Maine.’” Finished, Jill sat back and looked at Joy as though she had only given her the time of day. No one said anything. They all stared at Jill. Slowly, a beatific smile spread over Hands’ face. “Of course,” he said, waving a hand in her direction as if to say, “What do you expect from my girlfriend?” Joy could hardly believe it. Finally she said, “No wonder you were so good at nursing after only a month with the Red Cross.” She looked at John. “Do you think you can find a place for this incredible woman in your company? Besides having a photographic memory, she also is a mathematical phenom.” “We will need an accountant. Would you like to be an accountant for our new company, Jill?” “I don’t know what an accountant is,” Jill responded. Joy told her, “You keep track of what the company sells and buys, the money owed to the company, company debts, and how everything balances out.” “I would be happy to try, if someone can show me what to do.” John smiled. “Good; you’re hired, as of today. I will pay somebody to show you how to set up the books.” Then he turned to Hands and said with a solemn expression, “However, I cannot allow dating between my employees. Not good for business.” Hands’ face fell, and he looked as though he were going to choke on what he was eating. He was about to protest when John yelled out, “Joke, joke, Hands.”

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Joy frowned at John. “You shouldn’t tease a good man like that.” Then she hinted, “Jill will need to buy some suitable clothes.” John pulled a roll of money from his pocket and, holding it below the tabletop, slipped off a hundred dollar bill. He passed it over to Jill. “Go shopping,” he commanded. He looked around the table. “Let’s finish eating. We have much to do.”

aaa An elderly man sitting at the counter had been eyeing the unusual sight of three good-looking women together, two of them Chinese, one obviously having been beaten up by one of the men. When he saw the transfer of money, he took a pocket secretary from his inner suit pocket, tore off a piece of paper, and wrote something on it. Then he paid his bill and approached Jill on his way out. Tipping his black planter hat to her, he nodded in the general direction of the others at the table, then silently dropped the slip of paper into Jill’s lap. Hands was about to get up and confront the man, but Jill shook her head at him. As the man strode out the door without a look back, Jill opened the note and read it aloud: “I can set you chicks up pretty. No rough stuff. Guaranteed $20.00 a day. Tell the telephone operator you want Leo at #54.” Eyes sparkling, she bubbled, “Oh my, gracious! Somebody else wants to hire me as an accountant.” Their loud laughter attracted everyone’s attention. Carla “I got them,” Hadad yelled to Carla, who was in the bathtub soaking in the cold water. “Banks bought an apartment building, and I have the address. Stay in the tub. I am going to take a drive to see what Banks’ apartment looks like, so I can plan what to do.” Carla cautiously stepped out of the bathtub, wrapped a towel around her for warmth, and limped out of the tiny bathroom. “Have you forgotten? You cannot drive with that broken finger and sore wrist.” “Bokg, I forgot about the shifting and cranking. You’ll have to drive, damn it.” “God be praised; you find me useful for something.”

Chapter 27 Late Morning, Tuesday John

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s they left the Doughnut House, Joy put her hand on John’s arm and told him, “We females want to do some shopping for female things. It shouldn’t take us more than an hour or so. We’ll take Little Ying with us for protection.” With that, Jy-ying and Jill walked off toward Jy-ying’s Bebe, moving slowly enough for Joy to keep up. “Wait,” Sal yelled. “What about me?” To John’s surprise, Jy-ying turned and threw him a kiss. When they reached their building, John left Dolphy and Sal to guard it while he and Hands drove to Central Builders Supply. There, John bought heavy window bars with inside latches for each of the apartment windows, another reinforced bar gate for the back entrance, heavy inside door bars for each apartment, an extension ladder, and ropes. His major concern was fire. The building was made of brick, but still, not knowing what arms the killers had, John couldn’t rule out the possibility of phosphorus grenades being tossed through the window bars. So, he also bought all the water hoses they had, and a heavy canvas for each apartment, for smothering fires. He bought tools, wood, and plaster to install new connecting doors between neighboring apartments, to serve as alternate escape routes. Finally, he bought collapsible rope ladders for the apartments on the second and third floors. There was no way John could carry this stuff in the Ford, so he rented one of Central Builders Supply’s Mack trucks at an exorbitant fee, which also covered loading it. With the help of Dolphy and Sal, John and one-handed Hands got everything unloaded and stacked inside the apartment building along with what they had bought the previous day. John noted that the women had been gone for more than a couple of hours. He was considering a search for them in the Ford with Hands, when a Stanley Steamer pulled up next to the truck with a hiss and cough. Ryan climbed out, and John recognized him immediately. Trying not to reveal his surprise, John tipped his new Trebor hat to him and asked, “How are you today, Lieutenant?”

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Ryan “Hello, Mr. Banks.” Ryan looked at the Central Builders sign on the side of the truck, and said, “You must be doing some remodeling. Can we talk?” John nodded and indicated the entrance with an outstretched hand. “Sure. But I hope this won’t take too long. Let’s go inside.” John took Ryan past piles of material they’d unloaded from the truck, which now cluttered the first-floor hallway and entrance foyer. The doors to the first-floor apartments were open, and Ryan glimpsed more supplies piled inside. Two of John’s employees were working on one of the windows. John led Ryan to his apartment on the third floor. He apologized for its disorganization as he offered Ryan a chair at the kitchen table still standing in the middle of the living room. “Would you like a beer or ice water?” he asked. “No, thank you. You seem to be turning this apartment building into some sort of fort.” John shrugged. “Yes. I will have a lot of money, some very expensive jewelry and Chinese landscape paintings, and antique ivory and jade objects here. We’ve got to protect this place against burglars. You remember the attempt to burglarize me at the Fairfax Hotel?” “Yes.” Ryan next asked what he already knew. “What business are you in?” “International import and exports. I’m shifting operations from the east coast to here; since I do much of my trade with the Orient, this is a more efficient location.” Ryan turned directly toward John, clasped his hands on the table, and snapped, “Who are you really, Mr. Banks?” John jerked up straight, his eyebrows flicking upwards. He pulled them down, crossed his arms on his chest, and returned Ryan’s narroweyed stare. Then he firmed his jaw, and responded forcefully, “My name is John Banks, and I am a businessman here to set up a trading company.” Too pat, said too mechanically, Ryan thought. He resorted to one of his favorite techniques. He took his notebook out of his inner pocket, flipped the pages, then stopped at one and appeared to read it. He raised his eyes to John’s, held them for a moment, then lifted one bushy eyebrow and charged, “You lie.”

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Carla Carla hurt. She ached. Even turning the Mercedes’ steering wheel enough to turn a corner sent pain shooting down her arm. Yet, she was happy to be driving; it was just what she needed to distract her from her failure to kill Joy. She gritted her teeth at the number of turns she had to make, but now she headed straight down Haight Street. Hadad watched the addresses. “There it is,” he yelled, “half a block away—that three-story apartment building. It matches the description given to me. We got them this time. Drive by.” Carla muttered, “What else am I going to do, stop in the middle of the street?” “Slowly, damn it,” Hadad barked. As they passed the building, Hadad shouted, “I see a truck in the alley next to it. There is one of those crazy steam-driven cars parked next to that.” His announcement was greeted with the sound of the Mercedes’ engine and its rattling body. Then Hadad shouted, “I have looked over the building, and made a mental map of the location of windows and doors, and possible hiding places.” “Will it all fit?” Carla asked without humor. Hadad glanced at her. “Turn at the next street. I have to see what the other side looks like.” Carla did so, grunting at the pain in her arms as she completed the turn. Distracted by her discomfort, she did not turn her head to look behind. As they started toward the apartment building, a police Buick pulled up along the left side of the Mercedes, surprising her. With the driver’s seat on the right side of the auto, she had difficulty seeing around Hadad. Hadad saw something else and screamed, “Brake! Brake!” Carla slammed her foot on the brake a second before a flash and smoke preceded the sound of a gunshot. It was immediately followed by a voice bellowing, “Police. Pull over. Now.” “Bokg, he shot at me,” Hadad cried as the Buick pulled ahead before coming to a stop. As the Mercedes clattered and slid to a sideways stop, Carla yelled at Hadad, “Were you hit?” “No. Quick. Turn around.”

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She shifted into low gear, thrust the throttle forward, and skidded and tilted through a U-turn, hissing at the sudden pain in her arms. She hit part of the sidewalk, then clipped the wheel of a donkey-drawn cart carrying caged chickens. The cart flipped, and the donkey bolted in fright; several of the cages broke open. Feathers flying, liberated chickens ran down the road, screeching and cackling. The Buick tried to make the same turn, but the broken cart was now in the way. It had to stop, back up, and cut around the cart to chase the Mercedes now a full block ahead. But two policemen in a second Buick that had been watching the apartments from the other side of Haight Street saw the action and tried to pull in front of the Mercedes to block it. A horse-drawn carriage on one side and a freshly planted flowerbed and picket fence on the other prevented Carla from going around the Buick. She swung the car to the right, sending it up over the sidewalk and almost losing Hadad, who wrapped his arm around a strut supporting the Mercedes’ top. She drove straight along the fence, exploding slats, wire, and flowers over and into the Mercedes. One slat cracked through the windshield. Carla just kept the throttle at full open. The Daimler motor’s groans of protest were louder than her pain-filled groans. Now past the Buick, she pulled back across the sidewalk, almost hitting two pedestrians who jumped out of the way in opposite directions. She hit a deep pothole that angled across the asphalt road and almost swung the Mercedes around; she shrieked, clipped a liquor wagon, barely missed two bicycles, and finally straightened it out. She headed straight down the street with two police Buicks a block behind her, in pursuit. Her lawn hat had blown away and her thick black hair had worked loose from its bun. Ignoring her fluttering locks, she yelled above the screeching noise of the motor and the rattle of the Mercedes, “Hey, I think I got this thing up to its forty-five miles per hour max. They’ll never catch us with those antiques—” The Mercedes hit a deep pothole, kicked out of it at a sharp angle, and landed with a crashing thump, its back wheels spinning. The top on Hadad’s side collapsed. Her scream blended with Hadad’s, as the strut he had been hanging onto jackknifed and twisted around his arm. The Mercedes almost tipped over, but righted itself and headed straight for a wagon team of horses coming their way. Carla just managed to gain control, and missed one of the rearing and screaming animals by inches. She slowed down enough to straighten out the Mercedes with a groan, and again pushed the throttle to its maximum.

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The top had collapsed at an angle to cover the left side of the Mercedes and hide Hadad from her. Above the awful grinding and banging noises coming from the Mercedes, she heard Hadad cry out in a voice high with pain, “Get this urgashi—fucking thing off me. It is crushing my arm.” Carla tried to glance behind her, but the collapsed top was in the way. She leaned out of her seat for a quick look back, and could not see the Buicks beyond the running people, the stomping and running horses and mules, the tipped wagon, and the carriage abandoned in the middle of the road. She slowed and took the next side street on the right, then turned left at the next intersection, and stopped the car. She put her head on the steering wheel and called on her training to control the pain blazing from her newly abused bruises and strained muscles. Her fatigue also returned. Feeling bone weary, she took several deep breaths. In moments she had reduced the pain to an overall ache. “What are you doing, damn it, going to sleep?” Hadad screamed at her. “Help me.” She took two more deep breaths to suppress the urge to kill him, then she carefully and slowly moved over to where Hadad, alternatively groaning and cussing in Kazakh, was pinned. She tried to pull the top away from his body, but its bent and twisted struts held it down. She took a folding knife from her purse and cut away the canvas top until she was able to see the strut that had trapped Hadad’s left arm. The upper strut had twisted against his wrist while the lower strut held his arm at an angle, preventing movement. His captured wrist was bent back, clearly broken. Hadad yelled again at her, “Help me get my goddam urgashi arm out of this!” He tried to use his right hand to push against the strut and release his left arm, but the pain that flared up in his right wrist was too much. Carla dragged herself out of the Mercedes, limped to the other side, and hiked up her long dress to her waist. She climbed onto the hood, reached far over the broken windshield, and grabbed the strut trapping Hadad’s arm, trying not to put her weight on it. Stifling a groan as her own pain flared up, she pulled on the strut. Hadad screamed as it gave way and released his arm. Sliding off the hood, she climbed wearily back into her seat. She gently touched Hadad on the shoulder and said softly, “Let me see your arm.” Pale, gritting his teeth, he twisted so that she could see it. The wrist was cleanly broken, no bone protruding; above the wrist was a deep gouge on the outside of his arm that had fortunately missed the major veins. Still, blood from it had soaked his ripped coat and shirtsleeves.

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Then she saw his finger. The splint was gone, and the last digit was again hanging loose. In the pain created by his trapped and broken wrist and his attempts to free it, he had not felt the splint tear off his finger and the digit break again. Carla’s shoulders slumped, and she bowed her head into her hand. In a trembling voice, she said through her fingers, “How awful. I am sorry about what happened, Hadad. I have to get you to our medical supplies.” Letting out a deep sigh, she promised, “But I will bandage what I can first.” Trying to keep from again bumping the worst of her bruises, she cut several large swaths from her skirt. She folded one and placed it on his bleeding arm as a compress, and wrapped another strip around it. She then made a primitive sling. Her eyes grew moist as she studied his rebroken finger. She extended the sling to go beyond his finger, and folded a ribbon she cut from her dress and put it in the sling under his finger, to cushion it. Then she cut away the remaining top, bent the struts so that Hadad would not bounce into them, and helped him get comfortable in his seat. She could barely wave away the pedestrians, bicyclists, and drivers who had stopped to watch. Getting back into the driver’s seat, she slowly drove off. Five miles per hour now seemed almost too fast as she drove through the side streets. When she reached the location of their time capsules, she loaded up with medical supplies, then, ignoring Hadad’s growls that she hurry up, she put her head on the steering wheel and took a short rest. It just made her feel worse. She drove to the Resort and parked in an alley next door. She was stiffening up, and had difficulty getting out of the car. She slid out backwards, limped to Hadad’s side, and helped him out. With Carla leaning on Hadad almost as much as he leaned on her, they entered through a side door. Inside, two men stopped on seeing them, and offered to help. Carla shook her head, scowled at them with narrowed eyes, and snarled, “No thanks. The bastard’s been fighting with me again and deserves what he got.” When they got to their room, she closed the door and slumped her back against it. Hadad turned and glared at her. “Bokg. Bokg! You busted up my urgashi Mercedes and you broke my urgashi arm.” Carla jerked upright and threw the medical supplies on the bed. Seething, she took two fast steps toward him, grabbed his coat, yanked him yelling to the bed, and jostled him down into a sitting position. As

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she started roughly taking off his sling, she hissed, “You forgot to mention your finger, mudak—asshole.” Joy Jy-ying and Jill were loaded with boxes and bags of clothes the three women had bought—they would not let Joy carry more than a hat box. Done shopping, and with Little Ying’s nose to the walkway as he constantly pulled on the leash tied around Jy-ying’s loaded arm, they headed for the Bebe a block away. They did not realize that this area was considered the white man’s section of town, and that any pretty Chinese or Japanese woman—and any pretty white woman with her— was considered a prostitute from Chinatown and the Barbary Coast, out spending her night’s earnings. As they waited for a break in the traffic to cross Market Street, three men in their middle twenties walked up behind them. One yelled, “Hey Chinks, five dollars for your cunt.” Another yelled even louder, “Blondie, I got something for you to sit on.” When Joy glanced back at them for a second, revealing her black eye and bruised face, one of them shook his finger at her. “You whores should listen to your pimps.” The three of them laughed. Then Joy felt a hand rubbing her buttocks through her skirt. She jerked, turned around, and faced the three thugs just as Little Ying, now able to put weight on his bad paw, started jumping up and down, barking and growling at them. The men were scruffy looking; they wore plain broadcloth hats in the popular golf cap style of the age, heavy wool pants whose knees puffed out from constant sitting, heavy western belts, and wool shirts unbuttoned at the top. Their sleeves were rolled up to their elbows in workman’s fashion. The only thing that differentiated them from one another was the color of their clothes. The biggest of them liked black. Joy asked them, “Does your mother know you’re out?” The thugs stopped laughing and sneered at her. Black Clothes threw at her in a husky voice, “Fuck you, Chink.” Glancing at Jill, Joy saw that she showed no sign of fear. Jy-ying looked bored as she put down her parcels and tried to hand Little Ying’s leash to Jill. Jill was paying no attention to her, however; she was tightly focused on the men. Jy-ying then tried to hand the leash to Joy and step in front of her, but Joy would not take it either. Jy-ying shrugged, and tightened the lease around her wrist.

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To protect her injured finger and the worst of her bruises, Joy took a slightly angled step toward the thugs to present her good side. She locked eyes with Black Clothes and, as though instructing a child, she told him, “Go home and play with your dolls.” Jill Unnoticed by Joy and Jy-ying, Jill had also set her packages down on the sidewalk. As the other two thugs laughed at what Joy had said, Black Clothes got red in the face and moved toward her. Jill stepped around Jy-ying and stood in front of Joy; posture straight, head tilted back, she unblinkingly looked up into Black Clothes’ small, slitted eyes. He stood a foot from her with his fists balled up, his face thrust down at her, and his scowl momentarily frozen in surprise. A bicyclist rode by, jingling his bell to warn a horse rider that he was passing. People nearby had overheard the verbal assaults, and had become rooted to the walkway as they watched the attack. Two men, one the size of a sumo wrestler, looked like they were about to rush the thugs from behind. Finally, with her hands hanging loosely at her sides, Jill calmly commanded in a voice loud enough to be heard above Little Ying’s barking and the traffic noise, “Enough now. Go away.” Jill blocked Joy’s view of the man, and she couldn’t see the other two behind him. She was about to push Jill aside to save her from an inevitable punch, when Black Clothes replied, “Yes, ma’am,” and turned and walked away. His two friends stared at his back, confused. They looked back at Jill, then, shoulders slouched, they turned and followed him. Little Ying gave a few more barks and then stared after them, obviously pleased that he had scared them away. Joy’s mouth fell open as she stepped to the side and saw the men walking away. She put her hand up to her good cheek, and turned to look at Jill. Jy-ying did also, her eyebrows almost touching the rim of her flowery hat, her slanted eyes wide. Just as Jy-ying was about to say something, Jill asked as she started picking up her parcels, “Shall we cross? There’s a hole in the traffic.” Still looking dazed, Jy-ying picked up Joy’s hatbox, handed it to her, and loaded herself up again. They crossed to the other side of the street with Jill. Neither Joy nor Jy-ying said anything until they reached the Bebe. Then, Jy-ying turned to look wide-eyed at Jill. “How did you do that?”

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Turning slightly pink, Jill answered slowly, “It was nothing.” Joy responded, “You’re going to have to teach us your ‘nothing.’” “Really. I grew up on farm in a mountain valley populated with wild animals such as grizzly bears, wolves, and mountain lions. And lots and lots of snakes. Everywhere. One had to learn how to live in peace with them all.” Lips parted, Joy and Jy-ying stared at her and waited. Joy finally asked, “And?” “Well, those young men were like wild animals.” “Jill, I got that much,” Joy replied, “but what did you do?” Jill gave them her beautiful smile and, eyes sparkling, she answered, “Oh, simple. I looked at Black Clothes with fearless confidence, as though I were the top dog in his pack. I also hinted with my eyes that if he didn’t submit, I would tear him into little pieces with my teeth.” Joy burst out laughing. Jy-ying said solemnly, “Okay, Jill. How about my teaching you my worthless martial arts while you teach me that astonishing . . . look. Have you tried that on Hands?” “No. He’s not susceptible.” “Why not, Jill?” Joy asked. “He’s not a wild animal.” Ryan Ryan watched John’s eyes, and saw the momentary uncertainty, almost immediately masked by feigned anger. He saw what he’d expected. Banks did in fact lie to me. “What?” John blurted. Ryan looked apologetic. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say it that way. I’ve been working under tremendous strain, and that slipped out. But you’re something more than a businessman, right? Why else are al Jaber and Akwal trying to kill you and your assistant? They don’t have an insurance policy on you both, do they?” John looked rattled. “No. And we don’t do drugs. We don’t do dirty pictures or prostitution. Nothing illegal.” “I see. What do you do?” “I told you, Lieutenant Ryan—I’m a businessman.” Ryan suddenly leaned over and tapped John on the chest with stiff fingers. “You’re wearing some kind of armored vest, aren’t you?”

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“No, it just my shirt and underwear. I have my Chinese laundry put a lot of starch in them.” Ryan slowly rubbed his jaw. “I see. I can tell you have a holster and gun under your coat. May I see it?” “No. I’m willing to help all I can, but you now are crossing the line. Surely you don’t suspect me of any crime?” Ryan took out his pack of Philip Morris and started thumping one cigarette against the table to firm up the tobacco, when John held up his palm toward him. “Please don’t smoke here; I don’t want the apartment to pick up the . . . odor.” Ryan leaned back and looked at John; seeing that he was serious, he put the cigarette back in the pack. He took off his cap and ran his hand through his wooly hair as though he’d had a revelation. After feigning a few moments of thought, he flipped through several more pages, and studied one in particular. He asked, “Why do you think those two are out to kill you?” “I don’t know that they are. Why do you think so?” “The attack on you at the Fairfax. Too many bullets to be a plain burglary. When burglars are discovered they don’t engage in a firefight, they run. Second, that woman Akwal told your assistant, Miss Phim, that she was going to kill her. Yes, and she surely tried.” “Come now, Lieutenant, that was a hen fight. You know how women are. They say all kinds of things when they get into a hairpuller.” Ryan replied, “I see,” and made to get up. He suddenly reached over and tried to insert his hand into John’s coat to pull out his gun. John automatically deflected Ryan’s hand away with a sweeping motion as he pushed backwards out of his chair, knocking it over. In no more than a second, he was standing between its legs in a ready position. Ryan stood up, satisfied with what he had just found out. Banks is covering up something he is doing, which is probably the reason the two killers are after him. He probably has a weapon that matches what Hadad was carrying. He has on something like that new armor. And he is a trained fighter. No businessman is a trained fighter and wears armor unless his business is a front. “Relax,” Ryan said, smiling. “I’m here to protect you from killers. It would be easier if you leveled with me. But, if you see them again or suspect they are around this building, give me a call. They are wanted for criminal activity other than their attack on you. Akwal, you know, may have murdered two policemen. “Good day, Mr. Banks. I’ll find my way out.”

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Ryan went down the stairs and outside. The Central Builders truck was still there. He’d remembered to leave the Stanley Steamer boiler cooking, and with steam billowing from under the hood, he checked the boiler water level indicator, the dual gauge showing the main burner kerosene pressure and the pilot burner pressure, the steam gauge, and the valve controlling the flow of kerosene to the main burner. All were as they should be, so he pressed the pedal to the left of the brake in until it latched, moved the throttle on the steering wheel to pass the steam to the engine, and headed into the street. He looked both ways, and hit the brake. He could hardly believe what he saw. In a haze of dust that still hovered up and down Haight Street, there were two horses down, and two others and a mule that had broken free from their harnesses, standing alone. Two wagons were overturned, and a cart lay on its side, with someone sitting on top of it, head in his hands. A carriage with a broken wheel was skewed across the road, and a dozen people were wandering among chickens, broken crates, suitcases, spilled lumber, and unidentifiable debris. They were here, his mind shouted at him.

Chapter 28 Mid-Afternoon, Tuesday Hadad

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adad was still in a sour mood about his broken wrist and finger. They no longer pained him, but his wrist had a dull ache that seemed to burrow right into his brain. After numbing his injuries, Carla had stitched the gouge on his lower left arm and covered it with a medicinal bandage; after setting his broken wrist, she sprayed a cast on it that left the stitched wound free for daily treatment. This time, once she set his broken finger again, she also sprayed a cast around it. He now had his left arm tucked into a nice sling she had made, and his right wrist encased in an ice pack. Carla tried to get him to eat something, but he nibbled only the cold chicken and could barely stomach the lukewarm pan-fried potatoes she brought him. He groused, “Doesn’t anybody cook rice or lamb in this bokshil town?” He put aside the plate of food, took another sip of green tea, and sighed. It was nothing like mint-flavored Arab tea, but Carla said she could not find a store the sold it. Oh well, this is a bokshil time, a bokshil country. Carla’s lips were compressed, the corners of her mouth drooping, as she looked at his injuries. She put her hand gently on his shoulder. “Hadad, there is a new Indian—India Indian—restaurant that has an ad in the newspaper. I will go there late this afternoon and see if I can pick up nam bread and lamb for you.” “Get me my OT-15.” Carla jerked up. Stood looking at him for a moment. Then she got out their padlocked suitcase, unlocked it, and took out the OT-15. She made sure the safety was on and carefully held it so that Hadad could take it with his free right hand. He tried to hold it, but the weight was too much for his deeply bruised right wrist, and it fell out of his fingers onto the bed. So, he took his left arm out of the sling and then picked up the OT again, with his middle finger through the trigger guard, and rested it in the hollow of his right arm. He now could hold and trigger it with his good fingers.

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“Bang, bang. Take that, John.” He smiled for the first time that day. Looking at Carla, he exclaimed, “I can do it. I’ll back you up.” Carla stared at him with a tight grin, and asked, “Do you have a plan?” “Not yet.” “God be praised. Well, I have one.” “You do?” “Yes, I’m going to kill them both. All I need to do is get one or another of them alone, which I will do tonight. I am going to concentrate on Joy first. Since she is beholden to the warrior code, I can use that to get her alone. After I kill her in hand-to-hand, John will be easy.” “You’ll just get yourself killed and leave me with the mission to carry out myself.” “Let me understand this, Hadad. You mean you actually would find it difficult to do the mission without me?” “Of course. I can use you.” “You can . . . use me?” Carla looked at him out of the corner of her eye, head tilted. Hadad turned his attention back to the OT-15. “Okay, Hadad. I am leaving, and I am not coming back until at least Joy is dead. I am stopping at our weapons capsule, and then I will be on my way. Don’t injure yourself again.” She left, slamming the door behind her hard enough to shake the wall. “Carla,” Hadad yelled. Nothing. Only noise from the downstairs saloon. “Carlaaa!” Hadad shouted, staring at the slammed door. Joy With everyone working but Joy, they had secured the two entrances to John’s apartment building with the iron-barred doors, and barred the first-floor windows. He also had them set up motion detectors from the equipment capsules and place them at each corner of the building, with a receiver connected to a siren in his apartment and the first-floor hallway. That finished, John had all of them but Jill gather in his apartment, and told them, “I think we’ve now got some security, and there is more to do, but I don’t want to wait. As I mentioned, the best defense is offense, and I want to take it to the killers. We shouldn’t wait until this is a fully secured fort, for that will give them time to organize their attack

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on us. And who knows what resources they have? So, I want to take Dolphy and Sal with me to check at the Mercedes place for any information we can get on the killers. There is no such thing yet as California automobile registration, license plates, or taxes, but still, the distributor might know something. “We have enough security with what we have done so far, and with Jy-ying and especially Little Ying here, that the walking wounded . . . ” he smiled at Joy “ . . . can feel secure.” As much as she hated his doing this without her, Joy felt it made sense. But out of concern, she asked, “What are you going to do if you find out where they are staying?” “Probably scout the place.” Joy looked at him for a long moment. A man would have to be dumb and blind not to know a storm was brewing. John was neither, and waited for what would happen. Tossing her head, Joy held up a finger and said sweetly, “Excuse me a moment.” She hobbled into the kitchen and took out the rolling pin she had bought, and came back with it in her hands. She bowed before Dolphy, holding the pin out stiff-armed for him to take. Solemnly, she intoned, “This is my sacred rolling pin. At the heavy touch of pin to head, a man is rendered unconscious. If your boss shows any desire to do more that just peek out of the Ford at where the killers live, you are to use the sacred power of this pin and heavily touch his head with it. And then bring him back to me so I can use my holy power to put sense back into his head.” Dolphy took the pin, bowed in return, and answered, “I will obey.” Sal complained, “What about me?” “Ah, yes. You are Dolphy’s backup. If he should fail in his sacred duty, you are to wrest the pin from him and perform the deed yourself.” Jy-ying Jy-ying was worried about John’s safety, but she had to do something that would not warn Joy about her feelings for him. She picked up some wrapping string from Joy’s morning purchases, and moved to stand regally in front of Sal. She tilted her head back and commanded, “Kneel to your queen, my servant.” Eyes huge, he stared at her. With a grin, Jy-ying motioned him down on one knee. Seeing the grin, Sal obeyed. She then laid the string across his shoulder and uttered, “I hereby deem you Jy-

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ying’s Knight of the String. As my faithful knight, Sir Sal, in the event that Sir Dolphy gives your boss a touch on the head with Joy’s holy pin, or fails in his sacred duty, you are hereby commissioned to use this string to tie his hands behind him and drag him back here. Oh good Jy-ying’s knight, do you accept this duty?” Sal bowed his head. “I do.” Hands and Dolphy howled with laughter. Chuckling, John added, “I bet that Sal would be Jy-ying’s good night, all right.” “John!” Joy exclaimed as he laughed uproariously. “That’s crude.” She held her serious expression for only a few seconds before laughing herself. Jy-ying stood there, perplexed, then she nodded. “Oh, I get it.” She blushed, but joined the laughter. Sal looked at John with wide eyes. “You think so?” he asked before joining the hilarity. Dolphy, the first to recover, assumed a serious air. He slowly slapped the palm of his left hand with the rolling pin. With string in hand, Sal smirked. Hands finally got out a “Yeah.” Then he looked from John to Dolphy and Sal, and pleaded, “Don’t take dangerous risks, now. I don’t want be left alone with three women.” No one was fooled, Jy-ying knew. But they all realize that they could be dead today or tomorrow. As do I. Ryan Ryan drove around the neighborhood, then called from a corner police box to leave word for those who called in. When his detail finally assembled in a vacant lot two blocks from Banks’ apartments, he asked them for their version of what had happened in the street to create the chaos he’d seen. “You guys goofed,” he said when the six men had reported. “If Alex is right, you had the killers boxed in and let them get away.” Turning to Alex, he asked, “Are you absolutely positive that it was al Jaber and Akwal in the Mercedes?” “No doubt about it.” “How far away from the auto were you when you yelled for them to pull over?” Alex looked unhappy. “About four or five feet.” “You had your gun pointed at Akwal?”

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“She was driving, and partly hidden by al Jaber.” Ryan lowered his voice. “Still, you shot at her?” Alex licked his lips, rubbed his nose, and glanced at his partner, who had been driving the Buick. He tried to stand tall when he looked back at Ryan, and unconsciously rested his hand on his holster as he answered, “Of course, Lieutenant. She killed two policemen and may have one of those incredible machine guns. I couldn’t take a chance.” “Neither she nor al Jaber had a gun pointed at you, right?” “Ah, I didn’t see any.” “You shot at her before you told her to pull over. Right?” Alex crossed his arms on his chest. His voice rose slightly as he replied, “I couldn’t take a chance on her having that machine gun.” Ryan stared stone-faced at Alex. “She is only a suspect in a murder investigation. She has not been charged or convicted. Right?” Tightening his arms, Alex barely nodded. There was the sound of scraping feet, coughing, and some whispering as the others on the detail shuffled uncomfortably. In an even a lower voice, Ryan continued. “She probably has information on the sex ring. Right?” With his arms so tightly locked around him that his elbows pointed at Ryan, Alex looked like a man whose chest was being crushed by a boa constrictor. As he nodded again, a tic twitched the skin beneath his right eye. Jabbing both his jaw and his finger at him, Ryan shouted, “You goddam son of a bitch! She was a woman, hands on the steering wheel, no gun in her hand, and you goddam tried to kill her without warning.” Alex backed up a step, and turned pale. The rest of the men seemed frozen in time and movement. Ryan growled, “Alex, you are on report. I’m going to have you investigated by internal security. I want them to report you even if you only piss on a tree. Now, give me your gun. I don’t want to see your ass around the station until the investigation is over.” Ryan thrust his hand out. “Gun!” Alex looked around at the other policemen. No one would meet his eyes. Nostrils flaring, he ground his teeth as he eyed Ryan. He hesitated, as though calculating the odds, then finally reached for his Colt Browning. Ryan kept his hand close to his own gun and watched Alex carefully. Released from their paralysis, two other members of the detail also rested their hands on their gun grips. Alex took his gun out and handed it over grip first. He then headed for one of the police Buicks, but Ryan yelled out, “No, you walk.”

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Ryan watched him until he was past the motorcars, then turned to the others. He could feel the heat in his face as he barked out his orders. “I want you to surround the apartment building, about half a block away and out of sight. Remain outside of the your motorcars but close to them, in case another chase becomes necessary.” Pointing at the driver of the Buick Alex had been in, Ryan pointed out, “If you had rammed the Mercedes when you had a chance, we might not be having this friendly get-together.” He looked around. “Okay, this is a twenty-four hour deal. Twelve on, twelve off, with overtime. I will send replacements tonight. Questions?” One of the policemen asked, “What do we do if we see al Jaber or Akwal?” “Approach them with the greatest caution, and arrest them. But if they have weapons in hand, find cover and demand that they drop their weapons or you will shoot.” “And if they don’t drop them?” “Shoot—the man first. And if the woman does not throw down her weapon? Yes, then even shoot the woman.”

Chapter 29 Late Afternoon, Tuesday Carla

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arla felt she had disguised herself sufficiently. She had changed the lines of her face to look more aged and Caucasian. She wore a cheap-looking flowery lawn hat with a large bow in front that, when she pulled the hat down over her forehead, helped hide her face. She had dragged her percale and white braid dress on the floor, stomped on it several times to add wrinkles and smudges from her boots, and rubbed some charcoal on the bottom. She left the dress unbuttoned at the top when she put it on, and stuffed two feather pillows inside to make her look about eight months pregnant. Over that she donned a cape blouse that covered the dress opening, and for insurance she also put on a knitted circular cape that fell to her waist and added to her broad-girthed appearance. Carrying a basket of long-stemmed flowers she had bought, she practiced a waddle. I am ready. She threw the strap of her replacement holster purse hiding her replacement Stahl over her shoulder, checked to make sure her knife was secure in her leg sheath, and hid the OT-15, its stock folded, under the flowers. On the way out of the burned-out building where their capsules were hidden, she remembered something. She returned to the capsules, took out a pair of high-powered binoculars, and put them in her purse. She smiled to herself. Now I am really ready. A Hansom or some other kind of cab was out of the question—too great a risk. She walked to where she had parked the Mercedes and looked underneath to see if there was any oil or water leaking. After removing what remained of the canvas top, she bent down the two struts that still stuck up until they were out of sight. Then she cranked the motor to life. The car shook violently and screeched every few seconds. Her body protested her renewed activity with pain, but she was so intent, so sure she had Joy now, so engaged in imaging the precise kicks and punches she would make, that her mind hardly registered it. She climbed into the driver’s seat. As the Mercedes shuddered beneath

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her and the steering wheel shook in her hands, she patted the dash board. “Good girl,” she told the running wreck, “all you need to do is get me there.” She drove no more than the speed maintained by the horse riders, bicyclists, wagons, and carts on the side streets, and stopped three blocks away from Banks’ apartments. She parked the Mercedes and took a last look at it. Remembering a good vantage point she’d seen before—a banyan tree almost covering a lot catercorner to the apartment building’s front entrance—she waddled a block, passed a police Buick, and then spied the policemen watching the apartment building from the shade of a tree. Increasing the sway and clumsiness of her walk and holding her pillows in place with one hand, she shuffled past them and around the corner to the banyan tree, out of sight of the policemen. She merged herself among the many huge roots descending from the branches, and found a comfortable position sitting among them with her OT-15 close at hand. With her binoculars, she scanned the building and the entrance. Not knowing that Joy had bought a new gas stove, Carla thought, They have got to leave sometime this afternoon. Joy and John are not going to cook over the woodstoves of this age if they can help it. They will go somewhere to eat. A half-hour later, she saw a Ford come out of the alley next to the apartments and head past her up Haight Street. At first, she swore at her luck: “Bokg, they went out the back entrance.” Then she saw that John was driving, and there were two other men with him. No Joy. Carla could not help it. In her excitement, she yelled aloud. “She’s alone! God be praised.” She hid her OT in the basket again, stood, edged out of the banyan’s roots, and waddled toward the apartments. Officer Kelly “Look at her,” Kelly said, pointing nonchalantly at the woman walking down the street in the direction of the apartment building. His police partner watched her for a moment, then said, shaking his head, “Yeah, the flower girl got herself knocked up. Poor thing. Looks like some bastard has roughed her up, too.” Kelly shook his head. “I would have bought a few flowers from her if she had come this way,” he confessed.

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Carla Carla looked at the iron gate across the building’s entrance. It was secured with a chain and padlock. She raised the heavy lion’s head door knocker and brought it down several times on the bronze striker plate, creating a loud, metallic gong that must have carried throughout the building. No one answered, so she yelled, “Hello,” and tried knocking again. “Hello,” she heard, “be right there.” In a moment, a man with his arm in a sling appeared. He tipped his golf cap and asked, “Can I help you?” Carla recognized him as one of the men in the outer office at the World Trading Company that Joy had sent into the inner office to join Banks. She smiled and said, “Tell Joy that she has a visitor.” “Your name is?” “Carla.” He nodded, touched the brim of his hat again, and said, “I’ll pass it on, ma’am.” He turned and went up the stairs. Joy Joy was sitting at the kitchen table looking over the ads for another trading company they were considering buying when Hands knocked on the door. When she invited him in, he said, “A Carla is downstairs at the gate to see you.” “Carla? Are you sure of the name?” “Yes. But it’s not the same Carla. This one is a poor flower lady. She’s pregnant.” Joy did not doubt who it was, and her heartbeat jumped before she could calm it. So, she thought, this is it. “Thanks. Tell her I’ll be down in a minute.” There was no reason to hesitate. That she would accept the coming battle had been determined by her lifelong training, by the spirit it infused into her bones—she was neither man nor woman, old nor young, injured nor whole, but a warrior. And a warrior is what a warrior does, absolutely. She walked into the bedroom and almost mechanically changed into her sweatshirt and her loose practice pants while her mind prepared her. She reversed her headband to show the white lightning bolt against the vivid red of the bushinota dojo, and put it on. She reached for her black belt, but stopped. No need, she thought as she pulled her hand back.

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She pulled a piece of paper from her printer and, her hand firm, her mind clear and ready to disappear when ready, she wrote: My Dearest John, If you are reading this, I didn’t survive my fight with Carla. I am what I am, my love, and this was a warrior’s fight, and I died as a warrior should. Please, don’t ever think this was suicide. Since my last fight with Carla, I have been studying what I remember of her moves. I believe I have a counter to them. I intend to use my bad finger as bait for a decisive counterattack. If it turns out I am wrong in some way, it does not mean that I went into this fight believing I would lose. I go with a love for you that consumes all my being, all my soul. Wherever you go, whatever you do, my love and spirit will always be with you. When a breeze brushes your cheeks, it will be my gentle kiss. When you hear the swirl of leaves, it will be me walking toward you with my arms open. And when you hear the songbirds, it will be me singing to you. Please do not grieve for me. You have given me more fulfillment than I could ever have hoped for, and I now go with the greatest trust that you will succeed in our mission. A temporary good-bye kiss, sweetheart, for I know that our souls will eventually be together again. Live well. All my love, Joy

Chapter 30 Late Afternoon, Tuesday Joy

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iping her eyes, Joy stood and dropped the note to John on the kitchen table, which still sat in the living room. She imagined wrapping her heart with its burning emotions in flameproof plastic and putting it in a refrigerator for safekeeping, and closing the refrigerator door. She now stood tall, head high, hand on her locket, her resolve hard as steel. She was ready. She slung her holster purse over her shoulder, picked up her Mossberg 590 12-gauge shotgun, and carried it in one hand as she slowly descended the stairs, holding onto the rail until she was near the first floor. She paused on the stairs and peeked around the corner at the apartment entrance to make sure Carla was not trapping her. Seeing Hands standing by the entrance and Carla on the other side of the gate, her hands hanging empty, Joy clicked the safety off on her shotgun and descended the few remaining steps rapidly without touching the rail. Holding the gun pointed at the entrance, she told Hands, “This Carla is the assassin I fought. Let her in, please.” Hands couldn’t move. He stood, mouth hanging open, seeming not to know what to do or say. “Hands! Pull yourself together and let her in,” Joy commanded. Hands hit his head several times with the heel of his hand to clear it, then moved quickly. He took the key from the box on the inside wall, unlocked the padlock, and then noisily pulled the chain off the barred gate with his good hand. He pushed it open and stood aside, at the same time reaching into his pocket and pulling out his Colt. Carla stepped inside and smiled at Joy. The air seemed to crackle with electricity. “We meet again, Joy. What a pleasure.” She removed her hat and pulled the pillows from within her dress, then slowly began to disarm herself. While Joy kept her Mossberg pointed at her, Carla put the flower basket on the floor and kicked off the layer of flowers to show the OT-15. She dropped the holster purse strap off her shoulder, let the purse fall, and kicked it away. Then she bent over, took the knife out of her leg sheath, and tossed it in the

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flower basket with a flourish. She turned to face Joy directly and gestured at the basket. “I trust you will believe that I have no more weapons on me.” While watching Carla, Joy instructed Hands, “I’m going to take her down to the basement. While we are there, call Jill and have her hide all Carla’s weapons in your apartment. Inform Jy-ying that Carla and I are in the basement, but that, as one warrior to another, she is to stay out of this. She will understand. Okay so far, Hands?” Joy asked. His brow knitted together and his lips were drawn in a tight line. He barely nodded. “Listen carefully,” Joy continued. “Eventually, only one of us will come out of the basement. If it is Carla, you are to let her leave the building. If she tries to go up the stairs or into your apartment, shoot her with this shotgun.” Keeping her distance from Carla, Joy handed it to him stock first, keeping the gun pointed in Carla’s general direction. He put his Colt back in his pocket. She waited until he started to put his finger on the trigger before removing her own. “The safety is off; all you need to do is point it at her and pull the trigger. You really don’t have to aim—you can’t miss.” “Yes.” Hands’ voice shook slightly. “Must you do this, Joy?” Joy ignored the question and asked, “Are you sure you can shoot her, Hands? You must tell me now if you can’t.” Hands looked at Carla, who waited by the basement door, head high, hands hanging loose at her sides. Hands’ voice firmed. “Yes, I can. I will.” He hesitated, and said almost as a cry, “We all love you, Joy. Good luck.” “Thank you, Hands; I love you, too.” Joy removed her holster purse and slippers and waved her hand toward the basement door. Carla opened it and started down the stairs. With a quick nod to Hands, Joy followed her. She closed the door behind her and flipped on two switches, one for the lights. At the bottom of the stairs Joy toggled another switch as Carla looked around at the large clear space and the mats lined up against the wall. She said softly, “It looks as though you were ready for me.” “Yes,” Joy agreed. “This also is meant to be our practice space, but it needs more work before it will be ready.” A small table and a bench rested against another wall. Carla walked over to the bench and began to disrobe. She took off her wool walking dress to reveal loose black shorts and her underlying armor. She removed the armor, leaving her clad in a baggy ribbed V-neck shirt. She pulled the bottom of the shirt out of her shorts and let it hang loose. She

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took off her boots and socks and stood barefoot. “I assume you have no armor on under your shirt either,” she said, her tone making it a question. “No. I have on only my training clothes.” Joy stood on the bare concrete floor at a neutral distance from Carla, not wanting to engage her quite yet. “Only one of us will leave this room alive. I have already told you about my duty to my dojo, and you see I have shown its to-the-death battle symbol. So perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me what all this is about, and how you know so much about John and me.” Carla Carla answered, “I have waited most of my life for this moment: to see you before me now, to have you in my grasp, without fear of being disturbed . . . I still cannot believe it. You see, Joy, in the Muslim world, you and John are the most hated crusaders in history. You two are responsible for the world’s decline into godlessness and unholy barbarism. You two have created a world of powerful infidels, a satanic universe parallel to the Islamic one of Allah, led by his prophet Abul Sabah. You both are evildoers who destroyed Sabah and what might have been, in my universe.” At another time, Joy would have smiled at that. Now she could only say, “Thanks for the great news. We succeeded, then.” “Yes, in my universe. But you will not succeed in this one—that is why Hadad and I are here. Thanks to Hands’ biography, which described your abominable mission, and John’s self-righteous Remembrance, the world knows of your evil deeds.” “Hands wrote a biography?” “Yes, he did. And it describes how you bought the child Abul Sabah, and were later killed with him by a heroic Muslim freedom fighter who could not know that Sabah would be the Prophet of God. Almost every Friday sermon in my country ends with ‘Allah be praised; the Satans be damned through eternity.’ You and John are the Satans. “The publication of the biography, discounted as science fiction and destined initially to obscurity, and the discovery of the Remembrance, also showed that a time machine was possible, and gave hints as to how it might be built. Within two years, however, the major democracies had outlawed any work on time machines, made the ownership of any such machines illegal, and had all countries sign an international treaty to that effect.”

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“Don’t tell me,” Joy said, “your scientists developed one anyway.” Carla smirked. “When Umirzak Suleimenov, the president of Kazakhstan, read a translation of the biography, even though he was a signatory to the international treaty banning time machines, he obtained the approval of our Islamic Council to set up a super-secret project called the Creation Project. It had one purpose—to duplicate the time machine that had sent you two back in time, to train two people to go back in time to stop you, and to do what you and John did, but as a mission to Islamatize the world. He put aside ten percent of all oil revenues for the project. “I was then the five-year-old daughter of Yevgeniy Akwal, Professor of Physics at the Kazakhstan State University and cousin to Suleimenov. My father was made the head of the scientific work on the time machine. Over much opposition from the Council, he selected me to train as one of the future time travelers. Since no other Kazakh had the expertise to direct the Project, the Council reluctantly gave into his demand. Most important, I was accepted by Suleimenov. “From then on, my life was planned. I was sent to the United States to live at first with a Kazakhstan diplomatic family in D.C., and then with naturalized Kazakhstan-Americans in San Francisco. Of course, I took all my schooling through to earning my BA in your country.” Joy stated the obvious. “You were also trained in some version of kung fu.” “Yes. This was a careful choice. The Project contracted with the leading White Crane Kung Fu master, Lo Yuechan, at the Shaolin Monastery. Given the promise that the equivalent of $250 million would be provided to the monastery, Yuechan was sent to the United States to train me daily over the next eighteen years.” Joy’s heart was starting to pound in spite of her effort at calmness. Yes. Yes, of course, I should have known that style was being used against me. Her self-two automatically went back through her calming routine. “In 2013 my father informed me that their time machine had been tested, and that I should return for the final planning of the operation. And here I am, Joy.” Joy’s body was completely relaxed again, and her voice was almost robotic. “You forgot something. Your partner—what about him? “He is the son of Imam Akezhan al Jaber of the great Almaty Mosque. The Islamic Council demanded that someone with the appropriate faith and background go back in time with me. Hadad was selected and sent to live with a molla of the Washington Mosque, and

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then to the molla of the Muhammad Mosque in San Francisco. He was also trained in kung fu but, unbeknownst to the Project, he was a lazy student, a womanizer, and a nominal Muslim. His teachers kept this fact quiet for fear of punishment.” “Didn’t you train together?” “No, the Council demanded that we be kept apart. I was a woman, after all, and he was a Muslim male and, more important, the son of the molla of our greatest mosque. The Council was afraid I would subvert him with my charms. I had met him off and on during our kung fu sparring practice, but I had no idea who he was until we both returned to Kazakhstan for our final planning.” “Are you two . . . close?” “Like you and John? No.” She hesitated, and then, as though her words were wispy smoke drifting out of a chimney, she added, “But I think I could fall in love with him, if only he would treat me with the same respect John shows you.” Carla seemed to shake herself, then stepped closer and bowed. “It’s time, Joy.” John John couldn’t believe it. They had what Carla and Hadad had given as their address. The dealer said he almost had refused to sell the car without it, since the parent Steinway Company demanded all addresses of Mercedes buyers for informational and advertising purposes. “Yeah,” Sal said sardonically, “the dealer would refuse a sale of $8,500 like I would refuse a free night in a whorehouse.” They drove around the California Resort, and then John said, “I’m going to find a place to park.” Dolphy laughed. “Joy isn’t going to like it. But, too bad. I forgot to bring her rolling pin.” Sal held up the packing string Jy-ying had given him. “I’ve got the string, so be careful, John.” “Yeah,” John replied, grinning, “she has you on a string.” As Dolphy and Sal laughed, John found a parking place close to the Resort. He pulled into it, then turned to the guys, squared his shoulders, and lifted his brow. “I don’t want to put your lives at greater risk. You can stay here until I return, and I will understand. If you come with me, you may be killed. I want you to understand that.”

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The corners of Sal’s mouth lifted slightly. “I fear more what Joy will do to me if she finds out you got killed, and we weren’t there to protect you.” Dolphy sighed. Trying to hide his grin, he lamented, “That’s it, boss. We’re more afraid of Joy. Let’s go.” John looked into their eyes for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, and thanks. Check your weapons—make sure they’re loose and won’t catch on your pockets or holster, and take the safety off. We’re going to walk into the Resort and, presuming room 207 is in on the second floor, walk up the stairs as though we belong there.” “What are you going to do at room 207?” “I don’t know.” John led the way into the Resort. Off on the right of the entrance was a bar and tables, and at the back was a small casino with gambling tables for poker, blackjack, and roulette. There were few people there at this time of day. To the left was a small reception and registration counter, and stairs leading up to the second and third floors. John tipped his fedora to a couple coming down the stairs as, with Sal and Dolphy behind him, he climbed to the second floor. The hallway was dim. John took his H&K out and signaled the guys to do the same with their Colts. He then walked boldly down the hallway to room 207. Once at the door, he stood there. He felt as though he were running on automatic, as though he had planned and rehearsed what he was going to do. He felt no fear; there was now no thought to what he was doing, only a cold determination to do what he must do. He signaled the guys to stand against the wall on one side of the door, and he did the same. He put one hand out and slowly turned the doorknob. He used his lips to silently tell the guys, “Unlocked. Ready?” When the guys nodded, John thought, I’m sorry, Joy. I’ve got to do this. I love you. He suddenly twisted the knob, threw the door open, and rushed into the room, his gun pointed before him. Joy and Carla Carla’s face looked relaxed, but her eyes gleamed. Beneath a bare overhead bulb, the only light other than the one by the stairs, Joy silently returned her bow. She discarded all thought, let her self-two orient her body to display her injured finger as a lure. Her legs and arms seemed to come completely alive. She adopted the straddle-

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legged stance from which she could launch, among other attacks, her most effective yolo-geri—side kick. Her self-two gave no attention to her bruises—they were now as nothing.

aaa As before, Carla stood ready, slowly balancing her body while feeling for the best offensive balance with her toes. Under the control of her own self-two, she also felt nothing of her bruises, and the stiffness and muscle strain of the day before were gone. She realized without thought that Joy did not know the killing weakness of the attack position she was adopting. Her self-two immediately grasped that in five moves—one swooping kick, a follow-up straight arm punch over Joy’s block, a feint fist high left, then low right, and a straight three finger punch upward into the throat—it all would be over. Her body now prepared, Carla took the appropriate offensive stance.

aaa The basement was as silent and still as a tomb. Not even dust dared to fall. The eyes of the two young women locked together, unblinking. Neither seemed to take even the slightest breath. A visitor to the basement at this moment would swear that they were wax statues frozen in odd but graceful poses. Clap! The sudden sound hit the women like a blast of thunder, violating their lethal concentration, stunning them with its unexpectedness. Then a commanding voice intruded. “Stand back, Joy.”

Chapter 31 Near Supper Time, Tuesday John

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adad seemed completely surprised as John, Dolphy, and Sal rushed into his room with their guns pointed at him. He threw the book he was reading at John, then grabbed for the OT-15 lying on the bed near him with his good hand. John leaped for the OT15 and whisked it out of Hadad’s grasping fingers. He threw it behind him then, sticking his H&K into the other man’s ribs, he wrapped one hand in Hadad’s coat and hauled him to his feet. Hadad screamed in pain as the rough treatment jarred his injuries. John ordered, “Get your damn hands up. I don’t care how painful it is.” John kept his gun on him as Hadad took his left cast out of the sling and, with a grunt, raised it along with his right hand. While Sal and Dolphy kept their Colts pointed at Hadad, John picked up the OT and gave it to Sal to hold in his free hand. He took the Stahl out of the holster lying on the dresser and handed that to Dolphy. He told Sal, “Cover the door with your gun so that Carla doesn’t sneak up on us.” He then frisked Hadad, removed a combat knife from a leg sheath and a small, short-barreled pistol from his coat pocket, and passed them to Dolphy. Trying to ignore his shaking knees, John stood back and studied Hadad, who stared at the floor; his whole body was slumped, his face deathly pale. He seemed to be mumbling some prayer, perhaps a death prayer. John heard one of the guys moving behind him, aiming for a better angle on Hadad. Finally Hadad squeaked out, “Come on. Get it over with. Shoot me.” Fearing his voice now would by tremulous if he replied, John tried to calm himself as Joy had taught him. He took two slow, deep breaths, imagining the still, misty waters of a lake clearly reflecting the trees and mountains around it and the white clouds above. His knees stopped shaking. He felt calm enough to say, “No one will shoot you unless you try to escape. You’re coming with us.”

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He pulled Hadad’s coat over his head, then motioned to Sal, who took hold of Hadad’s good arm, while John held him underneath the armpit of the one in a cast. With Dolphy following behind, covering them, they led Hadad out of the room, along the hallway and down the stairs, and through a throng of people in the lobby. “Federal Marshall’s business,” John yelled several times as they hurried Hadad past the reception desk and out into the street. They pushed him into the back seat of the Ford and Sal and Dolphy got in on either side of him, each holding a gun to his side. John cranked and started the Ford, and they drove off toward his apartments. Joy Joy took a step back. Still maintaining her readiness, she risked a look at the source of the voice. It was Jill. She had her blonde hair pulled tightly back and tucked under a tight-fitting blue skullcap with two horizontal gold bars braided on the front. She was dressed in a long-sleeved, skin-tight, iridescent blue outfit that well displayed her curves. A silver stripe ran down each leg and disappeared into her black boots; a golden holographic badge was fixed above her left breast. Around her waist was a metallic-looking belt with some kind of black device that resembled a large cell phone attached to it. She was unarmed. Jill walked up and bowed to Joy. “You have a relocated finger that prevents you from fighting well. Since you are entering this fight already injured, under your warrior code I am allowed to ask your permission to be your stand-in. If I am defeated, you may then continue as you were.” Joy stared, speechless. No less amazed, Carla stood back. Finally, Joy’s mind emerged as her self-two momentarily relinquished control. “No, you can’t intervene, Jill,” she replied. “This is stupid. She will kill you.” Carefully watching Carla, Jill said simply, “I will be the judge of that. I’m coming in, Joy. I want to do this by your code. Your permission please, Joy.” Joy stared into her eyes, and then at her outfit, and her stance. This was unbelievable. She almost unconsciously sought evidence that this was a stupid joke or a ploy. But something about Jill implied the deadliness of a ticking bomb. Joy’s well-honed warrior’s intuition clicked in. She slowly backed up to be out of the way. She nodded.

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Jill stepped forward and bowed to Carla. “I am Captain Jill Halverson of the International Time Police. I am from Montana; I was born in 2183. My job is to prevent the use of a time machine to interfere with Joy and John’s mission or otherwise alter human history. You are under arrest for violating the law.” Carla At first Carla could only stare at Jill. She had not seen this woman before. She looked her over, noting what looked like an untrained and overly relaxed stance, and the dumb outfit, and her surprise turned to amusement. She said almost cheerily, “Nice try, but the trick won’t work. Step aside. I don’t want to kill you also.” Jill watched her. She stood still, hands loose at her sides, head up, face calm. Her eyes seemed lit from within. Carla waited until she sensed that Joy had moved away and could not attack from the side, although she knew that no warrior would do so. Then she slowly circled this strange woman, evaluating her muscles, how she held her hands and feet, and her center of gravity. Satisfied with what she saw, she thought, This is baby shit. She sneered, disdaining the eye-to-eye, stance-to-stance preparation. Her movements a blur, Carla launched a disabling series of punches, chops, and kicks. Ryan Having also gotten the address from the Mercedes distributor soon after John, and hearing from the dealer that he was the second one to do so, Ryan rushed to his Stanley Steamer and drove to the California Resort. He looked around. Neither Banks nor the Ford were in sight. He walked into the Resort and up to room 207. The door was closed; all was quiet. He stood for a few moments debating what to do. This is stupid, he thought. I have no backup and only my .38 Police Special against the machine gun they might have. I would break any of my officers if they barged into this room under these circumstances. He backed against the wall and tried to turn the doorknob slowly. It’s unlocked. Oh, hell— Ryan threw open the door, threw himself to the floor, and pointed his gun into the empty room.

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Jill Jill covered herself with a force field-like series of dazzling arm and leg blocks and then out of nowhere, an incredible kick. Suddenly Carla was on her stomach on the concrete with Jill sitting on her back, twisting her right arm behind her with one hand while pulling her head painfully back with the other hand under her chin. Jill could break her neck with one quick twist. Carla tried to buck Jill off and slither out from under her, but Jill just locked her up more painfully. Carla screamed, “Why do you not kill me?” Jill answered calmly, “We don’t go around killing prisoners or anyone else, for that matter. Relax now, and don’t struggle. I don’t want to hurt you.” She pulled a strap from her body suit, then pulled Carla’s other hand behind her and wrapped the strap once around her wrists. She got off Carla and pulled her to her feet. She took off her belt and put it around Carla’s waist, telling her, “I’m sending you to my future, where you will be tried for violating the law. Do you wish to say anything to Joy before you leave this age and Joy forever?” Tears streamed down Carla’s face. “I am sorry for my people and for God that I did not succeed.” She tried to hold her head high as she looked at Joy, but every line of her face drooped, and her lips trembled as she said, “I would have beaten you. Me, Carla Akwal, would have defeated the world’s most revered warrior and woman. I came so close, and you had to be saved by . . . the police.” She looked back to Jill. In a tremulous voice without energy or volume, she whispered, “Will I see Hadad again?” “You will be tried together, if I can bring him in alive.” “What will happen to us?” “If you are found guilty, your mind will be wiped of all related memories. Your personality, skills, and religious faith will remain unchanged. I suspect that you will probably become a teacher of martial arts or, if you return to Kazakhstan, of American culture and language.” Joy finally was able to speak. Face downcast, she said, “I don’t feel this is any victory for me, but it is for our mission. You know, Carla, under different circumstances, we could have been friends. I respect your dedication and loyalty to your training and to your faith. In the World Trading office, you could have shot me dead and did not. And I would have enjoyed learning your White Crane kung fu. I wish you the best for your future.” She walked up to Carla, then looked at Jill. “May I touch her?”

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Jill nodded. Joy put her hand on Carla’s shoulder and said, “My injured finger aside, Carla, I think you may be the stronger. But without the final battle, there is no way of knowing for sure.” She hesitated, looking Carla in the eyes for several seconds. Finally she said softly, “Good-bye, Carla.” Joy stepped back. Jill did something on the small device that had been on her belt; Carla’s body shimmered and transformed into wavy lines, disconnected patches of blurred color, dim motes, and then nothing. As Joy stared awestruck into the empty space where Carla had stood, a thunderous explosion near the cellar door shook the basement, and a body flew down the stairs, landing in a heap at the bottom. “Oh my God!” Joy screamed.

Chapter 32 Supper Time, Tuesday Joy

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ill and Joy rushed to the crumpled body lying amidst the debris, broken stairs, and smoke. Jill got there first. As she took an implement resembling a pocket calculator out of her waistband, Joy stood briefly transfixed by horror. It was Jy-ying. She was missing her arm. Her leg was folded under her with the foot turned backwards, and her chest and side were all bloody. A pool of blood spread beneath her. Jill leaned over her and pressed the implement against Jy-ying’s bloody side. She pressed a button. Then she held the device up in the smoke-dimmed light to read several figures on its face. Quickly, she snatched from the back of her waistband what looked like a cell phone with a small lighted window and held it against Jy-ying’s sternum. She read what appeared in the window, looked at Joy, and gently shook her head. Joy fell to her knees next to Jy-ying. She coughed, and tried to fan the smoke from her face. Jy-ying opened her eyes. There was no pain in them. They were wide open and clear; intelligence and purpose still shone in them. She looked around, and then into Joy’s eyes. In a strained, almost tinny voice that sounded as though she were speaking through a voice amplifier, she said, “Hello, Joy.” Jill stood and went to a remote part of the basement, clearly to give the dying woman and Joy privacy. She showed no emotion, as though she knew something about the dying woman or these events that compromised any tears. Joy leaned over and kissed Jy-ying’s forehead. “Hello, Jy-ying.” Jy-ying was having more trouble getting the words out. “Carla would have killed you. I could not let that happen. But Jill got here before I did. I heard everything. I now . . . ah . . . must tell . . . truth. I am Jy-ying Khoo from your Second Universe. I . . . came here by time machine to kill you and John and save Sabah.” Jy-ying struggled to speak. “I could not let Carla kill you. For if she killed you and John to save Sabah . . . and made it her mission to pro-

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mote Islam—” Jy-ying hesitated, then tried to rush the words out “— she would have also destroyed your mission to democratize the world. She did not know that this was necessary for the rise of the Prophet Sabah and his final Great Victory over the . . . world.” Joy grabbed Jy-ying’s remaining hand and held it to her heart. Jy-ying struggled for breath. “I invaded your apartments . . . all your personal things.” A small, tremulous smile appeared on her flushed face. It disappeared with the effort to talk. “I . . . I am . . . you. You are me from a different universe. Your parents . . . were my parents.” Her eyes seemed to grip Joy’s. “If I died before you, I wanted . . . you to know. I wrote about our . . . your . . . family for you.” Her voice had almost disappeared. Joy fought down sobs as she leaned over to hear her. “It is in the false bottom in my brown suitcase . . . along with the location of . . . my supply capsules . . . and the code to open them.” Jyying’s eyes were losing their focus and luster. “Joy! Save Sabah. Educate him.” She gripped Joy’s hand tightly. “Joy!” Joy fought her rising sobs and put her ear to Jy-ying’s mouth. “Take care . . . of . . . Little Ying for m . . . .” Her eyes remained open, seeing nothing, as her last breath rattled out her open mouth. Joy screamed.

Chapter 33 Early Evening, Tuesday John

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he gate’s open, “ Dolphy yelled as they led Hadad to the apartments. When he entered, he saw Hands sitting on the stairs slumped over the Mossberg, and cried, “Oh my God, Hands has been shot.” John left Hadad in Sal’s hands and dashed up behind Dolphy, then stepped around him when he didn’t seem to know what to do. He gently laid Hands back on the stairs, then felt for Hands’ heartbeat, lifted his head to look into his eyes, and gently moved his body looking for a wound or blood. There was none on the stairs. “Whew. He’s simply unconscious,” John blurted. Released from his fearful focus on Hands, John suddenly heard loud keening sobs, and smelled smoke. He looked around and saw a cloud of black smoke obscuring the ceiling. Wisps of it floated from the opening between the cellar entrance and its door, which had been partially blown off its hinges. With Dolphy’s help, he pulled it open enough to look down the cellar stairs. The top portion had been blown away. John could barely make out Joy at the bottom, hugging a body. A strangely dressed Jill stood with her hand on Joy’s shoulder. Joy was weeping hysterically. John told Sal, “Tightly cover Hadad’s head with his coat, and guard him with your gun while we deal with this.” He pointed down the hallway to the heavy ladder resting against the wall near the rear entrance. Dolphy rushed to get it and lugged it back while John sought out the thick rope they had used in fortifying the apartments. He ran back to the basement entrance with the rope wound loosely around his shoulder, and threw it down next to the cellar door. He lowered the ladder into the gap where the stairs had been, and Jill took hold of it, set it on the floor, and opened the ladder’s legs. It was still dangerous to try to step on the top of the ladder, so John tied the rope around the top of the damaged door, tested whether it would hold him, then lowered himself to the top of the ladder. He held onto the rope while he descended the ladder to the floor.

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Jill, her eyes wet, silently retreated again to a corner of the basement. John hardly noticed her or her strange outfit. He rushed to Joy, who was holding the body’s hand. When he got close, he recognized Jyying, obviously dead. He put his arm around Joy. On the verge of tears himself, he let her cry it out. Joy gripped John’s arm tightly. Her body shook with sobs as she stared wide-eyed at Jy-ying’s sightless eyes. She tried to speak, but nothing would come. She shuddered as she struggled to gain control of herself. With a quivering finger, she pointed at Jy-ying’s white face and stammered, “That’s . . . me . . . She is . . . me . . . me, in a different universe.” The words now flew out. “I killed her. I killed me. I did it,” she wailed. Her whole body shaking convulsively with sobs, Joy buried her head in her hands. John put both arms around her. He just held her close and stroked her head and hair. He caressed her back and waited. Finally she took her head out of her hands and, putting her arms around him, she pressed her head against his chest. Joy Tears still flowed, but she no longer shook with sobs. Joy slowly raised her head from John’s chest and took a last look at Jy-ying. That’s what I will look like when I die, she thought. In a quivering voice she told John, “I’m okay.” She moved to stand, and John helped her up with his arm still around her. Jill strode over to her other side, put her arm around her also, and said, “I’m terribly sorry, Joy.” In a firm voice, she told John, “Leave Jy-ying’s body. You need not worry about what to do with it. I will explain everything to everyone upstairs.” John yelled up to Sal and Dolphy, “We are coming up, and we’ll need your help.” Using the ladder, the rope, Dolphy’s firm grip, and a boost on their bottoms from John, Jill and Joy made it out of the basement. Jill then turned around and, with Dolphy, helped John up. Sal and Dolphy gaped at Jill and her revealing clothes, and Joy suddenly realized how strange and sensual they really were. Sal started to ask, “Who—” “Who was killed?” Dolphy yelled.

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Jill held up her hand palm outward and said, “Later. I will tell you everything later. I must deal with Hadad first. You all can put your weapons away. I can take care of him.” She removed Hadad’s coat from his head while John, Sal, and Dolphy, their eyes like saucers, stood staring open-mouthed at her. Hadad paid no attention to her. Holding his cast in his good hand, he just stared down at the floor, his chest sunken, his shoulders drooping. “Carla . . . ?” he mumbled. “She is . . . Oh, merciful God. Carla!” Keeping her distance, Jill commanded Hadad, “Slowly put both your arms behind you, cast and all.” Then she stepped behind him, reached behind her and found another strap from somewhere in her clothes, overlapped his free wrist on his cast, and wound the strap once around them, pinning them together. Trembling slightly and still tearful, Joy stood watching. Half her mind and all of her emotions were still with Jy-ying on the cellar floor. All her aches and pains had returned. Her bruises and relocated finger were now unrelenting in their revenge for being ignored so long. Then she heard the frantic barking from the second floor. The sound blasted her thoughts away from Jill, from Jy-ying’s death, and to the duty that now filled her mind. Little Ying must have been asleep, and awakened to find his mistress gone, and many strange sounds below. Wait, little one. I’m coming. I’ll take care of you. Joy stumbled up the stairs, almost falling at the top. She heard wild scratching, whimpering, and barking at Jy-ying’s door. She limped toward it, grabbing for the knob. Ignoring her injured finger, Joy opened the door and tried to grab Little Ying. But he ran around her hands and down the stairs. Joy tottered after him. John Jill pointed at Hands and said, “Carla and Joy were about to do battle, and I was afraid he would get involved and be injured further or killed. I rendered him unconscious with a nerve block. He’ll be okay soon.” Looking at Sal, she asked, “Could you and Dolphy carry him into his apartment and make him comfortable on the sofa? We’ll follow soon.” At that moment, Little Ying ran around Jill and stopped at the still smoky entrance to the basement. Looking down at the corpse of Jyying, he frantically ran back and forth across the entrance, bounding off the partially open door. Finally he leaped over the gap onto the remain-

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ing stairs and tumbled down them. He pulled his body to Jy-ying with his front legs and frantically licked her cooling face. He then let out a moaning howl that continued until he ran out of breath. Joy had reached the entrance to the cellar just as Little Ying jumped. Aghast, she watched it all. His howl brought her out of it. Raising her hand to her cheek, she bawled, “He broke his legs!” She collapsed at the basement entrance in tears. This broke John’s concentration, and he stepped over to her. He joined her on the floor and held her tightly, rocking back and forth with her. Keeping her eyes on Hadad, Jill shouted above Little Ying’s wailing cries to John and Joy, “Let him howl out his misery. This soon will be over.” Jill Jill waited until Joy’s grief eased, and John helped her stand. Then she said, “I’m taking Hadad into Hands’ apartment. Please join us.” She waited until they entered the apartment, then gripped Hadad by his good arm, led him into the apartment behind them, and shut the door to reduce the sound of Little Ying’s mourning. Dolphy and Sal had lain Hands on his velour sofa and stood next to it. Joy plopped into his matching armchair, and put her head in her hands. Leaving Hadad standing in the middle of the living room, Jill strode into the bedroom and pulled a ratty-looking case out of the closet. She unlocked and opened it and removed another metallic-looking belt, which she brought back to the living room. As she approached Hadad, he suddenly came alive. Straightening, he tried to butt Jill with his head, following that immediately with a deadly kick toward her throat with the toe of his boot. In a blur, she swung backwards out of range of his head, twist-dodged his leg, caught it with her hands, and threw him onto his back. He twisted to land on his good shoulder and tried to roll to his feet, but she had her black boot on his throat. His whole body seemed to collapse in on itself. His face showed utter despair. Sal and Dolphy had their Colts out. Jill asked them, “Please help me stand him up.” They held him up as she put the belt around him. “Okay, you can stand back,” she said, and did so herself. In a voice dripping with authority, Jill explained to Hadad who she was and what she was doing here. She then told him, “I have already

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arrested your partner Carla Akwal and sent her to my future for trial. You are also under arrest for violating the law against time travel. Do you have anything you want to say here before I send you to my future for trial?” Breathing heavily, Hadad raised his head to look at John with halflidded eyes and a tight, one-sided smile. In a tone containing a weird mixture of grief, confidence, and pride, Hadad told him, “Too bad, what the world will now lose. No, it would not have been a global Islamic dictatorship. I had already lost my Muslim faith before returning to my homeland for final planning of this time travel. But what a chance this was to change the future! And all the wealth at my disposal to do so. I would have tried to be a compassionate world leader. Oh, I would have done away with war and democide, as you did, but I also would have solved the problems of poverty and inequality. I would have been the world’s most benevolent and magnificent ruler and, unlike Carla, I would have left all faiths to live in peace.” Then he gazed at Joy, who had raised her head to look at him with a frown and narrowed eyes. “It was Carla who was so determined to kill you. I think it was a personal thing with her, a contest over who was the better warrior. Anyway, she believed in creating a world ruled by the Imams. My father was an Imam, and I would not want him to rule a hen house. I think I would have brought her around to my way . . . .” He hesitated, then admitted in a whisper, “I had hoped so.” Voice even lower, he added, “I will miss her.” Then he raised his head, stood tall, and loudly concluded with a grin, “At least Carla won’t cause me any more injuries. Good-bye.” Jill activated the belt, and he shimmered and gradually disappeared. His grin seemed the last thing to vanish. Little Ying’s howling had stopped.

Chapter 34 Early Evening, Tuesday Ryan

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o one had heard the apartment door open slightly. “How interesting,” Ryan said as he came around the corner and into the room. “I heard most of that, and would believe you people were putting on a show, but,” and he nodded to where Hadad had stood, “I cannot deny what I saw. You actually made him disappear.” Jill started to say, “I am a policewoman—” “Yes, I heard that. Can I see your credentials?” Jill took off the strange shiny badge that had somehow been connected to her uniform above her left breast and handed it to him. As soon as he took it, the badge opened like a small book, displaying a number of identifying documents: an unusual, almost threedimensional picture of Jill, her formal police identification with its own picture, a time travel pass signed by the President of the Union of Democracies, and something labeled a time transfer chip, for any resources she might need. Ryan sat down on the arm of the sofa and looked through them. At that point, Hands regained consciousness and dizzily looked around the room. He immediately saw Jill and asked, “What happened?” Noticing her clothes, he exclaimed, “Why are you dressed like that? Cover yourself!” Jill looked at John and Joy and said, “Would you excuse us? I want to talk to him alone.” She took his hand and led him into the bedroom and closed the door. While Ryan continued to look through Jill’s badge, a policeman stuck his head into the apartment and breathlessly asked, “Is everything okay, Lieutenant? You disappeared inside, and we didn’t know what happened.” Ryan looked up from the badge and nodded. His eyebrows raised, the policeman exclaimed, “There was an explosion; There’s a body in the basement.” Ryan calmly answered, “I know.” The policeman looked surprised. “What do you want us to do now?”

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Ryan replied, “It’s over. Tell everyone to go home. I’ll explain it all tomorrow. Meet at my desk at eight in the morning.” For an hour, John and Joy explained to Ryan why they were there, and why Carla and Hadad had been trying to kill them. Ryan had many questions, and as he heard the answers, his expression alternated between frowns and narrowed eyes and wide eyes and raised brows. But he had seen Hadad disappear, and there were the extraordinary weapons and armor and Jill’s incredible badge. By the time Jill led Hands out of the bedroom, Ryan was convinced. Jill Hands’ eyes were red, his lips compressed, as he struggled to hold back his emotions. As did Jill, whose own eyes were wet. She now wore her old dress, and carried another of the metallic belts in one hand and the ratty brown case in the other, packed with her clothes, badge, and everything else she had brought from the future. Emotion choked her voice as she said, “First, I want to compliment Lieutenant Ryan on his police work. Being a policewoman, I know the difficulties he faced.” She gave him a slight bow. Her voice grew firmer as she went on. “I also know that, as a policeman, you will carry many secrets to your grave; I know I can trust that what you have learned today will be one of them.” She knew that might not be so. It was asking him to be superhuman, and there would be all those questions from his men about the body. But she saw no need for telling him or the others the real reason for such trust. Ryan walked over to Jill and asked, “May I take your hand?” Jill put down her case and held out her hand to him. Ryan took it in his, bent over it, and kissed it. Still partially bent over her hand, he looked up at her and said, “As one policeman to another, congratulations on your successful work.” Jill felt her shoulders square with pride, and heat rushed to her face. “Thank you, Lieutenant Ryan. From a colleague I respect so much, I appreciate that.” Ryan backed up and turned to John. He shook his hand, and then took Joy’s hand and kissed it. He stood back and looked at them with a face full of pride. “If there is anything—anything—I can do to help in your mission, I will come running. My best wishes for your success.”

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He then shook hands with the three guys. “On behalf of the rest of us who are not part of their mission, thanks to the three of you for your devotion to it and your work on its behalf.” Ryan strode toward the door, but stopped with his hand on the doorknob. Looking around at all of them, he said, “Good-bye and good luck.” He firmly closed the door behind him. Jill turned so she could also see Hands, Dolphy, and Sal. “I also want to thank you three for your honesty and loyalty in helping and supporting John and Joy. You will be famous in my age; holovision will make the three of you known to billions. Each of you will be the heartthrobs of millions of young ladies.” Dolphy and Sal beamed at that, and Sal said, “Take me with you. I want to make them all happy.” “I must leave soon, but I wish to speak with John and Joy alone first. Let me now say good-bye to you, Dolphy and Sal. And Hands, I want to give you one last kiss in your apartment just before I leave.” Dolphy and Sal nodded and left for their apartments with a final wave and a smile. Picking up her case, Jill asked John, “Can we go to your apartment?” On their way to the stairs, Joy had to look into the basement. The smoke had cleared. Little Ying was lying with his head on Jy-ying’s shoulder. He was silent and unmoving. Joy put her hand to her mouth and cried out, “Oh no!” Jill knew what she saw, and almost immediately put her arm around Joy’s shoulders and gently pulled her back. “The horror of all this will soon be over, Joy. Try to let it go, at least for a while.” Then she pressed deep with her fingers into Joy’s nerve stem at the base of her skull and massaged a particular cluster of nerves and muscles. Joy’s face soon cleared; Jill realized that she’d also drawn on her own training to further relax herself and clear her emotions. Not even a minute went by before she stood straighter and looked at Jill with calm eyes. “You’ve got to teach me that,” Joy said. “Thanks.” Then she glanced at John. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

aaa As they climbed the stairs, Joy’s limping was too much for John; he picked her up and carried her to the third floor. There, red-faced and breathing heavily from the exertion, he had to put her down. But he put his arm around her so she could lean on him.

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“Hey, big boy,” Joy whispered in his ear, “you need more exercise. From now on, you should always carry me up the stairs.” As they walked slowly to his apartment John whispered back, “It’s not me. It’s all the rice you eat. It’s all compressed in your stomach, making you fifty pounds overweight.” Joy stuck out her tongue at him. Jill followed quietly, smiling broadly at the chance to witness the famous banter that Hands had described so well in his biography of them. Inside the apartment, Joy shrugged loose of John’s arm and hobbled to a piece of paper on the kitchen table. With her back to him, she slid it inside her sweatshirt, then invited Jill to sit down at the table. When they were all seated around the table, with her blue eyes shining, Jill began. “First, I want to apologize for misleading you all about my identity. I came here for two reasons. One was to protect you against Hadad and Carla, whom I knew were out to kill you and create an Islamic-ruled world—regardless of Hadad’s proclaimed agnosticism, Carla would have prevailed, you know—and to arrest and return them to my future for trial. I had to disguise myself so they would never suspect someone from the future was after them. Otherwise, they might have gone underground and waited years before suddenly attacking you on one of your missions. Hands’ Mission Humanity, his biography of you two, and your Remembrance, John, were explicit about your interventions, and it would have been easy for them to ambush you during one of them.” John looked at Jill with raised eyebrows. “My remembrance?” “Yes, you wrote one of Joy and your mission, and it and Hands’ biography were leaked from the Banks Democratic Peace Institute that Hands and the others set up in your name.” “He wrote about our mission, did he?” Joy said, a look of surprise gradually changing into an “I told you so” smirk. Jill’s smile lit up her face. “Yes.” She waited a moment as John looked down and pinched his lip between thumb and forefinger. Then his face cleared and he looked at Joy. He reached for her hand and told her, “Baby, I’m so proud of you now, and in the future I’m sure I’ll be so bursting with pride over your successes that I’ll just have to share them with the world—” “Can it, John,” Joy exclaimed, but she clearly couldn’t help the grin as she looked from John to Jill and shook her head. Jill reached across the table and pressed her hand over theirs. She felt she was living a moment she would always treasure, one she wished would never end.

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She mentally shook herself, knowing the local time was closing in on her. She withdrew her hand and clasped it with her other. “That aside, I felt that if I stayed under cover as close to you two as I could, then I would get them when they tried to attack you.” Joy frowned and her smile disappeared. “But did you have to lead Hands on?” Jill knitted her brows, and the corners of her mouth turned down. She felt her lower lip begin to tremble. Joy reached over and put her hand on Jill’s arm. “I’m sorry, Jill, I didn’t mean it that way.” Jill responded softly, “I am a woman; in my job, falling in love is a risk we take. Yes, initially, I had to use him, but then I found that he is a wonderful man, and I began falling in love with him in spite of the vast differences between us. His goodness, tenderness, and open heart melt my insides, if you know what I mean, Joy.” Joy nodded. “Leaving him and you good people will not be easy.” John interjected, “Does that mean you won’t be my accountant after all?” Jill looked appreciatively at John. “I’m afraid not. As to Hands, you may tell him this if you wish, for it will make no difference because of what will soon happen: eventually he will meet a courageous and beautiful woman in Germany and marry her. They will make each other very happy.” She shook her head and her face cleared. “Now I want to tell you one more thing that, more than anything else, you deserve to know. Since Carla has already told you, in effect, that you will succeed in your mission, I can also tell you about yourselves. Once Hands’ biography and John’s Remembrance were leaked to the public, really to a publisher, the editors thought no one would believe them. So they contracted a ghostwriter to turn them into science fiction tales. Once published, they didn’t get much attention, until actual records of the Tor Import and Export Company and John’s stock transactions were uncovered. With that, researchers found records in many countries of what you two did to prevent war and foster democracy. “This became headline news. Because of the huge interest generated, the supposedly science fiction tales—which incidentally did not need to have much fiction added—became best-sellers. You became the most famous and beloved couple in history. I know that Carla told you how hated you were in her very small part of the world, but among free and democratic peoples, over ninety percent of the world in my

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time, statues depicting you two standing arm in arm have been built in many a public square; an infinite number of paintings illustrate one or another of your interventions; streets have been named after you; and the most popular names for children are Joy and John, even in China. In Russia, the city of Kazan was recently renamed Banksgrad.” John’s chest visibly inflated, and he could hardly sit still, he was so agitated with happiness. He looked at Joy, slid his chair closer to hers, and put his arm around her shoulders. “Congratulations, baby. I told you how proud of you I would be.” Joy reached back with her hand, drew John’s head down to hers, and gave him a kiss. Her eyes were misty when she turned to Jill and asked, “Is there any way I can let my mother know we will—ah, have succeeded?” Jill sat for a long moment, lips pursed, finger idly tracing the picture of a white rose on the waxed tablecloth. She finally responded, “Yes, I think I might be able to do something.” Still flushed with happiness, John asked, “How can you cross over to another universe? I thought that was impossible.” “We cross over where the universes are connected. Where one parallel universe is created from another, they are not completely disconnected in all parts. You have created new universes in only those aspects of the universe that are significantly affected by your actions and their ripples. There is not a parallel universe of stars, for example, since your actions had no causal influence on them. The same unchanged stars are part of the old and new parallel universes. Even some parts of the earth are unaffected, and therefore remain within the old universe while also being part of the new one. ‘Parallel’ is a misnomer for all these universes. ‘Intersecting’ is the appropriate term.” Jill paused; Joy and John nodded. Jill continued. “Just to tie this down, imagine you lay two sheets of paper flat on each other. Ignore the thickness of the papers and just consider their two dimensions of length or width. Consider that when you go back in time and make changes in one universe, the effects of those changes are like lifting the corner of one sheet of paper. You now have a third dimension—an intersecting universe—added. While the corner is disconnected from the bottom sheet into the third dimension, the remainder of the paper lies flat and is still part of the initial two dimensions—the other universe. To move from one universe to another, one travels in space and time to the parts—dimensions—still connected, and then one is in both the old and new universes. Now all one needs to do is travel in time to the future of the old universe.”

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Her face brightening, Joy asked, “Where is such a point of connection now?” Jill answered, “Probably the world outside of San Francisco, and maybe to be cautious, outside of California. But as the years go by, the connecting unchanged parts of this universe—the bridge between universes—will become smaller for us humans. By the time you finish your missions only central Antarctica will remain in contact.” “But you can cross this in space and time?” “Yes, we have discovered how to do this.” Joy tilted her head and folded her hands in front of her and thought for several seconds. Then, eyes gleaming, she tightened her hands together, leaned toward Jill, and breathily asked, “If possible, would you do me a favor?” Jill put her elbows on the table and leaned toward Joy and John. “I want to tell you both—I am so overjoyed to have actually met you. You cannot know what it means to me to see you in the flesh and to talk to you. To have been chosen for this mission and to have possibly saved your lives leaves me feeling immense pride. I will die with a smile on my face no matter how many years in the future that is. My generation sees you two as heroes, and all of us have tried to emulate your lives in spirit. I can’t tell you how many romance novels are patterned after the love you two have for each other. We owe you. I owe you. What can I do?” Joy’s eyes were wet. When she spoke, her words rushed together. “All that we did is due to my mother, Tor Phim, to my godmother, Gu, and to the rest of the Survivors Benevolent Society. I want them to know that we succeeded. I find it hard to bear the thought that they sacrificed so much, and my mother gave up her only daughter to the mission, and they never, never, will know what happened.” Her voice had fallen to a whisper. Tears flowed down her cheeks. “Please.” Jill reached across the table and took Joy’s hand in hers. “I know how you feel, Joy. My whole world knows. I will have to seek the approval of higher authorities, and our chronologists will have to be involved, but I will support your wish. I’ll go now, make my report, and ask for approval of your wish. This may take a year or so of future time, and while the authorities are considering your wish, I will arrest the leaders who prepared and sent Carla and Hadad on their time travel. But that future time will not be your time. I, or someone in my place, will return in ten or fifteen minutes to give you the decision.” She stood. “I’m going to say good-bye for maybe the last time to Hands, and then leave.”

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Joy and John rose also. Jill stepped around the table and hugged John, then kissed him on the cheek. She turned to Joy, took both of her hands in her own, and let their souls commune through their eyes. Neither knew how much time passed. It no longer mattered. Jill finally smiled. “May I call you my sister?” “I would be honored,” Joy responded. Her tears started up again. Jill put her hands on both sides of Joy’s head and kissed her. She said softly, “I will never forget this moment, my sister.” Jill gave John another hug, backed up, and gave him a little bow. “Many women of my world envy Joy for your love. If they only knew you personally, as I do now, they would envy her even more.” She turned briskly, picked up her case and belt, and walked to the door. She paused, head high, and turned and looked at John and Joy. Her eyes were full of tears, and her voice reached across the room like a caress as she said, “I love both of you. If I don’t see you again, goodbye.” She left. The door quietly clicked shut behind her.

Chapter 35 Late Evening, Tuesday

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or many minutes after Jill left, Joy and John hugged, kissed, danced, and cavorted around the living room with gleeful eyes and wide smiles. They had survived. They had succeeded in their mission. They were famous for what they’d done. They had been immortalized. They did not know the all of it. Jill had not told them at what cost their success had come, nor about the ethical debate that John’s Remembrance engendered, which would divide families, churches, academia, media, political parties, and some nations. She had not mentioned that Joy would become consumed by her power, and use it to rid the world of rapists and muggers, murdering hundreds of them; that by the late 1930s, when her and John’s mission was clearly successful, Joy would attempt to assassinate the American presidential nominee, whom she perceived as a communist; that John would stop her at the last minute, and then, with her submission and help, kill her; that he then would commit suicide by fire after writing his Remembrance of Joy. Although telling them these things would have no effect on the future, she had seen no reason to be so cruel. Let them enjoy their mission’s success and their justifiable fame. Anyway, even their final horror achieved another success of its own. That the great power they had at their disposal to fight tyrannical power would itself destroy them taught a lesson in a very personal way that would come to dominate the sociology and political science textbooks of her day; that power kills was not only a lesson for governments, it was also true of individuals— even lovers. Moreover, with the exception of the killing, Joy’s campaign to eradicate muggers and rapists on the streets became a model for tens of thousands of young women, who formed an organization centered around a new street-wise martial arts to do just that—without the killing. Joy Once they settled down from the high, they lounged back on John’s Victorian couch.

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John asked, “Oh, by the way, what was on that paper you picked up off the table?” Joy stared down at her lap, pulling absently on her earlobe. She realized that she really didn’t have to think about it. Honesty was one of the bonds between them. She took the note out of her sweatshirt and handed it to him. He read it; aghast, he reread it. He choked up, and visibly struggled to say, “You thought you were going to die, didn’t you?” “Yes, unless I was lucky.” “Oh baby . . . .” His voice broke completely. He stood and pulled Joy up from the couch to hold her tight, swaying back and forth with her. “But you’re alive and I’m so happy you didn’t die. I love you so much.” Joy held him in return, and nestled her head on his shoulder. “Jill saved me at the last moment. What an incredible woman. Carla attacked her, and Jill did something with her hands and legs that finished with Carla on the floor and Jill in command on top of her. Jill then arrested her and, as she did to Hadad, sent her off to Jill’s future for trial.” They sat down on the couch again, still in each other’s arms. John said in a husky voice, “Ah . . . Jesus, baby . . . If Jill had been the clumsy Jill of this time—not the policewoman from the future—she couldn’t have intervened. And Carla would have killed you . . . . You would be dead now!” “Probably.” “And Carla would have been free, with Hadad, to kill the rest of us.” “Ah, not likely,” she sighed. She frowned, and her mouth turned down. “You might have wondered what I was doing all the time I was in the basement while you and the guys were working around the apartments, installing the gates and such. I knew that if Carla could confront me here, she would not shoot me; she would challenge me to a fight. So . . . .” She looked down at her hands and took a long, tremulous breath. “I set up a system of interconnected dead man’s switches, a motion detector, and C-6 plastique in a box under the top cellar steps. The first switch resembled a light switch, and I put that next to the light switch at the top of the stairs. Switching it on readied the system. I aimed the motion detector down the steps and put it above the cellar door. I set it for a range of five feet. The second switch I put at the bottom of the stairs, underneath the railing where it couldn’t be accidentally turned on. It switched on the sys-

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tem. Now, if someone going up the stairs did not turn off that second switch, the motion detector in the box above the entrance would set off the explosive. “I hit both switches on the way down the stairs with Carla. She did not know about the switches, of course. So, if she had killed me, she would have walked back up the stairs and triggered the plastique and the resulting explosion would have killed her. But . . . Oh John, I killed Jy-ying!” John hurriedly interrupted with, “But when you two were in the basement and the system was activated, Jill went down the stairs without setting it off.” “I put a little switch between the door and the door jamb. If the system were active, opening the door deactivated it for one minute. Jyying—me from another universe—would be alive if—” John quickly held up his hand to stop her from dwelling on that. “Isn’t this against your warrior code? I thought you could only kill Carla in combat.” “Although I’m a warrior, I’m not crazy. I was not going to let Carla live to kill you. Anyway, my code would have been satisfied when I fought her and lost. If I had used the dead man’s switches for revenge, that’s different. I used them only to save your life, and possibly the guys’ lives. If that is stretching my code, I can live with it.” He knew how to respond to take her mind off Jy-ying’s death. “Yes,” he said with a slight grin. He wagged his finger. “But you know, the code is the code, and I don’t know whether I can live with the thou—” She hit his shoulder hard with the flat of her hand, pushed him off the couch and onto his back with her foot, and jumped on him. She caught his finger in her fist and, laughing, put the forefinger of her other hand on his lips. “John, shut up,” she commanded.

Chapter 36 Late Evening, Tuesday John

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ow much time has passed?” Joy asked excitedly, her eyes shining at the possibility of seeing her mother. “Maybe twenty—” In the space left empty by Jill’s departure, the air started shimmering again. The body of a tall, well-muscled black man took shape. He wore a uniform similar to Jill’s. Next to his leg was a machine that resembled an upright air conditioner. In one hand he carried a case similar to the one that Jill had with her. As soon as he was solid, he looked at them and saluted. In a deep, resonant voice, he greeted them. “Hello, I am Jomo Wamalwa, born in Marsarbit, Kenya, and a member of the time police. I greet you on behalf of the United Democracies.” He stepped forward to shake John and Joy’s hands. “Meeting you is indeed my greatest honor.” “What happened to Jill?” Joy blurted. Jomo’s smile collapsed as he frowned. He slumped and stared down at his machine for a moment, his lips compressed. Finally he looked up, shook his head, and said solemnly, “I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you this tragic news. She and her colleague were killed in Kazakhstan. Rather than allow himself to be arrested, President Suleimenov set off explosives hidden in the walls of his office. He had a remote control trigger built into the toe of his shoe.” Joy stared wide-eyed at him. Her mouth sagged open and one hand flew up to cup her cheek; the other spread over her heart. “Oh, no. No! I just saw her minutes ago. She was so alive.” Joy buried her head in her hands and began crying. John stood paralyzed for several seconds, and then his whole body slumped and he shook his head. “No—shit! Shit!” He stepped over to Joy and led her to the couch. She dropped onto it and buried her head in both hands. John sat next to her and held her close. Alternately scowling and grimacing, he continued to shake his head as he stared at Jomo. Jomo’s own eyes got shiny. “She was my colleague and friend. I loved her, as did both of you. If it is any help, she died an honorable

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death in the service of freedom. It is the risk we all take.” He bowed his head and waited until Joy finally looked up at him. Choking on the words, she said, “It’s so sad . . . so sad. It must not be easy for you to be the bearer of such bad news.” John cleared his throat and asked, “Is there anything we can do?” “No, except to remember her as the fine person and policewoman she was.” Jomo hesitated, obviously struggling to collect himself, and then added, “I brought three holos with me.” He knelt and opened his case on the floor and lifted them out. Handing one to Joy, he said, “This one shows the presentation of the United Democracies Golden Medal of Freedom to Jill’s parents on her behalf by President Chat Mai.” The holo pictured a white-haired man dressed in a white robe that stood out starkly against the richly veined marble of a large chamber. He was lifting a golden medal on a blue ribbon from a red cushion held by a serious-faced young girl. An elderly couple stood holding hands, waiting to receive the medal. Both had graying blonde hair. The woman’s profile resembled Jill’s; no one could doubt she was her mother. Jomo suggested, “Press the little button on the upper right of the frame.” Joy did so, and she and John saw a holographic movie of the presentation, listening as the president gave a short speech praising the courage of Jill Halverson, who saved the lives of Joy Phim and John Banks and thus, saved their democratic peace mission. He ended by saying, “Had Officer Halverson survived, she would have received this medal. It is only fitting that her parents receive it in her place.” The president bowed; the camera retreated to a wide-angle view of the immense auditorium as all the representatives of all the world’s democracies rose in a standing ovation. When the holograph reverted to the initial still picture, Joy hugged the picture to her chest. She was openly crying again. John had tears in his eyes. John asked, “Were those bastards in Kazakhstan cleaned out?” “Yes, those who survived the explosion were arrested by two other time policemen, tried, and mind-wiped. They are now leading productive lives in their country. I should also say that the country is on the way to becoming a democracy.” Joy wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “What happened to Carla and Hadad?” “They were tried, found guilty, and mind-wiped of memories related to their crimes. Hadad is unmarried and has opened a Middle

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Eastern restaurant in San Francisco. Carla has remained in Kazakhstan and has married a professor of American and European studies at the University of Kazakhstan. She teaches martial arts and is preparing to compete in the Olympics. Martial arts have . . . will have been part of the Olympics for forty years. “I’m sure she will win the gold medal,” Joy said, trying to smile through her tears. “I have two more holos.” Jomo handed one to Joy. It was a picture of Jill in her old dress, smiling. Joy pressed the little button on the frame. Jill’s smile broadened, and she blew them a kiss. “Thanks for sharing some of your great life with me,” she said. “I will always remember our few hours together. I love you both.” Jomo waited through more of their tears. “The final holo is for Hands,” he said, and showed it to them. It was a picture of a smiling Jill, similar to the one they’d just seen. “The message is personal and the button on the frame will only respond to Hands’ fingerprint. Giving it to him comes later.” Jomo “Now.” Jomo shook himself, relieved to be past the grief, and looked at Joy. “The United Democracies has considered your request, and in honor of the life we all owe to you and John, it has been granted, with certain limitations.” Joy suddenly smiled through her tears. “It has?” “Yes. Our chronologists were insistent that you cannot visit your mother or godmother until they are on their deathbeds. The reason is that the future of our time would be altered in unknown ways—a new unknown universe would be created—if you contacted them when they still were active. They are important people carrying out very influential scientific and commercial activities. Were you to make your success known to them while they could make important decisions, those decisions would probably be different than if they were to remain ignorant of your success. And that would change our future. You understand?” “Yes.” “Do you still want to communicate with your mother and godmother when they are soon to die?” “Yes. Yes. Oh, yes!” John added, “They would die that much happier.”

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Jomo continued. “The communication has to be all verbal. You cannot give to them or leave for them any documents, or anything else that would tie into the past or future.” Joy was barely able to whisper, “Can I touch and kiss her?” “No problem with that.” John asked, “But what about my Remembrance and Hands’ biography that will be published in the future? They are documents. Don’t they change the future?” “Those have become part of my universe; they played a role in furthering freedom. Any document that Joy might leave in the time of her mother might change my world, and we don’t know whether it would be for the better.” Jomo pointed to his case. “Okay, I have a time travel resonator here. This is what we have to do. First, I will take Joy into the hospital room where her mother is dying of an advanced disease that doctors of the time can’t diagnose. We now know it was a mutated form of cystic fibrosis for which my age has developed a cure. Two years later, your godmother Gu will be close to death from complications incurred in a difficult heart disease operation. Neither will survive for long after you see them.” Jomo hesitated and asked with compassion, “Is this all right with you?” Joy had stopped her tears, and with an uplifted chin she replied firmly, “Yes. Can I take John with me?” “No. We could not overcome one problem in time travel. All human beings have an aura surrounding their body with a diameter of at most thirteen feet. This field is too weak to interfere with one person traveling in time. The combined fields of two people are still within the tolerance of our resonators, and as you experienced, doable. Three or more people can time travel, but their combined fields are beyond this tolerance and interfere with the space-time coordinates. Three time travelers could end up inside the earth or within a mountain, or in the air, miles above the surface. We cannot risk that. Thus, where Kazakhstan would have liked to send a well-equipped force into the past to Islamatize the world, they were limited to two well-trained, well-armed people.” John asked, “Why didn’t they send back people at different times?” “Fortunately, they miscalculated the power surge involved, and the resulting explosion and fire destroyed their time travel equipment and documentation. We caught them before they could rebuild.”

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“Ah, why didn’t you time travel back to stop them from sending Carla and Hadad to 1906?” “My universe is the causal consequence of what Kazakhstan did and all the events flowing from it to the time I left for time travel here. Had we stopped their time travel, we would have created another universe with unknown consequences for democracy and peace. The action Jill took to stop their time travel ambition was contemporaneous, and thus, part of our universe.” John admitted, “I’m confused. Would not what Jill did when she was here cause time ripples, as you say, down to your future time? And even your being here now?” Jomo nodded. “True. Not only Jill, but also you, Joy and John, your three helpers, and Carla and Hadad have immensely changed the future that would have been. Just consider what you have done differently. You live in a different building and have moved from the hotel earlier than you would have. You have not set up your business in the warehouse, as you would have otherwise done. Two policemen have been killed, and so on. How all these changes will affect the future, we cannot say. You two might, for example, soon die in an automobile accident as a result—” “Yes, the way Joy drives,” John interjected with a little grin. “Or you might be killed in one of your first interventions. We cannot trust to what will happen, since your survival and interventions, as you would have carried them out, made my world.” Jomo pointed down to the machine near his foot. “This is the answer to that. When I activate the machine, it will reverse this new universe to the time-space coordinates our chronologists have already set in the machine, which is to your landing here at 2:51 a.m., Thursday, November 15, 1906. Simply put, this time machine will in effect cancel the last six days. This is why you need not worry about Jyying’s body or Little Ying’s broken legs.” Jomo looked directly at Joy. “After you speak with your mother and godmother, I will return you here fifteen minutes after you left for this time travel. Then I will start the machine to reset this new universe you have created back to the time your capsule arrived. These six days will, for you and this world, never have existed. “But it takes fourteen hours for the force to build up as of now, and this time is a function of the amount of the universe to be reset—the more time since your arrival, the more your new universe has expanded, and thus the longer it takes for the proper force to be created. The function is exponential.”

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He watched as Joy nodded and John frowned, then went on. “This explains why Jill felt hurried in finding and arresting Carla and Hadad. Once built up and triggered, the force acts so fast it’s like snapping your fingers, and you are reset back six days to when you arrive in your time machine. You will remember none of the last six days because none of it will have happened. Except, and our chronologists are still trying to determine why, you may have a feeling of déjà vu when you relive some events.” John scratched his head. “So when any of us has a déjà vu experience, we are remembering that from a reset universe?” “Yes.” Joy looked perplexed. “I don’t understand. More than two people can’t time travel, but you can send the new universe we created over the last six days back in time?” “It’s a vastly different and more expensive technology than time travel. It has seldom been used before, and it requires the approval of three-fourths of the members of the United Democracies.” Joy’s voice softened. “I won’t know that we were successful or that I contacted my mother.” “That’s right.” “But that won’t change that I talked to my mother before she died and told her about our success.” “For your mother and godmother, nothing will change. They will die remembering your visit with them.” “But I will never know they know of our success?” “I’m sorry, but that must be so.” “So I will go through my life in this age always regretting I could not tell her how we are, or about our successes.” “It must be so, Joy.” Joy sat back on the couch and nodded. “I’m happy anyway, as long as they know before they die that they and the Society didn’t fail. But,” and she leaned forward with a sudden realization, frowning, “I suppose, then, that we will never know about Jill. These holos of her and the one about her award will disappear from our possession when we are . . . reset?” “That’s right.” She crossed here arms. “There will be no Carla and Hadad?” “Yes, that’s what Jill achieved.” She hesitated, uncrossing her arms to rub her hand along her other arm as she studied her lap. Looking up suddenly, she asked softly, “And what about Jy-ying?”

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“She will appear as she did in the universe of 1906 without Carla and Hadad. Her appearance and the time waves she created are part of the universe in which the time police were created, and Jill and I were born.” Joy frowned, still struggling to get hold of the idea. “And Jy-ying and I will have no knowledge at first that we are one in the same person, but from different universes?” Jomo tried hard to keep the sadness out of his face, for he knew about the final battle between the two in another universe, just before Joy had found out that she and Jy-ying were the same person from different universes, and just after Jy-ying had been shot and mortally wounded by John. “That’s right,” Jomo said, succeeding in keeping his voice flat. “This will be a complete reset. Your minds will not know any more than they knew when you and Jy-ying first arrived in this time.” Joy nodded. “One last favor. I don’t know when John and I will die, but if possible, we want to be cremated and our ashes combined. We will have pictures of ourselves next to our burial urns, I’m sure. Can we give these holos to you just before we reset, and then have both of them placed along with our pictures next to our urns?” “I will have to get approval for that, but I’m sure that will only be a formality. Let me say yes.” John asked, “Can Joy and I take Jill’s holo to Hands before Joy goes to see her mother? I want to give Hands as much time as possible with the picture before his whole world is reset.” Jomo replied, “Yes. Take it to him and when you come back, I’ll be ready to take Joy to the future. Take your time. Do you mind if I look around the apartment? As you can imagine, to me this is all the far past. Your furniture alone is interesting, just for that reason.” As they rose, Joy said, “Thanks, Jomo. Feel free to look around.” John They went down the stairs, Joy limping along with the help of John. He saw Joy turn her head away from the black hole that was the entrance to the cellar, although he didn’t think she could close her senses to the acrid smell of smoke, or the intermittent whining of Little Ying. John pulled Joy close and kissed her on the cheek before he knocked on Hands’ door. It was opened by a red-eyed Hands, dressed only in his long underwear. Hands invited them in, then turned his back on Joy and put on his pants. He turned and looked with raised eyebrows at John.

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Holding out the holo, John said, “This is from Jill to you.” “Is she back?” Hands asked, his face lighting up as he looked quickly from John to Joy and back. Joy glanced at John. Looking back at Hands, she said, “No, Hands, duty calls and she couldn’t make it. But her colleague came in her place and brought this for you.” She took the picture from John and handed it to him. “The picture has a button in the upper right. When you press it, it activates a personal message. The message is keyed for you—we don’t know what it says, and don’t want to know.” Hands almost grabbed the holo out of Joy’s hands and held it up to look at it. His hands trembled as he activated the button. As he watched and listened, his face was gradually transformed until, by the end, he wore a happy grin. John took Joy’s hand and said, “We have to go. Our time visitor is waiting in our apartment, and we have a few more things to do.” John didn’t know whether Hands heard him, for he again had pressed the button to restart the holo. John patted Hands on the back without looking at the holo, and Joy squeezed his arm. They both left quietly and closed the door behind them.

Chapter 37 3:32 a.m. Friday, September 1, 2023 Joy

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he hospital room was dim, lit only by the vitals holomonitor and a small light shining from under the wall mount over the back of the bed, which also contained medical equipment, medical outlets and tubing, and electronic outlets. Tor was connected to an intravenous bottle and had two tubes entering her nostrils from below the hospital bed. She wheezed slightly as she breathed. Her hair was completely gray, and she looked cadaverous, her eyes dark and sunken, her skin wrinkled and almost transparent. Joy approached her and gathered her thin hand in both of hers. “Hello, Mom.” Tor slowly opened her eyes and tried to focus them on Joy. “What a nice dream,” she whispered. “I’m real, Mom. I’ve returned from the past.” “Is that really you, Joy?” “Yes, Mom. I’m really here.” Tor reached over with the arm that had the intravenous tube in it, and put her hand on top of Joy’s. “You are as I remember you, my beautiful daughter. You have not aged at all. But how could that be, if you are real?” “It’s been only six days since I left, Mom. But time travelers from the future of the new universe we will create contacted us, and told us how successful we will be. In the New Universe, Mom, we will have avoided both world wars, the Korean and Vietnam Wars, and many others. And we will have prevented all the major democides. No Stalin. No Hitler. No Mao. Especially, Mom, no Pol Pot. You and the Society will have succeeded. You saved hundreds of millions of lives. Because of our—your—success, the time travelers have brought me here to tell you that.” Tears flowed from the sides of Tor’s eyes. “You are back. How wonderful. We did it. I cannot believe we did it. I’m so happy at seeing you. I’m so happy that you told me. Kiss me, my daughter.” Barely holding back her own tears for the sake of her mother, Joy bent over and kissed her on the lips, on the cheeks, and on her wet eye-

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lids. She freed her hand and caressed her mother’s cheek with it. “I love you, Mom. I will never forget you, and all humanity thanks you for what you’ve done. If you hear a chattering in your ears, it is the thank you from the souls you and the Society saved.” “Have you seen your godmother Gu? She will be so happy to see you, and proud to know how successful you were.” “I will see her next.” “How is John?” “The limits of time travel prevented him from coming. He sends you his love, and thanks you with all his heart for what you have done. We deeply love each other, Mom. Next to your adopting me, he is the greatest thing that has happened in my life.” “So I chose well, did I?” “Yes, Mom, you did.” “Give him my love, will you?” Tor was clearly straining, and her monitor was flashing red. The nurse would rush in at any minute. “I must go, Mom. I can finally give you a decent good-bye.” Joy kissed her. “I love you. You will always be in my heart. I will never forget you. Sleep well, my dearest mother.” Tor tried to smile, and reached up to touch Joy’s face. “Have a good life, my dear daughter.” Joy turned and nodded to Jomo, and they shimmered and disappeared. Only her teardrops remained to fall on the side of the bed, just as the night nurse rushed into the room.

Epilogue Wednesday, November 13, 1906

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t was the fourth restaurant garbage can the little black and white dog tried, and this time he was fortunate. The lid was not on tight, and he managed to push it up and partly off the can by leaping at it with his paws. He jumped into the can and found rotten beef and old vegetables and a veal bone with meat on it. He started gobbling the beef first, leaving the bone to take with him. Suddenly, something distracted him, and he stopped eating to look around. It was dark in the alley, and he could see no reason for him to be disturbed. He stared up into the starry sky and saw what appeared to be a shooting star. For some strange reason, he wagged his tail vigorously before going back to eating.

aaa The jackhammer of sound blasted her mind. Jy-ying put her hands over her ears and moaned from the pain. She pressed her palms into her ears as hard as she could, but they had no effect. The sound beat her whole body and rattled her bones. She thought she was dying. It went on for hour-like minutes. Then, in an unbelievable instant, the sound ended. Jy-ying had a sudden falling sensation, and was jolted to her knees. Silence. Absolute silence, except for the beating of her heart. She leaned against the door, feeling helpless and deaf. She couldn’t think. Was she dying? As her senses returned, she had to be sure she was okay. She felt herself all over. She looked carefully at her hands in the dim capsule light, and pulled up her ordinary woman’s surplice and percale jumper suit to look at her legs. She was not, however, going to take off the uncomfortable pointed shoes and look at her feet. She swallowed a few times, made a couple of coughs, and spoke out loud: “God be praised. Thank you. I’m in one piece and apparently healthy. But did I make it?” She looked up at the digital reading: 3:18:02 p.m., November 13, 1906. “Success!” she exclaimed aloud. “The month is a little off, but that should not make any difference. Time to see the old world.”

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She opened the door of the time machine a crack to look out, and suddenly furrowed her brows. How strange. Feels as though I have gone through this before. Thursday, June 14, 1906 They finally did arrive in San Francisco, precisely as their scientists had calculated: November 14, 1906, 2:51 a.m. But at that moment, Joy did not know it and did not care. She was sobbing while John, who had squirmed around inside the cramped capsule, tried to comfort her. She’d had to desert her loving mother, knowing that she would never see her again and that her mother would never know whether she was successful in their mission. John hugged her, stroked her back, and waited until she cried it out. Joy finally sat up and asked whether they had arrived in the past. “Yes,” he replied, and then saw a locket on the floor, and recalled seeing Joy’s mother throw something into the capsule just before the door was slammed shut. He knew who it was for. Joy took the locket in both hands, held it to her heart for a moment, and then opened it. On one side was a smiling picture of Tor, sending a kiss with her hand. On the other side was a group picture of the Society members, with Tor in the middle, and Gu, Joy’s godmother from China, standing next to her. Joy kissed the pictures, closed the locket, and put its chain around her neck. She was ready. She and John took up their lanterns, and exited the time machine. After surveying their surroundings and seeing where their supply capsules were, John suggested that they should test their implanted communicators. But when they toggled them on, they heard a strange beeping. They followed the sound to a spot on the warehouse floor; it came from under the floorboards. While John waited there, Joy went to one of their supply capsules, punched in the proper code to unlock the door, turned off the self-destruct mechanism, and took out an axe. She carried it to John. He pried up the floorboards to reveal a small red capsule about the size of a hardcover book. Eyebrows raised, Joy looked from the small capsule to John. “You know, I have a feeling of déjà vu.” John rubbed his hand through his blond hair and stared at her for a moment. “Strange. Me too. But one thing we know for sure is that we’ve never done this before. Now, let’s see what we have here.”

Afterword

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he idea of a time machine, and even time travel, is moving out of disdained science fiction into that of respectable scientific theory and research. Just search the Internet using these terms, and you will find much scientific commentary and some mainline research on them. Now, look ahead a thousand years, or even ten thousand, or twenty thousand, and consider how advanced science, knowledge, and technology will be by then. Of course, we know nothing about what will be discovered or invented by then, no more than the ancient Romans could have imagined movies, television, or the computer. But we can surmise this: If scientists today can say that time travel can no longer be considered impossible; if indeed, some experiments have shown today a very limited, split-second, reversal of time, then is it not reasonable to assume that in the very far future scientists, with all the scientific advances, inventions, and technologies developed between now and then, will perfect time travel sufficiently to send a human being back in time? That is, if at all possible. If our far future does indeed entail time travel, then there may be amongst us time travelers like John and Joy, involved in making the world a more peaceful and freer place. Perhaps this might explain the sudden, in historical perspective, disappearance of monarchical tyrannies and dictatorships as the prevailing type of government, and the virtually inexplicably sudden appearance and growth of liberal (modern) democracies, with their emphasis on civil and political rights. Think of this. At he beginning of the twentieth century, just 104 years ago, there were no liberal democracies in the world. Almost universal was the historically standard monarchy, with a few electoral democracies, such as the United States, Great Britain, and France. I trust I do not need to remind Americans that in 1900, women could not vote, blacks were denied the vote in many states, and many other civil rights now taken for granted were then denied. Monarchs—caesars, caliphs, czars, emperors, kaisers, khans, kings, maharajahs, mikados, pashas, potentates, princes, queens, rajahs, shahs, and sultans—have ruled at least since the written word or ideograms were invented over eighty centuries ago. Now, in a few decades of just one century, monarchies have collapsed as a type of government, as though a granite mountain just disappeared, and what took their place was fascism, communism, and democracy. And in historical time, in

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the breath of more decades of the same century, fascism and communism were defeated both as ideas and in practice by democracy. By the end of the century there were about 120 democracies, about 86 of them liberal. This takeover of half the world by democracies, and the rise and fall of fascism and communism, has all happened with the historical speed of a bullet. Let me propose an idea, something for fun, for conjecture, and not as a truth, a probability, or even a theory. Maybe there are time travelers like John and Joy among us, promoting democracy. This would explain the inexplicable, historical speed with which monarchies collapsed and democracies have taken their place. Maybe, also, there are time travelers like Hadad and Carla who would fight to impose an Islamic fascism on the world, and this could explain the sudden growth of an anti-infidel, violent pan-national, Islamic fascism with which an American led coalition is now at war. Maybe also there are time police—Jills and Jomos—who are protecting us and the future from such time travelers who would return us to the horrors of totalitarian rule by monarchs, communists, or fascists of all flavors. Maybe. But we won’t know. Will we? R.J. Rummel Professor Emeritus [email protected] http://www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/

Praise for books by Nobel Peace Prize finalist

R. J. Rummel "26th in a Random House poll on the best nonfiction book of the 20th Century" Random House (Modern Library) “. . . the most important . . . in the history of international relations.” John Norton Moore Professor of Law and Director, Center for National Security Law, former Chairman of the Board of Directors of the U. S. Institute of Peace “. . . among the most exciting . . . in years.” Jim Powell “. . . most comprehensive . . . I have ever encountered . . . illuminating . . . .” Storm Russell “One more home run . . . .” Bruce Russett, Professor of International Relations “. . . has profoundly affected my political and social views.” Lurner B Williams “. . . truly brilliant . . . ought to be mandatory reading.” Robert F. Turner, Professor of Law, former President of U.S. Institute of Peace ". . . highly recommend . . . ." Cutting Edge “We all walk a little taller by climbing on the shoulders of Rummel’s work.” Irving Louis Horowitz, Professor Of Sociology. ". . . everyone in leadership should read and understand . . . ." DivinePrinciple.com “. . .exciting . . . pushes aside all the theories, propaganda, and wishful thinking . . . .” www.alphane.com “. . . world's foremost authority on the phenomenon of ‘democide.’” American Opinion Publishing “. . . excellent . . . .” Brian Carnell “. . . bound to be become a standard work . . . .” James Lee Ray, Professor of Political Science

“. . . major intellectual accomplishment . . .will be cited far into the next century” Jack Vincent, Professor of Political Science.” “. . . most important . . . required reading . . . .” thewizardofuz (Amazon.com) “. . . valuable perspective . . . .” R.W. Rasband “ . . . offers a desperately needed perspective . . . .” Andrew Johnstone “. . . eloquent . . . very important . . . .” Doug Vaughn “. . . should be required reading . . .shocking and sobering . . . .” Sugi Sorensen

NEVER AGAIN Book 4

Red Terror

NEVER AGAIN R.J. RUMMEL

Llumina Press

Copyright © 2004 Rudy Rummel All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher. Requests for permission to make copies of any part of this work should be mailed to Permissions Department, Llumina Press, PO Box 772246, Coral Springs, FL 330772246 ISBN: 1-59526-209-1 Printed in the United States of America by Llumina Press Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Rummel, R. J. (Rudolph J.), 1932Red terror : never again / R.J. Rummel. p. cm. ISBN 1-59526-209-1 (alk. paper) -- ISBN 1-59526-208-3 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Genocide--Fiction. I. Title. PS3568.U447R43 2004 813'.6--dc22 2004017435

Relevant books by R.J. Rummel

Understanding Conflict and War (five volumes) Lethal Politics: Soviet Genocide and Mass Murder since 1917 China’s Bloody Century: Genocide and Mass Murder since 1900 Democide: Nazi Genocide and Mass Murder Death By Government Power Kills: Democracy as a Method of Nonviolence Saving Lives, Enriching Life: Freedom as a Right and a Moral Good (online book) Never Again Series (Alternative History) War and Democide Never Again Nuclear Holocaust Never Again Reset Never Again Red Terror Never Again Genocide Never Again (forthcoming) Ending War, Democide, & Famine: The Solution That Is Democratic Freedom (forthcoming nonfiction supplement to the Never Again Series)

“Tell me, what do you think of Marxism?” “It’s evil!” “Evil? When so many noted Western intellectuals believe in it; when it is so widely and favorably taught in American classrooms? “Yes, what else do you call an ideology whose followers have murdered 110,000,000 people, over three times more than have died in combat in all the domestic and foreign wars of the 20th Century, and starved to death tens of millions more? It is a death machine.” “Then why so many believers?” “Ignorance, self-righteousness, an absolutist mind set, but mainly the lust for power.”

Acknowledgements Again, I owe many thanks to the thorough evaluation, many helpful suggestions, and careful editing of Marg Gilks. I continue to be indebted to the many visitors to my website at www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/ who commented on or questioned the material there. They often had an impact on this series. And foremost, always, is my wife Grace. She made this series and this novel possible. Without her, I could not have written it. Another kiss, sweetheart. To be sure, this is a book of fiction. Although some characters may in name and position bear a striking resemblance to historical figures, they are fictional. Nonetheless, I must say again that whatever errors of fictional facts exist are mine, and wholly mine.

Chapter 1 October 25, 1903 Novaya Uda village, near Irkutsk, Siberia

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e knew the rats would start eating at his face soon. The darkness almost hid them, but he could see their black bodies circling, their eyes reflecting what little light there was. They were sniffing the air, ready to brave the human smell mixed with that of the pork fat smeared on his face. He hung from a rafter by a rope tied to his feet, his hands tied behind him, and his head hovering an inch from the straw-covered dirt floor of the stable. He could only wait in a shivering cold sweat, his heart thudding violently, his stomach knotted in anticipation of what would soon come: a rat would move in, the rest of the rats would follow, the excruciating pain would start, and he would take too long to die. Again and again, he had swung his body and shook his head to scare the rats away. But he had been doing that for hours, and now he was so exhausted that he could only squirm and nod his head. The rats moved closer. He tried to scream, but the greasy rag tied into his mouth by a rope looped around his head turned it into a muffled screech. Nobody would hear him. Nobody would pass by the stable. Not at this time of night. Everything had gone so well. He had been exiled here by the Okhrana, the feared Czarist secret police, but only to mislead his fellow revolutionaries. He was an Okhrana agent provocateur, but he also secretly worked for the revolutionary overthrow of the Czar, was a member of a criminal gang involved in armed robberies, and conspired to murder associates. His principles were simple: what profited him was right. He heard the rats shuffling closer over the straw. Frantically, his mind tried to deny what his ears and bulging eyes told him. This could not be. When he had arrived at Novaya Uda under guard, a telegram from the Kutais Okhrana had soon arrived at Irkutsk, supporting him: I.V. Dzhugashvili plans to leave. Do not stop him. Render assistance. A telegram bearing a description of him had soon followed: Iosif Vissarionov Dzhugashvili. Age: 23. Appearance: ordinary. Height: 5 feet, 4 inches. Build: medium. Hair: dark brown. Beard

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and mustache: brown. Nose: straight and long. Forehead: straight and low. Face: long, swarthy, and pockmarked. Second and third toes on left foot fused together. Nickname: Riaboy. A rat the size of a cat, its eyes like reflective marbles, sniffed at his nose. He jerked his head toward it and it backed off. Fear triggered his bladder to empty again; he felt his urine soaking into the crotch and waist of his long underwear. Yesterday the local Okhrana had given him a document identifying him as an Okhrana agent so that he could return to Batum, the Black Sea port near Turkey from which he had been exiled. Last night, as he’d been returning from celebrating with the Okhrana Captain Ivan Rykov, a man stopped him on the road. and said, “A local social democrat wants to have a secret talk with you before you leave.” The man was dressed as a peasant, looked weathered and wrinkled like a peasant, and spoke Russian with a terrible accent, like a foreigner who had been exiled here some time ago. He led Riaboy here, but there was no one waiting. Hooy na ya—no fucking way. Riaboy’s thoughts raced, incoherent, as panic encroached from the fringes of his mind. I could have killed him with one hand. Pizdoon—fucking liar. How could the zasranee do this to me? How could the svolock— He’d fought. But the man was too strong. “Why? What did I do?” Riaboy had yelled. The stranger’s green eyes regarded him. “Chto poseesh’, to i pozhniosh’. Chto poseesh’,” he’d grunted. “As you sow, so shall you reap.” Then he moved off to watch from at a distance. The big rat was back, along with a companion. Riaboy could barely move his head. Terror gripped him. He felt slippery wetness in the crack of his ass—he’d crapped in his underwear. His mind finally collapsed into hysteria, and frothy saliva blew out of his nose. Only one thought remained: WHY? Why? Why? wh . . . The man who in later years would have been known as Joseph Stalin gurgled and moaned. His whole body seemed to jitter in anticipation. The large rat hesitated, then bit at his cheek. The stab of hot pain tore through him, convulsing his muscles, triggering a strangled howl. The other rats moved in; another stab of pain was followed by another, and another, for the rest of his life.

Chapter 2 January 25, 2002 Silicon Valley headquarters, Survivors’ Benevolent Society John Banks

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ohn’s upper right arm still pained him, but so did his hip and left leg, although only with an aching throb. He massaged the arm while listening to another revision of the plan for his and Joy’s intervention sometime in the early years of the twentieth century. Their mission: to prevent the century’s vast, killing wars and even more murderous democides, and to foster democratic peace. There was really nothing new in the presentation, and his mind wandered back to his latest injuries and bruises from the morning’s training session. Damn, he thought, Joy is getting rough. She won’t be happy until she breaks one of my bones. Joy, the gorgeous young woman sitting next to him, was not only his partner in this mission, but his sensei in karate and judo. During that morning’s session, she’d been teaching him the twisting hip throw of an attacker, illustrated, of course, by throwing him a million times. In one of them, he had twisted awkwardly in the air and wrenched his arm as he landed. In spite of the pain, he remembered with some pride that he still had rolled up and into the appropriate ready stance. Then he had yelled at her, “You won’t be satisfied until you injure me, and then I’ll have to forget I’m a gentleman.” He recalled her response and what followed with a mental smile. She had tilted her head, crossed her arms, and instructed, “In martial arts, John, no pain, no gain.” “Yeah,” he had responded, “but, a gain, and a gain? I thought our mission was to change history so it would never happen a gain.” She frowned, then grinned, but only a second before launching a swing kick at his right side, which he had to block with his bad arm. He had gritted his teeth, hardened his face against the pain, and shouted, “You did that on purpose.” She nodded, but then put her hands on her hips and regarded him with eyes that reflected her deep concern for him, almost worry. “Of

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course. And so will your enemy. During our mission, you may have to fight assassins or ordinary thugs out to kill you. They will show you no mercy. If you are injured, you not only protect your injury, you use it. You know what your enemy is going to do next. He is going to attack the weakness in your defense caused by that injury. So, use that information to block and counterattack or, better yet, no matter the pain, fire off a series of attacks, ending in the death blow.” No sooner had she finished than she launched another swinging kick to his right side, but this time he jerked back a step, made a left arm swing block to her kick that forced her leg past his body, and then kicked inside the knee of her supporting leg. As she went down, she grabbed his uwagi—karate shirt—and used his weight to twist him around and under her so she could land on top when they both hit the mat. He knew she had a million ways to kill him at that point, but he was so happy to have finally bested one move of hers that it made this day. And, unbelievably, drill sergeant Joy had complimented his growing skill: “Good, quick response, John.” But then she continued with, “Now, this is how you should have followed that up,” and she proceeded to show him. More bruises. When his name was mentioned, John refocused on what one of the Society’s historians, Laline Fernández García, was saying. “. . . you are also a historian, and this period is your specialty. So I’m putting this more as a question. In this latest version, we think that 1902 would be the best year downtime for you to arrive. I’m particularly concerned with preventing Trotsky’s abortive Russian Revolution in 1905. It led to the successful coup in 1917 by the Lenin-led Bolsheviks, and the seventy-five years of communist rule that caused so many wars and cost so many lives. Preventing the 1917 takeover is one of your prime objectives, right up there with preventing World Wars I and II. What do you think, John?” John let go of his arm and rubbed the back of his neck. He appreciated Laline’s intelligence and grasp of history, and had engaged in several long conversations with her about Castro’s tyrannical communist rule over Cuba, a regime she had escaped. Both her parents had been pro-democracy dissidents who were arrested and tortured when she was a teenager. They’d died in prison—or were killed—within a year. She had been hidden by her apolitical “boyfriend” for favors. She had discovered other dissidents, and soon after learned that they were

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planning to flee to the United States in a homemade sailboat. She pleaded to be included. For more favors, she was. The weather favored them, Cuban reconnaissance fighter planes never spotted them, the American Coast Guard missed them, and they reached Florida safely. The anti-Castro community adopted her, and eventually she learned English, completed high school, went on to Princeton University, and worked her way through graduate school. Throughout, she was dedicated to one mission: to rid the world of such tyrants as Castro and to promote democracy in Cuba and elsewhere. She majored in history, for she saw an understanding of history as the means to realistically promoting democracy. She reveled in her freedom of expression, and became well known through her pro-democracy activism on campus, and her commentaries that appeared in the local press. When Laline became known to Joy’s adoptive mother Tor through university contacts, Tor invited her to join the Society. And here she was. John scrunched up his face and complained, “I’m finding it hard to think through the incredible pain that Joy inflicted on me today, as she does everyday, but I’ll try. She hates men, you know. Jealous of their natural male abilities.” Joy jerked around in her seat to stare at him with raised eyebrows, and then must have seen the dimples forming at the edges of his mouth. She grinned, and waved at him while looking at Laline. “Poor thing.” Laline smiled in return, then looked back at John. “No pain, no gain.” John was about to open his mouth when Joy stole his response. “Yes, even though our mission is . . . never a gain.” She sat back with a smirk. Everyone around the table chuckled. John glowered at her for a moment, shook his finger at her in the way she hated, and then finally turned to the question. “Well, I know the 1905 attempted Russian revolution is of great political significance to historians. Many believe it provided the lessons and created the conditions for the successful 1917 Bolshevik coup. The Bolsheviks certainly did learn much from their having been so close to victory then. But, I think 1905 also taught the monarchists and conservatives a lesson, and their move away from absolute rule, their granting of more power to a Duma, and their acceptance of elections, although limited, will make it easier for us to prevent the 1917 coup and promote Russian democracy. “Second.” He held up two fingers. Martial arts was Joy’s thing; these minilectures were his, and he hid a smile as he dropped into his

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lecture tone. “If we somehow prevent the major events that led to the abortive 1905 Revolution, that surely will change the history of Russia and perhaps Europe. That means the chronology we will take back in time with us will be voided. We will be flying in the dark when trying to prevent World War I and the 1917 coup. It may even make our mission deadlier than it is already. “Third, arriving in 1903 would not give us enough preparation time to set up contacts and our new export and import company offices in Russia, Poland, and Germany, the three most relevant locales. We would need at least five years, but if we arrive in 1900, for example, we would be getting pretty old to prevent World War II in 1939, or even the Japanese invasion of China in 1937. “Fourth.” John waved four fingers at Joy—one finger was bad enough, four fingers was a capital offense. The others looked on in amusement. They were well accustomed to the banter between the two, especially since the Society’s engineers had mistakenly left their tap on Joy and John’s subcutaneous intercommunication devices, and the overheard intimate conversations and joking exchanges became hot gossip at the water cooler. When Tor had gently hinted to them that their bedroom chatter was being overheard, John told Joy later, “Oh, I can’t stand it that all the women here must so envy you my . . . ah, attention.” A long sigh. “Very distracting. From our mission and training, you know.” Joy had thrown a pillow at him. “Can’t stand it, eh? Keep that up, mister, and the next time it stands I’ll whack it with a karate chop. Then you won’t be able to stand it. Ever.” “Jeez, baby, I can’t believe you would so deprive yourself of my Society-renowned . . . attention.” She pushed him off the bed with her foot. Tor later consulted two of the Society’s psychologists about their banter and personal jokes. Some in the Society thought it showed that they unconsciously hated each other—not good for the mission. But the psychologists thought this behavior was a healthy bridge between their disparate backgrounds, skills, and cultures—Joy was a SinoVietnamese orphan raised by Tor, a Cambodian refugee, and a warrior trained to kill since the age of four. John was a typical lower middle class, Midwestern Euro-American, a near pacifist, and a first year professor of history when, he claimed, Joy had vamped him into volunteering for the mission.

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Moreover, once sent back in time, they could never return. Although no one ever mentioned it to Joy or John, or to Joy’s mother Tor, most in the Society thought their chances of survival into middle age was less than 10 percent. They would be fighting against powerful dictators who controlled vast armies and secret police, using modern weapons, billions of dollars in funds, and an ability to forecast events through the precise chronology they would take with them. They would have tremendous power, and their humor, especially the banter, would enable them to put their power in perspective, and help relieve the unhealthy tension and stress that they must now live with, perhaps for the rest of their lives. “Fourth,” John repeated, in case his four fingers were not enough, “since we’ve settled on San Francisco as our operating base where you will send our supplies—” One of the Society members interrupted. “We’re just about to do that. Just in case an emergency necessitates a sudden escape downtime." John nodded, then resumed. “If we arrive in 1903, we will be endangered by the great earthquake and fire of April, 1906. Although we will know it’s coming, we cannot know all the details and danger spots, and we might well be injured or killed. Finally—” Joy looked up at the ceiling and muttered, “Thank God.” “—I’m sorry to say that, while in 1906 the great feminine revolution in dress is just beginning, dress in 1903 is still adamantly Victorian.” He hesitated for effect, and shot a quick glance at Joy. Her eyes were wide and her lips were slightly parted as she listened. He had her. He dropped the bomb. “Joy would have to wear a corset. Only whores would be seen without one.” Joy didn’t even take a breath. “Never. I would be boiled in oil first.” Laline held up her hand toward Joy to stop whatever more was on her lips, and looked at John with a little grin. “Very persuasive, especially point five.” She held up five fingers. “I think we all will agree that 1906, after the destruction from the fire and earthquake has settled, will be the best time for you to start your mission.” “Ah shucks,” John said, “I wanted to see Joy in a corset and bustle.” With a huge smile so no one would misunderstand, Joy yelled, “I wanna new partner!”

Chapter 3 November 13, 1906 San Francisco Captain Khoo Jy-ying

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he jackhammer of sound blasted her mind and Jy-ying put her hands over her ears and moaned from the pain. She thought she was dying. In an instant, the sound ended, Jy-ying had a sudden falling sensation, and was jolted to her knees. She couldn’t think. Maybe she was dying. As her senses returned, she checked herself all over to be sure she was okay. She finally murmured, “Allah akbar—God is great. Thank you. I’m in one piece and apparently healthy. But, did I make it?” She looked up at the digital reading: 3:22:04 p.m. November 13, 1906. “Success!” she exclaimed. “The month is a little off, but that should not make any difference. Time to see the old world.” She took out her Taiyang .38 caliber semi-automatic, clicked the safety off and, holding it at the ready, she opened the door a crack. She opened it wider and wider, then suddenly furrowed her brows. How strange. Feels as though I have gone through this before. She shook her head at that impossibility. She saw nothing dangerous outside the door, no more than the empty factory she was supposed to land in, and her equipment capsule resting near one wall. She stepped quickly out and swung around, holding her gun before her with two hands, just in case, as she scanned the factory floor. She was alone. With a relieved sigh, she reentered the time machine and reholstered her gun in her purse. The checked gingham jumper she wore didn’t provide enough warmth against the chilly, damp air. She opened her suitcase of clothes and essentials and donned a fur-lined cape for warmth and a relatively flat hat with Japanese satin braid and fancy cloth drapery—the only hat that the project scientists showed her for her first day wear that she did not wave away with a laugh. The suitcase would get her by until she found a place to stay, then she could get whatever she needed from her

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equipment capsule or buy it with the wealth of gold, counterfeit money, and jewels that the supply capsule contained. If she couldn’t get to the capsule, there was a fortune in the double bottom of the case. Picking up the purse and suitcase, she stepped out of the machine and walked toward the exit. Peking 2001, New Universe Imam Ch’en Hsu The message from Imam Abdul-Raouf, the chief advisor to the mayor of San Francisco, said they found what Imam Ch’en Hsu was looking for in the archives of the San Francisco Fire Department. It had been evidence in the arson investigation of an apartment house partially destroyed by fire in 1938. He scanned the Chinese translation with increasing excitement. There were many gaps where pages of the original were scorched and charred, and an unknown number of final pages were burned away, but nevertheless, he could not believe the information it contained. He went back through it, underlining the important details: The time travelers were the Americans John Banks and ethnic SinoVietnamese Joy Phim. They landed in San Francisco on November 14, 1906, and created the successful Tor Import and Export Company. Ch’en also noted the dates for their travel to Mexico, China, Japan, and Europe for their interventions in the wars and democides in those countries. The document even mentioned that John Banks had set up the Joy Phim Democratic Peace Institute, of which the Institute in Santa Barbara had been an affiliate. The members of the godless affiliate had blown it up after sending a message back in time to Banks and Phim about Abul Sabah—God’s Prophet, and the Islamic ruler of Middle Asia and China—and the nuclear destruction of the democracies perpetrated by his son, but attributed to him. The result was a world victory for Sabah’s version of Islam. Now we got them. For sure, Banks and Phim are the time travelers who received the message. And the message they received could only say one thing: kill the Prophet Sabah as a child, well before he begins his glorious, God-directed rise in power.

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Ch’en put through an urgent call to Shu Kuo. When Shu answered, Ch’en asked without preamble, “Can we contact Khoo Jy-ying right away?” Shu Kuo hesitated, and when he finally responded, he sounded surprised that the Imam would ask this after he had seen her time machine disappear on its way to 1906. “No. She is still on her way, or has arrived in the past.” “I want to send a document to her immediately.” “I do not understand.” “This document will contain new information that will make it easy for her to find the American time travelers and execute them before they assassinate Sabah. I want you and Chief Scientist Liu to prepare a time capsule to carry back this document to Khoo. I do not care how you do it; I do not care about the expense; you need not hurry. But I want to make sure she gets this message.” After Shu Kuo assured him they would start on the assignment immediately, he hung up. He held the original of what its author, Banks, called his Remembrance. It was overtly revolutionary, Satanic, and anti-Sabah. It was too dangerous for anyone to read, other than a high Imam, who was armored against its lies. It exulted in a counter theology, that of infantile freedom. Ch’en knew what he had to do. After he personally made a copy to send to Khoo, he took the original and the translation home with him late that evening. He turned on the floodlight on his patio, carried the documents to his little garden off the patio, and dug a deep hole among his prized hamamelis. He slowly tore the pages of both documents into small pieces. “I have just saved the Sabah faith, the word of God,” he told himself as he stuffed the pieces into the hole. He covered the hole with soil and mulch and watered the mound. Tianjin, China Director Shu Kuo Shu Kuo watched the final preparations for sending the document to Khoo Jy-ying. They were giving the buzzer its last test. He read English and had scanned the document. It detailed where John Banks and Joy Phim were staying in San Francisco, their major interventions in-

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cluding with whom they met, and other activities up to their death. With this information, she would have no difficulty finding, ambushing, and killing them. Liu motioned him over and said, “All the space-time coordinates are now set, and have been triple checked. We have clearance to heavily draw on Tianjin’s electrical power. Anytime you are ready, we can send it off.” Shu Kuo walked over to the little red metal container, punched in the code—which was the same as that of Jy-ying’s equipment capsule, so she would know it—and inserted the plastic-sealed document. Hiding the open container with his body, he also put on top of the document a personal message from him, telling her how much he missed her and concluding with I can only hope now that we will meet in Paradise. Have a long life, Jy-ying, and I applaud with a kiss what I know will be your success. God surely will be with you. He closed the capsule and returned to stand next to Liu at the large control console. “Send it downtime,” Shu ordered. He watched through protective windows as the massive laser beams impacted against the red container. It seemed to shrivel, turned hazy, became only a dusty outline, and then disappeared into its time-space wormhole. Jy-ying As she left the time machine and started toward the exit, Jy-ying noticed a loud buzzing again. When she’d first exited the machine, she thought the buzzing came from the street. Now she realized it was nearby, emitted by a red metal container about an inch or so away from the rear of the machine. She walked over to it, and saw her name written in Chinese on all its visible sides. Eyebrows raised, she stood stock still. This cannot be, she thought. I came from 2001. This is 1906. No one knew I was coming—no one could possibly know. She bent over and took a closer look at the container. Ah, she realized, it must have been send to me from uptime. She put down her suitcase and picked up the red container. It wasn’t heavy. She moved it around in her hands, looking for an opening. She saw the lid and tried to raise it, but it seemed locked.

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She returned to the time machine, turned the light on inside, and pulled down its little seat from the wall. Holding the container on her lap, she could see a keypad on one side and below it in Chinese, Use capsule code. She keyed in the code and the lid loosened with a little click. She lifted the lid and saw a note on top of a sheaf of papers held together with a plastic clip. The note was from Kuo. She quickly put it aside. She knew she would miss his arms, and maybe shed some tears over the loss, but that was in the future. After all, she had just seen him an hour or so ago, before she was sent on this one-way mission to kill the time traveling assassin. She lifted out the clipped document, undid the clip, and started reading. She read about John Banks, an assistant professor of history, escaping death in the 9/11 Twin Towers collapse; his lecturing on democide; Joy Phim attending his class to check him out and, satisfied, inviting him to attend her mother’s party; and about the party itself, attended exclusively by members of the Survivors’ Benevolent Society, including Joy’s mother. She had invited him so that they could ask him to join Joy on a mission to prevent the wars and democides of history that had killed so many, and in which they had suffered and lost loved ones, and to promote democracy to ensure there would be no more wars and democide. Jy-ying paled, and read on. She learned that Joy was so desirable and John’s hatred of war so great that he finally decided to join her in this mission from which there would be no return, especially since she intimated they would have to be intimate; that once he accepted, Joy gave him intensive training in martial arts, particularly karate and judo, and in weapons; and about his constant arousal, and finally their lovemaking. She gasped when she read about the FBI SWAT team attack on the Society’s headquarters in search of a rumored time machine, and Joy’s hasty good-bye to her loving mother before she and John departed in the time machine; about their landing, and Joy’s tearful breakdown over the loss of her mother, forever. She read about their preparations for their interventions, and unconsciously put one hand over her mouth as she read about the intervention in Mexico, where Joy murdered four boys who tried to rape her—an event that would lead to her campaign to rid the streets of muggers and rapists—and the fight between Joy and John over it. She read about their intervention in China, where John saved Joy

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from death after a thrown knife he’d ducked lodged deep in her thigh, and about their various interventions in Europe; about their near breakup when John discovered Joy’s secret street campaign, and finally, about the middle-aged Joy’s attempt to assassinate the presidential candidate of the United States, who she claimed was a communist, only to be thwarted at the last second by John. Believing she had become too dangerous, he held a pillow over her face and, with her help, suffocated her to death. Jy-ying shook her head in disbelief. He had put their affairs in order, she read, as he wrote this Remembrance to help him remember their years together and express his love for her, and when he was finished, he put the Remembrance on his chest and waited in their bed to die in the fire he had set. Judging by the condition of the original document, as evidenced by the copy, he had been successful. She sat still long after she finished reading. She had not imagined in all her preparations for this trip that the time traveler would be two people. The scientists had assured her, since they could not do it themselves, that time travel by more than one person was impossible. And then . . . and then, for the time travelers to be lovers—lovers with such a love for humanity and peace as they saw it that they would sacrifice their lives to come to this godless, backward, uncivilized era . . . she could not help but respect them. And then to die so tragically! she thought. His killing his lover like that, and her helping him with her own strength to smother her. A warrior—she had to be. He could never have done it, otherwise. She let out a long sigh. This cannot be real life. But she knew it was. No such fiction would make it through the screening of Ch’en’s secret service. She stared unseeing out the machine’s door. She should be relieved, very happy. There would be only minimal searching, no serious investigation to uncover the time travelers. She knew they would arrive at 2:51 a.m. tomorrow; she knew they would buy the warehouse in which they landed and set up a new company, and on and on. There was absolutely no doubt she could find them and rid the world of them. And then, free of their danger, she could assist Sabah in his world movement and the eventual victory of Sabahism, without the worldwide nuclear holocaust his son unleashed on the democracies. Victory could come in peaceful ways.

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Yes, their lives were in her hands. Yes, she would kill even such lovers. She stiffened and raised her head. After all, they were heathens, godless, a deadly threat to Sabah. If she did not kill them, they would kill Sabah and her religion, and billions of people would be without God, their souls forever excluded from Paradise. I am a captain in the Sabah Security Guard. I took the Oath of Sabah when I was commissioned, and I must carry out the mission I volunteered for, that I maneuvered for, no matter how unsavory. She was not stupid. She realized she had just covered her disquiet with wet paper. I will do what I must, she thought, but without her strong pretime travel conviction. She frowned, compressed her lips tightly, and clipped the papers back together. She shoved the document and Kuo’s note, unread, back into the container. She removed from her purse the detailed map of 1906 San Francisco and the list of mid-range and better hotels that had been prepared for her. These hotels would provide her with a decent room until she was ready to play the Chinese Princess, move to a high-class hotel, and, so she had planned before reading the Remembrance, enter high society in search of the time traveler, who himself must have brought a fortune with him and be circulating among the rich and powerful. All now a thing of the past, she thought, not even smiling at the unconscious pun. Jy-ying looked down at the list of hotels, and first singled out the Little Palace Hotel on Leavenworth and Post Streets. She liked the name, and checked its address against the map. No, too far away from the factory in which she had landed, which was on De Haro Street, already marked with a red circle. She wanted a hotel within walking distance so that she had easy access to her supply capsules until she bought an automobile. She looked at the other hotels listed—the All Nations Hotel, the St. Francis Hotel Annex, The Nob Hill Hotel, and others. Her eyes came to rest on the sixth hotel on the list. She could not explain her intuition; it just felt as if it were the best mid-range choice. In fact, the more she concentrated on the hotel’s name and one-sentence description, the better it seemed. She checked its address on the map. It was on 16th Street, near the intersection with Rhode Island Street—only about two

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blocks away. That is where I will stay, she thought. Maybe that is where Joy and John will spend their first days, also. She grinned at the thought of what stupendous luck that would be. The document had given no information about where they would land tomorrow, so she could not . . . kill them when they emerged from their time machine. Nor did it say where they would stay during their first days here. Or during the year, for that matter. Of course, she would soon find them. But if she were so lucky as to be in the same hotel, how easy it would be to kill them. I could do so while they were asleep together—yes, I would kill them then, as I have been trained to do. It is what my country and my religion trusted me to do when they sent me here at great expense. She felt a sudden chill over killing them in each other’s arms, but squelched it again with the thought of the billions of lives that would be saved for Paradise by Sabah, were he to live because of what she— she—would do. She was trained as a member of the elite Sabah Security Guards, and she had been trained to kill. She knew she could do so if the killing was just, and what was more just than to secure humanity’s soul? She held onto that thought. It was better than wet paper. The killing would be just. Billions would be saved. She stood. Okay, I am ready again. Off I go to the old world. After turning off the time machine’s light, she put the container under one arm, picked up her suitcase, and walked to the factory exit. Before she got there she yelled back at the time machine, “It would be just.” She did not realize that she had dropped the categorical “will be” in favor of a conditional. As she passed a newspaper kiosk on a corner of De Haro and 16th Street, the violent cover on The Saturday Evening Post made her veer closer. Oh Sabah, it is impossible, she thought, staring aghast at the magazine wedged upright in a wire stand. That has to be fiction. She took a quick look inside the magazine while the gray-bearded old man in the kiosk stared at her. She had to read it as soon as possible. She opened her purse, took a quarter out of its coin pocket, and gave it to him. “Keep the change,” she said as she thrust the magazine under her arm next to the red container.

aaa

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“We do not rent rooms to Orientals.” The hotel clerk’s voice dripped arrogance as he regarded her from behind the reception desk. She had not expected that. Although she knew of the great prejudice against Orientals at this time in San Francisco, she had not considered that it might apply to her. Especially when renting a hotel room. Well, she could go elsewhere. She turned, about to head for one of the blue velvet easy chairs in the lobby to study her list of hotels, when something stopped her. What is it with me and this hotel? she wondered. With a mental shrug, she turned back to the clerk. She straightened her body, tilted her head back, and with haughty eyes, looked down her nose at the clerk. “You dare, little man, to deny a room to Princess Tz’u Li Poh? In China I would have you flayed, and when your skin was torn into ribbons, I would tie them into braids for my pleasure.” The clerk turned white and stepped back against the mail slots behind him. He looked at her with flashbulb eyes, gulped, and tried to swallow. Finally he stammered, “ Hotel . . . rule . . . . I would get . . . fired.” “Take me to your manager,” she commanded in an imperious voice. The clerk began to sweat—Jy-ying could smell his fear above the stink of the hotel lobby. “He’s gone,” he wailed, waving his hands as though she were attacking him. She looked down a short hallway to the left of the registration desk, and saw a door with Office painted on it. She picked up her suitcase and made for the door. “Hey, you can’t go there!” Ignoring the clerk’s cry, she turned the doorknob, pushed the office door open with her foot, and walked in. As she pushed it closed behind her, she overheard a male guest who had risen from one of the lobby’s Versailles chairs ask the clerk what had happened. The clerk was shaking and still sweating. “She demanded a room,” he croaked. “Can you believe it? The whore. She pretended she was a princess—with those common clothes she was wearing! The boss will kick her ass out or call the police. No worry.” Jy-ying smiled and closed the door on the scene as he pulled a rumpled handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his face with it. Twenty minutes later, Jy-ying emerged from the office with a plump, middle-aged man in a gray suit. He strode up to the desk clerk and announced with a wave of his thumb at Jy-ying, “She bought the hotel. She now owns it, and I am her manager.” He stood there, seemingly at a loss for more words as he stroked his graying beard.

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The clerk’s eyes grew large and his jaw dropped. Nearby, the curious male guest’s face assumed the same expression. The clerk finally cleared his throat and rasped, “She owns the hotel?” The new manager seemed to have a hard time nodding, but finally got his head to move up and down. Jy-ying came around the reception desk and told the clerk, “I want your very best room.” The clerk looked back at the new manager, held his two palms up, and shrugged as though asking, “What am I to do?” The manager hissed, “She owns the hotel,” and added, “idiot.” The clerk turned to the mail slots, took out the key to a third floor room, and dropped it on the counter in front of Jy-ying. She picked it up and, smiling, told her new manager, “We do not hire surly desk clerks. Give him one week’s notice. And his replacement better be free of this bias against Orientals, or I will hire a clerk from Chinatown.” As the manager’s eyes widened and he paled, Jy-ying pulled the hotel register over to her, wrote the date and her former address in Tianjin, China, and her name Khoo Jy-ying, all in Chinese. Pleased with her calligraphy, she headed for the stairs. There seemed to be no bellhop around. After getting settled in her room and using the bathroom at the end of the hall, Jy-ying reread the papers that had been sent to her, underlining crucial facts and writing marginal comments on the most important ones. Then she placed them next to the water pitcher and bowl on the chest of drawers. Puffing up the feather pillows on the bed, she lay down, picked up The Saturday Evening Post, and leafed to the cover article. She began to read. “No, I do not believe it,” came out involuntarily five minutes later. “This cannot be true,” soon followed. “Ta ma de—Oh, shit! What universe am I in? Did I get sent to the wrong one?” After finishing the article, she sat up and leafed back to the beginning to reread its high points. Then, deep in thought, she dropped it next to her, rested her head on both hands, and closed her eyes tightly. For many minutes, only her rapidly beating heart revealed she was alive. Finally she sat up and tossed the magazine at the papers on the chest, almost knocking over the pitcher. “Well, Shu Kuo and your brilliant scientists, where have you sent me? Huh?” She let out a deep sigh. “Everything is changed. Everything.”

Chapter 4 January 21, 1905 St. Petersburg Vladimir Knipovich

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he tall priest grabbed Vladimir Knipovich by the arm and nodded toward a quiet corner of the shop where they could not be overheard by the other printers. He led Knipovich there, then turned his back on the shop floor, put his finger to his lips, and whispered, “Father Gapon sent me to tell you about tomorrow’s attack on the emperor’s Winter Palace.” Knipovich was sure he hadn’t heard right—the priest had an awful Russian accent. He must be an outlander. Knipovich instinctively looked down on him. He raised his chin and patted the air with his inksmeared right hand. “Attack?” He raised his voice. “You can’t mean attack. I was told we were to demonstrate peacefully there, and back up Father Gapon’s petition to our great emperor with holy and patriotic signs and songs.” He quickly looked over the priest’s shoulder and lowered his voice. “This is only going to be a demonstration of our workers’ power. Yes?” Knipovich was head of St. Petersburg’s police-sanctioned Zubotov printer’s union, and a member of Gapon’s soberanie—The Assembly—as were almost all the workers here, now. The priest leaned close to Knipovich. “No,” he whispered. “We are getting enough rifles, pistols, and grenades for thousands, and a captain, a secret social democrat, promised that his artillery company will come over to our side and barrage the Imperial Guards if they interfere. More troops have promised to join when we show our commitment. We plan to take the Winter Palace and declare that St. Petersburg is ours and that Russia is a constitutional monarchy. We will win.” Knipovich stood paralyzed, gaping at the priest. “Are you sure?” he finally asked. “When will my union be armed?” “You must be patient,” the priest replied. “There are so many people—about two hundred thousand—that, even with all the arms we have, not everyone, nor even every union, will get them. If we do not

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have enough for you, be ready to take up the arms of the troops and police we shoot down.” He gripped Knipovich’s shoulder. “I must go now; I have many people to inform.” Automatically Knipovich blurted what he should have suppressed: “No, I will not do this. It is treason. I love the emperor.” The priest nodded and tightened his grip. “I know. We all do. But you must understand that we are saving him from the Jew social democrats and revolutionaries. They are getting ready to bring him down and declare a socialist state. Gapon, as you know, is only interested in reforms in working conditions, and national representation in a duly elected Duma. If we win, the emperor will still be our Loving Father; if we lose, if we are unwilling to be bloodied, the revolutionaries will win, and he may lose his head on a chopping block. You must understand what is at stake. Do you?” Now in control of his reaction, Knipovich nodded and filled his “Yes!” with enthusiasm. The priest released Knipovich. As he turned to go, his green eyes flashed, and he raised his fist. “Tomorrow, victory is ours!” Knipovich watched the priest hurry away. When he was sure that the priest could no longer see him over his shoulder, he let the smirk fill his face. All these years, all these risks as an agent provocateur for the Okhrana now will pay off. They will reward me well when I tell Major Fedotov what Gapon plans. He rushed for a different exit from the one the priest used. Prince and General Vasil’chikov Prince Vasil’chikov studied the details of his final disposition of the Guards, troops, and Cossacks for the upcoming mass petition in front of the emperor’s Winter Palace. His Highness was not about to let that kozel priest Gapon get away with threatening the palace and himself, even if the emperor was currently at Tzarskoje Selo. The Winter Palace symbolized too much for the Russian people to be sullied by Gapon and his stupid radical demands for, among other things, an eight-hour workday and an elected constituent assembly. These radical workers had to be shown the power of the czar in blood, if they refused to disperse when officially ordered to do so. He was just about to add to his written orders that his troops be given live ammunition and vodka in the evening when Grand Duke

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Vladimir, commander of the St. Petersburg military district and uncle of the emperor, opened Prince Vasil’chikov’s door without knocking. He strode across the office and around the prince’s desk, then leaned over him with his hands on his hips. His round face was red, and he was puffing hard. His eyes blazed as he tried to get his words out. “Do you know what that traitor Gapon plans for tomorrow?” he finally yelled. “He is arming his followers and they are going to attack the Winter Palace and proclaim a republic.” Spittle flew out of his mouth. “He was once one of our agents, but he has turned. He was supposed to lead a peaceful, patriotic demonstration.” Duke Vladimir took a deep breath and shouted, “You must stop them.” Prince Vasil’chikov stared, eyes wide. The normal hubbub in the outer office cut off as though guillotined. Only the heavy breathing of the duke broke the sudden silence. Vasil’chikov jumped to his feet, almost hitting the duke with his shoulder, and hurried to close his office door. He returned to stand in front of the duke and asked, trying to keep the his voice respectful, “Are you sure? Someone must be lying to you.” The duke took a step back and shook his head so vigorously, his upper body jerked with the movement. “No, no. The Okhrana has an agent near the top. He got personal word from one of Gapon’s priests, telling him about Gapon’s plans, and that thousands of arms are being handed out for the attack. The sosat’ has betrayed us.” The duke’s face turned even redder. He banged the desktop with a huge fist and shouted, “There’s a mutiny. Blin! A mutiny. One of the artillery companies is going over to the revolutionaries. You should shoot them all tonight.” “Which company?” “I don’t know. Does it matter? You can’t have that many artillery companies ready for action tomorrow. Shoot them all.” The duke rubbed his fist, then pointed a finger at Vasil’chikov. “You must stop this attack. I guarantee you, the emperor will support what you do, no matter the cost in blood. “The Okhrana will have agents with guns mixed among the revolutionaries. When the attack begins, they will shoot the leaders.” The duke held up his hand. “Do not worry about them. They know they risk being shot by your troops. They are all volunteers willing to die for the emperor. In case they miss Gapon, I want you to assign your best marksman to kill him.”

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Prince Vasil’chikov asked, “What about Police Director Lopukhin?” “I’m on my way to see him next.” Duke Vladimir stared at Vasil’chikov through narrowed eyes for several seconds, then nodded, turned abruptly, and marched to the door. He jerked it open against its stop. Vasil’chikov listened to the duke’s boots drumming through the still silent outer office until the duke slammed its outer door. He quickly closed his own office door and sat down at his desk. Brows furrowed, he tore up the orders he had written. He unlocked his desk drawer and took out ten sheets of sealed and embossed imperial paper. He thought for several seconds, then began to lay out the new troop depositions around the palace and on the approaching avenues for the Horse, Finnish Life, Preobrazhenskii, Chevalier, Pavlovskii, and Imperial Guards; and almost twenty-two battalions of infantry, twentythree squadrons of cavalry, and nearly nine hundred Cossacks. All told, he had about nine thousand infantry and thirty-nine hundred cavalry at his disposal, but even so, he worried whether they would be nearly enough against a hundred thousand or more raging civilians, many with weapons. He put one sheet aside. It was to contain his secret order to arrest the men making up his two companies of artillery. He would investigate their loyalty later. He was not going to execute them out of hand, and he was sure that Duke Vladimir would see the wisdom of that when he cooled down.

Chapter 5 Eight volleys from the Neva And the Ninth Tired, like glory This is— (From left and right Already running at a trot) This is— (In the distance they cry: We will yet avenge the massacre) This is the tearing apart Of the Joints Of oaths To the dynasty sworn. – Boris Pasternak, “1905” January 23, 1905 Geneva Lev Davydovich Bronstein

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team billowed around the locomotive as the snow-shrouded train from Munich slowed to a crawl and finally hissed to a stop in the Cornavin train station. Within seconds, passengers stepped down from the cars and streamed toward the concessions and the vast exit. No one knew—indeed, no one would believe—that the thin, clerkish-looking man among them, the one with goatee, wire rimmed glasses perched high on his Jewish nose and no hat to cover his mass of unruly black hair, would be the dictator of Russia within a year. He would lead the Red Army in a bloody civil war and become known as the Red Butcher. Clad in a long black coat, Bronstein, or Lvov as he called himself, lugged a large, beat-up suitcase in one hand and carried in the other several books with torn paper markers sticking out of their pages. He was exhausted. He was returning to Geneva after a hurried lecture tour, which had included an appearance in the great hall of the Polytechnic

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Institute in St. Petersburg weeks before, and had spent a sleepless night on the train. He soon had to stop to put the suitcase down and readjust the books in his hand. Nearby, a newsboy in knickers with a haversack of newspapers over his shoulder held up one and waved it at the crowd. “Révolution en Russie—Revolution in Russia,” he cried in French in a squeaky voice, and then repeated it in German. Heart beating fast, Lvov suddenly found the energy to lift the suitcase and hurry over to the paperboy. “Hold the paper still, will you,” he demanded. He then saw that it was dated the day before, and the energy went out of him like air from a pricked balloon. He bought a copy anyway, and sat on his suitcase to read the old news. Seven days ago, all thirteen thousand workers at the Putilov arms works went on strike; two days later, twenty-six thousand workers were out, and voted for radical political reforms, especially democracy; and just three days ago, 105,000 workers went on strike. What was new was that yesterday, just before the paper was published, 111,000 workers struck, and a huge demonstration of workers, soldiers, professionals, and businessmen led by Father Georgii Gapon was about to take place in front of the czar’s St. Petersburg Winter Palace. The headline exaggerated. This was the buildup to the revolution, but there was yet no spark to set it off. He hoped the troops guarding the palace would—had, since it already occurred—attack the demonstrators. Perhaps too much to hope for. Tired as he was, he decided to go right to the Bolshevik center in Geneva, which stood on the corner of the Rue de Carouge and the Arve embankment. There, the Bolshevik Vperyod—Forward editorial and dispatch offices, the Lepeshinskys’ Bolshevik restaurant, and the apartments of leading Russian emigrants and Bolsheviks were concentrated. When he reached the station exit on Rue du Mont-Blanc, there was only one taxi left, a victoria hitched to a swaybacked hack. Bronstein gave the driver the address; when he arrived he paid the driver, lugged out his suitcase and, carefully so they would not fall into the sludge, he pulled out his books. As he turned to enter the building’s portico, a strange man suddenly appeared at his side. “Here, let me help you with that,” the man said in barely understandable Russian. He grabbed the suitcase from Bronstein’s hand, mounted the stairs to the building, and put the case down on the cleared

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area under the portico. Then he turned to Bronstein, who had hurried after him. His deep-set eyes were wide and shining with admiration as he asked, “Just to be sure—you are Lev Davydovich Bronstein?” Bronstein tilted his head. Brows furrowed, he stared at the man. Assassinations by the Okhrana were occurring with frightening regularity, as were the assassinations of high officials by the revolutionaries. The man towered over him; as far as he could see, the strong-jawed stranger was heavyset, perhaps very muscular under his fur-trimmed coat. He looked about Bronstein’s age—mid-twenties. He had carried the heavy suitcase as though it were filled with feathers. But the devotion in his face was obvious—hardly the look of an assassin. Anyway, Bronstein reasoned, he was unarmed and there was nothing he could do now. He nervously answered, “Yes.” The man grabbed Bronstein’s left hand with both of his and shook it. “This is the happiest moment of my life. To meet you and help you achieve your revolutionary program has been my dream. Come, let us go to your favorite cafe and I will tell you what happened with Gapon’s demonstration in Saint Petersburg. It’s now called Bloody Sunday.” When Bronstein hesitated, he added, “I am rich; I want to bankroll your revolutionary success.” The man picked up the suitcase and started down the stairs. Still holding his books in one hand, Bronstein stared slack-jawed for several seconds, his other hand hovering over his chest. Finally he shook himself and rushed down the stairs to catch up with the stranger, who was already several yards down the concrete sidewalk. “Who are you?” Bronstein yelled at him. “A supporter,” he answered. “A believer.” A block away, they entered the émigré Café Landolt, where Bolsheviks gathered almost every evening. The stranger led the way to an empty table in the back, where the gas- and candlelight barely penetrated. It was stuffy, warm, and smoky inside the café; the man took off his black overcoat and threw it over a chair before seating himself. Bronstein did the same with his greatcoat and, dropping down on the chair across from the stranger, he blurted, “What happened in St. Petersburg?” A round tub of a man in a leather apron approached their table through the smoke, and Bronstein motioned for the stranger to wait until they gave their order. Once the waiter departed with their order for Kvass—imported Russian beer—Bronstein looked at the stranger and raised his eyebrows.

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“The revolution—the revolution is now!” the stranger exclaimed, raising two fists and shaking them. Bronstein listened carefully to what the stranger said next, ignoring the mispronunciations and filling in the broken Russian. “The czar’s troops around the Winter Palace and on its approaches lost their heads. It was a massacre. The demonstrators numbered about 140,000—mainly workers and their families, with a scattering of professionals and students. They had no weapons; they were told by Gapon’s organizers not even to carry a knife or brass knuckles. What they did carry was church banners, portraits of the czar, Russian flags, holy icons, signs with medals affixed to them, peace signs, and signs asserting faith in the czar mixed in with signs demanding a decent wage, eight-hour workday, land, freedom, and so on. The workers dressed in their Sunday best and made it a family affair, bringing along their wives and children. Nothing revolutionary.” “Yes, yes,” Bronstein commented, “we tried to organize them, but they would not listen to us. All they want is better working conditions and pay. They love the czar.” The stranger nodded. “Then you will not be surprised to hear that the workers not only refused to allow many revolutionaries to participate, they beat up some of them when they tried to pass out leaflets or shouted revolutionary slogans in the crowd. No matter. On the roads and bridges to the Winter Palace, troops blocked the way and opened fire when the workers refused to turn around.” Leaning forward on the table, unaware that his glasses had slipped down to the edge of his nose, Bronstein asked, “What troops? Fired? Where?” The stranger pulled several folded sheets that looked like telegrams from the inner pocket of his ill-fitting corduroy suit. He unfolded them and slid the candle close so he could read them. “Let’s see,” he said. “Oh, yes; I should point out that it was a bright, sunny, bitterly cold day—the temperature was about 5 degrees, the air was clear, good for shooting.” He picked up one sheet and held it close to the flame to read it. “When a mass of sixteen thousand demonstrators on the way to the Winter Palace tried to cross the bridge over the Obvodnyi Canal, they were blocked by an infantry unit and two hundred mounted Cossacks. An officer shouted that the crowd could not cross the bridge. After the workers refused to stop, the Cossacks attacked with whips and the flat of their sabers and used their horses to trample them. But the Cossacks

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only succeeded in creating temporary open spaces in the huge crowd, which continued to surge forward. Many workers in the front ranks pleaded that they were peaceful and only wanted to petition the czar. “As the crowd pressed toward the line of infantry, their commander gave the order to fire on them. A bugler sounded the signal, and the troops fired a volley directly into the crowd. Many in the front ranks collapsed, some screaming. Amidst the bodies, the crowd reformed, some yelling to others, ‘Do not betray us.’ Some opened their coats to bare their chests and shouted, ‘I will die for the emperor.’ They must have thought the troops were betraying the czar’s sympathy for his people. “Several more volleys were fired into the crowd, and the area in front of the bridge and the approach along Shlissel’burg embankment was filled with still bodies, pools of blood and swaths of red in the snow and on the ice, and crying, wailing, groaning, wounded men, women, and children. Some tried to crawl away. Some raised their heads or hands in pleas for help. Some yelled, ‘There is no God any longer’ and ‘There is no czar.’” The stranger picked up another paper, and lowered his voice to an incredulous whisper. “Another huge mass of workers on the way to the bridges over the Neva were blocked by soldiers. Some of the workers waved white handkerchiefs to show their peaceful intent. Worker representatives asked the commanding officer permission to pass, but he ordered mounted Cossacks to disperse the crowd with their whips and sabers. When that did not break up the crowd, he ordered his troops into firing position, but when the bugle sounded they refused to fire. So he used the Cossacks again . . . and again. Many more bodies; even more wounded.” Another paper. “A large mass of workers was led by Father Gapon. As it advanced along Peterhof Chausee, it appeared to be a celebratory religious procession, what with the many crosses and religious icons the crowd carried. They also held up a large banner that read, Soldiers! Do not shoot at the people. The crowd turned toward the Narva Arch and the bridge over the Tarakanovka River. It was blocked by a line of infantry. “As the tightly packed crowd of marchers approached, the infantry parted, and a squadron of Horse Grenadier Guards attacked them with sabers. Protected by the workers around him, Gapon yelled out, ‘Be brave. Forward, comrades! Freedom or death.’ Singing bravely, the crowd continued to move toward the bridge, and two companies of the

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Ninety-third Irkutsk Infantry Regiment. The bugle sounded ‘fire’ three separate times, but the troops would not obey. Finally, on the next order, the troops fired into the air. Demonstrators kept coming. When the crowd was almost upon them, the troops fired directly into the tightly packed mass of people. Screams and yells rang out as the bullets downed many in the front ranks. “Again, the bugle sounded. Another volley into the crowd. And the bugle again, and still another volley, and another and another and yet another, until both companies had emptied their box magazines. Dead and wounded lay everywhere, Gapon among them, with a hole in the back of his head.” The stranger’s hand shook as he picked up another paper, and a corner almost caught fire as he brought it close to the candle to read. “At the Troitskaia Square by the Peter Paul fortress, a different procession of workers was attacked by mounted ulans who ripped into the crowd with sabers. This crowd did flee, and dispersed into side streets. But later, another huge crowd, involving some of the same workers, approached Troitskaia Bridge. Arm in arm, they walked toward the three companies of Pavlovskii Guards blocking their way. When the crowd would not halt, the commanding officer ordered his infantry to attack them with fixed bayonets. The workers retreated and fled. More bodies; more gravely wounded.” Another paper. “A different crowd of workers, estimated at over twenty thousand—the largest of them all—later approached the same Troitskaia Square on their way to the palace. They also faced the line of the Pavlovskii Guards, with a company of Grenadier Guards held in reserve. A bugle sounded, and troops fired a volley into the crowd. “Bugle again. Another volley. “Bugle. Volley. And ulans charged into the fleeing crowd, their deadly sabers swinging mercilessly, their horses trampling the dead and wounded.” Bronstein felt his stomach constrict. He leaned out of his chair and put his hand on the pile of remaining papers before the stranger could pick up another. The dirty lenses of his eyeglasses spread the candle’s red flame across the telegrams like blood. His head ached. “What about the Palace Square?” he croaked. “Did any workers get there?” “Yes. Let me read the telegram.” Bronstein removed his hand and hunched far back in his chair. The stranger leafed through the papers and picked out one. He held it up to the flame, the shaking of his hand now evidently under control.

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“The square that fronted the green and white Winter Palace, the buildings of the Imperial Army General Staff, the Admiralty, and Royal Guards’ General Staff was guarded by regiment after regiment of Guards and other troops, as well as Cossacks. They were placed to prevent any access to the square. “By breaking into small groups and using side streets, or walking on the ice over the Neva to avoid the bridges, tens of thousands of the workers finally reached the Palace Square and collected in adjoining streets. They were peaceful; many shouted that they were there to present their petition to the czar, to see the czar, to achieve justice and establish their rights. They waited for Gapon to arrive with the religious procession to present their petition to the czar. They did not believe they would be shot down in front of the palace. They were the czar’s workers. He was their Father. He would hear their plea. “Many were yet unaware that others on their way to the square had been shot and killed, or cut down, by the czar’s troops, but word began to spread from the survivors who had reached the square. Many did not believe what they heard. “The military commander decided to start clearing away the crowd, beginning at the Aleksandrovskii Gardens that flanked the square. First he sent cavalry armed with whips and the flat of their sabers. The crowd only milled around, keeping a good distance from the horses. This attack made credible what many had heard about the shootings. The crowd began to shout and taunt the troops. “Prince Vasil’chikov sent a direct order to the commander to shoot the demonstrators. At the bugle call, the front line of Guards dropped to one knee and aimed, then fired a lethal volley into the crowd. Another bugle call launched another volley. The crowd scattered in waves, surging first in one direction and then another to escape the bullets. “The troops in front of the Admiralty building parted to reveal the navy’s Maxim machine guns. Machine gunners opened fire, spraying their bullets into the fleeing workers, killing men, women, children, bystanders, tea sellers in the gardens, ice skaters on the nearby pond, and police indiscriminately. When the firing stopped, the commander unleashed the Cossacks, who systematically cut and slashed at those still alive in or near the square, and steered their horses to pound with their hooves those on the ground.” The stranger threw down the paper, fisted one hand, and slammed the other flat on the table, drawing the attention of those seated nearby

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and causing Bronstein to jump. “This will be known as Bloody Sunday,” he hissed. “No count of the dead could be made, but they must be in the thousands.” He shook his fist. When he continued, his voice apparently trembled with righteous anger. “The workers could not believe what happened to them. But when it sank in that the czar’s troops had shot at them in front of his—Russia’s—home, they were enraged. They turned into a rampaging, riotous mob, attacking small groups of police and soldiers on the streets and burning government buildings. They built barricades, and the few who had weapons used them. “Most important, comrade—” the stranger emphasized his words with his fist “—they now are listening to what the revolutionaries have to say. The workers want leadership. But, as yet, there is none. Gapon is dead; most of his staff are dead. Gapon’s alliance of hundreds of thousands of workers is now an unorganized mob willing to fight and die. They now are a revolutionary army.” He leaned back, relaxed his hands, and stared for a moment into Bronstein’s eyes. Bronstein felt horror and hope rip his face in different directions. The stranger continued in a level voice. “The city is now locked up in a general strike. All major unions, even the police’s counterrevolutionary Zubatov unions, have walked off the job. Trains are not running; no one can send or receive telegrams, except those permitted by our comrades. Telephone operators have walked out, food is not being delivered into the city, electricity has been shut off to government districts, and it is a ghost town. In Russia’s major cities, about half a million strikers are out. But, while small groups of soldiers and sailors have mutinied, palace guards and other regiments have remained loyal, and so has the navy.” The stranger pushed the candle away and leaned on his elbows toward Bronstein. “This will change. You now have your trigger event for the revolution. As word of this huge massacre reaches Moscow and other Russian cities, the general strike will spread.” It seemed the stranger had wanted to introduce an optimistic tone into his words, but they came out guttural, like a German trying to pronounce French for the first time. Nevertheless, Bronstein clearly understood. He finally choked out, “That is what I’ve hoped to hear for a year, but I often thought I never would.” Even in the semidarkness of the café, Bronstein could see that the stranger’s face was alight with anticipation. Bronstein himself could

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not keep his hands still; he picked up his beer, set it down, and slid it in a circle on the scarred tabletop. “Yes, yes,” he exclaimed, waving northeastward, in the direction of St. Petersburg. “This is it. I must go to St. Petersburg immediately. But, it may be hopeless. Many more will die; we may fail unless the soldiers mutiny. We don’t have the guns.” The stranger seemed to have been waiting for Bronstein to say something like that. He reached across the table and put his hand on Bronstein’s arm, and told him, “I have the funds for you to purchase what you need. I am rich, as I mentioned, and I am a revolutionary socialist, a Bolshevik, and your ardent supporter.” At the word “Bolshevik,” Bronstein raised his eyebrows. In the internecine struggle among the revolutionary groups, Bronstein had only recently joined the minority Bolsheviks and their leader Lenin. The stranger leaned both elbows on the table and locked eyes with Bronstein. He said in the clearest, simplest Russian, “I will give you fifty million rubles for guns. Is this enough?” Bronstein’s jaw dropped; he knew his eyebrows were reaching for his fur cap. The rest of his body sat frozen in the chair. The stranger waited, his eyes still locked on Bronstein’s. When Bronstein finally spoke, he said apologetically, “Prastite—I’m sorry, your Russian accent is difficult to understand. How much did you say?” The stranger gestured for Bronstein to wait a moment. He pulled the candle close, and took out a small notebook and pencil. He tore out a piece of paper and wrote down 50.000.000, then handed the paper to Bronstein. He stared at the figure in the candlelight. “You are giving us that much?” he gasped. “It is a fortune.” He narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips, and stroked his goatee for a moment, then looked up to stare at the stranger, whose eyes were in deep shadow. His whole face looked satanic. Bronstein had been horrified by the massacres, then ecstatic over the revolutionary potential now unleashed. Now he felt as though he had been thrown down a cliff. “All that is a trick,” Bronstein threw at the stranger, waving at the pile of papers still on the table. Bronstein jumped up, ready to leave. “You are an agent. Who are you working for?” The stranger quickly leaned over the table. Holding one palm flat out toward Bronstein, he gently pushed him back down with the other. “Pa-ver’ mne—believe me. I will prove it to you. Just check out the bank account that I created for you.” Bronstein stared.

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The stranger tore out a page from his notebook on which he had already written something, added it to a folded sheet of paper from his inner pocket, and held them toward Bronstein. He slowly reached out and took them as though he was being offered a huge diamond. He held the notepaper next to the candle to read the name of the Darier Hentsch & Cie Bank in Geneva, the numbered account at the bank, and the account’s name and password. Bronstein slowly put the papers down. He struggled to merely smile. He felt like jumping up and doing a jig. And yet, this could not be. It was too much money to be true. The doubt hung on. He asked, “You have done this for us?” “Yes,” the stranger answered. “You have all the information you need to check the account at the bank. It is only a twenty minute walk from here. Then, you can withdraw what you want at your own pace for buying the weapons you need. I’m sure you can buy many of them secretly from Russian manufacturers such as the Putiloff munitions factory, but with that much money, you no doubt can persuade some arms merchants to export to you what you need.” Bronstein shook his head. “I’m an intellectual, a writer, an organizer. I don’t know how to do this. I have never bought or carried a gun. I know nothing about guns.” The stranger pointed at the folded sheet of paper that Bronstein had set aside. “On that paper are the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of the Frenchman Eugène Schneider and his major competitor, the German House of Krupp. They both have been supplying the czar, but tend to be apolitical. I imagine you can interest them in your money, especially if you let them secretly transport the arms into Russia for you, and promise an exclusive arms contract when you establish your revolutionary government. Bloody Sunday should give your revolution credibility. Use your people in Paris and Berlin for the contacts. “I trust you. I have studied you, going back to your birth in 1879 in the village of Yanovka, Kherson Province, to the gymnasium you attended in Odessa, the St. Paul realschule—high school, and your revolutionary activities and theories up to now. I know your writings. I especially believe in your theory of permanent world revolution. I agree that the revolution must be spread to other countries, or it will never be secure in Russia. Moreover, you are a well-organized person, and know well how to respond to emergencies and opportunities. You are a leader, and I have no doubt you will effectively and efficiently use these funds.”

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Bronstein picked up his warm beer, then put it back down. He rubbed his hand on the rough wooden tabletop. He crossed his legs and uncrossed them. All the while, his eyes moved back and forth between the stranger and the figure on the notepaper. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He still had his doubts. “Okay, I am sure that this is either a practical joke or a trick. I will check with the bank. There is too much at stake to fear looking like a fool or being arrested again.” The noise in the café had increased to such an extent that Bronstein leaned across the table to be sure the stranger heard him. When he nodded, Bronstein then looked around to see what was happening. The café had filled with men and a few women, and they yelled excitedly back and forth. Some were passing around telegrams they must have received from St. Petersburg. Bronstein caught some of the words: “Massacre . . . the revolution has begun . . . faith in the czar torn apart . . . tyranny shall fall . . . the people shall rise up . . . powerful and free . . . leaving for Moscow . . .” Bronstein forgot about his doubts over the money. He felt fired up about the revolution all over again. Turning back to the stranger, he said in a voice charged with excitement, “The people from Vperyod are here. They must be passing the word. There is Martov and Lenin, and . . . oh, his wife Krupskaya is with him. The Lunacharskayas are here—” “Listen,” the stranger said. Grim-faced people at a nearby table had begun singing the revolutionary funeral march, You Have Fallen in the Struggle, and its solemn refrain was being picked up by others. Soon it filled the café. Bronstein and the green-eyed stranger joined in.

Chapter 6 November 14, 1906 San Francisco Joy Phim

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he green-striped cab bounced over ruts and potholes as it took John and Joy to a hotel recommended by Hands Reeves, a hotel he and his teammates had used when he was a catcher for the San Francisco Seals. He was one of the three squatters in the empty warehouse where their time machine had landed hours ago. John had hired him and the other two, Sal Garcia and Dolphy Docker, as the first employees of the Tor Import & Export Company that John planned to create as a cover for their foreign interventions. They were all together in the horse-drawn cab. Joy, seated next to John, was dressed in a cloth cape over a “lady’s” white satin waist—really a shirt, with a wide collar held tight at the throat with an imitation silk bow, the waist tucked into a blue “short lady’s” mixed cotton and wool walking skirt with a flounced bottom. No corset—she would go naked first. She had her hair up in a large bun on top of her head and partly covered by a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with folded lace, imitation flowers, and white egret feathers sticking out at the side. She kept looking at John out of the corner of her eye. He looked so funny in his clothes of the age. He had on a blue diagonally-worsted coat, all-wool gray pinstripe pants, black boots and, under his coat, a long-sleeved white madras shirt with a separate linen collar, around which he’d knotted a maroon bow tie. That amused her the most. A bow tie. On my John. Doesn’t fit him. A red cowboy bandana around his neck would better suit him. Then there was his cocky-looking Fedora. That was different. With its slight tilt to the side that revealed blonde curls, he did look like a lady killer. The three guys sat scrunched in the narrow seat across from them. They wore the cheap work clothes—denim, cotton worsted, and twilled sateen—of the time; Sal and Dolphy wore the popular golf cap, and Hands had a Bismarck-styled one. Not one of them would sit next to

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Joy, although they would have had more room, and all three pretended they were looking out the window. But she caught them several times staring at her. John had told them she was his assistant and translator, and that they were moving their company from New York to San Francisco. He explained her job as handling their business with Asia, and since she was Oriental—Sino-Vietnamese, she always corrected—and spoke Chinese and Japanese, she had a very important role to play in the company. Since John and she had unwittingly changed their clothes behind the supply capsules while the guys waited for them, they would have been stupid not to recognize an intimate relationship between the two. So she understood why she saw more in their looks than simple attraction. It was more like appraisal. It was early in the morning, with a light fog yet to retreat north, and the streets were crowded with people on their way to work or late in bringing goods in from the country for the various markets. Farm wagons, carts, carriages, horse riders, automobiles—or what some called motor cars—and bicycles crowded the street, and added a stench of horse manure, urine, livestock, exhaust fumes, and unwashed bodies to the fog. A funk common in all major cities of this era. Apparently entranced by his first glimpse of a period he had only read about, John stared out the side window, unbothered by the stink. Joy was. She kept twitching her nose over the awful smell of this world, which its inhabitants seemed not to notice. “They all must have had their noses seared at birth,” she muttered to herself. She again swung her hand across her face, trying to bat away the flies that had invaded the bouncing buggy, and kept landing on her nose. She couldn’t believe that John could sit relaxed as he was, with these flies and the reeking streets. He must have an invisible clothes pin on his nose. With a little grin, she glanced at John. Of course, he has that Caucasian body odor. That will keep the flies away. I’d better not tell him that, though. He’ll use it to avoid taking a bath. “Hey Jo—Miss Phim,” John said, and pointed to the Stanley steamer passing them driven by a man wearing goggles, a plaid cap, a fur-collared cape, and a blue and red scarf that circled his neck and blew behind him. “Straight out of a period British movie.” John missed the kiosk on a corner that was revealed as the steamer passed on. Joy did not. She gasped, and immediately yelled, “Stop the cab.”

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In this era, such a shout from a woman was a command. Hands stuck his head out of his window and yelled at the driver, “Stop. Stop!” The driver reined in his two Morgan horses and pulled on his hand brake. He ignored the cussing farmer who suddenly had to jerk his wagon around the cab to avoid it, his equally unhappy horse almost bolting. John stared with raised eyebrows at Joy. She asked Hands as soon as he sat back and looked at her, “How far is it to the hotel from here?” Hands stuck his head out of the buggy and looked down the street. “About a block or two.” Suddenly remembering her female place in this era, and that John was supposed to be her boss, she turned to him and asked, “Can we get out here? There is something,” and she emphasized the last word, “that I want to show you at the kiosk we passed. Then, if you like, we can walk to the hotel from here.” After five weeks of lovemaking and her martial arts training, she knew he understood the look she gave him. John studied her face for a moment. With a dimple forming at the corner of his mouth, he responded, “Well, Miss Phim, that is truly alert of you. It justifies my hiring you as my assistant and translator. I know that you yelled for the cab to stop because you didn’t have time to get my permission. So, I will ignore it. Well now, shall we all depart?” He looked at Hands, who seemed amused. “How much will the cab cost?” Joy blurted, “Are you going to buy the cab . . . Boss?” Hands looked at Joy, then, shaking his head, he looked at John. John’s dimple had gotten deeper. “For the ride, Hands.” “Maybe twenty-five cents.” John reached into his change pocket for a fifty cent coin, and gave it to Hands. “Tell the driver to keep the change.” Once they were all out of the cab, John stiffened his back and strode back to the kiosk, letting the others follow him a pace or two behind. There he saw the piles of newspapers, and picked out the San Francisco Chronicle and Call. Catching up to him, Joy surreptitiously stuck her satin-covered elbow in his side, and pointed to the cover of the November 10, 1906, issue of The Saturday Evening Post. “My God! I wasn’t mistaken,” she exclaimed. John looked where she was pointing, froze for a moment, and then grabbed the magazine from its upright wire holder. He hastily opened the magazine to read the cover article. He didn’t even hear the graybearded vendor yell, “Hey, you didn’t pay me.”

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Joy understood John’s distraction, but she wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to get even. She put her hand over the page he was trying to read and said, not trying to hide the pleasure in her voice, “Hey, boss man, you didn’t pay for the magazine and newspapers.” John mumbled something, and asked, “How much?” “A nickel for the magazine, two for both papers. Can’t you read the signs?” John reached into his pants pocket, drew out another fifty cent piece, and absently tossed it to the man, who had to catch it before it slid off the newspapers onto the wet ground. Joy stepped on John’s boot, and when he looked at her, she nodded toward the three guys, who were staring at them. As time went by, they regarded their new boss more and more as if they were watching a circus. John cleared his throat. Motioning to Hands, he said, “Please lead the way to the hotel.” He walked beside Hands to the hotel, his head buried in the article. He must be guiding himself by radar, Joy guessed. She walked behind them with Dolphy and Sal next to her. Soon, putting his hand up to his mouth to hide what he was going to say from John, Sal asked in a low voice, “Is the boss always like that?” With “that” undefined, Joy thought of the alternatives. Preoccupied? Funny? Unbossy? Unconsciously, she shifted into her own descriptions. Loving? Handsome? Rugged, tolerant— She stopped herself and shook her head to clear it. “What do you mean, Mr. Garcia?” she asked quietly. “Sal. Please call me Sal. The last woman who called me a mister stole my wallet.” “I’m Joy, Sal. I think your wallet is safe from me,” she said. As color began to creep over Sal’s face, she asked, “What did you mean by ‘that?’” Sal frowned. “What’s ‘that?’” Joy gave him a long look. “You’re pulling my leg.” Sal grinned, and for the first time Joy saw that tight little grin of his, almost a subdued leer. “Can I?” Joy burst out laughing, causing Hands to glance back at her. She was enjoying this. Sal would probably be her favorite among the guys. “Can you what, Sal?” “Pull your leg?” “You can try, but only if you let me know first where you want to be buried. Now, Sal, what is the ‘that’ in your question, ‘Is the boss always like that?’” “Nothing.”

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“Sal!” “Oh, okay. Does he always give away money like he did to the cab driver and the newspaper man? ‘Keep the change,’ he says. When I get my ten dollars for the week, I hope he gives me a C-note and says, ‘Keep the change.’” Still smiling, she responded, “I’ve found him very generous, Sal.” He looked slyly at her out of the corner of his eye. “You must know him very well.” “What are you saying, Sal? Really?” Sal seem taken aback by Joy’s directness. He got a look of innocence on his face. “Nothing. Only that you worked for him in New York and came here with him. So,” and he let the word linger, “you must know him well. “Ah . . . what does that finger mean, Joy?” John John scanned enough of the Post article to mentally exclaim, It is simply impossible. Impossible. Yet this article is written as though it’s true. I bet it’s one of those spoofs that occasionally some crackpot writer gets published, then, when people are falling over themselves about it, he smugly declares it’s all fiction. When John almost ran into a pole, Hands pointed to a hotel a short distance away and, to get his attention, said, “That’s it.” John reluctantly lowered the Post and took a look. The hotel had three stories, and a large marquee with the word Fairfax written on a big vertical sign above it. When he entered the hotel with the others behind him, he noticed that the smell in the hotel lobby was not much better than that in the streets. No doubt the two spittoons, one of them located by the registration desk, were making their contribution. And the heavy odor of cigar smoke also added to what flowed in the high front doors when they were opened. He wondered if Joy would notice and glanced at her. She was twitching her nose. Must be itching, he thought. Why doesn’t she scratch it? He asked the registration clerk for adjacent rooms for two, and waved toward Joy as the second person. The clerk wore a sour look, and seemed to be looking past them into the lobby. John waited. The clerk finally registered him and with a half-hidden, hostile look, the clerk shoved the registration book to Joy. John put it down to this era’s bias against Orientals.

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Joy stared at the registration book. “Look at this,” she told John. “Beautiful Chinese calligraphy. It’s a Khoo Jy-ying in room 305. She’s from Tianjin, China. I want to talk to her as soon as I can. What an opportunity. She may be a contact for our company in China.” John responded absently, “I’ll leave that to you. You’ll probably want to practice your rusty Chinese.” His mind was still full of what he had read in the Post article, and he was in too much of a hurry to return to it to note the three guys waiting for his instructions. As they were turning to go to their rooms, Joy put her hand on his arm, pointed to the registration book, and said, “You forgot something.” When he turned and looked down at the book, she whispered, “The guys don’t have a place to sleep.” “Oh, yes.” John turned to the guys standing about five feet away. “You were all living in the warehouse. Well, you’re my employees now, and I won’t have that.” He turned back to the desk clerk and told him, “Give these good fellows each a nice room.” As he and Joy headed for the stairs with their suitcases, he turned back to them and said, “The cost is on the company. Please meet us in the hotel restaurant at six. Okay?” When they nodded, looking as though they’d won a jackpot without knowing they’d even had a ticket, John turned back toward the stairs. As Joy passed by Sal, he asked, “Is he always like that?” “Enjoy it, Sal.” John heard her and asked, “What was that about?” Joy gave a little grin. “Just small talk between coworkers.” His eagerness to give the Post article a careful read increased with each step up the stairs. And he could not wait to discuss it with Joy. But he knew Joy—she would try to get it from him to read it first. He congratulated himself when he saw out of the corner of his eye that she was about to grab the magazine from under his arm, and folded it into his inside suit coat pocket with a flourish and a little smirk. He did not see the Chinese woman sunk into one of the lobby’s plush Victorian chairs, staring back and forth between Joy and him. Nor did he see her rise to follow them up the stairs.

Chapter 7 October 21, 1905 St. Petersburg, Russia Count Sergei Yulyevich Witte

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ost cities have a flimsiness about them, a crowded insecurity, as though their tall buildings were thrown up to meet the fancy of a passing generation, and would soon be torn down with the next fad. Not so with St. Petersburg. It has a monumental feel, as though its buildings, like granite mountains, were made for the ages, made to withstand the worst of nature and humanity. Its buildings are mighty, its streets vast, its spaces open, its canals wide and curving as through planned as part of a gigantic park. And scattered throughout are palaces, museums, and schools, many with impressive domes and spires that add a graceful touch to the sold, yellow feel of the city. Yet, while the bluegreen dome of the Turquoise Mosque and the gold spires reaching for the sky above the old Admiralty building and others are impressive, there is also a sadness, a falseness, about the magnificence. It is artificial; it did not follow the natural evolution of a London, Paris, New York, or Moscow. It was built by Czar Peter Romanov, best known as Peter the Great, a tyrant fascinated by the West (and, oh yes, war as well). In 1703 he decided to build an impressive, Western-style capital city on unoccupied marshland in northern Russia. It would provide Russia with an outlet to the Gulf of Finland, thence to the Baltic Sea, and finally to the ocean. Such an outlet was his dream, since as a boy he had been enamored of sailing ships, and even had built one with his own hands. With no regard for human life, he made virtual slaves of the workers, one hundred thousand of whom lost their lives in just one year alone. He ultimately had built thirty-five thousand buildings of granite and stone that spanned many islands, canals, and swamps. Just one, St. Isaac’s Cathedral, used 220 pounds of gold and took forty years to build. Peter the Great did succeed in impressing visitors. Many hundreds of thousands of lives and decades later, after St. Petersburg was completed, no one could see the blood and bones, only the city—it became known as the Venice of the North.

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Nevsky Prospect was one of the most impressive streets of all cities, but now, after ten months of massive strikes and street battles, the street was littered with the debris of revolution. On the street corners were the remains of barricades, scattered bricks, and concrete blocks, and the skeletons of overturned wagons, broken carts, sleds, and automobiles. In some places the street had been torn up to use the paving stones. There were no bodies anywhere, not even those of horses. But if one looked closely, some of the buildings’ facades were pockmarked from bullets. Some buildings had been gutted by fire. Armed soldiers stood at some intersections, and black-coated militia and mounted, redcoated Cossacks roamed the side streets. Some major government buildings had wood and sandbagged redoubts in front of them, with bayoneted rifles poking over the top. Traffic was nil on this late afternoon. Only a few wagons, coaches, and mounted horsemen braved the street, and few pedestrians dared walk its icy concrete sidewalks. No travelers wanted to be caught in another sudden outbreak of violence. Nonetheless, two white horses pulled Count Sergei Yulyevich Witte in his caleche down Nevsky Prospect. Witte was the former finance minister and chairman of the Committee of Ministers. Now the emperor was seriously considering appointing him premier. But, Witte had promised himself, he would not accept the appointment unless the emperor permitted him to handle the revolutionary unrest his way. Witte was scheduled for a meeting with the emperor the next day to detail his program, and had been consulting with influential high officials about it beforehand. One more to go, he thought, but I think I almost know word for word what his responses will be. Still, it is important to seem to consult and listen. He believed the measures being taken against the surviving demonstrators, known social democrats, and strikers were too harsh. Torture, beatings, and summary executions in some cases were just increasing the opposition to the government, encouraging strike leaders and the revolutionaries, and alienating those liberals who still strongly supported the monarchy, but also wanted a Western-style representative government. This had been a horrible month for the monarchy. Witte did not think it would survive the mass upheaval unless the government’s response was deep reform. He shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. The vast majority of the people have gone mad.

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There had been a great wave of strikes and demonstrations in St. Petersburg and Moscow, including a total shutdown of publishers. And Witte found it hard to believe, but the evidence lying along the street was undeniable: there were frequent violent clashes with armed squads of revolutionaries. Shocking, the number of weapons the strikers had. In St. Petersburg alone, they had killed over three hundred Cossacks; over a hundred Cossacks in Moscow. Witte shook his head. This was going on everywhere. In Revel, 2,300 killed; more thousands in Tomsk. And then IvanovoVoznesensk, Kharkov, Revel, Smolensk, Lodz, Minsk, Petersburg, Vilna, Kazan, Tiflis. Peasant uprisings. Another mutiny of sailors in Odessa that was a more dangerous repeat of the Potemkin mutiny in June. Do pizdy—it’s a fucked up situation. He ran his hand over his receding hairline and then down his long thin face, stopping to stroke his black beard. Now, a national railroad strike had hit here, and in Moscow, Nizhnii-Novgorod, Ryazan, Yaroslavl, Kursk, and the Urals; the Okhrana reported that tomorrow it would reach Kiev and Voronezh, and strikers had shut down telephone and telegraph service throughout central Russia. Well over two million strikers. I cannot believe it, but that is what the Okhrana just told the emperor. What to do? What to do? That stupid reactionary Trepov is urging the most drastic, bloody measures to end these strikes and unrest. Witte had warned the emperor not to appoint him assistant interior minister, but he had wanted a clampdown on “All these treasonous revolutionaries.” When General Trepov asked him what to do with the twenty-three arrested after a shootout at the railroad station, he’d said, “Shoot them.” Ebanashka—stupid. Witte’s coachman steered the caleche into the wide inner courtyard of Piotr Arkadevich Stolypin’s St. Petersburg home. He was governor of Saratov Province on the Volga River, had the ear of the emperor, who thought highly of him, and it was clear to Witte that at some time he would be appointed premier. He was in St. Petersburg at the request of the emperor to advise him on what to do about the serious unrest. Witte was sure that the emperor would not look happily on Witte ignoring Stolypin. Witte’s caleche pulled up to the large, pillared portico. He had made an appointment with Stolypin to consult with him here so that they would not be seen talking together by the court sycophants. The

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emperor was much concerned about conspiracies and had told that nu vse Trepov to be on guard, what with his full control of the police—he was really the city’s unofficial dictator. Witte wanted the emperor to find out he had consulted with Stolypin only when he told him, and not through the whispered warnings of some prince or count. As Witte walked up the steps to the massive front doors with their large bronze handles, a footman in a red and green swallow-tail coat, knee britches, and a tasseled red Havelock cap who had been on watch for him bowed and said, “My master has been waiting for you in the study. Please follow me and I will announce your presence.” Witte followed the footman through the front doors, into a reception hall with statues in niches, up a winding, carpeted staircase, and down a long, stuffy hallway lit only by a few gas lamps. Both walls were lined with oil portraits, beginning with one of Emperor Nicholas II, leading on to Stolypin’s father and mother; presumably the rest were ancestors. All wore expressions so solemn that they looked as though they were at a funeral. The footman stopped at a large, carved oak door, knocked, opened the door, and announced Witte’s presence. Witte walked in, waved a greeting at Stolypin, and said, “Piotr Arkadevich, thank you for meeting with me.” Stolypin rose from behind his hand carved desk and shook hands with Witte. “This appointment is a surprise, Count Sergei Yulyevich. Please sit down.” He waved his hand at a leather sofa. He turned back to his desk to turn over something he had been writing, then sat down in an oak and leather armchair near the desk and sofa. He looked at his valet, who was standing by the door, and commanded, “Bring us tea.” Stolypin looked back at Witte and asked, “Sugar?” Witte shook his head, and Stolypin nodded at his valet. He clasped his hands over the vest pulled tight across his stomach, and plucked at his gold watch chain with one thumb while he silently regarded Witte for a few seconds. Witte occupied himself unbuttoning his long coat. The room was stuffy and overheated from the fireplace, and the one large window had been doubled for the winter. Witte looked around at the rich study. He had not been in this room before, although he had attended a soiree Stolypin’s wife held in the drawing room. Stolypin had narrow, deep-set eyes in an unbalanced face—he was nearly bald on top, with thin sideburns, but he had a black handlebar moustache that was almost as wide as his head. It was the talk of the countesses at court. They appeared barely resist the urge to pull on it.

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Below the mustache was a black beard with a splash of gray under his lip. Few subordinates could contemplate the balding pate and the rich mustache and beard below when his attention was devoted to them. All he had to do was stare at them, and they would shake under the lifetime of stern command and authority his steel-gray eyes hurled at them. Witte was never intimated by Stolypin’s eyes. Nor was he distracted by the dark hairs that grew in profusion out of Stolypin’s ears and nose, adding another clump of dark hairs to the top of his moustache. They had known each other for years, and had often given the emperor opposite advice. But they were not enemies. They sometimes sought each other’s advice, and at one social gathering or another, they would gossip about court officials and share their love of Russian literature and music. Stolypin smiled, finally. “I have not seen you since you returned from the United States. Congratulations on negotiating the Portsmouth Treaty with Japan. Due to your ability, we got out of that Moodozvon— wacko war cheaply. I think the emperor was right to make you a prince as a reward.” “Thank you. But most of the credit really belongs to the American President Roosevelt. He leaned on the Japanese to make only reasonable demands, in spite of their victory over our Second and Third Manchurian Armies at Mukden, and the incredible, almost absolute destruction of our fleet in the Tsushima Strait. Anyway, thanks for seeing me on such short notice.” “Yes; well, what is this about?” Witte put one hand on his knee and leaned forward, gesturing with the other. “Bulygin, Durnova, Trepov, Kuropatkin, and the whole bunch of ministers and advisors around the emperor are crazy. What they want to do about the strikers and revolutionaries will further alienate workers, professionals, and especially liberals, who are already pulling away from us. Revolution is in the air and on the streets, and if these officials have their way, it is sure to be successful.” Stolypin’s face reddened slightly and he vigorously shook his head. “Sergei, you are hopeless. It’s your liberal views that got us where we are at now. If we had clamped down hard years ago and executed the leaders of the social democrats and other revolutionaries, there would never have been a Bloody Sunday. It is treason, and we should treat it as such.” Witte clenched his knee with his hand and frowned. “The current harsh and brutal response to the revolutionaries is dead wrong.”

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Stolypin waved the thought away. Witte continued. “The people want a parliament, elections, reform of working conditions—such as an eight-hour workday—and land. Many still love the emperor, and if we respond to their just desires, we will have peace and the monarchy will survive, although not as an autocracy. Is it so hard to see how successful the British monarchy has been at this?” Stolypin narrowed his eyes. “To use your words, is it so hard to see what happened to the French monarchy? The great terror, all those heads of the aristocrats guillotined. King Louis XVI was too soft, and he lost his head as a result.” Witte stared a long moment at him. Forgetting how irritating and undiplomatic it would be, Witte waved his finger at him and said, “It is obvious you will be as bullheaded as usual on this. The result will be all our heads, eventually.” Realizing what he was doing, he dropped his hand and clasped both of them on his lap. “I know you hate me for doing this, but after all, I am Chairman of the Committee of Ministers. In that capacity, I’m going to see the emperor.” Witte hesitated, and then decided to leave unmentioned what he had heard about the emperor offering him the premiership. “I will recommend to him—and he is frightened enough that I think he will follow my advice—that he grant such fundamental civil freedoms to the people as freedom of conscience, speech, assembly, and association. These freedoms must be backed up by a universal franchise for voting representatives to a national Duma. Most important, no law should come into effect without approval by the Duma’s representatives.” Stolypin gaped at him. Witte held up his hand toward Stolypin to avoid interruption. “Be assured that I agree with what I know you will argue. We must still repress direct outbreaks of disorder and violence, protect people who only want to go about their daily business in peace, and punish treason and revolutionary violence. Of course. But also, as in the time of Alexander II, the state must again take into its own hands the initiative of transformation. The goal has been set by society; its significance is great and wholly invincible, because there is truth in that goal— freedom, representation, laws beholden to the people. The emperor should therefore adopt it.” “But—” Witte shook his head to forestall Stolypin’s interruption, and continued. “Let ‘Freedom’ become the slogan of government actions.

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There is no other way the present autocratic state can be saved. The course of historical progress is unstoppable. There is no choice: either assume leadership of the movement that has gripped the country, or abandon it to be torn apart by elemental forces. Executions and rivers of blood will only hasten the explosion. This is what—” Stolypin abruptly stood and reached across his desk. He took two Turkish cigars from his humidor and offered one to Witte, who shook his head. Holding one of the cigars over the crystal-cut glass ashtray on his desk, Stolypin lifted a German scissor cutter resting next to the humidor and cut off the end of the cigar. He picked up a box of diamond matches and made a big show of lighting the cigar and taking his first, huge puff. Finally he sat down. Witte was amused— this typical stall had given Stolypin time to think of an answer to assertions he found just too hard to swallow. Stolypin sighed; he had evidently discarded a nuanced or diplomatic reply. Holding the cigar between his fingers and waving it in the air, he responded, “You are wrong in this. Your policies would mark a dangerous turning point in the political history of our motherland. Although our great monarchy would legally remain in power, it would be castrated. Not only would the emperor lose his unlimited power and the whole aristocracy be subverted but, most important, the emperor would lose his accountability. There would be no one person responsible, no one person to point a finger at for errors committed, no one person to advise and guide us on the right course. Only a gaggle of quarreling, sniffling, cowardly politicians, not one of whom would have the courage to admit error.” Stolypin inhaled deeply on his cigar and shook his head. “Hooy na ny—no fucking way! If I did not know you better, Sergei Yulyevich, I would say you were one of those opezdo revolutionaries. These are hard people. They have been assassinating our people. They murdered Minister of the Interior Plehve with a bomb; they killed the governor of Ufa, and,” he pounded his fist into his left hand and raised his voice, “Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich.” Witte’s finger came up again of its own accord. “Yes, and the government has instigated hundreds of pogroms against the Jews and has been assassinating social revolutionaries like Nikolai Bauman, and the heads of strike committees and soviets.” Witte stared into the other man’s eyes. “An eye for an eye is no way to avoid revolution.”

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Stolypin shot back, “You and I may already be targeted. All these traitors understand is harsh force, and the emperor should order it given to them.” Witte sat back and took a sip of his tea. It was cold; it had been sitting forgotten on the sofa’s side table. He ignored the little dishes of cookies and raisins there and watched Stolypin. Stolypin was one of the smartest men around the emperor and Witte had to consider his arguments with the utmost seriousness. Stolypin puffed on his cigar, never taking his eyes from Witte. Witte crossed his arms and thought about what had been said. Neither he nor Stolypin was afraid of silence, and it stretched out. Finally Witte uncrossed his arms, pinched together several raisins, and chewed on them. Then he leaned forward. “Okay, you have a point. It would be persuasive if we were dealing with the hardened social revolutionaries alone. We are not. The thirst for political liberalization, if not revolution, has spread across the country; the idea of popular representation is heard everywhere. It is heard at the political banquets of the liberal intelligentsia. It is heard in the revolutionary strike committees. It is heard in such loyal newspapers as the Sankt-Peterburgskiye Vedemosti, Novoye Vremy, and Svet. It is even heard in the conservative Russian Assembly with the call for the return of the seventeenth century zemsky sobor—general assembly—as a kind of national representation.” Stolypin was about to say something, but Witte would not let him. “You and the others around the Emperor that still support autocratic power are isolated,” he said forcefully. Stolypin leaned forward. “You—” Witte held up his hand. “Let me finish. Especially, we must consider the soldiers and sailors tempted by the fine slogans of the revolutionaries to support their cause; the factory workers who are fired up—not as Bolsheviks or Mensheviks, but as workers—over promises of an eight-hour day and more pay; and the peasants to whom the slogan ‘land to the peasant’ is like meat to a hungry dog. There is nothing we can do about the core revolutionaries except kill them. It is the mass of excitable and ignorant workers and peasants that I am worried about.” “Ah, on peasants we agree.” Stolypin sat back and tipped his head to twirl one of the handlebars of his mustache with the same fingers holding the cigar. “We must do something about the peasants. They must be free to own and sell land, not forced to live in communes,

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never able to pass on to their sons land of their own. But as to the workers and revolutionaries, this proposal of yours for freedom and a Duma . . . .” He slapped the top of his left leg in unison with his next words. “No, you do not understand human nature. Be tough with them all, and they will shrink back into their shell as they always have. Make them fear the power of the emperor.” The last words he coughed out with cigar smoke, and his face reddened. He placed the cigar on the edge of the ashtray, and half rose to pick up a snuff box on the corner of his desk. Witte glimpsed the carving of Emperor Nicholas II embossed on the ivory lid as Stolypin opened it. He brought it to his nose, sniffed, closed it, and twirled it in his fingers as he looked back at Witte with his eyebrows raised. “I know the emperor better than you do. He will stick to his convictions as he expressed them in December 1904, on the eve of all this revolutionary unrest. Do you remember? He said, ‘The workers and revolutionaries will not understand a constitution, but will understand only one thing: that his hands have been tied, and they are free to overthrow the government. They will see me as ti sleepoy—impotent.’” Witte knew that nothing more was to be gained by pushing his points. He would only antagonize Stolypin. But he had achieved what he was after—he now had confirmed what advice Stolypin would give the emperor, and Witte could try to counter his arguments directly. He waved one hand in a circle and grinned. “Enough. We are not going to change each other’s minds. You will do your duty as you see it, and I will do mine when I see the emperor.” He shifted to a lighter topic. “By the way, did you hear that Prince Cyril Speranski has left Princess Olga for good?” Stolypin’s face brightened and he shook his head. Witte frowned to show moral disapproval of the prince. “He really believed the gossip about her having been bedded by his good friend Georgi Aleksandrovich. So, he gave her his estates near Borodino, and moved out of their home. She was too beautiful for him anyway . . . .”

aaa Witte’s caleche was waiting for him at the portico, with his coachman hunched down into the wolf fur collar of his big leather coat and his Shopkas—fur hat—pulled down over his ears. It was below freezing, and the horses were stomping and shivering.

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Stolypin’s liveryman had to shake the coachman awake. Witte climbed up into the caleche, pulled a fur carriage blanket over his legs, and made himself comfortable. As the caleche pulled out, he reviewed the details of what he would recommend to the emperor, trying to choose the words that would soften him up for the proposal. The emperor respects me, otherwise he would not have made me a prince. But in terms of training, ancestry, and circumstance, he is more inclined to accept Stolypin’s argument than mine. I do have good old Grand Duke Romanov on my side. Witte smiled. Romanov had told him that he would threaten to shoot himself if the emperor did not follow Witte’s advice. Crazy stuff. But, the duke is still powerful support. Witte stared unseeing out the caleche, barely noticing a group of passing Cossacks in their gold and black uniforms, the earrings and silver chains around their necks glinting. They sat their Akhal-tek horses as though horse and man were one. Much depends on how I put this proposal to the emperor, as shaken and nervous as he is. There is hope—since the revolutionary Kaliayev’s murder of Grand Duke Alexandrovich, the emperor has begun to make concessions. Alexandrovich had been one of the most implacable advocates of a hard line autocracy. Yes, he even signed on to establish an elected consultative chamber like the State Council of years past. Surely this is not the representation the people want. When the resulting draft law for a State Duma was published in August, nobody had been happy with it. Still, it was a significant inroad on the emperor’s power, although nothing much came of it. Nevertheless, I will use this as a precedent. Witte imagined he was in the Gold Room of the Winter Palace, facing the emperor. On both sides of the emperor, at a respectable distance, stood his suite of generals, dukes, and princes, all trying to hear what Witte had to say, some already formulating their counterarguments. The emperor stood straight, with a glass of Hungarian wine in one hand, and the other behind his back. His lips were drawn and his brows slightly furrowed as he waited for Witte to speak, since Witte had asked for this audience— Witte’s attention was suddenly diverted. The street was ill repaired, what with all the demonstrations, and the caleche’s springs tossed Witte to one side. He mechanically tried to resettle himself and ended up looking out of the other side of the caleche. Again sinking deep into

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thought, he gazed absently at a man standing outside a big hotel, waiting to help the wealthy guests arriving in their caleches and carriages. He wore a scarlet sash, and a peacock feather adorned his pillbox cap. Let’s see, Witte thought, how will I start out? Hmm. “Your Highness, you can preempt the revolutionaries by carrying out your own apparent revolution”—I should raise my voice on “own” and “revolution.” Then I’ll point out the window to Nevsky Prospect across from the square and say, “Concede much of what the strikers and liberals are demanding, but retain your control. And if— Blinding white light, a crushing blast of sound, burning heat. Oblivion.

aaa A huge explosion ripped the caleche apart, and hurtling the coachman over the heads of the two horses. The man in the white ushanka hat had followed the caleche at a safe distance. When it burst asunder, he clumsily reined in his black Orlov, dismounted, hitched the horse to a light pole, and walked toward the smoking and already settling ruin. One horse was down, bleeding profusely from its hindquarters, and uttering an extended cry; the other horse had disappeared with what remained of his harness; the coachman lay in a heap, unmoving. A man hurried toward the coachman, while another in a railroad coat fanned the smoke away from what remained of the caleche, looking for survivors. “Holy Mother!” the man said, suddenly jerking sideways. He crossed himself and turned to leave, almost stepping on the fur boots of the white-hatted man as he approached. His face sagging, the would-be rescuer glanced at the man and then back into the ruins. “Pizda,” he lamented. “Nothing we can do . . . only bloody pieces.” The white-hatted man leaned over to stare into the ruins himself, then straightened and nodded at the other. As he turned to walk back to his horse, his green eyes glittered in the newly lit streetlamps.

Chapter 8 November 14, 1906 San Francisco Jy-ying

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or some reason she could not define, Jy-ying had felt like coming down to the lobby very early this morning. She guessed it was a whimsical urge to study the guests. She was still fascinated by the way people dressed in this age, particularly the women, and how they walked and talked. She could not get used to how the women looked in their bustles—as if they had congenital deformation of the spine. She never would wear one. She had a slim figure, exercised every day, and felt that her healthy, well-formed figure did not need enhancing. But she quickly thought, As a captain in the Sabah Security Guards, such a triviality does not matter to me anyway. Of course, she knew that John and Joy had arrived around ten minutes to two that morning, and would be looking for a hotel room sometime during the day, most likely in the morning. Surely they would not come here, however. She laughed at herself when she thought of it. Let’s see, how many hotels in San Francisco would be acceptable to them? she wondered. Like this one or better. Say fifty. Since she did not know where they’d landed, any of the fifty were a possibility. She calculated the probability of them finding a hotel other than this one as .98. Ha! If that were the probability for a horse to win a race, I would bet all I own on it. She’d brought The Saturday Evening Post with her, intending to again carefully read the article that had attracted her attention, but she decided that she could not give it the careful read necessary and still pay attention to what was going on in the lobby. She turned to page 20 and the “Thanksgiving” article by Edmund Vance Cooke. Might as well learn more about this country and its customs. As she browsed through it, she kept an eye on the comings and goings through the hotel doors. Out of curiosity, of course. So, she did not miss the group that entered the hotel led by a tall, handsome man with yellow hair curling out from beneath his jaunty Fedora. Following him was— She sucked in her breath sharply and her

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eyebrows shot up. A beautiful young Chinese woman followed the man. A woman who looked like her. Yes, it could be John and Joy. Then she saw the three young men behind them. Sabah be blessed, they could be the three guys John wrote about. She watched the man and woman intently, noting their clothes, their movements. The woman pointed to the register and said something to the man, who then got keys for the three men. She was almost positive now that God had come to her aid. When the two mounted the stairs, she followed them to the second floor. In the hallway, she pretended she was looking in her purse for her room key as she watched them from under the brim of her hat. She was now convinced that the woman had to be Joy. CaucasianAsian couples were probably rare in this age here, and then for the couple to appear in the hotel to ask for rooms with three young men—yes, they were John and Joy. And she could not believe how much like her Joy looked. Well, people have doubles, and she had finally run into hers. But soon there will be a double no more. The woman had stopped at her room and unlocked the door while the man did the same one room down the hallway. Then he opened the door a crack and yelled to the woman, “Don’t go into your room yet. Just shove your suitcase in, and close the door.” He then strode down the hallway to her, and she turned to him, her whole body a question mark. He picked her up, tucked her into his arms, and carried her to his room. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. He thrust his door open with his boot, and disappeared with her inside. The door slammed. Almost shaking with excitement at her incredible luck, Jy-ying quickly descended the stairs to the lobby and rushed to the registration desk. She looked at the register and saw John Banks and Joy Phim below her name, and their room numbers. Her head swam; she wanted to dance. Instead she looked at the clerk, who was backed up against the mail slots, as far from her as possible. “Is room 207 vacant?” “Yes.” “Give me the key. I will be changing my room to that one.” She hurried back to the stairs and up to her third floor room two steps at a time. She grabbed the items she’d left on the dresser and put them back in her case, picked it and the red container up, and hurried back down the stairs to her new room next to John’s. She entered, shut the door, and leaned her back against it. She was hardly puffing; rather, she was trying to shut out her emotions. Her

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eyes misted at what she had seen in the hallway, now that she had time to dwell on it, and memories of Shu Kuo suddenly flooded her mind. She dropped her case and put the container on the bed. She sat next to it, opened it, and took out the note Kuo had enclosed for her. Less than two days ago, she had said good-bye to him forever. I did not know. I really did not know how much I would miss him, not until I saw John and Joy’s love for each other. She wiped at her eyes and took out the document that told her all she needed to know about John and Joy to assassinate them. Such a nice long, antiseptic word in English. Why not say what it is? Their . . . sha—murder. I would have no difficulty if there were only one time traveler, a man who was himself trained to kill. Yes, no problem then. But lovers? And particularly a historian professor and an Asian woman trained as a warrior. I cannot just shoot them, especially a warrior like her. It is against the warrior code; it is . . . wrong. She tried to read the Remembrance again, but in a minute or so she heard Joy’s orgasmic screech through the wall, and threw the document hard against the carpeted floor. The clip fell off, and the sheets spread in a jumble on the floor. She took two deep breaths and focused on relaxing all her muscles. When she had calmed down, she got down on her knees, straightened out the papers, sorted them, and clipped them as they’d been before. I’ll wait until they are decent, she thought. No hurry. She picked up the Post, leafed to the article that she had read already, and read it again. She looked now for something that would suggest it was a joke. Then she heard the door to John’s room open and close, so she risked looking out to see if they both were leaving. Obviously, wrapped in towels as they were, they were headed to the bathroom at the end of the hall to take a bath. She allowed herself a little grin, her first since arriving in this age yesterday. I would have done it before. Then she remembered her and Shu Kuo’s last, spontaneous lovemaking in his office. Almost always before. She returned to the Post article and just stared at its title, eyes wide. She licked her lips. As she reread the article once more, slowly translating it into Chinese, she kept exclaiming, God almighty. I cannot believe this. It cannot be true. She tried to pick out the parts that were most significant to her mission, and to Sabah. Several times she gasped. When she finished she let the Post drop to the floor and sat slouched in her chair with her arms hanging over the sides, thinking.

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She heard John’s door shut, muffled noises, and then much squealing and boisterous laughter. They are certainly having a good time. She took her Taiyang .38 out of her holster purse and sat back in the armchair with the gun on her lap. She put one arm across her stomach, rested her elbow on it, and held her cheek in the palm of her hand as she stared down at the weapon. So easy to kill them, to kill their love, to destroy their mission. Their room is like my room, and I know how to read its open spaces and furniture clutter. Once I opened their door to shoot them, there would be no escape. They would not be wearing their armor, their weapons would not be near, and Joy would have no time or space to use her karate or judo. Oh, she would react fast. She will have automatically surveyed the room as a battleground when she entered it. As I fling the door open she will instantly head for the best defensive spot, and will try to spring at me when she sees the gun. But I will be prepared for it and nothing she can do will stop the bullets. She rubbed one finger along the blued barrel and then down the textured and contoured polymer grip. There is their mission. And now there is that Post article. Her eyes were still on the gun, but it no longer registered in her consciousness. She was putting together the two greatest surprises of her short life here—what she’d read about the two in the next room, and the Post article. She put her left elbow on her knee and thrust her face into her left hand. She didn’t notice how much time passed. She didn’t know why she waited. She didn’t have to. To allow them some dignity, I suppose. She grinned for the second time in this world. She thought about how she had come to this universe-busting moment. She’d been taken under the care of a sympathetic officer in the Sabah Security Guards after the murder of her Sabahist parents by prodemocracy rebels. Continuing her training in Shaolin Wing Chun Kung Fu during her schooling, she’d been accepted into the Security Guards, where she rose rapidly through the ranks. She’d been so proud when she’d been assigned to secure the time machine project instigated to send a time traveler back to 1906 to save Sabah’s life. But she wanted more. She wanted to be the one to save Sabah, and she knew she was better prepared because of her years in Pasadena at the California Institute of Technology, and the results of her tests after volunteering for the mission. But she was a woman, and the National Council of Clerics refused to allow a woman to replace a man. So she had maneuvered her lover, Kuo, the director of the project, to place her as second alternate. When one of the men ahead of her had

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a heart attack, and the other an accident—she felt bad about that, but she was the better prepared and the more dedicated to Sabah—she was the one sent. She listened for a moment to her breathing, and focused on the Taiyang .38. It all comes down to you and that, she thought, staring at the Post on the floor. Time, she breathed. No more delay. She took the Taiyang in hand. Her body felt heavy when she lifted herself from the chair, and she stood for a moment, feeling almost dizzy. For, with a mental click, her two surprises and her mission fell into logical alignment, and in an instant she made her final decision. She nodded her head vigorously. Yes, yes, I must. She began her preparations, first making sure her Taiyang was ready for what she would do. She took her dark blue Security Guard uniform out of her suitcase and put it on, wrinkles and all; next she put on her mirror-finished porometic Security Guard shoes. She would have preferred her boots, but there’d not been room for them in her case. She had brought her uniform to wear for her assassination of the time traveler, to make it official. This was very important to her, since otherwise it would have been plain murder. She knew it was a subterfuge, but it mattered. She puffed out her captain’s cap with her hand, admiring its two little gold leaf clusters and the mirror-like blue-black brim that shone in the room’s light, and put it square on her head. She felt good in these clothes. As a woman in a man’s Islamic world, she had more than earned them. And they gave her a feeling of authority and control for what she must now do. Hiding her gun behind her, she opened her door and checked the hallway. Then, head high, back straight, she strode quickly to John’s door. She tested it to make sure it was unlocked, quickly turned the knob, flung the door open with a bang, and stood in the doorway, gun in hand.

Chapter 9 November 10, 1905 Geneva, Switzerland

T

he short, stocky man said it again: “The time could not be better. The revolution has matured, and needs only the final push.” His goatee quivered with his excitement at finally returning to Russia to lead the revolution. His pretty wife, close advisor, and fellow revolutionary never tired of hearing such exclamations, for she agreed, and had advised him of the timing. They had waited for the right moment, and now they had the urgent, coded telegram from Bronstein affirming this: Now is the time. With Witte assassinated, the czar has appointed Stolypin premier. Stolypin has offered no concessions to striker’s just demands, immediately meting out summary executions—Stolypin’s neckties—to mutineers and strikers, and to demonstrators caught with weapons. The czar has declared martial law throughout Russia; many troops, sailors, liberals, and Mensheviks are joining us. Your arrival is prepared; you will be guarded on the way to the St. Petersburg Soviet. “I never thought that telegram would come,” she sighed. “I was right about waiting. Too early, and, with the Okhrana on the lookout, you would have been arrested at the Baltic Station when you arrived. Too late, and you would be blamed if the revolution failed and sidelined if it were successful.” She put her hand on his arm. As the telegram said, “Now is the time.” Bundled up in their Russian fur coats, the two waited in the cold Cornavin Station for the train that would take them from Geneva to St. Petersburg via Berlin. Since they traveled frequently, they traveled light; their three heavy suitcases, one loaded with books and papers, rested beside them. The Lunacharskys, both husband and wife, dedicated Marxists and Bolsheviks, were going with them, as were their comrades Plekhanov, Kamsky, and Orlovsky.

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They didn’t realize anyone had approached them from behind until they heard in French, “Excuse me, are you Vladimir Ilyich Lenin?” The man with a goatee turned and looked without recognition at the beardless stranger. He wore a long black coat and a narrow brimmed green hat with an orange feather in its band. On either side of him stood alert policemen with their peaked hats square on their heads. Lenin drew his “Oui?” out as a question. The man then looked at Lenin’s wife and asked, “Are you Nadezhda Krupskaya?” She hesitated for a moment, looked at Lenin and then back at the man, and finally responded, “Oui.” The two policemen moved closer. The man stood stiffly and said, “In accordance with Article 34 of the Cantonal Department of Justice, and by order of the Geneva Chief of Police, I am informing you that you are under arrest for embezzlement and fraud.” The policemen split up, one gripping Lenin tightly under the arm and the other Krupskaya. The rest of their party immediately protested, and at first Lenin resisted, bumping his sable hat off in the attempt. Plekhanov picked it up and handed it to Lenin. With his free hand, Lenin jerked it down on his balding head. Then he shouted to his comrades in Russian, “Go. We will settle this ridiculous accusation and catch the next train.”

aaa Lenin and Krupskaya sat at a square table in the interrogation room on the second floor of police headquarters. The man across from them had a full, graying beard, a protruding brow that almost hid his deep-set eyes, and a sloping forehead. His intimidating appearance was softened by a pink-tinted bow tie and his cleric-style corduroy suit. He kept a half-smoked Cuban cigar in one side of his mouth, tilting his head to keep the smoke out of his eyes as he scanned several documents before him. So far he had not said a word, even though Lenin had sat on the edge of his uncomfortable straight-backed chair and protested the arrest. Finally Lenin pulled his pocket watch out of his vest pocket by its gold chain, and looked at it. “Blin,” he swore in Russian. His face reddened, and he hissed to Krupskaya, “This is taking too damn long.” Jutting his goatee at the man on the other side of the table, Lenin speared the other man with his small eyes and pounded the table as he

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barked in badly accented French, “This is all a mistake. Ridiculous. We have done nothing. This is political. You are doing this on behalf of the enemies of Russia.” He puffed himself up. “Vlip—you’re in deep shit,” he said in Russian before reverting to French. “I demand that you release us immediately, or I will protest to your chief of police.” The man looked up at Lenin, and then at Krupskaya. He raised his eyebrow at Lenin, and in an oddly feminine, almost old woman voice, he said in French, “I am Inspector Rulf of the Geneva Cantonal Special Investigations Department. We have evidence that you committed a serious crime. Be still or I will have you handcuffed and gagged.” He stared at Lenin until he subsided in his chair, and then went back to his reading. Lenin raged inside. He was sure this was political. The timing was just too good. Someone was trying to prevent him from returning to Russia. But who? The Okhrana? Unlikely, since they had little influence in Switzerland, and the czar was generally despised. Who, then? I bet it is the Mensheviks. They will never let us win. They must have combined with the liberals for a soft revolution, and have pulled strings with supporters in Geneva. Or maybe it’s Bronstein. If I do not return, he has the revolution to himself. No, although he has wavered between the Mensheviks and us, he has become a loyal supporter. Hmm. Still, the prospect of power will derange men. When I get back to Russia and the revolution is successful—which it will be, with or without me—I am going to launch a thorough investigation of this . . . stupid frame-up. Lenin was sweating in the overheated room. Ruff looked up quickly and watched him with narrowed eyes as he took off his overcoat and shoved it to the back of his seat. He could feel the cast iron radiator against the wall nearby heating his face. Rulf returned to his reading. Lenin scratched his sweaty crotch. Finally Rulf picked up a document, leaned toward Lenin, and pointed to the signature at the bottom. “Is this yours?” Brows knitted, wide mouth a thin line compressed tightly enough to make his mustache quiver, Lenin stared at the illegible, flowing signature. “Absolutely not!” he shouted. He waved his fist across the document. Rulf pointed to a stilted signature below the flowing one, and looked at Krupskaya. “This is your signature?”

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She narrowed her eyes, enhancing the oriental look created by her tightly pulled back hair. She waved her palm toward him. In good French, she responded, “No. I would be embarrassed to have such an ugly signature.” Rulf sat back and put the document down. “Your names match those on these documents. You are foreigners and may flee the country at any time. So, I’m going to keep you both in our hospitable cell while I investigate this.” Lenin leaped to his feet, his nostrils flaring. “How dare you. I have very important business in Russia. It cannot be delayed. This is all a mistake.” He waved his fist at Rulf and yelled at him in Russian, “Shob tebe deti v sup srali— I hope your children shit in your soup.” The inspector pressed a button on his side of the table and two policemen immediately came in to stand behind Lenin. Rulf pushed his chair back and shook his finger at Lenin, who now had both fists on the table and was leaning toward Rulf, his goatee threatening to stab Rulf in the heart. “You likely have committed a most serious crime. You both have defrauded the Geneva Bank.” He pronounced the name in a reverend tone. “You borrowed fifty thousand franks from the bank with false collateral and false documentation about your Swiss citizenship, and with counterfeit seals on your false documentation. Each of these is a serious crime here. And through a tip, we caught you at the train station trying to flee prosecution.” He looked at Krupskaya. “You are equally guilty, since you cosigned the fraudulent loan.” She stared at him open mouthed. Lenin began stuttering in Russian.

Chapter 10 November 14, 1905 St. Petersburg

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he tall man wearing the Cossack hat consulted his map again to be sure of the location of Rastrelli 2 Square. Crossing the Alexandrovsk Bridge over the Neva River, he walked toward it, his boots crackling on the icy snow. Fortunately, it was on the eastern edge of St. Petersburg, at the edge of the river and distant from the major streets around the Winter Palace, Admiralty, and associated government buildings where large demonstrations and violent clashes took place. Entering the square and standing at its edge, he studied the Smolny ensemble of buildings, including the century-old Smolny Institute. Its facade formed a straight line for hundreds of feet, and an ell at each end formed an elongated court. Until the summer, the Institute had been a school for young ladies of noble birth from all over Russia, but the Institute had now been taken over by the St. Petersburg Soviet, with a sufficient bribe to the proper officials, and an exorbitant rent. The students had been crowded into the Smolny Convent snuggled into the north ell. For a few minutes, the man admired the convent’s dull blue dome with its silver stars. The square was busy with the coming and going of wagons, carts, coaches, horse-drawn sleds, mounted men, some Hussars and Cossacks, and a few smoking automobiles. The front entrance to the Institute was protected with a well built fortification manned by soldiers with rifles and fixed bayonets on their shoulders. They guarded a narrow passage that allowed a constant stream of people to enter and leave. Carefully watching the traffic, the man in the Cossack hat walked across the square and passed through the fortification and the high doors of the Institute. Inside, the tumult of excited activity stirred up the man, and he decided to walk around the building to observe a revolution in action. He had just enough spare time. He looked down one vast, stuffy hallway after another. Sparse electric lighting barely subdued the darkness, and

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the formerly white polished floors were now muddied by the heavy felt boots of soldiers, sailors, revolutionaries, factory workers, and peasants, the shiny black leather boots of professionals and government officials, and the soft cloth boots of the heads of strike committees and deputies from the soviets in Moscow, Riga, Samara, Tula, Kazan, and elsewhere. Everyone seemed to have hurried business here. Here and there were stacks of literature, including Iskra—the Spark, Nachalo—The Beginning, and the Soviet organ Izvestia—The News. These were snatched up by passersby and could be found on tables and benches everywhere. Bone-weary soldiers and revolutionaries slept where they could, some on benches and chairs in the rooms, others against the walls in the hallways. The man knew some had been on their feet for more than twenty-four hours. He came to a large, columned cafeteria, and walked in. A long line of people, each holding a bowl in one hand and a large wooden spoon in the other, waited for a slice of black bread and a ladle full of steamy cabbage soup. Some, disheveled and wearing ragged clothing, were obviously very poor. The Institute was clearly open to the hungry of St. Petersburg. Around the hall were long, rough wooden tables and wooden benches at which people sat to eat. No one looked gloomy or unhappy. Serious expressions dominated, but he saw occasional smiles and scattered laughter. At a few tables, groups of men and a few women appeared to be engaged in heated discussions. The place reeked with the acidic smell of too many unwashed bodies mixed with the oily, steamy odor of food. He quickly turned around and returned to the hallway before he retched. At least here there was only the stench of bodies. Off another hallway near the entrance was a large, white room with marble columns, a central crystal chandelier loaded with candles, and silver candelabra scattered about—a former ballroom. Now it was the central meeting place for speeches and meetings of delegates from the soviets all over Russia. As the man in the Cossack hat looked in, he saw a crowd of people listening to an emaciated, haggard, and unkempt peasant standing on a rostrum at one end of the room. The peasant was nearly hysterical, his voice shrill. The man suspected this was his first speech ever. A peasant cap covered dirty, straw-colored hair that hung halfway to his shoulders, and his beard stuck out in all directions. The man moved closer to the rostrum so he could hear the peasant.

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“I tell you the truth. We are still starving to death by the thousands, and the newly dead are being sold for food by scavengers. I saw it with my own eyes. I tell the truth. We are slaves to landowners. We are slaves to the rich. I tell you, we have had enough of this. We want food. We want land; we will die for it. We want freedom. I tell you the truth. We will not wait any longer. Tavarishi—friends. We join you. We will fight.” He bent over coughing into his hand, and it came away with blood on it. Someone stepped onto the podium and helped the peasant to a seat. After a loud murmur of voices, a worker mounted the rostrum. Waving his arms, he began to speak so rapidly, his words ran into each other. “I work at a Putiloff factory and I, with all my comrades, took it over and tried to run the factory, but the owners and managers and foreman all sabotaged the machines so that we could do nothing, and they have shut down the mills so we will starve or submit to them and again be beaten and whipped and work twelve hours a day for less than one ruble, and my wife and children are dying for I cannot buy enough food, and we live with three families in one room. We all have met, and we will fight them . . . .” The man in the Cossack hat left the room and climbed the wide stairs to the second floor. He looked into one classroom after another. In all of them, people were busy at or around tables, with the rare wall telephone ringing or being used. In some, men and women clacked away on Russian converted Underwood typewriters, slapping the carriages back when little bells signaled that the carriages had reached their stop. Men ranging in dress from formal suits and vests to loose peasant shirts tied at the waist with a sash constantly came and went with papers in their arms, some with sheaves of telegrams. Armed soldiers and a few civilians with rifles stood guard at the doors of the more important rooms. On the top floor, the man found a variety of offices. Apparently every significant group involved in the strikes or the revolution had an office here, as did many middle and a few upper officials of government. Even more guards stood by on this floor. The man thought it strange that he had been able to go from one floor to another, and even look into classrooms and offices, without anyone stopping him. Here also was Bronstein’s Military Revolutionary Committee, in Room 27. It was responsible for everything from dispersing weapons and organizing takeovers of government buildings to dealing with cap-

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tured officials and soldiers who remained loyal to the monarchy. It seemed to be the busiest room in the building, what with the constant flow of prisoners and suspects, petitioners, couriers, soldiers, and government officials. A genius must have been keeping everything in order. In Room 24, a large room where tea was served night and day, Bronstein operated the strategic and tactical center for all of the St. Petersburg Soviet’s activities. The man in the Cossack hat handed a note with 50.000.000 written on it to one of the two guards at the door and asked him to give it to Bronstein. The guard came back and let him in. The room was dim, except where Bronstein stood hunched over a pile of telegrams laid out on a conference table, writing replies and instructions on a large pink pad. Two green-shaded lightbulbs hung high above the table, and a wooden telephone box was on the wall directly behind Bronstein, with a young boy standing there to answer or make calls. All communication workers were on strike, except for Bolshevik party members at the telephone and telegraph offices, who would only forward calls or send telegrams to and from Smolny. Two young couriers waited by the table. A small group that included Bronstein’s second wife Natalia Sedova stood before a map of St. Petersburg hanging on the wall, arguing. The man waited by the door, not wanting to disturb Bronstein, whose face looked fatigued and pale; his eyes were bloodshot, from lack of sleep and overwork, Cossack Hat guessed. He could not help noticing that the room stank of too many cigarettes and cigars and what now seemed an imbedded characteristic of the Institute, too many bodies left unwashed for too many weeks. The window, not yet doubled for winter, was open a crack at the bottom, but it didn’t help. Cossack Hat wrinkled his nose and stifled the desire to cover it with his handkerchief. Trying to ignore the smell, he watched the activity, looking from one part of the room to another. Finally, apparently just remembering the note the guard had brought him, Bronstein looked up and squinted in Cossack Hat’s direction, trying to see him in the dimness. “Privet—hello, comrade,” he called, his voice hoarse. “What a good time for you to come. I hope you are satisfied with what your incredible help has done. The revolution is coming to a conclusion.” He smiled wanly. “I haven’t left this spot for weeks. I eat and sleep here.”

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He suddenly grew excited. “Look,” he exclaimed, picking up a telegram from one side of the table. “Moscow is ours. Its military governor has surrendered to the Moscow Soviet.” He picked up another telegram and waved it. “Rather than follow the czar’s orders and attack the peasant army approaching the city, the Kollontai Regiment has joined them. And most important,” he reached for a message on paper that was wrinkled and almost torn from being passed through many excited hands, “the 9th Imperial Guards have joined us and blockaded the road from Tzarskoje Selo. The czar is at Alexander Palace and cannot return, although it is only sixteen miles away. Because of the strike, he cannot even take the Imperial train here. He might as well be a thousand miles away. This means—” “Lvov, Lvov,” a breathless courier yelled as he ran into the room, hands wildly gesturing. “He has abdicated in favor of his brother. The emperor, Czar Nicholas II, has abdicated. I have his full announcement here.” A cheer went up, followed by yelling, but Bronstein took the message and held it directly under the light to read it. He read no more than a few words before he banged the table and, holding up the telegram, shouted for quiet. “I have the czar’s Decree of Abdication.” Bronstein As Bronstein began to read aloud the telegram, his hoarse voice wavered at first, but grew stronger as he read: Decree of Abdication: In this aftermath of the war against the Japanese and their continued ambition against our fatherland in the Far East, the Lord God has been pleased to send down on Russia a new heavy trial. Internal popular disturbances threaten to have a disastrous effect on our future ability to defend ourselves and will only encourage Japan in the East and those in the West who intend to break up Russia. The destiny of Russia, the honor of our heroic army, the welfare of the people, and the whole future of our dear fatherland demand that these disturbances be settled peacefully. In agreement with the Committee of Ministers and the Holy Synod, We have thought it well to renounce the Throne of the

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There was a moment of silence and then the loud cheers broke out again. Bronstein sat down heavily in a nearby chair, and started writing furiously on his pad while mumbling to himself. When he finished, he tore off the sheet of paper and handed it to the courier. “Under a white flag, take this to Grand Duke Romanov at the Winter Palace. Him and no other.” The courier looked at the message, touched the brim of his military cap, and ran out of the room. Bronstein’s whole body fell into unaccustomed relaxation. He felt the muscles in his face fighting to display a mixture of fatigue, acceptance, triumph, and happiness. Not so those who had been in front of the map and now circled the table. Even in the dim light, their eyes shone with victory, and they looked as if they could barely keep from jumping up and down. Finally Bronstein stood and lifted his cup of cold Kazak tea. A solemn quiet settled over the room. Bronstein waited while each of the others grabbed what they could—a tumbler of water, a ration of vodka or rum, or tea. He saw Cossack Hat retreat into a dim corner to watch. Strange man. Bronstein straightened his back and stood tall. “My dear wife Natalia and my comrades, Anatoly, Leonid, Julius, and Lev. It is almost

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over; the end of the Romanov Dynasty is assured. With the abdication of the czar, I have just sent a message to Grand Duke Alexandrovich. If he accepts the crown from Nicholas, I have threatened that the cruiser Aurora, which our sailors now control with sympathetic officers, will break through the ice to reach the Winter Palace and bombard it. They no longer have the loyal forces to oppose us, especially with the abdication of the czar. I am sure that when we next hear from Grand Duke Alexandrovich, he will be announcing the government’s resignation. Comrades, to the revolution!” They lifted their glasses high and shouted, “The revolution,” swallowed what remained in their glasses and cups, and then threw them down to shatter on the floor, yelling, “Hurrah!” Two of them started dancing; they looked like fat bears being stung by bees. “Now.” Bronstein’s voice took on a new seriousness. He clapped his hands to quiet the others again and draw their attention. “We have a national government to organize, power to consolidate, and a fight against counterrevolutionaries and monarchists we will have to carry to every square inch of the empire.” Bronstein’s seriousness spread swiftly to the others in the room. “We must think in these new terms immediately. To work, comrades. We have no time to waste.” In the thoughtful quiet that resulted, Cossack Hat walked up to Bronstein and shook his hand. “Congratulations. This is a monumental victory for you, a victory for the people of Russia, and a victory for humanity. I have never been so happy.” Bronstein tried to smile and could not. There were not enough muscles in his face to handle all the emotions he felt, and the thoughts that weighed on his mind. This victory was the easier part. What came next would be the hardest; already ideas, strategies, and tactics for this new world fought for attention in his mind. More than anything else, he needed time to be alone for thought. “Stay, and let us talk later about the future,” Bronstein said, gazing into those eerie green eyes, now misty with tears. The man shook his head and, enunciating carefully in his odd accent, he demurred. “No, I have work to do, but I am very happy to be present at this great, truly historic victory. Centuries from now, historians will still be writing about this moment.” He took Bronstein’s two hands in his own. “I wish you the very best, and if I do not see you again, good luck.” When the man opened the door to leave, Bronstein heard people in the hallway cheering and dancing at the news that had just reached

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them. He was tempted to join them and give a triumphal speech, but he shook his head and turned back to his table. He had much work to do, and too little time.

Chapter 11 November 14 San Francisco Joy

T

he door flew with a bang against the wall. Joy, instantly awake, ripped herself out of John’s arms and jerked the comforter up enough to roll from under it onto the carpeted floor. Then an oddly familiar voice with a Chinese lilt stopped her. “Do not be silly, Joy. It would never work.” Joy jerked her eyes toward the door. She immediately saw the gun. The sight instantly kicked in a lifetime of training and an explosion of silent and invisible action: her warrior’s subconscious self-two invoked from memory the dangers and opportunities in the room, relative distances, and the ways this woman could shoot and attack from the doorway. That occurred in a second; in another, a battle-calm settled over her, and she focused on the woman as though her life hung over a chasm by a thread. What Joy would do depended on what she saw in the woman’s eyes, and the smallest movement of the woman’s hands, feet, and center of gravity. Joy slowly tried to position her legs so she could launch herself at the woman, and knew that John would do something from his angle to distract her. John yelled, “Who the hell—” and tried to roll out of the bed on his side to attack her, but his legs were twisted around in the comforter. “You would not make it either, John,” the woman told him. Joy’s battle-poised self-two conceded a small space to her mind, and she looked at the woman beyond her weapons and stance. And gasped mentally. You’re dreaming. Everything today is too crazy. That can’t be me standing there in that stupid uniform with a gun in my hand. Then Joy realized that the woman was real, an Asian woman who closely resembled her. No matter. She had to be disarmed or killed. In her peripheral vision she saw John’s legs sliding free of the comforter. One more instant, Joy gauged. She focused all her energy— “Before you two try to take this gun from me, you can have it.” The woman let the gun twist around her trigger finger, and tossed it grip first onto the bed.

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Joy took a second to look at the gun. It was a strange weapon that she had not seen before; it looked as if it belonged outside of this time. She hoped she’d have a chance to take it apart. Then she realized that she had taken her attention from the intruder. She looked back at her just as the woman held her hands palm out in front of her. She bowed to Joy, and then to John. “May I close the door?” she asked. “Please do,” John said in a husky voice. “Nice of you to drop by. Are you selling something?” She pushed the door shut behind her with one foot, and looked at John with the hint of a smile. “Yes, John—myself.” Then she added, totally mystifying Joy, “You do not disappoint me.” “My god,” John exclaimed, “you look like Joy.” He waved his hand in Joy’s direction. She bowed again to both of them. “I am Captain Khoo Jy-ying of the Sabah Security Guards in China,” she said. “I was sent by my government from the year 2001 to . . . assassinate you both.” The words “assassinate you” again triggered Joy’s body for combat. No matter that she was on the floor; she could fight from any position—and movement would be easier, being naked. The woman seemed to know this and remained stone still, her hands in front of her. Only her lips moved. “My uniform will attest to my official purpose, and you have my gun on the bed. All you need to do, Joy, is look at it and I am sure you will recognize that it is from the far future. As is obvious, I no longer intend to kill you. I could have done that easily. I want to join with you. What we both want the future to be is now threatened by that Post article you have on the table. Let us talk. John can pick up my gun and keep me covered, Joy, if that will assure you of my good intentions.” As what the woman said sank in, what most surprised Joy at first was the woman’s familiarity with their names. She spoke as though she knew them intimately. And then, that she was from the future . . . . Without taking her eyes from the woman, Joy skidded on her bottom over to the bed and reached over the top for Khoo’s gun. It was unusually light. She felt for the safety without taking her eyes from the woman, but there was none she could find with her finger. She settled back and held the gun pointing just over the woman’s head as her selftwo released her body and mind and went into alert semi-readiness. “Okay Khoo, come join us. The chair is yours.” Joy’s first words to the woman sounded flat, almost mechanical. “I hope you don’t mind if we get dressed. Oh, apparently you know my partner, John Banks.”

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Still seated in the bed, John began to put his hand out, then jerked it back. Eyes wide, he cleared his throat, and his words fell out in a jumble. “Um, glad to meetcha, Miss Khoo.” Joy sat on the edge of the bed with the gun still pointed above Khoo’s head as she moved further into the room. She stopped near the chest of drawers, took off her cap and dropped it upside down on the chest, took the pins out of her hair, and let it fall with a shake of her head. Then she sat in the chair. She crossed her ankles and rested her hands palm up on her lap. John let out a “Jesus!” and Joy stared, her jaw hanging. Khoo bore more than a resemblance to her; she looked like her twin. If it weren’t for that scar on Khoo’s cheek, people would have a hard time telling us apart. Joy took a deep breath, handed the gun to John, and told him, “Keep her covered, but be careful. There is no safety.” Then she skittered off the bed behind him so as not to block his view of Khoo. The moist, chilly air finally got to her and, with one eye on Khoo, she was happy to take out of her suitcase her white cotton panties, gray sweatshirt, and Levis—clothes she could not wear outside of the room—and put them on before she started shivering. She didn’t want Khoo to misinterpret that. She picked up the jockey shorts, pants, and shirt strewn on the floor and tossed them onto the bed next to John. Then she took the gun from him and sat on the edge of the bed facing Khoo while he got dressed under the comforter. When he finished, he got out of the bed and came around to sit next to Joy. Eyebrows raised, they both stared wordlessly at Khoo. Khoo glanced from one to the other with little grin. “Call me Jyying, please. Now that we have gone through our introductions and small talk, on to the serious stuff.” Out of the corner of her eye, Joy saw John return a bigger grin. She did not. “I know about the message you received this morning about Sabah, the nuclear destruction of the democracies, and the world victory of his son.” That’s new, Joy thought immediately. The message said it was his father Abul Sabah’s victory. “I know about your successful interventions. I know that, but for those nuclear attacks late in the century, you did prevent World Wars I and II and many other wars, and you saved millions from murder by one dictator after another.”

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“So we found out from the message,” John said. He glanced at Joy and asked the most natural question, without thinking about whether they wanted to hear the answer. “What happened to us, ultimately?” Jy-ying Jy-ying realized she had handled this badly. She had not planned ahead of time what she would reveal, and now realized too late that she had been asked a question she could not answer, for their sakes. Yet if she was to have their trust, she could not appear to be hiding something vital. She leaned forward and reached for Joy’s hand, and raised an eyebrow. “I think you can put that gun down; do you not think so?” After a moment, Joy nodded and put the gun behind her. She held out her hand to Jy-ying with a caution that only another warrior would see. Jy-ying held out her other hand toward John. Lips pursed, he took her hand and held it loosely. Looking from one to the other, Jy-ying said softly, “You two created a miracle. You two alone saved billions and billions of lives. I say this, even as I must add that you have deprived billions and billions of souls of God and Paradise.” She tightened her grip on their hands. She had to be careful. There was no purpose to disclosing their tragic end, to revealing that John had killed Joy to stop her from committing more murders, and that he’d committed suicide to join her. Now for a little white lie that won’t change anything, she thought. “After you achieved almost all you could, you were killed together by a terrorist bomb in the late 1930s.” “Oh, no!” John exclaimed, jerking his hand from Jy-ying’s. He sat with his eyes tightly shut and every line of his face suddenly downcast, before opening them enough to reach for Joy’s hand. Jy-ying kept her eyes on Joy. She could see that Joy believed her. Joy turned to John, saw the pain in his eyes, and told him calmly, “We had to die sometime.” Her voice fell to a soothing whisper. “We died together, dearest, together. And we died after accomplishing our mission. I cannot imagine a better way for us to go.” Then her calm disappeared and she choked up. “That makes me the happiest of all.” Eyes wet, she leaned over and hugged John to her. He put his arms around her. Of all the things that could have happened when she invaded their room, Jy-ying felt this was the best of all. She had thought that their

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cooperation would be that of enemies uniting against a common foe— “an enemy of my enemy is my friend” kind of thing—but now she was not so sure if they really were enemies. She had immeasurable respect for their bravery and accomplishments, but that was the respect one warrior feels for another, even as they fight to the death. What she felt now was a strange closeness to Joy, as though this enemy and destroyer of her religion were her sister. She didn’t understand it. It did not make sense. Not for the tough and hardened security guard she thought she was. Perhaps it was Joy’s instant warrior reaction when she’d burst into the room. Perhaps it was what she had read about them through John’s eyes, and having all those words turned into living, breathing human beings before her—she had a real taste of John’s humor already. Perhaps it was that she was beginning to like and react as a woman toward John. Perhaps it was the moving moment she’d seen between the pair just now. Strange, she thought. I have never been so suddenly affected by other people this way. Also, with the danger of her sudden appearance in the room now past, she again realized how remarkably like her Joy looked. Incredible. We almost could be twins. With his arms still around Joy and his eyes bright, John asked, “Why are you telling us all this? I don’t understand what you’re doing.” Joy pulled herself from John’s arms and wiped her eyes with her hands. “Okay, Jy-ying,” she said, “time for background.” Jy-ying nodded. “This is the easiest part.” She told them that, after the nuclear destruction of New York and the Joy Phim Democratic Peace Institute, and after Sabah’s son Turghun had taken over the United States along with other democracies, the head of Sabah Security in California discovered that the Institute’s Santa Barbara affiliate had sent a message back to a time traveler in San Francisco. This was the message Joy and John had received when they arrived that morning. Security had to assume that the message was about Sabah’s takeover, with the instructions to assassinate Abul Sabah as a child. “The message mentioned nothing about assassinating Sabah,” John said. “They left what to do up to us.” Jy-ying asked, “Did you plan to assassinate him?” Joy nodded. “Yes.” Jy-ying then told them about the effort by the Sabah government of China, really now the ruling world government, to develop a time

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machine to send someone back in time to kill the recipient of the message. Since they could not develop a machine to send back more than one person, they assumed that only one time traveler had received the message. “You should know me as I am,” she told Joy and John, and described how she had maneuvered to be on the list of alternates to be sent, then contrived to move up to be first on the list, in spite of objections from the Muslim ruling Council of Clerics. “I was proud to be the one to go. I am a strong believer in Sabah as the Holy Prophet, and I would have assassinated you two to save Him.” She hesitated, then added, “But for that.” She pointed to the Post on the bed’s side table. Joy asked softly, “How did you find out about us? We are here. You were in the future, and only arrived recently—what, two days ago?” “Yes, I arrived then, and as with you, there was a document waiting for me. It was from those who sent me here, and it included everything I needed to know to locate and kill the time traveler who would assassinate Sabah—you two.” Joy’s brows knotted together. In an exasperated tone she said, “I don’t understand how they knew all this about us. Was there a traitor among us?” Her voice rose. “Was it one of the three guys John hired?” “We hired,” John was quick to say. Jy-ying shook her head. “First, you have to understand what universes we now are in—have already created.” Looking at the Post, she corrected herself. “Or, what universe has been created for us. “I will call the universe you came from, whose major twentieth century wars and democides you tried to eliminate, the First Universe. You succeeded, and thus created a Second Universe in which those killings never occurred, and in which democracies made up most of the world, and were united. But there was for democracies a fatal flaw, an advantage for us Sabahists. They grew confident and lax about their defenses in a world they thought they totally dominated. “Sabah seized power in Uighuristan, controlled Middle Asia, and finally engineered a coup in China.” She was careful to keep the triumph out of her voice. “Sabah was an old man by then, and his son took over most of his power. He used China’s nuclear energy plants to build many nuclear bombs, and eventually used them in a successful attack on the democracies. You know all this from your message. And, as you now know, that message is why I am here—to save Sabah, the Prophet of God, from you. And, God be praised, to save the world he and his son created.

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“So, we are now in a Third Universe, one involving the message to you, my arriving here, and the message I received from uptime. Were it not for that article in the Post, all this should be obvious. But that article clearly shows that the Third Universe you and I and our messages created has become, or is becoming, a Fourth Universe. What this means is—” “Jy-ying!” John gave the finger crossing sign for a time out. “Tell us. How did those who sent you the message know about us?” “Oh, easy.” She looked at John. “You wrote a remembrance of your and Joys’ successes in creating the Second Universe. Very detailed, but partly burned in a fire. There had been rumors about it. Our security searched for it, and finally discovered it in the files of the San Francisco Fire Department.” “I did?” John exclaimed. “How stupid. I must have been addled with age. I’m totally against ever divulging our time travel. The existence of time travel is all evil rulers need to . . . .” John stopped and his face reddened, but he continued to look Jy-ying in the eye. Joy glowered at him. “I can’t believe you did that, John. You warn me all the time never to keep a diary or preserve documents that would reveal the possibility of time travel, and yet you—how could you be so . . . mindless?” John looked sheepish, and asked Jy-ying, “Why did I?” Jy-ying looked at John and then at Joy. Again she was touched by the real reason, and tried hard to keep her voice level and her face noncommittal as she looked back at John. She shrugged. “The Remembrance did not say.” “Can we see it?” John asked. “No,” Joy insisted. “I don’t want to. It would change our behavior. Who can act naturally—spontaneously—when they know their future? And it could be dangerous. Because of your dumb Remembrance, we might deny our good sense and prepare for an attack from X when we should realize it will come from Y.” John became interested in a callus on his palm, and started picking at it. “Joy’s damn training—ruined my hands,” he muttered. Head tilted, Joy stared at him for a couple of seconds. Then she brushed her straight, jet black hair away from her face and looked back at Jy-ying. She opened her palm and gave a little wave of her hand, nodding as though sharing a secret about men. Jy-ying gave her a look of understanding, then firmed her voice and said, “Now, really—time to get serious. I want to talk about the Post article.”

Chapter 12 November 14 San Francisco John

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y-ying looked at John, tilted her head, and asked him, “Did you read the article in the Post?” My God, John thought, she could be Joy asking me, “Did you read what I gave you on Judo?” The same tilt of the head, the same look, the same hair, almost the same voice, except for the accent. Joy tapped him on the leg. “Are you awake?” “Oh, sorry, I’m still digesting what Jy-ying told us. Ah, yes, I’ve read the article, and planned to study it later. Joy hasn’t been able to get it away from me, but I summarized it for her . . . ah, when we . . . arrived.” John noticed Jy-ying’s odd grin when he said that, but it disappeared when she asked, “What do you think of it? You are a historian, so your Remembrance told me, and I am not.” Joy muttered, “Oh no, a John lecture,” and looked up at the ceiling for a moment. Jy-ying looked at her with raised eyebrows. John pointed at Joy and told Jy-ying, “She’s jealous that I know so much more than she does not only about weapons and martial arts, but also about history.” Then the seriousness of the question sank in and, feeling foolish, he told both of them in an apologetic tone, “I’m sorry. This is too serious to be taken lightly. Joy knows me, Jy-ying, but you don’t yet. Humor is like a scotch on the rocks to me, if you know what I mean. It carries me over the rough spots of life, and explains what an utterly calm, balanced—” “John, get on with it,” Joy urged. “Okay, the article.” John picked up the Saturday Evening Post, rapidly flipped to the article, and noted solemnly, “This article has been compiled by the Post from telegrams received from their Russian reporter . . . . ” John looked at the article for the name. “By Vasilii Kubikov. He was a hero. He risked his life to reveal the truth to the

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world and was executed as a spy by the Cheka—Trotsky’s secret police. Kubikov’s wife and three children subsequently escaped to Berlin with the help of anticommunists.” John stopped and bowed his head for a moment. It was more than out of respect for the reporter; it was a sudden realization of the risk that Joy and he would be running once they started their planned intervention to change the course of history. The risk of death might even be greater than Kubikov’s. Joy misunderstood his silence. “Every revolution has their heroes. At least his bravery is recognized, and his family got away.” John jerked his attention back to the article. “Ah . . . I have yet to fully absorb this incredible departure from our history—” “My universe—” Jy-ying tried to interject, her brow knitted. He could not be stopped, neither by Jy-ying nor the roof caving in. “Unbelievable, but it is true that now Trotsky is President of Russia and Chairman of the Communist Party that controls much of the country. And Lenin is Interior Minister and Minister of Justice, while his wife Nadezhda Krupskaya is Minister of Education. Aside from these portfolios, it is true to what Lenin did in 1917 with the Communist revolution in our universe. Trotsky’s victory proclamation is almost identical to Lenin’s of that time, and . . . here, I’ll read Trotsky’s from the article: The abolition of landlords’ property rights, and workers’ control of production, is now assured. We have arrested all ministers of the czar’s government and the heads of the police and Okhrana, and the Okhrana has been declared an illegal organization. All landlords’ property rights are henceforth abolished. We will begin immediately the expropriation of landed, crown, and church property, the imposition of workers’ control of industry, and the complete democratization of the army and navy. John shook his head. “Wow. How better to assure the Red Terror and the civil war that is now chewing up the lives of millions of poor Russians.” He stopped to take a long breath, and Jy-ying saw her chance. Flashing her hand back and froth in front of him to get his attention, she pointed out, “My universe began splitting from yours with your arrival in this time. So, up to then, your bloody, violent, brutal uni-

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verse was mine also. I do not remember much of the European part of history, but was there not a bloody Russian revolution in 1904 or 1905?” Joy’s face shifted from hopeful to resigned. “That’s a yes or no answer, John.” “Well,” John replied, shifting his position on the bed to make himself more comfortable and darting a “you must be kidding” look at Joy, “there was a Bloody Sunday, and that is in fact what it was called; the czar’s troops did fire on the workers; the Cossacks did use their sabers. The toll was something like a thousand or less killed. Workers who had formerly refused to be led by the revolutionaries were outraged at the killing of peaceful, patriotic workers, and this gave the revolutionaries their chance. General strikes occurred all over the nation, and soviets were formed in many cities and towns. But the czar’s troops remained largely loyal and the clever, so-called October Manifesto of Witte’s that the czar announced over his name helped calm things down. And as a newly appointed prime minister, Witte appeared to satisfy the less radical demands of workers and liberals, which tended to reduce the hostility and anger of peasants and workers. “Oh, there were plenty of strikes still, and a mutiny or so, and there was a civil war in Moscow in which a good part of the city was shot up by artillery and burned down, but the soviets there and in St. Petersburg could not overcome the general loyalty of the army. In November the whole St. Petersburg Soviet was surrounded by the czar’s troops and police, and realizing they could not fight them, Trotsky surrendered the soviet. All there were arrested, and Trotsky was tried and exiled to Siberia in 1906. In that year Witte also resigned as prime minister over the czar’s repressive policies, and was replaced by a nonentity, who himself was replaced by Stolypin in July 1906. His subsequent harsh crackdown broke the back of the revolution.” “Thank yo—” Jy-ying began, but John was relentless. “By March of 1917, the losses and hardship of Russian participation in World War I had soured many soldiers and workers on the czar. This brought about his downfall and the end of the Romanov monarchy. A provisional government under Prime Minister Prince Lvov was appointed by the Duma, and in July a new provisional government was set up under the democratic socialist Kerensky. Not widely known, it seems, is that the Bolsheviks came to power by a coup in October, 1917, against an inept, disorganized, provisional government, and not the monarchy.”

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While gathering his breath for another discourse, John took a quick glance at Joy. She was playing with a thread protruding from the sleeve of her sweatshirt. He looked back at Jy-ying, whose eyes were wide with interest. Encouraged, John sat up straighter and went on, his sonorous lecture drone now fully matured. “The Red Terror, the famine, the concentration camps, the destruction of agriculture due to Soviet policies and requisitions, and the civil war all happened, but between 1919 and 1923, not in 1906. Not as the Post article describes the terrible bloodletting now underway. Also, Trotsky led the Red Army from 1918 on, while Lenin headed the Soviet government. Trotsky has been credited with the rapid buildup and organization of the Red Army and its eventual success against the White—the anticommunist—Armies.” John picked up the Post, swung it into the air as though displaying an exhibit in a courtroom, and exclaimed, “As for the bloodbath now underway, it looks like it could exceed the rivers of blood of the Russian Revolution of 1917 to 1922. Then—or now, if the Post article is at all reliable—Russians will die from so many causes or be murdered by the communists or their opponents for so many reasons, it will seem as if the devil had the country in his hand. “There was the communist Red Terror in which clergy, businessmen, landowners, the rich, royalists, critics, and resisters, among others, were shot both en masse and one by one—some five hundred thousand people were murdered. There were the peasant uprisings, literally a Bread War, due to the forced requisition of peasant livestock and food. Another five hundred thousand died. In addition to the murder and deportation of ‘rich’ landlords, the nationalization of estates, and the ravages of the civil war, this Bread War caused a famine that starved to death or killed by associated diseases about seven million people. Then there were the thousands killed in rebellions in cities and towns when people came to recognize the full meaning of the ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’ and the extent of the Red Terror. “More people were killed in forced deportations. New concentration camps killed—I remember this detail for how small it was in contrast to the Stalin years—thirty-four thousand. Finally, there was the civil war itself, which killed over a million people.” “How many overall?” Jy-ying slipped in. John drew in a long breath. “The Russian Revolution of 1917 to 1922 killed about nine and a half million people, over three million of them murdered. This total is larger than the World War I dead of our

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universe. Incredible. We must not, we cannot, let this happen again. This is why we’re here. We must stop what Trotsky and Lenin are doing to Russia. Russians deserve better.” John hesitated, mentally shifting to another section of lecture notes. “Consider that—” Jy-ying clapped loudly twice, breaking John’s concentration. “John,” she said, “thank you. That was . . . helpful.” She looked with a little grin at Joy, who now was winding the thread around one finger. Joy looked up, and cupped her hand to hide her mouth from John. “See?” she whispered. Still grinning, which John interpreted as appreciation, Jy-ying turned back to him. “That is what I thought. This defeats both our missions, mine to save Sabah and his victory—although without the nuclear attacks—and yours to end major war and democides, and foster Godle . . . ah, democracy. “You see, you were successful in preventing the Russian Revolution of 1917, and Russia eventually became democratic. Many of its imperial possessions were given their independence. China also became a democracy, thanks to you, and Uighuristan declared independence. It was never again invaded and taken over by China or Russia. However, if the 1905 communist revolution in Russia reported in the Post article is fully successful, China is unlikely to become a democracy, regardless of what you do. And democracy was the condition which made it easy for Sabah to take power over China in a coup. Russia or China now will probably seize small Uighuristan, even though the Uighurs will fight them. I doubt that Sabah’s parents would survive the bloodbath to bear Sabah, and if they do, whether the boy himself would live long. Even were he to do so, he would not be able to seize power there, and be the father of . . . my religion.” She swallowed and stared down at her clenched hands. “It’s clear,” Joy said, “that our mission is changed also. We can still intervene in Mexico to prevent the Mexican Revolution, but interventions in China and Europe are questionable because of the many political changes that will now occur there. We might as well flush down the toilet our First Universe early twentieth century history of these countries. And as to preventing the Russian Revolution, one of the most important interventions of our mission, our hope of preventing all those murders by Lenin and Stalin is now a ha-ha. The revolution has happened. The murders are happening.”

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John was pleased that Joy had really been listening carefully to him. He had to say what was now obvious. “We are in a new universe not of our making—one created in Russia or even elsewhere before 1905. This 1905 revolution may only be the result of prior historical changes rippling through time. Maybe a meteor hit Russia a century or so ago, and caused enough destruction to change political events there with the consequences we now see. You know, so much of our world is the result of the smallest random events having large consequences. The slightest change in the motion of a trout may cause a millimeter movement of a stone at the bottom of a stream, and as a result a horse steps on it enough offside to slip and throw its rider, a general, who hits his head on the rocks. And a battle is lost, and thus so is a nation’s independence. This is a counterpart of the idea that when a butterfly flaps its wings in a tropical forest it may be the cause of a huge storm—” Joy grinned again at Jy-ying. “We get the idea.” John was too well along on this stream of thought, and ignored her. “The question is whether the revolution in Russia is the culmination of past changes, or a change introduced in or just before 1905. To help determine this, we can look at current political events elsewhere. If this Russian Revolution is only the consequence of historical change occurring well beforehand, then those changes also should appear in Europe, Asia, and the United States in some way. If the Russian Revolution is the first change in our universe, then there should be no or little change from our chronology of events.” “Let’s do this right away,” Joy suggested. “Jy-ying, I imagine you are well trained in the chronology of late 1906, especially for the United States. Have you a newspaper?” She shook her head. Joy got up and retrieved the two newspapers John had bought from the chest of drawers. She gave one to Jy-ying, gave John the back sections of the other paper, and took the front section herself. “Hey,” John complained, “I should get the front section.” “No,” Joy replied, “your incredible grasp of even the smallest historical details, like the name of the Japanese admiral who defeated the Russian navy in the 1905 battle of something strait—” “Admiral Togo led the Japanese fleet that destroyed the Russian navy in the Battle of Tsushima Strait,” John said smugly. “It was a disastrous defeat for the Russians. Of the forty-five ships in the Russian fleet, only two destroyers and the light cruiser Almaz reached the Russian port of Vlad—”

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Joy raised her voice. “—means that you are best suited to the small details of the back sections.” John grinned; Jy-ying chuckled. He suggested that, if they came across a suspicious news item, they should mention it to see if it didn’t ring true for the others, too. “We should keep going until someone says, ‘That’s not right,’ or something like that.” Jy-ying and Joy nodded, and they all began to scan the newspapers. In minutes John read aloud, “Karl Nessler demonstrated the first permanent wave for hair, in London.” The old wooden hotel creaked. Jy-ying rustled her newspaper and said, “The SOS has been adopted as a warning signal by the First Conference on Wireless Telegraphy.” John glanced at Joy. Seeing that she was about to speak, he blurted, “You know, last month Henry Mathewson of the New York Giants walked fourteen men. Wow.” The voices of hotel guests came through the door as they passed down the hallway. Joy put her finger on an item and noted, “Ethiopia was declared independent in a tripartite pact, and divided into British, French, and Italian spheres of influence.” Newspapers rustled as Joy and Jy-ying turned to the next page. John sighed, “How sad, Bill Rufus Shafter died. He was terribly overweight, you know.” He glanced back and forth between Jy-ying and Joy. They had their eyes focused on their papers. He went on. Louder. “He died at his daughter’s home from pneumonia. He was buried next to his loving wife at the Presidio. Only a few of us historians know of this great man. In March of 1863 he spent several months in a Confederate prison, you know.” Joy and Jy-ying seemed not to hear him. Have they been trained in the same female academy? he wondered. He raised his voice even more. “Afterward, Bill became part of the regular army and was an officer in the Seventeenth United States Colored Infantry. He fought in the battle of Nashville in December, 1864. He was commissioned a lieutenant colonel after the war, you know, and went to Louisiana—” Jy-ying raised her voice even higher than John’s. “This month is Sun Yat-sen’s birthday—he was born in 1866, and was very influential in China’s democra—” John spoke still louder. “Hey, Princeton is the NCAA Champion at 9-0-1.”

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Joy yelled, “President Teddy Roosevelt is on his way to visit Puerto Rica and Panama. He will be the first president to visit a foreign coun— John was breaking up as he tried to raise his voice even higher. He tried to suppress his laughter. “The Dow average for the last month was 94.” Joy grabbed the newspaper out of his hands. She bunched the pages together and tossed them at his head. He ducked and finally let the laughter out. Jy-ying and Joy joined him. “I think we’re all agreed,” he said, chuckling, “that this was not a good idea. We don’t have our chronologies, and the news items we’re seeing don’t seem odd or displaced in time. We will have to do this at the library with our chronologies, and work from the events listed there for a particular date, comparing them to the news in the newspapers for the days following.” Jy-ying leaned over and removed a sheet of crumpled newsprint that was draped over John’s head—John saw Joy’s sudden look at her—and noted, “It was fun. Anyway, I found some interesting items. There is a woman here operating a mission for Chinese girls, especially those who were enslaved in . . . oarhouses, I think you call them.” “Whorehouses,” John corrected. Jy-ying continued. “She breaks into them with helpers and takes away the young girls that have been forced to be sex slaves. She cares for them until they can handle their own lives.” “Cut out that item,” Joy said. “Maybe we can help the woman out. Oh, I found something also.” She picked up the page she had been looking at, and read, “‘Grand Jury begins investigation of the houses of assignation known as French Restaurants. These included Marchand’s, Delmonico’s, The New Poodle Dog, The Bay State, and The Pup, all of which featured supper-bedrooms. Mayor Ruef had acted as attorney for French Restaurants during liquor license renewal in 1905.’ Well,” Joy added, “this tells us what places to avoid.” John blurted, “Yes, keep that item also, so we know what evil places to . . . ah, avoid.” Joy looked askance at him, one eyebrow raised, but John ignored her and clapped his hands once. “Okay, girls, we’re off topic. We will have to go to the library tomorrow. I think we are all too tired today. In the meantime, we have to plan what to do about this, assuming that the changes in this universe began with the 1905 Russian Revolution— unless the library research proves otherwise.

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“Joy and I had planned to take a long nap before your surprise visit, Jy-ying. We are scheduled to meet our first hires, three guys we met when we landed here, and if you will join us, I’ll introduce them to you. Then afterward, I want to discuss tentatively what we should do. Where are you staying, Jy-ying?” Jy-ying pointed to the wall that separated her room from John’s. “The next room,” she said. “You were there for a while before you . . . surprised us?” “Yes.” Joy reddened slightly, and John thought, Now she does know everything. He quickly asked, “I imagine that you have all the funds you need for your mission, as you know we do. But you will be working closely with us on our new mission, and you’ll need a cover for our working as one.” Oops, not well put, John realized with a quick glance at Joy, whose face was clouding up. Working with Joy and Jy-ying together is going to be complex. John softened his voice, tilted his head at Joy, and rested his finger on her arm. “Joy, what kind of cover can we give Jy-ying?” Joy hesitated, put her hand over John’s, and then looked directly at Jy-ying. She said in Mandarin Chinese, “I’m sure you speak this language Do you speak others?” Jy-ying answered, “Yes; I understand Hakka and Cantonese, among others. As a security guard, I had to learn all the major Chinese languages.” “Good.” Joy turned to look at John with the hint of a smile. “She can work under me as my assistant and, for show, my translator.” “Perfect,” John replied. Just what I wanted. He leaned over and started picking up the papers on the floor. “We’re going to take a nap,” he told Jy-ying. “Please meet us at the hotel restaurant at six.” “Oh, one more thing, Jy-ying,” Joy said. “I saw your beautiful calligraphy in the registration book, and the room you listed was on the third floor. You changed rooms?” “Yes, as soon as I saw what rooms you two had. But then, I was going to assassinate you.” Jy-ying stood, hesitated, and then stepped over to Joy and shook her hand. She did the same to John. “To our mission,” she said. Joy lifted Jy-ying’s gun from the bed, took a quick look at it, and handed it to Jy-ying. “Nice gun, but too light. I’d like to take it apart sometime.”

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Jy-ying turned at the door and grinned at Joy. “It’s light because it’s not loaded,” she said, and left.

Chapter 13 November 14, 1906 Berlin Rosa Luxemburg

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osa was alone in her two room apartment, writing at her oak table by the light of an electric lamp with a gray lace lampshade and a grotesque gargoyle base that sat in the middle of the table surrounded by scattered notes, newspapers, and telegrams. Magazines and books, some lying open, were strewn amidst the papers. This was how Rosa worked. It appalled visitors, but she always seemed to find what she was looking for in seconds. Her mind was organized; what lay on the table was its debris. The apartment itself was chaotic. A ceramic gas stove stood in the corner on a stone base, its flue rising straight up to disappear through the blackened ceiling. Partly eaten food lay on the counter in the small kitchen; unwashed dishes waited in the sink for days until she had nothing to eat on, and washed them; clothes were draped across a davenport, now converted to a bed; and next to a smelly armchair against one wall, clothes spilled from two open suitcases. And she took a bath maybe once a month. She did not have time. She was used to temporary lodgings, and would be leaving this one in twenty-four hours to travel by train to Warsaw. She wanted to help and be with her lover Leo Jogiches, who planned to launch a Polish revolution modeled on Trotsky’s in a month. Although Trotsky had promised the independence of Poland, the czar’s Russian governor-general of Poland was still in control and seemed very reluctant to relinquish power. Leo’s sympathetic contacts in the governor-general’s headquarters were sure he was on the verge of making himself the president of Poland, declaring Poland free of Russia, and fighting the Red Army if it tried to take back the country. So far, the Russian-Polish Army was still loyal to him. But Rosa had the telegram from Trotsky’s German lieutenant: the new Soviet government of Russia was just too busy, too shaky, too threatened by the White Armies to bother at this time with Poland, but if a successful

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communist revolution seized control from the governor and his lackeys, then Trotsky would welcome Poland’s independence and collaboration in the international war on capitalism and bourgeoisie society. Rosa and Leo had declared themselves Bolsheviks in February, but to conform with the name change in St. Petersburg, they now called themselves communists. Her lover now headed the Polish Communist Party in Warsaw that he’d founded. They were still short of arms, but the Warsaw Grenadier Corps would come to their side. In one month the revolution would be launched with massive general strikes. Most helpful was the announcement in today’s telegram that comrades had assassinated two Russian and one Polish general, all major bulwarks of traditional Russian control. She was bone tired. Although only thirty-six and in good health, she had not slept for a full day. She had to get this article finished for the German social democratic newspaper Vorwòrts. And she still had to attend the meeting with Karl Liebknecht about setting up a German Communist Party in Berlin out of the unhappy left wing of the Reichstag’s social democrats. Events were moving so fast it was hard for any of them to keep up—all seemed out of control, as though they were leaves in the wind of a magnificent global communist revolution. There was a knock at the door. She ignored it. The knock came again, heavier. “Gówno—shit!” she exclaimed in Polish. She rose heavily and cocked the door open. “Yes?” she said to the tall, solid-looking man standing on the other side. The man wore a white Cossack hat with the flaps up; his open greatcoat revealed a brown corduroy suit and a collarless gray shirt. He had a heavy wool scarf tossed over one shoulder. “Are you Rosa?” Rosa edged to the back of the door, ready to slam and lock it. She had been warned about German Freikorps assassins ready to work their way down a list of prominent revolutionaries. She had a suitcase of her essentials ready and had prepared an escape route out the apartment’s rear window and down an alley. He could not be German, however, not the way he dressed and mangled the language. An American? The man held out a folded piece of paper. “This is from Leo and introduces me to you. I just left him this morning in Warsaw. The code word is Spartacus.” “Excuse me?” she answered, shaking her head.

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“S.P.A.R.T.A.C.U.S,” he spelled out, but his pronunciation of the letters was hardly easier to understand. Nevertheless, she understood. “Ah, Spartacus.” She opened the door and waved him in, holding out her other hand for the message. While he closed the door behind him, she took the message over to the lamp and read it. She stared at him, and then plopped into her chair, quickly expelling air through her teeth. “You did this for us?” She ran her hand through her hair. “All that money.” She reread the message, looked back up at him, and almost shouted, “Welcome, comrade, to the revolution! Come, sit down.” She got up and dragged a chair around the table to a spot next to hers. “I don’t have any schnapps or beer to drink. Could I make you tea?” “Nein,” the man said, and tried to pronounce his next words carefully. “I cannot stay long. I have too much to do, and so do you. I came here only to give you this.” He handed her an envelope. “It’s the number of a bank account at Dresdner Bank, and it’s in the name of Katharina Schluter. You will also see in the envelope the ID and false birth certificate that will enable you to pass as that person.” “How much is in the account?” “Fifty million marks.” She gasped and jerked back in her chair, eyes wide. “What am I to do with all this money?” “Use it wisely to promote a Bolshevik-communist revolution in Germany. It will take time and much organization, but I know you are at the center of the revolutionaries here. I’m also sure that after Trotsky consolidates his power in Russia, he will help you. Two more things.” Rosa strained forward to understand him, her eyes still large and her mouth hanging open in shock. “I know that your Polish revolution will be launched in a month. One week before that, a revolutionary will assassinate the governorgeneral of Poland. Since he has monopolized power, this will leave his government not only leaderless, but powerless. The army and police will not know what to do. You and Leo can prepare for it.” “How can you be sure?” “You can count on it. But, even if you prepare for it and I am wrong, you lose nothing if he lives. Second, the workers here do not understand or support revolution. The whole union movement is oriented toward peaceful reform and social democracy—evolutionary social democracy. Move slowly and organize and be prepared. For

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there will be a war with Serbia, France, and England. Soviet Russia will remain neutral at first. When that war occurs, and it will be bloody, the workers will be yours, as well as mutinous soldiers and sailors. I cannot be sure of when this will happen. Maybe in a decade or less.” She stared at him again, this time as though he were an alien being. “A war?” “Yes. It will be a bloody one, and one destabilizing Germany to your advantage.” “But what can cause such a big war?” “An assassination, an ultimatum, the fear of being at a disadvantage when other powers mobilize, and what everyone thought would be a small war will escalate into a war involving all of Europe, and ultimately may even involve the United States.” “The United States? Now I know you are joking. Why should Americans stop chasing Indians to send their cowboys way over here to make war on . . . who? Will they be on Germany’s side?” “No, they will fight with the English and French against Germany, Austro-Hungary, and Turkey, and a few East European nations. I think Trotsky will declare war on Germany after he sees the opportunity for communism here, and will help destroy the Kaiser. It will give you your greatest opportunity for revolution.” Rosa cleared her throat. “You sure have an imagination.” She pinched the bridge of her nose before continuing. “I do not want to insult you, and I respect your great help, but you should leave the politics and predictions to us Poles and Germans, who have lived in this political culture our whole life. Anyway, I know great changes and opportunities are coming. It is in the air. It is in the streets. It is in the union halls. It is in the Reichstag. And we will be ready.” “That is all I digest,” the man said, mixing up the German “suggest” with “digest,” but Rosa understood. He stood and headed for the door. Rosa got up to follow him. Her knees felt weak as she remembered the fortune he’d given her. At the door, she asked, “What is your name?” “No matter,” he said, meeting her gaze with green eyes filled with respect. “Just think of me as a rich comrade.”

Chapter 14 November 14, 1906 San Francisco Joy

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s soon as the door closed behind Jy-ying, Joy said, “We have to trust her. The ultimate proof is that she could have burst into your room with a loaded gun and shot us dead, and didn’t; since her gun was unloaded, she also risked being killed by me—” “Us,” John interrupted. “—and she knew it.” Joy paused, then suggested, “Let’s go to my room. I’m uncomfortable knowing that she is on the other side of that wall.” John smiled. “Even in your room, baby, my lovemaking would make your screech loud enough for her to hear. Even if she were walking down the street. Or, possibly on the ferry to Oakland.” “I see. Well, so much for lovemaking.” Ha-ha, I got him with that. Feeling smug, Joy picked up her suitcase and headed for her room. John followed her, muttering, “Stupid, stupid.” Once they were settled on Joy’s bed for a nap, Joy asked, “What do you think about our new partner?” John stretched and put his hands behind his head. “I see no reason to doubt her. She told us about her mission to kill us, she was frank about her religion and her desire that Sabah be saved somehow, and she knew about the message we received from her future—which means she knew, as did those who sent her, that we had to be planning to kill him.” His voice trailed off at the end. He turned on his side and put one arm over her. “I’m sleepy, baby.” “She could be me,” Joy said. “No woman could be like you.” “She looks like me. She acts like me.” John whispered, “You are unique.” “If she were naked, you might think she was me.” She turned her head to look at him. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing lightly. She sighed. So much at stake. So many lives to save. Such a responsibility. And now, Jy-ying.

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She caressed the locket she wore containing her mother’s photograph. She felt again her terrible loss—she would never see her loving mother again. She let the quiet tears flow. Then she thought, But I have my dearest. She leaned over and kissed John on the cheek. In minutes, she was asleep. She did not see John open one eye, make sure she was asleep and, with a dimple forming at the corner of his mouth, fall asleep himself. Jy-ying Jy-ying waited at the entrance to the hotel restaurant. She wore the checked gingham jumper that fit her tight at the waist and hips, but no hat. The day was too serious for anything but her usual braided circlet of hair on the back of her head. And no makeup, of course. Three fellows walking past her suddenly stopped and stared at her. Then they seemed to notice something about her that made them relax, and the tallest of them said, “I’m sorry for staring at you, miss. I thought you were somebody we knew.” “I am. Almost,” Jy-ying responded with a little bow, looking at each of them. “I am waiting for John Banks and Joy Phim. You must be the three gentlemen we are joining for dinner.” She knew all about them, since they played such a prominent role in John’s Remembrance. The three stood straighter. That may have been the first time in their life they were called gentlemen. The tall one doffed his hat. “I’m Hands Reeves,” he said, and introduced the other two. “We work for Mr. Banks and his assistant Miss Phim. You’re right; we’re supposed to meet them here for supper.” Nice looking man, Jy-ying observed. She smiled. “Ah, yes, John . . . Mr. Banks invited me to join you. I am happy to meet you. I am Khoo Jy-ying.” Without thinking, she added, “I am Joy’s sister. I will also be working for the company, with Joy.” “Hey, that explains why you look so much like her,” the man named Sal said. “I thought there could be only one beauty like her in the world.” Then he added, his eyes shining, “Are there more?” Ah yes, she thought, Sal. The funny, oversexed, brazen, disrespectful one. How come we do not have anyone like him in the China of my time? Jy-ying grinned at him. “Thank you, Mr. Garcia, for the compliment. No, I have no other sisters.”

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“You and Joy . . . ah, Miss Phim, sure sucked up all the beauty. Nothing left for other women but plain or ugly.” What do Americans call this? Ah, yes, a line. Jy-ying raised her eyebrow at him. The one named Dolphy Docker punched him in the shoulder. “You must excuse my friend,” he told her. “He’s just wowed by you and Joy.” “And I’ll hit him myself if he doesn’t mind his manners,” Reeves said, glaring at Garcia. Jy-ying chuckled, feeling good about these men. “He is a nice man, Mr. Reeves. I have never been so complimented.” Garcia beamed and hit Docker back on the shoulder. Reeves smiled at Jy-ying and told her, “I’m Hands. You can call us all by our first names, Khoo, since we are coworkers.” “Khoo is my last name. For Chinese, last names come first. Call me Jy-ying.” Then she saw John and Joy coming down the lobby stairs. She tried not to stare at John, but in his well-fitted diagonally worsted coat and pinstripe pants, with his wild blond curls framing a square, rugged face, he was a handsome and graceful man. But, she thought, if she had anything to do with it, he would not wear that maroon bow tie. Even so, she flushed, and her heart fluttered. No good, she told herself, and jerked her gaze to Joy. Even at a distance she could see that Joy had been watching her stare at John. Especially, no good. John John joined them with a smile. “Hello, everybody. I see you’ve met the guys, Jy-ying.” Turning to them, he asked, “Have you introduced yourselves?” They nodded. “Fine, let’s eat.” There were no empty tables for six, so John picked one table and dragged over another. He sat at the head of the two tables, with Jy-ying on his right side. Joy walked around to the other side and sat on his left. John was speechless for a moment, wondering how that happened. He glanced at Joy. She was looking at Jy-ying—was that the hint of a glower?

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He cleared his throat. Looking at the three guys, he asked, “Did Miss Khoo tell you that she is your coworker? She will be Miss Phim’s assistant and translator—” Joy kicked him under the table. She told the guys, “I can’t stand this. I’m Joy. Boss-man is John.” She pointed to John, then pointed to each of the others in turn and gave their first names. “Thank you, Joy,” John replied with a grin. “You see, she is my assistant and translator.” He emphasized the last word. Sal had been staring back and forth between Joy and Jy-ying with his mouth open. He finally told Jy-ying, “If you hadn’t told me you and Joy were sisters, I would have guessed it. Are you twins?” John was taken aback for a moment. Sisters? Then he realized what a good idea that was. It was a convenient answer when people wondered about the two women’s resemblance. “No, we—” Joy started to answer, but John interrupted. “No, not as you mean it, but they’re fraternal twins. Jy-ying just joined us from New York. Her room is next to mine.” Dolphy asked, “What’s a fraternal twin?” “Ah,” John tried to answer, “they come from different ovum . . . ah, female reproductive cells. Eggs.” Dolphy colored slightly and saw something interesting to look at on the wall. Hands seemed engrossed in the tabletop. Sal looked from Joy to Jy-ying and grinned. “Yeah, I thought so.” They spent several minutes studying their menus. “Everybody ready to order?” John asked. When they nodded, John looked for the waiter and realized that he had been ignoring them. He glanced at Joy and Jy-ying, recalling the prejudices of this period. Time for a little speech to remind everyone that we’re all immigrants, he thought. Before he could rise and call for attention, Jy-ying stood and walked over to the waiter, oblivious to the gazes of several male customers. She tapped the waiter on the shoulder, put her hand on his arm, leaned toward him with a smile, and said something. The waiter took a step back, his face aghast, and then immediately came to their table to take their order. Jy-ying followed him, and sat back down without a word. Almost obsequious, the waiter responded to their orders with, “Yes sir. Yes ma’am. Is there anything I can get you? Coffee or tea?” When the waiter left, everyone looked at Jy-ying. Finally Hands asked, “What did you say?”

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“Oh, simple. I said that if we did not get waited on in five seconds, I was going to put my arms around him and give him a big kiss in front of everybody, and say loudly, ‘Thanks for the fun night.’” The three guys clapped; John grinned. Joy’s face was stony. John suspected she was still unhappy that Jy-ying had not asked her before claiming they were sisters. Sal asked Jy-ying, “If I don’t pass you the salt and pepper, will you give me five seconds also?” Everyone laughed; Joy released a little smile. Joy Joy felt foolish, and couldn’t help chiding herself during the rest of the meal. What’s the matter with me? Jy-ying is doing nothing more than what I would do. She’s just admiring a good-looking man, but she’s no competition for his heart. We now have a terribly important mission to do together, and this stupid, trivial jealousy cannot interfere. It’s that she looks so much like me. Any other woman, and I would not have given it a thought. The “it” needed no reference. Okay, goddam it. Enough. She used her warrior skills to relax herself, and when she felt she could look at Jy-ying calmly and without a tendril of jealousy reaching out from her heart, she smiled at Jy-ying and asked during a break in the conversation, “How ya doing, Sis?” Jy-ying responded with a smile of her own. “Great. So nice to be with you again.” Joy heard John let out a long breath. Under the table, he lifted up her dress with the toe of his boot and gently rubbed the side of her leg. After the meal, John warned the fellows that he would knock on their doors around eight the next morning to start working them “like slaves.” “Oh,” Hands responded. “Like peasants.” When Dolphy appeared to take John seriously, Joy laughed. “Joke, joke,” she told them. “Remember, I’m the translator.” Jy-ying nodded, and Dolphy gave her an embarrassed grin. They said good night to the guys. On the way to John’s room, Joy stopped at her own to get the laptop computer she had packed in her suitcase. John also picked up the room’s lone chair and carried it into his room for additional seating, and the trio settled in John’s room.

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Before John could began, Joy, seated on the edge of the bed with the laptop next to her, looked at Jy-ying. “Calling us sisters was clever. Now if people comment on how identical we look, we can simply say, ‘We’re sisters,’ and they will move on.” Jy-ying replied, “Except for men like Sal, who will find it a good opening . . . line, is that what you call it?” “Yes,” John said, “and I would have used it myself, on Joy.” When Joy and Jy-ying raised their eyebrows, he hastened on. “As I mentioned, tomorrow we will do research in the library, seeking any changes that have taken place in current events. But since we did go through the newspaper—or tried to, until Joy lost her usual admirable control,” he added with a laugh, “we can assume that a new universe began in Russia in 1904 or 1905 with the events that led up to the successful revolution of November, 1905.” Joy frowned over that. “It’s not right. If a new universe were created in 1905, how could we land in this new universe in 1906? Remember, John, our scientists were unable to find a way to cross universes, which is why we could never return to 2001—our arrival here would create a new universe.” “You have to be right, Joy,” Jy-ying said. She looked pensive, and then raised a finger. “How about this? It cannot be possible that a change in one tiny part of the world, like our little part of San Francisco, would be instantly transmitted all over the world. It must be that such changes introduced into the time stream radiate out like ripples from a pebble tossed onto the still surface of a pond. Those time-ripples from the revolution in Russia have yet to change this tiny and remote part of the world. So, when we landed here, we were still in the universe to which we’d been sent.” “More like a boulder rolling off a cliff into a still pond,” Joy said. “In any case,” John replied, “a theory of incrementally changing universes. I’ll buy that. In history, one can always find cases where—” Joy sensed a lecture and hastened to respond. “I agree. Now that we have that behind us, what do we do about the changes that have occurred, and will eventually reach us here?” She looked at Jy-ying. “You want to save Sabah and your religion. We want to prevent the major twentieth century wars and democides by intervening at historical turning points, and globalizing democracy to end the possibility of these catastrophes. Maybe there is a way to achieve both our missions, without the nuclear holocausts of Abul Sabah’s son.”

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John pushed his hand through his wild hair. “We should leave that until a later time. Regardless of how we deal with our divergent missions—except for killing us, of course,” he gave Jy-ying a little grin, “the more important thing is what to do about the vast political changes now taking place.” Joy faked a somber look. “Yes, after giving it some thought, I agree with John. Killing us is out. And, right—we have to do something about the changes. But isn’t it more important to find out what’s causing these changes first?” “Let’s deal with that in a moment,” John said. “I can’t exaggerate how important the Russian revolution of 1905 is, particularly because Trotsky led it. He is now the most powerful man in Russia, more powerful than Lenin. This gives Trotsky the chance to pursue his idea of permanent revolution. He believes that, for a communist revolution in Russia to be secure, the revolution must be spread to other countries. He will not wait for a powerful, industrial Soviet state to be created first, as Stalin would have done—this was the major conflict between Trotsky and Stalin. As soon as the revolution is consolidated, that is, the White Armies are defeated and his control is extended over all Russia, he will try to use all means to create communist revolutions in other countries. He’ll do this first among his neighbors, and then their neighbors, and so on. I’m convinced Germany, which has a strong social democratic, union movement, will follow Poland.” Jy-ying looked at Joy. “Did he sneak in a lecture?” She nodded, trying to look mournful. John ignored them. “I suggest, Joy, that we temporarily put aside all our plans to intervene in Mexico, Japan, and China. All that we do now should be concentrated on Eastern Europe, Poland, and Germany.” Jy-ying interjected, “No, China cannot be forgotten. It is very important to prevent communism in China, regardless of whether or not the fall of the Manchu dynasty creates a democracy.” Joy leaned forward, put her elbow on her knee, and rested her chin in her hand. “With what is happening in Russia, I can’t imagine still going ahead with the other parts of our mission. Yes, Mexico and Japan have to be out, for a while. But I would stick with our China mission. Trying to prevent communism and the rise of a fascist Nationalist Party in China is what underlies our intervention to promote democracy there.” She looked at John, eyebrows raised. “Your moment is up.” Frowning, John looked back at her. “My moment is up?”

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“Yes. You said, ‘Let’s deal with what caused these changes in the Russian time path in a moment.’ The moment is up. Maybe we would have a better idea of what to do if we knew what was causing these changes.” Before John could answer, Jy-ying pointed out, “It cannot be a meteor, volcanic eruption, earthquake, or another natural catastrophe. All such would be fixed in time and place regardless of the changes in our universe or the one that the 1905 revolution created—is creating.” John looked thoughtful. “It has to be a man.” Joy scowled, and he hastily corrected himself. “Rather, a person; a he or she; someone.” Good man, she thought, and added out loud, “I agree. Some person is behind this. What I don’t understand is how they were able to remove themselves from the historical flow of this universe to affect such an incredible revolution, and I mean that in both the political and physical senses.” Jy-ying shook her head. “No person, he or she, or someone could. Neither could an alien of whatever sex, or lack thereof, since . . . it . . . is part of the same universe.” Joy was amused; she saw the mischief in Jy-ying’s eyes. She was beginning to like her. She was even more amused when John looked from Jy-ying to her and said, “You two have been putting me on. You are really sisters, aren’t you.” He held his hand up before she could reply. “It’s obvious, once the idea has been mentioned, that one or more time travelers, probably with resources similar to ours or better, have intervened in Russia. They are trying to do for communism what we want to do for democracy.” “And Sabahism, John. Do not forget my mission,” Jy-ying added softly. “As long as it doesn’t include our deaths,” John replied. Jy-ying’s expression turned grim. She got up, knelt before John and Joy, and put out her hands for theirs. When she had their hands, she said in a firm voice, “You have mentioned that twice John, and Joy did once. I do not blame you for your worry. I do not blame you if you do not trust me. I want you both to know I could no longer kill either of you, even if I thought it would save Sabah. How do you say it? That is off the table? Forever.” She gave Joy’s had a squeeze. “Anyway, Joy is my sister. How could I kill my sister?” John replied, “But I’m not related to you. At least, not as far as I know.”

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“Yes,” Jy-ying replied, “but you are Joy’s lover, and in her heart, her husband.” Joy thought she had shown the green monster the door, but when Jy-ying said that, it was as though a wet blanket had been removed from her body and the sun was shining on her. Other than acting toward John as any woman would naturally, Joy was sure that Jy-ying would not betray her. With that, Jy-ying got up and returned to her chair. Folding her hands on her lap and looking back at Joy and John, she said, “I’m back to where I started. I came to this age to find a time traveler. Turns out it was you two. Now, again, I have to find one or more time travelers. But I will not be alone. I am now part of a team of three. I will call it the Banks Team.” Joy smiled at her—genuinely smiled at her for the first time. “Welcome, Jy-ying.” John got a thoughtful expression on his face. “How do we catch this or these communist time travelers? Why, we make them come to us. Here, to San Francisco, where we can trap them. Where it would be easiest.” “How do we do that?” Joy asked. “Look, girls, I solved our problem. Do I have to do everything? The little details are up to you two.”

Chapter 15 November 15, 1906 San Francisco Jy-ying

T

hey were sitting in Sam’s Grill on Bush Street for lunch. John had dismissed the three guys for the day, and wanted this chance to talk with Joy and Jy-ying about their plans. They had found nothing amiss in the big events in the United States and elsewhere outside of Europe, but there was considerable middle-level activity in Congress and the State Department about the revolution in Russia. State had recalled its ambassador to Russia for consultation, and had closed down several consulates, including the one in Moscow, because of the danger to American officials during the Red Terror and the civil war. Intervention was much talked about; some prominent senators were calling for American help for anticommunist forces, including President Pro Tempore William P. Frye, but Secretary of State Elihu Root was opposed. President Roosevelt had called an emergency cabinet meeting, and pundits were predicting that a major aid program for the starving Russians would be recommended to Congress. John voiced their conclusion: “The political changes in this universe must have started in Russia in 1905.” He asked them if they had any suggestions for finding the one responsible for these changes. “Yes,” Jy-ying said, “we do.” John nodded and sat back to listen as she detailed their suggestion. “For purposes of discussion, we will assume the communist time traveler is one male, although it’s probably a female, the stronger sex.” John pursed his lips, waved the thought away, and motioned for her to continue. “We discarded going to Russia or Germany and searching for this person,” Jy-ying said. “We do not know the countries; we do not have contacts in Europe yet. Our Tor Import and Export Company is not in business yet, and provides no cover. We reluctantly concluded that you are correct—he will have to come to us.” She looked at Joy. “How am I doing?”

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“Couldn’t do better,” Joy replied. Jy-ying continued. “So, how to bring him to us? Do we appear as huge Bolshevik-communist supporters with tons of money to give to major revolutionaries in Germany? Joy says, ‘No way do we aid the communists, even as a trap,’ and I agree.” Joy nodded emphatically. “Do we seem to provide aid for reactionary or conservative causes or people? We agreed that we would likely find ourselves blown up by a revolutionary, if not the time traveler. And so on, for many different strategies, until we ended up with the one and only good one.” “I got that much,” John said, rolling his eyes. “Now, what is it?” Joy answered, her voice silky. “Well, since you can’t figure it out, I guess we’ll just have to help you.” She then got serious. John’s eyes got wider and wider as she explained their plan. When she finished, he smiled and nodded. Then he sat back, looking pleased. “My compliments, ladies. Good thinking.” Glancing at Joy and then Jyying, he asked, “Who thought up this brilliant idea?” “Actually, both of us,” Joy replied. “While you were having the three guys run all over the library newspaper section checking out the current events in both our chronologies, Jy-ying and I threw some ideas back and forth. You said you wondered what happened to us. Well, we found a quiet table and talked about it. Don’t you remember? You left the details to us.” She grinned. “It is a matter of sheer brilliance applied in a deductive manner,” Jy-ying explained. “Oh,” John said, “I thought this idea came from you two.” “Ha! Sheer intellectual jealousy,” Joy said, looking smug. Jy-ying could not believe where her new levity came from. Clearly, it was encouraged by the barter between John and Joy, but it had to be latent in her. In her career as a Chinese commissioned officer, she would not have dared to display this side of herself. Everything had to be serious. Even what one did with lovers and at home was a matter of religious concern by the clerics, and prying eyes and tell-all jilted lovers and mates were an ever present danger. She was enjoying this new freedom, and it lightened the deadly seriousness of their new mission. John mulled the idea over, and then leaned on the table toward Joy. “Let’s work on it. Time is of the essence, since it’s probable that more than a couple thousand Russians are being shot, starved to death, or dying of disease every day. I’ll do the draft, and then both of you should go though it to add or subtract. We all can’t be doing this at the same

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time, so I suggest we also set up our company at its temporary business location in the warehouse where we landed. Then we will have to hire someone to help us with the publication and marketing, but I’m willing to sink many millions into this. “I’m going to start writing as soon as we get back to the hotel. I’ll leave it to you two to schedule all the other things we have to do.” He looked from Joy to Jy-ying. “People, we’re off and running.”

Chapter 16 November 16 Joy

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t was about one in the morning when John woke her by getting into bed. Eyes half shut, she mumbled, “How’s it going, dearest?” He yawned and pulled the covers up to his chin. “I’ve got about fifteen or twenty pages done so far. They’re going fast, since it’s almost all off the top of my head. Only occasionally do I need to consult the chronology. I can’t believe how tired I am. And cold. It must be about 45 degrees in here.” Joy felt more awake. “Do you know how long we’ve been in this age? In an hour or so, it will be two days. Two days. I can’t believe all that we’ve done and all that has happened to us in that short time.” John snuggled close to her and draped his arm over her chest. “Hey, you’re like ice,” she yelped. John pulled her tight against him. “We share and share alike, including your heat.” Now wide awake, she felt relaxed and comforted in her lover’s arms, despite his chilled body; she actually enjoyed the feel of his cold flesh. Her mind idly roamed over the day. “Do you realize,” she babbled, “that we landed here, found a message from the future waiting, you saved me from suicide, we met the three guys and hired them, we got our first rooms at this hotel, had an unusual meeting with Jy-ying, found out about Trotsky’s victory in Russia and the civil war there, did research on whether that was the first or a sequence of changes, determined that there was one or more communist time travelers at work in this time, and found a way to lead him or them to us—all in less than forty-eight hours? Can you believe it?” Silence. She turned her head and looked at him. He was asleep. “Wait until he finds out what more I have to tell him,” she told herself. “Then again, maybe he’ll find out before I say anything.”

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John Something startled John awake. He sat up and looked around. Joy was still sleeping, so it couldn’t be anything dangerous. Any threat, and she would be wide awake and crouched at the door, ready to punch her fist through it. He looked out the window and saw that it was barely light outside; fog pushed against the glass pane and water dripped from a gutter somewhere. He lay back, spooned Joy, and was almost asleep in the comfort of her naked warmth when he heard it again. A dog barking somewhere. Not unusual. Dogs always bark somewhere, he though drowsily. He’d almost slid back into sleep when the dog barked again. It was in the next room, he was sure. But that was his room. It had to be in the one next to his. But that was Jy-ying’s. Now he was awake. He kissed Joy’s bare shoulder. “Hey, sleepy head. You going to snore all morning? We have work to do.” Joy opened her eyes, looked at him, and then jerked to a sitting position and covered her breasts. “Who are you? I don’t think you gave me your name.” John felt his eyebrows waver for only a second. “I didn’t? I am Euscrewami, the Greek janitor. I make the rooms hot.” He laughed as Joy threw the cover over his head. From under it, he yelled, “And there is a dog in one of the rooms down the hallway. Can’t be Jy-ying’s, can it? If so, as the janitor, I will have to kick it out.” Joy giggled. “You can’t do that.” “Why not?” “Because she owns the hotel.” John stuck out his head out of the covers. “Why?” “She came to the hotel to get a room to stay in while she looked for us. She didn’t know that we would rent rooms here also. Where we stayed was not in your dumb Remembrance. Anyway, the hotel would not rent rooms to Orientals.” “She bought the hotel just because they wouldn’t rent her a room?” “Yes.” John shook his head. “That’s ridiculous. She could have gone elsewhere.” “Dearest. They wouldn’t have rented rooms to us, either. I’m also Oriental; you must know that by now, as much as I’ve tried to keep it from you.”

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John sat up and put his hands around his knees. “I wonder where we stayed in the other universe. But then, I don’t see why Hands would direct us to this hotel in this universe, and another hotel in the other one. We must have come here. But then, I don’t understand why she had trouble and we didn’t, and why she would do such a stupid thing as buy the hotel for that reason.” Joy was sitting more erect, and her eyes had a little more sparkle to them. “We don’t know that we didn’t,” she pointed out. “I know you, John. If we were turned away because I’m Oriental, you would have insisted, and if they didn’t rent rooms to us, you would have bought the hotel. Just as Jy-ying did.” She grinned. “Yup, I’m sure of it.” “I would? Well then, there would be a good reason for it.” John quickly ransacked his mind for such a reason. He knew there had to be one. He grabbed what he found waving for attention from a corner. “Ah, yes, of course; I would want a place for our business visitors to stay, and for the three guys until they got settled. But Jy-ying had no such reasons. She was being ridiculous.” “Sweetheart, you’re precious,” Joy said with a loving smile. “Did you forget about the dog?” John asked. “I bet you didn’t even know we went out in the late afternoon to do some shopping. You wouldn’t have known if San Francisco had another earthquake,” she teased. “On the way back, we passed a line of garbage cans outside a restaurant, and there was a skinny little dog looking for food in one of them. When he heard us and looked around, he was so sad looking. His pert ears, black eyes, black nose, and little red tongue immediately won Jy-ying over. She picked him up, carried him into the restaurant, and paid a nickel for a big steak bone. She gave it to him outside, but when we walked away he followed with the heavy bone in his mouth—it’s a wonder his back end didn’t tip up. “He wouldn’t go away when we reached the hotel. Finally, Jyying picked him up and took him to her room. I don’t think dogs were allowed in this hotel before Jy-ying bought it. She simply walked up to the desk clerk and told him, ‘You now allow one handsome dog in this hotel. This one.’ And she pointed to the dog she carried. She left the clerk standing against the mail slots as though he were pinned there. “So, his barking is what you must have heard this morning,” Joy finished. “Oh yes—she says we are now a team of four.

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John shook his head and gave her a dour look. “I don’t know, baby. Our new mission is immeasurably important, and we can’t have pets distracting us from that.” Joy got up and started getting dressed. “You forgot one thing.” “What?” “Dogs hear what we can’t. They smell what we can’t. Helpful for protecting us, don’t you think?” John scratched his jaw, where he was letting his hair grow. “I thought that was your job, as you told me when you vamped me into volunteering for this mission with you.” “Vamped? All I did was hint that we would be intimate. I can’t help it if you were besotted by lust. Anyway, consider a dog Jy-ying’s weapon augmentation.” “Why hers and not yours? You’re the warrior.” “Would you believe that she is a martial arts specialist, as I am? Judging by some of the simulated moves she showed me in her room, I think she will be my equal. Or close to it. You have two of us, dearest.” John got out of bed and looked for his pants. “Jeez. I haven’t even stepped out of the room and my head is full.” Jy-ying Jy-ying sat on the bed and watched Little Wei—“little one full of presence,” she now called him—gobble down the sausage links she’d brought from the hotel restaurant as soon as it opened that morning. She had been up late washing the dog repeatedly in the bathroom at the end of the hall, and deticking and defleaing him each time. He had been good about it. No barking. No whining. But by the third wash, he cringed into a ball when she picked him up. He came out of it when she finally dried and fluffed up his long, chalkwhite hair with a towel. Now he was a clean, soft white. He had urinated on the carpet by the door, and she used the hotel towel to soak it up and then scrub the spot. Before the restaurant opened, she had taken him for a walk until he relieved himself. She knew she would have to set a routine for this, but she really didn’t care. She loved dogs, but had never been able to have one of her own because of her profession. Little Wei was too good to be true.

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When he finished eating and drank his fill from the universal washbowl of this era, she told him, “Time to show you off, my little guy.” She’d already decided she would buy a red leash and collar for him later, when she took him to a veterinarian for a thorough checkup. Now, she would trust that he would follow her as he had outside at daybreak. She opened the door to her room for him, and he ran into the hallway and started sniffing the floorboards. When she closed the door behind her, he looked up and tilted his head. “Guo lai—come here,” she ordered. He could have no idea what those sounds meant yet, but her hand motions must have translated for him, for he followed Jy-ying to Joy’s room, where she knew they were now sleeping. She smiled to herself when she thought of the reason why. Joy opened the door when she knocked. “Good morning, Jy-ying,” she said, and immediately looked down at the little dog sniffing her feet. “And good morning, little one,” she cooed. She bent and picked him up, and carried him into the room. “I want you to meet our boss, Mr. John Banks.” She tossed Little Wei on the bed where John was sitting, now fully dressed. Immediately, Little Wei began sniffing him. John picked him up and held him at a distance from his face to look into his eyes. “You now work for me,” he said. “Starting pay is two dollars a day, take it or leave it. What say you?” Little Wei stared at him, then back at Jy-ying as if to say, “Should I humor this big guy?” John put him on the floor with a chuckle. “Jyying, you’re right. We are now a team of four. Let’s get breakfast, and then I want to work all day on what I’m writing. You two—excuse me, you three will be working on setting up the business and all that. But if you have any trouble because you’re Asian—I found out this morning, Jy-ying, that Joy is Oriental—let me know.” He’s at it again, Jy-ying told herself. What did Joy call it? Ah, yes; John’s humor, pronounced as though it’s a disease. Jy-ying raised an eyebrow at Joy, who grinned broadly. “He discovered my, ah, you-know, is—” She made a horizontal slice with her hand. “Rather than—” She swept her hand up and down. She giggled and Jy-ying joined her as John turned red. Jy-ying had been shocked to learn during her studies of the culture of this age, particularly that of San Francisco, that white men thought the vaginas of Asian women were horizontal.

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John went for the door. “I’ll get the guys. Meet you all in the restaurant.” He escaped in a flash, leaving even louder giggles behind him.

aaa Jy-ying carried Little Wei in one arm as she and Joy approached the two joined tables with John and the three guys. She was about to sit down with the dog on her lap when the morning shift waiter rushed over. “I am terribly sorry,” he told Jy-ying, “but we do not allow dogs in our restaurant.” Jy-ying had one simple response to that: “Ha!” She stood straight, tilted her head back, and gave him an icy stare. Waving her free hand toward the men at the table, she asked in a steely voice, “My good man, are you calling my friends at the table dogs?” The waiter stammered, “No, no . . . ma’am. I’m referring to him.” He pointed at Little Wei. She held the dog up to the waiter. “To him? To Prince Ho Chi-wei of the Manchu Dynasty? You are calling the prince a dog. If this were China, I would have one of his guards cut off your head.” She waved again at the men trying not to laugh as they watched from the table. The waiter stepped back. His shoulders collapsed into a submissive slump and his eyes grew round. He struggled to say something. “I . . . I . . . .” Jy-ying softened her face and instructed him in a soothing tone, “Just serve us. I will forgive you this time.” She turned to the others and lamented loud enough for the waiter to hear, “Americans! So ignorant of China.” She sat down with Little Wei on her lap. Ignoring the furor he’d caused, Little Wei looked around, seeking the sources of the restaurant’s many interesting odors. Shaking with laughter, Hands had his forehead resting on the table, and Joy hid her face with her menu. Except for undecipherable cackles, wheezes, and thuds, no one spoke for a while. Jy-ying sat in their amidst, wearing a big smirk. When they calmed down, Jy-ying introduced Little Wei. But only Joy referred to him as Little Wei during the meal. To the others, still smiling even as they ate, he was now known as Prince Wei. And that was what he became.

Chapter 17 November 21 John

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t was late, and John was exhausted. But it was done—125 pages. It did not have to be long. Joy and Jy-ying had each gone over it and made some changes, and he had tidied up the spelling and grammar on his laptop and then printed it out on their laser printer. The printing was too good for the age and might elicit questions from the publisher they picked, but they couldn’t hire a typist to type a copy—the typist would expect a handwritten copy to work from, and John was not about to write it out in longhand. The writing had been the easiest part. Now they had weeks of preparation just to make sure it was published as they wanted. But first they had to decide on its title. They sat around a portable card table that Joy had bought as a work table for John. The manuscript lay in the center, with the simple working title The Manuscript on it. Joy insisted on neatly aligning the pages as a confirmation that it was finished. Prince Wei was asleep on the bed, his legs sticking up in the air. In a weary voice, John said, “We all have been thinking off and on about the best title. Now we have to assign one. Joy?” “You’re tired, John. Why not sleep on this? A day or so won’t matter.” “Yes it will. Thousands more people will die. We’ve got to stop this killing as soon as we can, Joy. I’m okay. Let’s go ahead.” Joy gave him a long look, then finally nodded and said, “It has to be something dramatic, something that will grab the attention of that time traveler. Once he looks at the book, he should be seeking the author immediately. What about ‘Looking Forward: The World, 1914– 2000’?” John pursed his lips and looked at Jy-ying. “I do not know,” she mused. “Would that attract the time traveler to the book? He might think that it was just more stupid forecasting and ignore it, although reference to 1914, when World War I in your First Universe began—do I have the year right?” When John nodded, she

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continued. “It might catch his eye for a moment. He is a Bolshevik, a communist. Maybe this: ‘The Future of Communism: Victory and Defeat, 1914–2000’?” John scratched his chin under his growing beard; he hoped the itching would stop soon—it was getting irritating. He propped his elbow on the table and his bristly chin in is hand, and stared at the manuscript. He asked, “What are the two names that would immediately attract his attention?” “Hitler and Stalin,” Joy suggested. “Yes,” John said. “Stalin has had no public role in the 1905 revolution in this universe, judging by the Post article, nor did he in the First Universe. In 1905 he had just met Lenin, who was impressed by his ability to steal money. Up to that time, he was a small-time criminal and agent of the Okhrana, turning revolutionaries in to the Okhrana to save his hide. No one in this age, especially someone writing from San Francisco, would be expected to know his name. So, let’s put Stalin in the title. We should also use Hitler’s name somehow.” Jy-ying was writing on a notepad. She looked up at John. “When did Stalin die?” “In 1953. He was probably poisoned with warfarin by Lavrenti Beria, his minister of internal security.” With a little grin and a quick glance at Joy, John tried to go on. “But I don’t think the truth—” With her own grin and a knowing glance at Joy, Jy-ying interrupted with a raised finger. “Then maybe ‘Stalin’s World: Victory and Defeat, 1914–1953’? For anyone of that universe who knows about major events, it would be a shocker to see the precise dates for the beginning of World War I and the death of Stalin used.” “Not to mention Stalin’s name,” John added, waving his own finger higher. “You know, Stalin fought Trotskyism, and in 1940, after many tries, he finally succeeded in having Trotsky assassinated in Mexico. Come to think of it, that Trotsky rather than Lenin is the victor in the 1905 revolution can only mean that this time traveler is a Trotskyite. The battle between Trotsky and Stalin was fought—” “John!” Joy exclaimed. “I thought you were tired.” “Sorry,” John said. “Never too tired to improve people’s minds. That’s why I was the professor and you were the—” “Move on,” Jy-ying said with such command, John jerked his head toward her, as did Joy. They saw her grinning.

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Waving his thumb at Jy-ying, John asked Joy, “Have you been teaching her?” Joy gave Jy-ying a thumbs-up. “There is nothing I could teach her that as a female she does not already know. Now, back to the title. I think Jy-ying is onto it. How about making it ‘Communist Victory and Defeat, 1936–1991: Stalin, The Great Terror, World War II, and the Cold War’?” “That is it!” Jy-ying exclaimed, and added, “Even though I do not know what the Cold War was.” John nodded slowly. Even he heard the exhaustion in his voice as he explained, “The Cold War was the long period from 1948 to the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991 when Soviet, Chinese, and their communist surrogates tried to spread communism by all means possible. Countering that was an American-led Alliance that tried to contain communism and deter a world war. Anyway, as to that title, I think the time traveler would kill to get that book.” He hesitated, then added, “We still have not used Hitler’s name. Joy’s title is great, but now my suggestion is the coup. We can make the author Adolf Hitler.” He looked at Jy-ying. “Hitler was the one who launched the Second World War in Europe by invading Poland. During the war, his henchmen tried to murder every Jew the Nazis could get their hands on. They murdered over five million of them, plus maybe fifteen million non-Jewish Poles, Russians, other Slavs, Frenchmen—” “Incredible, incredible,” Jy-ying blurted. “What a blood-soaked century you lived in. No wonder you are here to prevent it from happening again.” She sat back and looked from John to Joy. “And to use Hitler’s name for the author. God be blessed, we are brilliant.” “Yeah,” Joy responded, “and John helped also.” John half smiled at her and tapped his hands together. He felt good about this and wished he had a better way to show it. Ever since he had read the Post article, he had been afraid that their mission was dead, that there was nothing they could do—that all their plans were a shambles. And ultimately, he feared that Joy would be so broken by their failure to achieve what those who sent them here—her mother, especially—had hoped that she again would attempt suicide. He had hidden his deep, trembling pessimism from Joy. But now, there is some light. John looked at the women. In a soft voice he told them, “Okay people, we have it. It doesn’t much matter how well organized the book is, as long as it contains some essential facts about the old uni-

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verse that only someone from there could know. And it doesn’t matter how attractive the book is to publishers, since we will be paying for the publication and publicity.” He rubbed his hand through his wild hair and let it drop into his lap as he slouched back in his chair. “We can advertise it as a future history based on current events, and leave it at that. I did write it as though it were a textbook for students in an undergraduate class in history in the year 2000. The title belies that it looks backward, but it doesn’t matter.” “One thing,” Jy-ying pointed out. “The author—Hitler—is so obviously a come-on, as is the whole title, that he will know this is an invitation, a trap.” Joy nodded. “Right, but he has to find the real author. He will know that he’s in danger, and so is communism, from our possible intervention. He will be forced to find the person who wrote the book.” Jy-ying was on the edge of her chair. “Yes, and he will also know, from what John wrote in the book, that the author is anticommunist. And obviously, as a time traveler, the author must have the resources to intervene to try to defeat Trotsky and prevent such revolutions elsewhere.” “Yes,” Joy said. “I think we must now work on two tracks. First we have to do all we can with our resources to get this book published and into European and Russian hands as soon as possible. Second, we have to deal with his knowing that he is being led on. And then, when we have him here, what do we do with him?” “Then we kill him,” Jy-ying stated. John had stretched out his legs and leaned back against his chair, closing his eyes to rest them. As if from a great distance, he heard Jyying stating the obvious, but he had avoided thinking about that. He didn’t want to think about it now. He let his head rest on his chest. The air seemed heavy, and their voices . . . . Joy “He’s asleep,” Joy said. “I don’t think he slept more than an hour in the last two days. We can’t leave him like that. Help me put him to bed.” Joy pulled back the covers on the double bed and she and Jy-ying each put an arm around him and half-walked him to the bed while he muttered something. They laid him out, and Joy took off his shoes.

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“Can you help me undress him?” Joy asked. “I don’t want to sleep against his scratchy clothes.” Jy-ying hesitated. “But, won’t he be embarrassed?” “Only if I tell him,” Joy said, unbuckling his belt. “You work on the top and I’ll do the bottom.” It took a little while and the usual mechanics, but they finally had him naked and under the covers. Jy-ying’s face had a little color to it. “He’s a handsome man,” she said. “I envy you, Joy. But do not worry. I know in his heart he is yours, and we have a mission to do together. I will not defeat it by trying to . . . ah, what do you call it?” “Steal my man.” “Yes, steal your man.” Jy-ying went to the door, stopped and turned around, and bowed deeply to Joy. “You can trust your sister on that.” After Jy-ying left, Joy crawled into bed next to John, but it was a long time before she fell asleep. It was a small thing, but it brought the green monster back: Jy-ying hadn’t said she would never steal John. She had said, and Joy kept turning this over in her mind, that ‘We have a mission to do.’ It seemed that, for the mission’s sake, she would not go after John. But what about when—or if—they killed the time traveler, and that part of the mission was done? Or, did Jy-ying also consider what they would do regarding Sabah part of that mission? Joy sighed. Well, I’ll have to trust John, and I do. She put her arm over him, rested her head against his shoulder, and fell asleep.

Chapter 18 December 20 Joy

A

fter weeks of preparation for the appointment they’d arranged, a fascinating train trip finally brought them to New York. They took one of the new Renault taxis to the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel on Park Avenue where, for appearances, John had reserved one of the executive suites for Joy, and an ordinary room for himself, in case anyone checked. They had a full day before their appointment. Almost immediately after their arrival, they went to bed in the suite. Although the train trip had given their body clocks four days to gradually adjust to the time difference, John wanted to make sure he was well rested and alert for what he had confessed he was dreading, even before their departure. Neither could sleep. So John sat up on one elbow and told her what she already knew. “I’m really nervous, baby. I can’t believe what I’m going to do. I was brought up lower middle class, and know almost nothing about high society or the rich. Now, I’m about to meet James L. Stimson. He’s powerful. He’s rich. He owns Stimson Publications, and his family owns Stimson Oil and Stimson Steel. His father was a U.S. senator. I bet his family considers him an underperformer. He only owns a New York publishing house, four magazines, and Stimson bookstores, with branches all over the country. I never could deal well with people of such high authority or wealth. I always feel shy when I’m with them, and I don’t know what to say. I’m afraid I’m going to flub this.” “I’m not worried, dearest,” Joy assured him. “I’ve seen you handle this kind of people, and you do very well.” “Maybe outwardly, but my insides are quivering like Jell-O.” “So? Who sees them, anyway? It’s the impression that counts, and you project confidence, control, and even, when called for, haughty arrogance.” “Really? Like Jy-ying?” “Yes, exactly.”

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John lay back and rolled over on his side toward her. He rested his hand on her arm. She didn’t feel the least bit sleepy and knew he was still wide awake. She thought it best to get his mind off the appointment. In a soft voice she mused, “I miss air travel. In 2003 we could have been here on a four-hour direct flight from San Francisco airport. I was surprised by our train trip, though. This first time, I actually liked it. I saw so much more of the United States in a way we’ve never seen it before. I’d always flown from one coast to the other, except for that trip to the Midwest when I checked you out for the mission—it was awful. I had to sit through your . . . ” she gasped “. . . lectures at Indiana University. Why, I even had to look interested!” John was up on his elbow again, now almost leaning over her, faking the insulted look she knew so well. “Is that so, student Phim. It couldn’t have been that bad. You did get all sexed up later to lure me to your mother’s party.” She sighed. “It was all for the mission, sweetheart. Sacrifices had to be made. Ah, what was I talking about before we got onto your lectures? Oh, yes, the train trip. I was awed, sitting on the train watching for hours, and then days, the passing mountains, rivers, plains, and forests. It’s hard to believe how large and varied the United States is. Also, those Pullman coaches were great for sleeping—” “And lovemaking,” John interjected. Joy smiled at the memory. “Yes, dearest, until you fell off me, out of my berth, and into the passageway—naked. Right in front of that couple trying to climb into their own berths. I don’t know why that bothered you so. I was ready for you when you climbed back in, but you couldn’t get it up.” John leered at her. “Now that we’re on solid ground, in a great New York hotel suite, you had better be ready for me . . . er, after the appointment . . . ah . . . tomorrow night.” “Ha! You’ll be so tired, old man, that I’ll have to tie it to a chopstick.” “There isn’t one long enough.” John beamed at his riposte. She responded simply, “We’ll see.” John Joy’s “old man” quip the previous evening wasn’t far off. John had makeup applied in his room by Gaston Yseult, the makeup artist of the

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New Victory Theatre, for whose famous skill he had paid fifty dollars. He looked twenty years older, with graying, sandy brown eyebrows and a small, matching beard, neatly trimmed. Silver-yellow hair was combed back from deep-looking wrinkles across his forehead; wrinkles also radiated from the corners of his eyes, and furrows ran from his nostrils around his mouth to disappear into his beard. His eyes were shadowed and their depth emphasized, his mouth firmed and thinned, and his cheeks and nose grayed. Overall, he now had a steely look, one of long command and authority. Age made a huge difference in this era. Their appointment was in a half-hour, in the Whitehall Building at 17 Battery Place, West Street. They would take a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost “limousine” that had on the right front fender the American flag, and on the other the Chinese flag. To allow him to attach the flags, he had paid well the new “Luxurious Motor Car” rental company. Joy had never looked better. For her time travel, Jy-ying had packed special clothes so that she could pass herself off as a Chinese princess, if need be. Although Jy-ying was a little shorter than Joy, Jy-ying’s clothes still fit her well. So for two hours, John helped Joy into Jyying’s borrowed clothes and adjusted them as needed: a silk brocade, ankle-length qi pao in stunning red and yellow imperial colors with a mandarin collar and keyhole, cap sleeves, and frog closures; from the left shoulder to the right ankle, it was richly embroidered in the imperial phoenix and dragon pattern, and each side of the dress had a modest slit suited to the era. Her headdress was a phoenix tiara, worn only by an empress, princess, or imperial concubine; it was decorated with jade and pearls, and tassels hung down on both sides of Joy’s face and over her forehead. It was cold outside, almost freezing, so for the short trip Joy donned an imperial jacket made from quilted silk mousseline with a mandarin collar, frog buttons, phoenix and dragon embroidery (of course), and female mink fur trim. On her fingers she wore large imitation diamond and ruby rings that only an expert jewelry appraiser could tell were not real. When they were finished, Joy posed for him, and then slowly turned around. John just stood back, awed by her stunning elegance. When he finally could speak, all he could say was, “Damn it to hell, I don’t have a camera.” Joy responded in a subtle, seductive tone, “But dearest, you have me.” “Hold that thought until tonight,” John replied huskily.

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While it was appropriate for Joy to dress richly, middle-class bureaucrat was best for John. He dressed in a three-button, singlebreasted, worsted herringbone weave suit. Of course, there was only one suitable color—dark gray. Underneath he wore a white shirt, white linen collar, but no bow tie. This scam required a strong maroon fourin-hand, a suitable necktie for a high-middle bureaucrat. John plopped on his head his new nutria fur fedora, picked up his elegant Moroccan leather briefcase, and said, “Lets go.” Over her arm Joy slid the black satin drawstring cord of her princess silk purse, which also repeated with jewels the imperial phoenix and dragon embroidery of her dress. She walked to the door and stood regally while John opened it for her. They left the suite, John one step behind and to the right, carrying the briefcase. They were the only ones in the curlicued cast-iron elevator. They walked through the palatial lobby, where conversation in almost every group they passed stopped as they walked by. Joy strode with head high and back stiff, while John moved as though he would walk over any hotel guest who got in his way. It was almost precisely 10:00 a.m. Their Silver Ghost waited in front of the revolving entrance door. The green and white-liveried captain of the doormen opened the high door to the back seat of the limousine for Joy, who immediately moved to the other side. John got in beside her, and the captain bowed and closed the door. Joy’s dress and elegance had so distracted John in the suite that he had forgotten about his fears. Now, with the appointment time getting close, his nervousness returned. As the driver supplied with the Silver Ghost pulled out, John took Joy’s hand and held it, hoping his was not shaking. She turned to him and gave him a huge smile that caused his heart to flutter as though the high school beauty queen had consented to attend the prom with him. She was so beautiful, he almost told her never to take off the coat she was wearing, or the princess tiara, or to undo her special hairdo for which she’d paid sixty-five dollars at a Chinese salon. Then he remembered what was to come this evening. On the other hand, she will take everything off. The Silver Ghost pulled into the front portico of the Whitehall Building and a blue and red-liveried front door captain opened the door for them. Joy slipped her jacket off and left it in the back of the car before they emerged. The captain bowed and then, without a word, led them to the revolving front doors.

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They entered the main lobby and were immediately greeted by an elderly man who stood with his hands clasped in front of him. “Are you Princess Tz’u Li Poh?” he asked Joy. “Yes,” she said, and gave him a small bow. “You pronounce my name well.” Without acknowledging her compliment, John’s presence, or introducing himself, he said, his handlebar mustache twitching with his words, “Please follow me.” He led them to one of the elevators, which had been waiting with its doors open with another man guarding it to keep out other passengers. The elevator took them to the eighteenth floor. Their escort led them through the elevator’s doors, held open by an operator standing at attention, and past a large counter with a bearded young man behind it. Behind him, almost covering the wall, was a large Mercator projection map of the world, with each country set in a different kind of wood. Stimson Publications ran across the top in red, white, and blue embossed letters. The escort gave them a moment to be impressed by the map, and then took them to a private elevator to the left of the counter. John’s knees were shaking. It helped to look at Joy, who, throughout all this, walked and looked like, well, a princess. When they got off the elevator at the next floor up, they were in a luxurious split-level apartment. John was overwhelmed. On his left he saw a luxurious apartment straight out of some tycoon’s home movies; on his right he saw a sumptuous office. A very large, semi-round walnut desk dominated the office area, behind which was a floor to ceiling window looking out on Manhattan. From behind the desk a rotund, tall man emerged and strode up to them. Apparently he had just been notified that they were coming, for he stopped in front of Joy, bowed deeply, and said something in Chinese. Joy tilted her head back, looked down her nose at him, returned his bow with a perfunctory one, and said something in Chinese in return, lofting her voice in some peculiar way that John assumed must be the way Manchu royalty met commoners. With that out of the way, John stepped up alongside Joy and the man turned to him and put out his hand. As John shook it firmly, the man looked him in the eye and said, “Please forgive my Chinese. I represented my family’s interests in China for many years. We were not going to let the British and Germans have the country to themselves.

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But then I went into publishing.” He waved his free hand around the office. “Even though we now have a subsidiary in China, I get almost no chance to use my Chinese here.” When Stimson released his hand, John said, “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. I have some documents for you that verify our identities, if I may put my briefcase down somewhere.” Stimson pointed to a carved mahogany coffee table sitting between two puffy, white leather sofas in the apartment section of the highceilinged room, and led them there. He waved for them to sit down on one of the sofas, but Joy stepped instead to the white leather easy chair at the head of the two sofas and sat down gracefully. John waited for Stimson to sit; with an awed look at Joy, he settled on one of the sofas. John put his briefcase on the hand-carved French coffee table and sat on the other sofa. From the way the sofas looked, he thought he was going to sink into the cushions up to his armpits, but they had a comfortable firmness to them. Having oriented the briefcase so that Stimson could see into it, he took out a key and unlocked one flap lock on the left. As he was doing that, Joy opened her opulent princess purse, took out another key, and gracefully held it out to him with two fingers and a raised pinkie. John took it gently, unlocked the lock on the right, and then lifted the lid. Within was a file labeled United States Department of State. John reached under that for a file with top secret written in large red letters diagonally across it. He put the file on his lap, closed the lid of the case, opened the file while ostentatiously hiding what was inside from Stimson, and pulled out two documents. He handed the first one to Stimson, saying, “This one is from Secretary of State Root, establishing my credentials. I doubt whether you have heard of my Agency of Foreign Security. Take a moment to read it, but I must have it back.” Stimson read it, then handed it back with raised eyebrows. He leaned over to the humidor close to his edge of the table, took out two cigars, and offered John one. As John was taking it, Joy sat straight, clapped her hands loudly once, and barked something in Chinese. Stimson jumped, reddened, and almost jerked the cigar out of John’s fingers. He put both of them back in the humidor and shut the lid with a clack that sounded loud in the quiet office-apartment. He sat back, holding the hand that had held the cigars with the other as though he had caught it in a door.

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This moment was priceless, and John took his time looking down at the other document until he had his expression under control. Then he handed the document to Stimson, saying, “This is from the Empress-Dowager of China Tzu-Hsi, establishing that Princess Tz’u Li Poh is secretly here on her behalf and wishing that we, the United States Government, respect her request and treat it with due confidentiality.” Just the sheer richness of the thick, gold-edged paper on which the document was written in the best English calligraphy virtually established Joy’s credentials. John gave Stimson only a moment to look it over, appreciate its beauty, note the queen’s name and her Imperial Seal at the bottom. Then he held out his hand for its return. He slipped it in the top secret folder, opened his briefcase, and placed that folder again beneath the top one. “Now, before I go on, Mr. Stimson, I must have your pledge that what you have seen and what you will hear, if the princess decides to go ahead, is between us. No diary, no notes, no confiding in assistants, your wife, or your mistresses.” Stimson’s eyes were wide. His face was getting blotchy. John was merciless. “We are on dangerous ground, Mr. Stimson, and if you do what we request, we cannot risk word getting out. This is for the sake of American foreign policy, for the sake of the empressdowager and especially the princess, for my humble sake, and for your sake as well. Do I have your agreement?” “But what am I to do?” “I will tell you when I have your assurance.” “I am a patriotic American, sir. I will do what the government requires of me.” “Very good,” John said, and lifted the lid of the briefcase again. He reached underneath the topmost folders for a thick folder that also had top secret written on it, and placed it on the table. Then he reached into a slot in the briefcase and pulled out a small Gideon Bible. He closed the case, opened the folder, and pulled off the top an impressively printed document about a secrecy act. Stimson’s name and that of his company were printed in the midst of the governmentalese, and at the bottom was a place for Stimson’s signature, and that of the witness Bruce Sylvester—John’s pseudonym. John picked up the Bible and told Stimson, “Please place your hand on the Bible and repeat after me.” He then swore Stimson to secrecy

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regarding the documents he had seen, all that transpired in the office, and the project he would undertake. When he finished he said, “Please sign here,” and pointed to the space for Stimson’s signature. When he’d signed, John signed “Bruce Sylvester” underneath, with a flourish. Then he put the signed document on top of the folders in his case, and the Bible back in its slot. “Ah, don’t I get a copy?” Stimson asked. “No, only the original will ever exist. Don’t you understand yet, Mr. Stimson? We operate in absolute secrecy. If we could, we would even pump the air out of this room and hide it in a vault.” Stimson slouched back, nodded slightly, and his pressed his lips together. “Now,” John said, “with the necessary preliminaries over, I have a manuscript we wish you to publish with the greatest speed.” He pointed to the thick folder. “We could use the government printing office, but then there could not be the secrecy we demand. Also, it could not do what we require after the printing.” John took two sheets of paper from a file slot in his case and handed them to Stimson. From the inside of his suit coat he took a roll of bills and counted out ten one-hundred dollar bills and put them next to the folder. “The money is only to show our goodwill.” He indicated the papers Stimson held. “Now, the paper on the top is to prove I gave you the money. Government accounting, you must have guessed; not even secret work can avoid it.” Stimson took out a Waterman silver-nibbed pen and signed the paper. John put the signed paper away, then said, “The remaining paper gives the specifics of the distribution we require. You are to publish a total of one hundred thousand copies, half of them in English. One-half of those are to be distributed in the United States and Canada, and the other half in England. Twenty-five thousand copies are to be printed as German translations and distributed in Germany; the other twenty-five thousand are to be Russian translations and distributed in Russia. I know that with the civil war there, this will be difficult in the southern and eastern regions, but you should be able to sell them in St. Petersburg and Moscow, as well as other major cities in the west and north. “Advertise the books to the maximum in the major papers, and by leaflets where that is best. You surely know how to do this well. Along with the manuscript, you will find an author’s biography and the flyleaf

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description for the book. Also included are short blurbs of various lengths that we want—not recommend, Mr. Stimson, but want—you to use in your advertising.” John stopped and gave Stimson a long look until he began to squirm. “If anyone from the government or publishing industry asks you who the author is, you are to say that you dealt with him through his lawyer, the man is an eccentric, and Hitler is not his real name. You only know his P.O. box number in San Francisco. “Of course, you are most interested in your reimbursement and fee.” John pointed to the paper listing those specifics. “You will also find a bank number and an account in your name at the Bank of China, San Francisco branch, for one million dollars to cover everything. All royalties are yours.” John suddenly feared they had overdone it and the man might have a heart attack. He had turned rigid, his hands had splayed out on his knees, and he stared unblinkingly at John. He seemed to be in shock. Finally his mouth moved and words spilled out. “One million? We keep the royalties . . . my God, man, that’s a goddam lot of money. No book has ever been underwritten for even a tenth of that amount.” John let out his breath without realizing he had held it. He tried to keep his voice level. “We want no statement of sales; this will be our only contact. You should know that we will be following with great interest your distribution of this book through your company accounts, public and otherwise.” John let that sink in for a moment. “And there is the publishing industry’s statistics of record. And we have our agents here and there. You will not know them. One might even be that mustached gentleman who brought us to you.” Stimson pointed a trembling finger at the folder holding the manuscript and asked, “This is in English?” “Yes.” “I don’t understand what this has to do with China or the queen, or the State Department, for that matter.” “Mr. Stimson, “Joy said haughtily. “Do you not understand? This not for you to know. This secret business. You must understand.” She turned to John and looked down her nose at him. “Is this right man?” John gave Stimson a lingering look, and then looked back at Joy, his head slightly bowed, his voice subservient. “Yes, Princess Tz’u Li Poh, I think he can be trusted. He was just surprised at this. He is American. He is not used to this kind of secrecy.”

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Joy stared at Stimson for a moment, then said, “All right. But you understand that American government only arrest you and do something to your knuckles—knock on the knuckles. But I have you kidnapped to China and beheaded.” Stimson turned white and stammered something in Chinese. Joy ignored him and stood. “We done, Mr. Sylvester?” “Yes, Princess.” She turned without another word and headed for the door, then stood by it, head held somewhere near the ceiling. John closed up his briefcase and put out his hand to Stimson. Stimson took it limply and blurted, “The government can trust me, sir.” John turned, unobtrusively wiping his hand on his coat, and joined Joy at the door. He opened it for her with a bow, and she whooshed through it. The mustachioed escort was standing back from he door waiting for them, and he immediately led them to their waiting White Ghost.

aaa Back in the hotel lobby, Joy said, “I like this. Take me to the hotel bar, Mr. Sylvester.” John put his hand on her arm to stop her from moving in that direction. Bowing a little so observers would think he was about to give her some information, he told her, “Don’t be stupid. If there is a high Chinese official there he might want to make himself known to you, or exchange pleasantries on hot sour soup in Peking. No. We’ve been successful so far. Don’t push it. Princess.” Even on her most beautiful, made-up princess face, he could read the laughter in her eyes. “Ha, Mr. Sylvester, you such kill joy.” Then with a delicious wave of her hand, a lovely sign of dismissal, she uttered in a high and mighty whisper only he could hear, “I only fuck you once tonight.” John almost doubled over in what he hoped looked like a coughing fit. People stopped to look at him with concern, and a red-suited bellhop rushed over to see if he needed help. John waved him back, took a handkerchief out of his suit coat pocket, and pretended he was coughing into it. He knew from how hot he felt that his face was red from the effort not to howl outright.

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At last calming down, he looked at Joy, who stood nearby looking snootily around the lobby as though she feared she would get her manicured hands and white-furred Chinese shoes dirty. He took a firm grip on his briefcase and whispered to her, “To your suite. Before I collapse on the floor.” With John close behind, Joy led the way to the elevator. As people entered she stood immobile, chin out, staring straight ahead, ignoring everyone, and refusing to move to the back. When the elevator operator asked her for her floor, John had to lean over her shoulder and give it. Standing behind her, he could tell from their admiring expressions and the pains they took not to touch this highly aristocratic Chinese woman that the people were awed. Someone this elegant and aloof had to be royalty. By the time the elevator reached to top floor, it was empty except for the operator and John and the princess. She strode out with John behind, and when she reached her suite, she waited regally while he unlocked the door. Then, back perfectly straight, she walked inside. She approached the bed; as she was about to turn around, John gave her a big kick in the buttocks, knocking her flopping onto the bed. Her tiara flew one way, her purse another. Her hair came partially loose, and her Chinese qi pao gathered up her legs. “Oh, my,” John said. “I’m sorry, Princess Yu Luk Fun’e. My foot slipped.” As she started to get up with a scowl, he jumped on her, covered her body, and held her hands flat. “I want my promised fuck,” he whispered, and then he rolled off of her with a guffaw and held his stomach. He finally could laugh at what Joy had done to him in the lobby, he could laugh at what regal Joy looked like on the bed, but overall, he knew he really was not made for this kind of con game. He was a professor dedicated to truth, and any kind of fakery would have driven him out of his profession. But he’d done it. And now it felt as though a bank safe had been lifted off his back. He felt light-headed, and so he laughed also in overwhelming relief. Joy was laughing with him. She leaned over him and said, rubbing her behind, “How can American government do this to Chinese princess? I complain to sister Princess Jy-ying and consort, Prince Wei.” While John settled down, Joy stroked his little gray artificial beard and told him, “You did very well, dearest. It was convincing. I will no longer trust what you tell me.” She laughed again.

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Almost breathless, John asked, “What did you tell Stimson when he was going to light a cigar?” “It’s not easily translatable. Something like, light it and you’ll eat it. To Chinese royalty, commoners are like dogs—they eat dogs, you know. Having lived in China, he knew I was speaking in character.” John was now preoccupied. “John, what are you doing?” “You made a princess promise, and now I’m cashing it in.” It took mechanical wizardry to take off all her royal Chinese clothes of this era, except for her inevitable white cotton panties. She found it much easier to take off his clothes. But not quite; neither could wait until she finished.

Chapter 19 January 2 , 1907 Jy-ying

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y-ying picked Joy and John up at the San Francisco terminal in her new 1906 Silver Ghost. She had received their telegrams about their success, and about their relaxing, touristy days and Christmas in New York once they were no longer under the pressure of time. Their last telegram informed her that they would be arriving at 1:14 p.m. on track five. She could not wait to show them her surprise. They had talked about it before leaving, but they’d left it to her to do while they were gone, if she wanted. She’d parked in the station parking lot on the north side of Townside Street along with the buggies, horses, and other automobiles, and met Joy and John when they got off the train. Joy came to her with arms open and they hugged each other. “Welcome home, and happy New Year, Joy and John, “ Jy-ying said, also looking over Joy’s shoulder to include John in the sentiment. She gave John a little peck on the cheek, and noted his sandy beard had grown some. “Nice beard,” she said, then added, “And thank you both for your telegram about your success.” “Happy New Year, Jy-ying, and nice to be back,” John said. “Two train rides is enough for this era. I’m ready for a high-speed commercial jet. Maybe I’ll invent it in my spare time.” “I’ll help,” Joy said. Putting her arms through both of theirs, Jy-ying added, “Do not forget me. I’ll just stay here until you get it running.” As they approached her car, she saw John looking around. “How did you get here, Jy-ying?” “I drove.” John’s face lit up with interest. “You have a new car?” “Yes. And there it is.” She pointed to her deluxe Silver Ghost. “Wow,” John said, “I’m impressed. I think that’s the best car made in 1906. We rented one in New York to impress the locals.” “Mercedes,” Joy said.

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“Who’s she?” John asked, the dimple at the side of his mouth showing. “Hu Chi?” Jy-ying said, trying to duplicate John’s nearly straight face. “Is she from China?” Joy shook her head at both of them. “You two will never make it as stand-up comics. You know I mean the car. The Mercedes is the best.” “Well,” John said, grinning, “we’ll just have to get one and see, won’t we?” “That’s a promise, John.” She smiled broadly. “You know we keep our promises to each other.” As they approached Jy-ying’s car, Jy-ying could hear Prince Wei barking. Then she saw him jumping up and down against the window. He wore a red collar, and she had washed his hair and fluffed it. “Prince Wei missed you,” Jy-ying said to Joy. And I missed you both, especially you, John, she thought, still feeling the warmth that came with seeing him come off the train. Then she mentally stamped her foot. No, Jy-ying. Do not ruin our mission. She tried to zero her mind back to Prince Wei. Before Joy and John had left on the trip, Jy-ying had the dog checked by the vet. She found out he was a West Highland Terrier, a currently rare registered breed. He must have been mistreated by his owner and escaped, the vet suggested. But he was in good health, aside from malnutrition. John cranked up the car until it started, and Jy-ying drove, with John in the passenger seat watching her drive with obvious envy. Joy sat in the raised back seat playing with Prince Wei on her lap. “Where are we going?” John soon asked, realizing that the roads she was taking were not the way to the hotel. “You will see.” A half-hour later, noting fewer buildings, more expensive-looking homes, and more acres between them, John shouted over the car and wind noise, “We’re leaving the city. Are you kidnapping us?” “No good,” Jy-ying said. “Nobody to pay ransom.” Within minutes, she stopped at a large gate. A guard emerged from a little guard shack, saw Jy-ying, tipped his visored blue cap, and said, “Good afternoon, Miss Khoo.” She nodded at him and he went back into the guard shack to pull down the large electrical switch that opened the gate. John was speechless, and Joy was leaning forward with her arms on the back of the front seat. As Jy-ying drove them through the gate and along a flower-lined driveway, she asked Jy-ying, “Visiting a movie star?”

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They approached the high columned portico of a large, three-story brownstone mansion on a low hill. All around was grassy acreage scattered with trees spaced widely apart. Jy-ying glanced at it with familiarity. She had walked the whole acreage of this estate, checking out the ten foot wall topped by broken glass that surrounded the property, and looking for secluded spaces where an intruder might hide, or gullies and bushes that might be used as concealed approaches to the house. And she had walked the little stream that meandered around the base of the hill and exited at almost the opposite point in the wall from where it entered. In both cases a strong metal gate under the wall let the stream enter and exit, while preventing any intruder from doing the same thing. She pulled up to the portico and announced, “This is our new home. I named it Fort Hope—hope for the success of our trapping the time traveler, hope for the success of our joint mission.” “What a great name. And our new home?” John said in wonder. “You mean we no longer have to crowd into a hotel room? I was thinking of getting an apartment building and fortifying it, but this is much better.” He got out of the car and looked around at the surrounding acreage. “I’m no expert like you Jy-ying, but this sure looks more secure than we could have made an apartment house.” Joy had released Prince Wei to roam and moved to stand beside John. They looked over the property and the outside of the mansion. This far south from San Francisco, there was no fog; the sky was a clear, sunny blue, the still air a comfortable near-60 degrees. As John took off his overcoat to put over his arm, Joy asked, “Who did you kill for this?” Irritation at the question instantly welled up inside Jy-ying. She thinks I would kill to take someone’s home. But in the next instant, she remembered it was a typically stupid American saying, and she felt chagrined at what she had thought. Jy-ying waved her hand at the huge property and said, “I wrote down what I wanted for a secure headquarters for us, and went to the Luxurious Real Estate Company, the most prominent real estate firm that buys and sells property for the rich—the big sneezes, you call them.” After her misunderstanding of Joy’s comment, she was pleased at this little show of her English slang. “Cheeses. Big cheeses, Jy-ying,” Joy corrected. Stupid language! Jy-ying exclaimed to herself, and hastened on. “A pompous old man asked me how much I was willing to pay. He dared

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look me up and down, raised his eyebrow at me, and said, ‘We deal in hundreds of thousands and even millions of dollars.’” Warming to her story, Jy-ying continued. “I had gone to a bank to prepare for just such arrogance. I took out of my purse one roll of bills held in a large diamond clip, and slowly counted out a hundred onethousand dollar bills, in groups of ten. Then I showed him another big roll. The man instantly became my servant; I am sure he would have kissed my feet if I asked. I completely ignored him and called over a young man, probably new to the firm, who had been watching. He showed me around, and this was the fourth place I looked at. It belonged to railroad tycoon Robert Q. Harrington. He was paranoid that his former partners were out to kill him for swin . . . swin-something—” “Swindling,” John said “—from them, and built this fortress to live in with his wife and daughters. He died from a heart attack, and his family had to sell it, furnishings and all, to pay off his gambling debts. They could not do anything with his company. His former partners sued the Western Pacific railroad company and a judge put its assets in . . . hiding.” John helped again. “Escrow,” he said. “How much did all this cost?” “Two million dollars. I paid already. No big deal.” That was honest. She did not feel it was anything to be amazed about, given the funds with which she’d been sent to this era. Her time machine alone had two million stored in it for immediate emergencies, and the National Council of Clerics had directed that she be sent about 250 million in American real and counterfeit bills, jewels, and gold. She could augment that wealth at any time by betting on horse races and playing the stock market. She had the day-by-day wins and losses filed on her laptop computer. John looked at Joy. “How much is that in year 2002 dollars?” Joy’s eyes emptied for about twenty seconds, and then came back to life. “Oh, not much. Just about forty million, three hundred thousand dollars.” Frowning, John looked at Jy-ying. His voice was insistent. “That’s a fortune, and I am not going to let you do this alone. I’ll reimburse you for two-thirds of it. I am your boss and I have spoken.” Jy-ying stepped back. She did not know what to say. She looked at Joy, who wore a slightly amused expression. She glanced back at John, who had put his hands on his hips and looked like he was about to accuse her of stealing his wallet.

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She looked back at Joy, who shrugged and told her, “He bossman—big bark, no teeth.” Joy must have seen how confused Jy-ying was, for she turned toward the doors and asked, “Aren’t you going to show us in?” Jy-ying led the way, and John followed with the warning, “Twothirds. You are not going to get away with paying the whole thing. Humph.” At the ornate, high front doors, a man stood waiting for them in a traditional butler’s pinstripe trousers, vest, and black coat. Jy-ying introduced him as “Andrew Slater, the butler. This is Dr. John Banks, your master, and Joy Phim, your mistress.” The man bowed deeply and smiled at them. “I am happy to be your servant,” he said to John. Jy-ying told him, “Thank you, Slater. I will show them around.” And with Prince Wei at her heels, she led the way through two large carved doors into a tiled foyer with a coatroom, and then into a huge ballroom two floors high, with a magnificent electric crystal chandelier, oiled teak parquet floor, and carpeted stairs that curved up to the second floor bedrooms. “We play tennis here,” Jy-ying said. She was pleased with the gasps from Joy and John. Just wait, she thought. She led them to the right wing, which began with a gym and exercise room. “Harrington thought it a good idea to get some exercise, but never did. But his daughters used it often and thought they would be gymnasts at one time. Then they got married. It will now be our martial arts practice and sparring room.” She eyed John mischievously. “It is also a good place for a beginner to learn elementary techniques.” John suddenly yelled, “Hyaaiii!” and grabbed Jy-ying by the arm. He so surprised her that she lost a second while her defensive training kicked in, and John used that time to throw her, swirling dress, cape, and all on a mat. She rolled in spite of the ankle-long dress constricting her legs, and sprang to a crouch with fists ready. Prince Wei somehow knew this was play and, lowering his chest and raising a rear end that shook with the wagging of his tail, he started barking at John. He wanted to participate. John looked nonchalantly at Jy-ying, brushed his hands against each other, and pointed out, “You need practice.” Head tilted, hands on her hips, Joy looked at him. “Not bad,” she said loudly enough to be heard above the barking, “but you didn’t swing her high enough off your hip.” She quickly grabbed John by his

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suit coat and tossed him next to Jy-ying, who immediately put one foot on his chest to stop him from rolling to his feet. Prince Wei seized his pant leg in his teeth and started shaking it vigorously. Still lying on his back, John appeared to relax, lifting his arms to put his hands behind his head. Instead, he grabbed Jy-ying’s foot and tossed her backwards to land on her stomach with a whoosh. Joy and Prince Wei were on him almost before Jy-ying landed. As he tried to stand and fight Joy off with all he’d learned from her, she got him twisted around and sat on his back with an arm lock around his neck and her knee in his back. Prince Wei now shook his coat sleeve. Jyying rose and, while Joy held John down, she tickled him. John squirmed away from her fingers, but Joy held him tight in spite of his greater weight. Finally he yelled, laughing, “I give up.” Jy-ying looked at Joy as she released John. With a raised eyebrow, she asked, “Does English have a word for someone who is lower than a beginner?” “Let’s see. ‘Novice’ is still too good. So is ‘greenhorn’ and ‘neophyte.’ I guess we’ll have to invent a word. I know. We’ll call those lower than a beginner a John.” “Ha-ha,” John said as he straightened out his coat and pants, and then petted Prince Wei. “It took two of you so-called experts to down this man.” “Yes, my John,” Joy answered, laughing. Jy-ying laughed also, and felt warm and fuzzy, almost light-headed. This was the first time she and John had touched like that, and the areas where his hands had gripped her seemed almost electrified. To distract herself, she hurriedly led the three of them to the next room, which was a library complete with French doors, books lining every wall, a sliding ladder, and, in the center, a large library table with six hardwood armchairs. “Our study study-room,” Jy-ying said. Next to the library was a paneled study with an entrance from both the library and the ballroom; the study contained its own glassenclosed bookshelves, lush beige carpeting, a mahogany desk, a brown leather sofa, and matching easy chairs. “Our room,” Jy-ying said, grinning. Off the study was a large file and safe room. “For our time machines and supply capsules. As you can see, I already have moved my capsule and time machine in. I keep the door double locked. I suggest that you bring your supply capsules and machine here as well, from

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wherever they are now. The wooden flooring lies on a concrete bed and that on bedrock, since the room was meant to hold all kinds of heavy file cabinets and a large safe.” As she spoke, Jy-ying mused, They’ve kept the location of their capsules secret. Quite rightly. They would have been stupid to put such absolute trust in me at this stage. But now there can be no secrets. Our lives and our joint mission are at stake, once John’s—our—book is published. She led them back through the ballroom to a bar and billiards room, and then into the left wing where the cook’s quarters (“I kept on the cook and her assistant”), large kitchen (“We cook rice here”), dining room (“We eat rice here”), lower lounge (“Our talk-talk, war room”), and finally, the drawing room (“Here we chat-chat with guests”) were located. “There is an upper lounge on the second floor, overlooking the ballroom and across from the bedrooms,” she added. What they’d seen since leaving the gym left John and Joy speechless. Jy-ying remembered her first tour of the house, and knew how they felt. She took Joy’s hand and, with John and Prince Wei following, she headed for the stairs and led them up to the second floor bedrooms. She stopped at the door to the grand master bedroom, and told Joy and John to enter. Inside, they saw a huge room furnished largely with Victorian furniture, all dominated by an incredible four-poster bed that Prince Wei jumped up to sit on, panting. The hand carved corner posts and the bed itself were handcrafted from solid hardwoods and cherry veneers. It sat on a lush white carpet. On the wall behind the headboard was painted a large Japanese landscape, with low, wispy gray clouds encompassing the sharp contours and hidden peaks of several forested mountains; in the foreground, a small white boat with a red rectangular sail tacked against the breeze on an aquamarine lake. The mellow tones of ancient ivory and old satin finishes glowed from a marble, veneer-topped nightstand, a hand carved dresser and chest, beveled landscape and floor mirrors, chests, an armoire, and a beautiful mahogany writing desk. The floor was a teak parquet similar to that of the ballroom, and around the door to a balcony were rich velvet draperies topped with a box pleat valance. On one side of the room, a door opened to the sitting room and walk-in closet; another open door revealed the gold plating of the bathroom’s plumbing. “Hot water?” John asked, his voice breathless.

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“Of course,” Jy-ying answered, as though she had been asked if the mansion had electricity. “Very big tub?” Joy asked, glancing at John. “Of course,” Jy-ying answered levelly, but she didn’t hide her little grin. John took another look around the room, then, obviously trying to keep a straight face, he asked Jy-ying, “Where is Joy’s bedroom?” Jy-ying answered, “There is no bedroom suitable to her elegance and grace. So she will have to sleep here until we redecorate one of the bedrooms. Perhaps you can move in another bed.” All three laughed. “Where is your bedroom, Jy-ying?” Joy asked. “Mine is down the hall, the wife’s bedroom. It actually is the next room, and there is a private door between it and this room so Harrington and his wife could get together without anyone knowing.” She pointed to the door. “Oh, I forgot,” John spoke up suddenly. “What about the three guys? Are they still living at the hotel?” “I sold the hotel back to the previous owner.” “Did you get a good deal?” “Yes, the previous hotel owner was more than happy to buy the hotel back, except for a one thousand dollar exchange fee he said he had to pay the government. I did not believe him, but that is okay.” “Where did the guys go?” John persisted. Jy-ying pointed up. John paled. “They’re dead?” “No, silly. They are in guest bedrooms upstairs,” Jy-ying answered. As John sighed, Jy-ying looked at Joy. “Is ‘silly’ the right word?” “Yes,” Joy answered, nodding with pursed lips. Then she raised her eyebrow and observed, “We will never be able to keep this place clean.” “Not to worry. I have hired a cleaning company that specializes in mansions like this. They will come in once a week and clean only the rooms we use, which I calculate is about one-third of them. There are twelve bedrooms alone, only eight of which we will use. Two are for the cook and her assistant.” “Any other helpers?” John asked, seeming reluctant to use the word “servants.” “I have hired the same guard company that maintained security here before, which keeps four men on duty at all times, two of them

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continuously patrolling the wall and grounds. They also have three Doberman pinschers on duty. There is a kennel behind the house, by the stable, and I’ve already introduced Prince Wei to them. They gamble—” “Gambol,” John corrected almost absentmindedly as he continued to stare around the bedroom. “—all over the property with him. I think he intimidates them. Also, he has come to realize that they guard the outside, and the inside is his responsibility.” She paused. “Let’s see, what else? Oh yes, we have a stableman to take care of the five horses we have. On property like this, there are many jobs that the horses do best. And we have a gardening company as well that uses the horses.” John’s jaw was gradually dropping. “You met the master butler. He is also a live-in, with his wife, who does the odd jobs that always need to be done around here. In counting bedrooms, I forgot that he also takes up one. He manages all the help, including the people that the various companies send to us.” John asked, “Is there a garage?” “Yes, in the rear, next to the stables, with six cars already parked in it. There is an American Mercedes, a Buick Model F, and three Fords— two Model C and one Model K. I also park my Silver Ghost there.” Joy yelled, “I get the Mercedes!” John looked startled. “No way.” Joy gave him an intense stare, and he added, “Not without tossing a coin.” He then asked, “Did you give the three Fords to the guys?” “Yes John, of course. We also have a mechanic whose workroom is in the garage, although he is not a live-in.” “What does the butler use for transportation?” Joy wondered. “He will not drive. He only uses a horse and buggy.” Joy was beginning to look as dumbfounded as John. “Is that it?” Joy asked, as though yet another plate of food had just been put on their overloaded table at a Chinese feast. “I think so. But I probably forgot something.” Jy-ying bounced with satisfaction over Joy and John’s reception of all she had done. She was surprised at how accepting they were. She had expected arguments about the size of the house, about the three guys living with them, about their vulnerability through the hired help, about the total cost, about her doing all of this without consulting them. At the very least, she thought, they will question the total cost of the companies I’ve hired, and the salaries of the live-in servants . . . rather, help.

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As if he’d picked up her thought, John rubbed his hand along his growing beard and asked, “How much do all these companies and the hired help cost in upkeep?” Jy-ying had that figure ready. “They cost seven hundred dollars per month.” “Not bad,” John said. “Remember, we pay two-thirds. Is there a basement?” he asked. “Yes, but the butler calls it the downstairs and the rest of the house the upstairs. It seems to be some kind of status distinction. There is a gigantic gas hot water heater in one corner.” Then she said, “Oh, you will want to get settled. The butler will bring your luggage to the master bedroom from my car. At 4:00 this afternoon I will introduce you two to the whole staff, including the foremen of the various companies we have working for us. For all this to operate smoothly, I had to tell them our rank in relation to one another. Then they know whose orders take precedence, and whose are so low in status that their orders can be virtually ignored.” “Oh,” Joy lamented, “poor John.” Jy-ying looked askance at John, who seemed about to tweak Joy’s nose. Then she went on. “So, I have told them that John is the master of the house.” “Ha!” John exclaimed. Jy-ying quickly added, “They think, Joy, that you are John’s unofficial wife—you two could not get married because your royal Chinese parents objected, but you command John—” “Of course,” Joy interjected. “—but you’re second in command in the household and at his business. I am Joy’s live-in sister, so the servants better obey me as well, by virtue of that. And the three guys are John’s business employees, honorable guests here, and thus not to be trifled with.” She waited, but John and Joy seemed more than impressed. She continued with, “At six the cook will announce that dinner is to be served. The butler will oversee it in the dining room.” “Jesus,” John exclaimed, “the first thing I’m going to do in the dining room is blow a fart.” “And I’m going to barf,” Joy added. “That’s okay,” Jy-ying said, chuckling, “I have already told them all about you two.”

Chapter 20 January 5, 1907 John

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ohn parked the Mercedes in front of the mansion, leaving it to their mechanic to drive the car into the garage. Gripping the newspaper in one hand, he hurried into the library, where he knew he would find Joy and Jy-ying studying Russian or German, or practicing their Russian and German on each other. It was too late for their language tutor to still be there. He entered through the open door and immediately noticed that something was wrong. Joy was pale and seemed to be trembling. Jyying’s eyes were large, and as he got closer, he could see tears in them. I hope they haven’t been fighting, he thought. If it becomes violent, I’ll have to rebuild and restock the library. Time to distract them. “Bad news,” he yelled. “Poland has—” Joy jerked, looked around at him, held her palm out toward him, and silently shook her head. He had never seen that look on her face before. It stopped him cold. He didn’t know whether to put his arm around her, or leave and close the door on what was an utterly private matter between the two. Joy said nothing to him. It was as though he was not there. She turned back to Jy-ying and reached across the table. Jy-ying took the outstretched hand in hers, and both of them started weeping. Prince Wei had been asleep under the table, but the crying woke him, and he ran over to Jy-ying and began jumping on her house dress. John quietly turned around—It’s a woman’s thing—and headed for the door. Joy sobbed, “Don’t go.” John turned around as both women got out of their chairs and came around the table. They clasped their hands together and stood staring through tear-filled eyes at each other, as though studying an alien being. “I’d better go,” John said, feeling like a man at a woman’s social tea. Joy and Jy-ying whispered in unison, “Stay.”

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John just did not feel like sitting down while both women were standing there crying, so he just stood uncomfortably where he was, not knowing what to do in the face of this female emotion. It was beyond man’s understanding. A minute went by. John cleared his throat. He heard one of their guard dogs bark, and Prince Wei perked up his ears and his tail stood straight up as he listened, then he went back to trying to attract Jy-ying’s attention. Finally, still staring at Jy-ying, Joy nodded toward John. Hand in hand, they came to stand in front of him. He had never seen Joy’s face like this. It looked torn between elation, disbelief, shock, and love. Love? John was totally confused. Joy held up Jy-ying’s hand toward John, and tried to say something, but the words kept breaking into sobs. “I want . . . you to meet . . . the real . . . J . . . Jy-ying.”

Chapter 21 July 14, 1907 Rosa

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he was unhappy at leaving her lover again, but he could not come with her. Consolidating the new communist government of Poland was too important, and the mutiny of the garrison at Bydgoszcz had to be put down. He had wanted Rosa to take over the job of economic minister, but as much as she wanted, she just could not. True, she was Polish by birth and in her heart, and she was thrilled at the independence just granted Poland by Trotsky—Lenin had come to Warsaw to personally declare Polish independence from Russia “forever.” Yes, he had even used that word—but, as she told Leo, she was an international citizen and communist first, and the job was now revolution in Germany. What a blow to capitalism that would be. Communism seemed victorious in Russia, with all its incredible resources and intellectual skills, and now Poland. Next, Germany. Maybe not next year or the year after, but surely in less than a decade. France would be easy after that, and nothing could then save England. Europe would be theirs, and already they had contact with communist activists in China. If China went communist, Asia would follow, then South America, and the United States and its lackey Canada would be isolated in a Red world. They would have to succumb. What a future. And she was part of it—more than a part. She was contributing to this final victory of the working class. Those happy thoughts filled her mind as she unlocked her small apartment. She immediately was overcome by the apartment’s oppressive stuffiness, and the acidic smell of old clothes. She dragged her two suitcases and large handbag into the apartment, then unlocked and opened the two windows looking on the brick-walled apartments next door. Her German lieutenant, Karla, had a key to her apartment, and had piled messages and mail on her round working table in the middle of the room. These would be the important pieces for her eyes only. All the other communications would be in her office at the new Spartacus League headquarters.

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She sighed and dropped onto the bumpy floral couch. I am tired. I am hungry. I miss Leo already. We had so little time together. And this place is hot. Leaving everything the way it was, she lay back on the couch, fitting her body around the bumps, and stretched her heavy legs out. She needed a nap before throwing herself back into the organized chaos at headquarters—telegrams and phone calls to handle; commands to give; articles, pamphlets, and newspaper articles to write and edit; meetings and more meetings to schedule and lead; visitors to welcome; egos to caress and weaklings to stiffen . . . . She let one foot fall toward the floor and was asleep before it hit.

aaa The bloody reactionary German Freikorps were beating on her door with a fire axe, and she ran to the window to see if she could jump out. Below, men with guns watched her window. Certain death. She ran to the bathroom where she always had her weapons hidden under her dirty clothes, but they were gone. She was caught. She was dead. She knew this would come eventually, but she had hoped she would see the German revolution succeed first. It was too far along for the capitalists and their bourgeoisie supporters to stop now. Even with her death. She rushed back to the table and scooped up her messages, mail, and telegrams in both hands, then ran back to the bathroom and started tearing them up and tossing the pieces into the rust-stained toilet. The beating on the door got louder. She flushed everything down the toilet, and walked back into the other room. There was nothing she could do now. She stood near the table, facing the door. Waiting for death. The axe had broken through to slit the door in several places. In one spot, it had smashed a small hole through the wood. She recalled their victories. Next Germany. We are unstoppable. I will die happy. With head high, she focused on the hole as the axe enlarged it. They would get no screams or tears from her. A hand darted through the hole, opened the door, and two men with guns rushed in. One knocked over the round table, sending the lamp crashing to the floor with a knocking sound . . . knocking sound . . . knocking.

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The heavy sound of knocking on her door startled her awake. Her heart raced, pounding within her body, and she was sweating. “Kurcz´—damn. Kurcz´,” she said in Polish. “Again, that Pierdolony nightmare.” She rolled off the couch and stood swaying for a moment before stumbling to the door. “Wait,” she shouted. She cooled down her emotions and straightened out her clothes. Then she opened the door a crack and saw the green-eyed man standing there. As the biggest benefactor of the Polish revolution and Spartacus, he was always most welcome, anywhere. She tried to smile, but her nightmare still lingered. “Please come in,” she said, opening the door wide. “I just returned from Poland and had been taking a nap.” She rubbed her hand over her face. “I had something of a nightmare.” She straightened up and went to the table. She pushed her messages and stuff to the back of the table and covered them with an open newspaper. “I am sorry about the condition of the apartment, but as I say, I just returned from Poland. I have no food or drink to offer you. But, I can give you a seat,” she said with an attempt at a smile, and pulled a second chair close to the table. The man wore the same clothes he had on the last three times he visited her. But he did not smell, so he must get them cleaned, or he had duplicate clothes. Odd I should notice such a trivial thing, she immediately thought, but the man is strange. He sat down with surprising lightness for his size, and said in his impossible German, “Good to see you again. Your lieutenant told me when you would arrive, so I came to get your view on your revolution in Poland, the reactionary war waged against you there, and the progress of Spartacus.” In the next hour she brought him up to date with well-organized details. It came naturally to her. She had a doctorate, was a writer by trade, and therefore in seconds could easily organize complex events into a coherent monologue. And monologue it was, since Green Eyes asked no questions, but only looked at her intently, with an occasional nod. It actually became disquieting, since he gave so few clues to indicate whether he understood her or not. Since his spoken German was poor, she began to wonder if he understood more than a word here and there. “That is it in general,” she said. “Is there anything you want to know about in more detail?” “No,” he said. “That was a good summary. I assume you are okay regarding funds.”

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“So far,” she said. “We are not even able to spend what you so generously gave us as fast as I’d planned.” He nodded and replied, “I want you to know that I am very happy at the your and Leo’s progress. Keep in mind that if you need more funds, I can supply them. Just make a note of it for my next visit.” “Can you tell me when that will be?” “No. I have much to do, and cannot stay in one place for too long. It would only be a guess as to when I would be free to see you next. Maybe in a month or two.” He got up to leave, and Rosa was about to join him at the door when she remembered something. She went over to her traveling bag instead and pulled out a thin book in German. She handed it to him. “I read that on the train. It’s a crazy bunch of predictions about the future of Russian communism. It is sheer guesswork without a shred of knowledge or understanding of Russian communism, but it’s entertaining for that—” She stopped as she saw his face. It had turned white and the book was shaking in his hand. The other hand he had put up on the door, as if keep himself from falling. He seemed mesmerized by the title. He whispered something in a foreign language; all she could make out was the author’s strange name, “Hitler.” He came out of it, grabbed her arm roughly, and almost dragged her back to the table. He pushed her into a chair. Standing over her, he slammed the book down, still visibly shaken. He demanded to know something, but his German was too mangled for her to understand. She was getting frightened of this man. He was a stranger. She knew nothing about him except that he was a communist supporter and benefactor. He could be a wild and dangerous man when excited. And the book had clearly excited him beyond all reason. He took two deep breaths, and his body slumped visually as he relaxed his muscles. “I know this supposed author,” he hissed. “He is a fascist.” “What is a fascist?” “He is a German socialist, but one of the greatest enemies of communism and Russia. If he could, he would kill every communist in the world, and every Jew. He tried.” “He tried? I never heard of him. I do not understand. Why did he write this stupid book?” “He did not.”

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The man grabbed the book and rushed to the door. He flung it open and threw more gibberish over his shoulder as he hurried to the stairs. All she could get out of it were the strange names “Joy” and “John.”

Chapter 22 July 14, 1907 John

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ohn parked the Mercedes near the hitching post at the San Francisco Post Office, with a clear view of the entrance. He had his H&K on his lap, and Joy was sitting beside him with her Magnum out. Jy-ying, or rather who he thought of now as Joy 2, was in the back, presumably with her own weapon ready. They varied the time that they parked at or near the post office according to a random formula Joy had worked out and passed on to the Simpson & Small Detective Agency working for them. At precisely 3:00 p.m., a common looking working man in drab corduroy cap and farmer’s baggy dungarees came out and looked around. Seeing John’s Mercedes—this was the day for the Mercedes— he strolled over, quickly dumped on John’s lap a pile of letters and a package from their post office box, and then unhitched and mounted a bay nearby. Besides picking up what was in their box for them, John paid the detective agency what was a small fortune in this age to keep a threeman surveillance schedule on the P.O. box. If anybody loitered near the box or acted suspicious, they were to tail them when they left and find out who they were and where they were staying. John was the front man to the detective agency, but it was Jy-ying who drew on her Sabah Security Guard knowledge to make sure through John that the detective agency did this surveillance properly. To make sure the agency knew the seriousness of this, John explained that he and the two women were secret agents, working for whom he could not say, and they were trying to break up a dangerous spy ring. They could not work through the government’s security apparatus because the ring seemed to have a traitor high up in it. John warned the agency, which upped their bill considerably as a result, that its agents should be well armed, but able to defend themselves armed or not. He also had them sign a secrecy pledge like that he’d had Stimson sign.

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John gave the package to Joy who, with one glance at the return address, yelled so that Jy-ying could also hear, “It’s from the publisher.” “This must be it. What the hell took them so long getting it to us? The telegram to the P.O. box I received in June said it was out then. Typical way publishers treat authors, I bet,” John complained. Before driving off, he wanted to see the book himself, but Jy-ying, always the most security conscious, insisted that he get away from the post office. “Immediately, John. Like now.” Muttering that he could no longer tell Joy and Jy-ying apart, he holstered his gun, then drove into the chaos of horse riders, horse-drawn wagons, automobiles, and bicycle traffic on Market Street. To make it worse, John kept glancing at Joy as she sucked in her stomach, lifted her tactical knife out of its sheath under the waist of her skirt, and cut the heavy twine around the package. She also cut the wrapping paper away, revealing three slim books. She whooped and Jy-ying leaned over the front seat to see. Joy shouted into the Mercedes and traffic noise, “Communist Victory and Defeat 1936–1991, by Adolf Hitler.” The cover—done in the garish, poster style and limited publishing colors of the age— showed the hammer and sickle overlaying an illustration of an execution: a prisoner was being shot in the back of the head while other prisoners stood in line, some praying, some making the sign of the cross, some on their knees obviously begging for their lives. She held one of the books up for Jy-ying to see the cover. “You did a nice job of creating that cover from our video of twentieth century wars and democides.” “Thanks to your fantastic Photoshop program,” Jy-ying responded. Joy picked up the other two books, and warned John when he had to brake hard to avoid a bicycle, “John! Watch the road. You don’t want to make that time traveler’s job easier, do you?” Jy-ying yelled at him, “Pull over, sweetheart, and I will drive so you can look at the books.” “Yeah,” Joy shouted at him. Turning to Jy-ying, she hollered with a grin, “One-track mind.” John ignored them, but did concentrate on the traffic. Joy looked back at the books and yelled, “One is in Russian, the other in German. I can read much of them now,” she added with a touch of pride in her voice. She passed them both to the back. Jy-ying gently shoved Prince Wei off her lap to take the books, and began to

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leaf through them, looking from the English pages to the German and then the Russian, as though she were comparing the translations. “I’m a genius to have thought this up,” she crowed. “I thought of it,” Joy blared. “You only refined it.” Keeping his eyes on the traffic, the exchange between the two women again refocused his mind on what really had never left it since they’d told him. Again he thought, I’m living in a dream world. None of this is real, and I’m going to wake up soon. Multiple moving images then flooded his mind and his driving became mechanical, eyes to hands to feet without mental intervention. He had not forgotten about the books, but beyond his hearing Joy and Jyying were now chattering about them, Jy-ying in the rear leaning forward on the front seat, Joy angled against the front seat, with their heads close together so they did not have to shout. He glanced at them, and shook his head for the thousandth time over what he had found out that day in the library. Yes, from then on I’ve been in another world. Then, as certain images he now knew so well pushed the others from his mind, he felt a semi-erection pushing against his trousers. January 25 Fort Hope Library Joy held up Jy-ying’s hand toward him, and tried to say something, but the words kept breaking into sobs. “I want . . . you to meet . . . the real . . . J . . . Jy-ying.” John was utterly mystified. Crying also, Jy-ying wiped her eyes with one hand, and spoke almost too quietly for John to hear. But the shock and elation, the happiness of discovery, and the disbelief at what she was saying filled her soft, trembling voice. “Joy and I were discussing our childhoods in more detail than we had ever spoken before. I knew she was found alone on a boat and almost dead when she was about four years old. I knew her parents apparently had tried to escape persecution in Vietnam and were killed by pirates. I knew her foster mother Tor named her Joy and adopted her.” I knew all that, John thought. What’s so important about it? Jy-ying turned to look at Joy, who nodded. “Today, just out of interest, I asked what she remembered of her childhood before then. She

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remembered very little, of course, but she was able to vaguely recall the name ‘Tien Yen.’ I could not believe it. I pressed her for more names. I used word discovery tricks of association, and finally the name ‘Hua’ came out, and then she told me it was associated with a vague image of what must have been her mother. I could not speak, I was so shocked.” Joy had control of herself now. She put her hand on Jy-ying’s arm and told John evenly, but still with a sense of wonder, “I was astounded by Jy-ying’s behavior. Finally she asked me, ‘Do you remember your real name?’ I told her that I vaguely remembered several names. Especially something like ‘Tang,’ or maybe ‘Jy-cheng,’ maybe for a baby sister.” Jy-ying turned back to Joy, and took the hand on her arm into hers. Her voice wavered. “John. Joy is me and I am Joy.” “I can’t believe it,” John blurted. “Impossible. Scientifically impossible.” Jy-ying went on as though she hadn’t heard him. “Our mother was of the Chinese Hua family, one with a long history. Her mother’s parents immigrated to Vietnam, where her mother met and married our father, a Chinese man named Shihao. Joy also vaguely recalled his name. Our sister was named Ting. In my universe, our father died with our mother in the 1984 rebellion against Sabah; Ting was killed months later by anti-Sabah rebels. Our parents were in the secret police and fought for Sabah.” In spite of their obvious sincerity, John stepped back and crossed his arms. “Okay, you two, game’s up. Nice try, with all those false tears and such, but you can’t fool me. I’ve read enough to know that time travelers could not meet and shake hands with themselves.” He pointed to their clasped hands. “Or hold hands.” Joy compressed her lips. Jy-ying pointed to her, saying, “Joy is from the First Universe. I am from the Second Universe. We are now in the Third Universe. This makes it possible.” Joy added, “It has to be possible, John. We are standing here, both of me.” John uncrossed his arms. “Really?” They both said, “Yes.” Chills raced up his spine, and he had goose bumps on his arms at the enormity of this. “Excuse me for being dense, but I still don’t understand. Jy-ying has a scar, but that could happen to either of you. It’s that she doesn’t look completely like you, Joy. And she is an inch or so shorter.”

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Jy-ying’s voice was steady now. “The Vietnamese government forced all first and second generation Chinese to return to China. There were so many such refugees in China and so little aid that many of us suffered from diseases and malnutrition. I lived in a refugee camp with little food. In the United States, Joy had a much healthier diet than I did, and grew taller. “When I was five, I caught noma, a gangrene that affects the mouth and face. Fortunately, it was a mild case—if it had been severe I would have had extreme facial disfigurement and could have died from septicemia or pneumonia. Still, as mild as my noma was, it scarred my lower face. My foster father, who in effect adopted me after my parents were killed, was a high official in the Sabah Guards. When I was sixteen, that age when teenagers are most sensitive about appearance, he had a sympathetic Security doctor perform a series of plastic surgeries on me. The small scars from the surgery are almost hidden under my chin.” Thoughts tumbled about in his head. John felt weak and cold. He pointed to the table and almost rushed to it, then dropped down in a chair and leaned on his elbows. He waved Joy and Jy-ying to the chairs on the other side of the table. Jy-ying picked up an anxious Prince Wei, and let him lick her wet face. John cleared his throat, and went as usual for humor to get him over this stupendous emotional shock. “Gee, if we could only bring me back from Jy-ying’s universe, we would have Joy-Joy and John-John. What a foursome that would be.” The words dropped off at the end, and he didn’t smile. Neither did Joy and Jy-ying. March 19 It had been impossible to accept at first that the woman he loved so deeply was also Jy-ying. But, in so many ways, she was. Leaving aside what Jy-ying’s security profession and her religion introduced into her life, her personality matched Joy’s. Almost all the things he loved in Joy he began to find in Jy-ying when he started looking for them—the banter, the lip, the femininity, the strength, the dedication, the honesty, the willpower, and the sexuality.

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Strangest of all, Joy would now talk of Jy-ying intimately, and when she noticed Jy-ying giving John a lingering, half-lidded look, no cloud crossed her face. He felt good about that. But then he didn’t. It made him feel . . . odd. One after another, the guys had gotten up the courage to romance Jy-ying, but except for a short spurt with Hands, whom she told Joy she liked very much, she remained single. When John brought it up with Jy-ying, she shrugged her shoulders as Joy would have done. The double Joys distracted him. No, they obsessed him. He knew also—he couldn’t miss it—that something was obsessing Joy, and it wasn’t simply that Jy-ying was her. And it was getting worse. She put things off. They had yet to start their import and export company. They had agreed to change the name he and Joy had planned in honor of her adoptive mother Tor. She still loved her no less, but Hua had been both Jy-ying and Joy’s real mother, and they’d decided therefore to name the new firm the Hua Import & Export Company. John understood. He thought. They kept the three guys busy with odd jobs, things that needed to be done around Fort Hope, and they didn’t seem to mind. They had a job where they had none before, a great place to live, free food and automobiles, and John treated them very well. And there were two gorgeous women to stare at, which they did often enough for John to have to explain to them that Joy was his, and not up for grabs, so to speak. About two months after Joy and Jy-ying found out about each other, the problem Joy was having, and that John had hidden from himself, became clear. They were laying naked in bed, the way they always slept together, and John got aroused. Joy held and massaged him, and murmured, “Poor Jy-ying. She hasn’t been getting any sex, dearest. Not with anyone she can love. It’s not good. She is, like me, a loving and sexual woman.” John was not in the mood for conversation. He sighed, “I thought she and Hands slept together,” and nibbled on her earlobe. “No,” she whispered, eyes half-lidded. “She didn’t want to.” John tried to foreclose on this distracting conversation with some foreplay. Joy gently pushed his hand away. “She couldn’t because she loves you.” John felt the heat flow away, as did his erection. Joy got up on one elbow and looked at him. Her tone still intimate, she confessed, “She is me and her love for you is what I feel. It’s natural. I love you very much, dearest—both of me.”

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John turned on his own elbow to face her, and put his bearded chin in his hand. He lifted his eyebrows and asked, “Where is this going, baby?” Joy pulled him down next to her and kissed him. The heat was coming back. But then she said, “I want you to make love to me.” Finally. John was again more than ready, and was about to get on top of her when she stopped him with her hand. “Not this me. The other me.” John lost it again. “You want me to make love to Jy-ying?” “Yes, but you must understand that she is not a different woman. She is me.” “I can’t do that, baby. No way. It would be wrong. Like having an affair. I would not feel right about it. No. I can’t believe you would ask me to do this.” He gulped without realizing it. “It’s disloyalty to you. If there were another me and you were bedding him . . . . ” He realized he was protesting too much, but couldn’t help it. “It’s okay, I’ll be with her.” “What?” “I’ll be with her with you. You will have us together as one, which we are.” “That’s group sex, Joy. I’ve never done that. It’s . . . ah, perverted.” He did not have the vocabulary for this. “Don’t be silly,” Joy murmured. Joy got up and put on the embroidered red silk robe that Jy-ying had bought for her, and left the room. Five minutes later, Joy returned with Jy-ying wearing the same kind of robe, but in blue. She looked uncomfortable as John hurriedly covered himself. Prince Wei was right behind her. Joy sat on the edge of the bed, leaned over to him, and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Here I am, dearest. Both of me,” she purred. She stood, took off her robe, and lay down almost next to him, leaving room for Jy-ying. Prince Wei jumped on the bed and began to sniff Joy’s crotch. Jyying grabbed him, put him on a cushioned chair, and commanded him in a husky voice, “Liu—stay.” Joy had been momentarily distracted by Prince Wei. Now she turned back to John, her face flushed. Her voice soothed and caressed him. “Jy-ying and I have discussed this several times and we agree, dearest. But my being with her this first time is a surprise for her.” She motioned to Jy-ying, who also took off her robe and stood with a shy smile looking into John’s wide eyes.

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Jesus Christ, I’m dead, and on my way through the heavenly gates. He looked at Jy-ying and saw for sure what he had wondered about since he met her—yes, she had an equally gorgeous figure, the same as Joy’s, down to the breast deformity and the bush. His last rational thought for the evening was, Yes, heaven’s gates. For Joy ripped the covers off him, looked, fingered him, and meowed to Jy-ying, “We’re going to have to work on him a little.” Prince Wei watched from the chair. He had never seen such interesting human behavior before. And his mistress was right in the middle of it. Fort Hope Cook Insulated and painted to be unobtrusive, the plumbing from the upstairs master bath descended along a corner in the large kitchen and through the floor to the basement. The plumbing was not completely soundproofed, however. Early the next morning the cook heard the sound in the pipes of the upstairs bathtub being filled and emptied, filled and emptied, a little filled, a lot emptied. Accompanying this was a lot of thumping on the ceiling—the bathroom floor—and in the bathtub. It only touched her consciousness, however, much like the snapping of wood in the fireplace. But when Master Banks, Mistress Phim, and her sister Miss Khoo beat their three guests to the table for breakfast, she did notice the rosy glow on their faces, as though they had been jogging around the property in the spring chill, which those crazy people did almost every day. When she brought in the links, scrambled eggs, and the rice both Joy and Jy-ying insisted on, she used the new word she had learned from them. She asked, “Have a good jog?” “Oh, yes,” Master Banks said. He looked at the two women, his grin cutting his face in half. “Wasn’t our jog great?” The cook didn’t understand why the ladies reddened slightly at that, nor why they wore such peculiar grins of their own when they both answered, “The best ever.” She was totally mystified when Master Banks spewed coffee across the table and Mistress broke out in laughter when she commented, “Well, you all look petered out.” She was glad to see, however, that Miss Khoo looked as puzzled as she was.

Chapter 23 July 14, 1907 Jy-ying

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y-ying looked around the library table and wondered again if they had done all they could to protect themselves if attacked, all they could to capture or kill the time traveler who had wrecked the uniuniverse in which they’d landed. As soon as they returned to Fort Hope from the post office, they had come to the library to carefully go over the books they had received and to review their notes and preparations. Now they all sat at the large library table with the three books, their laptops, note paper, newspapers, and the many books in which they had been doing research, some still open, some with scraps of paper sticking out to index something important. They had decided to put off starting the Hua Import and Export Company until they dealt with the time traveler. But there was one more decision to be made. “We' have to do it,” Jy-ying finally said. “It hurts our security for them not to know. They won’t be alert to danger, otherwise. And the additional six eyes and ears would be a significant help.” John looked thoughtful, and then he held up his finger. Joy was right, Jy-ying thought, it is a hateful finger. “I’ve been troubled by keeping them ignorant of what we’re doing,” he said. “Their lives may be at stake also, especially if we’re attacked here. They’ll soon be finished with the listing and inventory of all the important and export companies in and around San Francisco, so they’ll be around more. But, there’s a risk. One or all of them may think we’re raving lunatics, and run off telling the world what crazy people we are. How better for the time traveler to find out about us?” “I don’t think so,” Joy responded. “I’ve been impressed with their character, and we were extremely lucky in that. Of course, it depends on how we tell them. This we should plan carefully.” “Also,” Jy-ying added with a little grin, “they may have a girlfriend or two with them. We did tell them that this is their home, and to feel free to bring their friends here, as long as they tell the cook well ahead of time if for supper. Or breakfast.”

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“There are the butler and other help—” John still could not call them servants “—although there is no special reason that they should know.” Joy looked thoughtful for a few seconds. “That brings up another problem. We don’t know whether the time traveler is man or woman—” “Has to be a man, to have had such success, “ John interrupted, without even a smile. “Yes, our man,” Jy-ying said, her smile wide with the happiness she felt over their new love. She looked at Joy, smiled, and nodded her head toward John. Joy smiled in return, and continued. “So, if it’s a woman who is young like us—” “And beautiful like you two,” John broke in again. “And incredibly patient about being interrupted,” Jy-ying responded, and went on with, “She has an entry through all our defenses by vamping one of the boys.” Jy-ying picked up Prince Wei, who was sleeping at her feet, and stroked his back while he resumed sleeping on her lap. “That decides it, does it not? They must be made aware of the danger, even of girlfriends.” Jy-ying looked at John. She had gotten to know him well enough now to almost anticipate his humor. She knew it was as natural as breathing to him. “Yes,” John said, tapping his pencil on the table and looking at Joy from under his brows. “All us males must be aware of that danger.” The telephone on the wall next to a book stack gave two quick rings. John rose and picked up the receiver. After a moment he replied to the caller, “I think the cook will be relieved not to have your elephant-sized stomachs to fill. Enjoy yourselves.” He hung up and told Joy and Jy-ying, “Guess we won’t be telling the guys tonight. They’re going out to dinner and then to a nickelodeon. I bet we’ll have at least two more women under the roof afterwards.” “You mean under them,” Jy-ying said, smirking. Straight-faced, John added, “Or two or more under one of them.” “Beast,” Joy yelled, crunching up a sheet of paper and throwing it him. “Pervert,” Jy-ying shouted and, rolling up a newspaper, she reached over the table and bopped him on the head. John was laughing so hard he could hardly speak. “Girls . . . girls, you must learn to control yourselves around me, as hard as it is.” He doubled over in his chair.

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Joy pushed him off the chair and jumped on his chest with a loud hoot, and Jy-ying raced around the table and fell across his thighs. They both almost doubled up with laughter themselves as Prince Wei tried to kill John’s trouser leg. In three tries, John finally stammered out, “No, no, not in the library.” July 16 Joy Two nights later, while John, Joy, and Jy-ying lay naked in bed together with Prince Wei sleeping at their feet, Joy mused about their success with the guys. “They now know everything. Everything, but one thing. They know about our mission and why, since we showed them the video of twentieth century wars and revolutions. They know about the nuclear attack on the democracies—” Jy-ying, who had been sitting against the back of the bed reading on the other side of John, put her Russian history book down. She looked over at Joy, and her face sagged. “I am sorry for the distraction of my sobbing. I could not help it. All those people killed, all that history destroyed, by my religion. No one in China, not even in Security, was ever shown pictures of the destruction. It was all abstract. If I had seen then what I saw today, I would have resigned my commission and fled the country.” Joy nodded. “That is exactly what I would have done. And I would have fled to one of the new Muslim democracies you told me existed at that time. Anyway, your crying and my tears are what finally convinced the guys that we were telling the truth. They have this thing about us being iron ladies, especially Sal. He keeps asking me to arm wrestle.” Joy turned on her side, leaned on her elbow, and idly played with a light blonde hair on John’s chest. “They took it well. No hysterics, no ‘You’re crazy.’ Just ‘how can we help you?’ I was surprised.” “Yeah,” Jy-ying said, also leaning on her elbow to tweak one of John’s chest hairs. She chuckled. “With the hundred dollars John gave them to arm themselves, they must have bought half an armory. They came in clanking this evening. A good gun only costs a couple of dollars, so I expect they each have a handgun or two, a shotgun, and probably a rifle.”

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She waved her hand along John’s body. “Well, there is one thing they do not know about us. It’s lucky that the previous owner and his wife wanted a door between their rooms so they could quietly get together.” Joy replied, “Lucky for us, and too bad for John. Have you noticed how tired he’s been lately? Why, I found him the other day sleeping in his study, with his head on the desk.” Jy-ying frowned and rubbed her fingernail down John’s chest. “I think he may have only two or three more good years.” “I don’t know.” Joy tweaked his nipple. “He can hardly stand up straight in the morning now.” Jy-ying pulled on another hair as though to see how long it was. “You mean on his feet?” While Jy-ying held the one hair up, Joy tried to twist another hair around it. “I’m afraid that’s all I’m going to mean, soon. You know,” Joy mused, “men are like automobiles. Great when they’re new—they ride very well. But as they age they get bumpy and rattle, and you get less mileage for the gas. They rust, their engines begin to go, and before you know it they can’t even be steered well. And finally, they go poof.” John’s face had turned red. No longer able to hold the laughter in, he finally let it out, put his arms around both of them, and pulled their heads to his shoulders. “I love you two.” “I love you too,” they both said. Joy felt warm and contented. She was more at peace with their love than ever before. The world was perfect, there was no other universe, there was only the three—rather, the two—of them. She sighed and whispered huskily, “Prove it. If you’re not too tired, that is.”

Chapter 24 July 23, 1907 Green Eyes

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his is ridiculous. Where could they be hiding? He knew what they looked like, he knew John had bought the Fairfax Hotel. Hands’ biography of them had made that plain. But when he went there, the owner said John had never bought the hotel, although when he described them, the owner said they had stayed there. No forwarding address. He knew from John’s Remembrance that by this time they had set up the Tor Import and Export Company, but it wasn’t registered, and there were no business ads in the paper associated with that name. He knew they’d landed in a warehouse, address unknown, and had bought it the same day they landed. He systematically checked all the major banks, spilling counterfeit money around like pennies, and finally located the sale of the property. But when he appeared inside the warehouse, weapon ready, it was empty. He could tell from the clues— disturbed places in the dust and the scuff marks where objects had been dragged, among other things—that their capsules and time machine had been there. He knew they would buy an apartment house, but no one resembling the pair had bought an apartment house or a house in the last six months. He knew they would buy a car, given what he’d read about Joy’s driving. He checked all of the automobile distributors. No one had sold anyone like them a car. He felt the anger growing again. It welled up from his guts and heated up his thoughts. “Shit, shit, shit,” he said in a language that would be oddly familiar to English speakers. “I never thought they would be onto me. Damn them.” Well, he had tried to take the fast route to them. Now he would just have to play the patient detective. He did not want to take the time. The time he was spending here was increasingly dangerous for him. He had

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been lucky so far, but he now risked being caught. It was okay to drop in for a short visit, do what was necessary for the revolution, and then return. But he had been here a while and his human auric—energy field—was bound to be picked up eventually. He moved to the passenger seat of the stolen Buick and unfolded his neutronic screen. He activated it and by voice command moved from one robot fly-view to another. The robot surveillance flies he had brought with him were now on the walls around “Hitler’s” P.O. box. He spoke a few words and the screen went through the ten hour consolidated holo of the activity around the box as recorded by the flies. It automatically stopped fast-scanning when a man approached the box and opened it. He took out a pile of letters, put them in a case, and closed and locked the box. The man was not John. “Son of a bitch. More waiting.” He spoke a series of instructions toward the screen, and in the post office one of the robot flies flew to wait just above the box. To preserve its proton energy it would make no holo until activated as it had been commanded. Now I have to wait another shitty day or so. April 24 He returned to within contact distance in a stolen Ford, and after unfolding his screen, he checked his special robot fly. The fly’s holo had started immediately when someone unlocked the box. It flew to land on the person’s coat near his collar with a front view of what he was doing. He ordered a fast scan. The holo zoomed forward until the fly was carried to a Buick. He saw the mail dropped onto a man’s lap. As instructed, the fly flew into the car and attached itself upside down to the car’s roof. The holo on the screen automatically righted the threedimensional image, and went to wide-angle view. John’s face came onto the screen as he said something to his passenger. He had seen that face in the hated photographs and paintings he’d grown up with. He ordered the holo to switch to a view of the passenger. He gaped as Joy came into view; she was even more beautiful than her pictures. He noticed the scar, and was surprised. But that may have been powdered over in the photos. I was right. It’s that goddam John and Joy who are after me. Well, fuck them. They’re dead.

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The fly did not take a holo of the back seat. It had not been ordered to do so. It flew out the open window and did a fast fly around the automobile and back into the window to again attach itself upside down to the automobile’s roof, such that it had a clear view of the road ahead. John drove off, and the man could see in what direction John drove, but then within a mile or so, the fly was out of range. He’d seen the car they were driving, but the damn cars had no license plates in this era. It was a Ford, but he didn’t know the model number and for all he knew, it might have been stolen. Shit, now it will take longer. He put his screen on search and alert, and slid into the driver’s seat. He put the idling Ford in low gear, and jack-rabbited into traffic in the same direction John had gone. He drove straight southwest on Market until it went south around Twin Peaks and then changed into Portola Avenue. With increasing frustration he followed that until he reached Ocean Ave. No signal from his special fly. Where the hell did they go? The robot fly would sense when it was out of range and go into its sleep mode until the screen came back into range, when it would awaken, ready for new instructions. He pulled into the lot of Hardy’s Food Store. He directed his remaining robot surveillance flies to fly to the limit of their contact range in a search pattern looking for the one robot fly, and then to repeat the search along a different segment of the distance on their return. He was in effect doubling the range of his screen. He waited. No contact with the fly in the car. The flies returned, and he drove further south, and tried again. Nothing. Another try. Nothing. His surveillance flies were losing their proton energy, his screen warned him; their power supply would be depleted in one more go-around. He again found another location, sent out his flies, and waited. Contact. The special fly was activated again and communicating through the surveillance fly that had found it. It was still upside down, attached to the interior roof of the Ford. He could see that the Ford was parked in a large garage. He instructed the robot to fly out of the garage and to the front of what looked like a very big house. But then there was a sudden shift in perspective, a collapsing of the views, darkness, and loss of contact. He tried various commands. Nothing. He smacked the dashboard with his hand and raged, his hot anger turning his shout into a scream: “Where is that goddam house?”

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Fort Hope Mechanic The Ford had been out on the road; it was dirty, and had to be cleaned. The house mechanic unlatched the top from the windshield and pushed it back to lie in a pile of folded canvas behind the back seats. He never heard the soft crunch of the tiny robotic fly as it was caught in a folding strut. He then unstrapped the top from the rear latches and, with a grunt, lifted the top off and to the ground. He would open it there later. It was easier for him to clean the canvas on the ground than crawling around and leaning over the high top when it was attached to the Ford, especially since it would not hold his weight.

Chapter 25 July 24, 1907 Jy-ying

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y-ying sat in her favorite easy chair in her room; Prince Wei slept on her lap. John and Joy were napping in the master bedroom. She didn’t feel like a nap herself, so she’d told them she had some things to do in her—now really her and Joy’s—room. Since she almost always slept with them, she had turned her bedroom into a study-prayer room, a place where she could sometimes be alone with Prince Wei and with her thoughts. Sometimes Joy also used the room to be by herself, while Jy-ying and Prince Wei slept with John. She had completed her afternoon prayers but, troubled by them, she was trying to determine the problem, and indeed, again think about their joint mission. The heat and passion she’d felt with John, now surely the love of her life, and the initial—she had trouble with a word for this— “strangeness” of group (but not really group) sex, had almost settled into a routine, though it was no less pleasurable. That passion, and their lovemaking, had almost completely dominated her mind. It was bound up inextricably with her discovery that she and Joy were one and the same person, with her new love for John, and with her love of self— Joy. What was left of her thoughts involved their security and stopping the time traveler. Now that the great passion, the great heat and lust, had settled into a routine of joyful lovemaking—she stopped and told herself with a chuckle, “Ha. I made an unconscious pun. Good thing John didn’t hear that”—now she felt relaxed enough to deal with what had been trying to insert itself into her thoughts. Her Sabahism was an increasing strain for her. Joy was agnostic, tending toward Buddhism. John was agnostic, tending toward atheism. She performed her prayers five times a day, time stolen from the many things she had to do—maintaining their security, her practice sessions and sparring with Joy, her jogging and weight lifting, helping Joy train John further in the martial arts and weapons, and now training the three guys, now officially their guards. She grinned. Not to mention bed time.

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She rubbed Prince Wei’s back, finding pleasure in the feel of his hair, and feeling good about his unconditional loyalty and love. Half awake, he rolled on his back to have his stomach scratched, which she did with delight, happy to see his pleasure. She leaned over and kissed his black nose, then sat back and idly scratched Prince Wei’s stomach again. It was so quiet she felt she could almost hear the dust fall on the room’s Indian wool carpet. She sighed. “I feel disloyal,” she told him. “Disloyal to the prophet Sabah, disloyal to Islam, disloyal to my religion. I no longer have the same intensity of obedience to the religion.” She’d been missing some prayers, and had given no thought to what was an awful fact from the perspective of her religion—not only was she intimate with Joy and John, but she didn’t try to convert them at all. “I think that video of Sabah’s—his son’s—nuclear destruction of the democracies to globalize Sabahism was like a knife plunged deep into my beliefs. I’m not in China now. There is no Imam friend to persuade me otherwise, as there was when I was about to give up the religion after hearing rumors of the destruction. Now there are only my doubts, and they have returned in full force.” Prince Wei, asleep again, lay stretched across her lap on his side. She stroked his side. “The worst of it, from the point of view of my . . . religion, is not my increasing apostasy, but what has happened to my mission.” She shuddered involuntarily. “To think I was going to kill John and Joy. Now I could no more do that than I could kill you, my little Prince. Worse, I now love a non-Muslim more than anything in this world. Like Joy, I would die to save his life. And nonMuslim Joy’s.” She grimaced, feeling chilled. “To kill her would be killing myself.” She tried to climb out of this gloomy line of thought. The mission! Yes, the mission to save Sabah and Sabahism. She put her feet up on the redwood coffee table and turned Prince Wei to lie along her legs. A mosquito flew across her vision and jittered above her head, and she reached up and clapped it between her hands. When she looked at the palm of her hand, the corpse was bloody. My blood, she thought idly as she wiped her hand on a piece of tissue paper. “The mission. Do I still want to save Abul Sabah, once we get the time traveler and stop or turn around the communist revolutions sweeping Europe?” She smiled at the megalomania of that. “Yes, just the three of us. That idea is what John calls a ‘ha-ha.’ But, if the three of us do succeed, as remote as that is, what about Sabah?”

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She sighed again, deeper. I don’t know. I don’t know. Children were sold in his part of the world; they could buy him from his parents and adopt and raise him. But would the angel Gabriel then communicate with him on behalf of God? And even if he did, how could Abul create Sabahism without the power he had in Uighuristan, and eventually, in China? She rested her hand on Prince Wei’s side. “It’s moot anyway. That damn time traveler and his revolutions have so changed the future that probably there will be no Sabah, and even if there is, he will not become the Prophet. There is probably no decision for me to make. My mission probably disappeared with these revolutions.” She felt better. The emptiness in her stomach had disappeared. “That’s it. I don’t need to make a decision now, not for years. I will just—” There was a knock on the door to John and Joy’s bedroom, and Joy opened the door. Prince Wei jumped down and ran over to jump up and down on her red robe. No one disciplined him for this greeting of his; he always received a caress or so, and even sometimes a stomach scratch. Joy announced, “We’re up. We’re going to the kitchen for the leftover mochi I bought at Yamishiro’s yesterday. And green tea.” She turned and yelled into the room behind her, “You hear that, John? Green tea for a change. Not that English tea. Not coffee. Incredibly savory green tea.” She turned back to Jy-ying. “Join us?” “Sure. How could I say no to green tea?” Jy-ying joined Joy at the door. She was surprised at how light she felt now. She might even forgo her late evening prayers.

Chapter 26 Morning, April 25, 1907 Green Eyes

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ach time he used surveillance flies he had to get a judge’s warrant and make a report to the judge on the results of their use. What made it worse was that their proton nodes had to be changed. This was recorded at the armory and a copy sent to the judge. And the loss of a surveillance fly was considered so serious that unless there was a very good reason for the loss, there would be an internal investigation. He had lied. He had created false documentation. I’m up to my nostrils in shit now, and I’ll soon go under, unless . . . unless what? He let out a deep breath of frustration. No matter what happened to him, he reminded himself, he had launched the revolutions. The one in Russia was bound to succeed. Poland’s was on the cusp of success, if the mutiny at Bydgoszcz could be put down. But Germany was still a question. Rosa needed time she might not be granted, because of the reactionary forces collecting against Spartacus. Maybe I will never return. Maybe I’ll live in Germany and work with Rosa for the revolution there. She could sure use my skills and knowledge. And when she’s successful, I’m sure she would set me up well. Maybe as a minister. Yes, that would be a great idea. I know how to hide in time, and they would never find me. If it were not for those fucking meddlers, John and Joy. They had succeeded in destroying the November, 1917, Russian Revolution; they had succeeded in preventing World Wars I and II. Now they might still succeed in stopping these current revolutions and rolling them back. All my risk-taking, all my planning, would then be for naught. Except, and he smiled at the thought, not even they could bring that evil Stalin to life again. He was desperate now. If he did not find and eradicate them very soon, he risked plunging mankind back into the exploitive hands of the capitalist plutocracy of moneyed greed. He could not stand to do that. Even as a boy he had questioned why there were rich and poor, why all

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could not be equal in employment opportunities and income. Especially income. It was fundamentally wrong, he had thought for over half his life, that his parents could receive a hundred times that made by his best friend’s parents, with all the advantages in life he had over his friend as a result. It was wrong, and he would make sure this new universe recognized that. He could not let communism die as it had in John and Joy’s universe. But unless he hurried, unless he succeeded in eradicating them soon, he would be caught, and maybe—just maybe—his dream defeated. He had driven around the area where he knew their house was located in a stolen Dolson automobile, but he’d seen no house whose rear might resemble the one the fly had holoed. For legal reasons and to avoid confusion among competing buyers and real estate firms, a central record was kept at City Hall of all houses bought and sold in the area. It was a public record, and he had eaten up more precious time going through those records. He could find only three expensive houses in that locality that had been bought within the last seven months, and none had been purchased by a Banks or a Phim. Of course, they could have used false names, so he’d written down the addresses. Now, in a stolen telephone truck with the telephone repairman shivering under a canvas in the rear, he drove to the Wilgur Pinson house first. A long, winding driveway led to the mansion’s entrance. When he climbed down from the cab, he had to adjust the repairman’s blue and white uniform so it didn’t look too tight. As it was, he could only button the bottom three buttons on his denim pants and then button the heavy service coat so that the opening in his pants would be hidden. There was a yellow raincoat in the back of the truck, and with a little salute to the man lying trussed up on the floor in his underwear, he put it on. Carrying a bag of tools and wires, he approached the mansion’s door. A maid answered his knock and he said, “I am from the telephone company. We are having line trouble with your phone. I am here to check it out and repair whatever is necessary.” The maid tilted her head and looked carefully at his unbearded face. “You’re a foreigner. You speak funny.” “No, I am from New York.” “Oh. Come on in.” “Where is your telephone? You have just one?”

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“No, two.” She led him to the kitchen. “This is one,” she said, nodding to the wall phone. “I’ll take you to the other.” And she led the way to the study, where she pointed to a wall phone near a desk. “I have work to do. You know your way out, don’t cha?” “Yes, and thank you.” As soon as the maid disappeared, he checked the photographs on the desk, the painting of a handsome woman over the fireplace, and the desk drawers. Easy decision. No John and Joy here. The next house had a guard and a gate. He gave his explanation, and was surprised when the guard called someone from the guard shack and, watching him, spoke into the phone and listened to the response. He put down the phone and stepped to the truck. “I’m sorry. You will have to wait while your company is called to verify your request.” This is their house, he thought. Only they would exercise such security. He waited a few moments, then called the guard over. “I have other jobs to hurry through. I’ll come back later.” Without waiting for a response, he tried to back up the truck, something he had not done before—he didn’t realize he had to readjust the spark and throttle. He backfired and jolted backwards, almost stalling. He got turned around while the guard stared and, with another loud backfire, got the truck moving forward in first gear. Then he shoved it into second with a clash of gears, and disappeared down Crocker Road. He drove several blocks, then down a side street, and then another, and parked the truck at the edge of a forest. He walked back toward the mansion, and soon noticed the tall wall that surrounded it. The wall hid the precise location of the mansion. He had to have that. He found a tree well back from the wall—evidently they had cleared all trees and bushes within twenty feet of the wall, and no branches were allowed even close to overhanging it. No matter. He climbed a paper bark tree until he could see the mansion, then secured his feet against the soft branches while he pulled an instrument that looked like a small telescope from his pocket. He put it to his eye and scanned the outside of the mansion. He looked carefully at the French doors, the rear windows, and the solid-looking side door. He checked the half-glass door off a small balcony on the second floor and an adjacent picture window. That was where he would enter. He adjusted several recessed small knobs, took the instrument away from his eye, and pressed a button to fix in its memory the three dimensional coordinates shown in a little window in the instrument’s side. He

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counted to one hundred, which gave him the minute movements in the earth’s rotation and the relative change in the location of the star’s xrays that he needed for the double-check. He could not make a mistake, otherwise he might end up cut in half by a wall or a floor. He again put the device to one eye, and went though the same procedure. Then he subtracted the first coordinates from the second, and with a result of zero he was satisfied. He returned to the truck, drove it about a mile away, and parked it on a small side street. He went to the rear, took off the telephone man’s clothes and his gray metallic belt, and changed into his own clothes, putting the metallic belt on over them. After loosening the rope tying the telephone man’s feet and hands, he told him, “You should be able free yourself in an hour or so. As to me, nobody will believe you.” He touched something on his belt and disappeared.

Chapter 27 Evening, April 25, 1907 Joy

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itting comfortably in bed with her back against a pile of pillows, Joy was trying to read Tolstoy’s War and Peace in Russian. She had her knees up and the covers pulled over them up to her lap. Beside her were two Russian-English dictionaries. John was in the library trying to refine Jy-ying’s German. He could speak and read it, and was using flash cards to increase Jy-ying’s vocabulary. The guys had taken their girlfriends to see the new silent movie The Golden Beetle. They all were on alert, but Joy felt safe in the bedroom—safe enough to reach her magnum in seconds if the house, John and Jy-ying in the library, or the bedroom were attacked. She had her holster purse hanging off the chair close by, and her throwing and tactical knives on the chair seat. And she had drawn the curtains to the balcony as well. Can’t be too cautious, she thought. “Gospodi pomily?” She underlined the phrase in Tolstoy, and went to the open dictionary to look it up. “Ah, ‘Lord have mercy.’ That makes sense,” she told herself, and went back to her reading. An area by the balcony door shimmered. Joy caught it out of the corner of her eye. A man’s shape began to form. Tolstoy went flying as Joy tried to do a quick roll to reach her magnum. But the covers restrained her, and by the time she had one foot on the floor and her hand on the magnum, the man was fully materialized. He held a small tube in his hand. With the magnum in her hand, Joy tried to twist around on one foot to get a fast shot at the man. The tube flashed. A wide beam encompassed her whole body, partially paralyzing her instantly. She tried to fight it, drawing on all her strength and focusing it on the simple act of moving the hand with the gun and sighting on the man. Her whole body shook with the effort, but she could do no better than slow motion. No good. As she again drew on all her energy and willpower, using every trick she had been taught to force her hand to sight the magnum on the

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man, he just walked over to her, stood to the side of her gun, and put the tube back into his belt. With two hands he jerked the magnum out of her hand. He emptied its cylinder and slid the gun and the cartridges under the bed, out of reach. He waited while she slowly got her other foot under her, but she was so sluggish she almost toppled. He took her arm and held her up until she was stable. Snail-like, she straightened her body, and let her useless hands lazily drop to her sides. Her eyes could move freely, and she tried to gauge the man and her danger as he went to the door and locked it. He came back and looked at her carefully. His smile was huge, showing even white teeth, and his green eyes sparkled with anticipation. Her robe hung open and she had nothing on underneath. He stepped up to her, removed the robe from her shoulders, pulled the sleeves from her arms, and tossed the robe away. Joy gradually straightened her back even more, and slowly tilted her head back, chin out. He walked around her body, studying it. He caressed her buttocks, and then stood in front of her, looking her up and down. She stared unblinking into his eyes. She would make not the slightest move to cover herself, even if she could. “Interesting. John never mentioned in his Remembrance that your left breast was half the size of your right one.” He put his hand over the right one and massaged it, and pulled on its soft nipple. He took several steps back to get a better full view of her. “God, you still are gorgeous,” he exclaimed. “Your photographs were just imperfect reflections of your true beauty. Even seeing those photos when I was a teenager made me want you. And later, after I studied Marxism and the history of communism, and how you and John destroyed its great promise in my universe as Stalin did in your original universe, I wanted to destroy you.” He gave her a huge, toothy smile. “Now, I have succeeded. Trotsky will win. His world, his communist revolution will win. I will be there, and there will be nothing,” and he spit the words into her fiery eyes, “nothing you can do about it. The great, progressive era of MarxismTrotskyism is here. The age of bloodsucking capitalism and all its evils is over.” Joy ignored what the man was saying and doing. She had known from the very beginning of their mission that her life was at great risk, the probabilities against surviving long. So, one evening while John

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slept, she’d quietly composed her death haiku. Now that she could see that her end was near, there were only two things to do. First she imagined John with his smile, his sparkling eyes, his unruly hair, and his loving voice, as she repeated to herself her haiku: In death I hug you With my last breath I kiss you Souls to meet again Take good care of him, Jy-ying, she thought. I’m sorry Mom; so sorry. The final thing, and she had also been trained in this, was called the death trance. Samurai used it when committing seppuku—ritual suicide—or after losing a good battle, while they stood weaponless, waiting for the enemy’s final cut. With a final image of John filling her mind, she invoked the trance, and killed all her emotions—all but a stream of utter hatred and contempt that she hurled at the man through her eyes. Last, she closed down her mind. She would now know nothing. She would feel nothing. But for her eyes and what was in them, she was dead already. She stood, head high. She waited, but that had no meaning for her. She was simply there. He looked her over again, and then in one step he pushed her backwards onto the bed. She fell on her back, her legs hanging off the bed, her body under no control, the scorching fire in her almond eyes filling her face and blazing at him. He reached down with two hands, spread her legs, and then started taking off the work pants under his odd metallic belt. Jy-ying John held up the flash card that said in English Impossible. Without hesitation, Jy-ying said, “Unmöglich.” John was a natural linguist and in becoming a professional historian he had learned to read and speak German, French, and Spanish. But Russian he did not know. So, this was his turn with the flash cards, and when the deck was finished, Jy-ying would pick it up and test him. Amazingly, Joy was further along than either of them, and Jy-ying thought that must be due to her being conversant in Japanese, although

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what that might have to do with it she had not the vaguest idea. But they were so much the same in natural skills, and that was the only language difference; it had to be the explanation. Anyway, Joy wanted to read Tolstoy while John and she caught up. John lifted another flash card: rate of exchange. “Der Wechselkurs,” Jy-ying answered. He was about to show her another card when Prince Wei, who was stretched out on the floor sleeping, raised his head, looked toward the library door, and growled. He suddenly leaped up, ran through the open library door, and stood in the ballroom growling. His ears were flat against his head, his hair bristling, his tail down. Jy-ying had her Taiyang .38 out in a second, and rushed after him, stopping at the edge of the door. John was a second behind her with his H&K in both hands; he stopped on the other side of the entrance. Jy-ying crouched, then swung into the opening, gun pointed at the top of the stairs. Nothing. John stepped out and while he covered the upstairs, she leaned over, put her hand around Prince Wei’s muzzle, and squeezed it to quiet him. He knew what that meant—she had made sure by training him. No matter what else he learned, that had priority. She kicked off her shoes, and then covered the upstairs with her gun while John sat on the floor and quietly removed his boots. His face was pale, his brow knitted with concern, Jy-ying knew, for Joy. When he was ready, she signaled for him to follow her, and rushed up the carpeted stairs to the master bedroom at the left of the stairs. John and Prince Wei were right behind her. She flattened herself against the wall to the right of the bedroom’s door, while John did the same on the left. Prince Wei stood in front of the door, bristling, his whole body rigid and leaning toward the door, ready to attack. As soon as John was in position, she reached out and slowly turned the doorknob, while pushing gently inward. Had there been the slightest click and movement in the door, she would have flung it open and thrown her body inside, scanning the room with her gun. But it was locked. “Locked,” she lipped to John. “Watch the door.” She edged along the wall to her own bedroom door. She slowly checked if it was locked. The knob turned. Gun at the ready, she quietly opened the door a crack, then wide enough to check the room with her gun. Empty.

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She rushed inside, and over to the door to the master bedroom. She slowly tried the door. It was unlocked. She looked down at Prince Wei. He was at her feet, staring at the door, his whole body trembling to attack. She picked him up and put him behind her feet so she wouldn’t trip over him. She a took a deep breath, cleared her mind, and focused all her energy on what she must do. In no more than a second or two, she became a pure weapon with five human senses, her gun an auxiliary extension of her hands. Green Eyes He stood up panting and looked back down at her body. He had tried to avoid her eyes, her whole face. She had looked like she wanted to tear him apart with her fingernails and chew on the bloody pieces. He had never been looked at like that and it had gotten to him. The first time he entered her, he’d looked at her eyes, and he lost his erection immediately. He had covered her face with her robe and tried again, but he lost his erection before he could come. He got it back by playing with her body, then he tried not to think of her eyes when he entered her a third time, but he could not get out of his mind the image of their fiery repulsion and loathing. He had wanted to try her mouth, and that gave him an erection when he thought of it, but with that look she gave him he was not so stupid, even as partially paralyzed as she was. He realized he was running out of time. He had to get this over with, and there was still John to find, but that would be easy. So would eliminating him, as well. He slid the robe off her face without looking at her eyes. He unclasped his metallic belt so he could pull on his baggy pants, and he put the belt back on. He did what he had planned. And, with a last, lingering look at her body, he headed for the hallway door. The side door flashed open and hit its stop with a bang. The sound blasted his reaction time into high gear; in a blur he snatched the tube out of his belt, jerked his head toward the sound, and was about to spit out the signal for his protective shield to activate around his body when he saw Joy—Joy?—leaping into the room with a gun pointed at him.

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Something white and low to the floor hurtled toward him at a velocity too slow for the shield to stop, and he hesitated for another split second. As he started to point his tube at it, his insides exploded, his hands splayed open, the tube fell, and he could only gasp as the hazy face of Joy and her smoking gun receded into darkness. The scar. I forgot about the scar. The one on the bed does not . . . have. . . . He collapsed to his knees, and slowly toppled over onto his back. Prince Wei was at his throat, ripping out flesh. But the man was already dead. John John heard the shots and grabbed the doorknob, twisting frantically. Still locked. He skipped a step back and threw his shoulder at the door, but it wouldn’t give. He kicked it—useless. He bolted down the hall and almost fell as he skidded into Jy-ying’s room. He dashed through the door into the master bedroom. Someone was on the floor, blood pooling around him. Prince Wei stood over him, looking at John with a bloody muzzle. He saw Jy-ying over Joy’s naked body. She was doing something to her eyes, and then she felt for a pulse. John flew onto the bed and crawled toward Joy. He reached her head, and screamed, “JOY. JOOOY!” He kissed her lips, her eyes, her cheeks, and whimpered, “Please God, no.” Jy-ying put her ear to Joy’s chest, listening for a heartbeat. In a minute, she raised her eyes to John and shook her head. John screamed, “No, no,” and broke down in body-wrenching sobs. Jy-ying pulled the covers up over Joy’s body except for her head, which John now held in his lap. He was shaking uncontrollably. Prince Wei jumped on the bed, sniffed at Joy, and started an undulating howl. After doing what she had to do, Jy-ying let her own control go. She pulled Joy’s dead hand to her cheek, kissed it, and slowly slid down the edge of the bed holding it to her lips. She moaned at her loss, at the death of this great warrior in her prime—her death—and John’s heartbreak. Finally, the flood of tears came.

Chapter 28 November 14, 1907 John

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hey were on their way to Bremen on the Kaiser Wilhelm II. John felt as though he was being rocked to sleep in a cradle as the ship rolled gently in the calm, cold Atlantic. He was stretched out on a deck chair under two ship’s blankets. Jy-ying lay beside him on her own chair, sound asleep under another ship’s blanket, her head moving back and forth against the deck chair with the roll of the ship. Prince Wei was curled up on her lap under a towel, also asleep. His mind drifted as he stared out at the ocean swells. They were as ready as they would ever be for this. Jy-ying now spoke passable German and Russian, and John spoke Russian well. They had finally got their company going and named it after Joy—the Joy Import & Export Company. The revolution in Poland had been overthrown by a military coup. First Secretary Leo Jogiches of Soviet Poland and all the top officials he appointed had been executed, and all others in the Warsaw Soviet had been arrested. John and Jy-ying had nothing to do with it. In Germany the nonradical social democrats, with the help of their traditional unions, had maneuvered the Kaiser’s government into attacking the Spartacus League. Rosa Luxemburg had been assassinated with an axe in her apartment by Freikorps killers. John and Jy-ying also were long distance bystanders. As John said, politics took its natural course. Trotsky still controlled the Red Army and St. Petersburg and Moscow, but more peasant rebellions were occurring, and the success of the White Armies, particularly those in Siberia, was growing. Soon there would be major battles on the road to St. Petersburg. John had made contacts through expatriate Russian democrats in Germany and France, and was about to offer half his and Jy-ying’s great wealth to them. Their aim was to assure, when the final victory over Trotsky occurred, that it was the democrats and not old regime royalists who took power.

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Once they turned over this massive political funding, they would travel to St. Petersburg under forged identities as important American and Chinese communist activists wishing to establish secret soviets in their countries. They had been guaranteed an appointment with Trotsky by the Russian embassy in Washington. Trotsky, John was told, was very interested in furthering revolution in both countries, and would provide all the secret help he could. He would die from poison within one week of their appointment, giving them plenty of time to escape. He sighed. Joy would have been happy at the progress they’d made. Joy. He could almost think of her now without the anguish, the grief. Jy-ying had helped; after the first days, she had dampened her own pain at losing herself to help him through his heartrending mourning. He would not have survived without her, and in fact had come close to shooting himself that horrible evening and again the next day. He looked over at Jy-ying again. I love her for herself, so I’ve found out. Not because she seems so much like Joy. She is that, but she also is different. She could never replace the real Joy, nor should she. My love for Joy will never die, nor will my love for Jy-ying. He had a Banks crypt built at Cypress Lawn Memorial Park, and he’d bought a beautiful ceramic urn painted with a bouquet of flowers, vines, and birds, all in a balanced harmony of color and shapes. He imported it from China, knowing Joy would love it. It was also big enough for his and Jy-ying’s ashes, when their ends came. Jy-ying had cried when she first saw it. He had hung Joy’s golden locket around the urn, and put a photograph of her on the wall behind it. He pushed the heartbreak away. He could do that now. He also was able to touch on that night, and recall what Jy-ying had told him. He had been paralyzed with grief, but Jy-ying had collected herself and met the butler as he was coming up the stairs in his robe. He’d been carrying a lantern, to check out the shots he’d heard, he told Jy-ying. She thanked the butler for his worry, and told him that John had been shooting at rats he saw on the balcony. Coincidentally, Joy had just then received a phone call from Western Union. An emergency telegram had arrived from her father. Her mother had died that day, and she would be leaving the next morning for New York to take care of her frail father, and their business. John was broken

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up over her leaving, she said. When the butler looked totally confused, she admitted that she and Joy were not sisters and she would explain in a day or two. When the butler returned to his room, she had waited, giving in to her tears, for the three guys to come home. Dolphy was staying at a friend’s apartment for the evening, but she explained to Hands and Sal what had happened. Shocked and horrified, they’d called Dolphy, who drove back to Fort Hope immediately. They all commiserated with John, shed their own tears, and then helped Jy-ying bury the strange man that night. Hands had searched him, and put in a pile all the strange equipment and devices he had secreted on him in one place or another, especially in his odd metallic belt. They found his police badge in one of its compartments. His name was Michael Livingston. He was born in Toledo, Ohio, in 2303, and he was a time police officer of the United Democracies. That’s all they could get out of the strange, three dimensional badge. They buried it, his belt, and all his devices and clothes with him. Two days later, when Jy-ying checked, the grave was open and empty. The day after Joy’s murder, Jy-ying pretended she was Joy, and dressed in black clothes the guys had hurriedly bought downtown. She wore a black mourning hat with a black veil pulled down over her face. To be sure she was not recognized, she had heavily powdered her scar. When she said a quick good-bye to the staff, the heavy sadness in her voice was no act. When her voice dropped to a stuttering whimper, Hands repeated on her behalf what she had told the butler. Hands, who took over the male role in the household until John recovered, explained to all that John’s devastated and broken look was the result of a drinking binge he’d embarked on when he found out about Joy leaving. He was afraid it was for good, Hands explained. Jy-ying’s travel trunk that the three guys had carried out to the waiting carriage had Joy’s body in it, wrapped in canvas. Jy-ying paid thousands to have Joy’s body cremated. She played the role of an immigrant Chinese princess, and Joy was her royal sister who’d died mysteriously in her sleep. She haughtily explained that she was not going to have some white American coroner mess around with her sister’s body, and so she lacked a death certificate. Jy-ying knew the servants were mystified about Jy-ying staying while her sister Joy returned to the east to be by their father’s side at

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their mother’s funeral. She’d convened the staff and confessed to them her lie about being Joy’s sister. She explained that was the simplest way of handling their remarkable likeness. She told them she worked for John’s business because of her knowledge of China and its languages, and also acted as a stand-in for Joy when needed. She left that unexplained. John let his head fall back against the deck chair and closed his eyes. Each day after that day, and “that day” it would always be, cost Jyying. She ate little, her eyes seemed to sink into her face, and she stopped both jogging and her martial arts practice. He knew she stopped praying also. Each evening they cried together, he until there were no more tears to shed. But she always had the caressing hand, the soft, sympathetic tone, the commiserating hug for him. She slowly came out of it in a month. He wasn’t able to put the worst of it behind him until before this trip abroad. He opened his eyes briefly to look over at her again. Yes, he was sure, she’d gotten him through it. The rocking was getting to him; he was falling asleep. It was so warm under the blanket, the rocking so gentle. So . . . . A breeze caressed his cheek.

aaa “Hello, dearest.” “Joy! I don’t believe it. Is that really you, baby?” “Yes, dearest, I came to visit you. That was me touching your cheek.” “I’m dreaming this, aren’t I.” “Maybe, but does it matter?” “No. I don’t see you; where are you?” “Here I am,” and she appeared in her Levis and gray sweatshirt, with her red headband, and her hair in one long pigtail. “Strange that you should appear like that. I would have preferred you dressed in that tight blouse, golden choker, and taupe skirt you wore when you first came to my faculty office. That’s when you vamped me.” “That wasn’t really me, sweetheart. This is me.” “Oh, so you finally admit you were dressed to vamp me.” “Yes, dearest, and I couldn’t be happier as a result.” “I miss you, baby. I want our souls to be together again, as they were when you were . . . here.”

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“They will be. That will come. And then there will no longer be two of me, but only one.” “Jy-ying saved my life, you know.” “I know. She loves you, John, as I do.” “I love her too. But you and I are special. Our first days together, your training of me, our first lovemaking, our fights, our time travel together, finding the message—all that is you and me. It’s special, and that she cannot share.” “I know.” “Is there a way I can call on you when I need you, baby? A secret code of some kind?” “No, that’s not needed. I am always here, in your heart as you are in mine. We can never be separated.” “But, can I call on you?” “You do when you think of me, my dearest.” Joy smiled and tilted her head. “I have one favor to ask of you, my darling.” “Anything.” “Please treat Jy-ying as you treated me. You’re too serious with her. No banter. None of your awful humor. None of your boring lectures. No precious endearments. It’s as though the real you died with me, and all that remains is a stuffy companion. You haven’t made love to her since my body’s death, have you.” “No.” “Dearest, she is me. Treat her so.” “I cannot.” “Why?” “My heart did die with you.” “Please, John, I live through her. Think of that. I live through her. Now be yourself, John, or I’ll have to rip off your arm and beat you over the head with the bloody stump.” “You and what army?” John hesitated, then smiled and said, “I can’t get into the spirit.” “That’s the spirit. Take care, my love.”

aaa John woke up, stretched, looked over at Jy-ying. She was awake and looking at him, her eyes reflecting the sunlight off the ocean. And something else.

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He reached out and took her hand, and for some reason he was the happiest he had been since that day. He felt full of love for this woman, and felt like showing it. “I love you,” he told her. “Let’s go to our cabin. I want to show you how much.” Jy-ying looked at him askance. “Yes, my man, that is exactly what I had in mind.” “Of course you would, sweetheart.” He leered at her. “What redblooded, beautiful woman wouldn’t?” Jy-ying was startled. She stared at him wide-eyed for a moment, and then the tears started flowing from her eyes. She wiped at them with her hands, and said with a happy grin, “Can it, John.”

Epilogue 2004 Roosevelt College, San Francisco “Introduction to Modern World History”

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ompleting her class segment on the Russian Revolution of 1905– 1907, Professor Shirley Becker pointed out that with the death of Trotsky, the White Armies were able to defeat a dispirited Red Army in the famous battle of Tocho. St. Petersburg then lay open to the victorious White Army led by General Rayevsky and a military dictatorship followed. One year later, that was overthrown from below by a democratic rebellion throughout Russia. A male student put up his hand, and when the teacher called on him, he said, “I read that a woman did him in.” “A woman?” she asked, frowning. “Yes, I read that here.” He waved at a cheap copy of Outline of Modern Russian History on his desk. “It says that she was his Korean mistress, Jan Ping. Trotsky wrote her love letters. She was a Korean spy and assassinated him.” The teacher was silent for maybe ten seconds. She had not looked at the outline, and distrusted it. It was not on her bibliography for the class. She finally responded, “No, she didn’t do it. Her secret British lover Ron Hanks did. Then they both disappeared, and historians can find no trace of them since. It is rumored that they were caught in Siberia while fleeing to Korea, and executed.” One of the brightest students in the class put up his hand. She nodded to him and he held up a thin book. “My uncle died and in his possessions my father found this old book. I’ve looked at it and wonder if you’ve read it. It’s got crazy stuff in it. The title is Communist Victory and Defeat 1936–1991.” “Oh yes. That book became famous as one of the first alternative future history novels, and famous for the absurdity of Hitler’s imagination in writing it. It has no relationship to history, but it is interesting for the kind of crazy universes that people can imagine, if they really let their minds go. And, I should add, when they forget what we have learned from history as well. Read it just for fun.

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“Anyway, class, read Chapter Fourteen in your anthology about the globalization of democracy and peace in the early twentieth century. It’s a classic by John Banks, an independent millionaire-scholar of the 1930s. Class dismissed.”

Afterword

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he attentive reader of more than one of these novels in this series may have noticed a few inconsistencies. I know they are there, but what am I to do? We know so little of this vast universe of which our minute planet and its sun are but one of billions of stars in our galaxy, itself one of billions of galaxies in our universe. We cannot even pride ourselves in this universe of matching the size of a bacterium on a slide in our everyday world. Nor can we assume that our knowledge of the universe is any greater than our size in it. Thus, an infinitude of things must go on in this universe that are not only incredibly beyond our understanding, but of which we have no knowledge whatsoever. And here we are, with less than bacteriumsized knowledge, sending people back in time, creating new universes, and monkeying with the nature of the universe. That things happen to our intrepid time travelers that look like inconsistencies from one novel to another are but inexplicable workings of the universe. I could try to impose our mini-knowledge on all this and override these inconsistencies; or I could say that, in sending people through time, some anomalies occur in their atomic restructuring in the past; or I could say there is a burp in the universe. But we really don’t know. All we can do is live with what the characters believe is really them when their transition to a new time is complete. Even that which we will all experience, death, is an unknown. True, we can say our physical body dies, but what of our soul, our spirit, that which is the conscious “me”? Does it survive in some way? Could dead Joy brush her lover’s cheek as a breeze, and ask a favor of him? It would be arrogant and far beyond our itty-bitty knowledge in this boundless universe to say, “It cannot be.” Let’s be honest. We don’t know. Then again, Joy did appear, didn’t she?

aaa On more worldly affairs, in Chapter 1 and elsewhere I mention that Stalin was an Okhrana agent provocateur who reported to the Okhrana on revolutionary activities, but he also was a criminal who stole money and participated in murder. This is almost heretical in some quarters,

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and in any case, virtually unknown among many historians. The best source on this is Roman Blackman, The Secret File of Joseph Stalin: A Hidden Life (London: Franck Cass, 2001). Much of what has been described about the Bloody Sunday massacre on January 22 (new calendar) actually happened. Bloody Sunday was not as bloody as portrayed here for the purposes of the fictional project of Green Eyes. But in reality, czarist troops at various intersections and bridges and at the square in front of the Winter Palace did open fire on peaceful demonstrators, who carried no weapons and were intent only on an appeal to “their father,” Czar Nicholas, for reforms, not revolution. And cavalry and Cossacks with whips and sabers swinging were unleashed on them (there was no use of Maxim machine guns). The death toll has never been established, but according to various reports, it may have been between 150 and 200 killed, with between 800 and 1,000 casualties overall. The assassinations, strikes, and mutinies described before and after Bloody Sunday actually occurred (except for Witte’s assassination; he was appointed Russian premier in October of 1905 and resigned in disgust in April, 1906, at the czar’s refusal to implement more liberal policies; he died in 1915). Russia was in a revolutionary state, and what saved the monarchy at that time were the reforms initiated by Witte in the face of the czar’s increasing opposition. They damped the revolutionary spirit of the workers and liberals, and the harsh crackdown on radical revolutionaries by Witte and Interior Minister Stolypin, and especially by Stolypin when he was appointed premier in July, 1906. The military largely remained loyal to the czar, and in December of 1905 Trotsky and the whole St. Petersburg Soviet were arrested. Trotsky was tried in the autumn of 1906, and sentenced to life deportation to Siberia. Nonetheless, in this 1905 revolution the Bolsheviks learned much. When the opportunity came in 1917 with nationwide revolutionary unrest over the lack of deep reforms, the heavy losses in World War I, the resulting collapse of the Romanov monarchy, and its succession by a weak social democratic government, the Bolsheviks struck. And succeeded. On Gapon and Bloody Sunday, there are a number of studies available, many by Marxists and hardly objective. Among the best, and one I recommend is Walter Sablinsky, The Road to Bloody Sunday: Father

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Gapon and the St. Petersburg Massacre of 1905 (New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1976). If you prefer an excellent fictionalized account, there is Emily Hanlon’s Petersburg (New York: Ivy Books, 1988). The Red Terror, Civil War, Bread War, and famine following the fictional successful 1905 Bolshevik Revolution described in Chapter 11 actually occurred after the 1917 Revolution. My account in John’s words follows very closely the actual history of this bloody period. Some writers have focused on Stalin’s control of the Soviet Union from 1928 to his death in 1953 as the bloodiest period of communist rule over the Soviet Union. True, Stalin was a megamurdering tyrant under whom perhaps 43 million people were murdered (the figure often given is 20 million, but this ignores those murdered by Stalin during World War II and up to 1953). But Lenin should not be ignored as he is. Yes, John is correct. Incredible as the number is, during Lenin’s absolute dictatorship from 1917 to 1922, the years of the Red Terror, Civil War, and famine, overall about 9.4 million Russians died, were killed in battle, or were murdered—more than died in the preceding World War I. If Lenin had stayed in power as long as had Stalin, he might well have killed as many if not more people. Few would deny any longer that wherever it’s been in power, communism—Marxism-Leninism and its variants—has meant in practice bloody terrorism, deadly purges, lethal gulags and forced labor, fatal deportations, man-made famines, extrajudicial executions and show trials, and genocide. It is also widely known that as a result, millions of innocent people have been murdered in cold blood. Yet, amazingly, there has been virtually no concentrated statistical work on what this total might be. In my own research on this (see my Statistics of Democide at www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/NOTE5.HTM, and my book Death By Government [New Jersey: Transaction Publishers, 1994]), I have tried to get some quantitative understanding of the cost of communism, especially as compared to those murdered by other types of regimes. Of course, any figures can only be rough approximations. Even were we to have total access to all communist archives, we still would not be able to calculate precisely how many the communists murdered. Consider that even in spite of the archival statistics and detailed reports of survivors, the best experts still disagree by over 40 percent on the total number of Jews killed by the Nazis. We cannot expect anything near

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this accuracy for the victims of communism. We can, however, get a probable order of magnitude and a relative approximation of these deaths within a most likely range. With this understood, the Soviet Union appears the greatest megamurderer of all, apparently killing nearly 61,000,000 people. Stalin himself is responsible for almost 43,000,000 of these, as mentioned. Most of the deaths, perhaps around 39,000,000 of them, are due to lethal forced labor in gulags, and during transit to them. Communist China up to 1987, but mainly from 1949 through the cultural revolution, which alone may have seen over 1,000,000 murdered, is the second worst megamurderer with 39,000,000 killed. Then there are the lesser megamurderers, such as North Korea (1,663,000) and Tito’s Yugoslavia (1,072,000). Obviously the population that is available to kill will make a big difference in the total democide, and thus the annual percentage rate of democide is revealing. By far, the most deadly of all communist countries has been Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge. Pol Pot and his crew likely killed some 2,000,000 Cambodians out of a population of around 7,000,000 from April, 1975, through December, 1978. This is an annual murder rate of over 8 percent of the population; the odds of an average Cambodian surviving Pol Pot’s rule were slightly over 2 to 1. In sum, the communists probably have murdered something like 110,000,000, or nearly two-thirds of the nearly 170,000,000 killed by all governments, quasi-governments, and guerrillas from 1900 to 1987. Of course, the world total itself is shocking. It is several times the 38,000,000 battle-dead killed in all of the last century’s international and domestic wars. Yet the probable number of murders by the Soviet Union alone—one communist country—far surpasses this cost of war. And the murders of communist China almost equal it. How were all these people killed by communists? Many of the deaths were due to terrorism like the Red Terror—that is, the murder of specific individuals by assassination, extrajudicial executions, torture, beatings, and such. Many were massacred, killed indiscriminately en masse by soldiers machine-gunning demonstrators, or entering a village and killing all of its inhabitants. Much genocide, or the killing of people because of their ethnicity, race, religion, or language, was carried out. Many more were murdered in deportations—forced mass transportation to distant regions, and the resulting deaths from starvation or

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exposure. And there was the democidal famine, which was purposely caused or aggravated by a communist government or which was knowingly ignored, and aid to its victims withheld. Then there was the particularly deadly communist forced labor. It not only accounts for most deaths under communism, but is close to the world total, which also includes colonial forced labor deaths (as in the German, Portuguese, and Spanish colonies). Communists also committed genocide, to be sure, but only nearly half of the world total. Communists even used a quota system. Top officials would order local officials to kill a certain number of “enemies of the people,” “rightists,” or “tyrants.” How can we understand all this killing by communists? It is the marriage of an absolutist ideology with absolute power. Communists believed that they knew the truth, absolutely. They believed that they knew through Marxism what would bring about the greatest human welfare and happiness. And they believed that power, the dictatorship of the proletariat, must be used to tear down the old feudal or capitalist order and rebuild society and culture to realize this utopia. Nothing must stand in the way of its achievement. Government—the Communist Party—was thus above any law. All institutions, cultural norms, traditions, and sentiments were expendable. And the people were the lumber and bricks to be used in building the new world. Constructing this utopia was seen as a war on poverty, exploitation, imperialism, and inequality. And for the greater good, as in a real war, people are killed. And thus this war for the communist utopia had its necessary enemy casualties—the clergy, the rich, the bourgeoisie, capitalists, wreckers, counterrevolutionaries, rightists, tyrants, landlords, and noncombatants that unfortunately got caught in the battle. In a war millions may die, but the cause may be well justified, as in the defeat of Hitler and an utterly racist Nazism. And to many communists, the cause of a communist utopia was such as to justify all the deaths, just as it was for the fictional Green Eyes. The irony of this is that communism in practice, even after decades of total control, did not improve the lot of the average person; it usually made living conditions worse than those before the revolution. It is not by chance that the greatest famines have occurred within the Soviet Union (about 5,000,000 dead during 1921–23 and 7,000,000 from 1932– 3) and communist China (about 27,000,000 dead from 1959–61). In total, almost 55,000,000 people died in various communist famines and associated diseases, a little over 10,000,000 of them from democidal

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famine. This is as though the total population of Turkey, Iran, or Thailand had been completely wiped out. And that something like 35,000,000 people fled communist countries as refugees is comparable to the countries of Argentina or Columbia being totally emptied of all their people. This was an unparalleled vote against the utopian pretensions of Marxism-Leninism. But communists could not be wrong. After all, their knowledge was scientific, based on historical materialism, an understanding of the dialectical process in nature and human society, and a materialist (and thus realistic) view of nature. Marx had shown empirically where society had been and why, and he and his interpreters proved that it was destined for a communist end. No one could prevent this, and standing in the way would only delay it at the cost of more human misery. Those who disagreed with this world view and even with some of the proper interpretations of Marx and Lenin were, without a scintilla of doubt, wrong. After all, did not Marx or Lenin or Stalin or Mao say that . . . . In other words, communism was like a fanatical religion. It had its revealed text and chief interpreters. It had its priests and their ritualistic prose with all the answers. It had a heaven, and the proper behavior to reach it. It had its appeal to faith. And it had its crusade against nonbelievers. What made this secular religion so utterly lethal was its seizure of all the state’s instruments of force and coercion and their immediate use to destroy or control all independent sources of power, such as the church, the professions, private businesses, schools, and, of course, the family. But communism does not stand alone in such mass murder. We do have the example of Nazi Germany, which may have itself murdered some 20,000,000 Jews, Poles, Ukrainians, Russians, Yugoslavs, Frenchmen, and other nationalities. Then there is the fascist Nationalist government of China under Chiang Kai-shek, which murdered nearly 10,000,000 Chinese from 1928 to 1949, and the fascist Japanese militarists who murdered almost 6,000,000 Chinese, Indonesians, Indochinese, Koreans, Filipinos, and others during World War II. And then we have the 1,000,000 or more Bengalis and Hindus killed in East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) in 1971 by the Pakistan military. Nor should we forget the mass expulsion of ethnic Germans and German citizens from Eastern Europe at the end of World War II, particularly by the Polish government as it seized the German Eastern Territories, killing perhaps over 1,000,000 of them. Nor should we ig-

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nore the estimated 2,000,000 deaths in Mexico from 1900 to 1920, many of those poor Indians and peasants killed by forced labor on barbaric haciendas. One could go on and on to detail various kinds of noncommunist democide, as I have done in part in previous novels of this series. But what connects them all is this. As a government’s power is more unrestrained, as its power reaches into all the corners of culture and society, and as it becomes less democratic, then the more likely it is to kill its own citizens. There is more than a correlation here. As totalitarian power increases, democide multiplies until it curves sharply upward when totalitarianism is near absolute. As a governing elite has the power to do whatever it wants, whether to satisfy its most personal desires, to pursue what it believes is right and true, it may do so whatever the cost in lives. In this case power is the necessary condition for mass murder. Once an elite has it, other causes and conditions can operate to bring about the immediate genocide, terrorism, massacres, or whatever killing an elite feels is warranted. Finally, at the extreme of totalitarian power we have the greatest extreme of democide. Communist governments have almost without exception wielded the most absolute power and their greatest killing (such as during Stalin’s reign or the height of Mao’s power) has taken place when they have been in their own history most totalitarian. As most communist governments underwent increasing liberalization and a loosening of centralized power in the 1960s through the 1980s, the pace of killing dropped off sharply. Communism has been the greatest social engineering experiment humanity has seen. It failed utterly and in doing so it killed over 100,000,000 men, women, and children, not to mention the nearly 30,000,000 subjects who died in its often aggressive wars and the rebellions it provoked. But there is a larger lesson to be learned from this horrendous sacrifice to one ideology. That is that no one can be trusted with power. The more power the center has to impose the beliefs of an ideological or religious elite or impose the whims of a dictator, the more likely human lives are to be sacrificed. This is but one reason, but perhaps the most important one, for fostering liberal democracy. The Society knew that, as John Banks did. And that is why they sent John and Joy back to 1906 to . . . well, you know the story. But, yet, not all of it.

Praise for books by Nobel Peace Prize finalist

R. J. Rummel "26th in a Random House poll on the best nonfiction book of the 20th Century" Random House (Modern Library) “. . . the most important . . . in the history of international relations.” John Norton Moore Professor of Law and Director, Center for National Security Law, former Chairman of the Board of Directors of the U. S. Institute of Peace “. . . among the most exciting . . . in years.” Jim Powell “. . . most comprehensive . . . I have ever encountered . . . illuminating . . . .” Storm Russell “One more home run . . . .” Bruce Russett, Professor of International Relations “. . . has profoundly affected my political and social views.” Lurner B Williams “. . . truly brilliant . . . ought to be mandatory reading.” Robert F. Turner, Professor of Law, former President of U.S. Institute of Peace ". . . highly recommend . . . ." Cutting Edge “We all walk a little taller by climbing on the shoulders of Rummel’s work.” Irving Louis Horowitz, Professor Of Sociology. ". . . everyone in leadership should read and understand . . . ." DivinePrinciple.com “. . .exciting . . . pushes aside all the theories, propaganda, and wishful thinking . . . .”

www.alphane.com “. . . world's foremost authority on the phenomenon of ‘democide.’” American Opinion Publishing “. . . excellent . . . .” Brian Carnell “. . . bound to be become a standard work . . . .” James Lee Ray, Professor of Political Science

“. . . major intellectual accomplishment . . .will be cited far into the next century” Jack Vincent, Professor of Political Science.” “. . . most important . . . required reading . . . .” thewizardofuz (Amazon.com) “. . . valuable perspective . . . .” R.W. Rasband “ . . . offers a desperately needed perspective . . . .” Andrew Johnstone “. . . eloquent . . . very important . . . .” Doug Vaughn “. . . should be required reading . . .shocking and sobering . . . .” Sugi Sorensen

NEVER AGAIN Book 5

GENOCIDE NEVER AGAIN

R.J. RUMMEL

Llumina Press

Copyright © 2005 Rudy Rummel All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher. Requests for permission to make copies of any part of this work should be mailed to Permissions Department, Llumina Press, PO Box 772246, Coral Springs, FL 330772246 ISBN: 1-59526-075-7 1-59526-076-5 Printed in the United States of America by Llumina Press

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Rummel, R. J. (Rudolph J.), 1932Genocide never again / R.J. Rummel. p. cm. -- (Never again ; bk. 5) ISBN 1-59526-075-7 (hardcover : alk. paper) -- ISBN 1-59526-076-5 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Genocide--Fiction. I. Title. II. Series. PS3568.U447G46 2005 813'.6--dc22 2005004369

Relevant books by R.J. Rummel: Understanding Conflict and War (five volumes) Lethal Politics: Soviet Genocide and Mass Murder Since 1917 China’s Bloody Century: Genocide and Mass Murder Since 1900 Democide: Nazi Genocide and Mass Murder Death By Government Power Kills: Democracy as a Method of Nonviolence

Saving Lives, Enriching Life: Freedom as a Right and a Moral Good (online book) Never Again Series (Alternative History) War and Democide Never Again Nuclear Holocaust Never Again Reset Never Again Red Terror Never Again Genocide Never Again Never Again: Ending War, Democide, & Famine Through Democratic Freedom (forthcoming nonfiction supplement to the Never Again Series)

Vietnam Never Again (forthcoming)

Tell me, Professor, can we export democratic freedom to other countries? What a ridiculous question. Ridiculous? How can that be? It’s a question often asked by commentators, intellectuals, and academics. It’s ridiculous because freedom is the most basic human right. It is not being exported to other peoples. Rather, the chains are being removed that prevent people from enjoying this human right.

Acknowledgements As with all my books in this series, I owe much to the thorough evaluation, many helpful suggestions, and careful editing of Marg Gilks. And I continue to be indebted to the many visitors to my website at www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/ who commented on or questioned the material there. They often had an impact on this series, and this particular book. Then, as always, and surely foremost, is my wife Grace. She continues to make these novels possible. Without her at my side, I would not have written any of them. A hug, baby. To be sure, this is a book of fiction. Although some characters may in name and position bear a striking resemblance to historical figures, they are fictional. Nonetheless, I must say again that whatever errors of fictional facts exist are mine, and wholly mine.

Chapter 1 September 11, 1911 Frankfurt, Germany Fourth Universe

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ayonet in hand, she stood over him as he slept. It was barely past midnight. He lay on his back under a woolen blanket, and in the dark she could just make out his thin nose, heavy brows, and mustache. She didn’t have to see more. She had seen enough of his ugly face in the newspapers, when he received the Order of Merit from the Kaiser. She wanted to spit on him, but she would do that afterward. This so-called hero of Germany was nothing more than an obscene mass murderer. She knew by heart what he had once said about his brutality in suppressing native African resistance to German occupation in Africa. As she looked over his sleeping body to find the perfect place to thrust the knife, she repeated it to herself: “I wipe out rebellious tribes with streams of blood and streams of money. Only following this cleansing can something new emerge.” She had read and reread that passage in disbelief that such evil could exist in a civilized man’s heart. Because of his reputation for success, in 1904 the Kaiser sent him to German Southwest Africa to suppress a rebellion of the Herero tribe. His ten thousand well-armed German soldiers did more than defeat the poorly armed warriors. They killed Herero whether armed or not, sometimes whole families, and drove the rest into the Kalahari Desert. And then they poisoned the wells. She remembered very well one more thing: his extermination order. She looked at this butcher who was breathing his last and, again drawing on her special talent for remembering her theater lines, she repeated the order to herself, her imagined voice a low growl. “All the Herero must leave the land. If they refuse, then I will force them to do it with the big guns. Any Herero found within German borders, with or without a gun, will be shot. No prisoners will be taken. This is my decision for the Herero people.”

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All this was evil enough. But what drove her here was what he said about women and children: To receive women and children, most of them ill, is a serious danger to the German troops. And to feed them is an impossibility. I find it appropriate that the nation perishes instead of infecting our soldiers. His orders were carried out. Out of about eighty thousand Herero, no more than fifteen thousand survived. And it was not only the Herero. He also had murdered the rebellious Nama, killing over ten thousand of them—more than half the tribe. He had the rest incarcerated in concentration camps, where many more died slowly of disease and mistreatment. Yes, she thought, you are the Kaiser’s hero. But not a hero for all Germans. Not for me. She found the spot. Positioning herself, she spread her legs, raising the bayonet above his body with two hands. She hesitated, marveling at the power she now had over this famous general’s life. Then her eyes narrowed to slits and she compressed her lips into a thin line as she tightened her grip on the bayonet. With all her strength, she plunged it straight down, through the blanket and into his heart. He gasped. His eyes jerked open and his body heaved, his feet drumming against the mattress. Then he fell back. He was still as his final breath rattled out of him. His eyes remained open. Staring into the flames of hell, she thought. She put her finger on the carotid vein in his throat to feel for a heartbeat. Satisfied there was none, she tried to withdraw her bayonet, but it was stuck in his sternum. She had to climb onto the bed and put her knee on his stomach to get the leverage to wiggle it out. She cleaned it on the sheet. Standing beside the bed again, she reached into the pocket of her black pants and took out the note she’d prepared for him. She leaned over him and pinned the note to his nostril with one of the pins she had used to keep her hair in place under her black cap. Then she spit on him. As she left by the way she’d slipped in, she took one last look over her shoulder at his body. “Goodbye. Nice meeting you, General von Trotha. I guess we will never meet again.”

Chapter 2 March 30, 1912 Sambayat, Turkey Fourth Universe Peter Kahan

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he sky was azure blue and dotted with fluffy, white clouds. Beneath it, a convoy of young women and children shuffled into the town and down the main road. All bore the look of death. Some stumbled, some were helped along; some, the youngest ones, nearly skeletons, were carried in the bony arms of their mothers. Some wore ragged clothes. Some none. All were filthy. All stared down at their bare feet with cavernous eyes and sunken cheeks. Those who were naked were helped by a gentle, surprisingly warm breeze blowing up from the desert to the south. Combined with the bright sun, it overcame the normal spring chill and made for a comfortable coatless day. The air was clear, and the breeze wafted along the smell of cooking food from nearby buildings. It would have been a great day to be alive. Uniformed, bearded guards, carrying their long rifles with bayonets fixed, ambled along beside the convoy. The women could no longer be hurried. An officer at the head of the convoy lifted his head at the smell of food, then turned and raised his hands for the guards to stop the convoy. He waved to the side of the road. The guards pushed and prodded the women to a grassy area, and two of them were ordered to watch over the women. The rest formed a circle in the shade of a sweet gum tree, opened their packs, and began to eat lunch. No food was given the women, but they were allowed to dip their hands in a nearby puddle and drink from them. One woman limped off the road and stood stock still for minutes, holding her two shriveled little girls by the hand. Then she slowly fell to her knees and toppled over, dead. Her girls sat down at her side, obviously believing she was only asleep, and again clasped her bony, cooling hands in theirs.

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Another woman gave no attention to the water. She held the half-putrefied cadaver of a newborn infant tightly to her chest, cooing softly to it. Nearby, a naked woman lay on her back, her head turned away from the sun. Her haggard face still retained some of what must have been ravishing beauty. Her body bore the bruises and slime of frequent rape. As the light in her eyes gradually extinguished, they momentarily reflected her agony before turning vacant. After a half-hour, the officer stood and signaled for the guards to reform the convoy. Reluctantly, some at the point of a bayonet, the women and children struggled to their feet and tottered back to the road. One woman took the hands of the two children whose mother had died, and pulled them struggling away from her. The guards checked those that remained on the ground for signs of life, poking some with their bayonets. Finally, the trudging mass of despair was taken out of town on an intersecting road, heading toward the south and the desert. The guards left the corpses for the townspeople to bury. Two nargile smokers in the rear of the Ligor Kiraathanesi coffee house along that road, each sitting comfortably next to his traditional pipe, had watched the convoy come and go. They knew exactly what was going on. Not so the young man seated at a tiny table on the patio of the coffee house. Shielded from the sun by a large Syrian juniper, Peter Kahan watched, mouth agape, only moving when the discomfort of the hard wooden chair on which he was sitting demanded it. He had traveled to several towns and was now in Sambayat on his way to the ancient city of Adiyaman. He had just had lunch and, of course, Turkish coffee, and still held the small coffee cup as though it was frozen in his hand. He was a foreign correspondent for The Times of London, which had sent him to Turkey because he spoke Turkish. He had learned it at home from his parents, who had immigrated to Britain before he was born. As always, The Times did not trust Foreign Ministry handouts. He was to interview members of the Young Turk government regarding Turkey’s two-front war with Italy over Libya, and with Bulgaria, Serbia, and Montenegro. The Times also wanted him to appraise Turkish public opinion, and that was why he was traveling through this region. Peter had heard rumors about what he had just seen. Some Greeks swore to him that it was happening and that he must inform the world through his newspaper, but the government officials he queried about it denied it flatly. Oh, there were some deportations of Armenians from

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the east, they said. But they were only to relocate those sympathetic to Russia from the eastern border regions in case Russia joined the war against them. They insisted that the deportations were humanely done. But now he had seen a deportation with his own eyes. He looked again at the two scrawny corpses, and the doner kebab—thick grilled bread stuffed with lamb shavings and cabbage, topped with a spicy sauce—he’d had for lunch weighed heavily in his stomach. It was beginning to revolt; he could taste the spicy sauce again. He quickly put the cup down and doubled over, spewing his lunch on a nearby bush.

Forty-three Miles Away One after another, the muscular, heavily-built man hacked at their heads and necks with his axe. When they tried to shield themselves, he hacked off their arms first. His comrades, armed with their bayonets and knives, worked into the quaking, screaming crowd of women, children, and old men. He and the other soldiers were under orders to save ammunition. Then he saw her. She stood silently, hugging her younger brother to her, her head resting on his. She was from his town of Okaris, and very beautiful. She was not one whose name he would forget, and he yelled to her above the tumult, “Quick, Siran. Come to me.” She did not hear him. He pushed several women aside, kicked over one who was praying on her knees, and came up alongside Siran. He put one bloody hand on her shoulder, and when she looked at him, he yelled above the terrible noise, “I will protect and save you. Release your brother, and follow me.” She shook her head. He grabbed her arm and tried to pull her away from her brother, but she held him tighter. The hacking, stabbing soldiers were getting closer. “I give you life,” he urged. Again she shook her head. She turned her head to look into his eyes, and finally shouted, “If you are so kind, I ask only this favor.” “What? Quick!” he barked. “I know you will not save my brother. Please. Kill him now. Please, before me. Then while I wait for you to kill me, I will not worry about him. I do not want him to suffer any agony, any torture.” The muscular soldier vigorously shook his head, and again tried to pull her away. She resisted.

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“Please,” she said. It was too late anyway. He could feel his comrades at his back, and one was approaching from the side with his bayonet pointed toward her. He nodded. Siran quickly turned her brother to face her, and whispered into his ear, “A temporary goodbye, my brother.” She kissed him. “We will meet in the next world and be in God’s hands. Do not fear. It is a matter of seconds.” They kissed each other for the last time, and the boy stood apart, facing him without fear. The soldier now had no choice. Orders were orders. He quickly cleaved the boy’s skull open with the axe, and he collapsed at sister’s feet, dead. He turned to the girl. She stood with her hands at her sides. Her chin was uplifted toward him, and her eyes were misty. “Thank you,” she said, barely loud enough to hear. “Please, now, do the same to me. One blow. No torture.” He nodded, heaved back his axe, then hesitated, looking into her eyes. He saw only acceptance. He brought the axe down on her head.

aaa The muscular soldier killed many women and children that day. He killed many more in the days to come. But he could never get that courageous and loving girl out of his mind. He saw her eyes, resigned, pleading for the favor, when he got up in the morning. He saw them before he could fall into a fitful sleep. In his nightmares, he saw his axe cleave her brother’s head and then hers. She came to symbolize for him all the women and young girls he had murdered. He deserted from the army, dressed as a poor farmer, changed his appearance to look much older than draft age—not too difficult, with his rapid deterioration since the massacre—and, by stealing and stealth, made his way to Constantinople. There, he hung out at the tourist Hotel Ibrahim Pasha. He was looking for a Western newsman.

Chapter 3 April 2, 1912 Belfast, Ireland Fourth Universe Tommie Andrews

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t was early afternoon when thirty-nine-year-old Thomas— Tommie—Andrews hugged and kissed his wife Helen and picked up his little daughter. Brushing Elizabeth’s dark hair out of her face, he kissed her. “Take care of your Mom, now,” he told her. He put her down and looked back at Helen. “I’m off.” She nodded, gave him a smile, and a final kiss. She was used to these voyages of his, and obviously proud of his role in them. “A month,” he said as he picked up his worn leather case. He walked out the door and down the steps of his home on Windsow Avenue, Belfast. His chauffeur waited beside a Rolls Royce limousine, its motor gently chattering. His suitcases and equipment had already been taken to the ship. As the limousine approached the Thompson dock, Tommie stared at the ship that waited well out from the dock, steam up, black smoke swirling from its four stacks—the fourth was for looks and smoke from the third stack was shunted to it. He was its chief architect and managing director of its construction; he knew the ship as he did his wife’s body, but he never got used to seeing it. A gigantic ship, the world’s largest. It so towered over the tugboats waiting alongside that it seemed as though they would be rolled over and sunk just by the ship’s bow wave. The fights he’d had over its construction had been as monstrous as the ship. That’s what he called it in his own mind: the monster. Automatically, unconsciously, the astonishing figures he had sweated over, fought over, and often accepted reluctantly, the figures he had calculated with excruciating accuracy, flowed across his mind: gross tonnage of 46,328; not one ton more or less. A length of 883 feet, 130 feet longer than New York’s tallest skyscraper, the Woolworth Building. It had nine decks, with a passenger capacity of 2,603 people and a total crew of 944.

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Most important to him, it had sixteen watertight compartments by means of fifteen watertight bulkheads up to E-Deck, which was a few feet above the waterline. He had designed them to be topped off, but Joseph Bruce Ismay, Chairman and Managing Director of the White Star Line whose ship this was, insisted the expense was unnecessary. Tommie had tried to tell him that if a compartment filled with water, it could spill over the top into the next, and then the next after that, until with five or more compartments filled, the ship would surely sink. But Ismay had responded, “You designed it so the ship will remain afloat with any two compartments flooded, possibly three; it will not sink even if another ship collides with it at the joint of two compartments. No one on your design team could imagine a worse disaster, you told me.” Ismay pointed his smoking cigar at him. “That’s all you think about!” he exclaimed. “It’s always what might happen, even if it were that the ship could be hit by a meteor. You don’t think of the economics. You don’t think of the passenger cabins given up, the cargo space lost.” But Tommie knew that in the world of ship building, one could never be absolutely sure of anything, and so he spent much time on the design of twelve heavy watertight doors that separated the compartments. How they would be activated involved many arguments, but he finally agreed that they could be closed manually, or automatically by a water-detecting float near the deck, or by a switch on the bridge. The White Star Line would advertise her as “practically unsinkable.” He had insisted on the “practically.” Through the limo window, he could see his design team waiting for him. He took another look at his brainchild. So huge, so monstrous, with a power plant beyond what he had believed possible a decade ago. The steam to run this monster was produced by twenty-nine three storyhigh boilers, with 159 furnaces. They were voracious, and ate 650 tons of coal a day. The chauffeur stopped the Rolls in front of Tommie’s team, and hurried around the front to open his door. He slid out and stepped down to greet those who had worked so hard for him since 1907—he had been a workaholic, a taskmaster, a perfectionist, but he knew they also thought he was fair and kindhearted, a man’s man who would take off his coat, roll up his sleeves, and get into the dirty work. Most important to his team, he was among the best of ship architects, with a solid reputation for integrity. He had gotten his own hands dirty working in fiftythree departments of the shipyard, and now oversaw every design of ships constructed by Harland & Wolff.

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Tommie noted their solemn expressions. Each face showed the strain, all were obviously concerned about their responsibility. The final test of all their work was coming up. A tender waiting at the dock took them out to the monster. The crew, Admiralty officers, maritime officials, and those of the Certification Board were already well into their inspection. This was not Tommie’s concern. It was what was to come. For Tommie, the monster was still a design in progress. Because of high winds, the sea trials were delayed a day. At 6 a.m. the next morning, the ship lifted anchor, and tugs took her through the Victoria Channel to Belfast Lough. Tommie made sure everyone on his team was positioned with whatever equipment they needed, and waited. Now he could do nothing. What would happen would happen. The Certification Board members spread throughout the ship. All electrical equipment was tested, including the electrical doors and lifts; her twenty-nine boilers were now pressure-tested after having been fired up; the dynamos, turbine, and reciprocating engines were tested, and so on for all the devices, motors, and conveniences that made this a luxurious floating hotel. Once those tests were completed with few problems, the ship headed for the Irish Sea and her sea trials. The ship steamed up to her maximum speed of 22.5 knots and sustained it, sailing smoothly at high speed without a boiler popping, a propeller jittering, a shaft shimmying, or the two outboard 46,000 horsepower reciprocating engines and the low-pressure middle turbine overheating. Then Captain Charles Innes of the Certification Board ordered the ship turned full rudder to starboard and, after a full turn, full to port. The ship behaved clumsily and turned slowly, displaying well how lumbering these incredibly huge ships were to turn. Tommie expected that, and had repeatedly cautioned Ismay about it, but Ismay demanded size, and this was what came with it. As well, the rudder was about fifteen feet wide at the fullest part of the blade, much smaller than Tommie wanted. But listening to “an incompetent marine consultant,” as Tommie described him to his team, Ismay insisted it was large enough. When the ship was back to full speed forward, Innes ordered the starboard propeller reversed, and then the starboard one, and then all three. The cavitation from the reversing propellers shook the ship down to her rivets, but no member of Tommie’s team, the crew, or the Certification officers reported a leak, or a problem with the machinery. For hours more the tests went on, and minor problems did appear. But with a promise they would by fixed when underway or in New York harbor, the ship was finally certified. It took less than a day. Perhaps American railroad and steel mogul J. Pierpont Morgan’s money

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had nothing to do with it. He did own the International Mercantile Marine Company, which itself owned the White Star Line, the owner of the ship. And strangely, the Lusitania of the competing Cunard Lines took over two months to certify. With the ship certified, and Tommie and his team satisfied, Ismay’s smile lit up the bridge. The monster was ready for its maiden voyage. But Tommie still couldn’t smile.

April 3, 1912 Southampton, England The mammoth floating city with its squash racquet court, Turkish bath, fully equipped gymnasium, plunge pool, Parisian-style café, libraries, four electric elevators, and deluxe suites with private promenades, steamed up the Solent. She was met by five tugs and slowly docked at newly constructed slip 44 at Southampton, England. No ordinary dock could berth a ship so large, and so the White Star Line had to design and build a new dock, forty feet deep at low tide and covering sixteen acres. The ship would spend a little more than a week taking on passengers and preparing for its maiden voyage to New York. Tommie checked into Southampton’s elegant South Western Hotel nearby, so he would not be in the way while stewards and stewardesses cleaned and prepared all cabins for the passengers. He sent another telegram to Helen, telling her about the monster’s progress and how much he missed her and Elizabeth.

April 8–9 Crew had been hired, and 11,524 separate pieces of cargo weighing 559 tons and 5,892 tons of coal had been loaded. Now, as Tommie and his team did their final inspections—even looking under the captain’s bed, as Chairman Ismay jokingly insisted—box after box, bundle after bundle, crate after crate of fresh food and drink came aboard. This alone foretold the luxury to come: 75,000 lbs. of fresh meat, 11,000 lbs. of fresh fish, 7,500 lbs. of ham and bacon, 2,500 sausages, 25,000 lbs. of poultry and game, 40,000 fresh eggs, 1,500 bottles of wine, 1,200 bottles of spirits, 20,000 bottles of beer and stout, 8,000 cigars, and 1,750 quarts of ice cream. The ship was as ready as she could be.

Chapter 4 April 9, 1912 London Fourth Universe Buruk Metin

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uruk Metin almost knocked over his black Turkish coffee as he waved his hand in dismissal of the young man’s accusation. “How dare you say I am unpatriotic. I am as good a Turk as you are.” On meeting, they had engaged in the usual round of small talk about relatives, health, and London. Then Buruk mentioned that he had become a naturalized American citizen in 1910. The man leaned forward, his slitted black eyes seeming to absorb the candlelight without reflection. “You are an American now. You accepted American citizenship. You gave up your motherland. How could you?” Stroking his graying beard, Buruk stared at his wife Nuray’s nephew. He’d never liked him, but relatives were relatives, especially on his wife’s side. She would never let him forget it if he passed up this opportunity to meet with her nephew while in London. No doubt, she would pry out of Buruk even the tiniest morsel of information about how he looked, what he was doing, his health, his job, and so on. Buruk had left arranging this meeting until his last evening in London, and the meeting in the Turkish restaurant “Iznik” was as unpleasant as he had expected. Trying not to reveal his distaste for the nephew in his voice, Buruk responded, “I told your father why I left Turkey. Didn’t he tell you?” “My father was killed by the Sultan’s secret police before he could tell me anything. You must know about that.” “Of course. My deepest sympathy.” Buruk leaned back in his pillowed chair. “The Sultan’s secret police were also after me. As a university student and then a teacher, I supported revolution, as your father did. When the Sultan started rounding up and interrogating members of the Young Turks’ Committee of Union and Progress, I thought my wife and I had better leave Turkey.” The nephew sneered at him. “Sure. For San Francisco. For gold. Right? Loyalty? Ha!”

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Buruk felt his face get hot. He had been lying, and he felt that he’d been caught at it. He was in his fifties now, and had indeed immigrated to the United States and California when he was thirty-five to find gold. He had been misled by stories of gold-paved streets in California, and when he found out that he had missed the gold rush by many years, he returned to teaching. He raised his voice in response, as though he had been insulted. “The gold rush was over. I applied for a position at the University of San Francisco to teach Near Eastern history, particularly that of the Ottoman Empire. The position was for a year, and the extension of my contract dependent on my becoming an American citizen. So I did. But my heart still remains in Turkey. Do not doubt that.” Buruk narrowed his own eyes and glowered at the other. “Now, you tell me. Why are you in London? And working for an unholy, infidel newspaper.” Buruk was, as were the Young Turks, secular, and thought that Islam was a severe drag on Turkey’s potentially great future. But he was not about to miss the chance of exploiting its rhetoric. His nephew gripped his cup tightly, slurped his coffee, then put the cup down slowly. His response was louder than necessary. “Your call surprised me. How did you know where I was working?” Buruk noted his nephew’s refusal to answer the question, and let it pass. “I called the Ottoman Embassy and asked if they had your telephone number. They said that they had no information on you. So I spoke the key words that the Directorate General of State Archives gave me to use if I needed special help from any government agency. They then gave me your contact number.” “When you called, you said that you were here as a tourist for several days and returning to America from Turkey. Why were you in Turkey?” To test his reaction, Buruk shot back, “What? You did not call the embassy to ask what I was doing here? Surely their secret service is keeping track of every Turk’s comings and goings?” His nephew’s eyebrows shot up as his eyes widened for a second, and then he all too quickly shook his head. Buruk had his answer. There is some connection there and I had better be careful, he thought. He decided to answer the question. “I’m writing a book on the history of the Ottoman Empire, but particularly the way it stymied Peter the Great’s war with Sweden, and his designs on Europe. The Empire ultimately saved Poland, Germany, and Austria from Russian control. If the Empire had not acted, world history would be entirely different. Anyway, I am focusing on how the Empire saved Europe.”

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His nephew’s frozen face seemed to relax, and cracks formed at the corners of his small mouth, almost resembling a grin. “The Young Turks must be happy about that. Anything that honors the Turks or suggests ancient glories they will turn into posters, government pamphlets, articles, and use in their many speeches.” Buruk nodded. “This is why they supported my trip to Turkey and a month’s research into the Ottoman archives. I got a semester’s leave of absence to do this.” His nephew seemed to hesitate, playing with his cup. Finally he looked up and studied Buruk’s thin face. Slightly unsettled by this silent interrogation, Buruk rubbed his finger along his long Semitic nose, then stroked his beard. But he did not let his eyes waver from the other’s. The Turkish music started up and reached a high chord, then leveled off as a gobek dans—belly dancer—took the floor with a castanet tied to one hand to aid the musicians, and her long veil in the other. She slowly began her complex, sensual movements. Finally his nephew asked, leaning forward to be heard, “Do you know what is being done to the Armenians?” Buruk was going to sip his coffee, but saw that he had finished it. So he took a last forkful of his patlican salatasi. He no more tasted the lemon in it than he tasted the cardamom and cloves in his Turkish coffee. Be careful, he warned himself. He believed in the Young Turk revolution. They were finally modernizing Turkey, and by war they were trying to hold on to what had been part of the Ottoman Empire for centuries. It was vital to Turkey’s future to have a foot in Europe. That plus the modernization now underway would go far in restoring its ancient greatness. But he hated the massacres now going on. While he was doing research in the Sultanahmet archives, he met and had lunch with an Armenian professor at Constantinople University. He was going to show Buruk a particularly rich collection of historical diplomatic exchanges when he disappeared. So did his family. Word soon got around among the people in the archives about the roundup of Armenian intellectuals, professors, and others in Constantinople. Were he one of the Young Turk rulers, Buruk would have strongly argued for another way, such as a phased expulsion, to deal with these Christian minorities that monopolized Turkey’s economy and many of its professions. It is not right. Turkey has such a great future, if only the Turks were free to realize it themselves. Full secularization and a return to the great Turkey of the Turks, the Turkey of the great Ottoman Empire that defeated Peter the Great, demands purification of the nation, but not by extermination. Turkey will become a pariah among nations, and the Young Turks’ goals will be defeated.

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He answered his nephew loudly, his voice sounding too controlled even to his ears, belying his shrug. “I practically lived in the archives. Never read the newspapers, and talked to few people outside. I had to make the best of my research month in Turkey.” His nephew raised his eyebrows. “You know nothing about . . . the Armenians?” “No. Tell me.” “They are . . . ah, being deported from areas that may be invaded by Russia. Russia has been building up its army along the eastern border, and the Armenians might revolt against Turkey and join the Russians if they invade. They are all Christians, so the Young Turks ordered they be deported out of the threatened eastern provinces.” “Humanely, I am sure.” “Of course.” The belly dancer shimmied toward their table, but the nephew briskly waved her away with the back of his hand and asked Buruk, “What do you think about it?” “I think she is a good dancer and, with those sexy wiggles, probably very good in bed.” “No, I mean the Armenian deportation.” So he is working with the secret police, Buruk thought. He answered, “I’m a historian. I deal with the past. I know nothing about what is happening to the Armenians. That is politics. All I can say is that I support the Young Turk revolution.” Buruk felt he had endured this arrogant it oglu it—son of a dog— enough to satisfy his wife with what he could tell her, and he didn’t want to risk saying something that might get him a Turkish secret police interview before he left the following morning. He did not want to miss his ship. The belly dancer left the floor to applause, and the music ended. “Well,” Buruk said, pushing his chair back to stand, “I must be going.” His nephew stiffly nodded, but remained sitting at the table. Without an ounce of sincerity in his voice, he said, “Have a good return trip, and a fond merhaba—hello—to Nuray. I hope that you can bring her on your next trip.” Buruk nodded in return, and responded with the same lack of sincerity. “My best wishes for your job at The Times.”

Chapter 5 April 9, 1912 Berlin

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he was sure he would not recognize her, but still see her beauty. She’d hidden her recognizable hair under a wide-brimmed Helena hat with organdy and silk blooms, and a red feather to signal her trade. She hoped that she had not overdone the rouge and red lipstick. Dressed in the open leather cape, hip-hugging red skirt that fell halfway below the knee, and rose blouse of a prostitute, she waited on Kastanienallee Street, near the entrance to the Cafe Schwarz Sauer, for him to leave the party with his fellow police officers. She had studied him, and knew his susceptibility to prostitutes, if they were young and pretty enough. With threats to jail and torture them afterward, no prostitute would dare think of ever divulging his name, if she recognized him. The woman waited patiently. She had planned this for two months, watching his home and office to determine his routine, and she was ready. Men alone or in pairs would come up to her, asking her price or specialty. She told them all nicely that this was part of a motion picture, and they should hurry off so that they wouldn’t get caught on film. None lingered. He came out, slightly high—he never got more than slightly high— and headed for his chauffeured luxury Audi a block away. His rank was not enough for the car to be allowed to wait in front of the cafe. She quickly walked up to him and said, “Oh, what a handsome man. I have just the thing for you. Come, let me show you.” She put her arm through his. Startled, he stopped, and at first tried to pull his arm free. Then he got a good look at her, and relaxed. “Where?” “I have a special arrangement with the Cafe Diethard. My room is at the rear, with its own entrance off an alley. No one will ever see you.” “Very good. I cannot stay more than an hour.” “Oh, that’s enough time for me to go around the world with you, and to show you my special tricks. Ya. This way.” She led him down two blocks, into an alley, and up the rear steps to a dim hallway. Her room was the first one. She opened the door, ignored

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the stuffy odor of too many unwashed bodies that flowed out, and waved him in. As he looked around, she closed the door, locked it, pulled out the key, and dropped it next to the door She turned to face him, her hands at her side, her narrowed eyes glinting, and said softly, “So, police Polizeirat—Captain—Balthasar Bierhoff, how nice to meet you. You are Polizeirat Bierhoff, yes?” “None of your business, Strichmädchen. Hurry up and get undressed. Ich will dich ficken” “Is it not true, Polizeirat, that for over ten years you have had a special hate for pro-democracy demonstrators, and have ordered them beaten, tortured, or shot to death ‘while trying to escape’?” “Schweinehund,” he hissed. “You are one of them.” She knew how helpless she looked and that he felt that at anytime he could overpower her. And he had the holstered Mauser he always carried. He edged closer. She whipped off her hat, letting it drop on the floor, and shook her head to release her hair. He tilted his head and squinted at her. Then his eyes opened wide. “Scheisse, I can’t believe it. You can’t be—” “Oh, Polizeirat, I am. Is it not also true that these people you killed only wanted democracy and an end to the bloody aristocracy bleeding the people with taxes for its games and comforts?” He ignored her question and stared at her. His hands began to twitch. Then she threw at him, “Is it not true, my good Polizeirat, that you murdered about four hundred of these people for nothing more than their belief in democracy and freedom?” He moved toward her. She spit out at the top of her voice, “Yes or no, Polizeirat?” “Yes, schlampe—slut.” She held her hand out toward him as though to shake hands, and shot him in the chest twice. He stood stock still for a second or two, then put his hands up on his chest, looked down at the blood beginning to flow between his fingers, and slowly collapsed. “Why?” he squeaked from the floor. “There are four hundred whys, Polizeirat Bierhoff.” He was still alive, gasping for breath. Bloody froth was beginning to come out of his nose. She took two cartridges out of the box in her purse and reloaded the two-shot derringer-style gun made to her specifications by an admirer. She had hidden the tiny weapon in the palm of her hand. With it reloaded, she leaned over the Polizeirat and, as he watched her with protruding, watering eyes, she shot him in the temple. She took his wallet and badge. Yes, he was the Polizeirat; she had no doubt.

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Taking a note from her purse, she pinned the note to his nostril, and then spit on him. She checked the room to make sure she left no clues, picked up the key, and unlocked to door. As she left, she took one last look at the dead man. Just another victim of a prostitute or her pimp—but for the note. “Good day, Polizeirat Bierhoff,” she said, and shut the door behind her.

Chapter 6 8:30 a.m. April 10, 1912 Southampton, England Slip 44 Tommie

T

his was the big day for boarding passengers. Tommie had no more than a cup of coffee and danish brought to his cabin—A36, at the top of a first-class work of art, the first-class stairway—and then he went to the bridge wing to view the activity. Leaning on the starboard bridge rail, he watched the crewmen performing their lifeboat drill using lifeboats 11 and 15. They seemed to take fifteen to twenty minutes just to uncover the boats, and then they slowly swung them out on the rotating Welin davits he had demanded, and partially lowered them. The davits were a new kind that could be used and reused to lower boats. Tommie noted the confusion among the crew; obviously they needed much more practice. He looked toward the ship’s stern and saw the seamen rushing back and forth in final preparations for the passengers shortly due aboard. No problem there. He walked over to the port wing, nodding at Captain Edward J. Smith, who was receiving the sailing report from Chief Officer Henry Wilde, as he passed through the bridge. On the port side he again leaned on the rail, idly staring down at the bustle on the dock. He shook his head and sighed. What more could go wrong? he wondered. He had never been on the maiden voyage of a ship so beset with one problem or issue after another. Not the kind of problems that would have denied the ship certification, but those of a deeper and more worrisome kind. It seemed as if fate was trying to tell him something. He sighed again. Maybe he was overtired from the worry and all the details he had to oversee. But as he watched the increasing bustle on the dock in preparation for the arrival of the first trainload of passengers, he wondered if this would be their last voyage. Forever.

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That’s silly. No, it’s absurd. This monster is virtually unsinkable, and I made it so. His thoughts segued to all the arguments he had had over the design of the ship, particularly with Ismay. And then his thoughts again returned to their well-worn track— the problems the ship had suffered, one after another. But ships do sink . . . .

March 31, 1908 Belfast, Ireland As he walked through the Harland & Wolff shipyard in his usual grease-stained work clothes, blueprints in his hands and sticking out of his pockets, Tommie was frequently stopped by one engineer or mechanic after another and asked to interpret his designs. He simply told them he was in a hurry, and to come to his yard office in two hours. He finally reached the massive slipway named the great gantry and, with a wave to the rigger, he climbed up onto the engine housing for the specially made giant Benrather crane. Grinning widely, unconsciously stroking his rounded chin, he watched as the shipwright, shipfitter, and workmen began laying keel number 401 for the monster that would awe the world. It had been the toughest job designing this ship, what with Ismay, the owner of the ship, and Lord Pirrie, Chairman of Harland & Wolff shipbuilders, constantly hovering at his shoulder and making changes as he and his staff drew up the blueprints. The ship was their brainchild; they looked on it and two other ships to be built, the Olympic and Gigantic, with paternal eyes. Ismay thought the three ships would give his company a decisive edge in the transatlantic passenger competition against Cunard Line’s Mauretania and Lusitania. But this ship, especially, was their baby. J.P. Morgan had bought the White Star Line six years ago and had pressured Ismay to develop a more profitable passenger line, and especially to beat out the Cunard Line before it got too well established. In early 1907, Ismay and his wife had dinner with Lord Pirrie at the Downshire House, Belgrave Square in London. His shipbuilding company was also part of the Morgan business empire. After some discussion of the Cunard Line and its new Lusitania and Mauritania launched the previous year, they played with several ideas concerning how to beat this competition. It was really a question of

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speed, or size and luxury. They settled on the latter, and decided then and there to build three such ships, each about 50 percent larger than Cunard’s, and as luxurious as the best hotels for the rich. It was also a matter of economics—the economy of size. In wages, cargo, and passenger receipts, operating two big ships saved more money than three or four smaller ones. Even before financing for the ship’s construction was arranged—no big deal, with Morgan’s money behind it—Lord Pirrie’s nephew and managing director of Harland & Wolff, Tommie, was put to work on the designs. There were many problems inherent in designing the most gigantic ship ever, but the worst was dealing with Ismay and Pirrie. He would drop off a sheaf of blueprints for them, and the next day receive the designs back by courier with red marks all over them. It was their baby, he reminded himself. He had no doubt that even when the monster was launched sometime in 1911, an Ismay assistant would rush into his office at the last minute with another change or addition. Construction was now underway. Tommie focused again on the keel. At this moment it looked so small in the vast dock, and he found it hard to envision the colossal ship that would sit on the finished keel. It would have a double bottom, but not the double hull for which he had argued so strenuously. With a ship as huge as this, all the stress would be on the single hull. If it struck something, such as an iceberg, the stress would be magnified along the whole single hull enough to pop rivets and rip some steel plates apart. A double hull would dampen the vibration of the outer hull, and even if both hulls were punctured, the ship would sink far more slowly, providing enough time for all passengers to be rescued. “No,” Ismay had insisted, “no double hull. We would lose too much space.” Tommie countered with, “Only a foot or two would be lost on each side of the ship.” “C’mon Tommie, where’s your slide rule?” Ismay had responded. “Take four feet away along the whole length and height of the hull, and you are asking me to give up thirty-seven third class cabins.” Then there was a problem with the steel for the single hull. It had to be especially good. It was coming from the John Brown shipbuilders, and would be battleship quality, Siemens-Martin formula steel, and the demands of the ship’s size challenged the technology for making such steel. Tommie was concerned that in the icy water of the North Atlantic, the steel might become too brittle, and shatter like crystal under a blow. But he had to take what he could get. Anyway, he could overdo the imaging of disasters. The ship would have the sixteen watertight compartments he designed, even if open at

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the top. The possibility of a spillover from one compartment to the other if the hull was breached was a worst case possibility, he told himself. Still, he couldn’t stop his mind from picking at problems like a scab. To give the ship a classier look, the heads of the three million rivets used would be hidden by riveting from the inside out, rather than the other way around. A hydraulic punch punched a hole in the steel and then punched the rivet into it. Tommie was concerned that the punch would create hairline fractures in the steel center about the rivet. Of greatest worry was the wrought iron rivets coming from Colvilles and Company in Glasgow. He had inspected several batches carefully, and found that some were of poor quality—too full of slag; more pig iron than wrought iron. They’d heat unevenly and could shatter. So he demanded that the riveters inspect each rivet they used for cracks and other imperfections, even though doing so was a nearimpossible task, given the pressures on the workmen’s time. He had unsuccessfully complained to Lord Pirrie about it: “That company’s rivets are used by all the shipyards, and no other source is as good or as trusted,” Pirrie had responded. “Surely, Tommie, you bloody well don’t expect us to make our own rivets. Start-up alone would delay us a year.” Well, almost all that was past now. Most of what still had to be done had been agreed upon by all involved, and plans passed on to the engineers and builders. And there now, before him, was the beginning of the keel.

9:35 a.m. April 10, 1912 Tommie’s reflections were interrupted by the arrival of the first load of passengers on the dock. He looked at his watch. They were on time. These were the second and third class passengers, brought by the special boat train from London’s Waterloo Station. Some had already walked to the ship from the South Western Hotel and boarded. As the human cargo flooded aboard the ship, his mind returned to its journey through the monster’s problems, and his mood turned gloomier.

May 31, 1911 The great day arrived when, without ceremony, the shipyard workers began cutting and knocking away the timbers supporting the monster’s

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huge hull with its massive engines and boilers, all, even without superstructure, weighing about 26,000 tons. When worker James Dobbins cut away one of the timbers, it pinned his legs. His fellows rapidly freed him and rushed him to the Belfast Royal Victoria Hospital, but Dobbins died the next day of contusions and shock. A bad omen. With all supports removed, the heaviest object man had ever moved slid slowly into the River Lagan on the twenty-two tons of soap and tallow spread beneath it. Work began on outfitting the ship and adding its superstructure, and all appeared to go smoothly. Then on September 20, 1911, as the outbound sister ship Olympic came around a bank and passed within three hundred feet of the British cruiser HMS Hawke, the suction created by the mammoth Olympic pulled the ship into her, bow first, causing serious damage. The captain of the Olympic then was Edward John Smith, the very same man who would now captain this ship. He’d been absolved of any responsibility, but still . . . . And the repair of the Olympic would require materials needed to complete the construction of his ship, so in October, White Star postponed her maiden voyage for three weeks. It would now be on April 10, 1912. Then on February 3, 1912, she was dry-docked at the Thompson Graving Dock for installation of the lifeboats—

10:56 a.m. April 10, 1912 The lifeboats! As he remembered his battle over them, he slapped the railing in renewed anger. Lives were at stake! He’d felt like quitting over this, but could not. He had won some of the other battles, and without him maybe Ismay would have had his way on everything, but on this . . . . Tommie wanted sixty-four lifeboats, enough to save the lives of all passengers and crew if the ship had to be abandoned. He got sixteen, and four collapsibles—four more than required by the British Board of Regulations. He slapped the rail again. “Bloody stupid. They’ll carry no more than 1,178 people—not even half of the passengers and crew.” He turned around, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned back against the railing. Worst of all had been the coal strike for a minimum wage begun by miners on January 12. It had continued into April, jeopardizing the ship’s scheduled maiden voyage. Tommie had recommended outright cancellation rather than letting it hang on the settlement of the strike, but it had been settled just four days before the scheduled departure.

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Coal would not be available in Southampton for about a week, and the ship had only 1,880 tons on board; before the ship could depart, 5,892 tons had to come from somewhere. So Ismay scrounged coal from other International Mercantile Marine ships in the harbor, delaying their departure, and therefore also transferring their passengers to the monster. Moving the coal from the bunkers of these other ships to the side coaling ports of this one was a laborious and time-consuming process. Afterward, the ship’s carpenter sealed up the coaling ports with a buckram gasket soaked in red lead. Tommie shook his head at the incredible amount of work that followed—every railing, every passageway, every deck, and even every deck chair in the ship’s passenger areas had to be thoroughly cleaned to remove the thick coating of black coal dust. He wondered what else could go wrong. Then he stood straight, clasped his hands behind his back, and told himself, “Enough. Relax. You have bloody well done all you can before departure.”

Chapter 7 April 10, 1912 Constantinople, Turkey Sami Gunday

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ahan Markaryan, working under the alias of Sami Gunday, was one of four private medical doctors to the ruling Young Turks and their nationalist reform party, the Ittihad ve Terakki Cemiyeti—Committee of Union and Progress (CUP)—at a time when Armenians, professionals and common folk alike, were being slaughtered. Sami, who protected the lives of these rulers, was Armenian. But no Turk official knew that. Yet. As a teenager, the ambitious Sami had wanted to be a doctor. He was fascinated by medicine and the medical doctor’s healing power as many boys his age were fascinated by guns and steam engines. But as an Armenian Christian he would then stand out in a Turkish land, and this frightened him when his father told him about the slaughter of over a hundred thousand Armenians between 1894 and 1896. Even had he not heard this, he would have been concerned about his future when his family’s Armenian doctor warned him that in Turkey’s hospitals and among Turk doctors, Armenian doctors were considered second class. Fortunately, Sami looked like a Turk and spoke perfect Turkish. He had grown up in a Turk neighborhood in Konya, and had only Turk children his age as friends. Since he looked, spoke, and acted like a Moslem Turk, even before he went to medical school, he adopted a Turkish name and false ancestry—to the disgust of his mother. But his father understood that he did so to avoid the prejudice and danger Armenians faced, and supported him through medical school and afterwards. He received his medical degree in England from the University of Birmingham Medical School and did his residence at the Corbett Hospital, Stourbridge. He would have stayed in England but for his parents, who refused to leave Turkey. He started off with a good position. Turkish authorities thought highly of Turk doctors trained in England or Germany, and he was

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readily hired as part of the medical staff responsible for treating Ottoman officials and their families. Over the next decade, he maneuvered himself into a position of high favor, first as one of many doctors to Abdul Hamid II’s royal staff, and then to the up and coming Young Turk’s CUP. He was well trusted, and had operated on and saved the lives of several high officials and members of the CUP and their wives and children. As a doctor he not only heard secrets, but was also told things to which only a doctor would be privy. Even after they finally seized power, the Young Turks operated in a favorable environment that made them loose-lipped. They were also part of a macho culture and often bragged about their accomplishments and their involvement in great events. So, at first he thought he was hearing exaggerated bragging or wishful thinking. He probed and found out more. Then he exploited his unique position to get more information, and finally, with the right inducements, to get actual documents. At the same time, he was beginning to hear rumors from Turkey’s easternmost provinces about the massacre or lethal deportation of Armenians. He wasted not a second more. He prepared to leave Turkey, never to return. His parents were dead, and he had no close relatives. He was unmarried, with no children. He did occasionally have relationships with women, but preferred men. All his assignations had been discreet, usually with other doctors or nurses. He told his nurses and staff that his father had died suddenly in Konya, and that he had to take a week to settle family affairs. He frequently traveled abroad to medical conventions, or to learn the latest medical techniques at one European hospital or another. For these prestigious trips, he had a special pass signed by Talaat Pasha, the Minister of the Interior and Secretary General of CUP himself— without question, Sami could travel anywhere inside or outside of Turkey, all paid for by the government. He needed that pass now. Sami made his way through the confusion of hawkers outside Istanbul’s Hayderpasha Station, skirted the crowded spice bazaar, and entered the huge station. He knew his way around it and headed for train No. 76, which would take him to Ankara. From there he would transfer to train 31 headed toward Kars, with stops at Sivas, Erzincan, and Erzurum. No train crossed the Armenian border. He would walk the remaining distance and sneak across the guarded border at night. It was the only way to safely get the incredible information and documentation he possessed across the eastern border into Armenia. Ghoukas Zhoghov,

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president of an Armenia newly independent from democratic Russia, would be sure to inform the big Christian powers—Britain, France, and Russia, the historical protectors of the Christian Armenians—about his documents, if not pass on copies. As he approached the train, its 1899 German 2-B1 steam locomotive reminded him of the last trip he had taken, in February. Then, as he had passed a similar locomotive and approached the special government car, he had seen well over a hundred haggard and scared-looking men surrounded by armed soldiers and policemen. Two officers and a civilian official stood nearby. Soon afterward, he had treated Minister of War Enver Pasha, who bragged to him that they were deporting from the capital Armenian religious leaders, members of the Ottoman parliament, teachers, writers, and even doctors—Sami had mentally winced at that. That group of 186 men had been the first. In the next days, hundreds more would follow. Pasha insisted they were just being arrested for subversion and would be held by the military at Ayash and Changri. But Sami had asked some innocentseeming questions of his subsequent patients, and it became clear, although not quite put in those words, that almost all would be massacred. The papers he carried with him documented the evil evidenced by the Armenian deportees he had seen in the station on his last trip. Yesterday he had secretly received and duplicated the final documents. Now, hiding his face from two nearby policemen, he walked along the dirty platform beside the steaming train and entered the government car. He sought Private Compartment 6, one of those reserved for high government officials and for which he had telephoned the ticket office. As he entered the compartment, he was immediately struck by the stench of too many cigars mixed with the heavy, oily smell of coal smoke. Almost like an English pub in winter, he thought. He was a nonsmoker, but he knew his nose would soon go dead to the smell. Sami dropped one suitcase on the floor next to the small water basin, and put the other on the Pullman convertible seat. He sat down and leaned against it with a sigh. Although it was April and cool outside, the room was warm. He took off his light German cotton coat and draped it over the suitcase on the floor, then removed his red velvet Fez to cool his balding head. The window was down, the window shade drawn. He would live with it. If the train happened to pass one of those tightlyguarded convoys of Armenian deportees trudging toward their deaths, he did not want to see it. Although he had lived among Turks all his life, at the moment he found them all despicable. He knew that was unfair, the reflection of a

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vast prejudice that had been growing like a vigorous weed for over month; he knew that many Turks, even officials, were risking their lives to help Armenians in this terrible time. But now his secret Christian faith and Armenian ethnicity, his raging humanity, emotionally triumphed over his reason. He tried to rationally fight it. He was a doctor. He was dedicated to saving lives—without prejudice. But deep down where his rage ruled, he felt that, were one of the Young Turks on the operating table under his knife, he would kill him. And only he would know it was murder. For that alone, he thought it was a good thing he was leaving. He sat still in his seat, waiting, thinking thoughts he did not want to have. Soon the car jerked, shuddered, its couplings clanked, and it began to move. He was on his way, on a one way trip. “God help me, that I survive,” he murmured. After some slow curves and grinding noises, the train gained speed, and steadied on the straight stretch southeast toward its first stop at Pandik. Still he waited. Soon there was a knock at the door, as he’d expected. “Come in,” he yelled, putting on his fez. A red-hatted conductor with heavy jowls and small eyes opened the door to check his pass. Sami pulled it from inside his coat pocket, and adopted the expected stern government look. The conductor glanced at the pass, saluted him, and shut the door behind him as he left. Sami went to the door and turned the little knob below the handle to lock it. He sat back and let the train’s motion rock him; the clickity-clack of the wheels filled his mind. It was only a fleeting respite. It had no chance against the impossibly heavy knowledge he had lived with now for a week. He did not have to open his suitcase and look at the duplicated and miniaturized documentation hidden in its lining. He knew it by heart. Almost every word. Over and over, he had read the matter-of-fact minutes of a December 4, 1911 secret meeting of the Young Turk rulers. At the highest level of government, the Young Turks and the ruling CUP party made a clear decision to annihilate all Armenians within Turkey, and they carefully planned how they would do this. As he had a thousand times by now, Sami shook his head in disbelief that human beings would do such a thing. The part he could not digest began with comments made by the Minister of Education, Dr. Mehmed Nazim: Let us think well. Why did we bring about this revolution? What was our aim? Was it to dethrone Sultan Hamid and his men and

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take their places? I don’t think it was for this. It was to revive Turkism that I became your comrade, brother, and fellow traveler. I only want that the Turk shall live. And I want him to live only on these lands, and be independent. With the exception of the Turks, let all the other elements be exterminated, no matter to what religion or faith they belong. This country must be purged of alien elements. The Turks must do the purging. Then Hasan Fehmi, the Responsible Secretary of Kastamonu Province, responded: Your servant is prepared to present a holy edict in this respect. Don’t look upon me as a turbaned Softa—religious fanatic. I was a man of poor means, scarcely able to eke out a living. I was given the right of freedom and I became a deputy to the parliament. I am the teacher and the representative of fifty thousand students in the schools. Let me explain. Since the collective society is endangered, the individual becomes sacrificed. This is the principle of Islam philosophy. Therefore they must all be killed—men, women and children—without discrimination. To put this idea into effect, I have another suggestion. With your permission, let me explain. By reason of general mobilization, we took into the army all those who carry arms. Now, we send the Armenians to the front line of the battle. Then we take them in cross-fire between the Bulgarians in front, and our special forces behind. Having thus removed the menfolk, we give the order to our believers to exterminate the remaining women and children, the oldsters and the sick and the maimed, in one full sweep. Our believers exterminate them and seize their properties and take their daughters to their beds. Don’t you find my suggestion the best and the most acceptable way of dealing with them? After more such arguments, and a spirited discussion, the proposed policy—a secret policy of the Young Turk government—was put in the form of a resolution. The Minister of Finance, Djavid Bey, took the vote, and afterwards announced: At the order of Talaat, the votes were collected and counted. The resolution to exterminate the Armenians, ensuring that not a single Armenian should be left alive, was passed unanimously.

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These minutes were so utterly damning, so intrinsically evil, that even with them in hand, he had to have confirmation that they were not forgeries. Even if he risked death, Sami had to hear it from one of them. He looked up the medical records of the ruling Young Turks, and soon saw what he wanted. He telephoned Talaat’s secretary with a medical emergency call. Soon a nervous-sounding Talaat called back. “As you may know, we periodically review all the medical records of the top leadership,” Sami explained. “I was studying your recent record, and there is something I must double-check. You are frequently fatigued. Yes?” Talaat had answered, “Yes, but anyone would be, in this position.” “You frequently lack an appetite and do not take time out to eat.” “Of course.” “You sometimes have a shortness of breath.” “Yes, but sometimes I’m rushing around like an imam who cannot find his turban.” “But you do have a shortness of breath.” “Yes.” “Is your urine discolored?” “Yes, it is yellowish.” “Hmmm. Do you feel weak sometimes?” Talaat’s chuckle sounded jittery. “Well, after a sixteen-hour day, I am not ready for a game of football.” Sami maintained his serious tone. “Do you sweat?” “Of course.” Sami hesitated. Then, in a consoling tone, he told him, “I think you should come in to see me for a checkup as soon as possible. What about this afternoon, or tomorrow morning at the latest?” “God be blessed, why?” “I want to check you for tuberculosis.” “Oh . . . is it serious?” “I do not know. That’s why I must do some tests on you.” “Can you do it here?” “I guess so. I will be right over.” Sami packed what he needed in addition to what was already in his medical bag, and headed for Talaat’s Yiddish Palace office. During the checkup, as he pressed his stethoscope against Talaat’s back, Sami commented, “I hear that some party members are contriving to kill Armenians.” Talaat stiffened. “Contriving? This is disinformation. I tell you, doctor, we have carefully considered the matter in all its details. We have officially adopted the policy that is being pursued. The deportations—”

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Massacres, Sami automatically translated. “— are the result of prolonged and careful deliberation.” Sami asked Talaat to lie on his back and began to knead his stomach with this fingers. Just one more question, he thought. “Surely, though, the government is not responsible for the massacres that have occurred?” Talaat visibly expanded his chest; he seemed offended. “You are greatly mistaken, doctor. We have this country absolutely under our control. I have no desire to shift the blame onto our underlings, and I am entirely willing to accept the responsibility myself for everything that has taken place.” That evening, copies of three final documents were handed to Sami by a male lover—a middle-level party member opposed to the massacres. In a day of profound shocks, these were the worst. They showed that abstract and desired policy had passed into cold-blooded implementation for some two million human lives. One, signed Talaat, Minister of the Interior and dated February 11, 1912, read: It has been previously communicated that the government, by the order of the Assembly, has decided to exterminate entirely all Armenians living in Turkey. Those who oppose this order can no longer function as part of the government. Without regard to women, children, and invalids, however tragic may be the means of transportation, an end must be put to their existence. Sami knew that carrying out these orders would be difficult. The Young Turks had a massive problem in organizing the liquidation of over a million Armenians. But they had prepared well for it. The extermination would have to be a multistage process. First to die must be the able-bodied Armenian men who could resist. The Turks had already drafted 200,000 to 250,000 of them into the army for the wars against Italy, Bulgaria, Serbia, and Montenegro, so they were easily available for slaughter. On February 20, 1912, all army commanders received the second document now in Sami’s hands, a telegram signed Deputy Commander General and Minister of War Enver: In view of the present situation the total extermination of the Armenian race has been decided by an Imperial order. The following operations are to be performed to that effect: 1. All Ottoman subjects over the age of five years bearing an Armenian name and residing in the country should be taken out of the city and killed.

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2.

All Armenians serving in the Imperial armies should be separated from their divisions, without creating incidents, taken into solitary places away from public eyes, and shot. 3. All Armenian officers in the army should be imprisoned in their respective military camps until further notice. Forty-eight hours after the above instructions are transmitted to the commanders of the army, specific orders will be issued for their execution. Aside from preliminary preparations, no action should be taken in that regard. The third document Sami had was a deciphered telegraphed order from Enver dated February 21: Take care of the Armenians. The train began to slow down and Sami looked at his pocket watch. The train was seven minutes early for Pandik. Something was wrong. No train had ever arrived early. He looked under the window shade and saw a line of soldiers prepared to board the train. It must have been flagged down. Talaat. My questions must have made him suspicious. He pulled a pill out of his change pocket and slid it between his teeth and cheek. He was unafraid. Indeed, if it came to it, his death would be fast, unlike that of many fellow Armenians, who would die a slow and tortured death. Nor would it stop the documents from getting to Armenia. If an Armenian nurse and lover did not receive a certain coded telegram in one week, she would transmit by other means copies of his notes and the documents. And still there was that middle-level bureaucrat and lover. By one means or another, Armenia’s leaders and the world would come to know the evil being done here. The door to the compartment slammed open as a soldier’s foot broke the lock. Two of them stood in the passageway on each side of the door, bayonets fixed. An officer stepped into the compartment between them, pointed a German 9mm Luger at Sami, and shouted, “Hands up. You are under arrest.” Sami did not hesitate. He bit down on the pill.

Chapter 8 10:33 a.m. April 10, 1912 Southampton, England Slip 44 Buruk

H

e was tired and hungry. Because of a mutual misunderstanding with the driver of his hansom cab, whose Cockney accent was as much gibberish to Buruk as his heavily accented American English was to the driver, he’d been taken to the Euston Station. Once he found out he was at the wrong station, he had found another cab, again loaded all his luggage onto it, and barely got to the Waterloo Station in time. As it was, the conductor was signaling the boat train to leave when Buruk reached the platform with two panting porters trundling far behind with his luggage. He had endured being crowded in with other second and third class passengers during the eighty-one mile, nearly two hour-long train ride to the Southampton docks; he had submitted to the jostling and suitcase bumping as the mass was led off the train to Slip 44; and finally, he had allowed himself to be jostled into single file by the ship’s stewards at the entrance to the covered ship’s gangway. As he tramped up under the decorated awning and entered the side of the ship, he could not believe how huge the metal behemoth was. He was amazed it could float. Seeing the ship, boarding it, made him forget what he had just gone through. He had looked forward to this return trip—to being on this ship’s maiden voyage. And he believed that its size would conquer the waves, provide steady ground for his feet, and save him from the awful seasickness that had done him in during his previous voyages on much smaller ships. Once he entered the ship, he again had to show his ticket. The Turkish government would pay for no better than third class, and then the least expensive of such accommodations, at $15. From his meager personal budget he had added $25 to get the best of third class—a berth in

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a small, two-man cabin. He could not stand the idea of sleeping with eight others. He would tell his wife that he spent the money on customs duties, bribes, and taxis. He and the other third class passengers were separated from those holding second class tickets, and then divided into small groups of those married with children, without children, single men, and single women. Buruk understood that the single men and women would be separated in third class by the full length of the ship. A ship’s steward led his group down a stairway to F-deck and through the third class entrance into a steel-walled corridor with a linoleum-tiled floor that ran between the third class cabins; the cheapest accommodations were in G-deck, below. The steward looked at their tickets and showed each of them to their cabins. As Buruk entered F-16, he stopped in amazement. It was pine paneled, with foldaway bunks for two passengers, and grander than he’d expected. “You’re lucky,” the steward told him, “your cabin mate cancelled at the last moment. Food will be served in the third class Dining Saloon beginning at 11:30. It is located on this deck. Buruk looked around the small cabin. There was a map of F-deck on the wall, below which were instructions as to where to go in case of an emergency. Buruk put his luggage against the wall beneath it, tossed his Turkish stiff hat onto the topmost case, pulled out a bunk, and collapsed onto it. He released a long sigh. He was on his way home with a thick folder of notes and photographs of the most important documents, and he had avoided being caught up in the dangerous politics swirling around the Young Turks and the Armenian massacres. He smiled and used the expression he’d learned in America: “I’m home free.”

Chapter 9 April 10, 1912 Constantinople, Turkey Peter Kahan

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eter was dressed like a foreigner, in his baggy, single-breasted check suit and haircloth hat. That must have been why the strange, muscular Turk sidled up to him along the hotel bar and asked, “Are you a foreign reporter?” Peter turned and saw a farmer’s soiled clothes, an oily beard, flat red nose, and watery eyes, and was about to shake his head and turn away when the man said in Turkish, “I have a horrible story. You interested?” As a newsman, how could Peter turn that down, even with the way the man looked, and the alcohol on his breath? Peter nodded to an empty table nearby, lifted his glass of scotch, and led the man there. He ordered Turkish coffee for the man, then waited. At last the man asked, “Do you have identification?” Peter showed him his press card in English and Turkish. The man looked at it, then looked into Peter’s eyes, as though gauging whether he was the right man. Finally, without small talk or introduction, without lowering his voice or looking over his shoulder, the man confessed that he was an army deserter. Then, in simple words uncolored by emotion, hesitating only to sip his coffee, he described the various massacres in which he’d been involved, up to his murder of that unforgettable girl and her brother. The man had long-since abandoned his coffee cup by the time he finished. His left hand had a white-knuckled grip on his right wrist, the one that had swung the axe. Shoulders slouched forward, he stared down at his hands. Peter took careful notes, asked where the massacres took place, how many were murdered, how they were rounded up, and who ordered it. The man answered in few words. He was not interested in these questions. Apparently tired by them, the man suddenly stood and said, “Please tell the story of this girl and her brother.”

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Peter waved his notepad at him. “I promise I will. How can I get in touch with you?” “You cannot,” the man responded. He stood more erect. Turning quickly, he strode away.

aaa Although the story the man told seemed authentic, especially when combined with what Peter had seen at Sambayat, he had to have it verified in some way. Confirmation came the next day. The man hanged himself from the hotel’s inner courtyard railing. A note pinned to his coat said simply, “I am sorry.” Once Peter found out about the death and the note, he sent off a telegram to George Geoffrey Robinson, his editor at The Times, asking for time and support to gather information for a major two- or threepart article on Turkey’s deportations and massacres of Armenians and other Christians. The editor, who was a devotee of ancient Greek history and suspected that the Greeks were also targeted, was enthusiastic in his answering telegram. He approved Peter’s request, and said that 100 pounds for expenses would be waiting for him at the Turkish Bank. Peter started his research the next day.

Chapter 10 11:30 a.m. April 10, 1912 Tommie

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he special boat train from London arrived with many of the first class passengers, some paying $150 for their cabins, and the rich wanting parlor suites paying as much as $4,350. First class passengers boarded mid-ship on B-deck, where stewards met them with a bow and took them to their cabins, where they were provided with a guide book to the ship. At noon, just after eight bells, the ship’s enormous triple-tone whistles blew their warning of departure, and any visitors on the ship hurried to get off before the passenger gangways were removed. As passengers lined the rail to watch the ship being tugged away from the dock to start her voyage, they were astounded to see a file of about 350 greasers and firemen carrying their kitbags down the only remaining gangway at the stern. Without them, the ship could not sail. Still on the port bridge wing, Tommie had been joined by two ship’s officers. They were discussing the new Marconi wireless the ship had, when one pointed at the departing crew. “My God,” one exclaimed, “what are they doing?” Tommie turned and looked into the bridge and saw the commotion among the officers. He rushed inside to listen to what they had to say. “It’s a strike,” someone said. At that moment, Fourth Officer Joseph Boxhall entered the bridge and reported to Captain Smith in a voice made loud by anger, “The damn Seafarers’ Union has pulled its goddamn men off the ship. They claim our lifeboats are unseaworthy, and that the shipyard’s painter said he was ordered to paint over old lifeboats, even where some of the wood had rotted. I—” Captain Smith held up his hand, then waited while Boxhall calmed himself. Boxhall continued in a normal voice. “I met with Cannon, the union secretary, and offered to scrape a little paint randomly off each lifeboat to show them the wood underneath, and he said he would take it up

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with his men. I gave him fifteen minutes, warning him that we had to sail and he was threatening an illegal strike—” “That doesn’t mean bloody shit,” Smith interrupted. “Go on.” “So a half-hour ago, Cannon met with his men in the stokehole and gave them an option: either leave the ship until the company proves that the lifeboats are seaworthy, or crew the ship regardless. The men voted to leave the ship.” Smith looked at Chairman Ismay standing nearby listening, his eyebrows raised to his hairline, then turned to Chief Officer Wilde. “Cancel our departure until further notice. Inform the passengers that we will be delayed because of an illegal strike, and inform New York, Morgan, and Lord Pirrie. Bloody hell.”

aaa That evening, T. Lewis, the President of the Seafarers’ Union, organized a meeting of the men on strike and sympathizers at a southern district school. Lewis gave a long speech praising the men who had taken a stand for safety. He concluded, “It is not only the passengers at risk, but also everyone at this meeting. We cannot sail on a ship that puts us all at risk. What we do now will mean progress in ship safety and our great Seafarers’ Union.” He sat down to loud applause, and was followed by one crewman after another, condemning the White Star Line for its subterfuge and supporting the strike. After the meeting Lewis posted pickets at the dock gates to prevent nonunion crew from joining the ship. Nonetheless, Ismay did immediately recruit nonunion labor and had fifty-one new crewmembers sent to the ship by tug. But they were not enough.

April 11–12 Breakfast was served to all the passengers aboard ship. The telegraph office on shore was overloaded with messages from passengers alerting relatives and associates in New York to their delay. Buruk made his first trip to the boat deck, and by following the directions of a seaman he found the wireless room. Inside, amidst loops of wires, two men wearing headphones sat manipulating the dials on wired metal contraptions. A big sign on the wall near the door said Telegram Forms above an arrow pointing down to a pile of forms. A

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little sign next to the pile said 12 shillings and sixpence ($3.12) for the first 10 words; 9 pence for each additional word. Buruk filled out a form at a little nearby standing desk, struggling to keep the message under ten words. He finally ended up with Ship delayed. Miss train. Will telegram new train from NY. He handed the form along with the exorbitant fee—more than one-fifth the cost of the cheapest third class ticket—to assistant Marconi operator Harold Bride. Bride asked to see Buruk’s ticket, then told him, “I will have to put this at the bottom of the stack. I won’t get to it for maybe two or three days.” Buruk felt insulted. “Forget it,” he said, holding out his hand for the form and his money. He tore the form up and threw the pieces into a wastebasket. He strode out of the room and onto the boat deck, not quite slamming the door behind him. He would send a telegram from the train station in New York.

aaa Meanwhile, Board of Trade officials led by Commodore Carpenter boarded the ship to deal with the strike. Captain Smith, deciding that their time at dock should not be wasted, ordered various shipboard drills, including a simulated fire in a coal bunker, the flooding of a compartment, and the lowering into the water of the lifeboats. He also ordered practice on the collapsible boats. By afternoon, Carpenter thought he had met the demands of the union when, after consultation with Smith and Ismay, he offered to load a new complement of life boats from other White Star Lines ships in the Solent. Lewis agreed to that, but when he presented the agreement to the union members aboard ship, they refused to accept it. They wanted those firemen who had not joined the strike the previous day to be fired, and new union firemen hired. Negotiations over this, including Carpenter’s threat to arrest Lewis, carried on through the afternoon, well into the evening, and through the next day. Every offer had to be discussed with union members. It was back and forth between ship and district school, with many speeches in between. Every union offer had to go to Chairman Ismay, and in a few cases, up to J. Pierpont Morgan, then Carpenter had to meet with his Board of Trade, and then the acceptance, rejection, or compromise had to be sent back. Except for the substance, the negotiations differed little from what diplomats do to end a war.

Chapter 11 12:14 a.m. April 13, 1912 Tommie

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oon after midnight, three tugboats brought a new crew of nonunion firemen and greasers to replace all those on strike. Well before dawn, Captain Smith ordered the ship prepared again for departure, and by eight bells the ship was ready. But before the tugs could push her away from the dock, fourteen deckhands refused to work, arguing that the White Star Line was engaging in union busting. Commodore Carpenter had remained on board for just such an eventuality, and immediately ordered the crewmembers arrested. Southampton police entered the dock without interference from the Seafarers’ Union—Lewis knew he had already tempted fate with his illegal strike—boarded the ship, and took the crewmen into custody. They were taken off the ship and would be forced to appear before the Southampton magistrates. At noon, again, the ship blew its three-tone whistles and, after a check to make sure all officials and visitors had departed, the ship cast off the dock aided by tugs. Tommie watched it all. Disgusted by the delay, and realizing that they were useless during this forced stay at the dock, he and several members of his design team had tried to make a dent in the twenty thousand bottles of beer and stout aboard. He was not feeling his best for what he had looked forward to for four years. All he could think was that the gods tortured a ship before they sank it. But what happened next caused him to throw up his hands and hide himself in his cabin for the rest of the day, where he buried himself in the designs for a new ship he was working on at his dark mahogany desk. As the ship made its way down the River Test to the sea, the huge volume of water it displaced began to impact on the ships docked along the river, particularly the RMS New York. The water level around it rose and then suddenly dropped, snapping its six mooring lines and swinging its stern out into the river. A collision looked inevitable. Tommie shouted at Captain Smith, “Captain! Hard aft. Hard aft!”

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The captain did so at first. Then the captain of the tug Vulcan got a line aboard the New York to stop its movement. Seeing that, Captain Smith then ordered, “Full astern.” The two ships missed each other by four feet. The ship continued the twenty-four miles downriver to the English Channel and on to Cherbourg, France. It arrived at 6:54 p.m. and anchored off Grande Rade near Fort de l’Ouest in the outer harbor, where twenty-two passengers disembarked. The ship picked up 250 third class passengers, luggage, and mail using the White Star’s tenders, then raised anchor at 8:21 p.m. and headed back through the English Channel toward Queenstown, Ireland.

April 14 A little after noon, the ship anchored in Queenstown harbor. Two ferry tenders brought to the ship 113 third class and seven second class passengers and 1,385 bags of mail, taking on seven disembarking passengers before steaming away. Included among the new arrivals was Father Frank Browne, an amateur photographer whose pictures of this maiden voyage would be shown around the world. At 2 p.m. Tommie and his design team, now a boisterous group on A-deck, watched as the anchor was raised and the maiden Atlantic crossing finally began. Aboard was forty-six-year-old John Jacob Astor with his new eighteen-year-old bride, his second wife. He shrugged off the scandal. Maybe because his wealth was estimated at $87 million. Also aboard was another millionaire, playboy Benjamin Guggenheim and his mistress. Then there was the son of the director of Morgan’s International Mercantile Marine Company, which owned the White Star Lines and this ship. George had brought his wife and son. Many other prominent people were also aboard, including Mr. and Mrs. Isidor Straus, owners of W. H. Macy’s department store, Broadway producer Henry B. Harris and his wife, American painter Frank D. Millet, and President William Howard Taft’s military aide, Major Archibald Butt, en route to Washington with a message from Pope Pius X. Well-known British passengers included the Countess of Rothes, William T. Stead, editor of the Review of Reviews, metallurgist Henry Forbes Julian, and Sir Cosmo Duff Gordon and his wife Lucile, a successful ladies’ fashion designer for London and New York society. One

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important name was missing, surprising them all. J. Pierpont Morgan, whose ship this ultimately was, had booked the trip, but then cancelled due to illness.

April 15–16 Two days underway, Tommie’s gloom had all but disappeared. Since leaving Southampton, he and his team had been working throughout the monster, checking, testing, observing. But these two days of the trip had been perfect. Not one major problem, which was unusual for the maiden voyage of a ship this huge. He was discussing these findings with Captain Smith. “It’s like a dream,” the captain said, repeating what he had already said several times. “I’ve never commanded a better ship.” Tommie turned discussion to the rudder, which he thought too small for the size of the ship, and thus under great strain on a sudden full turn, but Smith saw no problem. He was explaining why when Chief Engineer Joseph Bell interrupted to inform the captain that there was a coal fire in Boiler Room 6, coal bunker 10, but it was under control. Any coal fire was dangerous, especially to the integrity of the hull, and Tommie immediately recommended that Smith get to New York faster, in case the fire spread to other bunkers. Smith nodded, and ordered that the final two boilers be fired, which would bring the ship to her designed top speed of 22.5 knots. If not a little faster, Tommie thought, eyeing the calm ocean. He went down to the boiler room to direct the flooding of the coal bunker. It had to be done gradually over ten hours, so the hull wouldn’t be cooled too quickly. Iceberg warnings were beginning to come in by telegraph.

Chapter 12 April 17, 1912 Berlin

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he had heard about General Mikhail Iosiforich Guchkov. His name passed from one German general to another, and there was much discussion of what each would do in his place. Most shook their heads disbelievingly, but some said, “War is war, and afterwards, the peace must be secured.” He had achieved notable victories under General Rayevsky in the Russian Civil War against Trotsky’s Red Army, and when Trotsky was defeated he was made the governor general over Saint Petersburg under the dictatorship of General Rayevsky. He showed no mercy to actual and suspected communists, even those who claimed loyalty to the communists only to save themselves and their families from the Red Terror. Unknown thousands were simply marched out of their homes by his troops, stood against the nearest wall, and shot. No trials were held. Simply being accused of being a communist by a neighbor or coworker was sufficient evidence for death. And oddly, when the military dictatorship was overthrown and a prodemocratic government took power and held elections, the new president appointed General Guchkov Assistant Minister of Defense. His anticommunist credentials, military victories, and swift action against the most notorious communists made him a very popular figure in the new Russia, and the slim victory of the president’s Social Democratic Party in the election made any action against Guchkov politically risky. But she had access to some of the most secret intelligence analyses about Guchkov, and word was that he was planning to overthrow the democratic government and make himself the new ruler. This intelligence had been communicated only to the top officials and generals on a need to know basis, and to the President of Russia and the Minister of Defense. Guchkov had been invited to Berlin on a military mission. With both Germany and Russia now democracies, they were looking toward close military cooperation, and such a visit made sense. While he was here and out of communication with his coconspirators, the Russian president

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would have them all arrested in Russia. In Berlin, German troops would seize Guchkov and his aides and take them under heavy guard to the Russian Embassy to be turned over to their security personnel. All this was to occur at 3 a.m. She knew that it was about 1:30 now. She had timed this to get in and out of his room before German troops surrounded the hotel. And here he was, in one of the best rooms in one of the best German hotels, the Nurnberger Berlin, snoring and snorting and stinking of vodka in a huge poster bed. His massive girth made him look like a ball under the covers. His aides were sleeping in adjacent rooms. He was unguarded. After all, he was in Berlin. Who would kill him here? Clutching her bayonet, she studied this mass murderer who now intended to murder a democracy for which so may brave people had given their lives. So he was arrested. Then what? He still had friends and relatives in high places and an adoring public. He would never face trial. He would probably be retired to a dacha on the Black Sea with a fat pension and access to the millions he had hidden away. She hoped the souls of the thousands of innocents he had murdered were looking over her shoulder. Her eyes scanned his form. He was too fat to go for the heart. She might miss. And he must not make a loud sound. It had to be a thrust through his eye into his brain, or a swift cut across his throat. But his throat was corrugated rolls of fat; his double chin almost rested on his bulging upper chest. It had to be the eye. She positioned the long, thin bayonet over his face, gauging the necessary down stroke. Tightening her grip on the bayonet, she plunged it down through his closed eye, through the eye socket, and deep into his brain. His body convulsed upward. The other eye flipped open. His hands jerked toward the knife. Then, after only a gasp and an exhalation like the sound of a tire going flat, he lay still. Dead. She wrenched the bayonet out of his face, wiped what little blood there was on it on the covers. She pinned to his nose the note she had ready, then stood back and gave him a final look. You will kill no more, my good general. May the devil treat you as you deserve. She spit on him, and turned to go to the room’s large window and the little portable rope fire ladder hanging from the suite above. But first she checked her bag to make sure she had not mislaid her glass cutter and the little suction cup with which she’d removed the cut window glass.

Chapter 13 Morning, April 17, 1912 San Francisco John Banks

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fter breakfast, their cook cleared the dishes around John as he read the newspaper. Jy-ying had gone to the kitchen to get him a second cup of coffee, and herself more green tea. She still hated to ask the cook to do these “little” things for them. John began with the business section, as he now always did, unless a tantalizing headline caught his eye and he beat Jy-ying to the front section. He felt he had to check for news relevant to their Hua Import & Export Company, really the operational center of their mission. And of course, he had to check the progress of his stocks, their major source of funds beyond what he and Jy-ying had brought downtime with them. Without their foreknowledge of the market, they would have by now used up more than half of their billions. Bribing politicians and underwriting democratic and anti-war movements in Asia and Europe would exhaust the wealth of even the filthy rich. He often ruminated on how their mission to change the world had first changed him. In the First Universe, as a college professor of history at Indiana University, business was as remote to him as Hollywood or the military. No business or classified sections ever dirtied his fingers with printer’s ink.

Khoo Jy-ying Jy-ying returned, gave John his coffee and Prince Wei a back rub, and settled down in her chair. She picked up the San Francisco Call’s front section and began scanning it. After turning several pages, she stopped, raised her eyebrows, and pointed at something on page 4. “Oh my,” she said, drawing John’s attention. “There is an Associated Press dispatch from Reuters here. It says that there are massacres going on in Turkey.” She read it aloud:

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Civil War Breaks Out in Turkey Reuters via AP, April 16, 1912. Diplomats and foreign journalists have reported massacres of Armenians in Artvin, Kars, and Tunceli, and large-scale deportations from eastern Turkey. Some estimate that around ten thousand may have been killed. In response to questions, Young Turk government spokesman Abdullah Babacan replied, “The Armenians are sympathetic to the enemies of Turkey and have risen in rebellion. They have murdered thousands of Muslims.” Of the deportations, the spokesman said, “It is the government’s legitimate attempt to move those people away from the border with Russia. If Russia were to invade Turkey, our rebellious Armenians would provide aid to the Russians, and many of the men would join the Russian forces.” For that reason, the spokesman added, “Many Armenians also are being deported from Istanbul to the interior. If the war soon ends, all these people will be allowed to return to their homes.” “Damn!” John exclaimed. “This must be one of those series of massacres the Armenians in Turkey have suffered before. In the First Universe, there was a full-scale genocide of Armenians and Greeks beginning in 1915, but that was during World War I, when the Turks were allied with Germany. I’ve been assuming that if we prevent that war, we will also prevent this genocide.” Jy-ying asked, “What is ‘genocide’?” “That’s right. In your Second Universe, the word may not have been invented. It is the intentional murder of people because of their ethnicity, race, nationality, or religion, or to be more precise, the attempt to eliminate a group in whole or in part by murder or other means, such as deportation. The word was invented by the international law scholar Raphael Lemkin in 1944, during the Second World War that was fought from 1939 to 1945 in the First Universe. During that war, the Nazis tried to exterminate the Jews as a group, and Lemkin meant for his new word, genocide, to apply to such campaigns. You may remember this genocide—often called the Holocaust—from the DVD Joy showed you about the First Universe’s wars and democides. After the war, Lemkin played a role in the United Nations-sponsored Genocide Convention, which made genocide an international crime. In later years—” Oh- oh, a John lecture. Not the time for it. She hastened to ask, “Isn’t that the same as what we’ve been calling democide?”

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John took a moment to step down from his mental podium. “Ah . . . no. Democide is any intentional murder by government for whatever reason. Genocide is the murder of people because of their group membership; it is a type of democide. The word democide was invented toward the mid-twentieth century in the First Universe when—” “Is what is going on now in Turkey genocide?” “Ah . . . I don’t know. There has been a lot of communal violence and massacres in Turkey and its previous Ottoman Empire in the last fifty years, but so far I know of no indication that the Young Turk government is massacring Armenians to get rid of them as a group. It may be, as the news item says, a case of civil war. I’ll keep an eye open. It would be a disaster for humanity if this is a Turkish repeat of the First Universe genocide of 1915–1918.”

Chapter 14 April 17, 1912 At Sea

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he ocean was relatively calm, the sea below freezing, and the ship had received more messages warning about icebergs. Marconi operator John Phillips and his assistant Harold Bride had a large accumulation of private telegrams from passengers to transmit. But they did not allow that to interfere with receiving and taking to the captain any iceberg warnings that came in from ships in the neighborhood. By noon they had already received four warnings. At 3:34 p.m. they received another one and Harold took it to the bridge, but the captain was not there and he handed it to Chairman Ismay, who pocketed it without comment. The lead hand Fitter Engineer Robert Knight and Ship’s Carpenter John Hutchinson looked all over for Tommie, and finally found him at the stern of the ship, studying the ship’s wake. When he saw their faces, he asked tiredly, “What’s wrong now?” “Another coal fire has started up in the forward coal room. Probably a short circuit that has ignited the coal dust,” Hutchinson told him. Tommie shook his head, and as he pushed away from the railing and started to lead them to the coal room, he asked, “Does the captain know?” Knight replied, “Yes, we told him first.” All Tommie could say was, “I’ll be so bloody happy when this goddamned monster docks.”

Buruk Buruk was starving. He had finally gotten over his seasickness and had slept for about twelve hours. Now he felt good. So good that he actually began to enjoy the gentle motion of the ship. He had missed lunch and it was still too early for dinner, but he would wait. Going for the ever-available tea and teacakes would only torture him for a full meal. He opened his Persian cloth briefcase, took out his notes, and sat on his bunk, back against the wall, to read. He picked up where he had left

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off in his narrative outline of the Ottoman Empire’s triumph over Peter the Great. He was so absorbed that when he checked the time and found it was 5:33, he was surprised. He dressed in his corduroy suit and headed for the third class Dining Saloon on his deck. It was a bright place, well lit, with a shiny linoleum floor and evenly spaced rows of tables, mostly for eight to ten passengers each. Pictures of White Star ships adorned the off-white walls. The few times he had felt like eating, he had tried to sit by himself for fear of vomiting on those nearby. Now he thought he could keep down even greasy, half-cooked bacon. But by habit, he found a round-backed chair off by itself, sat down, put the napkin on his lap, and looked at the menu next to his plate. He salivated as he read through it: Vegetable soup Roasted pork with sage and pearl onions Green peas Boiled potatoes Plum pudding with sweet sauce Cabin biscuits Oranges Ragout of beef with potatoes and pickles Currant buns Apricots Tea He would eat it all, even the plum pudding. Much later, after he returned to his cabin shaking his head in disbelief at all he had eaten, two more iceberg warnings came in by wireless during the night.

April 18 At 8:14 a.m., Phillips received a warning from a ship nearby: Massive iceberg in your direction. Beware. This was followed by the approximate coordinates. Phillips himself rushed it to the captain, who looked at it and then out the bridge windows in the general direction indicated. He instructed Second Officer Charles Lightoller to make sure everyone kept a keen eye out, especially if the air got colder and the sea hazy. Smith also altered course a few degrees south.

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Concerned, Tommie asked the captain, “Could I borrow your binoculars?” “We don’t have any,” the captain responded, avoiding Tommie’s eyes. “That’s crazy. What happened to them? All ships carry binoculars.” The captain gazed out at the cold ocean and put his hands behind his back. “Just before we departed, Ismay gave our binoculars to visitors from the Board of Trade.” At 9:14 the air did feel colder and got increasingly hazy. Then the word came down from the crow’s nest: “Iceberg, north 20 degrees west.” Everyone looked in that direction, and what appeared as an indistinct white blob on the horizon soon took shape as an iceberg even taller than the ship. Captain Smith commented, “That is the largest iceberg I’ve ever seen.” He looked at Tommie. “Would we survive hitting that head-on?” Tommie furrowed his brows for a moment. Then his face brightened, and he responded, “I think so. The bow would be caved in, but as it crumpled it would act like a spring, absorbing energy and saving the rest of the ship. No more than two of the watertight bulkheads would be sprung, and the rest would remain watertight.” “What if we scraped along the side?” Second Officer Lightoller asked. Tommie hesitated even longer and then shook his head. “Too many variables. Depends on where we scrape, how hard, how many bulkheads are opened to the sea, where they are opened. For example, if along the bow, and four or five bulkheads are ripped open, as they flood that might cause the bow to sink so far that the water would flood over the top of the waterproof bulkheads one after another.” “You mean this ship is sinkable?” joked First Officer Murdoch. No one laughed.

April 19, 1912 The tugs eased the largest ship in the world, the Titanic, into the dock at Pier 59 of New York City. She had taken 5 days, 23 hours and 12 minutes to cross the Atlantic, and averaged 20.2 knots. Not a record, but that was not what Ismay or his boss Morgan was after. An awed crowd stood on the dock. When the ship finally stopped, even before she was moored, a loud cheer and clapping broke out among the people. Numerous flash bulbs popped, and reporters crowded forward to interview the first passengers disembarking, almost pushing aside the relatives and associates of passengers waiting at the first class gangway.

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Tommie was again at his favorite spot on the railing of the bridge wing. He was utterly relaxed, his body practically hanging on the rail. After shaking hands with Captain Smith and Chief Officer Wilde and patting both of them on the back, Ismay approached Tommie and put his arm around his shoulders. “Congratulations, Tommie. It couldn’t be better.” Tommie gave him a vacant look for a moment, then looked down at the milling crowd on the dock, and the first passengers walking down the gangway. When he looked back at Ismay, he wore a relieved expression. He smiled for the first time during the whole trip, and replied, “It could have been worse.”

aaa A few hours later, luggage piled on the seat next to him, Buruk was in an old electric hansom cab on his way to Grand Central Terminal at 42nd Street. In four hours, his train was leaving for San Francisco and points in between. Of course, he had no idea that he was now alive because the Titanic had missed the iceberg it sideswiped in another universe. Nor did he realize that he would be a party to the murder of the one to whom he now owed his life. But the gods knew, and they loved irony.

Chapter 15 Morning, April 20, 1912 John Banks

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ven though the danger was long past from the rogue time policeman who had fostered the 1905–1907 Russian Revolution and murdered Joy, Jy-ying insisted on maintaining the security around their mansion, Fort Hope. She would, John mused as he and Jy-ying jogged toward the gatehouse with Prince Wei, her little West Highland Terrier, running on ahead. He knew the routine. Jy-ying had been a captain in the Sabah Security Guards in 2002 before being sent by Islamic China back to 1906 to assassinate John and Joy before they could kill Abul Sabah. He was the Prophet of Sabahism, her religion. Its clerics ruled the world in her time, their dominion brought about through a successful nuclear attack on the democracies by Sabah’s son. John picked up his pace. He wanted to get to their gatehouse first, where the morning San Francisco Call was delivered. Jy-ying sensed his eagerness, knew why, and set an even faster pace, pulling ahead just before they reached the gatehouse. The two guards there were used to their idiosyncrasies, and one held out the Call to Jy-ying just as she got there. Before John could grab it out of her hand, she dashed for the house with Prince Wei running beside her, his tail a blur, and John trying to catch up. As he pulled up beside her he yelled, “Crazy woman, you’ll never outrun this man!” He grabbed her, pulled her down on the grass, and tried to seize the rolled newspaper. She pushed it under her black sweatshirt, and curled her body into a fetal position around it while Prince Wei barked and growled at John. He was always happiest when involved in their play. “You want the newspaper,” she said in her musically-accented English, “come get it.” “Oh, a challenge. Again you’ve forgotten your role in life as a subordinate to us men. Must I put you in your place again?” He straddled her with his legs, considering how he should attack this martial artist.

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Jy-ying looked up at him, her slanted, almond eyes sparkling, her long black ponytail twisted around her head. “You and what woman.” He grinned down at her. What a stunning beauty, he thought. He now was almost as much in love with—maybe was just as much in love with—Jy-ying as he had been with Joy. He felt no guilt, at least, not anymore. After all, they had been the same woman. Jy-ying was Joy, and Joy, Jy-ying, each from a different universe. “Well, is it your plan to bore me into giving you the paper?” she huffed. “You’re being childish,” John retorted. “Just give me the newspaper and I’ll forgive you.” She kicked him in back of the knee and skittered from under him when he tried to tumble on her. She got up and ran into the mansion, Prince Wei bouncing behind her. Woman and dog dashed past their butler, who wore a perpetual look of surprise on his face, and into the library. As John rushed in behind her, she tossed the business and classified sections on the library table, but kept the front section. “Hey,” John yelled, “how come I get the back sections?” “Females’ subordinates get back sections,” she said with a lilt. Smug grin crinkling her face, she sat down at the table, laid out the front pages, and began to go over them. John pulled up a chair next to her and looked with her. Front Page. Nothing. Page 2A. Nothing And pages 3A to18A, nothing. “I can’t believe it,” Jy-ying said. “It has to be here.” “Ah, of course,” John said. “It should be in my sections after all.” He picked up the business section and turned to the shipping news. “There it is,” he exclaimed, stabbing the small headline with a pointing finger. He read it aloud, his voice both exhilarated and awed by what he had accomplished. Titanic Sails Days Late—Makes Up For It With Perfect Crossing—Revolution In Ocean Travel—Captain Feted April 19, New York. After almost a six-day trip, the unsinkable Titanic completed her maiden voyage from Southampton and docked at Pier 59 to a joyous welcome. She was far more elaborately fitted out and luxuriously furnished than her sister ship, the Olympic. The ship had been delayed three days by an illegal strike of its crew in Southampton, but once that was settled, the trip was perfect, according to its chief architect, Thomas Andrews.

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One of its officers commented, “The Titanic is a magnificent ship, one which Captain Smith can well be proud to command.’ Another said, ‘I have never had a better voyage.” Passengers were equally enthusiastic: “The heaviest sea could never wash aboard. We laughed at dirty weather.”; “Everything in her construction was upon a tremendous scale. The strength of the shell was like that of a castle with massive walls of steel.”; “A double bottom, riveted by hydraulic power, ensured us absolute safety; the sea was cheated of any further sacrifice.”; “Within the great vessel was a tremendous power of activity, so that her vast weight might be driven forward at the speed of a railway train, through the most tumultuous seas.” And, “In power, almost terrifying to the imagination—Titanic was incomparable.” However, Mrs. Madeleine Astor, wife of John Jacob Astor, commented that— Jy-ying put her arm around John’s shoulder. “Congratulations, darling. You did it, and saved 1,523 men, women, and children.” She kissed him on the cheek as he took out of his inner suit pocket a wrinkled copy of the telegram he had sent eleven days ago, and smoothed it next to the shipping announcement. The telegram read: April 8, 1912 To: Mr. T. Lewis, President of the Seafarers’ Union Union Plaza, Southampton, England My brother is a painter for the Harland & Wolff Shipyard, and had the job of painting all the lifeboats assigned to the Titanic. I was shocked to receive a letter from him saying that he had been fired because he refused to paint them. He wrote that portions of their hulls were so rotten he could poke his finger through. Another painter did the job. Typical capitalist tricks to magnify their already obscene profit. I am a strong union supporter and believe that any crew that sails on the Titanic is in great danger if the lifeboats have to be used. I urge you to do something about this. I am wiring $5,000 to you to help with the expenses of a strike against this dastardly violation of the welfare of the Titanic crew and passengers. John Banks President and Owner Hua Import & Export Company

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John stared down at the news item and then at the telegram, and back again. “Joy wanted this. She would be so happy now, almost jumping up and down over it.” His voice broke and he paused, then continued slowly, trying to recall Joy’s words for Jy-ying. “‘Oh,’ she said, ‘our mission is to save hundreds of millions of lives from war and democide. They are a statistic. Abstract . . . . But saving the lives of those on the Titanic, those I have come to know by name—Astor, Straus, Guggenheim, Ismay, Andrews, and others—saving them from a disaster I have read about many times and have seen portrayed in movies and TV would be very moving, and of no real cost to us, except for the briefest amount of time.’” John was openly crying. “It’s been five years since that scum murdered her, but sometimes it seems as though it was yesterday. I’m . . . sorry, Jy-ying.” Jy-ying leaned out of her chair and hugged him to her. “I know, darling. She will never leave my heart, either. We were one. And, as Joy would be, I’m proud and happy at what you have done.” He turned his tear-streaked face to hers, and saw the tears in her own eyes. He hugged her in return. “I love you, sweetheart.” Pointing down at Prince Wei, who was jumping up and down by her leg, he added, “You had better give Prince Wei some attention before he has a heart seizure.”

aaa Later, as they were dressing for work and preparing for the business meetings at the company, Jy-ying asked, “Well, are you going to tell them?” “Tell who what?” “Te Ho Wat? Why darling, I did not know you knew of China’s most ancient philosopher. He lived in the old kingdom of Chou. Te’s major idea was that all life is one with a universal spirit, or chi. If we can only tap into that spirit, and he claimed he did, then we can transcend—” “Sweetheart!” John stood with his hands on his hips, his chin thrust toward her. The dimples at the side of his mouth betrayed him, however. “Oh, you do not like my lecture.” She put on a sad face for a moment before grinning. “How do you say it? Turnaround is good pay.” John tried to glare at her, but his treasonous grin won out. “Turnabout is fair play,” he responded. He opened his briefcase and started checking the documents in it.

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Jy-ying waited by the bedroom door, arms crossed. He seemed to be committing to memory a document he was reading. Finally she yelled at him, “When are you going to tell the guys and Mariko?” John looked up, his face a question mark. “Okay, I thought they would have known we were sleeping together by now, but if you want me to make a point of mentioning it, I’ll do so. I can understand how you would be proud to have them know for certain, although Mariko, you know, may be envious, and then, since she is Dolphy’s wife, he will get mad at me, and—” She held up her hand to stop him, bowing her head into her other hand and laughing. Finally, with an I-give-up shake of her head, she said weakly, “When are you going to tell them about the Titanic?” “Oh, that. Why didn’t you say so? After breakfast tomorrow. Jeez, sweetheart, you’ve got to work on your English.”

Chapter 16 Late Afternoon John

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e should have been happy, but except for that brief period of humor during the morning—how he typically dealt with distress—the feeling of emptiness and loss stayed with him all day. Jy-ying could sense it, and in a way so could Prince Wei, who several times tried to lick his face. It was worse during sparring practice. In 2002 of the First Universe, from which he and Joy had been sent downtime to 1906, he could not have, as Joy put it during the first weeks she was teaching him karate and judo, “kicked your way out of a wet paper bag.” But he had learned, in spite of his natural male resistance to being taught martial arts by a gorgeous woman four inches shorter and forty pounds lighter than he was. He had to learn, but not without words and fights between them. He knew his life or even both their lives might depend on it when they reached this time and began intervening to prevent its major wars and democides, and to spread the democratic freedom that would bring permanent peace. Joy was too kind. In 1907, during one of his training sessions, he actually had thrown and pinned her on the mat. She got up, looked at him with solemn respect, and said with a twenty-degree bow, “Honorable dearest is now a holy black belt.” Then she faked to his left, and when he blocked where she was supposed to be, she faked to his right, threw a swinging kick at his chest, knocking him off balance. When he tried to roll to his feet, she jumped on him, caught his arm, twisted it behind him, and pulled his thumb back just enough to incapacitate his arm, but not cause him pain. “But don’t let it go to your head,” she’d instructed. Jy-ying had been teaching him wing chun kung fu since Joy was murdered—not dead, not killed, not gone, always murdered. He could not and would not think of it any other way. Jy-ying also knew the standard moves in karate and judo, but there were moves, blocks, and stances that Joy had taught him that he passed on in return.

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Today, after a half-hour of practice, she stopped and made a T with her hands—each little American gesture she learned, she used to exhaustion until it became natural. She tousled John’s wild blond hair with her fingers, and sighed. “Another day, darling. You’re not with me now. I’m afraid I’ll injure you.” John responded automatically, “Shouldn’t you be more afraid that I’ll break something of yours?” Jy-ying gave him a somber look. “Don’t try humor, hon. You’re not into it today.” Nor had he been into it during supper with the guys, the three homeless men—Hands, Dolphy, and Sal—who’d been squatting in the warehouse in which he and Joy landed in their time machine in 1906, and who John hired as their first employees. They soon became trusted friends, and, when Joy and John told them about their time travel mission, eager members of the team. Jy-ying wanted to tell them about saving the Titanic at dinner, but she obviously was taking her cues from John on this; she glanced at him frequently, but said nothing. He didn’t feel up to it. If he got into it, he would have to mention that this was Joy’s idea, and he could not. Not right now. He hardly touched his food. In bed with Jy-ying that evening, he could not sleep. Jy-ying was asleep next to him with one hand on his arm, her long hair freed from its ponytail and partly covering her face; Prince Wei lay asleep above her head on her feather pillow. John cried again, but tried to keep it quiet and his body still. He was not ashamed of it; he simply did not want Jy-ying to feel any worse than she already did. She was as distraught over Joy’s murder as he was, perhaps even more, since she had lost . . . herself, was the only way he could put it. But through the years she had focused her heartbreak and pain on helping him overcome his recurring depression. It was not long before he realized that she loved him as deeply, as unreservedly, as passionately as had Joy. And that, more than anything, brought him through those first weeks after her murder when he almost committed suicide. Enough of this, he chided himself, and used a hypnotic trick Joy— yes, Joy again—had taught him. Starting at his toes and moving to the top of his head, he relaxed his muscles one group after another, and then recited to himself, “You are getting sleepy. You are falling into a deep, deep sleep.” He imagined a still mountain lake on a warm afternoon, imagined sitting on a rock at the water’s edge with the sun heating up his back. A warm breeze caressed his cheek . . . .

aaa

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“Hello, dearest.” “Joy, is that you again?” “Ah-ha, is there someone else you expected?” “I’ve missed you, baby. You haven’t visited me for about a year.” “No, my love, I’ve been with you all the time.” “Let me see you.” She appeared as though stepping out of a mist, wearing her favorite gray sweatshirt with the sleeves pulled up, her red headband with her black bangs falling over it, a ponytail, and white shorts. “Ta da, here I am.” “I wish I could hold you, baby, caress and make love to you, and tell you over and over how much you mean to me.” “You can. I am also Jy-ying, dearest. I think that sometimes you forget that. You are making it harder for her, you know. She loves you as I do; she asks for nothing from you but your love in return. Please don’t let the me you dote on from years ago interfere with the me that you can hold in your arms, caress, and make love to.” “It’s so hard.” “Are you punning?” She gave him her sexy grin for a moment, then turned serious. “Through her love for you and as a woman, Jy-ying is trying to help you overcome your grief. But I think you know that.” Joy hesitated, and then came very close. He knew they could never touch; his hand only went through her when he tried. But she came close enough for him to see the happiness in her eyes, and she acted as though she was reaching out to touch him, and he thought he felt the caress of a light breeze. “Thank you, dearest, for saving those people on the Titanic. You have honored me by making it my idea, but I think you would have thought of it yourself. There is something so satisfying about saving so many people with names and identities who might otherwise have died miserable deaths. I did a little spiritual dance, so to say, when you read the news about the Titanic’s arrival in New York. “Now dearest, you need your sleep if you are going to make me proud of your martial arts practice with Jy-ying. I will leave you to it. Just be yourself, my love, and make the living me happy.”

Jy-ying She knew he had been crying, and felt it best to let him cry through it himself. She loved him dearly, and she hated the thought of it, but it

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came anyway. She would have done anything to save Joy, including sacrificing herself. She had enjoyed their lovemaking threesome. It just seemed right, not perverted—she and Joy were the same person, after all. But she enjoyed their lovemaking even more, now that it was just between her and her love. From the very beginning, she had fallen in love with him. His rugged handsomeness, unruly blond hair, crooked smile, and twinkling eyes never failed to warm her insides and make her feel fuzzy. But most of all, he showed a respect for her, an acceptance and consideration she had never had from any man in China, not even her father, not even her lover Shu Kuo. It was not the Chinese male thing. John’s sense of humor at first astounded her in its breezy irreverence, bantering challenges, and risqué pronouncements. Coming from China, where the men by culture seemed so serious and grim, she’d found it hard to get used to, but now she loved it, even the dimple at the side of his mouth when he was kidding. And it had made her discover in herself what had been latent. As a captain of the exclusive Sabah Guards, she’d had to take everything seriously. The example of John and Joy’s bantering and humor, and the culture of this country, even during this age, had set her free. But, of course, she was Joy. It had to be in her genes. She felt in some ways like a carefree child again. She even stuck out her tongue at John, and gave him that finger, which had been such a mystery to her until, with a loud laugh, John had explained it to her. What a delightful and brazen response it was. Just right, for some of John’s remarks. And like Joy, she hated his lectures, although she would never admit it. They well displayed his professionalism and learning, and she had picked up from the Chinese culture what Joy, brought up as an American, was deprived of—a deep, traditional respect for erudition and wisdom. But there was a time and place for such lectures, and John had a knack for picking the wrong time and place—like the other night, when she’d cuddled up to him in bed, one leg across his. He froze for a moment and stared empty-eyed at the ceiling. “What’s wrong?” she had stupidly asked, still learning about his ways. “Of course. I’ve got it,” he replied, then asked rhetorically, “Have you ever wondered what the process of conflict is? There have been many historical studies of the stages of conflict, but what they miss is that there is a long stretch of time before overt conflict during which the values, interests, and power of two nations gradually become incongruent with their expectations, and—ouch.”

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She had bitten him on the shoulder. “We are now in violent conflict,” she said. And soon made him forget about his lecture. John was snoring. He had finally fallen asleep. She opened her eyes and looked at him in the dim reflected light from the full moon outside. He seemed to be smiling. It is a mystery, she thought, how a man can snore and smile at the same time. She lifted one hand and petted Prince Wei, above her head. After the rogue policeman had murdered Joy in this very bedroom, she and Prince Wei had burst into the room through the door to the adjacent bedroom. Snarling, teeth bared, Prince Wei had hurtled at the murderer and so distracted him that Jy-ying had the second she needed to shoot him dead. Prince Wei had saved the lives of her and John and, no doubt, the mission. She sighed, gave him a caress from head to tail, put her hand back on John’s arm, and in moments fell asleep.

aaa She woke up suddenly. Light streamed in the window. John was hovering over her, brushing her hair away from her face. He kissed her, caressed her breasts, and whispered, “I love you, sweetheart. And thanks for everything.” He need say no more. His body told her what he wanted, and she was ready for him. Even through the sudden tears.

Chapter 17 April 21, 1912 John

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ive years in this mansion they called Fort Hope, and he still felt a twinge of wonder when he announced during supper to the guys and Mariko that he was going to hold a meeting in the library— their library—after supper. He came from a lower middle class family. His father had died when he was young and his mother had been a tennis pro making around $15,000 a year in winnings. In the mid-eighties, women did not earn much from tennis unless they were among the top ten. A mansion was something filthy-rich people lived in, and he’d never met one of those. He and other normal people lived in houses or apartments. Jy-ying had bought the mansion as a secure fortress for them when they were trying to lure the rogue time policeman to them and trap him. The money was nothing. She had been sent downtime to 1906 with a fortune to support her search for the time traveler who would assassinate the Prophet Sabah. And Joy and John were sent downtime to 1906 with their own fortune. Money would never be a problem for them, especially since they could foretell the movement of the stock market, and winners in the major sports events. They had successfully lured that rogue to them, all right, but they did not realize he had brought a device from his far future that could project him across long distances into whatever space coordinates he entered into it. While John was in the library with Jy-ying, the rogue used the machine to project himself into their bedroom, where Joy was studying Russian in bed. He surprised her, partially paralyzed her with a beam from his weapon, raped her, and then murdered her. John couldn’t help the renewed pain in his heart at the thought, and mentally yelled at himself, It’s past. It’s past, damn it. Move on! He glanced at Jy-ying. It helped. She was eating her rice and fried egg, with a droplet or so of shoyu soy sauce on it. Prince Wei sat next to her leg with his little red tongue hanging out, studying her every movement, eager for his inevitable handout.

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Mariko had almost the same breakfast, with the exception of an added slice of Spam. They’d kept the resident cook when Jy-ying bought the mansion, and she and Mariko had trained the woman over the years in the rudiments of Chinese and Japanese cooking. It took months to get her past “rice is for pudding,” and teach her how to prepare and cook it properly. John turned back to his links, nestled next to a poached egg on top of a stack of pancakes. He carefully removed the egg, smeared butter on each pancake, put the egg back on top, and dumped maple syrup over it all. Jy-ying pointed a finger, roughened by their martial arts sparring but still feminine, at his plate. “No appetite, eh?” “Well, you know I have to eat this much and more just to keep up with you.” Jy-ying’s eyes widened and she reddened. After a speechless moment, she looked askance at him and shot back, “But, of course.” But her color deepened. John knew English now came almost as naturally to her as Chinese, but sometimes she intuited a slightly different meaning than that intended. In this case, he suddenly realized she must have thought he meant “keep it up with you.” He blushed himself, and concentrated on eating. Sal looked from John to Jy-ying and back, and leered at both of them. “Is that your secret? Is it the pancakes? Or is it the egg on top of the pancakes?” he asked, putting the emphasis on “top.” He added, his leer now nearly reaching his ears, “Or the way you opened the yoke?” Jy-ying gave him her “I will tear out your tongue later” stare, while John simply responded, “Your yokes pancaked, Sal.” Sal had no steady girlfriend, but he dated often, some long enough for them to show up at breakfast with him. John had made sure the guys understood that any overnight guest was welcome at breakfast with them, even if she was not, as Hands delicately put it when asking John what the limits were, “a nice girl.” Hands, but for his groaning at Sal and John’s humor, was the quiet one at the table this morning. He seemed preoccupied, and at one point John saw him take a telegram out of his pocket, unfold and read it, and then fold it carefully and put it away again. He had gotten engaged to an actress in Germany during one of their trips to Europe. Jy-ying and John had yet to meet her. Nevertheless, Jy-ying considered it her duty to pester him with questions about her. Outside of “she is the greatest,” and “I love her very much,” Hands offered nothing more.

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In a tone of defeat, Jy-ying told John one night in bed, “There is something strange and secretive about this woman.” John had told her, “Not our business.” Ever the security-conscious one, she had explained, “Everything the guys do is our business. They know everything about us, and if the wrong people or any government found out about our mission—and especially our time travel—they would come after us.” John had responded, “Jeez. Maybe not even I could protect us then. I know, I know. It’s hard to believe, but—” Jy-ying had seen the dimples growing at the corners of his mouth, and quickly put a pillow over his face. Now, with breakfast almost over, John told them to bring their coffee or tea with them to the library.

aaa When they were all comfortably seated around the one large library table, John told them about his telegram to the Seafarers’ Union president, the strike, and the three-day delay in the Titanic’s sailing. That there was such a ship was news to the guys and Mariko, so John described the ship, the belief in its unsinkability, and then how, on its maiden voyage, it had sideswiped an iceberg and opened too many of its watertight holds to the sea. They could not believe it when he mentioned that the tops of the watertight holds were only about a foot above the waterline, that the ship was steaming at almost full speed even though warned that it was in a iceberg field, and that there were not enough lifeboats for even half the passengers. The lack of lifeboats especially aroused disbelief, so John told them that on all the sea voyages they’d taken, there had been insufficient lifeboats. When John had answered all their questions, and they obviously believed that he had saved a ship and 1,523 passengers and crew who otherwise would have died, John stood and raised his cup of coffee. “This is to Joy. This was her idea. She thought it was a simple thing to do, but something that would allow her to know the names and personalities of some of those we had saved. I hope now the somewhere, her spirit knows and is smiling with happiness over what we have done. Cheers, Joy.” They all gently clicked their glasses or cups. No one’s eyes were dry, and Mariko was softly crying into her hand. Joy had been her bridesmaid, and John best man, when Mariko had finally overcome her

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mother’s resistance to her marrying a non-Japanese, and she and Dolphy were married in Hawaii in 1910. Sal, Hands, and Jy-ying had also attended, at company expense, of course. One of the automobiles revved in the garage—their mechanic must be working on it. That soon quieted, but then mynor birds started squabbling on the grass near the library window. “So,” Dolphy asked, breaking the sad silence, “what’s the next one?” “Next one?” John responded, eyebrows raised. Dolphy hesitated and looked around the table as though surprised at how dense John was. Looking back at John with his brow knitted, he replied, “Ah, aren’t there other sinkings, train wrecks, floods, and such that we could save people from dying in somehow?” Mariko unclasped her purse and took out a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. Jy-ying pushed back her chair and picked up Prince Wei. She put him on her lap and petted him while waiting for John’s response. Finally John answered, looking guilty, “You know, I don’t think Jyying thought of that.” He looked at her. She glared back. He added, “That’s okay. You can’t think of everything. Guess I’ll have to deal with it.” To everyone’s glee, she gave him the finger. John laughed. “To be honest, we’ve concentrated so much on preventing the major man-made human catastrophes like World War I that we have neglected the ‘little’ disasters we might do something about, with only a small effort and few resources. But the sinking of the Titanic was such a well-known disaster, with such a loss of life, that we couldn’t help but try to prevent it.” He had to add, even as painful as it was to mention her again, “And it was Joy’s desire.”

Jy-ying As a grieving silence again filled the room, Jy-ying decided it was time for her to help them past it. She said, “I think there were large disasters, especially in China and Japan, but they are not as well known as the Titanic.” And none of them are important, considering our mission, she thought, though she did not voice it. “Anyway, I feel sorry for those who died in other disasters, but disasters happen all the time. We can try to stop some, but there always will be others. By intervening to prevent disasters, we may change things so that we cause other disasters.” She shook her head. “We should not take an ounce of time—”

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“Second of time,” John interrupted. “—away from preventing wars and democides. We cannot take our attention away from that mission.” She put particular stress on “our.” John stared at her, nodded, then said as though she had not said a thing, “We each brought a detailed chronology of the future with us to this age. I think mine is better, however. Maybe we could look at that. You know, just to see what disasters happened.” He gave her his crooked grin and as usual it melted her arguments into a warm fuzzy ball. He added, “The Survivors’ Benevolent Society that sent Joy and me to this age did considerable research to compile a detailed chronology of the first decades of the twentieth century. Maybe they listed disasters also. I’ll get it.” As he rose, Jy-ying knew he was going to the file room on the other side of his office from the library. They kept their large safe there. It contained all their documents from the future, the forgeries attesting to their identities in this time, and their laptops, printers, and other gadgets from the future. In a mansion with so many servants—after five years, John still refused to call them servants; they were “helpers”—they maintained a rigorous security over anything that would reveal their time travel. John returned with Joy’s laptop and handed it to her. He was, as he strangely put it, “electronically challenged.” The Macintosh laptop’s operating system was much different from that of Jy-ying’s own laptop, but the idea was similar, and she’d found the Mac easy to learn. At first she had asked John to help her, but after he’d leaned over the laptop and pointed to the keyboard, saying, “You press those little knobs with letters on them, and use English,” she decided to learn on her own. Jy-ying smiled in remembrance. He’d continued his instruction by pointing to the flat, recessed area below the keyboard and saying, “That’s for your finger—press down, rub your finger across it, and you’ll see a little arrow on the screen move in tandem.” Looking smug, he’d straightened and rubbed his hands together. “That’s it. I hope you listened carefully. The rest is easy.” Well, the rest was relatively easy, and soon she was as comfortable with Joy’s laptop as she was with her own. One day, as she was systematically going through all the files on it, she found one named Jy-ying—TypeMomsName. The file was encrypted, but it opened after she typed in their mother’s full name: Hua Jue Yan— happy and beautiful. Joy had learned it from Jy-ying; John only knew their mother’s surname. And no one else would know it at all.

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The file was a personal letter Joy had written to her in the event she was killed—they all knew their mission was high risk. She wrote about her love for John and what he meant to her, about his likes and dislikes, and his idiosyncrasies. She asked that Jy-ying protect and care for him. Then she told Jy-ying about her hopes and fears, about her secrets she never told anyone, about her loving adoptive mother Tor and how much she missed her, and about her godmother Gu. At the end she wished Jy-ying and John the greatest success, hoping that they would succeed well enough in their mission that in a decade or so they could get married, adopt children, and have the happy home life Joy had always wanted, and would then have through Jy-ying. Jy-ying could no longer see through her tears when she had finished the letter. Grief and sorrow for Joy overwhelmed her. Later that day and throughout the following week, John was the consoling one for a change, helping her through her grief. Now, just touching the laptop John had placed on the library table in front of her stirred her love for her other self. She felt the spirit of Joy in it, and her heart beat faster when she opened the lid. Sometimes, when no one was around, she would immediately open Joy’s hidden letter and reread it. It never failed to bring tears to her eyes, but it also gave her a feeling of closeness, almost as though Joy were with her in the room. She calmed herself, taking her time to bring up the Society’s chronology of events in what John called the “First Universe,” and which she preferred to call simply “the First.” As she saw it, they were now in the Fourth Universe. The Second was the one that Joy and John had created in which they successfully prevented the major wars and democides of the First, and fostered an almost totally democratic world. What they did not know was that they also created the conditions for the rise and success of Sabahism, a radical Islamic sect founded by Abul Sabah, whose son exploded hidden nuclear bombs in the capitals and major cities of the democracies, ultimately achieving world victory. The granddaughter of Hands and the grandson of Dolphy had continued Joy and John’s mission long after they were dead, but the nuclear attack caught them by surprise. Dying from radiation poisoning, they sent a message back in time to Joy and John about the nuclear attack and Sabah’s global victory. Joy and John received the message and added to their mission the assassination of Sabah soon after he was born. The Sabah rulers of China found out about the message, and sent Jy-ying back to 1906 to save Sabah by finding and assassinating the time traveler who had received it. The message and Jy-ying’s arrival created a Third Universe. In this universe, she fell in love with John

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and tried to have Joy killed. When she found out she and Joy were the same person, she’d tried to kill Joy before she lost all motivation. John killed Jy-ying instead and saved Joy’s life. In this Third Universe Joy and John were so successful that unbeknownst to them all, in violation of time travel laws of the twenty-first century, a male-female pair of Islamic assassins was sent by the dictator of Turkmenistan to assassinate Joy and John and save Sabah. Their presence created a Fourth Universe. This violation of time travel laws was discovered by the time police, and they sent back a policewoman to prevent the assassination. She did so, and then used a special device to reset this Fourth Universe back to the arrival of Jy-ying, Joy, and John in 1906, for otherwise the two assassins would have changed the future in which the time police existed, and on which the success of democracy depended. Only as déjà vu would Jy-ying, Joy, and John ever be aware of having lived in another universe. But even then, they found themselves in yet a Fifth Universe. The rogue time policeman who had murdered Joy had murdered Stalin in 1903, and then maneuvered events to aid in the temporary success of the communist 1905–1907 Russian Revolution, and a short-lived parallel Polish Revolution. So, while John and Jy-ying and the others thought they were living in the Third Universe, it was actually a Fifth Universe, one vastly changed by the rogue policeman, and their deadly conflict with him. When the Survivors’ Benevolent Society’s chronology came up on the screen, therefore, Jy-ying stressed what they all knew and what had been a matter of frequent discussion. “This chronology will be off, and the more political the event it lists and describes, the more likely it will be that it’s far off. But, natural disasters like earthquakes or volcanic eruptions that are listed must occur in our universe also. Then there are the ship sinkings and train disasters that may or may not be correct, depending on how routine the ship and train schedule is, how remote they are from the center of the greatest socio-political changes, such as in Russia and Poland, and how far in the future they occur.” John waited until she took a breath. “Do you need my help using the computer?” “Ha! Not until you need my help putting on your pants.” She knew Sal would not disappoint her. He did not. “Or taking them off,” he added, smirking. The guys and Mariko knew that although Joy and John had been unmarried, they were in love and as intimate and entwined in each other’s lives as husband and wife. When Jy-ying first met the guys in 1906, she

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told them she was Joy’s sister, and that conveniently explained why they looked so much alike. But after Joy was murdered, she and John continued the sexual intimacy that had been their ménage à trois—threesome. Joy had suggested it, for Jy-ying was lonely, had the normal female needs, and had no male friend she cared for except John. Since she and Joy were the same person, Joy saw nothing wrong, and indeed was enthusiastic about sharing John with her—really, as though with herself. John, of course, thought he had died and gone to heaven. Jy-ying and John could not fool the guys and Mariko for long, and with all their shock and sorrow over Joy’s murder, they came to accept, without the usual male banter (not even from Sal), that Joy’s sister and John, in the course of comforting each other, had naturally become intimate. Only lovely Mariko had become cool to Jy-ying as a result. When this became obvious, and its source was clear, Jy-ying took her aside. Over their favorite green tea, she’d explained both her and Joy’s love for John, their combined intimacy at Joy’s suggestion, and what John now meant to her. She ended with, “This is what Joy would have wanted. Do you understand that?” Mariko responded, “Ah so desu ka—I see. Yes, I understand.” She bowed her head to Jy-ying and said, “Gomen nasai—I’m sorry.” And that was the end of it.

Chapter 18 Jy-ying

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y-ying focused on the chronology. So that it could be searched and manipulated in many ways, Joy had laid it out in a spreadsheet and an outline. She sorted out the events that were disasters—sinkings, wrecks, earthquakes—and then sorted on the number of dead. She came up with a surprising list. She turned the screen so that everyone could look at it. “Holy Mother,” Sal exclaimed, “three million people will die in an epidemic in eastern Europe in 1914, two years from now.” John looked closely at the screen. “That can’t be associated with World War I, since it will start in July—the same month that the war started in the First Universe.” He pointed at a number. “Look. The greatest death toll of any disaster will be for the flu epidemic of 1918. At least twenty million people will die before it ends in 1920, maybe fifty or even 100 million. World War I may have caused the epidemic, although I’m not sure about that. Then in 1927, there will be a famine in China that may kill four million; in the First Universe, this may have been due to the chaotic conditions in China during their warlord period. In 1931, however, there will be a flood that will kill nearly four million. Wow.” This is ridiculous. Jy-ying mentally shook her head. She exclaimed, “I know that flood will be terrible, but we cannot do anything directly about a flood. That is a natural disaster. And if our mission to promote the democratic movement in China is successful, there will be no warlord period, and a unified Chinese government should be able to save most of these people.” John shook his head as though trying to clear his mind. He rubbed a hand through his curly hair, then gestured with his hands, palms up. “I didn’t know about the flood,” he replied. “The chronology was so dense that I only consulted it with regard to our planned interventions and trips. I just didn’t think of sorting it by disasters.” “Oh no!” Mariko pointed at a line of information. “There will be a Tokyo-Yokohama earthquake in 1923 that will kill about 143,000 Japanese. We must warn them when that time comes. We cannot let them die like that.”

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Dolphy, also looking closely at the list, pointed to another disaster. “Hey, there will be another ship sinking soon, too. It comes close to the Titanic’s death toll in your First Universe. It’s the Empress of Ireland. In two years it will sink and drown 1,012 passengers and crew. Maybe you can pull the same trick, John.” “Maybe we can do something. But I can’t pull the same trick to prevent all these sinkings and wrecks. Assuming I’d know who to contact and what to say, I’d soon become known. That would be dangerous for us all, and our mission. Then, what do we do about the natural disasters?” Jy-ying was getting exasperated. “We eat melons,” she said. “Huh,” Dolphy and Hands said in unison. “It is a Chinese expression meaning ‘we do nothing.’ We have our mission.” “I agree,” Mariko said. “But many people will die. We cannot save even some?” While the others discussed that, Jy-ying turned the laptop back toward her, copied and pasted the disaster figures into a spreadsheet, and added up the total. Her eyebrows shot up and she let out a little gasp. She waved at John to get his attention, and pointed to the total. “I excluded disasters due to war or revolution, as in Russia.” John’s mouth fell open and his eyebrows rose to hide beneath the blond curls falling over his forehead. He leaned toward Jy-ying to get a better look at the total, as though needing to verify it. Finally he said in a low voice, “About forty-two million people are destined to die in natural disasters, famines, and epidemics. This is almost twice the twenty-four million combat dead of World Wars I and II together in the First Universe.” John’s mouth curved down, as did his eyebrows. He squinted as though in pain, vigorously massaging his left arm. “I agree with Jyying.” His voice rose for emphasis. “We cannot compromise our mission. It may save the lives of hundreds of millions of people. Then there is Abul Sabah, whose son bombed the democracies and took over the world. If Abul survives the changes in this universe . . . we will also have to deal with him. Doing so could save nearly two billion lives.” Jy-ying waited, but no one asked what their plans were for Sabah. She and John had discussed it often. When she’d been the dedicated assassin and Sabahite, she would have done anything to save him. She was no longer a Sabahite, or Muslim, for that matter, but she still intended to save him. He had been—rather, would be, in the future— a great man. She had persuaded John that if he was born in this new universe, they should travel to Uighuristan and buy the infant Abul from his parents—nothing new, in that culture—and adopt him.

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John continued in a lower voice. “While keeping to our mission, what can we do? We are now a team of six—” “John!” Jy-ying exclaimed. “How could you forget Prince Wei, our savior and best warrior?” She lifted the surprised dog and held him out to the group. Legs dangling, he looked over his shoulder at his mistress as though to say, “I do not blame you for showing me off.” John looked sheepish. “Oops, of course. Team of seven.” “What do ‘savior’ mean?” Mariko asked Sal next to her, since Dolphy had turned the laptop toward him and seemed lost in the list of disasters. Sal answered, “I don’t know. But I guess it means something like ‘save your.’ You know, like the dog save your life.” “Thank you,” Mariko responded. John was too wound up to notice Sal’s humor. He went on. “And when Hands marries his love, we will be eight. We surely will have to tell her about our mission. Then one of these days, some spirited gal will finally chain Sal down, and we will be nine.” Jy-ying looked askance at Sal. “Is that right?” He shook his head. “No skirt chains Sal Garcia down.” Dolphy looked up from the chronology. “Of course not, Sal,” he responded. “Women don’t chain their men down, they just pull them around by their—” “Dolphy!” Hands yelled at him, and shook his finger—everyone had picked up John’s favorite habit of finger-shaking for emphasis. All laughed, except Mariko. When Dolphy explained the joke, she said, “Honto ni—Really,” and gave them a big grin. Jy-ying had to say it. “And my sister Joy’s spirit will make ten. A team of ten for our mission.” She was surprised that her mention of Joy’s spirit in this context seemed to cheer them all, except for Mariko. She seemed to avoid Jyying’s eyes as she traced a fold of her dress across her knee. “Maybe Joy and nine of us could save many lives from disasters,” Mariko said. John seemed to sense the impending conflict. He looked around the table and said, “Thanks, folks. You all have raised a possibility that, given the lives at stake, we just can’t drop.” We will see, Jy-ying thought. John continued. “Just to be sure that we know what we are talking about, or discarding . . . ” he turned to Jy-ying “ . . . will you please print out the chronology of disasters for each of us?” When she gave him a barely perceptible nod, he concluded with, “We’ll see what is

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coming up soon, if anything, and see what we can do without endangering,” he looked squarely at Jy-ying, “our absolutely, totally, utterly important mission.” Hands did not get the hint from John’s tone of voice that the meeting was over. He asked Jy-ying, “Didn’t you say you excluded those disasters that may not occur because the future has changed, and will change more as we prevent some of them? I bet saving the Titanic from sinking will by itself cause some changes.” “Yes,” Jy-ying answered, her voice raised enough to carry to the rest of the group, “we do not know how that will influence our mission.” To her surprise, John went off on a clever tangent. “Also, we should keep in mind that no famines have ever happened in a democracy. A plus for democracy in itself. Moreover, democracy is an engine of economic, technological, and medical development. So the effects of epidemics are reduced for democracies as a result, if they occur. This means by fostering democracy, we also attack some of the causes of disasters. Or, for natural disasters such as drought, we reduce the number that will die in them.” As a new convert to the power of democracy, and now with the realization that fostering democracy could be a way of lessening the toll of major disasters, or even avoiding some altogether, Jy-ying nodded vigorously. “Right,” John said. “The problem of what to do about disasters is absorbed within our mission. We need do nothing extra.” Hands and Sal agreed. Dolphy stroked his chin. Mariko rubbed her nose with her finger and frowned.

aaa After the meeting, Hands took John aside. He asked, “Are the plans for our next trip to Europe still the same?” He referred to one of three or four trips they would take there to prevent World War I. John replied, “It’s still on for November.” “My fiancée and I want to get married as soon as possible in Germany, and then she will live with me here. I want you and Jy-ying to be there. I would like you to be my best man.” “Thank you, Hands. I would be honored.” “Do you think that you could . . . ah, have reason for an earlier trip?” “For your wedding, I would do it tomorrow, if we could. But there is so much to set up, including many appointments, and lots of planning to do. And these damn trips are so expensive in terms of time—really

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three or four weeks one way, when all the trains and ships we have to take to get to Germany are considered—so we have to make the best of a trip when we take one. But Jy-ying and I will start the planning right away and maybe, Hands, we can all go sometime in August.”

aaa When John and Jy-ying went to bed that evening, she told him, “Good thing you made clear that promoting democracy will help save people from disasters. And so we really should not do anything different, just focus on our mission.” She tugged her pillow from behind her and held it up, as if ready to swing it. “If you had insisted on saving people from disasters in addition to our mission, I would have had to beat some sense into your head with this pillow.” She tried to put the pillow behind her again, but Prince Wei had taken over the space. She put the pillow on top of him and leaned against both. “We have to be careful not to be drawn into acting like gods,” she said, her lilting accent unusually heavy. “What do you mean?” She turned in bed to face him and rose on her elbow, unconsciously rubbing her breast against his chest. “With the information about the future that we have, and our resources, we can push an obnoxious business into bankruptcy, for example, or break up a criminal gang, or influence the election for the president of the United States. There are so many things in this country and in the world that will happen that we won’t like. With our power—and it is godlike power, darling—we could probably move the whole world closer to our conception of what should be. This would be wrong. It is the thinking of Sabahites, of Islamists. It is what I escaped from, I now realize, thanks to you and Joy. It would by antidemocratic. As a former captain in the Sabah Security Guards, I know what power is. I know what it can do to people— what it did to me. And our power scares me.” She did not mention what she’d read from John’s Remembrance, the book that had been sought and found by Sabah’s spies so they could send detailed notes from it downtime to her. They provided her with enough information to identify Joy and John as those she’d been sent to assassinate. They also revealed that Joy had misused her great power to try to rid the streets of muggers and rapists, and eventually, to try to kill an American presidential candidate she considered a communist. John had finally killed her to prevent further murders, and committed suicide after settling their affairs and finishing the Remembrance.

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After a brief hesitation to choose her words, she went on. “And I don’t want our great power to . . . change us. Do you understand?” “I agree,” he replied. “I don’t want to get involved in moral causes aside from our mission. I must say that saving the Titanic turned me toward doing something about other disasters, but that was dangerous thinking. We have our mission. And I’m glad I persuaded you of that.” She frowned at him for a moment, then saw the dimples on either side of his mouth, and grinned. “Of course.” They both chuckled. She became conscious of a tingling in her breast and edged away from him so she could concentrate on what she was about to say. “Since we have the daily news from future editions of The New York Times, if you read that a family nearby will be killed in a car accident, will you do nothing?” “Of course not. If I can save the family without affecting our mission, I will do so.” “Okay. If you read that XYZ Company will be convicted of bilking old people of millions of dollars, will you try to stop the company? Or what about a senator abusing his office?” “No and no. I will make a precise rule. If a future event doesn’t involve deaths or the promotion of democracy in nondemocratic countries, then I won’t intervene. And the greater the number of deaths, the more willing I am to intervene.” “So,” she said, “I know how you feel about rape. Assume a serial rapist and murderer is at large in San Francisco today. Assume The New York Times of April 12 of next year, say, reports that he’s been caught—thus you know his name—but not before he’s raped and murdered three more women. And assume in eight more months, after he is caught, he is convicted due to irrefutable evidence. You will do nothing to stop that killer now?” “I guess I would try to stop him.” “Would you kill him?” “Yes, I guess I would if I had to—only to save the lives of those he would otherwise murder. But I first would try my damnedest to get him captured by the police, if already there is enough evidence to convict him.” “Good,” Jy-ying said, happy with his response. She felt better about the power they had. There was a clear dividing line to prevent them from sliding from the compassionate use of power into its abuse. John did not know, as Jy-ying did from the information she’d been sent to help her find and assassinate them, that Joy’s similar worries about their great power had not protected her from being subverted by it in the Second Universe. Jy-ying, with her greater experience with power,

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violence, and murder, sensed the great danger this power held for them, good intentions or not. They had to live with it, but if they did not consciously fight each of its subterfuges, it could finally destroy them. For the moment, she imagined locking that power away in an unbreachable safe. She cuddled up against John’s body, put her arm across his hairy chest, and with a long sigh, soon fell asleep.

aaa It was dark. They were walking along some dimly lit street in a strange city. Three drunken men approached. They leered at Jy-ying and seemed to be making jokes in a language she didn’t understand. One, a burly fellow, had a gun and the other two, no more than skinny boys, had knives. The one with the gun pointed at John and said something. John put up his hands and reluctantly lay down on his stomach. The two with knives pointed them at Jy-ying and made motions for her to strip. Feigning fear, she took her holster purse off her shoulder and placed it on the ground next to John. He knew she had her Taiyang .38 in it. She removed her dress to free her legs, and as the boys began to jabber at the sight of her knife sheath, she bent over to place her dress next to her purse. She didn’t straighten up. Instead, she did a hop jump, a lateral twist, and a swing kick to knock the gun out of the hand of the burly one. The two boys, surprised, tried to protect themselves with their knives as she chopped one in the throat and kicked the other in the groin. Then she front-kicked the burly one to the ground. For some reason John started yelling at her, “Don’t kill them! No!” How could I not do that? she thought. They attacked me. They would have killed John and me. They may have killed other men and women, and might do so in the future. One cannot show such wild beasts mercy. She took her tactical knife out of its sheath. The two boys had dropped their knives and were now screaming for mercy. The burly one was trying to crawl away. With John shouting at her, “No, Jy-ying, noooo,” she slit their throats one by one. As their blood spurted over her legs, she held the knife up to look at the blood dripping down it and yelled at John, “I had to. They’re animals. I had to—”

aaa

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“I had to—” John was shaking her. “Wake up, sweetheart. You had a nightmare. Wake up.” Jy-ying opened her eyes and saw his worried expression. He continued shaking her by the shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she shouted, “I had to do it. I saved other women from—” She suddenly realized it had been a dream. Feeling drained and deflated, she rubbed her eyes. “What did you dream?” John asked, leaning over her. “Are you alright?” It took her a while to slow down her thudding heart. She felt clammy, and must have sweated into the sheet. She didn’t understand this physical reaction; she was the calm warrior in her dream. John must have had something to do with it. Finally able to think rationally enough to tell him a half-truth, she muttered, “The dream is too hazy to recall now. But I think I played god.”

Chapter 19 May 14, 1912 Turkey

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t had been almost two months since Peter Kahan interviewed Bayram Evren, Professor of Islamic Art at the University of Turkey. Bayram had insisted that it take place in his home. He did not want any prying ears to overhear his responses, which were hostile to the regime. At supper, soon after Peter left, Bayram described the interview to his wife Ziya, and told her what the reporter was going to do with his responses and other information he had picked up. His westernized wife hated what was being done by the Young Turks even more than he did, and hoped that Peter could focus world opinion on the mass murders. Their seventeen-year-old son Ali remained at the table, although he had finished his meal of lamb curry. He was preparing to enter the university with a major in Ottoman history. He’d received a draft deferment by virtue of an accident he had when he was a boy. His horse, panicked by an automobile, had thrown him onto a fence. His hip and leg had been broken and healed badly, leaving him with such a limp that he felt more comfortable using crutches. His parents had often cautioned him to keep what he heard at home in the home. It was personal, and could be dangerous if it got to the wrong people. But Ali trusted his best friend Bardu. Bardu often bragged about his filthy-rich father and his successful shipping firm, so whenever he could, Ali bragged back about his father. As far as he knew, Bardu had no political views or interests, and he saw no danger in telling him about the English reporter who had talked to his dad—his dad, obviously a great man. As a result, Ali bragged, Peter Kahan was going to write an article about Turkey, especially about what his father had told him about the Young Turks and Armenians. “That Englishman is going to try to save the Armenians because of my dad,” he said proudly. Bardu had seemed uninterested, and soon changed the subject to his upcoming commission as an army lieutenant. A week later, Bardu told his cousin Aysun, who was visiting his family with her mother, that an English secret agent had talked to his friend’s dad about the massacre of Armenians, and he elaborated on that.

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Aysun knew her mother disliked Ali’s dad, since she had gotten a poor grade from him in his class at the university. Her mother would be interested in what Aysun had heard. So she told her mother, and her mother told her husband, finishing with an outraged “What do you expect from him, that eshek oglu eshek—donkey’s son!” Her husband warned his brother, a high-ranking member of the Young Turks’ Committee of Union and Progress. When it finally got to the Talaat Pasha, the Minister of the Interior, it was via a phone call from the Secretary of the Istanbul CUP. He told the minister that there had been a top British agent operating in the country—really a double agent, since he was also working for the Armenians. He was out to expose the annihilation of the Armenians, and was plotting to have Talaat and the other Young Turks assassinated by supporters of the deposed sultan. Talaat flung the phone down, immediately warned Nazim, Fehmi, and Bey, and called the police and security chiefs. He confronted them with this dangerous intelligence and then, forgetting their collegial relationship, he hissed, “Track down this spy and assassin, person by person. Use whatever means necessary. No mercy. Now!” None of the purveyors of the information thought it was very important. They had no compunction about sharing it with the security agents in the famous Hamid interrogation room of Imrali Prison, even before their torture began. But their interrogators had to be certain they had wrung every smallest fact from them. It took three weeks to get to the professor and his wife. They started on the wife in front of him. She had lost her mind by the time they turned to the professor with their instruments. He was crying hysterically, insisting that he and Ziya had told them all they knew. But again, they had to be certain. Immediately informed of the interrogators’ conclusions, Talaat sent a coded telegram to the Turkish embassy in London, demanding that they verify that a Peter Kahan was a reporter for The Times, and had just returned to London from Turkey. The coded verification was received in two hours. Talaat’s next telegram was encoded for the embassy’s security chief, Abdi Ersen—for his eyes only. He described Peter physically, then revealed that his work as a reporter for The Times was dangerous to Turkey. He ended with “Kill him immediately.”

Chapter 20 May 15, 1912 John

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fter their jog and breakfast, John asked Jy-ying to join him in the mansion office. He had become sensitive to calling it his office, since she was as much a part of their mission as he was, and no less a “boss” in their company. As Jy-ying closed the office door behind her, he lifted several clippings from the desktop and held them out to her. “This is getting serious, and I’m worried. These clippings describe more massacres in Turkey. The Young Turks continue to insist that they are simply putting down a rebellion of the Armenians, or that some of the massacres are simply communal violence between Turks and Armenians in eastern Turkey, caused by the specter of a possible pro-Russo-Armenian invasion.” He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. This may be so, since communal massacres have happened in the past. But this could also be an early launching of the mass murder of over a million Armenians that began in 1915 in the First Universe. If this is so, we will have to do something about it.” “What can we do?” Jy-ying asked. “That’s something we will have to think about. I hadn’t planned on this, since I thought that preventing World War I would also prevent this genocide. That’s why all our activity in Europe has focused on that. Anyway, I’m going to have our guys go through foreign Englishlanguage newspapers in the San Francisco Library for the last year, and note down any news about the killing or massacre of Armenians, Greeks, or other Christians.” “Let’s just hope that there is nothing more to these killings than what the Young Turks say. Otherwise,” and he displayed a sour grin, “there ain’t enough of us.”

Chapter 21 Evening, April 17, 1912 Berlin

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e would be here. Here in Berlin, where she could get him. July 8—she would have him then. Finally. She would do no more until then. She did not want to be caught and have him go free. Besides, she was busy enough to take her mind off of the long wait. Except at night, when the day’s work was done and the usual crowds around her had scattered, and she was alone in another of her countless hotel rooms. Then, when she lay alone in bed, it all would come out of hiding to assail her again and again—gunfire, screams, horses’ hoofs . . . . And . . . and . . . the awful, swimming images of bodies and blood, and the sobbed words . . . and the stinking, slimy memory of the sweaty, half-naked bodies pumping into her, and the real pain . . . the knife—oh, that knife!

Summer, 1910 She was in Munich, visiting her brother Albert and his wife Christa for two weeks. The Kaiser was there as well, visiting the main city residence of the Wittlesbach Dynasty. People were upset at the power the Kaiser was wielding in foreign policy and over the elected Reichstag, and there were many disgusting scandals among the aristocracy. Albert and Christa were very prodemocratic, and invited her to join them at a peaceful, prodemocracy demonstration of thousands of people near the Kaiser’s residence at Max-Josef-Platz 3. To hide her identity from others at the demonstration, she wore her blonde hair pinned up inside a yellow bonnet, and a high-necked, black leather cape. She just didn’t want to be bothered. The demonstrators held up many prodemocracy signs, and those in the front ranks began to chant “Democracy now,” and “Power to the people,” and, loudest of all, “Abdicate, abdicate, abdicate.” Troops were called out, including armed cavalry. Three times the demonstrators were ordered to leave, but did not. Then a mustached

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general on his white Arabian horse—General von Woyrsch—gave the order to Lieutenant Schmidt to fire into the demonstrators. There was no provocation. No demonstrator had weapons. Not even brass knuckles. No one fired at the troops. Schmidt barked the order and the well-trained German troops, who would never disobey an order, got down on one knee, aimed their Mauser rifles at the crowd of demonstrators, and opened fire. Screams, shouts, shrill cries; writhing bodies, falling bodies. The sounds of agony and terror were a hellish counterpoint to the roaring guns and billowing powder smoke. Another smoky volley. It seemed as if the buildings themselves were screeching. People fled wildly, blindly, tripping over those crawling or lying splayed out at grotesque angles. Another volley. Running for her life beside Albert, Christa was shot in the back of the head. When he saw her fall, Albert stopped in horror, and was almost immediately holed by bullets in the lung and stomach. As he fell, he pulled his sister down with him. A bullet grazed her hip that would have hit her in the stomach. Albert saved her life. Spread-eagled on his back with a pool of blood forming underneath him, Albert screeched. He seemed to be trying to raise himself on his elbows and look around for Christa, but his body only jerked. He was dying. She crawled to him. He was all that existed for her. She did not even feel the pain in her hip. Nor did she hear the bloody pandemonium around her when the cavalry was ordered into the demonstrators, hooves beating on the dead or wounded, swords slashing. Shaking uncontrollably, she forced back the sobs, knelt over Albert’s pale face, and kissed his cheeks and forehead. Blood foamed on his lips. “Chri . . .sta?” he moaned. He must have known her answer when she could no longer hold the sobs back. “Christa . . . to me.” Christa was only a couple of feet away. She crawled over to her and dragged the dead woman by her coat to Albert. She put his dead wife’s head on his chest, and wrapped his arm around her. She saw him tighten it. Then he groaned and worked his mouth, trying to tell her something. She controlled her body-wrenching sobs enough to lean over him again and put her ear near his mouth. He struggled, but finally the tortured words bubbled out. “Please . . . do not . . . let them get away with this.” The last words came out as a moan: “I love you, sis.” “I promise, I promise,” she told him.

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His head twitched, perhaps in a nod. And his eyes slowly went dead, and his body relaxed, except for his arm around Christa. It was steel. She closed his eyes, kissed them, kissed his bloody mouth, kissed his cheeks, and wailed his death. She hardly realized she was being dragged from his body. It was all a heaving, anguished fog as she was arrested, shoved into a canvascovered truck, and taken along with other prisoners on a bumping, jerking ride to Landsberg Prison, where she was pushed into a cell with several other prisoners. The interrogators had stood back when the prisoners were brought in, making their selections of those who would be interrogated first. No matter her wretched condition, the loss of her yellow bonnet fully displayed her blond beauty, and she was selected to be among the first. The barred metal door of the cell clanked open. While two armed guards stood at the entrance, two more came in and lifted her by her underarms from the long concrete slab on which she had been lying. They stood her up. Her sobs had ended, as had the fog, but she still was in shock. With a guard to the front and another to the rear, those on each side of her gripped her arms and marched her out of the cell and down a flight of metal stairs toward a room with a half open, heavylooking, gray metal door. The guard in front opened it fully, and the two on each side of her shoved her inside. The door closed behind her with a metal clang. She stood, swaying slightly, not really interested in the room or the three masked men in dark clothes who stood at a long table with ropes and buckles around it. A smaller table nearby held instruments of some sort. One of the men walked over to her, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her to the long table. He motioned her to sit on it. She did so, then slumped over and stared down at the broken tiled floor. “What is your name?” one asked. She was startled. They didn’t recognize her? Still almost senseless, her emotions a wreck, she gave her name without thinking. “You lie. She is no revolutionary.” The man slapped her just enough to jerk her head to the side and redden her cheek. “Your name?” That did it. She suddenly realized the danger she was in and what this could do to her father’s reputation and position. This time she did lie. Almost randomly drawing on one of the characters she had played, she said, “I am Helga Hagen.” One of the men was taking notes, and he wrote this down. “Why were you at the criminal riot?” “There was no riot. It was a peaceful democratic demonstration.”

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Slap. It was harder this time, and her head jerked back, her cheek on fire and her eyes watering. The man who had been standing back watching stepped forward, and gently nudged aside the one who had been questioning her. He spoke kindly, his voice husky. “Forgive my assistant. We have many people to interview, and he is hurried. The Kaiser is very upset by the demonstration, which he feels is a personal insult. He is certain it is revolutionary, and wants to expose the revolutionary aims of the leaders. All you need to do is tell us who the leaders are, and you can go. That is all. Now, Fraulein Hagen, who are the leaders?” She was now fully alert. “I do not know. I’m in favor of democracy. I think it is a good idea. I heard about the prodemocratic demonstration, and so I joined it.” “Fraulein,” the man said in a patronizing tone, “I would like to become your friend, sit down and have beer with you, get to know you, and learn why you are a revolutionary. I do not want to cause you any pain. Anyway, it often is . . . counterproductive. But we must hurry. Again, the Kaiser, as I said. So we do what we must to get the information we seek. You can tell us now, or—” he waved to the other table with the frightful instruments on it “—you will tell us later.” His voice became harsh. “There is no one here to help you. No one will hear your screams. We can do anything to you we want. And time is running out. “Your leaders?” She lifted her chin and stiffened her back. She had played this role. It was a favorite of certain men. But this time, the pain would be real. They would not hear her scream, she vowed. She tried to disappear into herself. She focused on her dead brother and their life together, on when they were children, on their play, on their jokes, their arguments . . . . ” She felt herself being stood up and roughly stripped, but moved her mind deep inside. She was being asked something, but she did not hear. Her body was being shoved down and strapped, pummeled and jerked, and someone was inside her. She imagined she and her brother wrestling and chasing each other, laughing . . . . The sharp, excruciating pain in her genitals blasted asunder her imaginings and shattered her resolve. She screamed. Then again. And again, until her throat turned raw. She was tortured, raped, and sodomized for two days. Every couple of hours, the interrogators would take a break, clean away the blood, sweat, and fluids with towels soaked in a pail of salt water, salt her open wounds, and begin again with the same questions. When she

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passed out, the interrogators poured ice cold water on her face and slapped her until she came to. Her reputation as a most stubborn beauty grew in the prison with the speed of sound, and multiple interrogators passed through the room to try their skill, or take advantage. One in particular favored the knife. He did not rape her. He used no other device. Only a three-inch pen knife. He was an expert with it. He knew the most sensitive spots. It was the worst.

aaa The interrogator who was keeping a record of what she said told his wife who this communist had claimed she was at first. The wife telephoned her good friend, the wife of a staff general, to share this hilarious lie. The joke soon reached the prisoner’s father, Generalleutnant Kaufmann. He rushed to the prison, demanded to see the woman, and recognizing the pitiful, bruised and bleeding creature as his daughter. Whipping out his Luger, he brandished it in the faces of the interrogators and demanded that they cover her with something and carry her to his military chauffeured Audi. When they gently seated her in the back, her father got in beside her, ordered the driver to take them to the emergency ward of the Fort Wittlesbach Military Hospital, and held her tenderly while she moaned in his arms. The involvement of his son and daughter in what was perceived as a riot of anti-Kaiser, procommunist revolutionaries could have been a scandal that destroyed General Kaufmann’s military career, but he had enough influence with the insiders closest to the Kaiser for it to be hushed up, especially since he had already lost his son and daughter-inlaw. Besides, he was a close friend of Generalfeldmarschall Von Falkenhayn, who’d known his daughter as she was growing up, and could not believe she was a revolutionary, in spite of her career. All the interrogators and guards who had anything to do with his daughter were threatened with “the most serious consequences” if word were leaked about her imprisonment and torture, no matter who among them did it. Within a year, all were reassigned to the least desirable jobs in the prison system—except for the one who’d used the penknife. He committed suicide, so the army coroner claimed, with a shot in the back of the head. But Albert and Christa were dead and his daughter in the hospital. That was undeniable. The story was that the two had been killed when

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their horses went wild, frightened by a nearby lightning strike, and their carriage went off a bridge. His daughter had barely survived the same accident, it was said, and required surgery and hospitalization for five weeks. Not even General von Woyrsch, the one who ordered his troops to fire on the demonstrators, would ever know that General Kaufmann’s daughter was tortured or that she and his son were even among the demonstrators upon whom he wreaked hell. That ended it officially and forever, as far as all the relatives were concerned. But not for the daughter.

Evening, Berlin, April 17 She thought of Albert and his loving Christa every day. And then at night, all the horror came back to assail her, as it had on this one. She thought of alcohol, of drinking herself into a night’s oblivion, but it would ultimately ruin her career, as it had ruined one of her directors. She thought of opium, but there were already too many taking drugs in her profession. It destroyed their talent. Besides, she needed a clear head and steady hand to do what she must. As she’d promised her brother. And for Christa, also. And for all the others. So she suffered the awful memories and the pain. In hours she would fall into a fitful and exhausted sleep, and the next day she would steal a nap whenever possible. And then there would be the next night . . . .

Chapter 22 July 1, 1912 London Peter

H

e had interviewed ambassadors and consuls for deep background information; he’d questioned other foreign journalists, European businessmen, Turks he knew, several governors, and Young Turks, including Talaat Pasha. He had traveled as far as Kars, and included along the way interviews with several foreign professors teaching at Turkey’s major universities. They had secretly given him background and understanding of the information he collected. Peter had almost used up the funds his editor had sent him, and had more than enough material for a three-part Sunday supplement article. He was satisfied with its authenticity, if not happy with what he now knew. Now he had to get this out to the world. He had hidden his notes and documents among his smelly dirty clothes in one of his suitcases, and fled the country on the small German passenger ship Friedrich Der Grosse when she stopped over in Turkey on her Australia-Naples-Southampton-Bremen run. The Balkan War had shut down train travel from Turkey into Europe; travel out of Turkey north or east was now only by small boat or ship at exorbitant rates. Turkey forbade travel east over the border into Russia, and it still kept the Dardanelles closed to Black Sea travel. The weather had been stormy most of the trip, and he seemed to have spent most of his time heaving over a rail, sitting on the small, narrow toilet in his second class cabin, tortured by Turkish Revenge— dysentery—or lying in bed wracked with fever and nausea. The German ship’s doctor told him to drink a lot of water and gave him a powder to take called Bayer Aspirin: “Another great German invention for mankind,” the doctor said with a snort. Peter ate little and lost fifteen pounds. In his rare sane moments, he tried to consolidate his voluminous notes and rewrite the mass of cryptic, three- or four-word notes, often of names and places, or statistics that were conceptually connected, into

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single long notes. It took hardly any thought, and could be done in ten or fifteen minutes per batch of related notes. He simply was not up to the long bout of concentration his actual articles would require. He was almost over the dysentery when he finally returned to his musty and dust-laden bachelor’s apartment in London. He opened the windows for it to air, and removed the sheets from his Victorian furniture. He felt better, actually alive. The fever was gone, and he could eat. But he still felt queasy at the thought of German sausage and bratwurst. He telephoned Robinson, his editor, and told him that he wanted to start work on his article immediately rather than report in to the office. He spent about five minutes on a rough overview that left an enthusiastic Robinson telling him to take as long as necessary. There had been Reuters dispatches on the massacres, Robinson said, but nothing about them being planned by the Young Turks, or their systematic implementation of those plans. They talked about style. Finally Robinson said, “This will be a first. It will serve as a reference article for professionals and government officials. So follow Oxford style. This is The Times of London,” he sniffed, “not that American tabloid, The New York Times.” “Footnotes, direct quotes, and all that stuff?” Peter asked. “No,” Robinson said. “Not a research article. A reference article. You are to be the one footnoted and quoted.” Peter now had his writing tablet before him on his secretarial desk, with the documents he planned to refer to and his pile of notes—with the ones he’d combined and organized on the ship on top—neatly arranged on a table he’d placed at a right angle to the desk. He took a #1 pencil out of the collection in his coffee cup bearing The Times icon, then hesitated. He looked up at the photograph of his wife Emma, on the desk’s top shelf. She had died in childbirth; their son Charles had lived for only a week. He studied her face, reached out to touch her lips. He thought, I still find it all unbelievable, my love. This is the twentieth century. It is 1912. Yes, yes, you always did tell me that there was evil in all our hearts, if only tempted the right way. But this goes beyond that. There seems to be some unseen evil force at work in Turkey today. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his forehead and then his eyes with his palms. He looked back at her, and mumbled, “Horrible. It was horrible. So glad you weren’t with me. You would’ve cried with me. Yes, maybe a million tears, one for each Armenian murdered for nothing more than being Armenian.”

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He gave a long sigh, waved at her, and then threw her a kiss. “Enough of that. I’m here. I’m alive. And I hope, love, that you’ll be proud of my writing.” Peter took out a Turkish Fatima cigarette, lit it with a long match, and held it between two fingers, as his father and many Turks did when they smoked. He grinned wryly at the picture. “I’m sorry, love—I’ve got to smoke when I think. I’ll blow the smoke away from you.” He stood and began to pace across his living room as he decided the final organization of his article in his head—really a final pullingtogether of subtopics he had played with in his mind when he wasn’t dying on the ship. He never organized his writing on paper. A natural writer, he found that a rough mental sketch of his facts and ideas was the only framework he needed to write—give him a key topic or subtopic, and the words would flow. Besides, he had been living with this Turkish nightmare through all his waking hours, and even in his nightmares, for months. He soon had a mental picture of what he would say. Peter sat back down, lit another Fatima, and looked through his notes, seeking one in particular. It would be his lead-in. He looked up at Emma for the last time before he started writing. “Here I go, love,” he said, and threw her a kiss. Then he wrote:

aaa At the turn of the century, the sprawling Ottoman Empire was a multicultural, multiracial society, with a substantial population of Greeks, Bulgarians, Armenians, and Jews, and a much smaller population of Syrians, Maronites, and Chaldeans. Nonetheless, there was a special animosity between Moslem Turks and Christian Armenians. Culturally, religiously, linguistically, and historically, they were different nations. When there was a breakdown of law and order or a disaster of some sort, Moslem mobs often turned on the nearest Armenians. In 1908, Abdul Hamid’s government was overthrown by the apparently liberal-oriented and reform-minded “Committee for Union and Progress,” the so-called Young Turks. They made the Sultan accept a universally representative parliament and full religious and civil liberties—in form, a liberal constitutional democracy. People were joyous; they hugged each other in the streets. But they soon found reason to regret their celebration. The European powers viewed the Ottoman Empire as the “sick man of Europe.” For decades the empire had been breaking apart at the

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fringes, and the Young Turk revolution only signaled its further internal weakening. More dismemberment followed: Austria-Hungary annexed Bosnia-Herzegovina, Crete proclaimed union with Greece, Bulgaria declared its independence, and Italy asserted control over Tripoli and much of Libya. These further political disasters provoked the Sultan’s fanatical supporters to launch a countercoup in 1909 against the Young Turks, but they only succeeded in getting Abdul Hamid deposed and exiled. A sorry result of this turmoil was a large-scale massacre of Armenians in the Cilicia region, particularly in Adana and its environs. Moslem mobs and Turkish soldiers, possibly with the connivance of local officials, killed around 30,000 Armenians—no small number. In spite of their liberal pretensions and initial reforms, the Young Turk Committee of Union and Progress soon became despotic when Enver Pasha seized full power in January, 1911. Using the countercoup as an excuse, it declared a state of siege and suspended constitutional rights. It then turned against domestic opponents, moved to centralize its control, and began suppressing minorities that were seeking more autonomy. Abroad, it recklessly provoked the European powers who were seeking the further collapse of the Ottoman Empire, particularly Austria, Italy, and Bulgaria, and entered into the Italo-Turkish War over Libya. The populace’s discontent with the Young Turks grew, as did domestic chaos, and the government became more violent in its repression and terror. For example, in July of 1911 it assassinated three opposition writers, one of whom was killed openly on the street. Already engaged in the 1911 Italo-Turkey War, Turkey also faced the probability of war in the Balkans. As a result of several territorial disputes there, in December of 1911 Turkey closed the Dardanelles to shipping, and on January 3, 1912, Russia warned Turkey to withdraw troops from Montenegro. The crises rapidly deteriorated. During January, in succession, Bulgarian and Serbian armies mobilized for war against Turkey, Montenegro declared war on Turkey, and Turkey declared war on Bulgaria and Serbia. In spite of domestic political confusion and opposition, the Turks fought well, repulsing a Bulgarian attack on Constantinople and fighting the Bulgarian forces to a stalemate along the defensive Chatalja line. But Italy took Tripoli. Dissatisfaction with Turkish war losses provoked revolution. In February, Colonel Enver Pasha—the hero of the 1909 Young Turk revolution—Talaat Pasha, and 200 other supporters seized the Sublime Porte, killed the liberal war minister, and grabbed power, supposedly for the Young Turk Committee. But when Enver became War Minister,

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Talaat Minister of the Interior, and their close ally, Djemal Pasha, Minister of the Navy, they formed a triumvirate that autocratically and despotically now rules Turkey. The Young Turks pressured their generals for significant military victories, but only succeeded in losing important battles and relinquishing all of Turkey’s remaining European territory (except for the Gallipoli and small Chatalja peninsulas). As the Turks dug in to defend the Dardanelles and Istanbul, their disastrous military losses incited a new call for national unity and modernization.

aaa Peter put down his pencil and leaned back. He had smoked his last Turkish cigarette, and searched for his pack of British Derby. It was under a tablet on the table. He opened it, took out a cigarette, and scratched his match under the table to light it. Lit cigarette dangling from his mouth, he held the flaming match before his eyes and glowered at it. “Fire and the Devil,” he told himself. “With what is going on in Turkey, one has to wonder if it’s his doing.” He blew the flame out before it burned his fingers, and tossed the spent match into the saucer next to his pad. He glanced up at Emma and, holding the cigarette so she couldn’t see it, told her, “Fire and death, Emma. Fire and death. It’s a holocaust in Turkey.” He looked back at what he had written. “So much for the introduction. Now for the . . . holocaust.” He took out another #1 pencil, and returned to writing.

aaa Many Turkish intellectuals and politicians saw the old Ottoman multicultural society and traditions as severe handicaps, and some believed it a blessing that they had lost their European territories, with their different national groups. Now the country could truly become Turk. This growing sentiment of isolationism and ethnic purity sat well with the Young Turk rulers. They are super-nationalists and racial purists who want to create a new and glorious Turkey, as in ancient times—a Turkey of heroic warriors, of proud Turks—a Turkey that is homogenous and wholly Turkish. To a minority of Young Turks led by Talaat Pasha, the Balkan War has provided the golden opportunity to achieve these aims. Just before the war, Turkey signed a defensive alliance with Germany. With the

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war’s outbreak, Germany persuaded France and Great Britain to keep hands off Turkey’s domestic affairs, while trying to negotiate an end to the Balkan War, which is dangerous to the European peace. With Russia’s historic interest in the region and its animosity toward Turkey, the Balkan War could spread to the major powers. As to the Young Turks’ zeal to purify the country, by their census of 1911 there were almost two million Christian Armenians and threequarters that number of Greeks to be somehow eliminated from a Muslim Turkish population of about seventeen million. The Greeks posed a special problem, for neighboring Greece, which is no little power, watches over Greeks in Turkey. For Turkey to treat her Greeks incautiously might well provoke neutral Greece to join in the war against Turkey. The Young Turks decided that the best they could do was relocate their Greeks from border and sea coast areas into the interior. Perhaps later, as events allowed, they could eliminate them altogether. Unlike the Greeks, the Armenians have no independent, co-ethnic nation that guards their welfare, since Turkey, Russia, and Persia had earlier incorporated the historical territory of Armenia. The European powers had expressed concern over past massacres of the Armenians, and pressured the Ottoman Empire into agreeing to their special treatment. Now, with the Italo-Turkey and Balkan Wars underway and Germany aligned with Turkey, the Armenians are completely at the mercy of the Young Turks. There was a convenient excuse for eliminating the Armenians. Most of them live near the eastern border with Russian Armenia, and if Russia were to invade the region, Turkey’s eastern Armenians might revolt and join them, while those elsewhere in the country could be a subversive force. No matter that Armenian draftees were fighting valiantly in the Turkish army, and that Armenians showed their patriotism in other ways. The Young Turks were determined to eliminate their Armenians and all else was pretext. At the highest level of government, the Young Turks made a clear decision to annihilate the Armenians under the cover of her wars, and they carefully planned how they would do this. They implemented this genocide through a special secret organization run by the highest government officials, supervised by select members of the Young Turk Committee, and manned mainly by convicts released from jail. The Young Turks realized they faced considerable difficulty in having their orders carried out. Although concentrated in the northeast, Armenians lived throughout Turkey; in some places they dominated districts, such as Van, and inhabited their own towns and villages. They had

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their own political party and vigorous political leadership. Moreover, many Armenians had survived previous massacres. Few held illusions about the hatred and brutality that the government could unleash against them. If forewarned, they could well mount a spirited defense. Therefore, the Young Turks prepared for this genocide for some time. Throughout the empire, they selected new police chiefs and governors on the basis of their devotion to the Young Turk cause, briefed them in the capital, gave them secret instructions for liquidating the Armenians when ordered, and appointed them to villages, towns, and districts inhabited by Armenians. When the Young Turks finally decided to carry through the genocide, compliant or enthusiastic officials were in place, and procedures prepared. They telegraphed the order to “Take care of the Armenians.” It began with those Armenians conscripted into the army. Armenian soldiers were transferred to labor battalions, then worked to death, or killed by exposure, hunger, and disease; some were simply divided into groups, tied together, marched off to some secluded spot, and shot. Sometimes, Kurdish tribes were promised loot if they attacked the bound Armenian soldiers as the Turks force-marched them along isolated roads. In this way, the Turks murdered 200,000 or more Armenian men. Exterminating Armenians in the army still left many civilian males who could fight and might have the weapons to do so. Moreover, the Armenian leadership still could organize a rebellion. So the Young Turks designed three additional stages in preparation for the final mass genocide. First, under the guise of wartime necessity, and to protect against possible sabotage and rebellion by Armenians, the government demanded that Armenians in all towns and villages turn in their arms or face severe penalties. Turk soldiers and police ransacked Armenian homes, and many suspected of having weapons were shot or horribly tortured. This created such terror that Armenians bought weapons or begged them from Turkish friends so they could turn them in to authorities. These terroristic searches also softened up the Armenians in preparation for a series of civilian massacres that led to the final stage. Next, during March, Turks arrested and jailed 235 of the most respected Armenian leaders in Istanbul—politicians, doctors, lawyers, educators, churchmen, writers—and relocated them to the interior, never to return. In the days that followed, the Turks picked up hundreds more who similarly disappeared, and eventually they forced about 5,000 Armenian laborers, doorkeepers, messengers, and the like into the same fate.

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At the same time, the Turks could deal with the remaining able-bodied Armenian men and launch the ultimate genocide. They did this as a one-two punch, moving westward and southward from villages and towns closest to the eastern border with Russia. The technique was generally the same from village to village and town to town, although in some places the police grew impatient and simply slaughtered any Armenian males they came across on the streets. First a bulletin would be posted, or a town crier would call for all Armenian males over age fifteen to appear by a certain time in the town square, or in front of the central government building. Once they had gathered, the authorities then imprisoned them all. After a day or so, soldiers and police roped the prisoners together in batches, marched them out to a secluded spot, and slaughtered them. With a few more days’ delay for preparation, the authorities then put the ultimate extermination into effect.

aaa Peter put his pencil down. He was so tired. He yawned, stretched his arms, then rose and staggered into the bedroom. He now realized that he should have had a good sleep and taken several days to regain his energy after the hectic research in Turkey, the seasickness and dysentery, the crowded boat-train to London, and that Hansom cab, and traffic . . . .

Chapter 23 Peter

P

eter napped fitfully for an hour and was finally fully awakened when the late afternoon sun shone on his face through his west apartment window. He got up, closed the dusty drapes, and slouched into his small kitchen to make himself tea. While the kettle was heating up, he stood by his desk, glancing through his notes and leafing through some of his supporting documents. He forgot about the time until the kettle started screaming at him. He rushed into the kitchen and poured the boiling water onto the orange pekoe tea leaves in his teapot, then went back to his notes while the tea steeped. Forty-five minutes later, he remembered his tea. Back in the kitchen, he filled his mug with the aromatic tea, then returned to the desk. He took a big sip of his lukewarm tea, kissed two of his fingers and touched Emma’s face in her picture, then, mug in hand, he sat back down at his desk. He read the last paragraph of what he had written, then picked a fresh #1 pencil from his collection and continued writing from that point.

aaa The Young Turks’ first goal was the total elimination of Armenians from Turkey by extermination. Their second goal was to generate funds from seized Armenian assets to provide homes for Moslem refugees flooding in from lost Turkish territory. And third, they wanted to give this war on their own people the appearance of legality. With all Armenian men dead or drafted into the army to be killed later, those remaining can hardly offer much resistance. Armenian families have been reduced to women and children, the very old, and the enfeebled. Again the town crier goes to work as he did when marshalling the males together, ordering all remaining Armenians to prepare for relocation to some unknown district. The only women exempt are those who convert to Islam, find Turkish husbands to ratify the conversion by marriage, and turn their children over to a government orphanage that will bring them up as Moslems.

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While the authorities sometimes carry out relocations with little warning, they usually allow a week or so for Armenian women and elderly people to settle their affairs. This is a farce. The Turks forbid these frantic Armenians from selling their real property or livestock, and as soon as the women are gone, officials usually give the property to Moslem immigrants. The Armenians are forced to sell most of their family property for virtually nothing, often to government officials. But the authorities are not without mercy; they often hire or requisition oxcarts and drivers to carry the Armenians’ remaining belongings, one cart per family. The Turks then gather Armenian families into convoys of as few as two hundred or as many as four thousand women, children, and old people and, guarding them with soldiers and police, set their relocation into motion. Within a few days or even hours of starting, however, the carters refuse to go farther and turn back, leaving the families to carry what they can. The already pitiful deportees now face, by design, several enemies. One is nature itself. Poorly protected against the weather, the deportees often struggle over rough country whose wells and springs are far apart. Then there are the Turk guards supposedly protecting the convoys, but instead prey upon them, sometimes even forbidding their charges to drink water when they come to wells or streams. Impatient to end their task, they first kill the stragglers and those who fall by the wayside, and then resort to the outright massacre of those who have not yet died of hunger, thirst, disease, or exposure. Moslem villagers are another enemy. Forewarned about approaching convoys and sometimes commanded to appear with weapons, they plunder the convoys that straggle through their villages, raping and killing at will. After being repeatedly raped, some of the prettier Armenian girls survive only because they are forced into a Moslem harem. Some convoys have to make their way across mountains. Invited by messengers to have fun, Kurdish tribes swooped down on these convoys to do their own style of looting, raping, and killing, carrying off whichever women please their eyes. Finally, the Turks invite brigands, and former Moslem prisoners released for the purpose, to attack the convoys. With the connivance of the guards, they do so enthusiastically. In some cases the authorities are impatient with this process and simply use their troops to slaughter a whole convoy. In one case, they deployed the army’s 86th Cavalry Brigade, ostensibly to keep order among the Kurds. Instead, it attacked large convoys from Erzindjan

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containing about half the Armenian population, stripped the deportees of their clothes, and led them naked to Kemakh Gorge, where they were either bayoneted first or thrown alive into the gorge. Not all convoys are moved on foot. The Turks transport some Armenians, especially those from cities in the northwest, by rail in overcrowded cattle cars. These Armenians fare no better. Rail congestion during wartime makes for slow travel, and when the line is blocked, the guards force the deportees out into the open for days or weeks at a time, with little or no food or water. Where there were two breaks in the Baghdad railway, the Turks made the deportees trudge across the Taurus and Amanus mountain ranges on foot, after they’d languished for months in concentration camps. They died by the thousands from epidemics, exposure, and hunger. Turks and mountain Kurds murdered thousands more. The techniques of extermination vary regionally. In some places the Turks simply annihilate all the Armenian inhabitants of nearby villages and towns. For instance, they killed 60,000 at Moush and surrounding villages and at least another 55,000 in attacks on Armenian villages in Van province. In Constantinople, Smyrna, and Alleppo, however, foreign consuls and ambassadors prevented the Turks from relocating and massacring Armenians, thus saving about 200,000 from immediate annihilation. This extermination operates from the top down. Many local Turks do not support it. Indeed, some local officials refused to obey the orders and were deposed. And at least part of the Moslem population, according to the German court testimony of Dr. Johannes Lepsius, the German Red Cross official in Turkey, “manifestly disapproved of the mass measures.” In some areas, authorities have had to use terror and force to make the Moslem population participate in the extermination. The Third Army commander, for example, ordered his soldiers to execute any Turk who aided an Armenian, to perform the execution in front of the Turk’s house, and then to burn down the house. Any official who helped an Armenian would be court martialed. Whatever resistance there may have been among the local Turks and officials, however, the orders of the Young Turks have been sufficiently obeyed to achieve their purpose. Turks do massacre Armenians, they do dispatch convoys, and they do largely complete the process of killing them off. I witnessed one such caravan of naked, skeletal deportees in Sambayat. One mother still carried what was left of her long-dead child. Another woman holding the hands of two children just dropped dead when the caravan stopped so the guards could eat and rest. And one girl

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died on the grass there. I looked closely at her body after the guards prodded the caravan off. It was covered in bruises and she had obviously been raped many times. An army deserter who subsequently hung himself told me about a massacre in which he had been involved. Of all those he had killed, he could not forget a beautiful young girl from his village and her brother. He’d tried to save her, but she knew her younger brother would be killed, and so she asked him to mercifully kill her brother with one blow of his axe. She kissed him farewell, and when he was dead she asked the soldier to do the same to her. She covered her eyes, and he did. By foot or by rail, the Young Turks have relocated hundreds of thousands, and will relocate possibly 1,400,000 Armenians overall. After weeks or months of exposure, thirst, hunger, murder, and abduction, the number of those actually relocated has been reduced to only the very strong or the ugly. At the end even they are skeletons, without water, food, or possessions, often naked to the sky. Of the 18,000 Armenians the Turks deported from Malatia, the number that made it to Aleppo, a dispersal center along the route, was . . . 150. Out of 5,000 from Harpout, no more than 213 arrived. On average, possibly only 10 percent survive, as the deputy director general of the Settlement of Refugees informed his superior. In telegram No. 57, dated April 10, he reported that “after investigation it has been confirmed that ten percent of the Armenian deportees have reached their place of exile. The rest have perished on the way by starvation and natural illness. You are informed that similar results will be accomplished by employing severe means against the survivors.” Maybe even 15 percent have survived to date. Reporting to the American embassy from the Turkish interior, consul Carl Owen wrote on April 15 that “at least 25,000 [deportees] have arrived afoot . . . many deprived of all their worldly possessions, without money, sparsely clad, some naked from the treatment by their escorts and the despoiling population en route . . . . So severe has been the treatment that careful estimates place the number of survivors at around 15 percent of those originally deported. Judging by this number, there seems to have been about 160,000 lost by this date.” The deportees’ destination? A place where the Armenians can settle down and recreate their life, as the Turks officially informed the world? Not if the Young Turks can avoid it. At the convoy’s end, the few survivors find themselves imprisoned in concentration camps located in the inhospitable northern and eastern boundaries of the Mesopotamian desert. These camps are their own hell. Already weakened, survivors readily die of starvation, exposure, and—”

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aaa There was a knock at the door and a yell: “Telegram.” The voice sounded vaguely familiar. Peter got up and opened the door. A swarthy young man, wearing a tilted seaman’s cap over his thick black hair, stood in the doorway. The man held what was obviously a telegram in one hand. “Abaza! What are you doing here?” Peter asked in surprise. Two men who had been hiding against the hallway wall on either side of the door rushed into the room and grabbed Peter. One covered Peter’s mouth with his hand. Abaza came in behind them and shut the door. As he approached, Peter noted that the telegram was gone; now Abaza carried a long knife in his right hand. Peter couldn’t believe what was about to happen. He thought he might be assassinated in Turkey, but not in Mother England; here, he’d been sure that he was safe. And surely, not Abaza! Abaza’s first thrust of the knife into his stomach left no doubt. He gasped. As Abaza stabbed him again and again and again in his chest and stomach, he tried to turn his head, tried to get one last look at Emma’s picture.

Chapter 24 July 8, 1912 Berlin

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he had to do it this way. Any other way was too dangerous. With his wife dead, he lived and slept in military quarters, always with two orderlies nearby. While getting into the army base was no problem, she did not see how she could get past the soldiers and guards surrounding him to do what she must without raising suspicion or worse, being caught. And now there was the best of reasons to be careful—a man she loved deeply; perhaps a new life. Perhaps a new mission, one to add to her crusade. Perhaps others to join her. She was certain the general was the one. The seemingly innocent questions she’d put to her father confirmed it. She had read her father’s communications and orders, and gossiped among the officers’ wives when she was in Berlin. And now, finally, she could get to him. He would be at the military reception for Count Vasili Vasilchikov, Military Chief of Saint Petersburg, who was in Berlin as part of the diplomatic embassy to negotiate a Russo-German resolution to the Balkan War with Turkey. It was a hopeless cause, her father had told her, but good for German leverage in their secret negotiations with Britain and France. She had sought the perfect dress. She wanted attention to be on her face, her hair, and especially her cleavage—not on her hands. She found it in an ethereal pink chiffon dress with bias-cut ruffles, wispy pink cascades, and a handwoven rose accenting the V of the low-cut bosom. A ruffled sleeve effectively concealed the packet she had prepared. A golden tiara with a flare of pearls was a perfect adornment for her curly, golden hair, and a matching two-strand necklace of gold and pearls was short enough not to distract from her cleavage. She’d had the dress tailored to compensate for what the torturer’s penknife had left. When she glided into the ballroom with her glamorous clutch purse in one hand and the other through the arm of her bemedaled father, she knew she attracted the eye of every male at the reception, and the envy of the women. She circulated among the generals, admirals, commanders, counts, dukes, diplomats, and other officials, all the while covertly scanning the

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crowd, waiting for his appearance. Noting that there was little mixing between the Russians and the German officers, she chuckled to herself. Want to know the state of military relations? Go to a military reception. Military men never will be diplomats. Then she saw him. He stood with a drink in one hand, talking to three other military men, all Germans. She walked over to her father, who was in conversation with another general. “I’m surprised the Turks have beaten back the Bulgarian First Army at Lulé Burgas, in spite of heavy artillery barrages,” her father was saying as she approached him. “I was almost sure they would be overrun. But I’ve never been impressed by the Bulgarian soldiers. Sloppy peasants.” She leaned up to his ear and whispered, “Would you introduce me to General Graf von Woyrsch?” Her father nodded and said to the other general with a smile, “Please excuse me. I’m under the command of my beautiful daughter.” The general nodded absently as he tried to eye her cleavage without seeming to do so. When they reached the group around General Woyrsch, all four of the officers stopped talking and looked at her with huge, slightly embarrassed smiles. “Well, hello,” one said. “I didn’t think we would have the pleasure.” Another turned to her father and said, “Thank you for bringing her to us. I hope you don’t mind if we monopolize her time.” He laughed. Her father smiled back, nodded at her, and left to join another group. Von Woyrsch took a sip from a tall glass of Jägermeister, and then noticed that she was without a drink. “Could I get you something to drink?” he offered. “No, thank you,” she said. As they began to ply her with the usual questions, she slowly worked her way around to stand beside von Woyrsch. She waited for the right moment, and when one of the generals cracked a risqué joke about Russians and goats, she laughed delicately, brought her hand up to modestly cover her mouth, and bumped von Woyrsch’s drink, spilling most of it. Anger flickered across his face, followed by embarrassment and then smiling acceptance as she apologized. “So clumsy of me. I am sorry and terribly embarrassed. I will get you another drink right away. Give me your glass.” She did not need to ask what he was drinking. She could smell its odd aroma, which confirmed what she had found out about his habits. “Absolutely not. I will wait for the drink orderly. No need.”

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Putting her hands on her hips, she mimicked her father’s commanding tone. “General von Woyrsch, I will get you another drink. You stay here, and don’t you dare move.” Then she grinned at the others. “Will you keep him here for me?” One replied, “Yes; he will not move from that spot.” The three others nodded, smiling. She held out her hand for his glass. He took out a handkerchief, wiped the spilled liquid from the glass and his hand, then handed her the glass with a slight bow of his head and an amused grin. She turned, knowing they all were watching her. Probably memorizing my every movement so they can describe what I am like with suitable exaggeration when describing our meeting, she thought as she sashayed away. At the bar, she gave the glass to the orderly and asked for Jägermeister. When it was placed before her, she told herself, “Now for the hardest part.” She knew many were watching her, so she left the drink sitting on the bar while she removed a chiffon handkerchief that matched her dress from her ruffled sleeve. The open drug packet was inside of it. In the guise of patting her face with the handkerchief, she released the ground galerinas mushroom powder into her left hand, then returned the handkerchief and hidden packet to her right sleeve. As she quickly placed her left hand over the glass to pick it up with her fingers, the powder fell from her palm into the liquid below. Transferring the drink to her right hand, she glided back to von Woyrsch’s group and delicately handed him his drink. “Am I forgiven?” she tried to ask sweetly, but there was a slight catch to her voice. “Of course,” Woyrsch replied with a little bow and a twitch of his voluminous mustache. As the generals began again to question her about movie making and her movies and costars, she answered mechanically. The questions were always the same, varying only in their subtlety and the accent in which they were delivered. Her mind was on General Woyrsch. He now will pay for what he did—for the deaths he ordered, for the death of her . . . . She stopped and imagined drawing a big red X across those thoughts so she wouldn’t tear up, or even worse, break down in sobs. Now was not the time. She would cry tonight, in her room. She would cry for what he did; she would cry over her final revenge delivered coldly, with a smile. He would die a lingering and painful death. The first symptoms would appear in three days, followed by several weeks of stomach cramps, bloody diarrhea, vomiting, headaches, joint and back pain, and finally, kidney failure.

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She only wished she could be at his side, to pin her note on his dead body. But she had admirers at the military hospital he would die in; she might persuade an orderly or nurse to do the honor for her soon after he died, in maybe a month or so. The aristocracy, military, and supportive bureaucrats had no idea how many democracy sympathizers worked among them. General von Woyrsch took a sip of his Jägermeister. And then another. She mentally relaxed. With all the herbs, juices, spices, and bitter liquor in the drink, he would never taste the poisonous mushroom powder. He was done. He soon would kill no more. The questions seemed never to end, but when a break in them occurred, she gave Woyrsch one last look, attempting a smile. She felt it turn into a jubilant grin she could not repress. She quickly excused herself, and sought out her father. She thanked him for allowing her to attend with him, and left. Her Mercedes was waiting a short distance away. She drove to the nearest International Radiotelegraph Union office, where she telegrammed: My Very Dearest, I did it. I finally did it. Now that book is closed forever. I am now ready for the new one that will open with our lives together. I miss you terribly. Please come soon. With All My Love

Chapter 25 July 8, 1912 John

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ver since he’d read that first news article on the Armenian massacres in Turkey, he had carefully looked at each international news item in the local paper, and in their eight-day-old editions of The New York Times. The news that the guys had copied from the international newspapers at the library had not added much. Reuters was the largest international news agency, and it dominated Europe. Not surprisingly, all the news—at least, all the news that they got in San Francisco—seemed sifted through its eyes. Now, almost two months later, he wanted to see something else in the morning edition of the San Francisco Call: his first newspaper commentary ever, titled “Why Promote Democracy?” He had hoped it would appear on the Fourth of July, but the editor of the Call, though he’d liked it, had said there wasn’t room. It would appear this morning. He could not wait for one of the guards to bring the Call to the butler, who would then place it on the breakfast table for them. John rose early and told Jy-ying he was going to their library to look up something in the Modern German History he’d recently finished reading. Jyying responded that she was going to see the cook about preparing something for breakfast—he didn’t catch what. They dressed and left the bedroom, descending the staircase together before heading for opposite parts of the mansion. They left the mansion by separate side doors. As they came around to the front of the mansion, they spied each other walking rapidly across the lawn toward the gate. They came together with a laugh. She put her arm through his, and they walked together. But just before they reached the little guard house, he tripped her. As she fell forward she twisted her upper body, pulling his arm to bring him down with her. They both landed on their backs, side by side. John was closest to the two guards, who were no longer amazed by their antics. He yelled, “Toss me the Call.”

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The guard reached into the guard house, lifted the rolled newspaper from a shelf, and tossed it to John. Jy-ying tried to block his catch, but he caught it, then tried to roll away from her and up. She quickly turned over, got just enough traction with her feet, and launched herself at his legs. She’d twisted him down before he even had his legs under him. By then they both were laughing. “Okay, we’ll share,” he said, and rolled onto his back to lie next to her. He unrolled the paper, separated out the first section, folded it commuter-style, and slowly flipped to the editorial page. “Hey, hey,” he exclaimed, pointing to his nine-inch, four-column commentary. “There it is, my first publication.” Jy-ying snatched the paper out of his hand and peered at it. “Ha! I’m not mentioned. How can you not mention me? Me, whose ideas you stole for this; me, who tutored you in history; me, who—” John laughed. “Yes, me, who taught you Chinese.” Jy-ying gave the newspaper back to John with a grin, and they both got to their feet. Arm in arm, they returned to the mansion and their breakfast in the dining room, where he tossed the paper on an empty place at the table. After breakfast, he picked up the Call to read the international news, and gasped. Then he yelled so loud that Jy-ying jerked her head up from her Chinatown newspaper, Mei Ri Xin Wen Bao, to stare at him. The cook and her scullery maid stuck their heads into the dining room from the kitchen. “Shit! Shit! It’s happening, goddamn it, just as I feared.” The cook and her girl ducked back into the kitchen, quickly closing the door after them. John slammed the paper down and pointed to the headline beneath the fold: “Turks Planned Massacre—Turkey Awash In Blood.” He shouted, “This changes everything. Everything, Jy-ying. We’ve got to stop this!” He collected himself for a moment, and lowered his voice. “It’s an AP dispatch based on Reuters. The editor of the London Times—Robinson—accuses the Turks of assassinating their reporter, who had investigated the massacres and found that they were planned at the highest levels. The reporter’s apartment had been trashed and all his documents and notes stolen, including the article on Turkey he had been writing for the newspaper.” He lost his calm; his whole body began shaking with his anger. He clenched his fist so tight, his knuckles turned white. He pounded the paper with it, then continued. “But the editor had received progress reports from the reporter through the British Embassy, and when he

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returned to London, he gave Robinson a brief summary of his findings. Based on all this, The Times is reporting that the Young Turks are trying to exterminate all Armenians. And this extermination campaign— genocide, Jy-ying—has been planned and prepared at the highest fucking level, including that bastard Talaat.” Prince Wei had never seen John so angry; he fled the dining room as Jy-ying got up and came around the table. She leaned over John’s shoulder and read the news item herself. Then, without saying a word, she kneaded his shoulders and neck. He leaned back into her hands, and when he had relaxed, she nodded her head at the kitchen, warning him about the ears there, and took his hand to lead him into the solitude of the library. “Wait,” she said when he was seated at the library table, and left the library. Minutes later she returned with Prince Wei in her arms, and firmly closed the solid oak door to the hallway. The dog’s ears were still slightly down as she sat across from John with him on her lap. She folded her hands, tilted her head, and looked at him with the expression of one waiting to see what the ape at the zoo would do next. John glared out the window, trying to get the thoughts flooding his mind aligned and sorted. It didn’t help that he felt nauseous and had a growing headache. In the Old Universe, this Armenian genocide was the most concerted, systematic attempt to murder a people because of their religion and ethnicity before Hitler murdered almost six million Jews. From 1915 to 1923, over two million Armenians were slaughtered. When Greeks and other Christians were also counted, the toll grew to about 2.8 million. John put his head in his hand and confessed, “I failed. Hundreds of thousands, maybe a million or more human beings will die often painful and prolonged deaths, because of my failure. Damn, damn! I never thought this measly little war in the Balkans would also stimulate and cover the genocide.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “In the Old Universe, World War I provided the excuse and cover for the genocide. And Germany being an ally then against France, Britain, and Russia meant that the Christian powers would not intervene. This is just the kind of big democide that Joy and I came here to prevent. I was almost positive that averting World War I would deny Turkey its excuse, cover, and ally.” He shook his head, staring down through narrowed eyelids at his clenched hands. “If only I had known. If only I had suspected this aw-

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ful genocide could happen in this universe also, I would have tried to prevent it, and maybe I’d have been successful. I didn’t, and now people are dy—” THWACK! John jerked his head up, and Prince Wei jumped off Jy-ying’s lap and frantically looked for someplace to hide. Jy-ying had slapped the table hard with the flat of her hand. “Enough whipping yourself, John. If anyone is at fault, it is that rogue time policeman who intervened in Russia and Poland in 1905. He changed the universe even before we arrived. How could you know how this would have impacted on Turkey?’ “I should have suspected.” Jy-ying leaned over the table and pointed her finger at him. “If I hear one more word like that I am going to . . . pin your lips together with mine.” Then she scowled at him until his face relaxed, and the hint of a grin appeared. She leaned out of her chair and called Prince Wei to her. He came slowly, hunched down, eyes on John’s face. He allowed Jy-ying to pick him up and put him on her lap again. John reached across the table, holding his hand out for hers. “Thanks, sweetie. I needed that.” Her scowl disappeared into a relieved grin. John removed his hand and sat back. “Okay, what to do? First, stopping World War I still has the highest priority. It killed nine million people, and then it probably caused that huge flu epidemic afterwards that may have killed two or three times that number. I’m now especially concerned that the changes in this universe may also trigger World War I earlier than its outbreak in July of 1914. But, at the same time, we’ve got to stop this Armenian genocide. What this means is that our next trip to Europe must somehow also be used to accomplish this.” Jy-ying grinned. “Hello, darling. Where have you been? Some fake John was here a few minutes ago. Nothing like you, though. He scared Prince Wei and I kicked the imposter out.” “Good,” John replied. “I hope he never returns. Now, we have plans to make.”

Chapter 26 July 9–August 8, 1912 John

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ohn finished informing the others of the genocide taking place in Turkey with, “Jesus, we have so little time. Thousands are killed each day that we do nothing.” Then he moved into his plan. “I think we can shine the light of day on the genocide by publishing all the photographs we or our researchers can find, and massively funding writers and journalists to write about the massacres. It’s especially important to buy lobbyists to pressure the legislatures of Britain, France, Germany, and Russia; the foreign ministries must be persuaded to threaten Turkey into stopping the massacres. Germany is the key to this, and there a special effort must be made. We can’t do all this ourselves,” he admitted. “We must have a full-time, well-positioned manager to do the real work. We have in mind the editor of The Times. “But we need to take a crash course on Turkey and its language in the four weeks remaining.” He waved his hand at the guys and Mariko. “I want you all to ransack the San Francisco Public Library for books on Turkey. Not ancient history; only contemporary history, tourist books, whatever else describes Turkey today, and its rulers. Also buy any similar books available in the biggest book stores. Organize this among yourselves. We’ll have a trip to London of about ten days’ duration, and we will spend much of that time with our faces buried in those books. “Jy-ying and I will be going to all the colleges and universities within fifty miles, seeking Turkish speakers who can tutor us in the language, and provide insights into the culture of Constantinople, the layout of the city, and tips on getting around, particularly the ins and outs of its government buildings.” He paused and looked around. “Questions?” “Are you going to Turkey? And what about me?” Hands asked. “You have an engagement in Europe, I seem to recall,” Jy-ying said with a smile, “and we don’t want you to miss that. As to Turkey, we just don’t know yet what, if anything, we can do in Turkey. That is one reason we need to consult some Turkish students or immigrants.”

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“More questions?” John asked. There were no more. They all just looked at him with large eyes and parted lips.

Jy-ying John and Jy-ying hired two Turkish medical students as language tutors, and a Turkish immigrant professor of history specializing in the Near East for all else they needed to know. His name was Buruk Metin. John had questioned Buruk about his personal background no further than finding out he became a naturalized American citizen in 1910. That was sufficient for John to hire him. Jy-ying was not happy about that, and on his first visit she asked Buruk all sorts of questions about his relatives and children in Turkey, his wife Nuray, and his attitudes. Watching his small, slitted eyes carefully, she brought up the massacres of the Armenians. He shrugged. “I read that some of that is happening,” he said, rubbing his nose and stroking his beard, “but there is a history of communal violence on all sides. Sometimes the Armenians have massacred Moslems. With the modernization of Turkey, I hope that will come to an end. But also, Turkey is involved in a war, and the government may simply be deporting Armenians out of security-sensitive areas, which is their right to do. The current news from Turkey is so hard to interpret, what with the war there.” Jy-ying was satisfied with his answers and it never came up again. He came every day in the Model T that Jy-ying loaned him, and spent two hours with both her and John so they could learn from each other’s questions and his answers. They were also tutored in Turkish together by the two students, who came on alternative days. Fort Hope’s automobile mechanic chauffeured the students back and forth from the University of San Francisco. The first day, Buruk brought a roll-map of Turkey and a tourist map of Constantinople, and left both with them. John nailed the roll-map to a high bookshelf in the library and left it unrolled for their sessions. Buruk had a habit of answering questions by focusing his black, deep-set eyes on the questioner, running his finger down his long, thin nose, and either leaving it there as he answered, or moving his hand down to stroke his gray beard. It was so idiosyncratic that John unconsciously started to mimic it—until Jy-ying told him, “Without the beard, your hand looks like a strange fixture sticking out of your chin.” That ended it.

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They grew increasingly familiar and informal with Buruk, and began to talk back and forth while with him, and within his hearing, as he was given free rein of the downstairs of Fort Hope. Jy-ying was instinctively concerned about security, and had imposed rules as to where in Fort Hope people could talk, and where extreme caution concerning their secrets was called for, such as in the dining room, where the cook or her helpers might overhear them. But they were on the West Coast of the United States, almost as far from Turkey as one could get, and Buruk never raised political questions. While he gave them John-type mini-lectures on the Young Turks and how they seized power, he remained consistent in his neutrality—he gave no hint as to whether he favored the regime or not, or the social revolution they were leading in Turkey. No one appreciated that a “no comment” was itself a comment, and given the great significance of the revolution for Turkey and its minorities, such as the Armenians, it should have raised suspicion.

Buruk When the Chinese-American woman had questioned him on his first day, Buruk did not know these people, and he had not known what they intended to do with the information about Turkey he would give them. If he told them about his support for the Young Turks, or his opposition to their intended massacre of all Armenians, he was in deep trouble if they mentioned that in Turkey—or in London or Europe, for that matter—and it got to the wrong people. So he’d chosen to appear neutral on everything political. John, the one whose voice grew angry whenever he mentioned the Young Turks, was the most worrisome. He asked too many questions about high government offices, especially those belonging to the top Young Turks, and about their windows and doors, and such. Not the ordinary questions of tourists. He’d also caught snatches of conversation about stopping the Armenian massacres. He was not quite clear whether they meant intervention by the Christian powers, as had happened in the past with the Ottoman Empire, or by some other means. But what other means could there be? Surely, just John and Jy-ying could do nothing themselves about the grand policy and actions of a nation at war. Such would be absurd, and these people were not absurd. Of course, they had to be as rich as sultans; maybe they intended to do something with their funds. Buruk sighed deeply. He felt confused over it all. He loved America, but he still was Moslem, a Turk, and he still loved Turkey. Maybe

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he was just too concerned about Turkey’s future, and he was worrying needlessly; maybe these people were only expressing hope for an end to the massacres, and a wish that the big powers do something about it. Well, he would wait. He would watch. He did not want innocent Americans to be hurt. But if his suspicions were verified, he knew what to do. His wife was the second cousin of Erim Abdulla, the brother of Faiga Bahceli, who was the wife of Captain Ugur Evren. He would send a telegram to Erim to pass on through the family to the captain. He would know what to do, if anything. Then there was that arrogant cousin at The Times. John and Jy-ying had told him when they were leaving for London, and he knew they would meet with the editor of The Times for some reason having to do with Turkey. He, of course, had read Robinson’s editorial in The Times, which only confirmed what he had gathered while in Turkey. He shrugged. He could still wait to find out more.

Chapter 27 August 9, 1912 Buruk

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uruk had joined Sal, Dolphy, and Mariko at the San Francisco Terminal to wish John, Jy-ying, and Hands a good trip across the country to New York, a safe voyage to Southampton, England, and a successful trip. He had made his farewells in Turkish, and John and Jy-ying had responded in Turkish. They had learned fast— both natural linguists, he’d discovered. They were allowing him to use the Ford while they were gone, saying they might need his services when they returned. As he robotically drove back to his apartment in San Francisco’s Castro district, his mind worked toward the decision he would have to make soon. They were spending a week in London, then Hands would be going to Germany, while John and Jy-ying would be leaving on a long voyage to Turkey. He had helped them make the final arrangements for the disembarkation at the Port of Constantinople. After a week in Turkey, they would travel by ship to Italy and take a train first to Rome, then onward to Germany where, among other things, they would attend Hands’ wedding. John would be best man. Buruk was sure now what their intentions were, overall and in Turkey. They planned, in some way he did not know, to force the regime to end its massacres. In the snatches of conversations he had caught, they’d talked about weapons of some unique sort that would do the job. He did not know the details, although he was sure they weren’t planning to export a ton of weapons to the Armenians. He knew what was most important, however—their intent. Although he’d known about this for a week, he had dithered, seeking some words or evidence that would prove he was wrong, that he had misinterpreted a language whose complex idiom and nuances still sometimes escaped him—he still smiled at the thought that, in English, a nose could run and feet could smell. But all he’d gotten was more and more confirmation.

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He liked these people. They were good-hearted. He appreciated that. And they were Americans, his new countrymen. He knew they were dedicated to helping other nations and preventing war and massacres. But they were naive and simplistic, and now dangerous to the Turkey he loved, a country that showed promise in entering the modern age. What he’d read in the morning Call almost decided him. Turkey had lost a major battle, and although the defense of the Dardanelles and Constantinople was secure, Turkey would have to pull back from Bulgaria and Rumania, and might have to withdraw to the Enos-Media Line. It was a serious blow to Turkey, and might mean the loss of her foothold in Europe. And Britain was offering to mediate a diplomatic solution to the war, which would require Turkey’s withdrawal from all the Arab land that bordered on the east shore of the Mediterranean Sea as a precondition. At this juncture, the unstable Turkish regime could not stand to have more pressure applied to it, however well-meaning. John seemed confident they could eventually end the massacres through public pressure on the democracies to take action against Turkey, or something even more immediate than that which was not clear to Buruk. He only knew they must have a plan strong enough for them to believe they would succeed. He had to take their expectation of success seriously. In the context of all the pressures now on the Young Turks, it could be the final push to bring down the regime, perhaps through a coup by the military, or a rebellion in the Young Turks’ Committee of Union and Progress. But he doubted it. He could not see how these naive Americans could do anything to so affect the regime. Yet, again, they were confident. They were obviously dedicated. The words he’d overheard were bold. One thing he knew. If he sent his telegram, they would be picked up on reaching Turkey and interrogated. And, he suspected, it would not be pleasant. And if their intent was as he suspected, they probably would disappear forever. He drove into the common garage for the neighborhood, a converted stable, and parked. As he walked past three two-story houses to his apartment building, he felt as though this indecision was driving him mad. In his head, two emotion-riding armies of facts and assumptions clashed. One side would get the upper hand, and his thoughts would momentarily move in that direction; then the other side would push back and he would swing that way briefly. Back and forth. Send the telegram. Do not send the telegram. It all gave him a severe headache and a stomach boiling with acid.

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He felt certain the smell of food would make him vomit, so when he reached his second floor apartment, he grunted, “Selam—hello,” to Nuray, mumbled, “Not hungry—not feeling well,” and went directly to the bedroom to lie down. He would have to say his evening prayers soon, and he would pray also for guidance. They didn’t help. Finally he decided to confess his ambivalence to his wife, Nuray. She was nationalized as he was, but only to gain the advantages citizenship would bring. First and foremost, she was a Turkish patriot and ardent nationalist. They had many arguments over this, and more and more often, she had accused him of being a traitor to his Turkish ancestors, to Islam, and to their family still in Turkey. She was more like her nephew Abaza. But, he could talk to her, and she listened and often agreed. She had only attended primary school, and had a great deal of respect for his knowledge.

August 10, 1912 Nuray She could not believe Buruk’s ambivalence. Oh, after he told her what he knew, she had hidden her shock, shrugged her shoulders, and said it was in God’s hands. But it was in hers, and she had no intention of letting him know what she would do after he left this morning. He was stupid about it, and she thought he was probably lusting for that filthy rich Chinese woman Khoo, who went around her mansion half naked. She could not allow anything to stop the great Turkish Revolution now underway. Thanks to the Young Turks, the country would again be as great as the Ottoman Empire. Constantinople would be greater than Paris, Berlin, and London. The Turkish flag would again be kissed by infidel Europeans. But the bloodsucking Christian minorities had to be cleaned out first. Buruk was blind to this. No matter, now. When she was sure that Buruk would not return to their apartment for some reason, she stepped out into a misty fog and gentle rain. She hardly noticed. Her mind was fully occupied with the wording of what she was going to send. She walked down to California Street, caught streetcar #17 downtown, and got off by the Merchants Exchange Building. She walked the short distance to the Western Union office. Since Banks and that bitch Khoo would soon arrive in London for a week, she thought it best to telegram her nephew at the Ottoman Embassy in London. He would know what to do. She filled out the form, paid the $7.23, and waited until she got confirmation that the telegram

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was on its way. Buruk would never miss the money. He just turned over his checks or cash payments to her—she controlled their budget. When she left, it was darkening outside as storm winds blew the fog away and heavy rain began to fall. She pulled her percale cape around her, leaned into the wind, and held her black silk turban on with one hand. She was exhilarated. She hadn’t been this happy with herself since she she’d come to this stupid place. She had done a great thing. She had helped her country.

Chapter 28 August 13–23, 1912 New York John

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freight train derailment in Pennsylvania delayed John and the others, and they barely made it aboard the Olympic, the sister ship to the Titanic, before she sailed. The crew of the Olympic were just about to pull up the gangway when John, Jy-ying, and Hands rushed into the loading area, trailed by four baggage men they’d hired on the spot at the New York train station to carry all their luggage. John had hoped to catch the Titanic, but he would have had to wait two weeks for her arrival and departure from New York. As it was, no first class was available on the Olympic on such short notice. In their second-class stateroom, John opened the porthole to let some air into the hot room, plopped down on the foldaway bunk, and heaved a sigh of relief. “Jesus, sweetie, I’m not cut out for this rush, rush, travel, travel. I had planned my life so that once I got my Ph.D., I would have a comfortable teaching position, an office lined with books, an easy chair next to my bookcases at home, and both of us would age together.” “You and the chair?” Jy-ying asked as she opened a suitcase and started hanging a few dresses in their mini-closet. “Of course,” John replied half-heartedly. He had already made three voyages on these old ships, and was no longer interested in going on deck to see this one tugged away from the dock. He was ready for a nap. And his mind was already asleep. With a yawn, he added, “I had intended that my female companions would always be young, to match my ageless virility.” Jy-ying instantly stopped what she was doing, turned to glare at him, and put one hand on her hip. “I see. Does that mean you intend to trade me in like a used car for a new, younger female companion when I reach thirty in two months? We might be abroad at that time. I hope you allow me to return to San Francisco so that I can retrieve my things from your mansion.”

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Oops. His mind jerked awake, and frantically sought solid footing. “Ah . . . you’ll never be old in my eyes . . . you’re ageless. Your beauty and mind, that is.” He gave up. “Oh hell, sweetie, I love you.” With the hint of a smug grin, Jy-ying turned back to what she had been doing, murmuring something in Chinese. “What did you say?” “Woman must keep her man in his place.”

London Six unexciting days later—more precisely, six days, twenty-three minutes later—after John and Jy-ying had read and skimmed half a suitcase of books on Turkey, and first a widow and then an Oxfordbound young lady had taken an interest in Hands (he finally told each that he preferred men), they landed in Southampton. They took the boat train to London, and a hackney cab took them to the Russell Hotel, where John had reserved by telegram a suite for himself, and separate rooms for Jy-ying and Hands. When they entered Russell Square, they could see that the hotel occupied its entire east side. “It is ugly,” Jy-ying exclaimed over the noise of traffic. “I am going to miss Fort Hope.” John nodded. Frowning, he stared at the terracotta-colored hotel’s ornate Victorian construction, complete with cherubs and colonnades. The expensive Victorian decor of the lobby matched the exterior. But John was pleasantly surprised when the hotel made no complaint about Prince Wei joining them. “The English,” John told Jy-ying, “have no taste, but they are a most civilized people.” Before leaving San Francisco, he had sent a telegram to Geoffrey Robinson, the editor of The Times of London, requesting an appointment to discuss his reporter’s murder and Robinson’s editorial on Turkey, and adding that he wanted to do something about it. Robinson had responded with the instruction that John should give him a call when he arrived in London. John did so as soon as they were settled into their luxurious rooms, and Robinson told him to come right over. When they arrived at The Times Building on Pennington Street, they found the newsroom without difficulty. A secretary led them to the staff conference room. She brought them tea and cookies, lingered over Prince Wei, and held him briefly.

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They had not long to wait for Robinson. A tall, well-built man with a receding hairline of fine, dark hair and the typically English face of round cheeks and long, thin nose hurried into the room and immediately put his hand out to John. “I’m Geoffrey Robinson. My pleasure.” John shook his hand firmly. “This lady is Miss Khoo, my partner.” He felt a pang of guilt as he introduced Jy-ying. Even though Joy had been in fact his partner, he’d always introduced her as his assistant and translator, a much lesser role. He’d resolved not to do that to Jy-ying. He also introduced Hands as the vice-president of his company, and Prince Wei as “Our vicious guard dog. Beware.” Robinson bent his head to look more closely at Prince Wei, spared a second to grin, and then, obviously busy and clearly with little patience for small talk, he asked, “How can I help you?” He held up John’s telegram. “I would like to read all the messages on Turkey that Mr. Kahan sent you, and any notes you made of your conversations with him regarding Turkey.” “Why is that, Mr. Banks?” “Please call me John. Because we,” he waved to include Jy-ying and Hands, “intend to stop the Young Turk-directed massacres.” “I’m Geoffrey,” Robinson returned, then said, “I do not wish to be rude, but who are you, to do this? Nobody here seems to care. Several rich businessmen I have approached about this fear compromising their business interests in Turkey. The British Foreign Ministry knows what is going on from our ambassador in Turkey, Sir Louis Mallet, and counselors around the Ottoman Empire. But the government refuses to take a stand, or even publicize the killing. There is a war in the Balkans, and British Foreign Minister Edward Grey fears being drawn in, if Germany and Russia become involved. In that case, he wants Turkey as an ally. But Turkey leans toward Germany, who opposes Russia’s traditional anti-Turkey interests in the Balkans. So Grey does not want to exacerbate already strained relations with Turkey.” “Yes,” John replied, “it’s all high politics, I know. Armenians be damned. What we need are democratic revolutions in eastern Europe, Germany, and Turkey, and that would solve the war and massacre problem. Democracies don’t make war on each other or kill their own people.” Geoffrey sat back in his wooden chair and raised an eyebrow. “I must say, John, such idealism has no place in practical international politics. Aside from that, stopping the massacres and preventing a possible Europe-wide war is practical enough for me.” He paused and waved to include John and the others. “But I must ask again, who are you to stop these massacres?”

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John and Jy-ying had long discussed this question, among others, during the long trip. He gave the answer as they had prepared it. “I am rich beyond your imagination, and have more power than you can imagine. My company has become very influential. I have company offices in Berlin, Saint Petersburg, Paris, Tokyo, and other places, including, as you may know, in London. I will use all my wealth and power to stop this killing. And I want to help prevent a European war that, as you mention, may soon break out.” Robinson leaned forward, slowly looked John over, and then glanced at Jy-ying and Hands. He frowned slightly, then held up his hand. “I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?” “We hate war and killing. We have seen both. Jy-ying is a survivor of one; she lost her whole family. I barely survived one, and a woman I loved deeply died in another. We have dedicated our lives and all our resources to doing this. If you want to put a label on us, call us crusaders for democracy.” Geoffrey nodded and leaned back. “I understand that. My grandfather likewise dedicated his life to ending the slave trade, and my father was deeply anticolonial. However, he wanted all the colonies to be made independent in domestic governance, but part of a British commonwealth, an aim to which I’m also dedicated. So I’m with you, as long as what you plan is legal and if—a big if, John—you don’t endanger my newspaper or my principles.” He paused a moment. “Are you an American secret agent? Are you working for President Taft? I know he has this interest in dollar diplomacy—substituting dollars for bullets—but I didn’t know he was also interested in fostering democracy.” “No, we are not American agents. But you must understand that, even were we secret agents, we could not divulge it. Here is how you can help us. First, we need photographs of the massacres, of dead and dying Armenians. Best if it’s children. And even better if the Turks are photographed in the act. Do you have such photos?” “Some, and I know where you might get more.” “Good. Second, do you know of any British or European groups that would lobby their politicians against the massacres if they had the funds to do so, including publishing petitions, photos, and anti-Turk advertisements? “We see this as much like an advertising campaign, similar to selling a new automobile. Our intention is to bring moral pressure to bear on the democratic parliaments or governing councils and monarchs of Christian

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countries. We want them to see intervention in Turkey as not only the right thing to do, but also in their interest. This means that we must also bring an end to the Balkan War and prevent a broader European war.” Geoffrey stared at John with wide eyes and puckered lips. He looked at Jy-ying, again raising an eyebrow, clearly one of his favorite expressions. “Is your partner crazy?” She gave him a long look. “He is dead serious, as I am.” Hands cleared his throat and gestured toward John. “And as I am, also. He speaks for both of us.” Geoffrey turned to John. “Well, given such seriousness, how could I deny what you ask? I will assign one of my staff members full time to you—an apprentice I hired. His parents immigrated here from Turkey when he was three years old, and he is completely anglicized. He learned Turkish from his parents, however, and reads the major Turkish newspapers and maintains contact with Turkish immigrant groups here and in Europe. That’s one reason I hired him. I will pledge him to absolute secrecy.” He rose, then added, “Oh, yes. Before I bring him in, how much in total are you willing to spend?” This had been a difficult question for John and Jy-ying. With the three guys and Mariko kibitzing, they’d decided on the 1912 equivalent of eighteen billion year 2001 dollars. John evenly responded, “Roughly one billion American dollars.” Geoffrey suddenly sucked in his breath, started choking, and turned red as he covered his mouth and turned away. John and the other two immediately went to him, but he waved them away. When he got his breath, he looked at them with teary eyes. “Holy Jesus Christ, you will spend that bloody much? I don’t think the Bank of England has that much on hand at any one time. Do you own a gold mine or three? My God, John, you can buy Turkey with that much money.” John leaned toward him, holding his eyes. “I will spend all of it, if necessary. You must believe that, for the next question depends on it. Will you be my secret European director of this effort? Take a leave of absence for some sensible reason, and I will pay all your expenses plus triple you current salary, although I don’t think that really matters.” Geoffrey sat back down in his chair, let his arms hang down over the armrests, and just looked from one to the other of them. In a husky voice, he mused, “It’s impossible that my whole world could change this much in a half-hour.” His voice firmed. “My good man, what you are asking is that I change my life simply based on what you say and

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offer. I don’t know you. And given what you are offering, I must be frank. How can I trust you? I need proof of who you are and what you offer. Then I will seriously consider it.” “Of—” “Of course,” Jy-ying interrupted, making it clear to John that she was tired of being the potted plant here. She went on. “As John said, we have a company office in London, and you are invited to visit it. Look around. Ask questions.” She took a card from her always present holster purse and handed it to him. “That gives the office manager’s name and telephone number, and the address of our office. I’m sure you also have many ways of checking its legitimacy, just to wipe out any question of our scamming you. On the back of the card is the name of our hotel, John’s room number, and the telephone number.” She reached into her purse again and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, which she also handed to him. “You mentioned the Bank of England. We have set up an account there in your name for the equivalent in pounds of one million dollars. That paper contains all the information you need to verify the account’s existence. As the originators of the account, we have put a hold on it for one week, which you can also check. If we do not hear from you in that time, or if your answer is no, then we will cancel the account.” Hands added, “People are dying in the thousands every day. We cannot give you more time. Consider the funds our goodwill offer.” Jy-ying reached into her purse a third time and gave him another folded sheet of paper with a final flourish. “On that is an account number at the New York City Bank in the name of the Survivors’ Benevolent Society, the organization we hope you will establish and lead for the purposes we mentioned. You also have the access code, though not the withdrawal code, to verify what is in the account. The Bank of England would not accept such a huge and very rare bank transfer from New York on such short notice without time consuming verifiers. We will satisfy them within the week, but at least by wire you can check that account at the City Bank.” She stopped for effect. “It has one billion dollars in the account.” Geoffrey held the card and papers in one shaking hand, staring at her. “I’ll be bloody goddamned.” Then he bowed his head. “I’m sorry. Please excuse my language.” He straightened himself with a visible effort, looked up at John, and said, “I’ll check all this out and get back to you within the week. I’ll go get your assistant.”

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He was obviously still flabbergasted as he went out, shaking his head and muttering, “My God!” About ten minutes later he entered with a dark-skinned, thin man with thick black hair, a long face and nose, recessed black eyes, and a pointed chin. Geoffrey introduced him with a smile. “I would like you to meet Abaza Omur. He will provide you with whatever assistance you need here. I will be in touch.”

Chapter 29 August 23–24, 1912 London Jy-ying

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fter another hour spent fruitlessly at The Times, they visited their company office on New Bond Street. John acted the big boss, meeting new employees hired by their office manager, and making sure he understood any marketing problems and the nature of local competition. Although the Hua Import & Export Company was their cover, to be successful in this, it also had to operate as a legitimate business. Jy-ying, John, and Hands knew their British manager well. Before taking up the position in one of their foreign offices, candidates spent a month in San Francisco at the company headquarters, and as a guest in Fort Hope. As much as John hated to, as he put it, “Waste the time,” while Hands stayed on at the company office to further familiarize himself with its operations, John and Jy-ying played tourist the rest of the day. They had no choice. Until Robinson made his decision, they could not move on. Finally John admitted that he enjoyed the chance to renew his acquaintance with many of London’s historic buildings, such as the British Museum, National Gallery, and Buckingham Palace. Moreover, they had Prince Wei with them and the English loved dogs; his small size and handsomeness appealed especially to the women, and Prince Wei was welcome everywhere. That evening, at a late supper with Hands at the hotel’s Fitzroy Doll, they discussed the problem they were having at The Times. Feeding a tidbit of beef to Prince Wei on her lap, Jy-ying noted, “That Robinson has not yet made his decision is not what is bothering me. It’s the disappearance of the files containing Peter Kahan’s telegrams and Robinson’s notes. Something was not right there.” Hands asked, “Didn’t Robinson tell you that they were probably misfiled?” “Yeah,” John answered. “‘Drives him batty,’ he says. But he admits that this is in the nature of a large, paper-intensive company like a major newspaper.”

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Jy-ying shook her head. “I don’t believe that is what happened. The files are too significant. I think they have been stolen or destroyed.” John thought about it for a moment, and replied, “Could be. It would have to be an inside job. But sweetie, you have an ingrained paranoia that comes from all your years in security. It’s a wonder you trust poor Hands, here. Me, I can understand. But you know, Hands might be an alien agent spying on us.” Hands put on a shifty-eyed look. Jy-ying gave Hands a steely stare, then turned to John. “Nope. Unlike you, darling, he looks too angelic—nothing devilish in his eyes.” “Wow,” Hands declared with a grin, “I’m happy about that.” “Let’s get serious, John. My security feelers are quivering in the air. There is something else besides the missing files. It is that apprentice Abaza who is helping us. I learned in security that the portals to the truth about a person lie in their eyes. Only an exceptionally well-trained actor can keep his soul from showing in them. In Abaza’s there is a hint of lethal appraisal, as though he were a butcher selecting a pig for slaughter.” “Come on, sweetie. Maybe he’s just ravishing you in his imagination. All men get a certain look around you. Except for angelic Hands here, that is.” Jy-ying was deep in her thoughts and paid no attention to him for a moment. Then she continued. “It is also the questions he asks, which go beyond the ordinary. He tries to be subtle, but when the coating is rubbed off his words, he wants to know who is funding us, who our contacts are and do we have any in Turkey, and how we intend to stop the massacres.” John waved her suspicion aside. “His parents are from Turkey. He speaks Turkish. He reads the Turkish newspapers.” “All very true,” Jy-ying responded reflectively. “True, it all may be as innocent as Hands is.” “You mean angelic Hands.” “Precisely. But what you cannot deny is my intuition.” She added iron to the next words. “It is a trained intuition.”

aaa It was hot in the bedroom, a typical humid London heat wave, and the open screened window helped not at all. Prince Wei slept on the floor next to the bed, where it was cooler. They slept naked, with only a sheet partly covering them. John’s body seemed to be producing its own heat wave, so Jy-ying kept a little distance between them, only

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lightly touching his hip with her fingers—she always had to sleep touching him in some way. She suspected it was because of the insecurity of their lives, and the knowledge that a violent death might part them at any moment. Partly for that reason, partly as she was trained, she slept like a guard dog, instantly awake at the slightest unusual sound or movement of the air molecules. She suddenly awakened now, and as her superbly trained body automatically transformed itself into a killing machine, she tried to locate the gentle resonance in the air. In a second or so, she heard Prince Wei rumbling deep in his throat. She immediately leaned over and cupped his muzzle, his signal to be absolutely quiet. She located the sound that had awakened her. It was their doorknob being turned and the door being slowly pushed open to stop against the chain on the bolt John had thrown before going to bed. She moved swiftly to cover John’s mouth with her hand; he bolted awake, but her hand told him all he needed to know. The door closed. Then there was a gentle knock at the door, and a husky voice yelled, “Telegram.” Jy-ying whispered in John’s ear, “Answer it.” She took her hand away. He shouted back, “Wait a minute. I’ll be there.” Jy-ying cupped her hand around his ear. “Hostiles. No lights.” Because she automatically drew a mental map of any new room she entered, locating the best fighting spaces and defensive positions, she knew exactly where she wanted to be. The door opened into the suite’s mini foyer. There was not enough room on each side of the door for both of them to stand hidden along the wall when the door was opened. But one could stand behind the door as it swung in. The problem was that the one who opened it would be vulnerable to being shot by whoever waited on the other side. But she knew how to work the reaction time of someone with a gun. “Unbolt the door, jerk it open, and stand behind it,” she whispered. When it came to saving their lives, she was the expert, and he would no more argue with her than with a speeding train. John’s H&K was hanging in his holster on a chair several feet from the bed, and he took it in hand, made sure the safety was off, and pointed it to the ceiling as he moved toward the door. With both their eyes adjusted to the dark, in the dim city light coming in the window they could just make out the door. John positioned himself alongside it. Jy-ying placed Prince Wei a foot behind her. She leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Stay.” She took up her offensive stance. She had

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no intention of letting who was on the other side rush into the room ready to kill John—and he could not know that Jy-ying was here. She positioned herself to shock and momentarily paralyze him with her nakedness for the split second she needed.

Sinan Senturk He stood with his back against the wall and his gun out, ready to rush into the room as soon as the door was opened for Abaza, who had his own gun out. Seref was on the other side of the door, his gun pointed up, and Hamza stood behind Abaza, ready as well. No simple knifing this time. They knew that both of them were in the room, and the Turkish hotel maid had told them she’d seen evidence in the room of guns of some sort. They had no doubt they could get the American man first. He would be the one to open the door. They did not worry about the sound of the shots. In this part of town, backfiring automobiles were common. With the man dead, they would rush into the room over his body and subdue the Chinese woman. They had watched her coming and going through the lobby. A real Chinese beauty—he had never screwed a Chinese before. They all looked forward to the fun they would have before killing her. He was getting hot just thinking of it. Abaza knocked and yelled, “Telegram,” and pointed his gun at the door. No sound, except for the rumble of traffic coming through the window at the end of the hall. Abaza looked about to yell again when the door was suddenly jerked open from inside. Abaza stood frozen in place for a second, and then in a blur a naked woman twirled in the doorway and Abaza’s gun fired just before it went flying through the air. The bullet holed the wall next to Sinan’s shoulder. In the same motion, the naked blur swung around and punched Abaza in the throat, knocking him back into Hamza, who twisted out of the way and got a shot at her. She was moving too fast for him to aim and he missed. She stiff-armed her open palm into his chin, and his head jerked back with a sharp crack. The white typhoon that was the woman swung on Seref. He shot at her just as she delivered a backhanded chop to his nose; he shrieked, and his gun went flying as he jerked his hands up to his face. He collapsed. At the same moment, a little white blur with teeth bared leaped at Sinan’s gun arm. He kicked at it with all his might, caught it in the

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belly with the toe of his boot, and felt bone crunch from the impact. He brought his heel down on the body squirming on the floor just as the naked blur turned on him. Seref had been on the other side of the door from him; the seven feet between them gave Sinan the time he needed as she came after him. He crouched and tried to aim at her as she pivoted, her long hair twisting about her head, and zigzagged in a rush toward him. The wall and the bodies on the floor hampered her sidewise movement; his wildly aimed shot caught her, and her movement turned awkward, then unbalanced. He quickly sidestepped to avoid her plunging body. She landed in a naked heap, unmoving, just as the man appeared in the doorway with both hands wrapped around a gun, swinging it around on him. They both fired about the same time, and Seref felt a sledgehammer blow to his right shoulder. His right hand jerked open, dropping the gun, his knees buckled, and he fell backwards. As he lay on the floor groaning and shaking from the mind-numbing pain, he tried to grip his right shoulder. There was only a big, wet, stringy hole there.

Hands Hands heard two muffled bangs close together, and then another one, and as he grabbed his Colt from his holster on the chest of drawers, he heard Bang! Bang! Dressed in only his underwear, he shot the bolt back on his door, flung it open, and rushed into the hallway. Gripping his gun with both hands, he swung it one way, then the other as he quickly scanned the hallway from one end to the other. There was swirling smoke and a pile of bodies at the end of the hallway, in front of John’s suite. He ran to the bodies, then stopped. “No!” he screamed. “Goddamn it, no. NO!” The hole in Jy-ying’s head no longer leaked blood. John, also naked, had been shot in the heart. Fuck. He didn’t wear his armored vest. There were four other bodies—three husky men and a thin one, all dark, all foreigners, Hands guessed. Two of them still held guns in their lifeless hands; one had a broken neck and the nose of the other had been completely crushed into his skull. The other two had dropped their guns. One still held his crushed throat as he choked to death, his eyes bulging unseeingly. Jy-ying must have killed those three with her feet and hands. The fourth man had been shot in the shoulder with a hollow point bullet, which left a huge, bloody hole. He was crying out something in a foreign language. Hands kicked his gun farther away from him.

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Something white lay farther along the hallway. A scrunched pillow? Then he recognized the broken body of Prince Wei. Hands, his emotions temporarily paralyzed by shock, went into automatic. He rushed into the suite and pulled one of the bedsheets and the folded bedspread from the bed and flung these over Jy-ying and John. Nobody was in the hallway yet. Maybe those who heard the shots thought they were automobile backfires. He pulled the gun out of John’s hand and shoved it into the waistband of his underpants, then glanced at Jy-ying. She’d been unarmed. His feet carried him back into the suite. Moving robotically, he picked up the two small suitcases that held John and Jy-ying’s money and documents and flung them onto the sheet still on the bed. He added a suitcase containing two strange tubes, John’s pocket .40 caliber S&W, and Joy’s laptop computer. He flung Jy-ying’s holster purse over his shoulder along with John’s empty shoulder holster, gathered the corners of the sheet, and lumbered with the bundle down the hallway and into his room, where he shoved it all into his closet and jammed the sliding door closed. Panting, sweating profusely, he rushed back into the hallway just as another man was lifting the sheet to look at Jy-ying. Hands charged over and ripped the sheet out of the man’s hand with a strangled, “No!” Hands fell to his knees between John and Jy-ying, gently took their cooling hands in his, and finally unlocked his pain and grief. He sobbed for the death of his dear friends, for his mission leaders, for those who had wanted to save humanity from itself. More people gathered, horrified. Hotel security folk, police, and Scotland Yard came and began their investigation. With understanding and sympathy, they tried to question him, but at first he could only repeat that he loved them like the sister and brother he’d never had. Later, when he was halfway sentient, he tried to answer their questions without lying more than necessary to protect John and Jy-ying’s real identity and their mission. Knowing their bodies would be part of an official inquest, he said that they’d wanted to be cremated, and asked for the ashes to take back to San Francisco with him. He had one special request. He asked that he be given the little white body of Prince Wei for his cremation, as well.

aaa Late in the day, released by Scotland Yard with the admonition to return to his hotel but not leave London, Hands rose briefly above his anguish to send off two telegrams. One was to his fiancée in Germany:

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Jy-ying and John were killed. Join me permanently. I need you. The mission needs you. He knew she would read between the lines. At first his hand shook so badly, he could not fill in the form for the second telegram, but finally, almost blinded by tears, he wrote to Dolphy, Mariko, and Sal: Our heroic friends and leaders, John and Jy-ying, were attacked and murdered. It’s all now up to us. You know what to do. Forgive me. I can’t write more now. Tomorrow.

Chapter 30 September 5, 1912 San Francisco Hands

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hey emerged from the platform gate for Track 4 with the their baggage handlers and their carts behind them. He dreaded this moment when he would return to the others, look into their grieving eyes, and have to explain face to face what happened to them. Them, their, and they would forever refer to Jy-ying, John, and Prince Wei, as permanently as though the words were carved into the base of their granite statue. Only in the last few days could he say the pronouns without his lower lip quivering. Kate, his former fiancée, walked beside him, gripping his hand supportively. She had helped him through the emotional devastation of their deaths and made many of the necessary arrangements on his behalf, communicating with their company’s London office and canceling John’s many appointments in Germany, handling the death certificates, the police clearance, the cremations, the joint urn, and especially the arrangements, the so very important arrangements, with Geoffrey Robinson. Now the worst of it: telling the others the details he could never bring himself to telegram. Kate was as tall as Hands and, unusual for women in this age, she wore no hat. Also unusual, if not considered rebellious, she let her unbound blonde hair curl over her forehead and down to her shoulders. She wore a tight beige blouse, buttoned at the neck, that well displayed her endowments, and a dark brown woolen skirt that, heaven forbid, revealed her lower legs. With her large, sparkling blue eyes, full lips, and unblemished complexion, she needed little makeup and knew it. This beauty flouted convention, and was able to do it without looking like a prostitute. She had an intelligence that rivaled Hands’, a fact that often made him shake his head in disbelief at his good fortune. And she loved him, which was even more incredible. Once he’d asked her, “Why?”

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Her answer was simple, and sealed with a kiss. “Because you are you, sugar.” But there was more about her than all that—much more. Because of their new life, he would have to reveal her secret to the others. Head down, almost leaning into her, he scanned the crowd of people meeting those arriving on the train from under lowered brows. He saw them—they were almost knocking people over as they rushed through the crowd toward him. Kate stepped aside as they stopped in front of him. Mariko was crying openly. Dolphy and Sal had tears in their eyes as they vigorously patted him on the back, both trying to shake his hand at the same time, both blurting greetings that jumbled together. Sal for once followed up with no smart remark, but gripped Hands’ shoulder tightly and nodded. His face said it all. Mariko waited for Hands’ attention. When the guys finally let him look her way, she bowed her head. A tear dripped off her nose. She raised her head and tried to give him a smile. “Welcome home, Hands. I happy to see you.”

Kate Kate had hung back, carefully observing these people with whom she would now trust her dangerous secrets and her life. She knew how important this welcome and the rest of the day was to Hands. It was the beginning of a new life, and these would be his partners—and hers, now—until death would part them also. She studied Mariko from Japan, whom Hands likened to a soft flower petal with a spine of steel. Kate would enjoy getting to know her as though she were a sister, as she must. Her husband Dolphy was imaginative, loyal, and honest, but lazy and straightlaced, Hands had told her with a chuckle. Then there was Sal—she looked at him with a mental grin—bold, brash, loudmouthed, oversexed, and a generous friend for life who would follow you into hell. The others looked at her for the first time, as if suddenly realizing she was there. Hands took her arm with one hand and, gesturing toward her with the other, he said, “I’m so sorry. I was so glad to be home again and see you all that I neglected my love. She lets me get away with my poor manners. Meet Kathryn Kaufmann, my former fiancée . . . ah, I will explain later.” “Call me Kate,” she said in a soft, feminine voice with an unmistakably German accent. “I love Hands more than ever, but now . . .

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marriage is out of the question.” With what had happened, that appeared all the explanation the others needed. Hands introduced each of the others to Kate, and mentioned that Dolphy’s parents had been German and he spoke the language. Dolphy then welcomed her in German, which she returned in kind. Mariko greeted her in Japanese with a bow, and then translated her greeting into English. Sal said his first words: “Nice to meetcha. Do you have an unmarried sister?” “No,” she said, and gave him a big smile. “I heard about you, Sal. I have a cousin I am going to hide when you’re around.” Sal pointed to the baggage handlers, who were shuffling their feet and giving Hands dirty looks. “We better go to our cars before your baggage gets lost.” Picking up two of the heavy suitcases, he started toward the Townside Street exit. Dolphy picked up two more, and Hands paid the baggage men fifty cents, which they accepted with big smiles, picked up the remaining suitcases, and followed the others with Kate and Mariko carrying their bags and cases beside him. They headed for the parking lot and horse hitches on the north side of the street, where their two Fords were parked. They put all the luggage in the back of one, and Kate insisted that Hands get into the front of Dolphy’s Ford, while she joined Mariko in the rear. It took almost a half-hour to navigate traffic in town, and then the five miles to Fort Hope. They spent the time in small talk about the trip, comparing London and Berlin to San Francisco. When Kate saw Fort Hope for the first time, she was amazed. She knew about the wealth Joy and John and then Jy-ying had brought with them, and the new wealth they had been creating every day, but to see it symbolized in this huge, well-guarded mansion on its many acres of grounds was another thing. I robbed people with such wealth, she thought, and then shoved the thought away as irrelevant. Hands was greeted somberly by the whole staff, who expressed their regrets and sadness over the loss of Master John Banks and Miss Khoo Jy-ying, the woman they believed was the sister of his former mistress, Joy Phim. Kate had been apprised of these roles, and that Hands would now assume the master’s role, and she would be his mistress, with all the powers the positions entailed. After due attention to Hands, the staff all greeted her with civility and covert appraisal. Hands showed Kate around with the others trailing behind and kibitzing, often with false high spirits—she could tell this even without knowing them well. When they got to the master bedroom, Hands visi-

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bly slumped. Staring at the floor, he waved at the room and said in an unsteady voice, “This is the master bedroom.” He waited, keeping his eyes down. The others remained in the hallway. She said into the silence, “What a beautiful room.” Hands nodded and turned to lead her out. Every line in his face seemed to succumb to gravity as he declared in a leaden voice, “It will never again be occupied. It is sacred.” No one said a word as Hands led Kate to his bedroom on the third floor. Within the hearing of the others, he told her in a tone still reflecting his sadness, “This is our bedroom.” At that moment, Sal said just the right thing to dispel the dark depression that had set in. “Ah, Kate, my bedroom is bigger.” “Well now, Sal, is that all that’s bigger?” He flushed, speechless. Dolphy’s jaw dropped. Mariko whispered in Dolphy’s ear and when he explained the rejoinder sotto voce to her, she looked at Kate with wide eyes and covered her mouth with her hand. Hands just grinned. From what Hands had said about Sal, she knew that, with her little rejoinder, she had won him over.

Hands Hands ate little at supper that evening. Now it could no longer be delayed; the small talk was getting increasingly strained, and it was up to him, as so much now would be, to reveal the details of what had happened and tell all of them about its consequences, and get their mission reset on its path. And Kate must be properly introduced, if they were to understand her role in the mission. She’d suggested he start with her, to make it easier to slide into the details. First, the lubricant. Mariko fetched a cup of green tea from the kitchen and the guys took bottles of Anchor Steam beer from the new white Puritan refrigerator. Kate selected a Budweiser, the closest she could get to her favorite Radeberger pilsner beer. Then Hands led them to the mansion’s lower lounge, what Jy-ying always called their “talk-talk war room.” He felt more comfortable there. The library, where John always held their discussions, made him uncomfortable. While the others settled on the two sofas and the easy chairs, Hands went to the file room and got what he needed. He didn’t think it maudlin. No, it was appropriate. He and Kate had spent hours preparing it, that afternoon. He could barely do it, but Kate provided him

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with the strength when he needed it most. He came back to the lounge carrying each in one arm, and positioned them as he’d planned on a carved mahogany wall table. When he was ready, he stood, drink in hand. He could barely speak the words; they came out broken, but he didn’t think anyone noticed. “I want to toast our leaders . . . the best friends humanity—we—could ever have. Their ashes . . . their souls are now together for eternity . . . .” Kate took over, her voice none too steady itself. “The ashes of Joy, John, and Jy-ying are combined now in this gorgeous urn—they would have loved it. Of course, Prince Wei, the dog I heard so much about, is in the smaller urn, and forever now will be near his mistress.” Hands added, the words choked, “I wanted them at this first meeting of our . . . new team. We will set them up in the Banks crypt tomorrow. You each will have a key to visit it whenever you want.” He raised his drink. “To our friends.” Everyone clicked their mugs and cups. Mariko rose and rushed out. In minutes, she came back with two candles and holders, and placed one a little in front on each side of the urns. Dolphy struck a match and lit them for her. In a tremulous voice, Mariko asked, “Do someone have photos?” Hands took out his wallet, glanced at Kate, then slipped out little photographs of John and Joy together and one of Jy-ying holding Prince Wei. He handed them to Mariko. She arranged them before the urn so that John was between Joy and Jy-ying. She stood before the urns for a moment, hands clasped together in front of her heart. Then she bowed deeply and knelt before them, hands still clasped. Her lips moved silently. After a few minutes, she got up, bowed again, took two steps back, and turned to return to the sofa, her face soft and tranquil. Dolphy’s eyes were red as he put his arm around her. Sal also stood before the urns, shoulders slouched, arms hanging loosely at his sides, head tilted. He slowly crossed himself. Then he picked up the big urn and kissed the front of it twice. “There, you lucky women, I know you wanted that. Take care of them for me, John.” He clapped the back of vase several times. He seemed to hold it uncertainly for a moment before setting it down. Then he left the room without a word. Kate took two steps toward the urn, faced it squarely with her heels together, stiffened her back, and said, “You are humanity’s heroes.” She gave it a perfect German military salute. When she sat down, Hands could see that her eyes were bright and filled with pride. With the tribute paid to their fallen leaders, Hands now had to move on to one more duty that he dreaded—informing them all that Kate was a burglar and a serial murderess.

Chapter 31 Hands

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al returned to the meeting with eyes slightly swollen. “Toilet,” he said, his voice strained. Hands had to start the business part of the meeting, but he couldn’t speak. He felt hot, and his heart was beating rapidly; he was afraid he would stammer. This was it. He was now mission leader. John’s will had designated him president of the Hua Import & Export Company, with Dolphy, Mariko, and Sal regional vice presidents and partners. Both their formal wills and their personal instructions in the event of their deaths that had been left in their safe gave him full power over the contents of their time capsules and all their funds. He was now in charge of the mission, but as it had been with John and Joy and then Jy-ying, it really was he and Kate. Hands felt as though he was taking John’s place in front of him, Joy, and Jy-ying. Worse, he was scared by the responsibility he suddenly felt for millions and millions of lives, and those of his friends—his partners—and his love, Kate. A trickle of sweat crawled down his back. Even at this distance from the kitchen, they heard the cook yell something at the scullery maid. One of their security company’s guard dogs barked. They were all looking at Hands, waiting. Sal, his face almost recovering its normal half-grin, cleared his throat and broke the silence with, “Okay, you lucky guy. Tell us about Kate, who has sucked up all the beauty in Germany.” Kate was sitting next to Sal. She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. He turned crimson, the second time in one day. They all clapped, and Dolphy whistled. Perhaps it was all somewhat forced, but it didn’t matter. It dissipated a gloom that had filled the room like a fog. Now suddenly relaxed, Hands found it easy to begin with Kate. “I met her at the American Embassy during its July Fourth celebration . . . . Ah, it was on our first trip to Europe to set up the Paris and Berlin company offices. Her father is a general on the German General Staff. Her mother is English. Her father met and fell in love with her when he was a military something—

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“Attaché,” Kate said. “—to the German Embassy in London. They had returned to Berlin together when her father was promoted to a . . . ” He looked at Kate. “Generalmajor—Brigadier General.” Hands ended with, “And he was sent to the German Staff College.” When Hands took a moment to sip his beer, Kate jumped in. “My mother insisted I learn English and tutored me at home. She was a wonderful woman and I loved her dearly. She died in 1909 from some disease the doctors could not diagnose.” Before the others could express the sympathy that showed on their faces, she went on. “When I graduated from German secondary school in 1905, my father wanted me to attend a German university. My mom wouldn’t hear of it. She won him over and I was sent to Oxford.” Hands interjected proudly, “She graduated with a first in 1909, whatever that is.” “In what did you graduate?” Mariko asked. “In theater.” Hands added, “She is now a famous actress in German films.” And he thought, This explains for them her free spirit and dress. Finally. He’d been worried what they might have thought. She said, “My stage name is Nicole. I’m now so identified with the name that my billing omits my surname.” Sal and Dolphy unconsciously leaned forward to get a good look at Kate, and then gaped at her. “That’s why you look familiar,” Dolphy got out. “We’ve seen you in some of the foreign films shown here.” At first Mariko looked stunned, but then she covered it with a blank stare. Hands realized she did not think highly of actresses, but he was confident Kate would win her over, especially with what he would soon say. Sal was now grinning. “Good for you Kate—for your success. So, you’re an actress . . . .” He let that hang. It was vintage Sal, and it was clear what he had in mind. Hands’ lips tightened and he glared at Sal, but Kate leaned toward him and matched Sal’s smile. “Thank you, Sal. And you are . . . a close friend of my dear Hands, and a very important member of our new team. Yes?” Sal colored again and tried to cover with a grin that only made him look more embarrassed. He finally nodded and took a quick sip of his beer. Hands couldn’t believe it. Sal put down three times in one day. Dolphy lifted his beer. “A toast to Kate—to Nicole—and her joining us. Welcome, Kate.”

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After all had clicked their glasses, Dolphy commented, “Hands, you know, has told us nothing about what you know about us, or Joy, John, and Jy-ying, God bless them.” He bowed his head toward the urns for a moment. “Or Prince Wei,” Mariko added in a whisper. Kate responded quickly. “Hands told me about them coming from the future. They and all of you are prodemocracy—you believe democracy will stop war and massacres.” Dolphy looked at Hands as though he was crazy. “He told you that? Hands was quite comfortable under Dolphy’s, and now Mariko’s, accusing eyes. Almost smugly, he leaned back in his chair and drawled, “My friends, meet the White Knight.” As he expected, Sal asked, “Where?” Hands pointed to Kate. “She is the White Knight.” The “So?” hung in the air. Hands sighed deeply, shook his head, and repeated slowly, “White Knight! Don’t you people remember anything about Europe?” He tried to make it obvious with his exaggerated look and gestures that he was kidding, unconsciously aping the way John would have done it. “You know, the White Knight that Jy-ying and John talked about.” Mariko pointed a finger at Kate. “That him?” “I’ll be goddamned,” Dolphy said. “Now I remember. Even in San Francisco, we had heard something about this Robin Hood of democracy. Our Berlin office occasionally sent us a clipping detailing his—her— activities. At one time, John and Jy-ying talked about us joining forces with the White Knight, but we were afraid of letting him know about us.” He glanced at Mariko. “Ah, we had no doubt it was a male at the time. A woman couldn’t . . . wouldn’t be doing that . . . kind of thing.” His voice disappeared at the end, and he looked away from Mariko. “That’s stupid,” Sal said. “I know better. Why, I had a girlfriend once who—” Dolphy interrupted. “I think Jy-ying—you know how cautious she was—persuaded us against it. She said that we couldn’t let him—him— she was certain it was a man too,” he added, grinning, “know about us when we didn’t know anything about him first. Then we just dropped it.” “Well, the White Knight’s here, and I can stand up for her . . . character,” Hands said with his first attempt at a smile. “Me too,” Sal said, the leer consuming his face. Hands felt his own face grow hot when he realized what he had said. Dolphy shook his head and waved his hand in a what-are-wegoing-to-do-with-him manner.

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“You should be so lucky,” Kate said, giving Sal a challenging look. She laughed. Hands hurried on before Sal could react. “The White Knight, you know, became hated by the rich aristocrats. But among people like us, she became famous. Like our mission to promote democracy, she promoted what she calls People Power. She put ads in the newspapers exposing the attempts of the aristocrats to destroy democracy. She robbed the manors of rich aristocrats and gave the money to those promoting democracy and charities for the poor. She always included a note signed ‘the White Knight.’” He now tried to keep his voice matter-of-fact. “She also assassinated several high officials who ordered massacres, especially of prodemocracy demonstrators.” Mariko sat up sharply and gave Kate an intense look. Hands knew what went through her mind, as well as that of the others. “Kate, you have killed?” exploded out of Mariko. She was no martial artist like Joy or Jy-ying, but they had regularly worked on her training, as they had with Dolphy, Sal, and Hands. They all could defend themselves by hand against those with little or no training, but not against someone with a black belt. Jy-ying had claimed Mariko embodied the spiritual side of martial arts. When Mariko heard that, she told Jy-ying, “Yes, I descendent of great Japanese samurai Saigo Takamori. He led samurai rebellion against Japanese government in 1876. It fail. So not to be captured he commit seppuku—honorable suicide. His spirit in my blood.” Mariko now seemed to look at Kate quite differently, as though assessing her pose, her hands and muscles, the tilt of her head, how she held her beer mug. As they all realized, enemy or friend, they now had to know her capability. Kate glanced at Hands, her eyebrows slightly raised, a hint of amusement in her eyes. Hands gave her a little nod and went on. Strangely, he felt much better. “She even killed someone who massacred people in the colonies. You may not remember Lieutenant . . . ah . . . ” “Generalleutnant—Lieutenant General Lothar von Trotha,” Kate supplied. Hands continued. “John had a few angry words to say about him when he was giving us one of those lectures that Joy hated. I don’t remember the details of what he did. I’m sure Kate does.” “Oh, yes.” Her face hardened and anger tinged her voice as she detailed his order to exterminate the Herero of Southwest Africa. Hands added, “Last year she killed General Trotha in his bed by thrusting a knife through his heart. She pinned to his nostril a note that read ‘Remember the Herero. The White Knight.’”

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He went on to describe many of her escapades, including the assassination of police Captain Thomas Bierhoff, otherwise known as The Butcher, and General von Woyrsch, who had hundreds of prodemocracy demonstrators murdered. Hands was surprised when Mariko spoke out again. She usually said little during their discussions. She asked Kate as though speaking Japanese, her intonation as level as a tabletop, “You assassinate this General Trotha?” “Yes. The murderer deserved it. He had the blood of tens of thousands on his hands.” Mariko continued. “You assassinate this Captain Bierhoff?” “Yes.” “You kill this General von Woyrsch?” “Yes.” Even Sal was staring at Mariko in surprise as she continued to speak out. “Who else you kill—assassinate?” “A sadistic regional chief in the Congo who murdered tens of thousands and laughed over their bodies. I got to him when he returned to Belgium for a vacation, and I was there on a tour. And one more, the infamous General Mikhail Guchkov who, during the post-Trotsky dictatorship, rounded up anyone critical of the new regime and, by his own admission, administered summary justice to thousands of them. Because of his contacts and relatives, he was able to stay on in the new democratic government that followed. He was on a military mission to Berlin when I got him.” “Any more?” Mariko asked. “No. There are many more I thought deserved it, but I am only one person and I have a career. It had to be done when opportunity knocked, as I think you Americans put it. But I got perhaps the worst four monsters, and that makes me happy.” As Mariko continued, Dolphy looked at her in fascination. “Why you do this? I mean, kill these people? I know they bad, but why you kill bad people? No trial. They cannot defend themselves. You judge. You jury. You executioner.” Dolphy turned in his seat to look directly at her, his eyebrows raised and his eyes large. He began to wave his finger, John-style. “Mariko, you—” Kate held up her hand to stop him. Her face hardened to rock, and turned ashen as her lips compressed to a thin line. She stared down at

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her hands. Mariko ignored Dolphy and stared at Kate, her eyebrows furled above her nose. The room had turned cold and there seemed to be no movement of air; the men seemed to be holding their breath. So much depended on what happened next. This was between women. No mere man could interfere. Kate slowly raised her blue eyes to look into Mariko’s black ones. They locked eyes for several seconds, then her anger made her voice vibrate like a banged steel sheet as she said, “Yes, Mariko, I will tell you—all of you.” She waved her hand to encompass Dolphy and Sal without taking her eyes from Mariko’s. “Because you are all now my teammates and we’ll depend on each other for our lives. But—” she waved her finger at Mariko “—I will never, ever tell this again.” Hands had only heard her speak this way once before, and that was when she told him the same story.

Chapter 32 Hands

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er voice so low as to almost disappear into the ether, the others leaning forward to hear every word, Kate began her story. “In the summer of 1910 I went to visit my brother Albert and his wife Christa in Munich for two weeks. During that time, the Kaiser was visiting the main city residence of the Wittlesbach dynasty. People were unhappy at how much power the Kaiser had over foreign policy and over the elected Reichstag. Besides, the aristocracy was hated— they did nothing but live off the taxes poor people had to pay. During a peaceful prodemocracy demonstration of thousands of people near his residence at Max-Josef-Platz 3 . . . .” As she continued, she unconsciously brought her left hand up to her cheek, where it remained through Christa’s murder and the death of her brother in her arms. Then her eyes turned soft and wet and inwardlooking as she finished with Albert’s, “Don’t let them get away with it. I love you, sis.” “These were his last words to me.” Tears were streaming down her face. She shook her head violently, then tried to swipe the remaining tears away with one hand. Then she went into what she remembered about being arrested and trucked to prison, and what had scarred her mind and memory forever, her torture. She told them of her release due to the secret intervention of her father, and concluded in a whisper, “That ended it officially.” Sal had his head in his hand and was mumbling something in Spanish. Dolphy and Mariko just stared at her, wide-eyed. Hands put his hand on Kate’s back and caressed it. Kate took a deep, tremulous breath, and let it out slowly. Then her voice regained its steel. “That did not end it. Not for me. I think of my brother and his loving wife every day. Every night I relive him and Christa being shot, my promise, and my . . . torture and rape. Not until I avenged them and all the others so murdered by assassinating General Woyrsch could I have a solid night’s sleep.” There was still the twang of steel in her voice as she said, “We are all adults here. Let me show you some of what the torturers did to me.” She removed her orange walking blouse and asked Hands to undo the

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top laces of her undergarment. His face burned as he quietly did so. With the laces undone, Kate pulled it down to show her breasts. Her right one was striped with white scars and half the size of her left one, as though partly hollowed out. Its nipple had been sliced off. Dolphy looked away. Mariko stared, jaw set, chin outthrust. Sal hissed, “Mother-fuckers,” and hit his leg with his fist several times. “When I act I have a partial prosthesis for what is missing so that my breasts match each other. I need not show you the rest of my body. You get the idea.” Sal, never one to miss such openings before, again mumbled something in Spanish. “I can still function as a woman, but only with tenderness and understanding. Hands gives me that.” Hands’ face was still hot, but he strove to keep it expressionless. He knew she had to do this. The effort made his face feel as hard as an anvil. Kate reached over and pulled his head to hers and kissed him. “The doctors tell me I can still have children.” Kate pulled her undergarment back up and put on her blouse. Now clear-eyed, she looked at the rest of them with an almost defiant expression. “Now you know.” Hands could see that Mariko’s eyes were wet as she stood, approached Kate, and bowed. She said something in Japanese, which she then translated: “You have my big sympathy. I am so sorry to hear what happen to brother and wife. Wakarimasu—I understand.” When Mariko was done, Sal took Kate’s hand, kissed it, and held it in both of his. He shocked Dolphy and Hands by giving a little speech, the first they’d ever heard from him. “I don’t speak good English like my friends. If you want anything, any help—you know, anything . . . please let me know. I—we—want to help. What you did as the White Knight . . . your mission is our mission. Millions and millions and millions have . . .” he visibly searched for the word “ . . . suffered your pain.” Sal waved at the big urn. “They brought us together to do something about it. And so we are here.” He put his hand over his heart. “Kate, we will do something about it. All of us together. Holy God and Virgin Mary be with us.” He kissed her hand again, crossed himself, and stiffly sat down. “Thank you, Sal.” After a decent interval, Mariko asked Kate, “Why you so strongly favor democracy?” “I want the people to have a voice in what government does to them.” “And so you are the White Knight?”

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“Yes. Also, I want to do with all my power what my brother asked of me—‘Don’t let them get away with it.’” Dolphy had recovered enough to ask, “Tell us, Hands, how you discovered who she is and why you told her about us.” Deeply affected, even though he’d heard and seen what Kate had revealed before, Hands didn’t answer right away. Then he put his hand on Kate’s head, pulled her to him, and buried his face in her curly blonde hair. After some moments, he pulled back and told them, “I can’t stand what those fu . . . bastards did to her. You haven’t seen the worst.” Kate took his head tenderly between her hands, kissed him on the lips, and soothed, “Hush now. I’ve told my story. It’s over. I’m fine. We can move on. Okay?” Dolphy put his arm around Hands and suggested, “Let’s go for a walk. Come on. It’ll do us both good.” “Me too,” Sal said. They both almost lifted Hands from his seat. With their arms on his shoulders, they led him out of the lounge and quietly shut the door.

Mariko Kate looked at Mariko and said softly, “I think what happened to me and my family is harder on Hands than it is on me. I’m sure if he got a hold of the interrogators who tortured me, he would tear them apart, little piece by little piece, with his bare hands.” “That always true,” Mariko said. “It always harder on loved ones than on victim.” “Anyway, the worst of them was killed while I was in the hospital.” She hastened to add, “Not by Hands. That happened before I met him.” A flash of pain crossed Kate’s face and she gingerly resettled herself in the easy chair, which she had been doing frequently. She changed the subject. “When things began to get serious between Hands and me, I asked him about his mysterious activities in Europe. I told him that he couldn’t be acting just on behalf of the Hua Import & Export Company. Those he had meetings with, and the contacts he set up—some with my help—could have no business relationship to his company. I had a sense for this. Being a general, my father moved easily in high aristocratic circles. At first I thought Hands must be a secret agent for the United States, working under cover of his business. He laughed at the idea and persuaded me that, aside from his ordinary business, he also was acting to promote democracy. This, he told me, would be good for company business in the long run.

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“So then I told him about my desire to promote democracy. I have to tell you, that alone became a strong bond between us. He fell in love with me and proposed. I love him. He’s not like other men I’ve met. He is considerate, sweet, and tender, but still a man, if you know what I mean.” “Like my Dolphy,” Mariko responded, as particular images came to mind and lingered for a moment. Kate nodded. “I turned him down. I had my acting, but more important, I had my crusade. How could I do what I had to do and lie to my husband about it all the time? He proposed a second time. I turned him down, but hinted that I had other interests that made it difficult to get married. We made love for the first time. You may not believe it, but aside from the rapes, he was the first man with whom I had intercourse. He was tender. He was kind. He was understanding. And I fell so deeply in love with him that I felt I couldn’t live without him. I wanted him as my husband, but I also had this mad desire to work for democracy, and my brother’s words were always in my ears. You understand?” Mariko thought of Joy’s choice to give up her universe and her mother to pursue the mission. Then she thought of her own promising future in the Japanese foreign service—she would surely have achieved a high rank no Japanese woman had yet reached, but she married Dolphy instead and joined his mission. She answered, “Very much.” “I couldn’t just marry and forget about it,” Kate said. “Nor could I keep my activities secret from my husband. If Hands was the man I thought he was, the man I loved, then I could trust him with my secret. So I told him I was the White Knight. You know what he did when I told him this secret that police forces throughout Europe would kill to know? He simply smiled and said, as though telling me the time of day, ‘That’s nice. Welcome to our team. You are the ninth member, if you include one little dog, and Joy’s soul.’” Kate chuckled. “I didn’t know what he was talking about, and he was so happy just to dribble out the information in answer to the millions of questions I asked, that I finally had to beat him with a pillow. But before the day was finished, I knew all about you and the others, what you all had done, and your mission. I told him how happy I would be to join all of you.” She smiled a little wistfully. “Yes, and we also planned our wedding that night. But the wedding is now off. With the death of your— our—leaders, we are a smaller team and will have to be tighter. And for the same reasons that Joy and John, and then John and Jy-ying never married, we decided not to, either. No matter. We live and feel as husband and wife.”

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Mariko knew Joy and John had not married so they could avoid a situation their future enemies might exploit. They wanted to appear to have nothing but a boss-employee relationship, although they fooled no one close to them. It was only a matter of an official certificate, they said. No real matter. In their minds they were husband and wife. So they claimed. Kate stopped. She had a faraway look in her eyes and Mariko suspected that, as she had done, Kate was reliving those happy moments with Hands. Finally she said, “Oh yes—I have quit acting. Hands has hired me to be his—” “Assistant and translator,” Mariko interjected, and they both laughed.

Hands When Hands returned with the others, he felt much better. He felt as though he had—using a word he had picked up from Jy-ying— “rebalanced” himself. “Okay,” Hands said, “so much for small talk. We now have to consider what to do about World War I and about the Armenian massacres in Turkey. As I telegrammed, the bodies of the three men who assassinated John and Jy-ying—” “Do not forget Prince Wei,” Mariko said softly. “Yes, and Prince Wei. Going by the bodies, and the survivor who was questioned . . . well, one of the Scotland Yard investigators told me it was a secret and not to blab it, but they know the Young Turks ordered the killing. They had an inside man at The Times. His name was Abaza Omur. He was one of the three killed by Jy-ying.” “It must have been a big battle,” Sal said. “I still can’t believe Jyying didn’t get them all. Must have been bad luck.” “Yes, it was,” Hands added. “Scotland Yard was amazed by what she did. They pressed the survivor to describe the battle, and from what he said, they think he hit her with a lucky shot. ‘Bloody shit happens,’ I was told. Anyway, the British are hushing it all up for ‘reasons of state,’ I think they said, whatever that is. “Oh, yeah—Geoffrey Robinson is frightened by the murders. He says he will do what he can through his paper to get around the government’s secrecy act. He offers us whatever secret help he can give. But he will not leave the paper. He will not take the job John offered him.” Hands changed the subject. “Now. Our mission. Kate and I will need all your help on this, among other things—we are changing John’s

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scheduled meetings in Germany, Austro-Hungary, and Serbia for our trip to Europe, which we have set for October. On Turkey . . . ” He gave a long sigh. “Fucking Turkey—I’m sorry, Kate and Mariko.” Kate jumped in. “We will publicize the massacres through photographs, commissioned newspaper articles, and so on. This will be a full lobbying campaign of the kind that John hoped Robinson would have carried out. But we will have his secret help, and he has provided the names of several people who might manage the effort for us. We will pour into this project and the prevention of World War I at least the billion that John and Jy-ying proposed.” Hands had recovered. “We will go to Turkey before we go to Europe. As tourists, of course. We would like to marvel at Turkish architecture. There are a few government buildings in Constantinople I want to see.” “I’m going with you,” Sal said, sounding as though not even a tank would stop him. Mariko’s eyes blazed. “Dolphy and I also.” Hands held up his hand to them. “As John would have said, ‘The mission, people, the mission.’ Somebody has to stay here to continue the mission if something happens to me and Kate.” From her large, black leather shoulder bag, Kate pulled a steelstudded black leather scabbard. She slid a bayonet from the scabbard and held it up so that the light shone off the highly polished steel blade. She touched the sharp point with her finger, and let it linger there. “This is a German S84/98n bayonet for the Mauser Carbine. As you can see, it has no muzzle ring to get in the way, which makes it a powerful combat knife. You can also see that the blade is single-edged, with a saw on the back side to cut through bone.” “Wow,” Sal exclaimed, his eyes wide. She was too intent even to hear him. “I intend it to make the acquaintance of the Young Turk rulers. As the daughter of a high German general and a woman, maybe I can get access to them. Then,” she thrust the bayonet into an imaginary body, and declared in a voice that reverberated with hatred, “I will avenge the deaths of John and Jy-ying . . . and Prince Wei. And the tens of thousands of poor people now being slaughtered under their command.” Hands felt suddenly chilled. He had never heard her speak that way. Nor had he ever seen such fire in her eyes as she thrust the knife through the air in front of her. He took a quick glance at the others, and could see in their wide eyes and open mouths that they felt the same way.

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Something had happened at the unconscious level during this meeting. It happens to all groups facing combat and life or death situations: the leadership devolves upon the one that raw animal intuition says has the most combat courage and smarts to lead—the alpha of the pack. Dolphy, Mariko, and Sal did not know it, but all felt it—the leadership of the team had just passed to Kate. No word of this would ever be uttered. But when decisions were to be made about the next move in their mission, or in a fight, they all would tend to defer to Kate. Hands felt relieved.

Chapter 33 August 18 and after Kate

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ate had the knowledge of Germany, especially the top military and government figures, to take the lead in continuing John and Jy-ying’s preparations to intervene in Europe to avoid World War I. John had changed the November date for their trip to late August and early September when they discovered the Young Turks’ planned massacres of the Armenians. Now, Kate had to change the date back to late November to allow time for their appointments to again be rescheduled, the groundwork prepared, and to add a “little side trip,” as Kate called it, to Turkey. Except for this “side trip,” their plan was what John and Jy-ying had been working toward. Shine the light of day on the massacres, publish all the photographs they could find, and massively fund writers and journalists to write about the massacres. Especially important was buying lobbyists to pressure the legislatures of Britain, France, Germany, and Russia; the foreign ministries had to threaten Turkey into stopping the massacres, as they had in the previous century. Germany was the key to this, and there a special effort would be made. Of course, a new Young Turk regime created by Kate’s “little side trip” might be far more willing to bow toward a Christian European threat. Hands constantly complained about the Armenians who were being massacred while they got paper cuts from the daily dozen or so telegrams they sent and received. They were all busy with the preparations, which included again getting books from the San Francisco Public Library, and reading those that they had bought for John and Jy-ying’s preparations. What books they had carried with them to London, Hands and Kate had brought back with them, studying them during the nearly two week journey home. Hands also tried to rehire the Turkish immigrant, Buruk, but the secretary in the history department of the University of San Francisco told them he and his wife had died in a fire in their apartment. They did hire the two Turkish medical students as tutors again. Fortunately, one

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was from Constantinople. They still had the roll map of Turkey, and a tourist map of Constantinople, and as John had done, Hands nailed the roll map to a high bookshelf in the library for their sessions (in spite of the way he felt about it, the library was the best place to meet). Without Jy-ying, security when the tutors were around was even more lax, in spite of the murder of John and Jy-ying in London. That was London. This was San Francisco. Surely the two tutors—who never uttered a political word—could not have had anything to do with it. They hadn’t.

Chapter 34 September 14–October 8, 1912 Mariko

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ike the others, Mariko had a printout of the chronology of disasters. She recognized the overwhelming importance of their trip to Europe, and their little side trip to Turkey. No doubt that should take precedence. But there was this one disaster . . . . She was becoming obsessed with it. She first discussed it with Dolphy, who was supportive, and then brought it up with Hands and Kate after breakfast. She had the chronology with her and held it against her chest as she asked, “Gomen kudasai—Excuse me, Hands. I want show you something.” “Sure,” he said, and she set the chronology on the clean tablecloth in front of him. She’d circled a date and event several times with red pencil. Kate leaned over and looked at what was circled. With pleading eyes, Mariko said, “I have favor to ask.” He nodded for her to continue, and she pointed to the circled disaster. “Please to do this myself. Daijobe—all right? I know time important. We have much to do. But Dolphy and I return in time, before you leave, so we go with you to Europe. We take stuff on Turkey with us. Study on way. Okay?” Hands glanced at Kate, who nodded. He put one arm around Mariko’s slender waist and told her, “I’m not your boss, Mariko. We are all partners in our company and the mission. If you deem this or anything else important, you are free to act, although you might want to discuss it with us. If it impacts on the mission, you should of course warn us.” Dolphy came up to stand next to Mariko. “We know that, Hands. It’s just Mariko’s way of asking for your and the others’ support of something that is very important to her—to us.” “And she’s got it,” Kate interjected. “We understand why this is so important to her. So be sure to ask us if you need any help.”

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Hands In two days, Mariko and Dolphy left for Japan. A little more than three weeks later, Hands received a telegram: Dear Hands, Kate, and Sal, Corrosion found in the Kichemaru’s Number One boiler. Repairs required. Then safety inspection by government required. Kichemaru sails after one week delay. Completes trip. Winds of love blow paths among black clouds. Mariko and Dolphy When Mariko and Dolphy returned to San Francisco, Kate arranged a small party among the six of them in honor of Mariko’s victory. Mariko told everyone how she’d done it. Secretly working through her father’s friends and utilizing his knowledge of the Japanese bureaucracy, she’d managed to delay the sailing of the Japanese steamer Kichemaru, which had sunk off the Japanese coast on September 28, 1912 in the First Universe, and thus saved one thousand lives. After she was finished, Kate asked her, “How did you explain to your father what you were doing?” “I explain it had to do with your company business, but it was a secret. Businesses do secret stuff all time in Japan, so father not surprised. Anyway, no one hurt; everybody get something. Those delayed on ship get free tickets and twenty dollars. So, father happy to do favor for daughter.” “Great,” Kate answered. Then, looking at Hands, she demanded, “Accountant, front and center.” Hands smiled; he had John’s worn ledger waiting on a side table for this moment. He picked it up and intoned, “Ship tickets for our team members, plus an average dollar a day living expenses in Japan, plus bri . . . gifts to certain officials, and two geisha house parties—” “I’m shocked at you, Dolphy!” Sal had to say. “Not for him,” a moist-eyed Mariko rushed to say. Hands continued. “The total cost of the trip comes to roughly $1,823.72, about $1.82 per Japanese life saved.” They heard the weeping almost immediately. Dolphy had his arms around Mariko while she cried with happiness on his shoulder. Through her tears she tried to tell them, “I do nothing, really . . . to save so many lives. I do it . . . I cannot believe . . . one thousand people.” Mariko then bent and reached into a fancy Japanese bag she had with her. She took out a carefully wrapped box and, bowing, handed it

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to Hands. “For you and Kate,” she said. He in turn handed it to Kate to unwrap. He knew she would want to save the beautiful and delicate gold-hued wrapping with its painting of a misty bamboo forest. He would only tear it. Using her fingernail and the care genetic to her sex, Kate got the wrapping off without a tear to display a heavily brocaded gold box. She lifted the lid; within, resting on a bed of white satin, was a skillfully carved, four inch-high Buddha statue in ruby veined amethyst. Engraved in red in the base was a Japanese haiku: Winter is delayed Love’s aura parts the black clouds Sparrow’s song is heard. After Kate and Hands thanked her profusely, Kate asked, “Did you compose this beautiful haiku?” “Hai. I am sorry it not better.” Then she bowed and said softly, “Thank you, Hands and Kate.” Mariko then looked at Sal. “I also have something for you,” she said. Wiping her last tears away, she reached into her bag again and withdrew a long, narrow box. The wrapping was decorated with paintings of samurai warriors in various battle stances. Sal unwrapped the gift and held up before the light a gleaming Samurai short sword, studying it in admiration. “And thank you, Sal, for allowing me to save Japanese lives,” Mariko said. She looked at them all. “Arigato gozaimas.” That “thank you” in Japanese had a far greater depth of thankfulness to Mariko than did the simple English.

Chapter 35 October 23, 1912 Kate

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he was driven. She had slept little in three days; she would sleep on the ship, she told herself, when they left in two days for Turkey, via Lisbon. Maybe for the whole first leg of the voyage to Lisbon, she amended. There was so much to do. Through Hands, she had driven the others as hard as she had herself. The pretense that Hands was the leader had gradually fallen away. Their preparations were a matter of life and death, of the success of their mission, and such pretense got in the way. And Hands seemed only relieved to have someone else take on the burden. He had supported her all the way. Again she’d asked Hands to call a meeting in the library, and they were all there. She started the meeting. “Well, team, another day closer. Another day gone.” She called on the others one by one for progress reports. And for each she ended with the question, “And if we all don’t return?” Kate had made sure this had been the context of all preparations. The mission was beyond their individual importance. The mission somehow must continue. Kate had tried to insist that two of them— preferably Mariko and Dolphy—remain behind to continue the mission if the rest of them were killed. Mariko and Dolphy had exchanged a look and then Mariko turned to Kate and said, her delivery uncharacteristically blunt, her tone uncharacteristically hard, “No. We must see who order Jy-ying and John dead. We must avenge them.” Sal had been equally unwilling to stay. “Not if a have to sneak aboard the ship and sleep in a lifeboat.” He then barked something in Spanish, whipped out the throwing knife Joy had given him many years before, and threw it into the wall next to a bookcase. “Is that a no?” Hands asked, his expression bland. From then on, there was no doubt that the five of them were going together.

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A major problem was their Hua Import & Export Company. Kate had given Dolphy and Mariko the task of preparing for its shutdown. Just in case. She asked Dolphy, “The company?” “My God, it’s gotten too big,” he replied, shaking his head. “I just didn’t realize how big until I prepared all the documents to shut it down. Jesus, we have offices in twelve countries and sixteen cities. We now employ fifteen hundred people, including salesmen. Anyway, after this meeting, my fellow business partners, I have many documents for you to sign.” He pointed to a stack next to his elbow. He continued with, “Fortunately, we have a good overall company manager, and he will receive a damn good salary to manage the shut down of the company as I have instructed . . . if none of us return.” “Hands?” Kate asked. She had been involved with him in his preparations, but the others needed updating. “We’ve already spent $800 million in lobbying, subsiding forums, commentary, and articles, creating anti-war organizations, and subsidizing their peace demonstrations. We’ve bought hundreds of photos of war dead and destruction, and distributed them. That’s to prevent World War I. Our trip to Europe will deal with those military and high government officials inclined to war. We have also spent $250 million for a similar campaign to stop the Armenian massacres. We of course will deal with the high officials responsible for this in person. As to the remaining billions, if we all are killed—” he was the first to use that term “—the money will go to setting up various institutes, foundations, and scholarships in John, Joy, and Jy-ying’s names.” Kate nodded, and waited to see if anyone had questions. Then she asked, “Sal?” His chin was set and he seemed to be thrusting it at Kate. Oh-oh, she thought. “Look, I’m doing my part. I just don’t like all this stuff about dying. Sounds like we are going to kill ourselves.” He started slapping his fist into his other hand. “We will all live. We will kill those goddamn bastards who had John and Jy-ying murdered—” “And Prince Wei,” Mariko said. “—and we will return. And we will be unhappy at wasting all this goddamned time. And unhappy at all the sh . . . stuff we have to undo.” He looked at Hands and Dolphy as though for support. “Sal,” Kate said, waving her hand to encompass them all, “what if the chance of our not returning is one in a hundred? Don’t you think these preparations are still necessary? If we didn’t prepare, what, then, would happen to the company? The mission? All the money we have?

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Fort Hope? And all those crazy weapons John, Joy, and Jy-ying brought from the future?” Kate stared at Sal for a moment. Her voice hardened. “I asked you to remain here, Sal. Then a lot of these preparations would be unnecessary. But you insisted on going with us. Now you’re complaining?” Sal fidgeted and stared down at the tabletop for several seconds. He looked up at Kate and replied gruffly, “You also soaked up all the brains in Europe.” Then he nodded, threw up both hands, and said, “Okay, okay. Ah, the Banks crypt will have all the shelves in place. The photographs, which I kept asking you all for, will be in place.” That seemed to be it, but the others knew there was supposed to be more. “Fort Hope, Sal?” Kate asked. “Damn it, I don’t like this.” When Kate blistered him with a look, he sighed. “Okay, okay, Fort Hope. I will send one telegram a week to our butler—ah, our Fort Hope manager—saying, ‘All okay.’ I will telegram him even from our ships. If he doesn’t receive one, he is to wait for a week and then alert the law firm Kate will talk about. The law firm will try to find out if we are dead. If so, whether we died from overwork on these preparations or not, they will sell off Fort Hope as we say in our wills, and take care of the staff. Done. Your turn, Kate.” With a grin, he used the expression he had recently learned from her. “I know I’m a hard act to follow.” Kate grinned in return. “Sal, you are unique.” She looked at each of them in turn. “I have turned over all our wills to the Swartz and Brothers Law Firm. They have my instructions about opening them, keys to our safety deposit boxes, Hands’ instructions about the institutions we are setting up, and all that. They have our itinerary, with the dates of appointments and with whom. And they have all the necessary information about our company offices in Europe. They should have no difficulty trying to find out what happened to us if we disappear. Finally, the big question. What do we have them do with Joy and John’s time machine and equipment capsules, and those of Jyying? We can’t reveal them, for the good reason that the bad people of this world would exploit this power to go back and change history—” “Without the code to the capsules, no one nowadays could get into them,” Hands interjected, “and even if they did, by randomly punching numbers, they wouldn’t know about the self-destruct mechanism. But in the future . . . we know just how far and how fast science and technology will advance, and someone may discover a way into them.” He smiled wryly. “What they contain will certainly be a surprise.”

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“But the time machines have no such code,” Kate resumed. “So my instructions call them movie props and express my hatred for them. They and the capsules are to be encapsulated in concrete and dropped into the ocean, miles out to sea. Absolutely no record is to be kept of where.” She looked around. “That’s it, team, for these preparations. Now for the highlight of the meeting. Hands, please bring them out.”

Hands Hands went to the file and storage room next to what they still called “John’s study.” No one had used it since his death. He twirled the correct numbers into the combination lock on the door latch and used his key to unlock the door itself. Within lay an oblong box covered by a blanket. Pushing aside the blanket, he lifted two objects from the box. They weighed about twenty pounds each, and were easy to carry back to the library, after he double locked the door behind him. He laid the objects on the library table. Mariko showed intense interest; Dolphy and Sal’s expressions revealed similar interest. Kate knew already everything there was to know about them. Hands had read Joy’s written instructions for using them—apparently she had run a test duplicates to ascertain what they could do before traveling back in time—and Kate had tested him on their use. Twice. By their nature, there could be no actual test run. Each of the others in turn hefted one, tried sighting with its 2.5X telescopic sight, and then turned it around in their hands. As they did, they noticed the lens-like glass inserted inside the barrel. “What that?” Mariko asked Hands, pointing. “It protect against dirt?” “No,” Dolphy said. “I used a glass cutter and just the right size of bottle bottom. Remember when I was all over Fort Hope, looking at one bottle after another? Well, that is the bottom I cut off a half-gallon milk bottle, edged to fit. It looks like a lens, doesn’t it.” Mariko looked at it again, and nodded. Hands then opened an Old Virginia Cheroots cigar box he’d also brought with him, and dumped its contents—several dozen labels of various kinds—on the table. He told the others, “Take a label or two and paste it on your luggage. I’ll also attach some to those tubes and their special cases.” “Where did you get all these?” Sal asked. “At Caltech, in a department that teaches this sort of thing. I just told the department secretary that I was an amateur and president of a

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club. I said that many of us would be traveling with our own instruments. She just went to her files and pulled out those labels and put them in the cigar box for me.” Kate watched him with bright eyes and a little smile. She sat back, almost out of the way, so she wouldn’t distract the others from him and what was on the table. They all had their specific preparations to do, but this got to the essence of their trip. Finally, Hands opened the folder that he had brought with him when the meeting started. “Mariko typed this out on Joy’s laptop. I don’t know how she knows what to do. The thing is still magic to me. I think it’s made for women’s minds.” Sal nodded vigorously and quipped, “Yes, it is what Joy called a laptop, isn’t it?” Dolphy groaned, and Mariko leaned toward him for an explanation. After he’d provided it with shake of his head, Mariko narrowed her eyes and frowned, shaking her finger at Sal. “I no laptop. I decent woman.” Sal blushed and exploded into words. “No, no, Mariko. I don’t mean to say—” He stopped dead when he saw the grin creeping across her face. Hands whooped, and Kate clapped. When they quieted down, Dolphy handed the printouts to each of them, and Hands said, “You must memorize what is written there so you can repeat it when we get to Turkey. The last pages define all the strange words. I don’t want you to get bored during the trip. So, I’ll be asking you questions about what is on those sheets.” He looked at Kate. “You too,” he commanded, and gave her a stern look. She smiled and nodded. Sal scanned a few paragraphs, then looked up with raised eyebrows and round eyes. “How did you learn all this stuff?” he asked. “I don’t know half these words. I can’t even pronounce them.” “I didn’t know them either at first, and I still don’t know most of them,” Hands answered. “I asked the secretary what’s new, and she showed me a newsletter. I guess it gets passed around to these people, and mailed from one university to another. I asked if I could keep one, and she gave it to me. I looked in the dictionary and encyclopedia—and asked Kate—to find out what these words meant, and I wrote it down. Mariko typed it and added it to the stuff from the newsletter.” “Used your charm, did you,” Sal said. “No. Mariko volunteered.” With a glance at Kate, Hands grinned and added, “Anyway, she is married to my good friend Dolphy.” Kate finally said something. “Sal, he would charm a female snake out of her skin. He charmed me, didn’t he?” She tilted her head and batted her eyelashes at him.

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Sal couldn’t hide the envy that crept into his eyes. He lifted his head and looked at her, his expression as serious as it ever got, and told her, “Kate, Hands is a lucky man. I still want to meet your unmarried female relatives and make them as lucky as Hands. Now that I will be in Germany with you—” Hands broke in, waving at the two instruments on the table. “Everyone, please read the instructions on these things. Mariko is typing them up. I will give them to you tomorrow. Consider them something more to break the boredom of the train trips and voyages. On the ships, every day, we will practice with the devices. You know, just like I used to practice hitting a baseball. After a while, you get good at it. And we will have to be damn good with these things.” Hands looked at Kate and gave a slight nod—her signal to follow up. She said in a voice that revealed her fatigue, “Okay folks, again, take out your notes and follow along with me. This is what we plan to do . . . .”

Chapter 36 November 15–16, 1912 Turkey Kate

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al roused the others from their cabins and told them they were going through a strait of some sort, and Kate and the others joined him at the bow of the two-stack, five-deck Caronia. Kate brought her map of the eastern Mediterranean, Ionian Sea, and Aegean with her. She had been tracing their ship’s passage through this region so rich in ancient history, and after studying the map with her back to the wind, she told them, “We are passing through the Gulf of Corinth. It divides the Greek Peloponnesus to the south, on the starboard side,” she swept her hand in that direction, “from the Greek mainland to the north, on the port side.” Another sweep of her hand. “The Gulf is now narrowing, and you can just see off in the distance, to starboard, the famous city of Corinth. We will soon pass through the Corinth Canal, which is little more than six kilometers long.” “How many miles is that?” Sal asked. “Oh, about four miles. Sorry. I forgot you Americans have a queer way of measuring things—” “You just don’t want to be caught with our foot in your mouth,” Hands deadpanned. Kate stared at him for a moment, then raised her eyes to the sky. Dolphy started to snicker. She shook her head, and then consulted her notes and continued. “We pass into the Saronic Gulf, then steam past the island of Salamis, and about . . . ah, five miles—” she looked askance at Hands “—off on the port side sits Athens and its port of Piraeus. We will stop there for several hours to let off passengers and pick up some more, bound for Turkey. Too bad we don’t have the time to be tourists. What an opportunity missed! I’d love to see the ancient Greek ruins, such as the Acropolis. Maybe on another trip.” They all stayed on the bow as the Caronia passed through the Corinth Canal and in little more than an hour rounded the southern shore of Salamis. Soon the ship approached the southeast side of Piraeus, where

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it dropped anchor. Two Greek tenders came out of the port, bringing sixteen passengers bound for Turkey. They took aboard 273 of the ship’s 731 passengers. Kate and the others had gone to Hands’ cabin to go through their simulation with the tubes, and to test themselves with what they should know. When they heard the warning whistle announcing the ship’s departure, they again headed for the bow. Kate showed them on the map she brought with her where they would be going next. As the ship pulled out of the port, she pointed out, “In about forty kil—twenty-five miles, we’ll round the point of the Greek peninsula at Cape Sounion, take a couple of hours to steam through the Cyclades Islands, and soon be into the Aegean Sea. Come a little after dawn, at this ship’s eighteen knots, we will pass by the point on the Turkish coast where, a few miles inland, the famous city of Troy once stood. Then we’ll enter the Dardanelles—what the ancients called the Hellespont. I’ve really been looking forward to this.” “Why?” Sal asked. “I saw it all in a nickelodeon movie. For five cents. A lot cheaper than this boat trip.” Kate stared at him aghast, then she saw the little grin he couldn’t quite hide, and bopped him on the head with her map. They all stayed on the bow, even though the easterly wind turned from chilly to cold as the ship steamed into it. Their coats flapped about them. Sal tried to light his Abajo cigar five times; even with his back to the wind and huddled into his coat, he was unsuccessful, and finally gave up. No one wore a hat, having learned that lesson soon after they steamed out of New York on the Campania, when Mariko lost her beautiful French sailor-style hat overboard. As the western clouds turned fiery, mottled red and orange with white and yellow streaking their bottoms and blue-black running across their tops, the sun disappeared below the Greek mainland, now southwest of them. Soon it was too dark to see anything but the lights of one island after another, ships’ navigation lights, and the lights of the few fishing boats making for port. They headed to the ship’s lounge for a late dinner. When morning came, they skipped breakfast and hastened to what had become their territory on the bow. They watched as the Caronia slowly approached the Dardanelles Strait. Kate again became their tour director. “When I took a course on modern history at Oxford, my professor constantly referred to the great importance of the Dardanelles Straits controlled by Turkey. It’s about forty-three miles long and separates Europe from Asia. As we pass through, you will see that the land is very close on

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both sides in places. He told us that the Persians built boat bridges to cross the Strait and invade Europe in ancient times, and Alexander the Great led the Macedonians across the Strait to invade Asia. It will take us several hours to get through the Strait, and then we will enter the Sea of Marmara, which is about 171 miles long—it probably will take us around nine hours to reach Constantinople, which is near the northeastern end.” She took out her map of Constantinople, already folded to show where they would be docking, and laid it down on the raised lid to the forward compartment so that they all could see it. Using her finger to trace the direction, she said, “Here is where we will enter the Bosphorus from the Sea of Marmara, steam past Seraglio Point and the Golden Horn, and dock at Galata, the northern European part of Constantinople.” Hands cleared his throat. “If our beautiful tour director will allow me,” he said, and pointed to the first of the bridges crossing the Golden Horn on the map. “After we dock, our hotel bus will be waiting for us. It will take us across the Galata Bridge, here. We will end up at our hotel in this section.” He leaned forward and peered at the map. “The Sultanahmet.” Dolphy asked rhetorically, “Why do the Turks make the names so difficult? It’s almost as bad as Japan.” “You joke, yes?” Mariko asked solemnly. Dolphy tweaked her nose. “Of course.” Hands ignored them. Still pointing, he said, “The Young Turks have their offices there. We can walk to them from our hotel.” The wind had changed direction and warmed up. It was now coming from the west, almost directly behind the Caronia, and its force was almost completely cancelled out for the passengers by the ship’s speed of twelve to fifteen knots through the Strait. Sal was finally able to light his cigar, and took a deep puff. Dolphy exclaimed to Hands, “I’m impressed. Where did you two learn all this?” “From our Turkish tutor, who was from Constantinople. He was really very helpful on all the geography around here.” Mariko said, “I hope you give him good tip.” “Oh yes,” Kate responded. “Fifty dollars.”

Kate Just before their ship docked in Constantinople, Kate and Hands gathered the others in their small cabin. It was crowded, but this just made it more intimate and appropriate for what had to be said.

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Once all were settled and looking at her expectedly, Kate warned, “Soon it is all going to be real. No more preparation, no more playacting, but real danger. I don’t know what’s in store for us, personally or as a team. We may succeed. Some or all of us may be killed. We could be captured.” Then the steel entered her voice that the others had not heard since she told them of her brother’s death and her torture. She separated the words as though each were on a plate of its own. “I will not be captured. I will not suffer torture again. I will die or shoot myself first. End of script.” Then she softened her tone. “Hands and I have an agreement. If it looks like we are about to be captured, if we are running out of ammunition in a gun battle, say, we have agreed to shoot each other with our last bullets.” She put her hand on Hands’ arm and looked at the others. Her voice softened further. “As our best friends and partners, I want you, Mariko, Dolphy, and Sal, to promise to kill us if we are wounded and cannot kill ourselves.” Mariko said, “Hai. Of course. And same for Dolphy and me. Yes?” Hands and Kate nodded, and then she and Mariko looked at Sal. His slightly olive complexion had paled. He tightly gripped one arm with his hand, and the muscles of his face seemed strained between obstinacy and heartbreak. He tried to say something, but could not at first. Then it came out in a flood. “Hands and Dolphy—they saved me. I was a bum. I would have gone to jail forever. I would have—I was miserable. I met them—they are my best friends. Yes. For what they did for me . . . I would . . . kill them so that they would not be captured.” He turned away. None of them had seen this side of Sal before. Dolphy and Hands went to him, put their hands on his back, and Dolphy said, “Thank you, Sal. We all will do the same for you.”

Hands Finally they arrived at the Port of Constantinople, along the shore at Karaköy. Hands would have skipped down the gangplank had he not been carrying two suitcases. He had been seasick during the first days of their voyage across the Atlantic on the old, wave-bouncing Campania, and even at its average twenty knots an hour from New York to Liverpool to Lisbon, it didn’t get there fast enough for him. He’d hardly had a chance to enjoy solid ground under his feet before they left for Turkey on the Caronia, the day after their arrival in Lisbon. The

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Caronia never met a wave on which it didn’t enjoy teetering. Even in the calmer Mediterranean he sometimes felt nauseous. He had never been at sea until he was hired by John in 1906 and took his first voyage to Europe with John and Joy to set up their company offices. Then he met Kate, and so he had no regrets. Still, he hated these ships. He hated deep water. He hated the confinement. But now they were here, and he closed his mind to the return ocean voyages they would have to take. As they waited in line under the sign English Speakers Here to go through Turkish customs, Kate looked around, then leaned toward Hands and whispered, “I wonder if there are any security agents watching us.” “Jy-ying would have known,” Hands whispered back. “But they could be everywhere and I wouldn’t know what subtle signs to watch for.” Kate shook her head, looking frustrated. “I wish we had some training in such things.” Finally their turn came. A smiling customs man looked through the suitcases and trunks they had put on the customs table, all bearing such labels as HARVARD, CALTECT OBSERVATORY, STAR GAZERS, ASTRONOMICAL EQUIPMENT INSIDE, and FRAGILE—LENSES. His search was cursory, and the false bottoms in their suitcases and trunks remained undiscovered. He made no comment on the cheap 3x and 4x hand telescopes and binoculars, the star and astronomy books, and the box labeled LENSES. He opened the long cases that had several labels pasted on them: FRAGILE ASTRONOMICAL EQUIPMENT and another warning DO NOT SHAKE and yet a third that read TELESCOPE—DO NOT DROP. He saw only two tubes lying on a spongy base, each with the labels FRAGILE, HANDLE WITH CARE and TELESCOPE affixed to them. Picking one up and looking at it from one end to another, he asked, “What is this for?” Hands suppressed his laughter and tried to look bored. As his facial muscles struggled with the contradiction, he managed to say, “Oh, it’s our telescope. You see this?” He pointed to the telescopic sight. “We find the star we are looking for through that. Then we use the bigger tube to sight on it. You can see the lens at the end of the tube.” “Why this?” He pointed to the trigger. “It triggers a camera. We sight on the stars we want. We pull the trigger. A camera inside takes a picture of the stars we see. It’s a special camera. Does x-rays and gamma-rays, and all that.” The customs official’s smile disappeared. “Why Turkey? Why come from America to do this?”

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Hands pursed his lips and waved his hand as if to say, “Don’t you know anything?” In a tone of dismissal, he answered, “For astronomers, Turkey has the clearest skies in Europe. Astronomers love it. We hope to travel to the top of Bakirlitepe or Nemrut Mountain to look at the stars.” Hands raised his head to jut his chin out at the customs man. “Bakirlitepe is 8,356 feet high. Nemrut is 7,237 feet high. Both are perfect for our observations, you know.” The official tilted his head to the side, his dark brow creased into furrows. He asked, “You have no mountains in America?” Kate and the others put on amused expressions. Hands shook his head and again waved at the tubes. “We are amateur astronomers. We want to test the theory of Henrietta Leavitt.” He sighed. “I guess you don’t know about her. She works at Harvard Observatory.” He put the emphasis on “Harvard,” as though that should turn on a lightbulb above the man’s head. It only elicited deeper furrows. Hands went on. “She works on the light from certain kinds of stars. Light has different brightnesses. Like a dim bulb.” Hands held his hands up a small distance apart. “Or a bright bulb.” He quickly thrust his hands as wide apart as he could. “She found that certain stars take longer for their light to vary in brightness.” Hands accompanied that with a wavy hand. “They are called Cepheid variable stars.” That called for a desultory flick of his hand. He waited again, as though that should be enough explanation. The official tilted his head further. Hands tried to look exasperated. “Well now, her work is very, very important. If it’s true, we can measure the distance to the stars.” He stopped and looked at the official. “Do you know the distance from the United Stares of America to Turkey?” The man looked blank. Hands had it memorized. “It’s 4,980 miles . . . oh, yes—many more kilometers . . . from New York to Constantinople. Well now, since the distance between the United States of America and Turkey is so great, it gives us a new angle—the distance in miles is the base of a triangle, as in land surveying—a new angle on these stars from which to check her findings about the distance to the stars.” Dolphy, who was standing next to Hands, asked incredulously, “Don’t you want to know the distance to the stars?” The official continued to look blankly at them for a moment, then, seeming to come to a decision, he stamped their entry permits and waved them by. After leaving the customs table with all their luggage and passing through a gate, they were immediately surrounded by shouting baggage

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men, two of whom picked up their luggage and shoved it all on a cart without asking. Hands shrugged, and followed them through the highroofed passenger terminal to exit on Rihtim Street, where their Ambassador Hotel bus waited. The baggage men gestured for Hands and the others to get on first. Once they had taken their seats, the baggage men piled all the luggage on seats around them. The bus itself was a 1906 flatbed Mack truck on which twelve straw seats had been bolted, poles tied to the sides of the bed, and canvas laid over the top. The bus driver, nowhere to be seen, had left the motor running, no doubt to avoid having to use the crank. The whole bus shook with the motor’s clanking. Hands gave each porter twenty-five cents, and thought they were going to kiss his boots. Hands had asked their tutor about the use of American money in Turkey before leaving, and he’d explained, “It is good everywhere there. But find out the exchange rate so you are not robbed.” With the current exchange rate of nine Turkish Lira to one dollar, the twenty-five cent tip was the equivalent of two dollars and twenty-five cents in Turkish money. Once they’d rearranged their luggage on, around, and under them so they wouldn’t lose or forget any, Mariko asked loud enough to be heard above the rattling of the bus, “How baggage men know what hotel we stay in?” The yelling of those in the swirling crowd outside—street vendors and passengers trying to get a taxi or find their limousines or buses—seemed to increase, as did the scraping and banging as more passengers clambered onto the bus, dragging their luggage and trunks along with them. Kate’s face tightened and she rubbed her arm. She stood up in the aisle to make sure she faced the others. Trying to keep her voice low, she said, “First, let’s be sure. Did anyone say a word about our hotel?” In one way or another, they all said, “No.” “Is there anything on our documentation to indicate our hotel?” Each checked what documentation they had shown or received, and repeated, “No.” The bus was almost half full, and she was blocking the aisle. Kate squeezed close to the seats and motioned for them to put their heads together. “Somebody knows we’re here, or the hotel has some way of communicating with the baggage men,” she whispered. Sal interjected softly, “Or they have some other way of knowing.” “We have to assume the worst,” Kate continued. “No talking in our hotel rooms, other than small talk. There may be a peephole in the wall with something to enhance our voice on the other side. Eyes and ears open, people. Paranoia is the rule.” She sat down next to Hands.

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In the seat in front of them, Mariko turned to Dolphy. “What paranoia?” Dolphy leaned over and asked Sal in front of him, but he shook his head. He then half stood to turn and look back at Hands, and asked him. Hands shrugged and looked at Kate. “Oh,” she said. She leaned forward so that they all could hear her, and raised her voice above the noise. “It comes from a German admirer of my acting, Sigmund Freud, who has been developing a theory about why some people are crazy, and how to cure them. The word is his, which he uses all the time. To Freud, people who have paranoia believe people are after them, trying to hurt them or do them in.” Sal turned in his seat to look back at her, and shouted, “What if someone really is trying to do them in?” “Then it’s realism. Anyway,” she hunched forward so that only they could hear, “what I’m trying to say is, we have to think that everyone we meet in Turkey, even the little boy in knickers hawking newspapers, might be—cancel that—is a Young Turk security agent, including those sitting around us.” She swiveled her eyes toward two passengers across the aisle. As Kate sat back, Sal grinned and said loudly enough for the other passengers to hear, “I can’t wait to get you all in bed.” Mariko leaned over the back of his seat and tried to hit him in the shoulder, but he dodged and laughed. “Oh boy,” Hands said, “I can’t wait either.” And he tried to deflect Kate’s elbow thrust into his side, without success. “Ouch,” he exclaimed. “ Now, I won’t be able to function. Sorry, Sal.” He doubled over laughing. Laughing as well, Dolphy tried to shout, “I’m first,” but it bubbled out as, “I kurst.” Mariko turned around to Kate and yelled, “Men so stupid.” “Yes,” Kate said, “they’ve got more ear wax than brains.”

Chapter 37 November 16, 1912 Kate

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hey were not going to waste time. They were not going to wait, or be tourists. They had a job to do, and if they succeeded, they would play tourists for the rest of the week and leave for Italy on the Barbarosa on the 21st as scheduled, and from there head to Germany by train. They each knew what came next. They had reviewed and reviewed their plans during the voyages on the Campania and Caronia. They only made small talk in their hotel rooms and in the Ambassador’s Lobby Bar or Grill Restaurant. Only when they were outside, in a European-style restaurant or cafe they picked almost at random, did they review again what they we going to do, to be sure they were all coordinated. They remembered the advice Buruk gave to John and Jy-ying about what to wear so they wouldn’t be too conspicuous, although that they were visitors would be obvious from their faces and behavior. As women, Kate and Mariko had a special problem. Turkish Muslim women had to hide their bodies, Muslim clerics claimed, so they would not inflame the men. They customarily wore the hajab—a loose, footlength garment, and a veil. To blend in as much as possible with the Turks, Kate and Mariko bought from the Ambassador’s small clothes shop black, hajab-like clothing that covered their bodies, and gray scarves to wear around their heads and tie under their chins. When Sal first saw them in these clothes, he whistled. He warned Dolphy and Hands, “You’d better stay close to your women—they’re red-hot meat to the men here. And I don’t know how I’m going to sleep tonight, if you know what I mean.” Many of the professional men and officials wore western-type suits, although looser in cut than what Americans preferred. They were often worn with a red fez. So Dolphy and Sal bought wool worsted single-breasted suits, and Hands got a gray sack suit. In place of a hat, they each bought a distinctive wool felt fez, burgundy with a detachable black tassel.

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Kate whistled at Sal when she saw him in his new clothes. “Wow,” she exclaimed, “the Turkish women are going to fight to get you under their hajabs. I might have to keep Hands under mine to preserve his virtue.” She looked at a grinning Mariko, and commented with a sigh, “I’m going to have a hard time sleeping tonight, if you know what I mean.” Dressed in their new clothes, they headed for the streets they had thoroughly studied on an official Turkish government map of Constantinople that Buruk had left with them. Although uncomfortable in her sacklike clothes, Kate was pleased by how well the Turkish clothing could hide their weapons. They left the hotel at the Divanyolu Sokagi entrance and headed east toward the huge, multibuilding Topkapi Palace, where the Young Turks centered their regime. It had been the palace of the sultans who had ruled the Ottoman Empire, and was where they had kept their harems. Leading the others, Kate passed along the confusing welter of streets, avenues, and alleys in this ancient center of the city, almost breathless upon seeing the Byzantine and Ottoman Monuments, such as St. Sophia, the Blue Mosque, and the Basilica Cistern, but determined not even to slow down to absorb their beauty. They didn’t think to watch out for anyone who might be following them. They came to the north-south Alemdar Caddesi, the avenue that fronted Gülhane Parki—the park area of the Topkapi Palace. They turned left onto it and the avenue soon turned into Taya Hatun Sokagi, perfect for what they intended to do. They had no difficulty finding Nöbethane Caddesi, which led off it to the west at a right angle. They stopped in amazement. “I’ll be damned,” Hands exclaimed. They had hoped they would find an accessible window on Taya Hatun overlooking the corner intersection with Nöbethane. Fortunately, in this part of the old city, there were few private homes, small stores, or vendors about. Most buildings were owned by large businesses or the government. Moreover, Constantinople could become stifling hot in the summer, so most windows could be opened. What they now found was ideal: a sandy gray brick building that was three stories high. Its entrance was wide and high and at sidewalk level, and at the top of the building’s flagpole flew the Ottoman Empire’s— Turkey’s—1844 flag, a white crescent and star on a red background. It was then that Kate realized that this building was attached to a golden-domed mosque. They knew from their map that the mosque was there, but not that it included this building. No matter. The building apparently was a school, since young boys were going in and out of two

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doors with books in their hands. With its back to the Gülhane Parki and its second and third floor windows not only overlooking the intersection of Taya Hatun and Nöbethane, but down Nöbethane as well, Hands followed his exclamation with, “It couldn’t be better.” Kate told the others, “Take out your notebooks or pads and pencils, and look observant, as though you’re taking down notes. Walk smartly, as if you know where you are going. Men, lead.” Sal chuckled. “Of course. I like Turkey.” They walked into the school and found themselves in a high foyer with halls leading off right and left, and stairs to the front. There were just boys around, a few sitting on the steps. No guards, no adults. They took the stairs to the second floor. As they reached it, two adults going down the long hall in opposite directions passed by them without a glance. One of them had on a turban and wore wire spectacles and a long, flowing white robe. His beard was even whiter. The stairs also went to the third floor, which they took without hesitation. On the third floor, the stairs narrowed and rose to a door giving entrance to the roof. There was a sign in Turkish adjacent to the stairs, which probably forbade the students from going up. With Hands leading, they turned to the right and walked down the hallway until they came to the end and found a fire escape. Then they walked back to the other end and another fire escape, each time looking into the rooms on the side overlooking the street from which they’d entered the school. Two rooms appeared to be school offices, and three were classrooms, each with their doors open, two of them being used. They entered the third classroom and looked around. No blackboard, just a low table down the center of the room, with cushions scattered around it. The walls held two photographs: one an enlargement of Minister of the Interior Talaat, and the second of Enver Pasha, the Minister of War. They went to the chest-high window and tried to open it. With a little tugging, it come up two feet. No problem. It looked down Nöbethane Caddesi at a slight angle. No problem there, either. “Jeez,” Hands exclaimed. “Joy, John, and Jy-ying must be helping us. This is too easy.”

Hands They could do this any day of the week but Friday, a special day when, for appearances, the leading Young Turks attended the prayer session at the Süleymaniye Mosque. They would do it today, Sunday. No waiting.

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At 7:00 p.m. they entered the school. The front doors were not locked, and the hallways were nearly empty, except for two robed adults chatting at the end of the first floor hallway. They climbed to the third floor and the room they had picked, entered, and closed the door behind them. No one would guard the stairs or the door to the room. They saw no need to deny themselves participation in the revenge they sought. It was a school. It was after nightfall. It was nearly deserted. And they all were heavily armed. Hands opened the central window. They took their tubes out of their “astronomical cases.” Hands pulled out the instructions and Joy’s notes, and each of them ensured they had their adjustable flashlights with special shades. They would use the lights only if absolutely necessary, and only under a blanket they’d brought. Otherwise, they would do this in the dark. They had the details, gleaned from articles and newspaper items on the Young Turks. As rulers of a nation, especially one at war, there was a special interest in them and their activities. Numerous stories had been written on each of them, in English, and in the German and French that Kate knew. Buruk had translated some articles from Turkish for John and Jy-ying, once they’d expressed an interest in the lives of the Young Turk rulers, and their tutors had translated others. They’d gathered much useful information about the activities and routines of Talaat and Enver, especially. All they needed to do was organize the information into a plan of action, study a good map of Constantinople, and ask their tutors what they believed were innocent questions. They now knew that anywhere between 7:30 and 8:15 p.m., two armored cars would travel from the Topkapi Palace offices to the famous Pierre Loti Cafe. There, in a special room with the best view of the Golden Horn and the Constantinople skyline, they would drink, smoke hashish with their friends and colleagues, and discuss the day’s events and their policies or problems. A special meeting room was reserved for them, and they sometimes invited favored Turkish journalists, writers, and artists to join them. Their resulting praise of the Young Turks provided many of the clues that ultimately brought Hands and the others to this window. Now, they would not have long to wait.

Chapter 38 7:45 p.m. Kate

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ands opened one case and took out the weapon they had practiced with so much. Mariko retrieved the other one. She had absolutely insisted she be the second “shooter.” Eyes ablaze, in a husky tone at odds with her usual smooth, feminine voice, she told Kate, “I do it. They kill my dear friends; they kill those who only want to save lives—millions. I kill them for this.” Dolphy had nodded and patted Mariko on the back. “She has samurai blood in her.” So, Mariko hefted the other tube. At twenty pounds and thirty-five inches in length, it was not too heavy or clumsy for her. Only briefly did they hold the weapons, sighting through their telescopes on carts, horses, and the occasional automobile going up Nöbethane Caddesi. They had done this sighting practice on such a variety of objects so frequently, including flying fish and porpoises during their voyages, that they were as comfortable with the tubes as a deer hunter with his favorite rifle. These were one-shot weapons. They would be useless, and could only be thrown away, once used. The instructions assured them that they could be fired in an enclosed space. Kate again shook her head over the weapon’s unbelievably long name—Multipurpose Individual Munition/Short-Range Assault Weapon. She’d had no idea it was the actual designation of a 2002 American weapon. It was impossible to remember. So she just called it the tube, which caught on with the others. Hands removed the fake lenses from the tubes, and put them down near the window. He sat down near Mariko on the low table in the middle of the room, patted her knee, and gave her a little nod. She returned it. Sal and Dolphy kept watch at the window, while Kate stood back watching them all, ready to jump in at the slightest problem. She knew what their active participation in this meant to them. She herself had never met John and Jy-ying.

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They would use the one window. There were two more a distance away, but the angle was not as good. They wanted to make sure they got the first limousine, so they would do it one at a time. Their weapons had a range of about two thousand feet, which gave them a lot of discretion as to when to fire. They all looked out the window and tried to locate a landmark that would set the two thousand foot limit. They thought it was a leaning telephone pole up the street. They would try to fire when the first vehicle was almost halfway there, which would be adjacent to the shop with a bright red awning in front of it. Hands would go first. If he were successful, this would allow reasonable time for Mariko to hit the second limousine. They heard the sirens, honking, and engine noise of all the vehicles coming down Taya Hatun Sokagi before they saw them. Hands took up his position at the window with the tube in hand. The others stood off to the side.

Hands Hands stood a little back from the window so the tube would not jut outside. Mariko picked up hers and stood against the wall next to the window. When the convoy came into view, Hands saw that it was led by two red-helmeted motorcycle policemen, followed by a German Borgward truck with security personnel, rifles in hand, in the back. Then came the two heavily armored, six-wheeled limousines, each made in France by Charron, Girardot & Voight off a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost body. The sides had an inch of battleship steel and the floors, two inches, to protect against mines. Only the tops were thinner. The French had guaranteed that no weapon in existence, not even the new tank shells, would penetrate their armor. The first car would contain Talaat and probably Enver, who often rode with him. The second armored limousine would carry Nazim and Bey, if the stories were correct. In these two limousines were the top Young Turks. Behind them was another truck of troops, with two motorcycle policemen following on their noisy German bikes. Four more motorcycle policemen rode alongside the limousines, to head off any bomb throwers. The police never cleared the streets beforehand, confident that they were completely safe, and that their sirens and horns would open the way for them.

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The convoy was making the slow left turn up Nöbethane Caddesi. Hands yelled above the noise, “Ready,” to be certain everyone was out of the way behind him. He raised the tube to his shoulder, sighted through the telescopic sight as the convoy accelerated up the street, and held his breath. NOW. As Joy had taught him in firing his Colt on their firing range, he applied firm and steady pressure to the trigger, and the two-stage, 5.5 inch, 14.1 pound missile blasted from the tube. The missile traveled slowly at first, the reason it could be fired from the classroom, but it quickly accelerated to its full 560 miles per hour. Its internal sensors knew where Hands had aimed it, and its guidance and control unit directed the missile’s flight, correcting it as necessary. As the missile flew over the first limousine, its control unit launched its warhead down toward the automobile’s roof. When it hit the roof, a dual laser and magnetic fuse exploded the penetrating part of the warhead, blasting open the roof for the rest of the warhead—a fragmentation grenade—to shoot inside the limo and explode itself, surely killing all inside. The explosion was surprisingly small—more a pop than a bang. The armor and the bulletproof windows contained the killing explosion at first, making it even deadlier, and damping the sound. Then the bulletproof windows blew out. The second limousine was still moving as Mariko sighted on it and pulled the trigger. In less than a second, its windows popped out as well. Mariko still held the weapon to her shoulder as the others converged on her and Hands to pat them on the back and quietly congratulate them. Dolphy had to take the weapon from her and toss it aside. She started crying into her hands. Kate yelled at them all, “Quick, we have to get out of here while there is confusion on the street.” They turned to hurry out. The door to the classroom burst open and banged against its stop with a loud thunk. Soldiers with rifles and bayonets rushed in. Behind them were more helmets, more rifles and bayonets.

Chapter 39 7:45 p.m. November 16, 1912 London Mari Demirchyan

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oom 209 of the Russell Hotel had remained vacant since the murders of John and Jy-ying. First, Scotland Yard had declared it a crime scene, and denied the hotel its use. After Scotland Yard’s investigation was complete and they turned the room back over to the hotel, the room had such a reputation in the tabloid press as a scene of mass murder and rape that hotel guests refused to stay in it, although they made sure to walk down the hallway where the room was located and gawk at its closed door. Something stirred the dusty air in the middle of the stuffy, dark room. The faint disturbance rapidly accelerated; the wisps of a shape formed and solidified into a young woman wearing a tight and revealing uniform. Lenses that enabled her to see in the dark covered her eyes. Mari immediately looked around, wrinkling her nose at the smell in the room. She looked down at her side to make sure the machine was with her, and pressed something on its top to light up its instrument panel and initiate its communication with her. The machine mentally informed her of its status, and she doublechecked this against the instruments. She had prepared its coordinates before coming here and it was ready. She unlocked the switch. Mari took a deep breath and asked herself for the thousandth time, “Do I want to do this? Am I sure? I can still back out.” And as she did each time, she thought of the piles of bodies, the rivers of blood, the tortured and enslaved, the loss of freedom everywhere, and she shuddered. “Yes, it’s worth it. Funny, in my wildest dreams I never thought I would be a criminal. Now I’m the worst kind—a traitor to my profession. A traitor to my cause.” A tear rolled down her cheek as she reached for the switch. “I’m so sorry, Mom and Dad. I love you, my dearest Henry. But this, I must do.” She hit the switch, and with a vibrant hum the machine immediately began to build up the immense force necessary. Now, it was all automatic. Now, she could only wait.

Chapter 40 8:14 p.m.

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queezing between the soldiers piling into the room, a man, obviously an officer, pointed a handgun at them and yelled in English, “You are under arrest. Hands up.” Kate shouted, “I love you, Hands. To the death!” She threw herself forward to sprawl behind the low center table and whipped her Luger out of her purse. Just as the officer took aim at her, Hands shot him with his Colt and jumped toward the table to be by Kate’s side. The soldiers froze, momentarily stunned by the shooting of their officer. Before they could recover, Sal yelled, “Fuckers!” and whipped out his throwing knife. With the knife in his right hand and his Colt in the other, he attacked the nearest soldiers, gun blazing. Sal stabbed two and shot two more before they could move. As the soldiers screamed and fell, those behind them crushed back against the others, pushing and being pushed into the room, jamming their rifles against their bodies. Sal got inside the rifles of those in front, where they could not level them on him, but he got too close. One solder slid around those in front, got his rifle free, and swung its bayonet around as though throwing a shovel full of dirt. The bayonet caught Sal in the side. The soldier jerked the bayonet out and was about to do it again when Sal twisted around and shot him in the face. Another soldier got his rifle free. His shot slammed into Sal’s lower chest. Sal dropped to his knees, swinging his knife back and forth before him, fanning the empty air. More shots rang out, and more. Sal collapsed to the floor. Mariko had been on the opposite side of the door from Sal, and when he attacked from his side, she rushed to be against the opposite wall by the door. She kept shooting into the swarm of soldiers until her Colt only clicked. She threw the Colt at the nearest soldier as though it were a knife, hitting him in the face with it. She reached under her hajab and grabbed the personal knife every samurai’s woman carried. Swinging it two-handed like a samurai sword, she sliced, cut, and thrust into the soldiers at the door.

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Dolphy stood against a far wall, firing his Colt at any soldier threatening Mariko. When his Colt only clicked, he ran for a rifle lying near a soldier’s body. A bullet caught him in the leg, tripping him, sending him sprawling on his stomach. Another bullet bit into his side. He reached for the rifle, grabbed it, and pointed it toward the soldiers. Another bullet dug into his right shoulder. His right hand convulsed; he dropped the rifle. The chaos in and around the door got worse as officers in the hallway, unable to see inside the room but hearing the incredible noise of battle, ordered their men to shove against those in the doorway. As they did so, those in front, trying to get out of the line of fire, tripped and fell over the bodies piling up in front of them. As they slipped and slid on the blood, their long rifles with bayonets affixed proved an awkward hindrance in this close-fought battle. The smarter of them who stayed where they were tripped, or soon dropped onto their stomachs and tried to use the fallen soldiers’ bodies as shields. A bayonet sliced Mariko’s arm to the bone; a bullet slammed into her hip. She went to one knee, still swinging the knife with her good hand. She caught one solder in the leg just as another bullet went through her neck, shattering vertebra and almost severing her head from her body. Dolphy tried to crawl toward Mariko’s body, but two soldiers rushed over to him and stabbed him in the back with their bayonets before they were shot down. The room was now a maelstrom of screams, yells, thuds, billowing gun smoke, and falling, jerking, crawling men. Bullets whizzed every which way, like angry wasps whose nest had been invaded. On her stomach behind the low table, Kate coolly aimed her Luger over it and shot the soldiers one after another, until she ran out of ammunition. She ducked down and loaded a second clip from her purse, then aimed and fired that until a soldier slithered along the wall where Sal had been, got down on one knee, aimed, and shot her through the eye. Hands screamed when he saw her slumped body—a scream that turned into an enraged howl. He fired rapidly into the soldiers until he ran out of ammunition. He grabbed Kate’s Luger and fired the few remaining rounds. As he crawled around the table to a rifle that a dead soldier had dropped, a shot found his shoulder. He shuddered. The arm was useless. Pushing himself with his legs toward the rifle, he reached toward it with his good arm. Another bullet went through the top of his shoulder and drilled deep into his body, holing one organ after another. More bullets smashed into him, their impact making him twitch.

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aaa In three minutes, it was all over. Once the firing stopped and there were only the cries and groans of the wounded, a captain carrying a lantern climbed over the bodies of the dead and dying soldiers who lay around the door and halfway into the room that stank of blood, fear, and human waste. Barely able to see through the clouds of gun powder smoke, he commanded the soldiers still standing to open all the windows. He then checked the bodies of the foreigners with his light. The large male was still twitching. The captain passed his lantern over the man’s body. Clearly, with all the bullet wounds, the man would not survive. The captain took out his pistol and shot him in the back of the head. All the others were dead. His soldiers were already separating their dead and wounded, readying those who would survive to be carried out on stretchers to the trucks waiting at the entrance to the school. Before they did this, the captain made a quick count. Twenty-one of his own were dead, and fifteen wounded. One last time, he looked at the foreigners’ scattered bodies. He could not believe how bravely and fiercely they’d fought. He respected that, and gave them the greatest honor he could bestow as a soldier. “Animals. You fought fearlessly, like wild animals,” he quietly told them.

Chapter 41 9:46 p.m. November 16, 1912 General Logoglu

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eneral Habib Logoglu smoked his pipe and waited. From the loud sirens coming from different directions and the ringing of many phones in his headquarters, he knew the hour had come. He waited—for death, or for the ultimate power over Turkey. He had gambled and flipped the two-sided coin. The stakes were worth it. There was a heavy knock at the door. There it was. One or the other. He picked up his .32 caliber Browning M-1910 and pointed it near his head. He would shoot himself if soldiers were at the door with bayonets fixed to their rifles. “Come in,” he yelled. Captain Ugur Evren opened the door. The General let out a long sigh, put his Browning back in his holster, and asked, “They did it?” “Yes, all the top it oglu it—sons of a dog are dead. Six out of six. They were all riding in the limousines, and the Americans killed them all.” The general held up his hand. “Is this absolutely certain?” “Yes, I made sure. I saw what was left of the bodies. Only three were recognizable, but the others had their identification.” The general went to the door and called for his adjutant. When he appeared, looking crazed with delight at what they were now all hearing over their phones, the general told him, “The domuz—pigs are dead. All of them. Put Plan A into effect immediately.” They had been ready for this, and their soldiers were well placed to take over important government buildings, the armory, the two cruisers anchored in the harbor, and the newspapers and telegraph offices. Word would go out immediately to his loyal divisions throughout the country and on the war front. Young Turk followers who did not give up their weapons and pledge allegiance to General Logoglu would be shot. He closed the door and turned to Captain Evren. “Now we must wait for two hours, until we are in absolute control of the city. Then I

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will issue my proclamation.” He walked back to his metal desk and tapped the document on its neatly arranged surface. He sank heavily into his uncushioned swivel chair, almost sagging with relief. He waved to the hard wooden chair nearby, inviting the captain to sit down. “Amazing, is it not? This coup now underway. We would never have had a chance like this to take over the country, were it not for the ‘amateur astronomers.’” He laughed, blowing out a cloud of pipe smoke. He now felt utterly relaxed; all the tension had blown away with the captain’s first words to him. Now he felt as though he had marched for five miles and had a Swedish massage afterwards, followed by the masseuse herself. He lounged back in his swivel chair and put one foot on the desk. “Hard to believe. A coup carried out at the top by foreigners, and all I need to do is step in and clean up.” He waved toward the window as though encompassing the world. “This has never happened in history. With the exception of the overthrow of monarchs by their relatives, all other coups were carried out by a country’s military forces, with their leaders usually close to the existing regime in some way.” He had studied the history of coups—for obvious reasons. The formula was straightforward: gain a high position and the confidence of the leadership, make sure the important divisional commanders are with you, walk into the president or prime minister’s office, and bang-bang— you’re the new boss. The captain joined him in chuckling over their luck. “We owe them our thanks. But they fought our soldiers so vehemently, I could not save even one of them.” “Well, too bad. After we thanked them, we would have had to quietly execute them anyway.” The general tapped the ash out of his pipe and started refilling it with hookah tobacco. Once he had it refilled and lit, he puffed on it a few times, enjoying its fruity, molasses and fresh tobacco leaves smell. Then he looked at the captain. “I should thank you again for showing me those telegrams from that Turk in America. The ones sent to—what was it, her brother?” “No, her nephew—one of our agents. The nephew showed them to our ambassador, who sent copies to me. She was worried that when the two Americans, Banks and Khoo, were removed in London, her husband Buruk Metin might actually help the others if they tried the same thing. She thought he had become too American. We arranged for him to be removed, but somehow, his wife got killed as well. I think our agents may have tried to rape her and she fought them. If

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she were alive, I would have given her an award for patriotism, even though she thought she was aiding the Young Turks.” General Logoglu puffed on his pipe. “Well, good thing you showed the telegrams to me, and no one else.” He’d been able to place his own agents in shipping, and it was so obvious—five Americans from San Francisco booking passage for Turkey, via Southampton and Lisbon. They might as well have shone a spotlight on themselves. He’d placed his agents in customs and had the Americans followed upon their arrival in Turkey. Once he knew they had looked in the classroom overlooking Talaat’s regular route, it was clear that was where they would carry out their assassination attempt. That’s when he brought in Captain Evren. Captain Evren scratched his head. “I cannot believe how wrong I was about the weapon they used. I was sure they would try to toss a bomb down on the roof of Talaat’s limousine as it passed. They would have had to be very good to hit it, and then if they did, the roof was strong enough to cushion the explosion. Maybe Talaat would have been injured. I could not believe they would try to shoot into those armored automobiles.” “That is what I thought also,” the general admitted. “They would have failed. Then we would have captured them and tortured them about their plan to assassinate the leadership.” And I would have been a hero, and even closer to the Young Turks. Then I would have launched my own coup in a month or so. He blew a puff of smoke toward the ceiling, then pointed the stem of his pipe at the captain. “How did the Americans do it? The mall—stupid Young Turks thought their armored limousines were absolutely invulnerable.” The captain, an acknowledged expert in the more advanced weapons developed in Germany and Britain, shook his head, then looked down at his hands and began rubbing them together. When he looked up, he was frowning, “I don’t know how they did it. They had those tubes they called telescopes—which they were not, as we now know. They fired some kind of shell which hit the limousines, and exploded inside them. How it got through the armor plate, how they were able to aim it perfectly. . . we can’t even get near that accuracy with a cannon.” Leaning toward the captain, the general emphasized his question with the pipe stem. “Were the weapons destroyed?” “No, they are only hollow tubes, now partially destroyed by the exploding powder that fired the shell, I guess.” He returned to his analysis of the weapons themselves. “They were fired from the shoulder— magic! No cannon, large or small, nor even the smallest mortar, can be fired from the shoulder. All require very heavy containment of the shell

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powder’s explosion. We did find instructions on the tubes’ use. I read English, but this seemed a different language to me.” He shrugged. Sitting back, the general put the pipe back in his mouth, puffed for a moment, and then said around the stem, “Well, we will deal with all that when we’re settled in power and can put all our technical people to work on it. We must have such a weapon.” The sound of a boisterous celebration in the outer offices came through the door. The general glanced that way, then turned back to the captain. “Oh yes; I intend to speed up getting rid of those bloodsucking Armenians, and start on the Greeks, as well. We cannot allow them to own our economy and corrupt our Moslem youth. In too many towns and villages, the Armenians and Greeks monopolize business and the shoemaking, horse breeding, and banking trades, among others. We are in a war, and they are allied with our enemies.” The captain nodded. “I was always in favor of it. One of the few things the Young Turks did—” The captain would never complete his sentence. He and the general would never know that they had engineered—rather, participated in—a successful coup that made them rulers of Turkey for two years before they, in turn, were shot and killed in another coup.

Chapter 42 August 24, 1912 London Jy-ying

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t was hot in the bedroom, a typical humid London heat wave, and the open window helped not at all. Prince Wei slept on the floor next to the bed, where it was cooler. They slept naked, with only a sheet partly covering them. John’s body seemed to be producing its own heat wave, so Jy-ying kept a little distance between them, only lightly touching his hip with her fingers. She always had to sleep touching him in some way. She suspected it was because of the insecurity of their lives, the knowledge that a violent death might part them at any moment. Partly for that reason, partly as she’d been trained, she slept like a guard dog, waking instantly at any unusual sound or the slightest movement of the air molecules. She suddenly woke now, with a funny buzzing in her head. It soon disappeared, but she felt in its place a gentle resonance in the air. Her superbly trained body automatically transformed itself into a killing machine even as she tried to locate the source; in a second or so, she heard Prince Wei rumbling deep in his throat. She immediately leaned over and cupped his muzzle, her signal that he be absolutely quiet. She located the sound that had awakened her—their door knob turning, and then the door being slowly pushed open to stop against the chain on the bolt John had thrown before coming to bed. She moved swiftly to cover John’s mouth with her hand. He bolted awake, but her hand told him all he needed to know. The door closed. There was a gentle knock at the door, and a husky voice yelled, “Telegram.” Jy-ying whispered in John’s ear, “Answer it.” She took her hand away. He shouted back, “Wait a moment. I’ll be there.” Jy-ying cupped her hand around his ear and murmured, “Hostiles. No lights.” She automatically drew a mental map of any new room she entered, locating the best fighting spaces and defensive positions, so she knew

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exactly where she wanted to be. The door opened into the suite’s mini foyer. There was not enough room on each side of the door for both of them to stand hidden along the wall when it was opened, but one could stand behind the door as it swung in. The problem was, that left the one who opened the door vulnerable to being shot by whoever was on the other side. But she knew how to work the reaction time of a shooter. “Unbolt the door, jerk it open, and stand behind it,” she whispered. When it came to saving their lives, she was the expert, and he would no more argue with her than with a speeding train. He retrieved the H&K from the holster hanging on a chair several feet from the bed, made sure the safety was off, and pointed it toward the ceiling as he went to the door, barely visible in the dim city light coming in the window. John positioned himself alongside the door and Jy-ying placed Prince Wei a foot behind her. She leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Stay.” She suddenly had the strange feeling that she had gone through this before. She remembered John’s expression for this. “It’s déjà vu all over again,” he would say with a chuckle. She shook her head. No time for this nonsense. She took up her offensive stance. She had no intention of letting the man outside the door rush into the room, ready to kill John—and he could not know that Jy-ying was here. She positioned herself to shock and momentarily paralyze him with her nakedness for the split second she needed. Then her intuition screamed at her: Wrong. Stupid. She could not deny with reason what came out of her body’s years of training—from her self-two. But she did not understand why it objected now. That intuition should have been embodied in the first action she took. But I’m not going to question it. She quickly whispered to John, “Wait.” She got her Taiyang .38 caliber semi-automatic and made sure it was fully loaded. Then she moved to his suit, draped over the back of a chair, and pulled his .40 caliber S&W from the pocket. She handed it to him so he would have two guns. She hid around the corner of the foyer, gun at the ready, body tensed to whip around the corner. She whispered, “Open it!”

Hands Hands heard Bang! . . . Bangbangbang! As he grabbed his Colt from his holster on the chest of drawers, he heard again Bang! Bang!

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Dressed in only his underwear, he unbolted his door, flung it open, and rushed into the hallway with his gun in both hands as Joy had taught him so many years ago. He quickly scanned the hallway with the gun, swinging it from one end to the other. In the gun smoke flowing out of John’s room, he made out a body sprawled in front of the door. He ran forward, put his back against the wall next to the door, and yelled inside, “Hands here. Are you okay?” John yelled back, “Yes. We’ve been doing some target shooting. Come on in.” Hands frowned at that. Holding the gun in front of him again, he jumped around the door jamb and looked inside. A light was on, illuminating one thin and three husky bodies on the floor. Prince Wei was sniffing them, his tail held out from his body and his ears slightly back. Jy-ying leaned over one, checking for signs of life, while John held his gun on one whose arm and leg still moved. Hands was immediately relieved and embarrassed. Jy-ying and John were naked. He lowered his gun and focused on the moving man. John chuckled as though nothing had happened, but Hands caught the release of tension in his voice. “I don’t think they wanted us to meet your fiancée, Hands.”

Epilogue March 21, 2357 Court #12 of the United Democracies Brussels, Belgium Judge Abdellah Boukhalafa, Presiding

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ressed in a traditional two-cornered white hat and white robe, Judge Boukhalafa gazed down on the woman standing rigidly erect in front of the defense table, along with her lawyers. The angry buzz in the courtroom at his announcement of the three judges’ decision was loud, and it triggered the court’s automatic gong until the noise decreased to an acceptable level. The judge waited a minute after the gong stopped and then, leaning forward and looking down into the eyes of Time Policewoman Mari Demirchyan, he asked in a solemn voice, “Do you have anything to say before the court passes sentence on you?” “Yes, your honor.” She stood even straighter, hands at her sides with the fingers on the blue stripes of her tight officer’s trousers, her head high, chin out, and eyes focused on those of the judge. Her voice was level and firm. “I am sorry I had to deceive my superiors and the court. I am sorry I betrayed my oath and my profession. But I do not regret my action. I do not ask for sympathy. I believe I have had a fair trial, and I accept whatever punishment the court deems appropriate. “I wish one last time to explain my actions. That universe, one that we in the Time Police deemed the killing universe, was created by one of our own, Time Policeman Michael Livingston. Everyone now knows that he intervened first in 1903 with his killing of the future Russian megamurderer, Joseph Stalin, and then in 1905, to create a successful communist revolution under Trotsky. He subsequently killed Joy Phim and was killed in turn by Khoo Jy-ying. But Livingston’s intervention produced a huge wave of changes and instabilities that first resulted in the death of John Banks and Khoo Jyying, and then, a short time later, in the deaths of his whole team, including the new addition, Kathryn Kaufmann.

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“Our chronologists tracked what happened over the next two centuries as a result of their deaths and General Logoglu’s coup in Turkey against the Young Turk government. There were many world wars, billions of deaths in nuclear warfare, a global tyranny of one world dictator after another, more billions murdered, and all enslaved at the whims of these dictators.” There was a profound hush in the courtroom. Unconsciously, Mari raised her voice slightly. “There was no United Democracies. All democracies were squashed by defeat in war and a global dictatorship.” She started to gesture with her hand, but brought it down to again lie along her uniform’s stripe. “Every Time Police officer was horrified by this future in that universe, but we were all bound by the first principle of our corps: no intervention in the past. No intervention, that is, except to stop and arrest the time traveler who is intervening. “We have the means to reset a universe to some past time, if the duration is not too great. It has been used three times in the past. Once, after we arrested time travelers Hadad al Jaber and Carla Akwal, who had introduced unacceptable changes in one of John and Joy’s universes, we reset it. Now the current legislature of the United Democracies has outlawed any more such intervention to reset a universe. They were persuaded by scientists who claim we do not have the power to predict what would have happened in the future of the universe we reset, that our intervention might only make things worse. Our reset machinery was put under lock and key. “I wrote the petitions to reset that killing universe that were exhibited in my defense. I petitioned the legislature to amend the law to allow resetting a universe when it proves too bloody and horrible. I petitioned my country’s senators, those representing Armenia in the United Democracy’s parliament. I petitioned the President of the United Democracies to submit an amended bill before the legislature. My crusade, as it become known, got good press in the interplanetary media. But the legislature was unmoving. “Yet . . . .” She hesitated and looked down at the floor for a moment. Just as Judge Boukhalafa was about to speak, she continued, her voice almost breaking. “Yet the blood still flowed in that obscene universe.” Her voice strengthened. She threw her head back as she admitted, “So I stole the reset machine, traveled back to 1912, and reset the universe. I believe I saved billions and billions of people from death, and even more people from enslavement by the thugs that ruled that universe.” The courtroom broke into applause, and a number of people rose, clapping. The gong again was triggered by the noise. The courtroom quieted slowly.

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Mari had not changed her stance; perhaps her chin was raised slightly higher. “Thank you, Your Honor, for letting me speak.” The judge picked up his holo pad, looked at it, put it down, and leaned toward Mari, his hands clasped together on the polished koa wood bench before him. “Time Policewoman Mari Demirchyan, you have committed a grave crime. If we were to give you a light sentence, we would seem to approve of your crime, and others might be encouraged to not only intervene in the past, but reset those universes that they disapproved of for religious or political reasons. Therefore, we must not only punish you, but make an example of you to deter others.” Many in the front row of the courtroom gasped, and excited whispers spread rapidly throughout the room. The judge could not let that stop him. “The court hereby sentences you to expulsion from the Time Police, and a partial mind wipe. All memories related to your profession and your illegal activities will be removed, and memories of your youth, your family, and your policerelated education and training also will be removed, but your skills, special talents, values, and personality will otherwise be retained. Your family, friends, and current associates are, as of this moment, forbidden ever to contact you. Your identity will be changed, a new identity implanted in your memory, and you will be taken from Earth to Mars to lead a new life there.” “No, no!” erupted from the banks of spectators, the first of many angry outcries, including boos and hisses. The gong went off again, and the judge waited patiently. This was the last trial of the day, and it was finishing earlier then expected. Finally, when the gong stopped and the courtroom was reasonably quiet, the judge loudly announced, dropping the honored title of Time Policewoman, “Mari Demirchyan, you have a ninety day right of appeal.” The judge stood, bowed to Mari, bowed to the spectators, and bowed to the two other judges sitting on each side of him, and intoned, “Case closed.”

June 14, 2357 The spaceplane landed at Yerevan Spaceport on time. She had been given a first class seat by the pilot, although she’d only had paid for visitor class, and people stood aside and clapped as the stewardess made way for her to exit the plane. She rushed down the

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connecting incline and past the ticket booth and the people waiting to greet the other passengers. When they saw her and recognized her, many of them clapped as well. She didn’t see them. She didn’t hear them. She only saw Henry, her love, rushing toward her. They fell into each other’s arms, and he picked her up and twirled her around, then kissed her. For the first time since she had made her decision to reset that awful, bloody universe, Mari cried. Unashamedly. She had been pardoned by the President of the United Democracies with the stipulation that she resign from the Time Police. Throughout the planetary system, the public outcry of billions of demonstrators and the major media had shaken the government. Public opinion polls predicted that the President and his party were headed for defeat in the next election if he took no action on her sentence. Moreover, there was such an incredible volume of protest to the Senate over its rigid law against intervention in bloody universes such as the one Mari had reset that they could hardly conduct their normal business. The President of the Senate had now promised to review the law and make changes. Mari left the spaceport with Henry, their arms about each other. People continued to make way for them, some still clapping, some cheering, some teary-eyed. Just for a moment, a whiff of regret at her resignation from the Time Police rose above Mari’s elation, for she would now never know the outcome of that universe she had reset. She couldn’t resist one thought before it was overwhelmed by her happiness: Okay, John and Jy-ying, Hands and Kate, Mariko and Dolphy, Sal, and of course, Prince Wei—and oh, yes, Joy’s spirit—it’s up to you now. And to all those who believe in freedom.

Afterword

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irst a note that, although I called the country Turkey throughout this book, this name did not officially come into use until nationalist leader Kemal Ataturk abolished the three hundredyear-old Muslim caliphate in 1923 and founded the Republic of Turkey. Before then, the country and the extensive territory it controlled in Europe and the Middle East was known formally and legally as the Ottoman Empire. Ordinarily, however, it was simply referred to as Turkey. As a result of its war with Italy and its two Balkan Wars, of siding with Germany during the First World War, and the resulting defeat and collapse of the Young Turk regime, Turkey lost most of its territory and was reduced in size to nearly its geographic boundaries of today. For simplicity here, I used the then-common “Turkey” in place of the “Ottoman Empire.” Now, as to the Armenians, throughout the nineteenth century they were commonly massacred by Moslem Turks, often with the connivance of the Ottoman government. The largest of these massacres was under Sultan Abdul Humid during the years 1894 to 1896, when the Turks massacred anywhere from 100,000 to over 300,000 Armenians. This shocked the Christian powers, especially England, and they intervened to safeguard the Armenians. They forced the sultan to agree to reforms giving Armenians greater self-government in areas they dominated, and more equality with Moslems elsewhere. Turkey’s rulers never forgot this and subsequent foreign interventions on behalf of this Christian minority. Hamid’s massacres, as terrible as they were in deaths and misery, were probably mostly spontaneous, riotous instances of community violence by Moslems against Armenians. The infamy of executing this century’s first full-scale ethnic cleansing—genocide—belongs to Turkey’s Young Turk government during World War I. In their highest councils, Turkish leaders decided to exterminate every Armenian in the country, whether a front-line soldier or a pregnant woman, a famous professor or a high bishop, an important businessman or an ardent Turkish patriot. All two million of them. Thus, the Young Turk massacre of Armenians described here actually happened. It was launched in 1915 and continued until this bloody

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regime ended in humiliating military defeat. By October of 1918, Turkey’s situation on the war front had become militarily hopeless. Her army was disintegrating, military desertions were widespread, morale at home was abysmal, and the Allies had virtually defeated Germany in the west. One last defeat, this time by the Bulgarian army at Nablus, did it. The Young Turks could hold no more illusions; their regime collapsed. But this did not end the Turkish killing of Armenians and Greeks. After the war, France, Great Britain, and Greece occupied portions of Turkey. This outraged the Turkish people, and the pro-Allies policies of the postwar Turkish government further fueled the anger. Sharing this feeling, the army inspector for the eastern provinces, Mustapha Kemal Pasha (otherwise known as Kemal Ataturk), left Constantinople in May of 1919, ostensibly for an inspection trip. Upon reaching the eastern provinces, however, he resigned his position and established a rebel nationalist government. Under Ataturk’s presidency, a national congress met in Erzerum to organize resistance to foreign occupation—in effect, resistance to the sultan’s government. It proved successful. The sultan forcibly tried to suppress the rebellion, but to no avail. In October of 1919 he gave in, appointed a new cabinet, and held new parliamentary elections. The nationalists then won a big victory and prepared to exercise power in Constantinople. During their seizure of power and its certification by elections, the Nationalists also began their own genocide of Armenians, particularly in their invasion of newly independent Armenia, at the same time adding the Greeks to their genocide. In Turkey’s Adana alone during 1919, the nationalists killed fifty thousand Armenians. Another twenty thousand were massacred in Marash during February of 1920, according to the report of a British admiral (Reuters estimated the dead as seventy thousand). About the same time, the nationalists killed still another seventy-six hundred to nine thousand Armenians in Hadjun. Then there was Smyrna (now Izmir) on the east coast of Turkey. In September 1922, after the nationalists recaptured it from the Greek army, Turkish soldiers and Moslem mobs shot and hacked to death Armenians, Greeks, and other Christians in the streets and systematically set fire to their quarters. Fleeing before the soldiers, Moslems, and fire, hundreds of thousands of Christians ended up in a huddled, screaming mass on the city’s wide waterfront. At first, the Turks forbade foreign ships in the harbor to pick up these terrorized survivors, but then, under pressure especially from Britain, France, and the United States, they finally allowed the ships to

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rescue all except males seventeen to forty-five years old, whom they aimed to deport into the interior, along with all those not rescued within several days. This was in effect a sentence of death. One cannot imagine the sheer emotional pain of those families the Turks forcibly separated on the piers, the women and children sent to board a ship to safety, the husbands and sons marched off to their eventual death. In total, the nationalists massacred over 100,000 Christians in Smyrna. Adding those they deported into the interior to disappear forever, the nationalists likely killed 190,000 people altogether, the vast majority of them Greeks. For fictional purposes, I just focused on the Young Turks and squeezed as much of the Armenian genocide into 1912 as was realistic, and moved up the date of the (First) Balkan War that began in October 1912 so that I could give it the role that World War I played in the actual genocide. (What power we fiction writers have, to move the dates of wars around like that!) And note that the Young Turk documents revealing their intent, carried by Sami Gunda, actually were discovered by subsequent investigations and court trials; and the process of genocide, such as the deportation seen by Peter Kahan, really happened. Ever the professor, John Banks’ memory of the Armenian genocide and its toll is what actually happened. For the estimates, sources, and calculations, including those under Ataturk, see my chapter on this at www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/SOD.CHAP5.HTM. To this day, Turkey absolutely denies that her past governments committed any genocide or mass murder. She explains the Armenian deaths as incidental to the deportations, or the result of a civil war between Moslem Turks and Christian Armenians. In this, Turkey is aided by the silence of those nations whose archives amply document the genocide. Among them is the United States, which, despite the official reports of its Ambassador Henry Morgenthau and consular officials Leslie A. Davis in Harput, Oscar S. Heizer in Trebizond, and Jesse B. Jackson in Aleppo, adamantly refuses to recognize this clear genocide. For example, Morgenthau has this to say about Minister of War Talaat in his book, Ambassador Morgenthau’s Story: In all my talks on the Armenians the Minister of War treated the whole matter more or less casually; he could discuss the fate of a race in a parenthesis, and refer to the massacre of children as nonchalantly as we would speak of the weather. . . .

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“I wish [Talaat said] that you would get the American life insurance companies to send us a complete list of their Armenian policy holders. They are practically all dead now and have left no heirs to collect the money. It of course all escheats to the State. The Government is the beneficiary now. Will you do so?” Morgenthau walked out on Talaat at that—probably one of the few times an American ambassador has walked out on the leader of a foreign nation to which he was posted. Turkey is a member of NATO, deemed by that organization as essential for defense of the southern tier against Soviet aggression during the Cold War. Since that time, the United States has considered Turkey an important Western friend in a hostile and volatile region, especially regarding the American coalition’s wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Moreover, with the independence of Armenia, Georgia, and Azerbaijan in the Caucasus after the 1991 collapse of the Soviet Union, Europe and the United States see Turkey as essential to the resolution of ethnic conflicts in the region. That such interests take precedence over historical truth and the recognition of Turkey’s past mass murder is realpolitics; such is the moral bankruptcy of this diplomacy. Long-run democratic interests in a stable and secure democratic world are better served by clarity of moral principles and resolve than by short-run expediency. Simply consider the moral message communicated to the world by purposely ignoring the Young Turk genocide of nearly 1.5 million Armenians. What happened to the Young Turks? Germany helped Talaat and Enver and others to escape and a new government under Sultan Muhammad VI took power. It appointed an Extraordinary Military Tribunal to investigate and document the Armenian massacres and found the Young Turks guilty of carrying out a policy of annihilation, among other things (Raphael Lemkin had yet to invent the term “genocide”). It sentenced the leaders, Talaat, Enver, Jemal, and Nazim to death in absentia. In revenge for the genocide, an Armenian assassin murdered Talaat in Berlin in March 1921. Enver left Germany for Turkestan, where he joined the 1921 revolt by the Basmachi against the Bolsheviks. He was killed in battle against the Red Army in August 1922. Ahmed Djemal Pasha left Germany for Afghanistan as a military advisor, and Armenian assassins killed him at Tbilisi in July of 1922.

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As to genocide itself, it is generally considered one of the worst moral crimes a government (meaning any ruling authority, including that of a guerrilla group, a quasi state, a soviet, a terrorist organization, or an occupation authority) can commit against its citizens or those it controls. The major reason for this is what the world learned about the Holocaust, the systematic attempt of German authorities during World War II to kill all Jews, no matter where they were found—to destroy Jews as a group. This murder of between five and six million Jews became the paradigm case of genocide and underlies the word’s origin. As the world learned about other genocides, there was an international attempt through the United Nations to make genocide an international crime and to bring its perpetrators to justice. Thus in 1948 it approved and proposed the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide (UHCG) and, most recently, it signed into being the International Criminal Court (ICC). As a crime, the UHCG defined genocide as the intention to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group, as such. The ICC accepts this definition, further elaborates on it, provides broader jurisdiction, and can subject individuals regardless of status or rank to prosecution. Noteworthy is the fact that the ICC now covers not only genocide, but crimes against humanity including government murder, extermination campaigns, enslavement, deportation, torture, rape, sexual slavery, enforced disappearance, and apartheid. Genocide is also a subject of social science and scholarly study, but its legal definition does not easily allow for empirical and historical research. For this reason the definition of genocide for research purposes has, in essence, been of two types. One is the definition of genocide as the intention to murder people because of their group membership, even if political or economic. A second is any intentional government murder of unarmed and helpless people for whatever reason. In other words, genocide equals democide, a concept with which by now readers of this series are well acquainted. Note that not only genocide, but the broader democide is also, according to the ICC (which, however, does not use that term), a crime. If I may repeat what John has never let Joy, Jy-ying, and the others forget, taking both social definitions into account, governments have probably murdered around 174 million people during the twentieth century (the figure of 170 million that John sometimes mention is only for the years 1900 to 1987). Most of this killing, perhaps around 110 million people, is due to communist governments, especially the USSR under Lenin and Stalin and their successors (62 million murdered), and

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China under Mao Tse-tung (35 million). Some other totalitarian or authoritarian governments are also largely responsible for this toll, particularly Hitler’s Germany (21 million murdered) and Chiang Kaichek’s Nationalist government of China (about 10 million). Other governments that have murdered lesser millions include Khmer Rouge Cambodia, Japan, North Korea, Mexico, Pakistan, Poland, Czarist Russia, Turkey, Vietnam, and Tito’s Yugoslavia. As is clear from the empirical research on this that convinced the fictional Survivors’ Benevolent Society to send Joy and John back in time to 1906 to apply this new knowledge, democide, including genocide, is a product of the type of government a country has. There is a high correlation between the degree of democratic freedom a people enjoy and the likelihood that the government will commit democide. Modern (liberal) democratic governments have committed virtually no domestic democide. Those governments that commit the most have been totalitarian governments, while those that committed lesser genocide have been partially or wholly authoritarian and dictatorial. Regardless of type of government, the likelihood of democide increases during their involvement in war, or when undergoing internal disruptions, as by revolution, rebellion, or foreign incursions. Such disruption provides the cover and excuse for genocide, as it did for the Young Turks. Regardless of war or peace, the motive for genocide may be to deal with a perceived threat to the government or its policies, to destroy those one hates or envies, to pursue the ideological transformation of society, to purify society, or to achieve economic or material again. In any case, the solution to both war and democide, and thus such specific democide as genocide, is democratic freedom—liberal democracy. John, Joy, and Jy-ying, and the others of their team, knew this and acted on it. I hope that more lucky citizens of the democracies will join them. It is to that end that these novels have been written.

Praise for books by Nobel Peace Prize finalist R. J. Rummel "26th in a Random House poll on the best nonfiction book of the 20th Century" Random House (Modern Library) “. . . the most important . . . in the history of international relations.” John Norton Moore Professor of Law and Director, Center for National Security Law, former Chairman of the Board of Directors of the U. S. Institute of Peace “. . . among the most exciting . . . in years.” Jim Powell “. . . most comprehensive . . . I have ever encountered . . . illuminating . . . .” Storm Russell “One more home run . . . .” Bruce Russett, Professor of International Relations “. . . has profoundly affected my political and social views.” Lurner B Williams “. . . truly brilliant . . . ought to be mandatory reading.” Robert F. Turner, Professor of Law, former President of U.S. Institute of Peace ". . . highly recommend . . . ." Cutting Edge “We all walk a little taller by climbing on the shoulders of Rummel’s work.” Irving Louis Horowitz, Professor Of Sociology ". . . everyone in leadership should read and understand . . . ." DivinePrinciple.com “. . . exciting . . . pushes aside all the theories, propaganda, and wishful thinking . . . .” www.alphane.com “. . . world's foremost authority on the phenomenon of ‘democide.’” American Opinion Publishing “. . . excellent . . . .” Brian Carnell “. . . bound to be become a standard work . . . .” James Lee Ray, Professor of Political Science

“. . . major intellectual accomplishment . . .will be cited far into the next century” Jack Vincent, Professor of Political Science.” “. . . most important . . . required reading . . . .” thewizardofuz (Amazon.com) “. . . valuable perspective . . . .” R.W. Rasband “ . . . offers a desperately needed perspective . . . .” Andrew Johnstone “. . . eloquent . . . very important . . . .” Doug Vaughn “. . . should be required reading . . .shocking and sobering . . . .” Sugi Sorensen

Never Again Book 6

Never Again?

R.J. Rummel

Llumina Press

© 2005 Rudy Rummel All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher. Requests for permission to make copies of any part of this work should be mailed to Permissions Department, Llumina Press, PO Box 772246, Coral Springs, FL 33077-2246 ISBN: HC 1-59526-021-8 PB 1-59526-022-6 Printed in the United States of America by Llumina Press Library of Congress Control Number: 2005904509

Love’s dark enemy Power, like a deadly plague Infects, corrupts, kills

Acknowledgments I wish to give special thanks to Marg Gilks, who has been a most helpful editor on this novel and all the others in the series. She gave me frank evaluations of each novel, answered any questions I had with good cheer, provided me informative material on writing fiction, and carefully edited all my revisions. For much of whatever literary value there is in these novels I owe to her. Above all, I could not have written these books without my wife, the love of my life. She has provided me with the love, friendship, companionship, understanding, stable family and environment, tennis doubles partner, walking mate, and all enveloping support that made all these novels possible. Thanks Baby, and come here. I have no doubt that in our history, somewhere in the world, loving couples like John and Joy have fought for freedom and, courageous warriors to the end, died in each other’s arms. I’m sure they would have had it no other way. We do not know their names, but their spirits are all around us in the freedom we now enjoy. To all their souls, for myself and my wife and daughters, and for humanity, I give profound thanks. Although names and places in this book may have an uncanny similarity to what is real, this is a work of fiction, and they all are fictional facts. Any errors in such are mine alone.

Chapter 1

G

od does play dice with the universe. Well, at least that part of it that humans inhabit. Each second of each minute of each hour is a new throw of the dice, and this time we may win the lottery, be struck by lightning, or have a tornado hit our town on the same day three years in a row, as happened to Kodell, Mississippi in 1917, 1918, and 1919. By a throw of the dice we may have a stroke, meet the love of our life, or be hit by a car whose driver had a heart attack. A particular throw may save a man with a bullet wound from death, a man who will go on to become a dictator and be responsible for murdering millions, and killing millions more in the wars he wages. Or another throw may just have a doctor present at the right moment to save a boy from a lifethreatening disease, and more lucky throws may allow the boy to grow up into a man of sublime peace who, in the right place at the right time, creates a country and an influential philosophy of nonviolence. Of course, when history is written, its course seems so inevitable, so fixed, that the supreme role of chance is disguised. This is not to say that we have no role to play in our lives. We do. In the choices we make, we open or close our future to new lines of chance. Just moving to a new neighborhood, deciding to change jobs, or going to college is like going into one casino instead of another, or choosing a slot machine over the poker tables—a new world of chance is before us, and others are left behind. But when by chance a golden door of opportunity opens, by disposition, interest, education, and experience, we have to know the door is there. Of course, we may just be lucky and take advantage of the opportunity without knowing what we are doing. Maybe once in a thousand years, maybe once in a hundred thousand, maybe for the first time in all of human history, a particular opportunity may open to some person who just happens to be at the right time and place. And thus God’s throw of the dice favored Cyril Clement, one out of all the billions of human beings, with a power beyond our understanding.

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He was a nothing then, a poor kid, really a street urchin. His parents were divorced and he lived at his dad’s place—to Cyril, it was always his dad’s place, never home—a small, two-room apartment. His father was an off-and-on laborer who spent most of his earnings in saloons. What this boy would have become, had he not been made supremely special by chance, is impossible to know. He surely would have quit school as soon as he could. Which he did. He likely would have remained uneducated, poor, and possibly frustrated and unhappy for the rest of his life. He might have turned to crime. But maybe not. He might have lucked out in a stupid business venture, or turned out to be a well-adjusted, happy person. But in any case, as far as humanity is concerned, he would only have been a statistic, one more person added to the world’s and the American population. A throw of the dice opened to him the greatest of all opportunities, but he had to have a special disposition to grab it, or this one and possibly only chance might never appear again for anyone. He had to enjoy reading, so much so that he collected cast-off magazines and books. If he’d been illiterate, if he disliked reading, or if he read only by happenstance, humanity would have lost the absolutely profound, the absolutely incredible chance that the young boy could be a bridge from one universe—one dripping with the blood of hundreds of millions murdered, or killed in aggressive wars, one in which thug-regimes enslaved billions—to a parallel universe of peace and freedom.

March 1944, San Francisco Cyril Clement Cyril sat on his bunk staring at his father, asleep on the other side of the narrow bedroom. The room reeked of alcohol. Hunger had awakened him. He yawned, stretched, and looked at the alarm clock on one of the bookshelves next to his bunk. Past ten a.m.—he’d missed school again. He remembered hitting the alarm when it went off at seven a.m., but he had stayed up late last night reading all of one of his latest finds, a June 1938 Reader’s Digest, and he’d been too sleepy to heed the alarm. His hunger demanded attention. He had not eaten since lunch the previous day, and then only a cheap, half-plate of spaghetti from the restaurant below them. “I’m hungry,” Cyril yelled as loud as he could.

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His father lay twisted in the covers of the single bed beneath the room’s only window, snoring. It was a workday, but not for his drunken dad. He stirred and opened one bloodshot eye, then the other. He stared back at Cyril and mumbled something. “I haven’t eaten anything today, Dad. I’m hungry.” Amidst a series of wheezes and coughs, his father gasped, “Dammit, boy . . . go get a job . . . what’ya . . . want from me?” He turned his back on Cyril. Cyril crawled to the foot of his bunk, swung his feet to the floor, and put on his pants. He had worn them for months, and the fabric on the knees bowed out when he stood. His dad’s did the same, from constantly sitting in them. The overstretched fabric made him look like he had a knee deformity. He had worn his shirt to bed and didn’t change it. He wandered into what they called the living room, the only other room in his dad’s place. There was no kitchen, and they shared the bathroom at the end of the hall with the other occupants of the building’s second floor. He stood uncertainly by the door, his fingers unconsciously searching his pants pockets for crumbs from the bread he usually stored there to eat later—when he had it. A knock at the door made him jump. When he opened it, the school truant officer stood on the threshold, one hand on her hip, shaking her head at him. She was a big, stout woman dressed in black, with a heavy looking brown fabric bag slung over her shoulder, and her hair bundled on top of her head. “You missed school again, Cyril,” she said in a loud, harsh voice, but compassion softened her eyes. She shook her finger at him. “I’ve got to take you in to the principal. If you miss many more classes, Cyril, you are going to be held back in the sixth grade.” She stepped to one side of the door, obviously waiting for him to join her. He didn’t know what to say. He stood by the door, looking down at the worn edge of the room’s nondescript rug. Finally he muttered, “I got to go fishing. Catch some fish. Sell them. I’m hungry.” “When did you eat, Cyril?” “Yesterday. My dad gave me thirty cents and I ate lunch downstairs.” “You don’t have any money now?” “No.” She took a step into the room. There was no door between the living room and the bedroom, only a wide archway, so she could see Cyril’s dad lying twisted in the covers, now with one hairy leg hanging out. She sniffed, twitched her nose, and shook her head. Then she tilted

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it to look sadly at Cyril. He still wouldn’t look at her. She reached into the large brown shoulder bag and pulled out her change purse. She held fifty cents out to him. Cyril looked up at the money from under his brows. “What’s this for?” “Get yourself something to eat, Cyril. Go fishing, and I hope you catch something. But don’t you miss school tomorrow. Okay?” Cyril took the money, and finally looked up directly into her soft brown eyes. “Okay.” She nodded, then turned quickly and walked down the hall to the stairs. Cyril left the door open. He pocketed the fifty cent piece, and picked up his long bamboo fishing pole from the floor behind the tattered sofa. A length of fishing twine was already wrapped around it, with a hook at the end. A faint odor wafted from his tin bait can when he picked it up, so he cracked the lid and checked his collection of worms—night crawlers. He had punched small holes in the lid so that they would have air, as an old Chinese fisherman had taught him. Some of the worms were moving over the grass and leaves he’d placed inside, so he wouldn’t have to scrounge this time in the garbage cans behind the restaurant downstairs for something to use as bait. Pole and can in hand, he left his dad’s place. He would eat at Jimmy’s Delicatessen. Jimmy sometimes gave him something extra to eat. Then he would head for the Bay piers. If he was lucky, he would catch a few striped sea perch or rubberlip perch. If God was happy with him, he might even pull up a dozen or so crabs. But he’d settle for the poison-finned cabezon if he had to; he could sell even that in one of the saloons and bars along the edge of Chinatown or the Barbary Coast.

aaa Fishing was good, and by late afternoon Cyril had earned $1.63 selling what he caught. He dropped off his fishing pole and his worm can at his dad’s place—his dad was gone, no note saying where—and headed for the Used Books Mart on Merchant Street. It was a long walk from Steiner Street, but it was worth it. The door tipped an overhead bell when he opened it, and he looked around for the owner as he entered. The store was dusty and stuffy and crammed with books and magazines from ceiling to floor. A young woman emerged from between two stacks of books and greeted him cheerily. “Hi, Cyril. I’ve got a new Astounding Stories and a year-old Startling Stories. I hid them for you.”

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He always bought any science fiction that came in, if he had the extra money. Cyril gave her a little smile and said, “Thank you.” He never knew what to say to her, so he just said “thank you” to whatever she said or did for him. That seemed to work okay. When she handed him the magazines, he paid her the thirty cents and left with his new treasures. He would be up late again tonight. But he had one more thing to do, once he had his hands free. As he walked to his dad’s place with his purchase, he passed boxes of magazines and piles of newspapers stacked on the curb in front of some homes and businesses. He knew it was wartime; in school he liked drawing pictures of airplanes shooting at each other, with some falling from the sky, trailing smoke. A teacher had told him that it was his family’s patriotic duty to put out old newspapers, books, and magazines to be picked up by trucks. He didn’t understand how, but the discarded publications would help fight the war. The paper pickup was tomorrow morning, he’d learned. For Cyril, it was like having a gold mine next door. And he was going to search the mine again. After dropping off his new magazines, he began walking up and down the neighboring streets, rummaging through boxes along the curb. He picked up a few Reader’s Digest, Life, National Geographic, and The Saturday Evening Post, and had to return to his dad’s place to unload them. He hoped these would fill in the dates that were missing from his collection. There was hardly enough room in his dad’s place for all the magazines and the few books he’d collected, but he stole hollow tiles and old planks from a construction site and made himself a bookcase next to his bunk. He could only get into the bunk by crawling from the foot of the bed, but he had everything lined up by his head, so in the evening he could easily choose something to look at or read. He felt good and he had a full stomach, so he decided to go out again for one more search before dark. He tried several different streets, finding mostly newspapers and a lot of uninteresting magazines with food, cars and ships, or clothes on the cover. So he headed where he had not gone before—down Fillmore Street. He stopped in front of an imposing building bearing a sign that read Headquarters: Fire Commissioners and Chief Engineer. On the curb there waited a large collection of boxes and food cartons filled with old magazines, and strange bundles of papers, all either bound or clipped, with words like “Government,” “Official,” “Memos,” “Engine Houses,” and “Reports” on their covers. He shoved them aside, looking for interesting magazines and books.

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At the bottom of one box he found a thick, beat-up, bulging folder that looked like an accordion. It contained several sheaves of clippedtogether papers, what appeared to be a bound book, and several thick stacks of paper, tied with twine. The bound book looked similar to the Sears Roebuck Catalogue, six of which Cyril had picked up already, for different years. Deciding to take the interesting folder home with him, he set it aside and looked for more treasures, but there was nothing except what he thought was a book; he discarded it when he saw its title: The Official Manual on Fighting Fires.

aaa Over the days that followed, Cyril occasionally pulled the accordion folder from the milk carton full of other treasures that he kept under the end of his bunk, and looked through its contents. Clipped to the front of the folder was a form of some sort; he understood little of it, although he could read the title—“Official Investigative Report”—and the date—December 1938—and that there had been an apartment house fire. Its third page was typed and easy to read, if not completely understand: I conclude that the fire was caused by rats eating off the insulation of wires behind a kitchen wall in a first floor apartment, causing a sparking short circuit which set ablaze the sawdust and wood shavings there. A fuse should have blown before the short circuit sparked, but someone had replaced it in the fuse box with a copper penny. Science fiction had improved Cyril’s vocabulary, but “insulation,” “fuse,” “fuse box,” and “short circuit” were yet beyond him. There was a space on the report for a description of the contents of the folder. There, someone had typed: Partly burned papers titled “Remembrance” found by body; other documents found in safe when forced open. Crackpot. The last word had been circled twice. Cyril read it, shrugged, and went on to other papers in the file. Among three longer documents he found one headed “The Plan,” which he did not understand when he scanned it, and another titled “Chronology” with dates and events listed in small type underneath. This held no interest for him, but he kept it simply as part of the folder. He had yet to read carefully or even scan much of the three bound documents. He flipped through a few pages of one and then put it back in the file. A glance at their titles didn’t excite him. One, the partly burned, four-inch pile of paper, was titled “Remembrance.” Another, printed and bound with a hard cover, bore the title “Democracy, War,

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and Democide in the Twentieth Century,” under which was printed “Ph.D. Dissertation, May 2001, Yale University History Department.” The third pile of papers had been bound with twine, and had on its cardboard cover the same title as the dissertation, with a handwritten note scribbled above: Manuscript: dissertation academese translated into American English. Written as an alternative past and future history. Completed 1928. None of it made any sense to him. Most of the words were strange; they were not the words he’d picked up from reading science fiction, such as “spaceship,” “solar system,” “planet,” “ray gun,” “alien,” and “robot.” Something so ancient—from way back in 1928—couldn’t possibly contain anything interesting. And he didn’t recognize the name “John Banks” on each of the bound documents, either. Rather than waste his time reading such stuff, he preferred to reread his special treasures, such as the articles in Reader’s Digest on the Japanese Rape of Nanking, or how the German guards in concentration camps selected their sexual plaything for the night from a room full of naked women. He didn’t know what it all meant, but the thought of seeing a naked woman excited him far more than anything in the accordion folder.

Chapter 2 2001 John Banks

H

e had never seen a bloody body before, not to mention one without arms and legs. Oh, he had seen his dead mother in her casket during her funeral, but she looked so peaceful, as if she were just asleep, and that didn’t count—not like it did for so many people of the world, living through the violence of war or democide. And his father, some kind of agent for the CIA in Somalia, had been brought back in a closed casket that remained closed for the funeral. His mother had told him that was because “he didn’t look pretty.” She’d never disclosed how he died. Ironic, in a way, his not seeing what really happens to people in violence—the heads blown off, intestines hanging out, holes where shoulders, hips, or legs used to be, legs and arms themselves scattered about, bodies perforated by every sort of weapon or utensil, sometimes to the point where they looked like Swiss cheese, and blood, blood, and more blood, enough to form a Niagara of blood. Yet, this horror so abstract to him had been the subject of his dissertation. And he would now teach others about the most obscene violence of all, democide: the shooting, blowing up, live burial, knifing, gassing, and hanging; the death by torture and beating, by starvation, by exposure or by being infected with lethal germs, by being thrown off cliffs, decapitated, or crushed—death by any means within the creative imagination of monarchs, caliphs, kings, czars, emperors, and other absolute rulers and dictators of all kinds and their agents. Ironic in another way—he was twenty-six years old. World War Two, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War were distant history to him. When he came of draft age, there was no draft, no war in which he could volunteer. He knew no veterans who had killed in war, no murderers, no government agents who killed in the hundreds or thou-

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sands. Nor did he know anyone who had seen others killed or their loved ones exterminated, or who had faced the prospect of violent death and survived. Raised in a big city by a mother who was a tennis professional, he had no idea what violence looked, sounded, and smelled like—it was alien to him. He had no direct experience of the age’s killing weapons of choice: the gun, the bomb, the grenade, the bayonet or combat knife. He’d never even handled a BB rifle. He’d owned a penknife as a boy, but sliced himself when playing with it, and never opened it again. He did use kitchen knives when cooking, but they were for just that— preparing food. He never thought of using one as a weapon. This modern man, this supremely educated historian, this new university professor, was ignorant of the true feel and texture, the true essence of fear and terror faced by billions of human beings. In this, he was a typical American virgin. Yet, what did he teach? He taught about war, although the pile of mangled and bloody corpses generated by that was only a mound compared to the mountain murdered by governments. Because he recognized this, he centered his teaching on democide. And as a virgin in terms of these horrors, how did he know what to teach? Or rather, what did he teach? Why, the same things he had been taught, and in the same way. Words, tons of words, spoken and printed, and a gallery of pictures and paintings and drawings. All was theory to him. Abstract. A virgin teaching a class of virgins, who at the end of the semester would have their heads stuffed with words and flat, twodimensional, sterile images—no smell of blood, of fear, of a convulsing body’s waste; no sounds of screaming, moaning, crying . . . of dying. They would still be virgins. He was not dumb. He knew how limited his experience was of what he taught—he himself had likened it to writing and teaching about Japan without ever going there, speaking the language, or meeting a Japanese. But early on he told himself that one does not need to be a woman to be a gynecologist, nor visit the stars to be an astronomer; the study and prevention of diseases does not require a survivor of the Black Plague. He believed that the study of the history of war and democide was sufficient to find a cure for them. And he was so sickened by what he studied about war and democide that he had turned such study into his career. Professor Cyril Clement had convinced him that democratic peace provided a solution to war and democide, and he’d found confirmation of this in his own historical research. He’d written his Ph.D. dissertation on it.

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New Ph.D. in hand, John Banks had been lucky to get a tenuretrack assistant professorship to teach at Indiana University. He was on his way. Do his research, publish a book or two and some articles, keep his relations with the lovelies on campus discreet, and tenure— academic heaven—would be his. He had learned from his graduate advisor at Yale how the academic game was played. Publish, yes. But also get to know the greats in the field. Mingle with them, carry their books, show devotion to their ideas, attend their presentations, and ask softball questions that make them look good. Then, as flowers attract bees to produce honey, they’d help get his books and articles published, and help him win research grants. And where else does one meet such esteemed individuals than at conferences and seminars held by the central organizations of one’s field of study? He took this advice to heart. Only two weeks into the Fall semester at Indiana University, his department chairman, Sam Palmerton, approved an invitation for John to participate in a democratic peace seminar held by the International Studies Association at Rutgers. He must have played the game and showed his stuff. Afterward, he would no longer recall in detail what happened there. It all soon was compressed into a droplet of memory. For, within a day of the last session of the seminar, he was gruesomely, terrifyingly, shockingly devirginated.

Chapter 3 1950 Korean War Cyril Clement

B

y his mid-teens, Cyril had exhausted what interested him most in his magazine collection, and paper drives were long past. Idly flipping through the scorched and partly burned pages of Banks’ “Remembrance,” he came across some very explicit lovemaking. He didn’t understand all that was described, but what he did understand riveted him, and in following days he scanned through everything that had been in the folder, including the pages of the dissertation on the twentieth century. He did not much care for all the political stuff he read, and thought a lot of the dialogue in the “Remembrance” was stupid, but after he again put the full folder away, some of it stuck. In the late 1940s, Cyril’s interest in science fiction deepened, and he searched in one used bookstore after another for all the issues of the pulp science fiction magazines. He could afford them now. He had a part-time job setting pins in a bowling alley, and he often volunteered to do two alleys at once for the extra money and sometimes, even tips. Even so, he was not beyond stealing. Sometimes he carried his school books into drugstores that sold the magazines he wanted, and hid two or three between his textbooks, then walked out. He was particularly fascinated by the adventures of Captain Future, who would save planet Earth from some criminal, alien, or global threat. He also enjoyed reading about first contact between Earthmen and aliens, and often daydreamed of trying to communicate with aliens for the first time. Cyril thought that what was in the accordion folder was really science fiction written by Banks, which he had not been able to get published. What encouraged this view was the collection of rejection

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letters he found in the back of Banks’ “manuscript,” from the various presses to which it had been submitted. All were dated between 1928 and 1931. All of the readers’ evaluations called the manuscript simplistic, ignorant, or dumb. Nor did he pay attention to the futuristic chronology and its stock market predictions. As a teenager, he just was not into this stuff. As soon as he could legally quit school, which was right after his sixteenth birthday, he did so. Now he was only good for the most manual work. He had found a full-time job on the assembly line in a stove factory, doing nothing more than stuffing fiberglass insulation into the sides of stoves, riveting the sides together with a special machine, and piling the completed sides on a cart to be taken to the assembly line where the stoves were put together. He moved out of his dad’s place and rented a room with peeling plaster in a boarding house that was leaning so far from the vertical that the floor in his room sloped. Still, it had space for his wealth of magazines and his few books, it was cheap, and it was as far away from his dad as he could get and still be near enough to walk to work. He hated the work. He hated the slum where he lived. He wanted to escape, maybe even learn a trade, like operating a bulldozer. The Korean War began on June 25, 1950, with the invasion of South Korea by the North, and when President Truman committed American ground forces to war on June 30th, Cyril had his opportunity. On July 5th, he waited in a long line at the Army enlistment office on Hamilton Square to volunteer. And during the first week of his service he waited in another line, this one the most momentous of his life. A thin officer—he had one bar on his shoulder—took Cyril and his new barrack mates to an imposing wooden building bearing the sign Headquarters. Inside, the officer led them to a large room resembling a gym, where he pointed to a long line and directed them to wait in it. There were other new soldiers—he could tell they were new, since they all had their heads shaved almost to the scalp—standing in other lines, and moving around. Cyril leaned sideways, trying to see where his line was headed, and glimpsed another officer with single bars on his shoulders, seated behind a desk. He seemed to be asking questions of the soldiers who reached his desk. From time to time he consulted one of several thick books on the desk before him. “What is this line for?” Cyril asked the soldier in front of him. “I don’t know.” The soldier leaned over the man standing in front of him, and asked the same question. The question traveled down the line, and the answer eventually came back. “It’s for your MOS.”

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Cyril shook his head. “What’s that?” The question went back down the line and soon an answer returned with much laughter. “It’s your Army Morons Only Speciality, so they know how to screw you.” Later Cyril would find out it really stood for Military Occupational Specialty. Cyril had no idea that the officer, his books, and the upcoming interview would not only be another throw of the dice with which the gods decided his future, it would be the rarest of rare throws. It would decide not only whether he lived or died, and if he perchance lived, whether he would be poor or well-off, unknown and frustrated with his life or famous in his contributions to humanity. But that was only his future. What would soon happen at the table would determine whether the children of those around him, and especially their children’s children, would live or die, live horribly or prosper. In this one throw of the dice, again the whole nature of the future universe was at stake. The line was long, the wait interminable, so Cyril took out the new Astounding Stories he had picked up at the PX, and began reading it. Over two hours later, when it was Cyril’s turn to be interviewed, the officer slouched over the desk with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, and the gray tin ashtray on the gray metal desk overflowed with butts and ash. “Name?” the officer asked in a tired, bored tone. “Cyril Peter Clement.” “Cyril P. Clement, what?” the officer asked, his voice hardly changing. “Ah . . . .” Somebody behind him whispered, “Sir.” “Cyril Peter Clement . . . sir,” Cyril responded. “RA?” This was the number by which all volunteers were identified. Along with his name, serial number, date of tetanus shot, blood type, and religion, it was stamped on the two brand-new aluminum dog tags hanging around his neck on two ball-chains. The corporal in charge of Cyril’s barracks had demanded that he and the others there memorize their numbers within one day, or clean the latrine and pull the weeds around the barracks. “Ah . . . RA15447721 . . . sir.” The officer wrote Cyril’s name and number on the top form of an inch-thick pile of forms, then looked up from under his brows, his pencil poised above the form. “Civilian job?” Cyril provided his overblown job title. “Stationary riveter . . . sir.”

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The officer said something under his breath, dropped the pencil, and began leafing through the thick books on his desk. Finally he muttered to himself, leaned back, looked at Cyril, and sighed. “Okay, you got me. Tell me what you did.” “I took these stoves . . . electric stoves . . . and I built in a wiring with insulation so that its molecular structure matched the design implications of the system . . . the electrons had to flow around it when the electricity passed through it . . . . then I riveted the sides together. Ah . . . sir.” “That’s all?” the officer asked, sounding a little more animated. “I had to make sure the atomic structure was stable when the electrons hit it . . . ah, when the stove was turned on,” he finished almost breathlessly. One of the science fiction stories he had just read in his Astounding Stories involved the repair of a spaceship that had been attacked by an alien fleet. Cyril just lifted a few of the words from it. Why not? No harm done, he thought. The officer stared blankly at him for a moment, then leaned over the form and wrote several sentences in a text block on the form, and also in the margin next to it. Then he looked up at Cyril again, but with more interest. He turned the form around and pointed with his pencil at the bottom of it. “Sign here.” Cyril did, and the officer pointed to another line. As Cyril moved off, the officer mumbled mechanically, “Next.”

aaa It was crazy. Despite having no knowledge of medicine, Cyril was attached to an ambulance unit at Fort Benning, Georgia, for his basic training. And when he arrived, they assigned him to the motor pool, even though he had never driven anything before. His first experience was driving a two and a half ton truck, with an officer sitting beside him and soldiers in the back. His was in a line of trucks, and he’d been told to follow the one ahead when they started up. Resting his hand on the gearshift, he asked the officer, “How do I shift this thing?” “Ha-ha,” the officer responded. When the truck ahead started up, Cyril turned to the officer and shouted above the revving of engines, “No, I really don’t know how to drive this thing.” “Shit, you kidding me, private?” “No, sir.”

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The officer jumped out of the truck. Minutes later, a sergeant showed up below the driver’s side door. He looked up at Cyril and screamed, “Get your ass down here.” Cyril did, and he was reassigned from the motor pool to permanent kitchen detail. He soon hated the cooks, the kitchen, the peeling of potatoes, the garbage cans he scoured, and the mess hall that he had to keep clean; he hated learning how to tie bandages, apply tourniquets, and give shots; he hated the instructional films on battle field medicine; he hated Fort Benning; and he hated Georgia and the atmosphere of overt racial prejudice and the existing segregation. As soon as he finished basic training in mid-August, he volunteered to be shipped to Korea. He was soon on his way by ship, as a medic. A medic, he thought often during the voyage across the Pacific to Japan on an old liberty ship converted into a troop carrier. Me, a medic. It must have something to do with the MOS that officer gave me, but I don’t understand it. Ha. For a tenth grade dropout, I’ve come up in this world. A medic. Jeeez.

aaa The first stop for individual soldiers was Camp Zama, Japan, where they were assigned to units in Korea. This period was the most dangerous for the American deployment in Korea, and the survival of South Korea was in doubt. The invading North Korean Army had pushed American and South Korean troops down the Korean peninsula until they were squeezed behind a perimeter of defenses they had hastily dug outside of the southern port of Pusan. Lose that, and South Korea was lost, at least until an invasion by sea could be put together. On September 1st, the North Korean Army launched an all-out offensive on the perimeter. To defend it, the Eighth Army was throwing into the battle poorly prepared, poorly armed American troops as soon as they arrived in Pusan from Japan. In this hell of exploding shells, mortars, and grenades, ripping machine guns, whizzing bullets, and charging hordes of North Koreans, medics counted their life span in days, at most. Cyril arrived in Japan on September 5th. Ten days later, the brilliant Inchon landing behind the bulk of the North Korean Army would take pressure off of Pusan, allowing the Eighth Army to punch its way out of the perimeter and, along with

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South Korean troops, drive up the peninsula to join American troops advancing from Inchon. As a medic, Cyril probably would not have survived in Pusan until then. But Cyril lucked out. Unbelievably so. He had just the right MOS at just the right time. Unknown to him, Cyril’s MOS labeled him “engineer, undesignated,” meaning he could fill the need for any engineer. So the Camp Zama Korean Consignment Task Force (CZKCTF—pronounced secsef) pulled Cyril out of the huge group being sent to Korea and kept him in Japan to fill a vacancy of which the 64th Engineering Battalion had just informed them by telephone. After all, Cyril’s MOS was “engineer.” The 64th was involved in taking reconnaissance aircraft tapes and, from them, making maps for United Nations forces in Korea. Very technical. Obviously engineering stuff—so CZKCTF thought. So Cyril was sent to the Isetan Department Store in the center of Shinjuku, a prime shopping and entertainment district (including a legal red light avenue) in Tokyo. Here, on the store’s fourth to seventh floors, the totally contained 64th Engineering Battalion lived and worked. Cyril’s bunk and locker on the fourth floor of the store were only sixteen steps from the windows overlooking the red light district. The district was off limits, patrolled by soldiers from the battalion to keep other soldiers out. This “duty” was routinely passed around the battalion, as was guard duty, and eagerly awaited—unlike guard duty. The battalion’s personnel officer first assigned Cyril to the motor pool repair shop in back of the department store. Hardly a job worthy of his “engineer” MOS, but the officer must have also looked into his record beyond that (something no one else seemed to have done), and saw that Cyril didn’t even have a high school diploma. What does one do with such a person in a highly technical battalion? It’s into the motor pool, of course. It took only a couple of days for the sergeant in charge to realize how totally ignorant Cyril was in repairing and servicing trucks and jeeps, and his near accidents while trying to maneuver a jeep around the motor pool showed that he couldn’t even drive. The sergeant exchanged words with the personnel officer, and Cyril was told to report to his new assignment in the battalion’s graphics department. He was supposed to work on the battalion yearbook, but he only drove the Japanese civilian responsible for this project into unJapanese, undiplomatic language. “Baka!—idiot! Baka!” the man yelled. “Photos not straight. Chikishou—damn. Block print bad—not lined.”

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“Aligned,” Cyril corrected. Within three weeks, Cyril was again reassigned. This time the personnel officer assigned him to the machine repair shop, presumably to oversee the work of Japanese technicians. He didn’t have to know anything or say anything, for the technicians did all the necessary repair work on the machinery. The personnel officer must have known this. All Cyril had to do was have pliers or a screwdriver in his hand when an officer was around. Otherwise, he read. It was a duty he handled well for over two years. With Cyril assigned to Japan in a place of safety, the vast changes in the universe for which Cyril would ultimately be responsible were still on track. It might seem as though there were a guiding hand, but no—just a chain of virtually impossible good throws of the dice for Cyril, and more for humanity. Again and again, chance favored Cyril’s apparently destined future. If anyone were to track it all, it would be like winning a state lottery several times in a row. But then, Cyril was not alone in this strange, coincidental run of incredible luck. There was also John Banks. And . . . one other.

Chapter 4

September 11, 2001 New York City John Banks

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he actual horror John Banks experienced for the first time, he would never forget. It would color his lectures, change his life, and author his dreams. He would never be the same. And in this horror, he joined the multitude of people throughout the world who had suffered through their own war and democide. Again, God threw the dice. On September 10th, Banks had no idea that every little step he took led him randomly to the monstrousness of the next day. It was not fated for him. A slightly different decision on this day, one appearing unimportant among all the unimportant decisions, would have led him to a different universe among his probable futures, perhaps even to death. But he made the decision, he behaved as he did, and his life’s and the world’s path would take on the inevitability that hindsight always gives it. He delayed his flight out to Chicago, and from there to Bloomington and Indiana University, until noon the next day—September 11— so he could visit his cousin, Pete Baxter. Pete, a bond broker for Tucker Brokerage in the North Tower of the World Trade Center, managed $43,000 in bonds that John had inherited. He wanted to discuss selling his bonds and moving into stocks. Besides, this was an opportunity to see Pete for the first time in years. That morning, he took the PATH train from New Jersey to the World Trade Center. He arrived at 8:50 a.m. and hopped on the escalator up to the concourse. It was empty of people, still and quiet—spooky. From outside came a faint rumble and the suggestion of distant sirens. The air felt sticky. A sour smell made him stop and look around; for the first time, he noticed the smoke hanging in the air, and the empty shoes, especially high heels, scattered over the floor.

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His heart began to pound. He felt the first stirring of fear. Something was very wrong. “Get out! Run!” He whirled to see a policeman gesturing frantically toward the concourse doors. Without thinking, he obeyed. Outside, glass, concrete, and papers of all kinds littered the street. Still more papers floated down from above. The stink of burning things and gasoline hung in the air. He couldn’t run, but had to step over and around the debris. He almost tripped over what he initially thought was a side of beef. As he dodged it, he realized it was a naked torso without arms or legs. He was too dazed to do anything but register the mangled torso and automatically look for its sex, without absorbing it at all. Further on, he passed a large tire and then a woman’s delicate hand with a wedding ring on one finger. It was severed at the wrist, lying palm upward, fingers slightly curled. Not one of the polished fingernails was broken. The owner would be happy about that. The stupid thought flitted across his mind like the CNN Headline news items that pass across the TV screen. By the time he got across the street, he felt sick and weak. Several people stood there, looking up at the tower. Some of them held their hands over their mouths—whether because of the stench or out of horror, he didn’t know. He leaned against a building and finally started thinking again. Yes—Jesus!—I saw a naked torso. A man’s. And I did see a woman’s severed hand. God, what is going on? Finally, he followed the gazes of the people standing around him. Clouds of smoke billowed from an inferno visible through a gaping hole in the tower, somewhere around the ninetieth floor. He stared. He couldn’t imagine what had happened. Above the flames, men and women stood at the windows. Some stood on the sills of broken windows with smoke rolling out from behind them. Suddenly, a man jumped from a window and twisted in the air as he fell more than ninety floors. A collective gasp of horror burst from the crowd around John. Another person jumped. And another. One landed nearby with a wet plunk. John leaned over and vomited. When he straightened, wiping his mouth, his eyes rose on their own to the burning building. Oh my God, he realized, my cousin is above the flames. His hand trembled as he took out his cell phone and called his cousin. “Honey?” Pete’s voice asked.

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“No,” John responded, surprised that Pete had answered so quickly, “this is John. I was about to come up when I saw the fire. What happened?” “A plane hit the building. I can’t get Julie. She’s not at work yet. Look, I’m going to try to keep calling her, but I don’t know how long—” John heard muffled coughing “—I think I’m going to die. I can’t get the door open, and smoke is coming in through a large crack in the wall. It’s hot. Too hot. I’m sitting under my desk. I can’t breathe.” Pete paused; for a moment, John thought something had happened to him. Then he said softly, “Please John, if I can’t get to her, tell her I love her . . . I love our children. I want her to be happy, to find someone—” more coughing “—who will make her and our children happy. Tell her that, John. Tell her that . . . ahh . . . we will meet again in heaven. . . . Goodbye.” The connection ended with a click. Tears filled John’s eyes. His heart thudding, he unconsciously shook the cell phone and beat it against his trembling hand. The connection was as dead as his cousin would be soon, he knew. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a low flying jet. Its engines grew to a scream. He jerked his gaze upward, and watched the plane fly into the South Tower. It disappeared inside for a half-second, and then the near and opposite sides of the building erupted in a huge, red and yellow mushroom cloud of burning aircraft fuel and debris. Concrete, metal, glass, unrecognizable construction materials and airplane parts, and bodies rained down on those below. John escaped injury, but he did not escape the cloud of concrete dust, ash, and particulate debris that enveloped all in the vicinity when the South Tower collapsed. Nor did he escape the bloody horror of more body parts, mangled dead, and bloodied, severely burned people around him. And as he helped some of the wounded to ambulances or police officers, he did not let himself escape what such terrible, trembling terror meant to those who must wait in fear over the fate of their loved ones. Somehow, John made it to Pete’s home to comfort his wife Julie. The living room was full of friends, many crying or with glistening eyes and drawn, haggard faces. No one talked. Some held hands. Two TVs tuned to different channels blared the news about the attack on the towers. He smelled coffee. Julie’s face was drawn, her eyes red, and her cheeks tear-streaked. John couldn’t even think to say hello. He just blurted out to Julie in a voice he didn’t recognize, “Did Pete get through to you?”

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“Yes. I was on the phone with him when the tower came down. His voice was cut off and then . . . I only heard static.” Sobbing now, she continued. “We saw it. We saw it and he’s not dead. I know he’s not dead.” Immediately, her friends rushed over and enveloped her in their arms. Pete’s little daughter Betty began crying hysterically, and his son Paul, his own eyes full of tears, tried to comfort her. John went to them, pulled them into his gray, sooty arms, and hugged them to him. He could do nothing but make soothing sounds and give them human comfort. And so for John, theory became empirical, the abstract real. From then on, when he lectured about war and democide, his voice held a deeper timbre, his specific examples of the human cost held a new quality of sadness, and he nurtured a fresh, almost fanatical dedication to the democratic peace. All this came from his heart and soul. But more, it affected his mind. So it seemed.

Chapter 5 1950–1953 Japan Cyril Clement

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ne of the lieutenants, Roger Spielman, who had a college degree in political science, thought it would be helpful to give Cyril’s battalion a lecture on the politics of the Korean War. They all gathered on the sixth floor, in the department store’s former exhibition hall. Cyril considered such information presentations a great opportunity to read, and brought Isaac Asimov’s I, Robot with him. He sat near the rear, where the battalion first sergeant who attended these sessions could not see him, and he could hide the book behind the back of the soldier seated in front of him. The lieutenant had ordered everyone to be at ease, and stood patiently at the front, waiting for them all to get comfortable on the floor. Then he began with some humor. “As you may have noticed, the Japanese have a little difficulty with English, but you can’t say they don’t try. Have you seen the latest Japanese advice for American military drivers? ‘When passenger of foot heave in sight, tootle the horn. Trumpet him melodiously at first, but if he still obstacles your passage, then tootle him with vigor.’ “Then there are the notices in hotels: ‘Please take advantage of the chambermaids.’” He waited for the chuckles to subside before continuing. “Or the one regarding the heater: ‘If you want just condition of warm in your room, please control yourself.’ “Or restaurants: ‘We reserve the right to serve refuse to anyone.’” This elicited some laughter throughout the room, especially in front. The lieutenant’s wide grin morphed into a hard line and he swung his eyes around the hall. “We are at war, as troops who may at any time be sent to Korea to fight . . . ”

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This met slight head shakes. Those gathered knew they were too important as technicians to be squandered in battle. None of them would be sent to fight. “ . . . so I want to make sure you understand the stakes involved. Although it is being fought against us, the Korean War is one of Stalin’s offensives against the West, and free countries. He is attempting to spread communism around the world by force, and our foreign policy of containment is attempting to stop him—to keep Soviet communism within its current borders. This is why President Truman committed us to fight this war. We cannot allow Stalin to succeed in his attempt to conquer countries around him.” A hand went up. These technicians, even though privates, or corporals, or especially sergeants, were not overwhelmed by rank. The lieutenant looked at the technician and nodded. “I thought that Kim What’s-his-name of North Korea ordered the invasion.” The lieutenant’s mouth hinted at a grin. “That’s what Stalin wants you to think. That’s why there are no Russian troops involved. Kim Il Sung is Stalin’s boy. He created him, put him in control of North Korea, and gave him all the military equipment he thought was more than necessary to defeat weak South Korea. He never expected that we would go to war to save South Korea. Before the invasion, our State Department—” his voice took on a touch of disdain “—told the world we wouldn’t.” Spielman had no notes and no lectern. He began pacing in front of the soldiers with one hand in his pants pocket and the other ready to occasionally emphasize his points. He described the Russian Revolution, Stalin’s power over the Soviet Union, World War Two, Hitler’s holocaust, and the rapid growth of communism after the Second World War, including the 1949 communist victory over the nationalist government of China. He then went into the history of communism in Korea. Cyril was into Asimov’s book, but did catch some of Spielman’s words now and then. When he heard China mentioned, he put down the book and focused on the lieutenant’s words. Wait, Cyril realized as he listened, isn’t all this in Banks’ manuscript? Didn’t Banks describe communist victories in eastern Europe and China? Then Cyril almost fell over. He’d remembered that Banks had described the defeat of the Chinese Nationalists and the Korean War, almost exactly as the lieutenant was describing it. Cyril had picked up the accordion file containing the book and manuscript in 1944. Yet, those pages seemed to precisely foretell the future. That can’t be. It’s impossible.

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The lieutenant, looking pleased, kept glancing his way; Cyril must have had a rapt expression on his face. Although Cyril still thought the manuscripts he had found were science fiction, they seemed, in his memory at least, to mirror what the lieutenant was saying about communism and the Korean War with incredible accuracy. There has to be an explanation for this, he thought, but it still excited his interest. Then he recalled some of the other things he’d read, things that had yet to happen, such as a Vietnam War, and a mass extermination in some African country in which nearly a million people were murdered in a few months. He now wanted to reread the manuscript in detail, and go through the stuff in the accordion folder again. Before joining the Army, he had put all his treasured books and magazines in storage. He didn’t trust his father to look after them, and he had been right. His father moved away from San Francisco with only a suitcase in hand, as best Cyril could find out. He could write to the Secure Storage Company and have them send him the Banks stuff, but he didn’t trust that they could find the accordion file, and if they did, that it would reach him without something getting lost. He had to wait until his discharge to read everything again. There was still one thing he could do, however. That night he started guard duty; for the next twenty-four hours, he would spend two hours on guard, four hours off. His favorite location was at the department store elevator, where with an unloaded rifle on his shoulder he stood watching the Japanese customers come and go. What he would have done if a Japanese had tried to use the elevator, he didn’t know. After he finished his shift, he asked around, hoping to find out where he could borrow history books. He was told he could borrow them from the military library at Army Headquarters in the Dai Ichi Building, on the other side of the street and across the moat from the Emperor’s Palace. There he found an impressive collection of history books, particularly on Asia, since the library was a prime resource for the American occupation authorities. He could not take books out, so he began spending most of his spare time there. Ted Richardson, who bunked next to him, asked one day, “Cyril, I don’t see you around anymore. You shacking up with some Japanese broad?” Like them all, Cyril had his share of the sex for the taking for a few cents, all within a few feet of the battalion. But he was tired, and wasn’t thinking. Rather than saying something like, “Yeah, she was a sixteenyear-old virgin,” which would probably have provoked laughter and the

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rejoinder, “There ain’t no such thing within fifty miles of here,” he made the mistake of saying the truth. “I’ve been going to the library at Headquarters almost every day.” Ted went wild with that, almost collapsing in laughter on his bunk. “Yeah, sure,” he finally got out. From then on, when he came into the bunk area late, one or more of the soldiers would laugh and yell, “Back from the library, Cyril? Got a hot book on the side?” They just didn’t believe him. He had to be shacking up; it was so easy to do. Cyril’s impatience to see the Banks stuff only grew as he found nothing different in the history of the twentieth century from that he hazily remembered from the manuscript and the “Remembrance.” But he was getting an education in history and, as more and more he followed the news and commentary on the American military radio station, political science. There was something else. Many of the technicians in his battalion who worked on the photographic and mapmaking machinery had college degrees, some with an M.A. Yet, to Cyril, they seemed no brighter or more intelligent than him. Indeed, because of his avid reading of science fiction, in some areas his vocabulary and knowledge seemed more extensive than theirs. That persuaded him to go to college. If they could do it, so could he, and moreover, he could finance it through the GI Bill that Congress had made available for Korean veterans. But he had quit school in the tenth grade. Without a high school diploma, he could hardly enter college. So he also began studying arithmetic and geometry, American history, elementary science, and English grammar in order to take the Graduate Record Examination the Armed Forces gave, which, if he passed, would give him the equivalent of a high school diploma. Some colleges would accept that in place of the normal diploma. One month before his discharge, he passed the exam. He also was promoted from private first class to corporal. It had taken him almost three years to achieve that exalted rank—not that he cared. In Korea, American forces had ceased offensive operations, and a military stalemate had ensued for well over a year as negotiations deadlocked over voluntary repatriation of prisoners of war. Dwight Eisenhower was elected president of the United States in November 1952, and in December he began a three-day tour of Korea. It was clear that the war was almost over, but for the settlement of the repatriation issue. In February 1953, with little mapmaking to do, Cyril’s battalion began thinning its personnel. Cyril, now with no vital MOS—it had been

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reclassified by the personnel officer—and due for discharge in less than half a year, was not reassigned. Instead, in March, at the age of twentyone, he received an honorable discharge and a check for back pay and a bonus totalling $872.23. The day he arrived in San Francisco, he paid the $173 he owed for storage and carried his things to his newly rented room. Anticipation nearly overwhelmed him as he sat with the heavy accordion folder on his lap for the first time in over three years. Now he would read, really read, more than the erotic hot spots that he had marked with a folded corner. He didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep. Not until he had read it all. He finished with his mind in chaos. I can’t believe it, but it makes sense, Cyril the science fiction fan concluded. But why me—why did I find the folder? I am the luckiest man alive. No, someone is playing tricks on me. But who? Maybe somebody replaced what was in the original folder. That’s stupid. Still, how can there be a solution to war? History says otherwise. This stuff is all story. Yet, what it says about the future I’m living through has been correct, absolutely. Now, wait a minute. If Banks and hot-stuff Joy went back to the past and changed the future, then I’m living in the changed future. So, his predictions based on the chronology he took back in time and his dissertation of the past written in 2001 could not predict the present, because the present is his future, which he changed. Cyril shook his head. Not right. No, it’s all incredible. But then, if what was in the folder is in the future of the universe he and Joy left—my universe—how did this folder get into my universe? He says that one can’t cross universes. . . . He rubbed his eyes. Christ, I got a headache.

Chapter 6 1953 San Francisco Cyril Clement

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xhausted after reading Banks’ stuff and trying to make sense out of it, Cyril tried to get some sleep. He tossed and turned, his mind returning again and again to the impossible implications of what he had read, to wondering if what Banks said about the future were true. Newly discharged from the Army, jobless, his future unplanned and uncertain, he knew one thing he would do at eight o’clock the next morning. When the San Francisco Library opened, he was there with Banks’ “Remembrance,” the chronology, and the manuscript in a doubled paper grocery bag. He asked a librarian for a chronology of current history. She gave him several books, and pointed him to the annual New York Times Index for specifics. He settled down to compare Banks’ stuff to what actually happened in the world from 1906, when John Banks and Joy Phim landed in the past, to the present, July 1954. The Index was most useful—pick a war, revolution, public figure, or event that Banks mentioned and look it up in the Index. They were all there. He finished late in the afternoon. Raw hunger drove him to a White City Diner, where he automatically ordered two twenty-five-cent hamburgers and ate them in a daze. Since everything checked in the manuscript for the years up to the present, and it was a revision of Banks’ 2001 dissertation, presumably the events it noted occurring after 1954 would be accurate also. With that and the chronology, he now had in his hands precise predictions of the future political world—who would be president of the United States, what wars, civil wars, uprisings, and mass killings would occur, what colonies would become independent and what their new names would be, and so on, up to the year 2000.

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Cyril’s confusion of the day before had disappeared by the time he reached his rented room. The library research and his science fiction background now made him virtually certain. In the many decades since H. G. Wells wrote The Time Machine in 1895, time travel had been a rare plot device; now it was often used, although ridiculed by physical scientists. After devouring so much of this fiction, he now, finally, believed it. Logic about universes be damned. That’s unanswerable. However, this stuff fits history too well to deny. He felt like dancing around his room. He felt as though he had won a million dollars, tax free. Still, a sliver of caution remained. One more test. That’s all. Today is March 23, 1953. What’s the next big event that Banks predicts after today? He could find nothing in the manuscript for the rest of 1953. He checked the dissertation as well, to be sure. There was nothing until February 1956. “‘Nikita Khrushchev, First Secretary of USSR Communist Party, denounces Stalin’s excesses,’” he read aloud. “Judging by the emphasis on it, that will be a big event.” He consulted Banks’ chronology, and there he found, for the months of 1953 after his discharge from the Army: Monday, July 27, Korean armistice signed; Thursday, August 20, Moscow announces explosion of hydrogen bomb. His hand shook so badly that he struggled to write legibly, but he copied the dates and events down in large block letters on three-ring paper he’d found at the library. These two would be his test cases.

aaa Cyril was rapidly living through the money he’d received on his discharge from the army; he had to find a job. He started on the late night shift at the Coca-Cola Bottling Company in Oakland. It was an easy job—he checked the cartoons of empty bottles that came into the plant, making sure there was nothing solid inside the bottles, such as pencil stubs and ball point pens, and then he tossed the bottles upright into a slotted conveyor belt. The bottles passed through a high pressure cleaning machine, then through the machine that filled them with Coke and capped them. He got so he could throw eight bottles at a time into the slots. He also packed the filled bottles into cartons when he was needed. After work he slept most of the day, then ate at Barney’s Diner, the one with a fake biplane made to look as if it had crashed on the diner’s roof. With his stomach filled with a seventy-five-cent helping of meat

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loaf and mashed potatoes, he read whatever cheap and interesting pocket book was available from People’s Drugstore on the corner. That is, when he wasn’t rereading Banks’ stuff and daydreaming about the implications if the predictions he’d copied down came true. He was sure they would. Banks had already accurately predicted too much. But he had to make absolutely, undeniably certain. He applied for admission to San Francisco University. Because he was a veteran who had passed his GRE exam, he was accepted as a freshman for the Fall semester of 1953. The hours were days and the days months, and he thought each work shift would never end. Sunday, April 26 came. He had hardly slept the night before. He didn’t know how he’d survive another sleepless night and then the wait through the 27th until the Korean armistice was signed, if it was. He turned the radio on and tuned in to the KCBS hourly news station, and waited impatiently. The first news item was about Korea. “It looks like the Korean War is about to end, and Washington is buzzing with the forthcoming announcement that the armistice has been signed. But there is fear that there may be last minute nonsense by the North Koreans. Lieutenant General William Harrison, representing the UN Command, will meet today with General Nam Il of the Korea People’s Army at Panmunjom. Still, this is iffy. It is known that North Korean Premier Kim Il Sung will not show up for the signing; neither will General Mark Clark, head of UN forces. And there is some fear that the North will again make demands. The signing is scheduled for ten a.m., Korean time. “In San Francisco, the milkmen’s strike is in the third day, and the mayor’s office promised . . . ” Cyril looked again at his watch. The time had hardly changed. It was a little after eight a.m. So, the armistice meeting would be held about noon, local time. He had checked the time difference five times several days ago, in anticipation of today. Banks’ chronology was off by a day. Still absolutely incredible, to call the end of the Korean War so close—to even, in effect, predict a Korean War, as it had. So what, a day off. Cyril tried to read. No good. He went back into the Banks folder, but he was so agitated, so excited about testing his first prediction, that he hit the streets, walking in the rain with his umbrella, standing on corners, sitting on wet park benches, watching the people and cars passing by. At noon he walked back to his room. He turned on the radio at 12:20. He immediately heard the excitement in the announcer’s voice.

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“—Korean War is over. The UN and North Korean delegates signed eighteen copies of the armistice agreement, which took ten minutes. Throughout, the delegates did not speak to each other, and silently left the building through opposite exits when it was over. “In Washington . . . ” Cyril’s mind was in such turmoil, he heard nothing more, not even the honking horns and the siren of a passing ambulance on the street nearby. Elation made him useless for an hour or more; he could only sit with his mind in wondrous ferment, his heart beating rapidly. He got up and did a little jig, then sat down on the edge of his chair; he got up within minutes to pace around his room, then plump down in another chair. Unable to keep his hands still, he pounded them lightly on his legs. My God, the chronology is almost right on. Holy Christ, it is right on. How stupid can I get? I forgot the dateline, even after going over it myself, twice! On the way to and from Japan. It is the 27th in Korea. Jesus, the 27th. The chronology is right on. He almost jumped over to his bed, where he had left the chronology. Dropping down next to it, he looked again at the armistice date. “July 27, 1953. I still can’t believe it.” He rapidly leafed back in the chronology to the date the Korean War started: June 25, 1950. Jesus H. Christ! Banks’ stuff the fire department found in 1938—1938!— predicted the beginning and end of the Korean War. He did not need the other predictions for 1955 that he had written down. He was positive now that they would happen. He started to shake. “Holy Christ,” he blurted. He paced until his knees stopped shaking, but his thoughts still jerked in different directions. Moving mechanically, he left his room and went for a walk, practically skipping along to a little corner park nearby where he sat down on a bench—or floated above it, he was sure. He had the future in his hands—rather, in an accordion folder. He still did not realize the full implications of what he had, in terms of power and wealth. But he sensed enough of it. The chronology in the file ended in 1965, when John and Joy would be around seventy, and well retired from their mission. Still, that was more than ten years into the future. He had over ten years of precise predictions of what would happen politically, including the outcome of major elections, significant inventions, and other major events. Then, as what else he had hit him, his eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped. Holy Christ. The folder also has a chronology of major stock market events, and the annual prices of some companies. He smacked his head with the palm of his hand. I’m rich.

Chapter 7 October 22, 2001 Indiana University John Banks

H

e had just finished lecturing his “Introduction to Contemporary History” class, his second class lecture of the day, and he was tired. As a first year assistant professor who had completed his Ph.D. only about five months ago, he spent virtually all his time preparing for these first class lectures, and had a million notes with him when he walked into the classrooms. Except for this next class: “The Democratic Peace.” It examined democracies as a method of nonviolence, and a way to end war and minimize violence. Since this had been the subject of his dissertation, he needed few notes for his lecture. He had been lecturing on genocide and mass murder—what he called democide—for about a month, since this was the most extensive and bloody form of violence, killing over four times the number that died in all domestic and foreign wars of the twentieth century. He intended to point out that liberal democracies committed virtually no democide of their people. He entered the classroom full of chattering undergraduates and placed his briefcase on the desk in front of the blackboard to open it. Taking out the one-page outline of what he was going to say, he set it on the lectern next to the desk, then looked up at the students. As if of their own volition, his eyes sought out the gorgeous oriental girl in the back—Joy Phim, as his class registration list identified her. She never asked questions and was registered for his class as an auditor—no credit. But, and he found this most exciting, her slanted almond eyes were always on him as he lectured. And they showed deep interest. Sometimes she would nod, her full lips parted to show her white teeth; sometimes she would lean forward and cup her chin in her hand, one finger on her cheek. Rarely did she take notes.

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He was a bachelor. He had been so busy studying and writing for his degree, and now preparing his first classes, that he simply did not have the time for more than an occasional, uncomplicated relationship. Now, he knew the dangers to his career of hooking up with a student, and available women on the faculty or in the administration were rare, but in spite of the risk, his disobedient eyes increasingly sought out that student in the rear. He couldn’t help himself. He caught himself lecturing to her as though no other student were present. And at the end of the class, when she was usually among the last students to leave, he just had to steal a glance. She always wore a sweatshirt and a tight denim skirt or jeans, and her straight black hair, tied back in a ponytail, swayed as she walked. No more that a few lectures had passed before his eyes sought the ring finger of her left hand and saw no engagement or wedding ring. Nothing. That had registered in a minor explosion of desire, and that evening he had difficulty keeping his mind on the rewriting of his dissertation into a book on the democratic peace. Well, there she was again, sitting forward in her seat, waiting, her eyes locked on him. He looked at his watch. It was time. “Good afternoon, students,” he began, as usual. He accompanied the greeting with his genuine, opening-lecture smile. He found he loved teaching. “Today, I want to begin with Vietnam. There is a map of this nation in your assigned reading and I suggest you turn to it. It is important that you have a good understanding of where Vietnam is in relation to China, Laos, and Cambodia for these lectures.” He paused a moment as the students complied. “Perhaps of all countries, democide in Vietnam, and by the Vietnamese, is the most difficult to understand. It is mixed in with six wars spanning forty-three years.” He raised his hand and lifted a finger to count off each. “The Indochina War, the Vietnam War, the Cambodian War, the subsequent guerrilla war in Cambodia, the guerrilla war in Laos, and the Sino-Vietnamese War. As some of you may know, one of them involved the United States.” He hesitated—that was a joke—but no student even smiled. “There was also a nearly twenty-one-year formal division of the country into two sovereign North and South nations; the full communization of the North; occupation of neighboring countries by both the North and South; defeat, absorption, and communization of the South; and the massive flight by sea of millions of Vietnamese—” A thud interrupted him. Miss Phim had dropped a book. This gave him an excuse to look at her, and he saw that she had covered her face with her hand, and was not moving to pick up her book. Strange, he thought.

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He continued, “As best as I can determine, through all this, close to 3.8 million Vietnamese lost their lives in political violence, or nearly one out of every ten men, women, and children. Of these, about 1.25 million, or nearly a third of those killed, were murdered. “Now, I want you all to understand that this is not only a complex history to unfold, but one beset with biases, misinformation, disinformation, propaganda, and hidden agendas.” He stepped from behind the lectern and took a step toward the front row to gesture toward himself. “Before continuing, I should share my own biases with you. I am a fervent believer in human rights and freedom. And I believe that the best political structure for insuring this is democracy. Not just a democracy in which there are regular elections and everyone can vote, but a democracy, one we call a liberal democracy, which guarantees human rights and the rule of law. For all.” He was informal with the class, and sometimes joked with them, or made puns in his lecture. He never treated a question as wrong or dumb, and the students had grown increasingly relaxed throughout his lectures. One of the most relaxed of them in the second row asked, “Does that mean, Professor, that you will be giving us a biased lecture?” The class laughed, the students looking at him expectantly. In the back, Miss Phim shook her head. Banks rubbed his chin. He tried to look serious, but the dimples at the sides of his mouth gave him away. “Of course not, Mr. O’Reilly; my bias is the true bias.” More laughter. Banks waited for a moment, saw there were no more questions, and with a fleeting glance at Miss Phim, he started his lecture.

Chapter 8 1953 Cyril Clement

T

he stock market! Of course. Somewhere in Cyril’s diverse reading, he had learned that people bought and sold stocks, and that one could make a profit if one sold a stock at a higher price than it had cost to buy. Of course, one could also lose money by selling stock below the price at which it was bought. What stuck most in his mind was the huge fall in the stock market in 1929, in which many rich people had lost everything they owned, driving some to commit suicide. He rushed back to his room, bent over the beat-up cardboard box that he kept on the floor near his bed, and searched among the Banks stuff there for the “Printout of Historic Prices for a Few Notable Stocks, 1906–1965.” There were only fifteen stocks in the list, including American Telephone & Telegraph, General Electric, U.S. Steel, Western Union, and Westinghouse, followed by a chart covering many pages that gave their daily closings on the New York Stock Exchange. There also was supposed to be a listing of all stock closings on the New York Exchange from 1906 to 1965, but according to the “Remembrance,” that was on a CD, whatever that was. He had looked for something with that name, but could not find it among Banks’ stuff. Though his excitement was still at a high pitch, he went to work at the bottling plant that night. He had to. He was paid $1.10 an hour, and could not afford to lose the time or be fired. Every penny he earned now beyond his rent and food could go toward his savings. He thought happily of what he would do. When I have enough, whatever amount that is, I’ll begin buying and selling stocks. I’ll follow the technique Banks outlined in the “Remembrance.” When I’m so successful I might draw attention to myself, I will lose on one out of four stocks. Tomorrow, he decided, he’d go to the library to get books on how the stock market worked.

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He’d had Friday and Saturday night off; now, as he arrived for his Sunday night shift, his mind was in another world, one with a mansion on the coast, a yacht and a Cadillac, and a huge personal library. His body, drained by all the day’s waiting, then his exuberance, and lack of sleep, was on automatic. Working beneath the sign posted above the boiling-hot bottle washing and sanitizing machine that warned workers to keep their arms and heads bare, he was not even aware of the longsleeved shirt he wore, its sleeves unrolled. He had seen the sign so often, he no longer saw it. Going through the motions, Cyril picked up a bottle, turned it upside down and, if nothing fell out, shook it and listened, then looked inside before putting it back in the carton. Next bottle, then the next, until he’d checked all in the carton. Then he threw the bottles into the slots on the conveyor belt, stacked the empty carton on a pallet, and turned to the next carton, and the first bottle in that carton . . . one bottle after another . . . one carton after another . . . . He fell asleep on his feet, until— Wrenching, pulling, twisting; burning, searing pain! Awful, screaming pain. “Ooouuueeaaahhh!” Blackness.

aaa Pain . . . in my head . . . my shoulder . . .my hand. Burning hot; so thirsty. Cyril squinted through his left eye, saw a forest of tubes. Pain . . . too hot . . . something touching, pressing . . . pain. Can’t scream . . . .

aaa Pain in my shoulder . . .right one . . . less . . .head aches—throbs . . .can’t move— afraid to . . . something wrapped around my . . . voices. He opened his left eye. Fog filled the room. A dim light somewhere behind him barely illuminated a wispy woman in white and a bespectacled man in a long white coat. They seemed to be swimming among a clutter of bottles and tubes . . . . Nothingness.

aaa

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Wetness. A rag wiped over his flesh. He opened his eye, and saw a woman in white washing his bottom and genitals. He felt a different kind of heat and struggled to demand she cover him. It came out as a weak and strangulated stutter; there was a tube down his throat, strangling him. His heart started beating wildly, and his whole body shook. The nurse stopped what she was doing, stepped back, and looked up at his open eye. She rushed from the room. Cyril jerked and shuddered. He tried to shout for help, but could not. A man wearing a stethoscope around his neck entered, a hypodermic in his hand. He gave Cyril a shot of something, and almost immediately, soothing warmth spread through is body, and the world disappeared.

aaa Voices. He opened his left eye. Two doctors stood at the foot of the bed, chatting, but most of what they said was gibberish to Cyril. One glanced his way, then walked over to the side of the bed and said, “Hello. I’m Doctor Lundy, and I’m you primary doctor.” He leaned close to look into Cyril’s eye, and asked, his voice soft and professional, “How do you feel?” “Thirsty.” The tube was gone. “I’ll have the nurse bring you water in a few minutes. Could you tell me your name?” “Cyril Clement.” “Where do you live?” “At 261 Castro Street.” The doctor wrote the information down on a clipboard. “City?” “San Francisco.” “Job?” “Night shift, Coke Bottling Company.” “What year is it?” “Nineteen fifty-three.” Lundy nodded. He waved at the other man. “This is Dr. Harding. He is our burn specialist.” Harding nodded to Cyril. “Good to see you awake.” With a little wave at Lundy, he left the room. Doctor Lundy’s voice became conversational. “Do you have any memory of what happened to you?” “Just burning pain. That’s it.”

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“Well, your right shirtsleeve caught in a conveyor belt that carried empty bottles into the wash and sterilization chamber. You tried to wrench it loose but couldn’t, and your hand and arm were pulled into the chamber. The right side of your head was jerked against the protruding structure of the chamber above the conveyor belt. You would be dead if it weren’t for the safety switch that closed everything down because of the drag of your weight on the belt.” Panic made Cyril breathless. “Did I lose anything?” “I’m sorry, you lost two fingers of your right hand to the burns. But we were able to save your hand and arm, and we don’t think you lost any function in them. You lost part of your right ear, but your hearing should be okay. As to the right side of your face, you had third-degree burns and a few deep cuts, but we can fix all that. You may have a small scar or so, but nothing unsightly.” He paused. When Cyril said nothing, he asked, “What about your parents? We couldn’t locate them.” “They’re gone. I lost contact with them while I was in the Army. I have no brothers or sisters.” He swallowed. “I can’t pay for any of this.” “I don’t think you need worry,” Lundy said. “I guess Coca-Cola or their accident insurance will take care of it, including the skin grafts and whatever other surgery you need as a result of your accident. This happened to you on the job.” Cyril relaxed. Then it struck him. “My God, my stuff. How long have I been unconscious?” “About ten days. That was quite a bump on the head you got. Gave you a concussion, but there doesn’t seem to be any lasting effects. We want to run some tests, however.” Cyril opened his one eye wide. “Jesus,” he yelled, “I missed pay day. I missed my room rent. Shit, the manager will have rented the room to someone else. My stuff! I’ve got to get—” “I don’t know about that. If you know the manager’s name and telephone number, I can have my nurse call and tell him you’re here.” “Jim Aku is the manager. You have my address. I don’t have his telephone number. Check the telephone book, please. This is very, very important. Have your nurse tell him I will pay his rent as soon as I get out, and not to touch my stuff.”

aaa Cyril was released from the hospital three weeks later. He would still need outpatient care for his arm, and the right side of his face was a

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little mottled, with livid scars and a right eye that was droop-lidded and red-lined. But they assured him that would all go away in time. He’d be stuck with a badly scarred and discolored right arm, though. He’d had to keep after the doctors and nurses to get in touch with his rental manager; when after two weeks they finally did, his room had been rented, and its contents stored in boxes in the basement. He took a streetcar to the Coca-Cola plant to pick up his paychecks—his pay had continued while he was in the hospital, and he was expected back on the job in three days—and cashed them at the nearest bank. After finding himself a new room through the classified advertisements, he went to his old rooming house to pick up what had been boxed for him. The manager took one look at Cyril’s’ face and expressed his sorrow over the accident. He smiled on receiving the room rent Cyril owed, and apologized with a shrug for renting the room right away. “No word from you, you know,” he said. “Too many walk out on me, leaving junk in room. I still got to pay owner, you know. I sorry. I thought you walk out. Anyway, I pack up your things in two boxes. They in the basement.” The manager led Cyril down the basement steps to an area filled with cages, one for each room. He went to one wire door and unlocked the padlock securing the ends of a chain that held the door shut. Then he gestured inside, to two boxes—all Cyril owned in the world, except for the books and magazines he still in storage. Excited anew over the prospect of reading Banks’ stuff, feeling happier than he’d been since the accident, he picked up one box and told the manager, “I’ll have to come back for the other. I have to use the streetcar.” Cyril quickly tired during the trip; he had lost conditioning and his muscles had withered in the hospital. He was sweating and puffing by the time he got to his new room and dropped the box on the bed. He sat next to it, trying to recover some strength. Finally he opened the box and slowly took out his wrinkled clothes, army boots, shoes, and a crumpled hat—that was it. In hindsight, he realized the box had been too light to contain Banks’ stuff. He waited, trying to regain more of his strength, and then took the streetcar back to the rooming house, where the manager told him that he could get the remaining box himself. He hurried down to the basement and opened and checked the box. “What?” he yelled. “Goddamn it, where’s the Banks stuff?” He kicked the box and ran out of the cage, slamming its door so hard against the next cage that it bent off its hinges.

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He dashed up the stairs to the manager’s apartment and flung the door open without knocking. “My stuff—” He couldn’t get his breath. The manager scowled at him. Cyril leaned in the open doorway, gulping air. Finally he flung the words out. “Where is my stuff? My papers are missing.” The manager’s eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened into a hard line. Cyril yelled, “I had a whole box of very important stuff on the floor. Where is it?” The manager put both hands on his hips and glared at Cyril. “You disappear. Not my fault. I had janitor put your things in box. He then clean dirty room you left so I could rent it. You no pay, I must pay. I do not know what he do with junk. Maybe throw away.” Cyril gaped. He gripped the side of the door to hold himself up. “Thrown away? Thrown away!” In a pleading wheeze, he cried, “Wheeere?” The manager jerked his thumb toward the back of the house. “Garbage cans in rear. Garbage gone.” Cyril dashed out of the room and down the long hallway to the back door, then out to the beat-up tin garbage cans. He whipped the lid from one after another. Nothing but junk, rotten, half-eaten food, and waste paper. He kicked the last can, dropped down next to it, and beat the cinderstrewn ground with his fist. The full enormity of his loss hit him like a sledgehammer. He howled in despair, then broke down in body wrenching sobs. He lay there for hours, too wretched to move.

Chapter 9 John Banks

H

e stood with one hand resting on the lectern, on the one-page outline of his lecture. He looked around the classroom, stealing a quick glance at Miss Phim. He thought of his female students as “Miss,” the males as “Mister,” and addressed them that way. When a “Miss” from Australia asked him why he didn’t use their first names, he told the class, “It is to show you the respect you deserve as a student. After all, you are not forced to study in a university. You choose to be here at considerable cost to you and, most likely, your parents.” Then he’d given them his signature lopsided grin. “And also, I think I should honor your intelligence, prudence, and good sense in taking my class.” Some of the students chuckled, some laughed, some looked at him seriously—I wonder if they will put that in their notes, he’d thought as he waited for the class to settle down. Now, he began his lecture with a vertical wave of his hand. “In this lecture I will focus on Vietnam’s First Indochina War, which began in 1945 and ended in 1954, and which the Vietnamese called the War of Independence. First, a little background. France took over all of Indochina in the late nineteenth century, making Vietnam one of its colonies. There had been some rebellions against the French, most notably the 1930–31 communist-led uprising in which ten thousand Vietnamese were killed, but it was not until World War Two that the French lost their hold. When Germany defeated France, the remaining French Vichy regime was allowed nominal control over a French garrison of fifty thousand in Vietnam. The Japanese, allies of Germany, had applied military pressure to the French garrison for facilities and bases in Vietnam even before France fell, and in negotiations with the Vichy government, Japan later achieved control over Vietnam’s important airports and port facilities. “In December 1941, the day—” He stopped and asked the class, “What happened in December 1941 regarding the Japanese?”

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One of the students in the front row yelled, “They attacked Pearl Harbor.” “Where is that?” “Vietnam?” one of the second row students guessed. John’s mental jaw dropped, but before he had to struggle to keep sarcasm out of his voice, several students shouted out, “Hawaii. Pearl Harbor is in Hawaii.” “That’s right,” he said. “In December 1941, Japan attacked Pearl Harbor and thus provoked war with the United States. At the same time, Japan surrounded French forces in Vietnam and gave them an ultimatum: cooperate or be destroyed. With no outside help possible, and with even the appearance of French control at stake, the French accepted full Japanese use of Vietnam as a base and staging area. In effect, the French and Japanese operated as co-colonists of the country. “In 1945, as the end of the war approached, Japan grew increasingly concerned about setting up an ‘impregnable defense’ of its empire, and became disenchanted with its relationship with France. In a surprise coup d’etat in March, Japan took over Vietnam by brutal force, massacring many French in the process. “Even before this coup it was obvious to many Vietnamese that Japan would eventually lose the war and have to leave Vietnam. Vietnamese nationalists and communists thus envisioned their country’s independence and worked toward that end. When the United States defeated Japan in August 1945, both groups maneuvered to take over Vietnam. The communists, or Viet Minh as they were called, were especially well organized. Although there were only about five thousand of them, they succeeded in dominating the major cities in the north. In September of 1945, their undisputed leader, Ho Chi Minh declared the independence and sovereignty of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam while carrying out guerrilla warfare against French forces. “France was not about to allow a de facto breakup of its empire. It gradually mobilized its forces to recapture Vietnam, and reasserted authority over most of the south. Neither the Viet Minh in the north nor the French desired all-out war, however. Ho Chi Minh tried to negotiate some kind of autonomy in a French Union, and a preliminary agreement to that effect was signed in March 1946.” Banks saw some eyelids drooping. No good. He put his hands behind his back, leaned toward the class, and said, “I am absolutely certain that each one of you did your assigned reading for today. I’m positive that any one of you I call on can answer a simple question about this agreement. Let’s see.” He reached for his deck of note cards,

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each with the name and background of a student he had written on it. The one for Miss Phim was missing the corner he had cut off so that he could easily pull it out of the deck when he wanted. Not today. He shuffled the cards, looked at the top one, and said, “Mr. Baker?” He scanned the faces before him. A student put up his hand. “What happened to this agreement of March 1946?” John asked. “Ah . . . it was useless. War broke out.” “Yes, thank you. Negotiations to reach a final agreement could not bridge French colonial aims and Viet Minh communist aspirations. In December 1946, sixty thousand trained Viet Minh troops attacked French garrisons throughout Vietnam. All-out war began. “The war rallied Vietnamese around the Viet Minh, especially in the north. Having massacred the most important noncommunist nationalists, the Viet Minh remained the only coherent force fighting for Vietnam against foreign imperialism.” He glanced at his outline. “By the end of 1948, they had gained control over half the population and villages of Vietnam. By 1951, they were a huge communist organization of 760,000 activists and 350,000 regular troops and guerrillas. “This bloody war came to an end with the defeat of the French at Dien Bien Phu in May 1954. France and the Viet Minh agreed to a cease-fire, and at the subsequent Geneva Conference attended by the Big Powers, France accepted the independence of Vietnam. This conference also negotiated a cease-fire line at the 17th Parallel. Look at your map—it’s that red line dividing the north from the south. This effectively partitioned the country into North and South Vietnam and later would define the demilitarized zone—the DMZ, for short— between them. This Geneva Agreement also allowed for three hundred days of two-way movement of pro- or anticommunist forces and other Vietnamese across the DMZ. And it called for elections throughout all of Vietnam in 1956, to unite the country.” He stopped and looked from one student to another until almost all were looking up at him. Then he moved close to the students in front without crowding them. Leaning toward them, gesturing with both hands and shaking his head as though incredulous, he said, “The human cost of the Viet Minh victory was enormous. Nearly 510,000—maybe even more than twice that number—died in battle or due to the fighting. Probably half of those killed were civilians. And this does not even take into account the horrendous democide launched by communist Viet Minh that I will discuss in the next lecture.”

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The lecture for this period complete, he turned the class into a seminar, as he always tried to do. He began with a comparison. “Keep in mind the approximately 510,000 soldiers, guerrillas, and civilians killed in the First Indochina War. Now, how many were killed overall, soldiers and civilians, in both the North and the South, in the American Civil War?” “A lot,” offered one student. “A million,” said another. “True, a lot; and a million is too high,” John responded, and waited. “About one hundred thousand?” suggested a girl in the back. “Too low,” John replied. “Half a million,” claimed a boy seated in the middle of the class. “Close enough,” John said. He checked his outline. “In the American Civil War, 558,052 soldiers and civilians died. What many people think of as just a little war somewhere in Asia was virtually as bloody and horrendous as our civil war. But you may be surprised to learn, as you will in the next lecture, that during this war and up to 1956, hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese civilians would be murdered by the Viet Minh, more than were killed in World War Two for the United States.” He perched on a nearby desk and waved his hands apart as though drawing a line with his fingertips. “Okay, students. Questions? Comments?”

Chapter 10 1953–1956 Cyril Clement

M

onths went by, and still Cyril had not completely recovered from his accident or the loss of the Banks documents. He called it his pauperization, after coming across that word in his reading. He tried to forget about it—it was past, over. Although he’d come to accept the unbelievable accuracy of Banks’ predictions, Cyril hadn’t written them down anywhere, and he didn’t remember them specifically. He tried to move on, but felt all the emotional misery of someone whose close relative had died, one everyone thought was filthy rich but, after the heirs spent months exulting over the forthcoming inheritance, whose gambling and business debts took every last cent in the estate. Thursday, August 20, 1953, came and went. When the news reported that Moscow had announced the explosion of a hydrogen bomb, Cyril thought it sounded familiar. He checked the paper he still had, the one on which he’d scrawled two of Banks’ predictions. Yes, Banks had also predicted this precisely. Again he fell into a stupor, and could barely call in sick to the bottling company. Three days went by before he could work again. His spirits rose only when he realized that classes at San Francisco University would soon begin. This would be new. It would be different. Despite all that he had lost—more than any human being had ever lost, he convinced himself—he still could make something of himself. He would not be an impoverished loser if he could help it. At least Banks’ stuff, though lost, had instilled in him that determination. Cyril entered San Francisco University on the GI Bill, which paid for his tuition and dormitory fee, but not much else—he still

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had to work part-time. He found such employment at Alfred’s Bookstore, on Fulton Street near the university. Much influenced by science fiction, he decided to major in physics. He didn’t realize, however, that while science fiction had created in him an awe of science, particularly physics, his heart was not in the actual discipline. Instead of doing the work required for his science courses, he read articles and books on Asia and on war—a reflection of what had heavily influenced him while stationed in Japan. While there, he’d become quite enamored of Japanese culture, and had spent what time he could spare from studying for the GRE test to learn Japanese. He had grown up during World War Two, absorbing all the wartime propaganda about the “buck-toothed,” “inscrutable,” and “evil” Japanese. In Japan, much to his surprise, he discovered that the Japanese could cry, love flowers, play with dogs, and laugh. They were like him fundamentally, and this ate at him. He was uneducated and naive, and could not understand why Japan and the United States had made war on each other. He became a pacifist who asked nasty questions during the occasional briefings given his battalion: “What did the North Koreans ever to do us?” He hated war and could see no justification in the killing and destruction it always caused. This, in spite of what Banks had written about democide—a word whose depths of horror he only gradually came to understand. It was war he really focused on, as did virtually every pacifistic social philosopher and historian of the time. Cyril’s college grades in his science and mathematics courses suffered from this lack of interest, so in his sophomore year he transferred to history, with a focus on Asia. But when he took a course from a visiting professor on peace, it radically changed his life. The professor’s readings were on war, and he drew his reading chapters primarily from Quincy Wright’s two-volume work, A Study of War. This was a revelation for Cyril. He saw that he didn’t have to grope for extra time beyond his regular studies and part-time work to read about war; he could study war as part of a regular discipline, especially political science. But there was more to the revelation. He read all of Wright’s two volumes within a couple of weeks, and launched himself at those major works Wright referenced. He haunted the library shelves that held books on war, often sitting in the aisle with his back against a bookcase, skimming through a pile of books, looking for their authors’ recommended or concluding solutions to war. He did two term papers, one on international law and organizations as a solution, the other on the balancing of power as a preventative.

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But he had not covered all that was available by any means, and in particular he still had to go through the sociological and psychological approaches, as well the empirical and mathematical ones just getting underway, which were much influenced by the pacifist Lewis Fry Richardson. Nevertheless, one thing became increasingly clear: there was no consensus on a solution, and no solution had so far worked to prevent, or even moderate, war. One day, as he sat amongst another pile of books, glancing occasionally at his watch as the time to go to work at the bookstore neared, he picked up the last book he would look at for the day. It was almost as thin and light as a pamphlet, and he didn’t think there would be much philosophical or scholarly weight to it, either. It was Immanuel Kant’s Perpetual Peace. He found references to it in several places, which had prompted him to pull it from the shelf. By the time he was halfway through, he’d become so totally absorbed that he was late for work, and decided to miss work completely so he could reread Kant’s book. He didn’t hear the mental click as everything—everything, including what he’d read in Banks’ documents and all he’d read and studied since—suddenly came together. But his heart beat rapidly, and he felt a shiver run up his spine. He leaned against the book stacks, trying to catch his breath. It was like the confirmation of the chronology’s prediction of the end of the Korean War, all over again. “Jesus, I’ll be damned,” he exclaimed, his voice rising loud enough on the last word that a student at the end of the stack turned and stared at him. Then the perfect word came to him, and he looked up at the ceiling and whispered in a rush, “Eureka! There is a solution to war. Kant’s got it right. Universalize republics—that is, democracies.” If it hadn’t been for Banks’ stuff, he realized, this would have seemed just another solution among hundreds. “Christ, I would have ignored it!” Two students wandered into the stacks, stopped, and looked at him curiously. He tried to smile at them, but couldn’t. He was too wrapped up in his discovery. He looked sightlessly down at Kant’s book, still in his hand. I’ve lost the chance to get rich off the stock market; I won’t be a millionaire. But I haven’t lost my memory. I remember Banks’ mission—that Survivors’ Benevolent Society that sent him and Joy back to 1906 in a time machine. They were to prevent the century’s major wars and what Banks called democide, and promote democracy to keep the peace. Cyril remembered that Banks was a professor of history who was sure that universalizing democracy—Kant’s solution—would do it.

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He smiled as he recalled John calling Joy his assistant and translator—a martial arts and weapons expert! She claimed, “I am your muscle,” Banks had written. But Cyril remembered most how sexy and stunningly beautiful she was. For the thousandth time, the sex scenes with her that Banks had written about in the “Remembrance” tried to capture his mind with imagined images, and he waved his hand in front his face as though waving them away. Not now. He refocused by trying to remember Banks’ most favorite truth. Yes, I have it: “Democracies do not make war on each other and have far less violence than other governments.” And his conclusion and the reason for the time travel mission: “Democracy is a solution to war and democide.” He felt the truth of it deep inside. It was like a religious revelation. He just knew now that this was the solution. He shook his head in wonderment. Wright and a few others hinted at it, but except for Kant, no one else saw this as the solution. But, if Banks’ chronology could predict the beginning and end of the Korean War decades before it happened, and . . . yes, the Soviets exploding the hydrogen bomb—God, it didn’t even exist when Banks predicted that!— he had to be right about everything else. Cyril was too excited to question the logic of that. Nevertheless, it changed his life. Before reading Kant, he’d often suffered from deep depression lasting for several days at a time, days in which he had to drive himself to attend his classes and his job. But now, what Banks and Kant wrote changed his future, perhaps in better ways than being a millionaire would have. For the rest of the world, it would revolutionize international studies. It would change the study of war. It would create a new and dynamic American foreign policy. And it would change the universe.

Chapter 11

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he series of near-impossible chances that bestowed upon Cyril the one opportunity—denied to all other humans—to bridge universes, were themselves conditional. They depended on a chain of events in Vietnam that surrounded one family, in particular. Had any links in this chain been broken, there would have been no Joy Phim, and she and John Banks would not have embarked on their mission in time, and there would have been no accordion folder full of Banks’ documents for Cyril to find during that fateful World War Two paper drive. There would have been no bridge between universes. Instead, our foreseeable future would remain rife with merciless dictators enslaving billions and producing a Niagara of blood. At least, this is what would seem evident to an omniscient observer. But even, such an observer can be betrayed by the unknown. Let’s start at the most relevant beginning of this significant chain of events, which took place about seventy-three hundred miles away from where Cyril was attending college.

1956, Nong-cong, North Vietnam Hoang Loi He had murdered his son Trai. Now there was no turning back. In the little tool shed behind his three-room home, he grabbed the two coils of rope he had already prepared and waxed in just the right place. He had to hurry. Members of the People’s Brigade, assuming that he had already followed orders and deserted his home, could arrive at any moment to loot the place. He passed by the doorway of his home on the way to the tree. His wife Le Nogoc Bian stood swaying there, clutching the door jamb for support. The blood spattered when they’d killed their son stood out starkly on her white face. Her eyes, though glistening with tears, now showed only fierce determination and utter resignation, but anguish pulled at the muscles of her face and dug deep furrows into the flesh.

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He was proud of her. When the brigade’s courier had driven up to his door in an old Citroën, slammed the order into Loi’s hand, and left without a word, they’d sat next to each other at their big table to read it together. Only silence followed. They had no need of words. Finally they looked at each other. She nodded, rose heavily, and stumbled to the door. Trying vainly to control her tears, she had called her son Trai in from feeding their pigs. They had known they might be marked. They should have fled. But it was not easy to pull up roots, to leave the graves of their ancestors, to give up their friends, to throw away the small but successful farm Loi had inherited from his father, the farm his son would inherit from him. To go where? And to start over with nothing? They could not sell the farm—that was just the kind of evidence of capitalist greed that would get him shot. He swerved from his path to the tree and went to Bian to put his arm around her shoulders. She turned to hug him with all her strength. He stroked her hair and whispered, “Soon we will be free.” She began to shake and he held her tighter, trying to will his strength into her. She had done the hardest part. By the time her son came in, she had wiped the tears away, manufactured a plastic smile, and told him that this was a special day for prayer. She told Trai to get on his knees and pray with her. Then she led him in her favorite Buddhist prayer, timely for all their suffering in this land. May all beings everywhere plagued with sufferings of body and mind quickly be freed from their illnesses. May those frightened cease to be afraid, and may those bound, be free. May the powerless find power, and may people think of befriending one another. May those who find themselves in trackless, fearful wilderness—the children, aged, the unprotected—be guarded by beneficial celestials, and may they swiftly attain Buddhahood. On the last word, Loi smashed his son’s head in with a sledgehammer—a fast and probably painless death. Then, heaving sobs, spewing vomit, he collapsed on the floor next to his son. That was over an hour ago. He had fought the pain and grief, the horror of what he had done. They did not have the time. Now, he gently

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pushed Bian to arms’ length, held her there for a moment to look into her eyes and relive their love and life together, then he kissed her on the lips—a gentle kiss that only saw their eleven years together, a gesture blind to the blood on her face. He had wanted to kill her as he had his son. She deserved a better death than hanging. But she had insisted that she die with him. Gritting his teeth, he took her hand and led her to the blooming shower tree. Two straight-backed woven bamboo chairs waited there, on either side of a rickety wicker table. After their hard work around the house and farm, they’d sometimes come here in the early evening, light incense to keep the mosquitoes away, and talk about their son, their future, their relatives, and village gossip. And the dangers that faced them all under this new revolutionary regime. He moved the table away, picked up one of the coiled ropes and, holding the newly waxed end, he threw the coils over a twelve foothigh limb so that the uncoiled rope would be cinched against one of its branches. He did the same with the second rope. Bian’s wide eyes glittered. She looked around—at their home, the pens for their livestock, the few goats and pigs they’d freed that remained nearby, and the small, neat fields of corn, sweet potatoes, and beans. Loi went to her. He took twine out of his pocket and she put her hands behind her. He tied them loosely together, just tight enough to keep them there for the brief time required. Loi did not know how to tie a hangman’s noose, but he tied a knot that would easily slip down the waxed part of the rope and hold her neck in its grip. He could not look at her face as he put the noose around her neck. She tilted her head forward so that he could pull her long black hair up through the noose to hang free. She had wanted to pin her hair up in a roll on her head, out of the way, but he’d insisted she leave it loose. He took her hand and helped her stand on the chair, and then he pulled the other end taut so the noose was tight around her neck, and tied the end to the tree trunk. He pulled up the noose on the other rope so that he would have to stand on tiptoe to put his head into it, and also tied its end to the tree. Then he stood on the other chair, fixed the noose around his neck, and took a glove from his pocket. He pulled it on, put that hand behind him, and forced his other hand into the glove as well, imprisoning both hands. The more he struggled to free his hands, the harder it would be.

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His body had known what needed to be done and had done it. Nothing remained. Except courage. He need only kick the back of the chair, but his instinct for self-preservation came alive. His wildly pumping heart shook his whole body; sweat poured from him. He tried to kill his instinct, tried to let his body do what was necessary, but it mutinied. He looked hopelessly at his wife, his lovely wife. She stared at the blue sky, watching the white puffs of cloud floating on the early afternoon breeze. A bulbul chased another across the sky, and she followed it with her eyes. His teeth began chattering. He fought for control, but now his body marched to a different master. It was about to slowly wriggle his right hand out of the glove behind his back when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bian move. He stared. She stood taller on the chair, tilted her head back, and looked at him. Her soothing voice caressed him with her last words: “Our souls will soar together, my loving husband. Shall we kick the chairs away together, so our souls will be one in time and can easily find each other?” She gave him the strength he sought. “I love you, my darling.” He took a deep breath. “On two,” he said. “One.” “Two.”

Wang Shihao His friend’s mother and father were doing something on the tree. Wang Shihao did not understand at first. They seemed to be playing with rope. Maybe they were climbing up the ropes, to pick the small, red-tinged yellow flowers from the branches? He would go and see, and ask them where his friend Trai was. As he drew closer, he saw the overturned chairs beneath their feet. They were standing on nothing. He ran to them, but stopped when he saw that their heads were twisted at odd angles, and their faces were white. They were not climbing the ropes; the ropes were twisted around their necks. Shihao gaped at them. He knew they were dead. He had seen the corpses of those everyone had to ignore as bad people, those who had starved to death. His teachers had even told him to throw stones at such people when they were alive. They were evil and deserved to

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die, his teachers said. He had attended meetings with his family, meetings where everyone shouted and waved fists as more evil people were shot. The door to his friend’s home was open. He ran inside. Maybe Trai could tell him what was going on with his parents. He stopped dead inside the door. His eyes bugged; his mouth fell open. Trai lay on his side in a fetal position with his hands clasped, as though he had toppled over while praying. The back of his head was crushed and clotted with blood. Blood was spattered everywhere. Shihao came to life and shuddered. He turned, screaming, and ran out the door. He ran the whole half a mile home and stumbled into the cassava field where his father lifted weeds with a hoe. He tried to get the words out, but he started crying hysterically, jabbing his finger in the direction of Trai’s home. Finally he got “dead” and “blood” out, and his father’s eyes opened wide. He dropped his hoe and headed in the direction Shihao pointed.

Wang Dewu Shihao’s father, Wang Dewu, had a good idea what had happened, but he had to verify it. Each death or murder was now input into his timing. He fought the driving urge to run toward Hoang Loi’s home and tried to walk normally. A communist or one of their sycophants might pass by on the road, and running could be seen as suspicious— everything, it seemed, was suspicious to the communists. From a distance, he saw Loi and his lovely wife, Le Nogoc Bian, hanging from the tree. Cold chills ran down his spine and his heart beat rapidly. The desire to rush to them and cut them down was almost overwhelming, but his fear was even stronger. Someone might see him. Someone might already be in their shack, watching him. He could be reported for aiding counterrevolutionaries. “Calm, be calm,” he told himself. But he could do nothing about his cold sweat. He suspected what had happened, and now, above all, he had to be sure. Loi was about as successful a farmer as Dewu, and they were equally independent. They not only survived, but even made a little extra dong they could use to occasionally give their family presents, to see the delighted smiles of their children.

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He approached the hanging bodies and studied them. Bian and Loi had been a loving couple, and not embarrassed about showing it in public. No one will even know what they said to each other when they were ready; what final words of love they exchanged before together—he assumed it had to be together—they kicked the chairs from beneath them. Holding back tears, Dewu entered the couple’s home. He blanched when he saw Trai on the floor. The bottom seemed to fall out of his stomach, and he let out a long groan. What had happened here was obvious. They had given their son no warning. Bian probably told Trai to pray with her, and Loi must have smashed his son’s head in with the bloody hammer lying on the floor nearby. He looked around and found the official order on the table. He picked it up and, as he read it, his free hand turned into a whiteknuckled fist. October 20, 1956 Hoang Loi and Family: You have been tried by the Revolutionary People’s Brigade and found to be an enemy of the proletariat and our glorious land reform. Your sentence is isolation. You are hereby ordered on pain of death to leave your home and everything in it by midnight this day, October 20. You are not to take any livestock or pets with you, nor food from your farm. All gold, jewels, money, and any other thing of value must be left in your home. You may take only the clothes you wear. Anyone who gives you shelter, clothes, transportation, money, or food is also an enemy of the proletariat and subject to ostracism. Secretary Pham Nam Nong-cong Revolutionary People’s Brigade He looked out all the windows to make sure the brigade’s cadre had not yet come. They would come soon, to make sure Loi and his family had left, and to loot the home and farm. He stuck his head out the door and looked around again before stepping out and walking as normally as he could back to his own home.

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His wife, Jiang Jia Li, held a weeping Shihao. Still in shock, the boy clutched her short vest with one hand and wrapped a handful of her cotton dress within the other. She looked up at Dewu when he came in the door, and silent words passed between them. Dewu went into the bedroom, squeezed between the wall and the end of the bed, and sat on the side of the bed near the window. For some reason, right now, he could not shut himself off from the sky. He put his head in his hands and let the tears flow. Like Hoang Loi, he had been nonpolitical, only concerned with his family, his farm, and his friends. He had avoided the entreaties of the nationalists to join them in the war against the French. Then, when the communists and not the nationalists won the war, and the communists under Ho Chi Minh eliminated all political competition by systematically purging and murdering leading nationalists, he had refused to join the communists. He’d been thankful for that later, when Ho began purging the party, imprisoning and executing party members whose enthusiasm for the revolution was questionable. He just wanted peace for his family, wanted to be left to work his farm. But recently he had heard of a directive from the party that required each town and village to find and eliminate through execution, imprisonment, or official isolation five landlords for every two hundred residents. Isolation—a terrible form of ostracism—was tantamount to slow death by starvation, since everyone feared providing the isolated family with any food or shelter. Dewu was not a landlord. Neither was he rich. His neighbor Hoang Loi had not been rich or a big landowner either. But Hoang Loi and he had done better than most of the other farmers, and that set them apart. So, when the Revolutionary People’s Brigade—made up mostly of the poorest of the farmers, the least successful ones—was given the order to rid the town of the “landlord scum,” they of course selected Hoang Loi and his family. Dewu was sure he would soon receive an isolation order as well. Jia Li came into the small room, shut the plank door behind her, and slithered across the narrow bed to sit next to him. She put her head on his shoulder and asked in a tremulous voice, “Was it that terrible order?” “Yes.” He heard her sob. “Will we be next?” Dewu released a long, ragged sigh. Her question forced him to face what, unconsciously, he had been trying to avoid. “Probably.” Her question and that simple word blasted into sharp focus all his chaotic thoughts, all the facts he had assimilated, and subdued the rag-

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ing emotions that had usurped his mind. He shook his head, swiped tears away from his eyes with both hands, and turned on the bed to face her. Putting his hand on her thin shoulder, he gave it a gentle squeeze. “What will happen will happen. It will be our fate.” Determination steeled his voice as he added, “But fate will have to find us.” Grief lined her face and she slumped in resignation. “We are escaping today,” Dewu said. “But . . . where?” she choked out. “South Vietnam.” “How?” She shuddered and looked out the window. “The border is too far to walk, and we could never get across. It is too guarded.” The hope in her voice betrayed her doubtful words. “We have to hurry now; there is not time to explain it all. I’ve heard rumors, and some of my dealers and suppliers in Thanh-hoa have been secretly listening to shortwave radios. Nhan Dan newspaper and Hanoi Radio have given out more information than they know. Many people are still escaping to South Vietnam, even after the end of that so-called population exchange with the South when the war of independence ended.” When she frowned, puzzled, he added in a rush, “The party suppressed information about the exchange. If I had known about it then, I would have tried to take us all south, even though the communists set up roadblocks in some places to prevent people from getting there. After that was when some people around here bought shortwave radios on the black market.” Dewu was speaking so fast, he was almost panting. “We will take our horse and cart the twenty miles to Sam-son. I will load the cart as though going to a market. In Sam-son we should find a fishing captain who will take our gold. I hear that, if given enough, they will motorboat escapees past the communist coast guard, into the Gulf of Tonkin, and south to the South China Sea. There, they hail any South Vietnamese fishing boat. Its captain will also demand gold, but if given enough, he will transfer us to his boat and return with us to his South Vietnam port. Then, my cherie, we will be free.” He held her shoulders. “The savings that you annually converted to gold—anyone would be do ngu—stupid not to do so in this country! Good thing you are a good Chinese wife who lorded over—ah, kept our family budget.” He tried to smile, but it came out a grimace. “I now have to admit you were right to save what you did when I wanted to spend all our extra income on tools and livestock. It has added up. With that and your family jewelry and heirlooms, I am sure we have enough to make it, and then some.”

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His tone turned to steel again. “No more time. Pack up one suitcase for you and one for Shihao. Put some food in a bag. Remember, we are going a good distance and may have nothing to eat or drink on the fishing boats but what we bring with us. I will pack my own case.” She stared at him wide-eyed, her faith in him spreading across her face. “But what about—” She waved her hand to encompass their house and farm. “We leave everything. Better to start over than be dead. Remember Loi and Bian and never forget them.” Suddenly, Jia Li put her hand over her mouth and gasped. “Our parents! Their bodies and spirits. We will desert them. Oh, Buddha!” She bent over, put her head in her hands, and cried hysterically. Dewu gently rubbed her back. Softly he said, “If we stay, we join them. We will make our last visit to their graves on the way, and explain to them why we are leaving. Their spirits will understand. We’ll take their photographs with us, and place them on their graves and pray to Buddha to invest the photographs with their spirits. We’ll put the pictures and some soil from their graves in our baggage, and they will travel with us to the south.” Jia Li stopped crying and turned her wet face to look at him. She stammered, “Yes. Yes . . . of course. My father was killed by communists. My mother died of heartbreak. They will be happy to leave this communist hell.” Dewu slid across the bed toward the door, saying, “As will my parents.” His mother and father, along with his older brother and sister, had died in the communist famine of 1945. “Enough. No more delay. Let’s pack what we must have and go.” She gripped his arm. “What if we are caught?” “They will kill us. With bullets. Or by torture. Or in prison. Let’s hope for bullets.”

Chapter 12 John Banks

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n extra cup of coffee gave John the caffeine push he needed. His dreams were beginning to bother him; they’d taken on a strange mix of horror and desire. He had awakened several times yelling something incoherently. The dreams had begun, oddly, with the start of this series of lectures on Vietnam—at least the ones he vaguely remembered did. But then, his sleep had been restless since he returned from the catastrophic 9/11 attack on the Twin Towers. He got to class a little early, before Miss Phim arrived, and watched in amusement as the other students’ eyes followed her progress from the side door to her usual seat in the rear of the classroom. He couldn’t help taking quick glances himself. He checked his watch. Time to begin “Good afternoon, students,” he said. “Good afternoon, Professor Banks,” some responded. “Any problems, issues?” he asked. No one spoke up, so with a look around the room that allowed a quick glance at Miss Phim, he said, “In this lecture I will cover the Viet Minh communists’ democide of their own people, including fellow Viet Minh. “As the Viet Minh struggled against the French, they also fought a vicious hidden war against their noncommunist nationalist competitors. They assassinated, executed, and massacred whole groups of nationalists, including relatives, friends, women, and children. Nationalists were not the only victims. ‘Class enemies’ were also ‘punished,’ and communist ranks were purified of Trotskyites and others who deviated from accepted scripture.” He looked around and asked, “What is a class enemy?” “Someone who gets all A’s,” drawled Mr. Simmons, still looking resentful over John’s insistence early in the semester that he remove the golf cap he habitually wore backward. He sat slouched in his seat, his legs sprawled under the seat in front of him.

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John grinned as the class laughed, and then said, “I guess, Mr. Simmons, you are destined to be no one’s class enemy.” More laughter and ohhhs. John waited. A student raised his hand. When John nodded at him, he answered, “The communists are supposed to represent the class of workers. So, anyone who is not a worker is a class enemy.” “Such as?” John asked, looking around the class. “The rich,” someone shouted. “Landowners,” said another. “Businessmen.” “Teachers.” When the laughter died down, John responded. “All true, even for teachers, who are often the first victims of democide. Technically, the class enemies are those who own the means of production and wealth, such as businessmen and landowners, and thus, by communist theory, exploit the working class. They are all called bourgeoisie. But actually, the class enemy is anyone who disagrees with the communist rulers, is a potential or actual competitor for power, such as a priest or monk, or has a noncommunist college education, such as those educated in French or American universities. Even communists are enemies, if they believe in ‘incorrect’ scripture, such as the Trotskyites. “Trotsky was a competitor to Stalin who believed that the revolution in Russia could only survive if it were spread to other nations without waiting for its consolidation in Russia. Stalin believed in Russia first, and Ho Chi Minh felt the same way about Vietnam. Thus, those who thought Trotsky was correct were enemies to be eliminated.” “Why?” one student shouted. Normally, John would have left this to the class to answer. But he had a longer lecture than usual and still wanted to leave some time for questions at the end. So he answered it himself. “As communists, Ho Chi Minh and those around him had an absolute, fanatical belief in the utopia promised by Marxist theory. Since they thought that Marxism was absolutely true, and that following this truth and implementing it would undoubtedly do away with war and poverty and make all men equal and free, they would not allow any disagreement with this noble goal, or any threat to it. They thought they were on the moral high road, and this justified their mass murder of those who might be in the way of this ‘glorious future.’” John swept his hand down: enough, time to move on. “Ho Chi Minh began a wave of assassinations of nationalists who opposed the communists in the 1930s and it continued more or less un-

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til 1945. Then he intensified it into a wide-scale terror from 1945 to 1947. Thousands of the most educated and brightest Vietnamese were wiped out. Truong Chinh, one of the top communists who became vice premier of North Vietnam in 1958, gave this rationale for this communist mass murder.” John leaned over to the lectern to read from his outline there. “‘For a newborn revolutionary power to be lenient with counterrevolutionaries is tantamount to committing suicide.’” Banks let that sink in for five seconds, and then continued. “In 1953, as the war with France for independence moved toward a clear victory and the communists controlled virtually all the countryside and many cities and towns in the north, they began their social revolution with what they called land reform. A nice term for what really was a transitional phase in nationalizing all farming—collectivization. “Do you all understand what nationalization means?” he asked the class. Some of the students shook their heads. “It means the government takes over farms, fields, livestock, and farming, and farmers become in effect employees of the government. It’s as though all farmers were drafted into the army, but in place of generals giving orders, there is a massive government bureaucracy that tells the farmers what to plant, when to plant it, and how much to grow, all according to a plan, and then takes all of what they produce. Their food and other necessities are then rationed. The idea is to make farming more efficient and to do away with the inequality between rich landowners and poor farmers.” He stopped and scanned the class. No hands. He continued. “However, in Vietnam, land ownership among the peasants was widespread. In the vital Red River Delta, ninety-eight percent of the peasants owned the land they worked; throughout the north, about two-thirds of them did. Moreover, few outside the Mekong Delta region owned more than two or three hectares—equivalent to nearly five acres and a little over seven acres. “But that didn’t matter. The real reason for this land reform was to consolidate communist power over the peasants by destroying their natural, centuries-old source of countervailing authority in the villages and hamlets, particularly that of the larger landowners and wealthier peasants. And to clear away potentially effective opposition to the ultimate collectivization of all land. “The technique followed the communist Chinese model. First, marshal the poor peasants, far greater in number, against their better-off neighbors, fewer in number but locally more powerful. How? By taking the land and property of the better-off and giving it to the poor peas-

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ants. This incentive rallies support for the revolution in the mass of poor peasants. Moreover, if many of these so-called landlords and rich are also killed, the remainder are terrorized into obedience. Then, once they’ve won this struggle against these actual or potential ‘enemies of the revolution’—John made the gesture for quotation marks—the communists can turn on the peasant mass and nationalize their newly gained land. Divided, without organization or leadership, the natural local leaders eliminated, and having seen what happened to those labeled landlords and rich, the peasants are too terrorized to resist. “As the Viet Minh communists carried it out, land reform involved two so-called sky-splitting and earth-shaking mass campaigns, one after the other. The first, the two-year Land Rent Reduction Campaign, began in 1953 in Viet Minh-controlled areas. It involved two successive population classification decrees, one in 1953 and the other, a more refined version, in 1955. Both required the rural folk to pigeonhole every member of every village into one of a hierarchy of classes, with the poorest, wage-earning or landless peasant class at the bottom and the landlords at the top, with the rich peasants right below them and the weak, average, and strong middle-level peasants forming three middle classes. “The communists then demanded that the poor peasants liquidate the landlords. Under the watchful eyes of communist cadre, they shot, imprisoned, or otherwise punished the landlords, sometimes by taking their land away. But apparently they didn’t find enough. Unhappy that so few ‘landlords’ had been liquidated in each village, the communists pointed out that the peasants should have found many more ‘exploiters.’ Reconsider the population classification decree, they told the peasants, and reclassify your neighbors. Now those classified as strong, middle-level, rich peasants had to be redefined as landlords, and they ended up with about five times as many exploiters to execute or otherwise eliminate. “The new classification, however, condemned not only the better-off peasants, but also the more productive and enterprising of them. The differences between landlords and rich, strong, middle-class peasants on the one hand, and those peasants who were poorer or smaller landowners on the other, was often a matter of fine distinctions. Sometimes the only difference was that some peasants were more hardworking and successful than others. This hardly fazed the communist cadre, however, since their goal was social revolution; whether class differences had to be forced or invented did not matter.

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“To make it even more likely that they find the requisite number of sacrificial victims, the communists then defined a new category: landlord mentality. This, incredibly, signified ‘evil by lineage.’ A person in this category was anyone whose ancestors had been landlords as the communists defined them, or who sometime in the past had possessed land or livestock. “Murder by classification was often made final with a bullet, but many died in prison, or by suicide, or as the result of an isolation policy. By demand of the state, whole families whose male head was classified as a landlord were ostracized and boycotted. No one could have anything to do with them. Even talking to them was prohibited, and children were encouraged to throw stones at them. They were not allowed to work. Quite simply and understandably, most died of starvation. A horrible death. “We can only guess at the overall toll of this pitiless campaign. Maybe one hundred thousand Vietnamese were thus murdered. Maybe many more.” John paused and slowly scanned the rows of students. Some looked shocked; some wrote notes; some looked sleepy. He said it again, louder. “Perhaps one hundred thousand human beings like you and me were murdered. That’s a statistic, a jumble of numbers, and its human meaning is hard to digest.’’ He walked to his briefcase and took out his deck of name cards, shuffled it, and picked the card on top. “Mr. Thompson?” A hand went up. “What is the population of our town of Bloomington?” John asked him. Ah . . . hmm . . . twenty-five thousand?” “No, it’s about sixty-five thousand. All these people in Bloomington do not even come near the number—they are only a little over half—of those who were possibly murdered by the communists in this land reform campaign.” Now he had them all looking at him, and even more had raised eyebrows, round eyes, and drooping jaws. John walked to one side of the room. Their eyes followed him. “To move on, the purpose of the Land Rent Reduction Campaign was to soften up the countryside for the radical seizure of the land of those who had, as the communists said, too much, and temporarily transfer it to those who had, in their words, too little. This prepared the way for collectivization. With the elimination of those considered landlords and rich, and after a delay to allow for the political and economic reorganization of the villages, the North now launched its Land Reform Campaign.

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“They brutally stripped land and other possessions from those with even moderate-sized plots, and gave it to peasants with either very little or nothing at all. But in North Vietnam, peasants with as much as an acre of land were few; even fewer, however classified by the population decree, fit the classic Marxist idea of landlord. Nonetheless, those who had survived and kept their land through the previous campaign now were forced to vacate their homes and abandon their land and possessions. “Those Vietnamese accused by the communists of being traitors, reactionaries, and cruel bullies also had their land and possessions confiscated. Ultimately this meant that anyone in communist disfavor could be robbed of all his possessions. “The expropriation of property and its transfer to the poorer peasants was often done with some ceremony. This might involve the beating of drums, a speech by some comrade announcing the evils of the victims and the confiscation of their property, shouting of the required ritualistic ‘Long live’ and ‘Down with,’ followed with removal of all the movable possessions—farm animals, pets, farm implements, household furniture and goods, pots and pans, and other cooking utensils. Distribution of the confiscated land might also involve great ceremony, with the usual flags, slogans, and shouting. Each peasant received a certificate of land ownership. If we can believe the communists, one-fifth of an acre thus went to each of 325,000 families.” John paced slowly to the other side of the room. “A particularly shocking device of these two savage campaigns was murder by quota.” He stopped and stared at the class for a moment. “Do you know what a quota under communism is?” One hand went up. “Yes, Miss Finch.” “It means that so much of something must be produced.” “Right,” Banks replied, “and in this case, so many killed had to be produced.” He raised his voice without realizing it. “A quota of murders.” He paused, trying to calm the rage rising within him. Lack of sleep made this a struggle; it sapped his control. He’d started pacing again; now he stopped and, as the class stared, fought down bile. He’d felt this way the first time he came across the murder quotas the Soviet KGB had telegraphed to villages and towns, and again when he discovered Mao Tse-tung’s. And again when he wrote about it in his dissertation, and when a member of his dissertation committee tried to cast doubt on anything so evil being done by an established government. And . . . now.

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He stepped back to the lectern and pretended to look over his outline. At first his hand shook, but he took a deep breath and tried to force his mind into recognizing where he was. Brrrr! . . . brrrr! Construction was underway one building down from this one, and the sound of a puffing compression engine came vaguely through the closed windows in the protracted silence. The room seemed overheated. He gained control. Stepping away from the lectern again, he glanced at Miss Phim. Was that a look of understanding? he wondered. He returned to his lecture. “Ah . . . in applying the population classification decree, the communists had demanded that at least one defined landlord be killed per village. But, as I mentioned, on first application, the poor peasants were insufficiently dedicated, and they didn’t exterminate enough ‘evil’ ones. So, during the Land Reform Campaign, the communist Central Committee raised the quota from one to five per village. That is, they ordered the peasants of each village in North Vietnam to define at least five so-called landlords for execution, even if the land in the village was already being shared communally. And five executions was a minimum. “The communist rulers believed that ninety-five percent of the land was owned by the wealthiest five percent of the people. Therefore, of course, five percent of the folk in each village and hamlet had to be eliminated, with five as a minimum: five in a village of one hundred, twenty-five in a village of five hundred, and fifty in a village of one thousand. I don’t know how they handled the numbers when five percent of a village of fifty yielded 2.5 people. I suspect that, since by communist theory it was better to kill the innocent than let the guilty go free, they always rounded upward. In any case, each village had its special ‘land reform’ team whose job it was to do the killing, once its report was approved by provincial party headquarters.” He was lecturing too loudly and rushing his words. He had to get better control. He went to his deck of names. “Mr. McLean?” When a hand went up, Banks asked, “If the population of Bloomington is sixty-five thousand, how many would be murdered by these communist calculations?” “What calculations?” “That five percent must die.” McLean bent over his notes and scribbled for a moment, then looked up with his brow furrowed and said, “Thirty-two hundred and fifty?”

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“Correct. A little over three thousand of the people that live here would have to be murdered because they might be landowners; they might be the wealthiest.” He let that sink in. “Those murdered by quota, however, made up only part of the overall dead. The casualties in these sky-splitting and earth-shaking Land Rent Reduction and Land Reform campaigns from 1953 to 1956 may have been extremely high. Some estimate five hundred thousand Vietnamese; even a high estimate of six hundred thousand has been mentioned. But there are also very low estimates, such as eight hundred, five thousand, or fifteen thousand dead, killed, or victimized. Given the minimum quota of five ‘landlords’ in each village, and considering those that committed suicide or families that died from official ostracism, probably the correct figure is more like 150,000 dead—over two times the population of Bloomington.” He glanced at his watch, and saw he was nearly out of time. He stopped, looked over the class, and ended with, “‘Land reform’ was not the only instrument of communist mass murder, but I’m going to stop here and continue this in the next session. Okay on this so far?” A few nodded; some looked at him blank- faced, and others stared down at their notes. “Class dismissed.” As the students filed out, he opened his briefcase with a jerk and threw his outline inside. He didn’t look up, not even as Miss Phim left the classroom.

Chapter 13 1956 North Vietnam Wang Dewu

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ewu’s horse neighed and stamped its front hooves as a policeman in a baggy green uniform and sloppy cap approached their cart. A farm horse, it had always been sensitive to strangers, and this policeman stank of too much garlic and nuoc mam fish sauce. Two other policemen leaned on the roadblock, watching as the first lifted up a corner of the tarp covering the back of the cart. They were just outside of Sam-son. While holding up the tarp with one hand, the policeman used a long stick to probe beneath the heaped rice sacks filled with corn and potatoes, then slid it down alongside the gutted pig. Dewu relaxed the reins to give the horse a little freedom as the policeman came around the cart and looked up at Dewu. He felt Jia Li and Shihao tense beside him. “Your pa—” Shihao wailed loudly, “Why are we stopping? I want to eat. You promised we could eat!” Jia Li screamed at him, “Shut up! Brat.” She smacked him on the cheek. Shihao started jumping up and down on the cart’s spring seat. “Em ghet anh—I hate you! Em ghet anh!” Dewu stood up on the footrest, threw his papers at the policeman, and turned to Jia Li. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her close. “How dare you hit our son, cho cai—bitch!” He shook her. She screamed back at him, “You cho de—son of a bitch!” Upset by the loud screaming, the horse started throwing his head up and down. Its fidgeting shook the cart from side to side.

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The policeman did no more than glance at the papers before holding them up to Dewu, who had started hollering at his son. Jia Li looked at the policeman, her face distorted in anger, and then hid her face. She gave Dewu a look he immediately understood. Dewu turned to the policeman as if about to bark at him, but he saw his papers in the policeman’s hand and grabbed them with a loud, “Dip di tung ngo nay di—fuck this stupid kid.” The policeman shook his head. “You have been too easy on them. Use a stick on them once a week.” He demonstrated by whipping the stick into his hand with a swish! “I have peace in my household.” “Yeah,” Dewu replied, “I will use a bigger stick.” He jerked on the reins and loudly clicked his tongue. The horse took off almost at a gallop, and Dewu had to rein him in to a walk. As they passed the two other policemen, they waved at Dewu with sympathetic grins. Out of sight of the roadblock, Dewu stopped the cart. He put one arm around Jia Li to pull her close, and reached over her to draw Shihao to them. “Nicely done. But do not let it spoil you. If either of you ever do anything like that for real, I will take a stick to you.” Jia began to scowl, but she saw the twinkle in his eyes and the grin forming, and when he started to laugh, Jia Li laughed with him. Shihao joined them, at first nervously, and then wholeheartedly.

aaa In Sam-son, they went to the central market on Van Mieu Street, where they acted like any other farmers selling their produce while looking for Sino-Vietnamese buyers, for only they could be trusted. With each, Dewu initiated a short conversation. “Nice weather today.” When the other invariably agreed, Dewu asked, “Do you think the weather in the south is as nice?” The other could either end the conversation with a shrug or noncommittal answer, or say something like “Maybe” or “I would think so.” The next question was the dangerous one. Dewu scratched his nose as though unaware of the dong between his fingers. “Well, with such good weather, the sea can’t be too rough.” When it got to that, three Sino-Vietnamese merchants in a row just walked off. The fourth, the one who bought the gutted pig, wrote something on the receipt and immediately hauled the pig off in his own cart.

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Dewu looked at the receipt as if merely checking it, then whispered to Jia Li, “It says ‘Here, at 5:30 p.m.’” They sold everything, including the cart and horse. With an hour to spare, they slowly circulated around the market, as though they also had things to sell in the bags and cases they carried. At 5:30 they were back at the east end of the market where they had sold the pig. People bustled about, preparing to close up their stalls. The merchant who had bought the pig was nowhere around. Then a tall man with a leathery, deeply lined face made to walk past them, then seemed to think of something. He stopped, pulled a pack of Victory cigarettes from the bag he carried with one hand, flicked the pack so one stood out, and grabbed it with his lips. He looked around, and then walked up to Dewu. “Do you have a match?” he asked, the words making the cigarette bob up and down from the side of his mouth. “I’m sorry, I don’t smoke. But I have a long fire match you are welcome to have.” He looked at Jia Li. “Get me one of my fire matches.” While she bent over one of their bags for it, the man said, “Nice weather. Do you think it is like this in the south?” Dewu tried to keep the sudden excitement out of his voice. “I would think so. Do you think the sea will then be rough?” The man gave Dewu a long look. His dark, sunken eyes held a touch of fear. Then he looked at Jia Li, who had straightened and was holding out the match, and then at Shihao, who had drawn close to Jia Li and looked shyly up at the man. The man nodded, and seemed to gather himself together. He took the match, lifted his foot, and struck it on the sole of his dirty boot. He lit his cigarette, then held out to Dewu the bag he had been carrying, opening it to reveal an overripe papaya. As though saying something about the papaya, the man whispered, “Nine gold tael. You got?” That amount was currently worth about $400. “Yes.” The man continued to whisper, his words hurried and barely audible. “Be at pier 7B at one a.m., third fishing boat from the beginning of the pier. Come only if there is no moon. No flashlights. No talk. No light-colored clothing. Hide in the boat until I come at about five a.m. Fisherman’s clothes in pilothouse for both of you. Put them on.” The man closed the bag and shook his head as though disappointed, and ambled off, leaving a trail of swirling smoke behind him. The town’s small Chinatown was one street over, and there Dewu asked around for where a Sino-Vietnamese farmer could find

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cheap lodging for one or two nights. One such place was a home that rented rooms, and one room was available. Dewu registered his family for it with all the details required by law, including false information about the travel permit he was supposed to have from his village. The owner of the home, an old and shriveled woman whose bent back indicated she had worked most of her life on a farm, warned him in Chinese, “For staying overnight, you will have to register at the police station in the morning. Please do not forget, or I will get into trouble.” In barely remembered Chinese, Dewu replied, “Yes. It be bad for me. Worse.” He paid her for the room in advance, and she accepted the dongs without comment. He was convinced she knew they were escapees.

Gulf of Tonkin Dewu huddled in the boat’s small pilothouse, arms wrapped tightly around Jia Li and Shihao, as Captain Manh, the man they had met at the market, slipped his boat away from the pier and steered it out to sea. Dewu could not believe fleeing North Vietnam was this easy, and he expected to die at any moment. He did not take an easy breath until Manh yelled over the chugging motor, “We are in international waters.” By that time, the sky had cleared up and the moon provided enough light to see any boat within half a mile. The transfer from the North Vietnamese fishing boat to the one from the south would be a risk all around. If the North Vietnamese coast guard caught them, even in international waters, they would sink both boats and probably leave all aboard to drown. Dewu had heard that some pickups were merely tricks to lure South Vietnamese fishing boats into range for North Vietnamese police to machine-gun and sink. He wondered what would happen to them if no South Vietnamese boat ventured near. As if to calm his concern, a boat, barely visible, appeared in the moonlight. It slowly approached, bouncing as it rose and fell on the choppy swells. As it drew nearer, Dewu studied the craft. It was all poles, nets, and lines, in the midst of which was a small pilothouse. It flew no flag that Dewu could see, but Manh yelled out to him, “That’s a South Vietnamese fishing boat.”

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Dewu and Jia Li had changed back into their own clothes. Now as Manh instructed, they stood with Shihao, clearly visible in the bow of their boat. Dewu supported Jia Li, who was barely able to stand—the pills Dewu had bought on the black market before they departed only moderated her seasickness. The other boat stopped within hailing distance, and a man wearing a yellow boat hat that covered his neck and ears leaned out of the pilothouse and yelled, “Five taels. Nothing less.” Dewu shouted back, “We’ve got it.” The captain of the other boat kept his boat bobbing on the waves about ten feet away and held out a long bamboo mango picker with a melon-sized basket at the end. He yelled again, “Put the gold in the basket first.” But Dewu feared if he did that, the other captain might then pull away and be gone with the gold and his family’s future. Even if he put two or three taels in the basket now and offered the rest when they reached port, it would still be a big loss if the other boat took off without letting them board. Dewu hurried back to the pilothouse and asked Manh for a flashlight. Returning with it to the bow, he passed it to Jia Li. He held up his hand, opened it so the taels could be seen on his palm, and told Jia Li, “Shine the flashlight on my hand.” As the taels scintillated yellow in the light, he waited as the other captain steered his boat closer to see better the amount of gold in his hand. When the bobbing, surging boat was close enough that the rubber tire bumpers hanging over the side of each boat were only a foot or two away, Dewu fisted the taels. Timing the waves, he launched himself from the gunwale with his right foot and leaped over the gunwale of the other boat, almost lurching into the captain. The captain growled something and raised his fist, about to club him, but Dewu held up the taels for the captain to see, and then handed them over to him. As he counted and then pocketed them, Jia Li, clinging weakly to a lanyard and swaying to the boat’s erratic rhythm, handed their luggage and bags across the choppy waves to Dewu. She paused, sagged from the lanyard, and vomited into the ocean. Then, eyes streaming, she gripped the lanyard with one hand, grabbed Shihao’s shirt with the other, and helped him up onto the gunwale to jump across. He stood there shaking, his eyes wide with fear, looking at the hands his father held out, then back at his mother. “Jump!” she screeched. He did.

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Dewu caught him in both arms, stumbling as Shihao’s momentum threatened to topple them both backward. He set the boy down as Jia Li stepped onto the gunwale. He reached for her outstretched hand, trying vainly for several moments to capture it before their hands finally met, and he pulled her across. When he released her, she sat down hard on the deck next to Shihao, who had his back to the gunwale, gulped air, and then vomited again. The boats were now pitching against each other’s bumpers. Without even a wave to the other boat, the South Vietnamese captain immediately pulled away, as though moving away from a plague ship. Dewu finally relaxed. They had made it this far. He sat down between Shihao and Jia Li and put his arms around them and held them close. Jia Li finally wiped the vomit from her mouth, pushed her hair back from her face, and yelled above the noise of the boats and the sea, “You sure know how to keep your wife entertained.”

aaa Five day-long hours passed. Even Dewu felt nauseated as the increasingly choppy sea tossed the fishing boat around as if it were a child’s plaything. The captain of the boat had gruffly introduced himself as, “Nguyen, just Nguyen,” which was one of the most common names in Vietnam. He added, “We are going to my small fishing village of Cam-hoa. It is two miles inside the South.” He said not another word, which was just as well. Dewu found a place by the pilothouse that was protected from most of the sea spray and the breeze. He put his back against the pilothouse, pulled Jia Li and Shihao close to him, and then dragged a canvas that stank of fish around them. The moon had disappeared, and the sky was nearly black. Dewu gazed absently at the dark gray clouds barely visible in the inky sky ahead of the boat. Somewhere near the horizon, he saw a faint light reflecting off the clouds. It couldn’t be dawn, he thought. The glow was in the southwest, not the east. Gradually the light brightened and turned into a roiling red cloud. Something large was burning. Dewu tensed. They drew closer. Flames in coruscating red and yellow shot through billowing clouds of gray and black smoke to stain the whole horizon red. A village was burning. It had to be Cam-hoa. The cross nailed to the wall of his pilothouse proclaimed Nguyen a Catholic. That did not deter his use of language. Even above the engine noise and the loud slaps as the ship bucked through the waves, Dewu

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heard him yelling, “Cho de—son of a bitch,” to Dewu, or maybe to nobody. “The communist guerrillas are burning my village. I told that do ngu lo dit—stupid asshole to give them the fucking taxes they demanded, but no. That idiot bastard invited in a small South Vietnam Local Defense unit to protect the village. Four goddamned solders! Ha! Do ngu—stupid. He should have sent the communists an invitation.” There was a pause, and then Nguyen cried out, “Oh my God. My wife Thu Lan—my son Dung. Holy Mary, please let them live.” Dewu pushed aside the tarp and entered the pilothouse, dark but for the light from a few instruments. He put his hand on Nguyen’s shoulder, tried to say something optimistic about his family. But the captain slapped his hand away and turned his rage on Dewu. “If I had not gone out to pick you up, I would be with my family,” he hissed. “I could have protected them. It’s your fucking fault. When I get in closer, you had better jump out of the boat, or I’ll shoot you all.” Dewu was alert to just that possibility. From the beginning, Nguyen had been nervous. He’d acted as though he would throw them all overboard at the approach of any ship. Nguyen reached for something in a compartment next to the wheel, but before he could withdraw his hand, Dewu smashed him the face with his fist, driving him to his knees. One hand still holding the wheel, Nguyen tried to point a gun at Dewu with the other. Dewu grabbed the gun, twisted it free, and pointed it at the captain. “I am sorry,” Dewu yelled above the noise of the boat. “You saved us and I do not want to hurt you. But to save the lives of my family, I will shoot you dead if I have to. Just take the boat in, and let us off.” Nguyen had a bloody nose and a split lip. He used the wheel to pull himself up. Then he just leaned over the wheel and let the blood drip from his nose and lip. Finally he looked at Dewu through watery eyes, and nodded. Jia Li and Shihao had been watching at the door, and now they entered the pilothouse to stand next to Dewu. Jia Li looked better. “Thank you again for saving us,” she shouted to the captain. “I am so sorry for your village. I hope that your wife and son are safe.” Dewu motioned for Jia Li to stay back and not get too close to the captain. He pointed north with his free hand and said, his tone making it a question, “I thought that by fleeing south we would leave all those do ngu communists up north.” “This is . . .” Nguyen began, but his lip was swelling. He waved ahead, in the direction of the fires. And started crying. Jia Li moved toward him, and Dewu screamed at her, “No, Jia Li!”

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She jerked back. She looked away from Nguyen, reached out for Shihao’s shoulders, and turned him so that he faced away also. As they approached the coast, Nguyen turned off the instrument lights, probably too emotionally blinded to realize the boat was visible in the light of the flames. He throttled the motor down to its lowest notch and steered them slowly into a small harbor and toward a jetty. The boats that had been moored to it had been sunk; only the tops of their pilothouses and their masts showed above the water. Their boat was barely moving when it brushed the jetty, the old tires hanging from the side of the boat absorbing the impact. Before they could bounce more than a foot away, Nguyen jumped onto the jetty and tied the bow of the boat to a piling, then did the same at the stern. He jumped back into the boat, turned the motor off, and jiggled the ignition key from the lock. He did not even look at Dewu. “Go,” he bawled, and ran off toward the flames. “Quick,” Dewu told Jia Li, “we have to get away before someone comes.” He hopped onto the jetty and she handed the suitcases and bags up to him, then gripped his hand to be pulled with Shihao onto the jetty. They each picked up a suitcase and bag, Dewu tucking his bag under his arm to keep his right hand with the gun free. Dawn had yet to light up the sky, but the flames from the village cast just enough wavering light for them to see clearly. They hurried from the jetty and moved quickly along a path that led into an empty, rutted parking lot. On the other side they found a gravel road that ran along the coast. Dewu turned left on it, which had to be south. They kept to the forest side of the road. They soon encountered others on the road, going in the same direction. Some had suitcases, as they did; some pushed or pulled carts filled with their goods. In a mile or two, the road was almost crowded with people, horses, donkeys, oxen, carts, and wagons, all heading south. No one talked. Only grunts, wheezes, and coughs signaled life; only the flapping, scraping, jingling, and rattling that always accompanied a trudging caravan of humans and animals marked their passage. Nor did Dewu or his wife and son say anything. They merged with the refugees from the burned village, effectively hidden among them. The flames, and then the red and yellow clouds receded behind them into a smoky horizon. And when eventually the rising sun painted the trade wind clouds with a golden hue, it had no competition from the burning village.

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As they passed a field of huge boulders between the road and ocean, Dewu motioned that they should go down among them, as some refugees had already. They found a small, flat area on the sand between the boulders where they could rest. While first Dewu and then Jia Li guarded their bags and suitcases, they used an area behind some other boulders to relieve themselves. Then Jia Li distributed cold balls of sticky rice and cut vegetables among them, and Dewu passed around a water bottle with a cup screwed on top. “No more than a half-cup each,” he cautioned. Those were the first words among them since Dewu’s “Quick” at the jetty. When Shihao and Jia Li had drunk their water ration, Dewu filled the cup halfway for himself, and held it up to his wife and son. “This should be a happy moment. We made it to the south. I am sure we would have been dead soon, if we remained in the north. And we are protected here, within this crowd of refugees. To our new life.” He touched each of them with the cup and swallowed the water in two gulps. Then he rummaged in his suitcase and drew out a tattered school map of Vietnam. He laid it on the sand. “If we keep going on this road, I am sure we will end up in Hue, the former capital of this region. I hear there is a large Chinese community there, and many North Vietnamese Catholics who went there after the so-called exchange of populations between the North and South. So we should be able to get help, if we need it. We have our jewelry and remaining gold; maybe we can start a small business.”

Chapter 14 John Banks

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e felt much better this afternoon than he had in the morning. He had bought a sleeping bag yesterday, and after a quick lunch today, had closed and locked his office door, put the bag on the floor, and got into it with his computer’s alarm clock set for forty-five minutes. He knew nothing from the time he closed his eyes until the alarm went off with a repeated bong. He strode into his classroom just on time. A few students who had been talking in the hallway followed him in. Miss Phim sat in her seat, reading something. His eyes lingered on her for a moment. There was something about her besides her beauty and body, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He finally tore his eyes away self-consciously, wondering if the other students had caught him staring at her. “Good afternoon, students. Are you ready for the world’s greatest lecture?” “We’re having a visitor?” Miss Sneal asked, keeping her face bland. John gave an obvious, long sigh. “Another failing student,” he quipped, waving a hand at her. When the laughter died down, he began. “Last time I went into the Viet Minh Land Reform Campaign. Today I will deal with other communist campaigns during this period. “In 1953, the Communist Party carried out a Political Struggle Campaign. This was a very short-lived and explosive campaign of terror to prepare the way for their so-called land reform. Its aim was to eliminate those still remaining who had helped the French, as well as those who were anticommunist or not sympathetic enough, and unreliable or questionable communist cadre. In a replay of Stalin’s Great Terror—” John stopped his pacing, looked from one student to another, and said, “You have this in your reading. What was the Great Terror?”

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He ignored the hands and went to his note cards of student names. He made a show of shuffling them, then purposely picked out Miss Phim’s from near the top. “Miss Phim?” She lifted her hand so that he would know who she was, as though he needed that reminder. He had not heard her voice before, and was immediately surprised to hear her speak perfect English, with an exciting feminine sweetness to it. “In the Great Terror, Stalin purged the Communist Party at the top and mid-levels. This was in the late 1930s. About a million communists were executed.” Almost mesmerized by those slanted, single-lidded almond eyes looking at him and that voice, he had to give himself a mental shake. “Ah . . . correct. Although there is some controversy over the best estimates of those murdered, a million is the usual total given. Thank you.” He tore his eyes away from her. “As I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself,” he grinned, “Ho Chi Minh held his own mini Great Terror. People would be arrested for some excuse, such as not paying taxes, and then painfully tortured until they ‘confessed’ to membership in fictional anticommunist associations and plots with certain others, whose names the interrogators supplied. These in turn would be arrested and tortured. Of course, this typical communist technique provided the ‘legal’ foundation for finally arresting and executing the ‘reactionaries’ the party was after. “Such terror went on in every village, for if the social revolution was to proceed, those who did or might question it had to be liquidated. After about two weeks of this terror, as many as three to five people had been killed per village. But it was getting out of hand— peasants fled the villages, and the party itself was in danger. Since the Communist Party had achieved its purpose of eliminating possible opposition, it ended the worst excesses of the terror, but then only temporarily. “It lived on as a form of repression and social prophylaxis, and there were still periodic purges of communist cadre. Many of the cadre had joined the party in its early years and had bourgeois backgrounds; they or their families were eventually classified as landlords. And then the terror grew again, as land reform provided an excuse for a national purge of the Communist Party, of which the vanguard were the poor and landless peasants. Their denunciations often extended to the rank and file of the party. Anyway, local party officials had difficulty finding the requisite number of bodies to meet their quota for each village, so it helped to include objectionable party members.

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“Aside from these purges, the political repression and associated terror reached its peak in 1956, at the same time that land reform was ending. In this year, about seventy thousand Vietnamese may have been murdered from repression alone. No doubt, the Communist Party succeeded—through murder, suicides, and imprisonment—in eliminating all possible competition for power and opposition to Ho Chi Minh’s brand of communism. “Then, apparently concerned that the accelerating terror and killing might weaken or destroy the party’s hold on the country, it launched the Rectification of Errors Campaign. It confessed that mistakes had been made, and it fired many top officials and released many prisoners, including former communist cadre who, for the most part, had been arrested for deviationism, bourgeois tendencies, or landlordism. “Since those who had done the finger pointing were often new party cadre, the old cadre’s return to their villages triggered conflicts between them and these new, much more radical cadre—especially if they had replaced the former cadre or been responsible for their arrest and punishment. Untold numbers of communist cadre died in the settling of scores and exacting revenge.” A hand went up. “Yes, Mr. Fischer.” “If our government tried to do all that stuff here, everyone would revolt. How could the Vietnamese stand still for this cr—killing?” “Well, many of those who would lead such revolts had been murdered. But the peasants did revolt spontaneously, particularly during the deadly years from 1955 to 1957. For example, in November 1956, Ho Chi Minh’s home province of Nghe An saw open rebellion, and rioting and insurrection spread throughout much of the province. It took a whole division of troops almost a month to reimpose communist control. Rebellions also broke out elsewhere. The worst of these, near Vinh, involved protests by those who had been prevented from moving south during the three hundred-day window opened by the Geneva Agreements. The following year, armed rebellions took place in Phat Diem, Than Hoa, and near Hanoi; they were bloodily suppressed by the army. In the restoration of communist order, many peasants were killed, many executed, and many others deported. In the uprisings of November 1956, perhaps two thousand were executed, possibly six thousand killed or deported. Overall, from 1955 to 1956, those who lost their lives from rebellion may have numbered between ten and fifteen thousand.”

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John looked at his watch. He had better wind down. “To conclude about this deadly period of Vietnam’s history, the period from 1953 to 1956 was a politically tumultuous one for North Vietnam. It saw the end of the War of Independence and the signing of the Geneva Agreements, which established the independence of Vietnam and its separation into the North and South. It saw the mass exchange of populations between them, with some 727,000 to one million North Vietnamese refugees—about sixty percent Catholics—moving to the South, and nearly fifty thousand to one hundred thousand primarily communist guerrillas, families, and sympathizers moving to the North. And it saw the victorious communists socially and economically reconstruct the North, wiping out actual or potential opposition. The Political Struggle, Land Rent Reduction, and Land Reform campaigns were the major weapons in this social revolution.” John had walked to one side of the room while lecturing, and now walked back to the middle to lean over the lectern and check his outline. “All told, from 1953 to 1956, the communists likely killed 195,000 to 865,000 North Vietnamese. I conservatively estimate the toll as around 360,000 men, women, and children.” He looked around the classroom. “Incredible, isn’t it. This number did not die in war. These human beings were not killed in combat. They were murdered by their own communist government. And . . .” he hesitated, to make sure he had everyone’s attention, “this number is even more incredible when you realize that it is much greater than the 292,131 American soldiers, marines, airmen, and seamen killed in all of World War Two.” John slowly let out his breath. “Okay, class—questions, comments?” Several asked questions, which he deflected back to the class by using his deck of names to call on students for answers. This created some interesting exchanges among the students. When time was up, he said, “That’s it, folks. Next time we will cover South Vietnam and the North’s war against it. You have your assigned reading in Cyril Clement’s book on government murder listed in your syllabus. Dismissed.” Several students approached him as the classroom emptied. One said she had lost her syllabus, and asked for another; two others asked if the topics for their first term papers, due the following week, were okay. As he discussed their topics with them, he stole a glance at Miss Phim as she strode out of the classroom in Levis so tight, they would show a dimple on her well-rounded rear end.

Chapter 15 1956–1958 San Francisco Cyril Clement

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yril’s experience in Japan, his interest in Asia, and what he had read about Joy in Banks’ stuff disposed him toward oriental women. So, when he was a freshman at the university, he tried to increase his chances of meeting a desirable one by joining the Foreign Students’ Club and participating in their dances and other activities. He always wore long sleeves, and learned to do most things with his left hand. It was not that his right arm and missing fingers embarrassed him, but that he didn’t want to answer questions about the injury or have anyone express pity for him. He dated a number of foreign students from Japan, Taiwan, and Hong Kong, and a Filipino and a Malaysian. Nothing clicked, or, when he thought it might, it didn’t for his date. He was much too serious (perhaps boring was the better term) for many of them. In his senior year he met Alice Kwai Lee, a third generation Chinese girl from San Francisco, at a party. She was vivacious, and always ready with a smile and a laugh. With her long, ink-black hair, large, almond-shaped black eyes, and lips that were full and usually parted to show white teeth, she was his Joy. But he never thought of her this way. If he had, he would have squelched the thought immediately. He loved her for herself; at least he believed he did, and that was the important thing. She majored in mathematics, particularly mathematical statistics. She explained why to his question one day when they were eating at Berkeley House: “I love Chinese art and especially calligraphy. Have you ever noticed how mathematical symbols are like calligraphy?” And she went on to draw several on a napkin. Tapping the symbols for the

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summation, integral, and definite integral for emphasis, she said, “I get an aesthetic pleasure, not to mention an intellectual one, out of writing, reading, and working with such universal calligraphy.” He pursued her. Or maybe he pursued her until she caught him.

Alice Kwai Lee Cyril had a black beard. He had worn one before it became the recognized symbol of the beatnik culture and radical, and he would wear one when this fad passed. His nose was narrow and prominent, his face long, and his eyes deep and dark brown, overshadowed by bushy black eyebrows—all, perhaps, due to his part-Italian heritage. His hair, equally bushy and of course black, was not combed or cut enough for the times. Put a long, flowing white robe on him, and he would look the picture of a Confucian scholar. That caught Alice’s attention in the beginning, enough for her to accept his invitation to join him for supper at Peggy’s. At that first supper, Cyril’s qualities came through. He was much more mature than the college students she had dated. Without arrogance and without lecturing her, he told her he was dedicated to the cause of democracy and freedom. Not only was he serious; he seemed of a professional mind. He told her matter-of-factly that he wanted to get a graduate degree and become a professor. A good sense of humor balanced these qualities; he particularly liked to pun. Coming from a Chinese family, certain things rang a bell with her: confidence, dedication, professionalism. And his devotion to freedom—her grandparents had escaped from communist China into Hong Kong, where her grandfather then found it easy to immigrate to the United States. But Cyril also had certain qualities that were the opposite of those she would expect from a Chinese student, and they warmed her to him. He treated her as an equal, and respected her opinions and ideas. He especially seemed to have a sincere interest in her mathematical studies, and said he had briefly majored in physics, of which mathematics was part and parcel. Though she was impressed by him on the first date, close up and in the restaurant lighting, the Confucian scholar look gave way to that of a Jesuit priest—not very attractive to her mind. But his eyes sparkled sometimes, and he had a nice laugh, and a pleasant male voice. And

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there was a strong masculinity to him which, when she learned more about him, she attributed to his having to survive on his own, without parental guidance or help. He lacked two fingers on his right hand, and the hand itself was discolored and scarred, but he seemed oblivious to it. His activity was not crippled, and she saw no reason to ask about it. She was even more impressed on their third date. They talked easily, although she sensed a certain withdrawal when some subjects were brought up, such as how he became so dedicated to his cause. On their fifth date she knew she was falling in love with him. When he left her after their date, she felt empty and couldn’t wait for their next time together. On their sixth date they made love, her first time. He was so tender, so thoughtful, that the experience, as painful as it was in the beginning, was a sensual pleasure she didn’t think possible. From then on, each time was almost a new experience in erotic pleasure. He was her teacher, and for months she couldn’t get enough of him. “How did you learn all that?” she finally asked after one particularly acrobatic performance. “Not from books.” “When I was in Japan, I tried every day to get to the library across town, at military headquarters. But the Japanese prostitutes would block my way, and wouldn’t let me go unless I satisfied them. It was an exchange. They would teach me their tricks and I wouldn’t charge them for my body.” “You didn’t say—were they men or women?” “Damn,” he replied. “I never checked. Shucks, now the question will bother me.”

aaa When he applied to Berkeley for graduate study, she did also. They were both accepted. Before they both received their undergraduate degrees, Cyril proposed. She had counted on it, and accepted with the greatest happiness. But it wasn’t as she expected. They were in his dormitory room. She still lived with her parents. As soon as they’d entered the room, he asked her to sit on the bed while he brought up his desk chair to face her. She knew what was coming. Yes, he said it: “I want to marry you.” Not quite like the movies, but so what? Alice thought, ready to jump on him in her happiness, nonetheless. “Yes, yes, I ac—”

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He held up his hand. His voice low, with a touch of anxiety giving it a certain gruffness, he said, “After you hear what I have to say, you may not want to marry me. You may think I’m crazy. But, unless you believe me, you can’t be my wife. You see, what I am about to tell you will be the major factor in my life, and if we marry, yours also.” Her eyes opened wide and she leaned back. Then she looked at him, aghast. “Have you murdered someone?” “Of course not.” “Have you committed a crime, any crime, now or in the past?” “I stole books to read when I was a teenager. Otherwise, no.” “Are you a communist or a communist agent?” “No!” he involuntarily blurted. “There is a wife?” “Heavens, no.” She smothered a laugh. “Have you a dozen children scattered around?” He smiled. “The last time I counted, it was more like five hundred.” “Okay, nothing serious. I ac—” Hand again. The he threw the words out in a breathless, monotonic stream. “I was in possession of material from the past, written by time travelers, that precisely predicted the future.” The telephone for the floor was ringing at the end of the hallway. In the next room, people laughed. The phone stopped ringing; somebody yelled, “For Ed. Ed, you here?” “Huh?” Alice finally exclaimed, frowning. Her mind tried desperately to get a grip on what he had said. “I don’t understand.”

Cyril Clement How do you tell the one you love and want to marry what she must know, when the story is so crazy? No, more like cockeyed. So he said, “Please listen, and no questions until I’m through. I want to give you the complete story. Okay?” She nodded. So he started with the government’s paper drive in 1944. He left nothing out. He kept his voice steady and tried to keep the fear out of it. If she said he was crazy, absurd, she wanted to think about his proposal, then that was it. He would go on to his graduate study, but he

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would be heartbroken. He wanted her to be his wife. He loved her. He needed her. And he had spent a sleepless night trying to think through how to do this. When he came to the final moment, all he could do was go from A to Z. He told her why he was so dedicated, about his pacifism and hatred of democide. He told her about faculty’s lack of knowledge about not only the democratic peace, but also the amount of past and present democide, including the millions now being killed in China by the communists. And he told her what he planned for the future, after he got his Ph.D. Hours later, when he finished, he was mentally exhausted. He felt weak, weary, as though he had run for miles. He couldn’t look at her. He leaned back in his chair, looking down at his hands tightly clasped on his lap. He was so scared, he felt like vomiting. “Ah . . . ” she began slowly. Startled, fearing the worst, he looked up and into her . . . What? Dancing eyes? “You misled me.” Oh my God. Shit, he exclaimed to himself as his heart fell to the floor. “I thought this was serious, my love. I don’t deserve you if I can’t accept a little unusual experience. It’s not like being beamed up to a spaceship and impregnating an alien.” She gave him a serious look, belied again by her laughing eyes. “Have you confessed all and everything?” He nodded, too helpless now to say anything. “Now,” she said, “can I answer the proposal you made to me too many hours ago?” He nodded, or maybe that was his heart shaking his head. “You won’t raise you hand?” He shook his head. Tears sprang to his eyes. “I accept, you crazy man. Yes, and yes. I love you.” She grabbed his hands and pulled him onto the bed on top of her. They cried together with happiness.

aaa They had a big wedding, with Alice’s most distant relatives and closest friends in attendance. Her father had resisted the marriage at first, since Cyril was not Chinese, but he finally came around when he learned that Cyril would be a professor, a very prestigious profession for the Chinese.

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Of course, no word, not even the slightest hint, was ever mentioned to others about the Banks documents. That was now a secret locked in Cyril and Alice’s hearts and minds. And in the future, when the normal, everyday world and their different cultures and backgrounds caused some big fights between them, the Banks stuff, as they now both called it, was one of the strongest bonds between them.

Chapter 16 1960 Hue, South Vietnam Wang Dewu

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he slim, pretty young woman dressed in white silk dress and trousers walked into the Youde Drugstore in Hue, the sound of her clogs on the tiles lost amidst that of the outside traffic. She placed her heavy, fabric bag in a cart and pushed it down an aisle past the shelved goods and packaged food. Soon she had partially filled it with three large bags of potato chips from the United States, two plastic bags of dried squid from Japan, and a stuffed teddy bear from Taiwan. She looked around, apparently searching for something else to buy, and then reached into her fabric bag and flicked a toggle switch. She closed the bag, placed the potato chips, squid, and bear on top of it, and pushed the cart behind a stand of Vietnamese magazines near the counter, where the owner was talking to a customer. The corners of her full lips raised in the hint of a smile, she strolled out of the drugstore, and down the street. Precisely 123 seconds later, a thunderous explosion ripped the front of the drugstore apart, blowing out the front windows, and killing five people, including the owner and a pedestrian outside, and injuring twenty-three. Dewu’s Pho Shop was three stores down on Le Loi Street. The explosion sent a shudder through the foundation and rattled the plate glass window. Customers momentarily froze in shock, some with their flat-bottomed spoon halfway to their mouth. Then one overturned his chair as he pushed off it, whipped open the front door, and rushed out. Dewu ran from the kitchen and through the front door before it closed. In minutes, the street erupted into a chaos of shouts, screams, beeping horns, and straining motors. Dewu, his heart pounding, soon came

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back into the shop. He held up his hands to the customers and blared, “Youde Drugstore down the street has been bombed. No need to leave. We are safe here.” Most hurriedly finished their food and left anyway, some leaving money on their tables. Only two customers remained, one calmly spooning his noodle soup into his mouth. Dewu went into the kitchen, where Jia Li waited for him. She had a towel around one hand, burned when the explosion had startled her and she’d knocked over a bowl of hot pho. Dewu leaned against the server’s counter, his back to the tables so that he would not be heard. His shoulders slumped, he crossed his arms and looked down at the floor. “It was Mo Dawel’s store,” he said, his voice low and weary. “He’s dead. Head’s in shreds.” He led out a long, shuddering sigh. “The Viet Cong are hitting Hue now. I told you that they have assassinated the government’s representatives and heads of the Phong Dien, Dong Ha, and even Huong Thuy villages. Well, now they are hitting those they consider anticommunists here.” He looked into Jia Li’s worried eyes so that she could read his own anxiety. “Dawel is . . . was . . . a North Vietnamese escapee, like us. He was vehemently anticommunist, as we are.” The Viet Cong were the Viet Nam Cong San—Vietnamese Communists. Jia Li was squeezing the towel over her burnt hand and shaking her head. Dewu read panic in her eyes. All the lines in her face seemed to succumb to gravity, and her voice was a hiss as she tried to prevent it from reaching the two customers remaining in the restaurant. “Do ngu. He had to start that North Vietnamese Anticommunist Society. He was asking for it. And you. You should not have joined it. Oh, honey, they will target you—us—too.” “I know. In retrospect, it was stupid of Dawel. Stupid of me. But we never thought that the North would declare war on the South like this, a covert war carried out through their puppet Viet Cong. They will soon send their army south. I now do not doubt that.” Jia Li moved her eyes quickly to look beyond the counter. One of the remaining customers had been lingering, but when he saw he had been noticed, he put the two hundred piasters for his pho on the counter and walked out. The restaurant was empty, and the street outside had quieted down some. A siren sounded in the distance. “I’m selling the restaurant today for whatever I can get,” Dewu suddenly announced. “We’re leaving Hue.”

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Jia Li shuddered and shook her head. Tears flowed from her eyes. She stepped toward Dewu and put her arms around him and her head on his chest. “I know we must. Poor Shihao. He has made good friends and is doing well in school.” She squinted up at him through the tears, her brow furrowed. “Where can we go?” Dewu’s mind was working furiously. He had not expected they would hit Hue. It was, after all, the second largest city of South Vietnam, and the capital of Annam—the former kingdom of central Vietnam. “Now we must move fast. Again. We are going to Cholon, the Chinatown of Saigon. We will be unknown there; strangers can easily lose themselves in its crowded sections. We’ll start over again. Our North Vietnamese accent will always tell everyone where we are from, but we can just act as ordinary northerners who moved south in 1954 during the population exchange between the North and South.” He clapped his hands. “Okay, quick. Go home and get ready to move. Fortunately, we are only renting. I’m going downtown to the Business Exchange Group to see if I can get a buyer today for this restaurant, and everything it contains.” He took out his pocketknife and cut a flap off a cardboard box. He quickly wrote Out of Business on it and handed it to Jia Li. “Here. Hang this on the door. We leave by bus as soon as I sell the restaurant and buy new documentation.”

aaa Dewu was very uncomfortable on the bouncing, overcrowded, old French bus. It seemed little more than the addition of side walls with windows and a tin roof to a flatbed truck. His long legs were cramped, squeezed as they were around their baggage, and his knees kept knocking against the back of the seat ahead. Smaller Jia Li and Shihao, however, simply pulled their feet up on the seat. He had sold the restaurant for 54.3 million piasters—about $150,000, black market. He had converted it all to gold taels, except for a little over a million piasters that he converted to three thousand American dollars. He did not know what would happen during the trip. It was dangerous. They might be waylaid by Viet Cong, South Vietnamese troops, or even the renegade troops of one of the private armies that President Diem had defeated in unifying the South. So, Dewu had tightly rolled

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ten $100 bills together, forced the roll into a small plastic tube with a screw cover, and stuck it deep up his anus. He kept feeling as though he had to defecate. He had done the same to Shihao, who understood at eleven what was happening, and tried to be manly about his father shoving the tube up his anus. But his body was so stiff and his anal muscles so clenched that Jia Li had to sooth him into relaxing before his father succeeded. Jia Li had just inserted the tube into her vagina, and then wore a menstrual pad to deter a finger search. Dewu had watched as she had inserted it, and then blandly suggested that she could take all three tubes. Dewu had seen enough American movies to know that if he said that to an American woman, she would have hit him with the menstrual pad. Jia Li only reddened, covered her face with her hand, and giggled. Jia Li also had sewn their gold into the lining of their clothes and their bags and suitcases. No one would find it on a fast search, the kind carried out by bandits with sixty or more people to search, and worried about being discovered. The trip to Saigon would take almost a day and a half. They had made no reservations. They would find a cheap hotel in Cholon to house them temporarily, and then work through the Chinese business community services and classified advertisements. The road was in terrible condition; in places, the bus had to navigate muddy stretches strewn with leaves and branches. A couple of hours outside of Hue, the bus stopped abruptly. Dewu immediately stood to peer out the front window over the heads of the passengers in front of him. A semi truck had been pulled across the road; armed men stood beside it. One of them hammered on the bus door, and the bus driver had no choice but to open it. A man clad in black pajamas, a red neck scarf, a soft khaki hat, and rubber sandals entered the bus. Brandishing his Soviet Kalashnikov AK-47, he yelled, “We are fighting for the freedom and independence of South Vietnam from the capitalist puppets of the West. We are taxing you for our heroic struggle. As we come down the aisle, put all your money, jewelry, and watches into the bag. If you withhold anything, you will be shot. Also have your ID ready.” Two Viet Cong, one an old man with a long gray beard, the other a young girl wearing a conical hat, entered the bus. Each was accompanied by a Viet Cong carrying an AK-47 as they started slowly down the aisle, thrusting an empty rice sack toward each passenger in turn. One pair worked the right side, the other the left. Behind them, more Viet Cong entered with AK-47s and started checking IDs.

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As they did so, Red Scarf instructed the driver to pull the bus off the road onto a narrow side road. As soon as a curve in that road put a screen of jungle between the bus and the main road, Red Scarf told the driver to stop. Dewu had been sitting in an aisle seat, with little Shihao between him and petite Jia Li. He remained standing, carefully watching the approach of the Viet Cong woman and the armed man who were looting his side of the bus. Just before the pair reached him, there was a short Bbrrrpppp! of AK-47 fire, followed by a scream that stopped suddenly with a another Bbbrrrppp!. Dewu stood on tiptoes and craned his neck to see what had happened. A lifeless body slumped into the aisle, the fingers of one dangling arm touching the pitted and dirty floor. Standing in the haze of gun smoke, Red Scarf shouted from the front of the bus into the absolute silence, “Two less wicked tyrants.” Somewhere up front, a woman started gasping in loud sobs. A child began to cry. When the Viet Cong woman reached him, Dewu had ready his forged ID; it seemed well worth the thirty-six thousand piasters he had paid for it now. He flashed it to her, then motioned for her to lean closer. She did so, her partner holding his gun inches away from Dewu’s face. Emphasizing his Northern accent, Dewu hissed into her ear, “Get your sergeant.” The woman stared at him, frowning, and then turned to the man with the gun, who shrugged. “Now!” Dewu barked. The woman quickly handed the bag to her partner and rushed back to Red Scarf as Dewu watched. His heart was beating so hard, he thought the Viet Cong still holding the AK-47 on him would hear it. The woman said something to Red Scarf, who then turned his head quickly to stare at Dewu with narrow eyes. Keeping his AK-47 at the ready, he came slowly down the aisle, squeezing past the ID checkers and the other looter to stand in the aisle in front of Dewu. His AK-47 and that of the other Viet Cong were both pointed between Dewu’s eyes. Well, they can only kill me once, he unconsciously rationalized, nevertheless fearing what he planned to do next. Scowling at Red Scarf, Dewu flared his nostrils and curled his lip back. Red Scarf’s smirk turned into a frown. Then he raised his eyebrows, and the barrel of his AK-47 dipped. “What—”

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Dewu silenced the man with an abrupt chopping gesture. He looked disdainfully up and down the aisle, then wagged his finger and touched his mouth with it to indicate secrecy. He motioned for Red Scarf to give him his ear. When the man lowered the AK-47 and did so, Dewu emphasized his North Vietnamese accent and snarled barely loud enough for the other to hear, “You asshole. I gave an explicit command that this bus was to be left alone. You farmers! Dumb as pigs. You are blowing my cover. Get off this bus now, or I will cat me cu may di— cut off your dick.” “Who are you?” Red Scarf stammered, his eyes wide. “I am Nguyen Tan Khiem, military advisor to your People’s Liberation Armed Forces in South Vietnam and headquartered in Chu Chi.” He reached into a hidden flap Jia Li had sewn in his coat and pulled out a red-lined ID displaying Dewu’s photograph and the People’s Army of Vietnam seal over Commander-in-Chief General Vo Nguyen Giap’s signature, and waved it under Red Scarf’s nose. “Now, get out.” Dewu’s eyes bored into those of Red Scarf, who stepped back, holding his AK-47 loosely in one hand. Dewu’s ID plus his northern accent had quelled all doubt. Red Scarf shook his head and mumbled, “No one told us.” Dewu tilted his head back and pointed his chin at the man. He hoped that the anger he really felt showed in his eyes as ordered in a low, steely voice, “I am telling you now and for the last time. Get. Off. This. Bus.” Red Scarf turned, told the armed man next to him they were leaving, and moved down the aisle, telling the other Viet Cong they passed, as well. When some objected that they had not finished, he started pushing them toward the exit with the stock of his AK-47. In minutes, they were gone. With his keen young ears, Shihao had heard everything spoken between his father and the Viet Cong. He stared at his father, his eyes round, his mouth hanging open. Jia Li had missed most of what was said, but she’d caught enough to realize that Dewu was responsible for saving not only their valuables, but perhaps some lives. She waved at him to get his attention, then raised her eyebrows. He put a finger to his lips. “The next town,” he said. There was a long silence on the bus, then someone got up to check the two dead men, and that roused the bus driver from his shock. He slowly backed up the bus to the main road. The truck that had blocked it was gone. As the bus continued on its trip, loud chatter broke out among the passengers. Some cried; one woman

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screamed that she had lost all her money. Another passenger took up a collection among those the looters had not reached, to give to those who lost their travel funds. At Vinh, the dead passengers were removed from the bus by the police, who ordered that everyone else remain on the bus to be questioned by South Vietnamese security officers. When one of them asked an elderly, rotund man hugging a leather case to his chest what he saw, he pointed in Dewu’s direction and said, “The Viet Cong just stopped in the midst of their robbery and ID checking when they got to that family.” The officer stared at Dewu, and then approached him. The shiny visor of his officer’s hat almost hid the deep crease of suspicion running across his forehead, but not those framing his mouth. He gave Dewu a wary look, his hand on his holstered pistol, and asked him, “Can I see your identification?” All depended now on how Dewu handled this. He and his family could be arrested, doubtlessly tortured, and then imprisoned. He pulled out his South Vietnam driver’s license, and then out of the right inner pocket of his coat his bank card, Hue business registration, and house rental agreement. The officer carefully scanned the documents, then handed them back and asked, “Why did the Viet Cong stop with your family?” “It is hard to explain,” Dewu replied, watching the other’s eyebrows flit up and then down as he controlled his reaction to Dewu’s North Vietnamese accent. “When the Viet Cong sergeant heard my accent, he looked worried. He kept asking what I was doing here. I said I was a businessman, and had immigrated to the South in 1954 during the North-South population exchange. “I had been tortured by the communists; I have almost died in their northern prisons. The Viet Cong did not scare me, and I outstared him. Since I showed no fear and stood up to him, he must have thought I was some kind of agent. I sensed that, and so sharpened my accent and ordered him off the bus, or I would have them all executed. Merciful Buddha, he and all the others left. They are only ignorant farmers during the day, you know.” The officer gaped at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing. “Good story. I’m sure you will impress all your friends when you tell them that. So, you don’t know why they stopped at your family?” Dewu shrugged. “No, not really. I did notice that their sergeant glanced at his watch, and looked worried. He then turned around and they all left.”

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The officer tilted his head and, narrowing his eyes, asked, “Why did the one with the bag stop with you and go get his sergeant to talk to you?” “My northern accent. It seemed to spook them.” The officer nodded, and then questioned Dewu as to why he and his family were traveling to Saigon. Dewu frankly explained his family’s fear of the Viet Cong closing in on Hue, and the wish for a more secure location. He mentioned his family’s reaction to the drugstore near his own business being blown up. The officer seemed satisfied, wished him the best, and went on to other passengers, who were growing impatient. While that was going on, Dewu explained to Jia Li what he had done. She asked, “How much did that fake ID cost you?” “Two gold taels.” About seventy American dollars. “Well,” she said, a happy grin on her face, “they were worth more than their weight in gold.” “Yes. And you know, Zeng Jintao, who made those for me, could have counterfeited an American passport in three hours, he said.” “You are not thinking of—” “No, sweetheart, I never intend to leave Vietnam. It is my country.” Soon, a security officer shouted to the passengers that they could leave the bus for a half-hour while the blood from the dead men was cleaned up. Someone shouted, “The Viet Cong called them wicked tyrants. Who were they?” “Just low-level government officials,” the officer shouted back. Another passenger responded loudly, “Just as you are.” The officer made no reply. As they departed, Shihao cried in a voice shrill with panic, “I have to go—right away!” “Crap or pee?” Dewu asked. “Crap.” “Oh, shit,” Dewu swore. “I have to help. You know what you can’t lose, right?” Shihao looked even more panicked. The bus depot was nothing more than a long shed containing a waiting room and a bathroom at one end, its door ajar. Dewu could not understand why nobody was using it, until he and Shihao rushed into it and saw why. The toilet was a hole in the floor, with a small, rusty sink with one dripping faucet on one wall. There was no tissue or toilet paper. People must be using the side of the shed or the nearby jungle, he thought. Leaves were as good as toilet paper. That was probably what his wife was doing now, since she had disappeared.

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Looking at Shihao, Dewu knew they didn’t have time to do the same. Dewu tried to close the door, but it was stuck ajar. Shielding his son with his body, he told him, “Go on the floor. Quick.” The boy took down his shorts and underwear and, red-faced, he did so. Dewu watched carefully, and when he saw the plastic tube fall within a wet brown clump, he reached beneath his squatting son and extracted it. He took it to the sink and washed it and his fingers under the faucet. By that time his son had finished. “Shove it all in the hole,” Dewu ordered, “and then wash your hands. I’ll get something we can use to clean the floor.” He’d seen a garbage can near the bathroom. Dewu pulled a section of newspaper from the can and took it back to the bathroom. He wet it, and gave part of it to Shihao to wipe himself with while he used the rest to wipe the floor. Then he gave the plastic tube of money to Shihao, made sure he could not be seen from the outer room, and told him, “Back it goes.” After he’d inserted it, Dewu asked him, “Feel better now?” “No,” his son mumbled, pulling up his underwear and shorts.

Chapter 17 John Banks

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fter his lecture to his introductory class, several students had come up to John with questions. He had tried to answer them all, which only made him late for this class. His students were already in their seats, waiting, when he strode quickly into the classroom, put his briefcase down on the desk in front, and took out his lecture outline. He had been restless again last night, but he had taken another nap in his office, conquering the tiredness he’d felt all morning. At least for now. Everyone was quiet. He finally stepped to the lectern to face the class, glancing at Miss Phim, who sat leaning forward, hands clasped on her writing chair. For some reason, she now seemed much older to him than the rest of the students, and he felt a familiarity with her that he couldn’t possibly have. He scratched his head, frowned momentarily, and then turned to the class. “Good afternoon, students. Ah, how come you’re all here early?” “You’re late,” two shouted at him. “Late?” Another shouted, “Late. You’re late.” He stroked his chin and replied, “I don’t hate anyone. Well, maybe mass murderers.” That met smiles and some laughter. About a third of the students yelled out, “You are late.” “Oh, I’m great. Thank you. With that encouragement, let me start the lecture.” There was more laughter and a bustling among the students as they got their notebooks, pens or pencils, or laptops ready. Some recorded his whole lecture on DVDs or tapes. “Any questions before I begin?” One hand went up. “Yes, Mr. Edenfield.” “My grandfather was in the Vietnam War. I told him about your lecture and he says that there was not much killing in the North before the war. He says the South was worse.”

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“As I mentioned last time, there was propaganda from all sides, and beliefs about the North that followed along ideological lines. So, who do we believe? I tend to believe someone like Clement, who has done exhaustive research on all sides of the question. I also tend to believe what comes out of extensive interviews with refugees. And I tend to believe what the communists say themselves for internal consumption or communist ears only, if it goes against their foreign propaganda. All this leads me to say that your grandfather is most likely mistaken. I will hand out a bibliography on Vietnam at the end of the final lecture on this country’s wars and democide. You already have the references that Clement gives in his text. I suggest you ask your grandfather, with the respect due a veteran of that awful war, how he knows what he claims.” John looked around the classroom. “Any more questions?” There were none. “Okay, onward.” He moved away from the lectern and made a sweeping motion with his hand to encompass the class, the first of a hundred gestures to come during the lecture. “You should remember that the communists under Ho Chi Minh were engaged in democidal mass campaigns before, during, and after the War of Independence. You should also remember that the Geneva Agreements that ended the war also split Vietnam into an independent North and South. “Now, this is much misunderstood. Historically, there had never been one Vietnam. There were in fact three regions, kingdoms, or states. One was Tonkin, composed largely of what later became North Vietnam after the defeat of the French. Its capitol was Hanoi. The second was Annam, or central Vietnam, with Hue the capital and its major seaport at Da-nang. The third was Cochin China, the south of Vietnam, with its capital at Saigon, or what the communists now call Ho Chi Minh City. This region was once part of the Khmer—Cambodian— Empire. “When the French colonized Indochina, they made Tonkin and Annam semi-independent French protectorates, with native rulers. They made Cochin China, however, a French colony. Thus, Vietnam had already been split before the French took over Vietnam, and they continued this split. After World War Two and France’s reassertion of authority over Vietnam, and in opposition to Ho Chi Minh’s demands that all Vietnam be unified, the French made Cochin China an independent republic. Trying to end the War of Independence that absorbed more French soldiers and material that France, still recovering from World War Two, could ill afford, France tried to reach an agreement with the three regions that would unify them into an independent gov-

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ernment within the French Union. Tonkin—North Vietnam—rejected it, but the Annamite emperor Bao Dai and Cochin China accepted the proposal. France thereby proclaimed Bao Dai emperor of all Vietnam in 1949. “As I mentioned in a previous lecture, in 1954 the French were defeated at Dien Bien Phu in North Vietnam, which led to the Geneva Conference, and the formalization of the split between North and South Vietnam. I also mentioned that the Geneva Agreements resulting from the conference also called for Vietnam-wide elections in two years to unify Vietnam, but they were never held. Each side blamed the other. “Anyway, the communists under Ho Chi Minh now ruled the North by international agreement. And the political situation in the South was chaotic. Bao Dai’s government was bedeviled by warlords and autonomous sects. Its Premier Ngo Dinh Diem achieved several military victories against these divisive forces, and in April 1955 he then turned on Bao Dai himself. Through an extralegal assembly meeting, Diem had a new government declared, with himself as head. In October he held a sham referendum to endorse this bloodless coup d’etat; in one area he got ninety-eight percent of the vote. “With this coup and corrupt referendum, Vietnam now had an authoritarian government over the South, created by Diem. It was no less opposed than Ho Chi Minh’s totalitarian communist government over the North.” A hand. She’s a cutie. “Yes, Miss Smyth.” “What is the difference between these governments?” “A totalitarian government rules everything. There is no freedom of speech, religion, or association. It controls or owns all business. Its commands are the only laws. An authoritarian government is a dictatorship that monopolizes political power, but may allow freedom of religion, nonpolitical speech, and nonpolitical association. It may leave businesses largely alone as long as they stay out of politics. Okay?” When she nodded, he went on. “Events in the South were not what Ho Chi Minh had expected. The Bao Dai regime was supposed to disintegrate, but with the help of Diem, it appeared to be growing stronger, to be replaced through Diem’s coup with what seemed to be an even more effective and dedicated anticommunist government. Perhaps some nudging would help. So, as early as 1955, North Vietnam ordered those communist forces—Viet Minh—remaining in the South to carry out a low-level guerrilla war against the new regime. The North intended to expand their area of control and thwart Diem’s attempt to rid

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South Vietnam’s countryside of communist Vietnamese, whom he called Viet Cong. At the time, nothing more appeared necessary, since Ho Chi Minh still thought the regime unlikely to survive. “Once he had successfully extended and consolidated communist power in the North, he more seriously focused on the South. In late 1956, the North’s communist politburo reevaluated the likelihood of Diem’s collapse. It decided that more revolutionary techniques would have to be applied to bring him down and temporarily replace his regime with a congenial and transitional pro-unification government. There still remained violent discontent in the South. Those sects and regions striving to keep their autonomy still rebelled against government control. Diem’s own version of land reform alienated masses of peasants, who saw it only as a way for the rich to get richer. And attempts to win the support of mountain people only embittered them when Diem had them deported en masse for, as he said, their own protection. “But this discontent was disunited and lacking in direction. So the North moved to provide antigovernment rebels, dissidents, and guerrillas who had once fought against the French with organization and leadership, and particularly with the aim of overthrowing the so-called reactionary Diem. Thousands of former Viet Minh still remained inactive in the South, and had only to dig up their weapons. “During the following months, terrorism and related assassinations significantly increased in the South. Mainly under the North’s direction, anticommunist officials and civilians, or those who created trouble for the communists, were assassinated or abducted. Often these victims were simply the best officials, or civilians who were extraordinary in some way, and thus too good an example to the people. The communists preferred corrupt and incompetent officials; those who were dishonest and criminal created disaffection and an environment for communist proselytizing.” John stepped to the lectern to refer to his outline. “In 1957 alone, over seven hundred low-level officials were murdered this way, and around 3,750 were murdered in the following three years.” He took his outline with him when he stepped away from the lectern. “Beginning in 1958, the North also secretly returned to South Vietnam those military and political cadre who had been sent to the North after the Geneva Agreements. But the guerrilla war against the South was still at a relatively low level, and Diem appeared to be growing stronger. With U.S. advisors and military aid, Diem’s army would soon be a well-trained and equipped force of over 135,000

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men. For the U.S., this was a matter of containment—and underline that. Containment was the dominant American foreign policy throughout the Cold War. “Clearly, the North now had to undertake a full-scale armed struggle to, in its words, smash the Saigon regime. This decision was made during the communists’ Fifteenth Conference of the Central Committee meeting in Hanoi in January 1959. They soon issued the appropriate policies, underlined by Ho Chi Minh’s appeal in May to liberate South Vietnam. “The North then prepared for infiltration by its regular troops, and their supply. It moved to establish bases on the Cambodian border at Tay Ninh, northwest of Saigon, and east of Ratanakiri province, in the South’s Central Highlands. And it built the first leg of the so-called Ho Chi Minh Trail through Eastern Laos and Cambodia and thence at several points into South Vietnam. Using the trail and its subsequent extensions and modifications, the communists built up their forces in the South. In 1960, the North’s killer squads increased the rate at which they were assassinating officials and village heads, killing nearly three thousand over the two years ending in 1961. By this time, the North had also infiltrated ten thousand regular soldiers and a substantial number of the forty thousand guerrillas then operating against the Diem regime.” John stopped for a moment to give the students a mental break. This was a lot to digest and he wanted to make sure they understood it. “Questions?” None, so he continued. “From July 1959 to June 1960, the North carried out the Concerted Uprising Campaign, with the goal of expanding direct communist control over southern territory. They planned to do this by breaking up what they called the machinery of oppression, that is, by disorganizing Diem’s strategic hamlet program, which aimed at separating villagers from communist agents, and assassinating South Vietnam’s real authorities outside the cities—the hamlet and village officials. In this way, the communists hoped to gradually spread their control over the countryside and eventually lay siege to the cities. “The start of North Vietnam’s war against the South, and therefore the Vietnam War, might therefore be set at 1959, or even 1958. I date it, however, as beginning in January 1960, when General Vo Nguyen Giap, head of North Vietnam’s army, unambiguously involved the North in war against the South.” “To quote Giap, the ‘North has become a large rear echelon of our army,’” John read from his outline. “‘The North is the revolutionary

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base for the whole country.’” He looked up. “By ‘whole country’ he meant North and South Vietnam. “The following September, the Communist Party’s Third Congress meeting in Hanoi decided to create a broadly defined political front, a façade for its war against the South. Several months later, the Saigon media reported the formation of the National Liberation Front. “The tempo and scale of war and terror from then on increased materially; by 1964, thirty to forty-five main-force battalions of North Vietnam troops, composed of thirty-five thousand guerrillas and eighty thousand irregulars, had gained control over most of the South. “One source claims that in 1964, the Viet Cong taxed the population in forty-one out of the South’s forty-four provinces and prevented government access to eighty percent of its territory. The National Liberation Front claimed it controlled eight million of the South’s thirteen million people, and three-fourths of the country. “With all these losses and its troops by then dispirited, it seemed only a matter of time before Saigon succumbed to the communists. Nor did extraordinary U.S. military aid and twenty-three thousand advisors, as they were called, prove enough to even stabilize government defenses. The collapse of the South that the North had been predicting since 1954 seemed imminent. “But wait. The U.S. rode to the rescue. Temporarily. That’s the next lecture.” He looked around. “Questions?” Several hands rose. “Yes, Mr. Williams.” “I’m confused.” “Oh, sorry, I have you on my class list as Williams.” That well-worn humor earned a few chuckles. “Forgive me, Mr. Williams. Go on.” “I’m taking a class in Asian history, and the professor says that the Viet Cong were independent freedom fighters fighting a guerrilla war against capitalist repression in the South.” John knew who the student was talking about: a tenured Marxist in the history department. Since John was a new professor without tenure, he knew he should be very careful in his answer. But screw it, he thought. It’s the fucking Marxists who have done most of the killing. “He’s wrong. It’s really not me saying that. It’s the leading generals of the North, such as Giap, who, after the end of the war in 1975, confessed that the Viet Cong had been an operating arm of the North Korean Army.”

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Williams followed up with, “Why doesn’t he know that?” Oh shit. I’m in it. He took a deep breath before answering. “He is a historian of the region, and I’m sure he knows that. But, you see, he’s a Marxist, and no doubt happy the North won, and it is . . . nice to say that the South was mainly defeated by its own people.” “Are you saying, professor, that he is lying?” If I say yes, I’ll be kicked out of the History Department. “As I said in the beginning, Mr. Williams, this is a contentious area where even the best scholars see things very differently. I suggest you do a search on the Internet and do your own reading on this question to determine what you should believe.” He looked at the class, and then slid his eyes to glance at Miss Phim. She was smiling. He ripped his eyes away, felt his face get hot, and quickly moved into the discussion part of the period. “Questions, comments?” If there were none, he would call on people randomly from his deck of student names. That is, except for one.

Chapter 18 1960–1963 Cholon, Saigon Wang Dewu

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hey arrived at the An Dong bus station in Cholon early in the morning. Poor vendors hawked their food at several places in the station, and Dewu bought rice and fried fish cakes for all of them. He also asked the vendor if there was a cheap hotel nearby, and the man told Dewu to try the Dang Dinh Nam Hotel on the other side of Dung Street, across from the station. They walked the short distance, carrying their suitcases and other baggage. Once Dewu had Jia Li and Shihao settled in a room, he asked the hotel owner-receptionist for the location of the Chinese Chamber of Commerce for Cholon. He was directed to an office building on Le Van Duyer Street. When he got there, he climbed to the second floor and entered a small office with Chamber of Commerce lettered on the door in both Chinese and Vietnamese. Inside, a little counter held maps, forms, and pamphlets; at one of the two desks, an older, much shrunken man in an ill-fitting Western suit sat. A little sign on his desk said I am a volunteer businessman here to help you. The man looked up when Dewu entered, and motioned him over to take a seat. The man began his query with a hiss, as though he had a split tongue. “Hsss . . . can I help you? Dewu explained, “I sold my business in Hue and came to Cholon for fear of the Viet Cong. I eventually want to open another business here. But for now, I will have to take any kind of job to get started.” The man’s sympathetic expression looked forced. He clasped his hands in front of him and replied, “Hsss . . . we have so many refugees here from all over, and so many are former businessmen and executives like you, that there are no good jobs available.” He shook his head, now

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looking as if he’d eaten soap. Perhaps he intended to look sad. “Hssssuu . . . I will give you a list of restaurants, laundries, and shops that might need help. Hsss . . . I warn you, though, that you will be competing with all the unskilled labor that has flooded Cholon, and if you get a job, it will be hard work for almost nothing.” He leaned forward, looking hopeful. “Hssss . . . maybe there is something for you in our file. But it is so full that I really do not have the time to look carefully.” Dewu refused to pay the obvious bribe. He took the list, took a free map of Cholon and Saigon off the counter, and walked out. He didn’t return to the hotel; instead he started going from place to place, looking for work. One restaurant on the list, Cao’s Steak and Salad, had catered to Westerners. Dewu found it a burned-out ruin between two brick buildings—the work of Viet Cong, he was sure. Two restaurants later, he was lucky. The owner recognized Dewu’s accent, and revealed that he had also escaped from the North. After a brief conversation about the village he’d fled and why, the owner hired him as a dishwasher even though he needed no more help. When Dewu returned to the hotel and told Jia Li about his new job, she took the list, said simply, “My turn,” and left their hotel room. Three hours later she came back with a job in a Chinese laundry whose clientele was largely American military. She explained, “I kept going from one place to another, seeking managers or owners who looked like they were from the North, and then I judged by their accent whether they were from our district. When I—” Boooom! Brrrttt! Brrrttt! Boooom! Pop! Pop! Brrrttt! The sounds of the street battle were distant, but loud enough to be worrisome. Wailing sirens drew closer, and then stopped. Somebody ran down the hallway, their slippers clip-clopping. Then nothing. In the silence, Dewu felt he could hear them all breathing. Jia Li glanced toward their one window, and then at Dewu’s purposely calm expression, and raised her eyebrow for just a moment. Then she continued. “I found such a woman who had escaped over the border, and she hired me on the spot.” They now had work but, still not satisfied with their meager joint income, over the following days Dewu kept asking around for a second job. He happened to check the Tong Chinese Furniture store when their delivery truck driver had just been taken to the hospital, seriously ill with botulism, apparently from eating bad pork. When Dewu showed the store manager the license he carried with him that showed he had owned his own store in Hue, the manager decided he had to be a responsible person. And he was obviously Chinese. Dewu got the job.

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Next, they had to get out of the hotel. It cost them too much. As Jia Li kept saying indignantly, “It is wasted money.” So, Dewu and Jia Li, and even Shihao, spent their spare time and weekends building a small shack from plywood, bricks, and hollow tile on a tiny piece of rented land. Dewu had scavenged the tiles from a building that had burned down—he was there when the smoke was still rising from the debris, and fought with others for what he got. At the Cholon Binh Tay Market, he bought corrugated steel sheets obviously stolen from the Americans, and tarps and plastic sheets to help divide the bedroom from the rest of the house. For their toilet, he created a hole in one corner of their tiny bedroom, hung plastic sheeting around it, and dug a hole in the ground underneath big enough for a four gallon plastic bucket. It became one of Shihao’s odd jobs to empty the bucket into a water runoff sewer along a nearby street. The shack was not much, but it protected them from the weather, and one street over from them was a public spigot where they could get water—not the same street with the sewer. Dewu also paid “rent” to run an electrical line from the fuse box of a home down the street to his shack, and then bought an old electric stove and small refrigerator. Jia Li started to complain about wasting money for electricity, but Dewu shut her up by saying, “It is coming out of my humble allowance, my lovely budget sheriff.” Jia Li registered Shihao in school, and he settled in and started getting homework. Jia Li made sure he finished his homework before he did anything else. “Anything else” meant finding odd jobs around the neighborhood. He would knock on a door and say, as his father had taught him, “First job free. Second job at what you wish to pay. If you like my work, third job at my fee of one hundred piasters an hour.” This was about twenty-seven American cents at the black market rate.

aaa By 1963, they had saved enough in addition to what they had brought with them from Hue to buy a small rattan store, and its first inventory of furniture. They were in business again. Dewu was happy about that, until early one morning when he passed the bodies of two men and a woman while on the way to his store. They had been kneeling, and were shot in the back of the head. They must have been killed recently. He did not stop, nor did he try to contact the police. Not wise, he thought, to draw any attention to myself, my family, or our store.

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He hurried to the store and into his tiny office. It was like Hue all over again. But this time, there was nowhere to flee. Fortunately, this time he had been smart and stayed out of politics, joining no organization, even if it seemed benevolent. But he was no longer happy. The Viet Cong are gradually taking over South Vietnam, he realized, as his mind connected all the disparate information he had been getting in the news about the communist guerrilla war. It seems only a matter of time before we lose everything we have so hard worked for to the communists. Again. I just can’t sit back and let this happen. Oh Buddha, I just cannot.

Chapter 19 1958–1963 Cyril Clement

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ith his discovery of the relevance of the Banks mission to his studies, and that political science was really the discipline he should be in, Cyril transferred in his junior year. He concentrated on peace studies, a new field of study yet without a name. Every term paper he wrote in every course from then on was related in some way to war and violence, including the term paper titled “Can There Be a Science of War?” he wrote for a Philosophy of Science course. He graduated with an A in every course. He received a graduate assistantship at the University of California at Berkeley, where Alice was accepted as a graduate student in mathematics with a scholarship that paid fully for her tuition. They rented a tiny apartment in married student housing. It was cheap, an important consideration when their income barely covered food. If need be, they could turn to Alice’s parents, but Cyril would not tap that resource unless they were near starvation. Alice seemed to have acquired an extrasensory ability to read his thoughts, and never even hinted at asking her family for help. In two years, Cyril did his M.A. thesis on “What is Peace? Visions of Peace Through the Ages.” Alice did her M.S. thesis in mathematics on “A Characteristic Equation Approach to Significance in Factor Analysis.” She then got an off-campus job in a secret project aimed at improving nuclear missile accuracy. That’s all she could tell Cyril. “Anything legal I can do to fight communism, which destroyed my grandparents’ country, I will do,” she told Cyril. When he looked concerned, she added with a grin, “But you and your mission come first, love. Always.” “Our mission, sweetie.” “Of course.” She smiled.

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Yes. It is now a mission, he thought. He smiled at that. In their own way, they were now duplicating the John-Joy mission. He saw immediately all the oddities in that. Neither Joy nor John were yet born. Yet, he and Alice were engaged in a mission based on theirs. Oh, they could not intervene in nations’ machinations or bribe politicians with millions or fund massive lobbying efforts, but they could promote the democratic peace. He contemplated the time circuitry involved, but decided to leave alone the thought of how this all could be—how Banks’ stuff had ended up in this universe, from which John and Joy traveled to 1906 to create a peaceful alternate universe. It was in this alternate universe that Banks had written his “Remembrance.” Since the scientists that had built Banks’ time machine insisted one could not cross from one universe to another—the reason he and Joy could never return to this universe—how could the Banks stuff end up here? Someday, he promised himself, he would engage the philosophy and physics of this.

aaa In three years, Cyril got his Ph.D. with a dissertation on “The Balance of Power: A History of Suppositions, Speculations, and Surmises.” Graduate study had been contentious, and several times he had thought of dropping out and making his way as an independent scholar. But nonprofit research institutes and centers were rare, and he feared he might end up as a taxi driver. And he would refuse to live on Alice’s income or what her father might give them. So, with Alice’s constant encouragement and understanding, he persevered and swallowed his chagrin and frustration at the opposition he got from faculty over the simple proposition that democracies are the most peaceful form of government. He could not do his thesis or dissertation on it— his committee of faculty members that judged whether he passed or failed would not have approved of the topic. Not one faculty member agreed with him. They considered Cyril simplistic, right wing, or ignorant of history. Cyril learned something else during his graduate years. He remembered well Banks’ belief that democide—the term he used for government-initiated genocide and mass murder—was even bloodier than war. In his “Remembrance,” he had pointed out several times that about 174 million men, women, and children had been murdered by governments in this century—about four times the number killed in all domestic and foreign wars. But Cyril found virtually no literature on

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democide; in fact, the concept itself was unknown. And even though everyone knew of the Nazi Holocaust of six million Jews, and genocide, the term invented by Raphael Lemkin in the early 1940s to apply to that and other such mass murders of people because of their group identity, even the most recognized and famous scholars did not know about the widespread democide occurring in the late 1950s in the Soviet Union, China, Vietnam, and elsewhere, particularly in the communist nations. Comparative genocide, or genocide studies, was not a field of study, and there were virtually no books written on it. Most political science faculty would not believe Cyril when he mentioned some of the major genocides and mass murders—he could not use the unknown word “democide”—he remembered from Banks’ writing. They believed him even less when he claimed that democracy was a solution to genocide and mass murder. By the time Cyril graduated with a Ph.D., he was absolutely determined to change the landscape of knowledge about war causation, avoidance, and prevention, and to teach the world about the incredible amount of democide that had—and still—occurred, and present democracy as its solution. He could not imagine a higher goal than to solve the problem of war and democide, and to educate the world into fostering a democratic peace—another concept borrowed from Banks.

Chapter 20 June 1965 Cholon, Saigon Wang Dewu

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y 1965, Dewu devoured the morning and evening daily newspapers and the hourly news with increasing fear for his family. He no longer slept well, and with his stomach more knotted than not, he had little appetite and was losing weight. He and Jia Li argued frequently over small things, and she asked him several times if something was wrong. But he refused to tell her about his deep anxiety. He felt he worried enough for both of them, and since she could do nothing about it, best she not realize their danger. The communists had virtually defeated South Vietnam. The previous December, the Viet Cong had taken over the anticommunist town of Binh Gia on the coast to display their power, even though it had a large population of six thousand. They all but destroyed ARVN—Army of the Republic of Vietnam—battalions that tried to retake the town. After four days, the Viet Cong abandoned it voluntarily. And this past February, a small force of Viet Cong attacked the American base at Pleiku, just to snub their nose at American power. But such newsworthy attacks did not tell the awful story, that of the gradual erosion of government and ARVN control over one village after another as the Viet Cong took over quietly, as other villagers disgusted with government corruption and instability shifted their loyalty to the communists. Like a spreading oil slick, the Viet Cong and PAVN—People’s Army of [North] Vietnam—gradually took over one region after another, as indexed by how dangerous it was for government officials or ARVN troops to travel there, and by the Viet Cong “tax” collections along their roads. Some cities and towns were like urban oases in a sea of armed communists.

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And the ARVN was falling apart. Hundreds of thousands of its soldiers seemed to be deserting, and although it had a stringent conscription law that made all male Vietnamese citizens from twenty to forty-five years subject to service in the military and civil defense establishment, it was poorly enforced, and an tien—bribery to avoid service was rampant. To make matters worse, the government was in political turmoil. President Diem had been deposed by a coup d’etat and murdered in 1963; General Minh, leading a Revolutionary Military Committee, took over, only to be overthrown by another coup in 1964 by a junta headed by General Nguyen Khanh. After months of political uncertainty and turmoil, Tran Van Juong became Premier. But there was a slim hope. North Vietnamese torpedo boats had attacked two American destroyers in August of last year, and the American congress had passed the Tonkin Gulf Resolution, giving President Johnson authority to do what he considered necessary to protect American forces and stop further aggression. So far, there were only about twenty to twenty-five thousand American military here, and although it seemed certain that that number would soon dramatically increase, he didn’t think the Americans knew how to fight the Viet Cong and the PAVN. Late last year, the government had launched a more strictly enforced campaign to induct men aged twenty to twenty-five into the military, and had followed that with a comprehensive recruiting campaign, including enlistment bonuses. For two years, Dewu had been on the verge of enlisting in the military. Only concern for his family held him back. They had a big mortgage on the rattan store he had bought, and sales barely covered the monthly payments. Shihao, near the top of his class in school, was almost assured of going to college. He was their pride, and Dewu did not want him to have to drop out to support his mother if Dewu were killed. Jia Li worked as a waitress at Kim Cafe, but she would have to quit that to run the rattan store if he enlisted, and again, Shihao would have to quit school and work to help with their expenses. And he didn’t want to leave them living in the dilapidated, one-room shed they still lived in among the shacks of other refugees—all their money went into the store, necessities, and savings. But now all that had changed. By way of a promised fifteen percent kickback to the Dong Tho consortium, he had succeeded in being added to a major contract among Saigon stores and producers to supply

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furniture to American bases being built and expanded in and around Saigon. That, the enlistment bonus, plus their savings would be just enough for them to buy a two-bedroom home. He knew what communism was like. He had no illusions about what the North’s victory would mean for South Vietnam, and his family. If (or more probably, when) the communists won, he could not live with himself if he’d done nothing. He and his family would not have long to live anyway. After all, he had fled the North, and he did not believe the North would forgive him for that. Such behavior showed the very antirevolutionary beliefs for which they had already executed thousands in the North, and assassinated many in the South in areas under their control. At thirty-seven, he was too old to be drafted into the regular army, although not for civil defense. But he was not too old to fight. He was not too old to be accepted as a volunteer. He would enlist today.

Chapter 21 June 1965 Ministry of National Defense, Hanoi, North Vietnam General Vo Nguyen Giap

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eneral Vo Nguyen Giap stared sightlessly out his clean first story window toward Hoang Dieu Street. He did not like it. He had thought victory would be theirs by spring, but the Americans had changed everything. Spies had reported that a battalion of marines came ashore at My Khe in the South in March, and that in April the American President Johnson approved sending two more marine battalions along with twenty thousand logistics troops. Now, intelligence had informed him that Johnson would likely approve that another 180,000 troops be sent, with probably another one hundred thousand in 1966. And they would be combat troops, willing and able to fight and take the offensive. Even now, twenty thousand troops a month poured into the South with all their incredible weapons to shore up its all but defeated American my nguy—puppet government. “Well, the good general knows when to change his strategy,” he told himself with a long sigh. The Dong Xuan—Winter-Spring Campaign had been a good plan. He had intended to infiltrate three PAVN divisions into South Vietnam’s highlands via the Ho Chi Minh Trail, from North Vietnam through Laos and Cambodia. Then, in three phases, he would split South Vietnam in half. First he would conquer the Green Berets’ Special Forces camp at Plei Me, then the city of Pleiku, and finally the city of Qui Nhon on the major highway along the coast. A great plan, but now he had to cancel it. The damn Americans were not the French he’d defeated in 1954, ending the First Indochina War; judging by how they fought in the Korean and Second World Wars, they were a dangerous enemy. They had new fighter bombers, air-to-ground missiles, and many types of bombs.

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They had the ability to helicopter troops rapidly behind his lines. They had helicopters like giant cranes that could carry artillery to support these troops. He had to be honest. He did not know how to fight them. Yet. But he would. He would lure them into the battle of his choice, lure the tiger from the mountain, and study what they did. He pulled a cigarette from his pack of Chinese Kanghua cigarettes, thumping it end-first several times against his desk to compact the tobacco before putting it in his mouth. He lit it with his Taiyang lighter, blew out a puff of smoke, and turned back to his adjutant. General Hoang Phuong sat on the other side of the desk, looking at him with slightly furrowed brows. He reached forward to butt out his own Kanghua in a military tin ashtray. Giap shook his head, compressing his lips so that his broad features tightened into a grimace. “We have discussed this. I know you want to go ahead with the Dong Xuan campaign, as do most in the Central Committee and First Secretary Le Duan, but no. We now will have to confront the Americans, especially their air cavalry, and I am not sure how they will fight. By the time we have our divisions in place to begin the campaign in October, they may have a sufficient force, tactics, and weapons to destroy our divisions. Better we lure them into battle first and see what they do.” Phuong pursed his lips for a moment before replying, “You know what Duan will say: ‘Strike while they are weak. The Americans are training and better arming the ARVN, and giving them a spine. If you wait, it soon will be too late.’” Giap waved his cigarette at Phuong. “Since I am Vice Premier, Defense Minister, and Army Chief, he and the Central Committee will listen to me. They really have no choice. And I know that Ho Chi Minh will support me, not that I really need it.” Phuong took out another cigarette and lit it before making eye contact with Giap again. “I am disappointed. I thought that I would see my relatives in the South by next summer, and take the gift of communism to them. How long do you think you will have to postpone the Dong Xuan campaign?” “Maybe ten years. Maybe twenty. But don’t be so disappointed. Be patient. In time, we will learn how to fight them. In the meantime, we have agents and supporters in Europe who will work for us against American involvement. We will kill many Americans, and their deaths plus the demonstrations and agitation of our supporters will weaken American will and limit what they will do. Moreover, intelligence has been quite clear about Johnson’s fear of involving China, and his will-

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ingness to let us use Cambodia and Laos as our sanctuaries and marshalling areas for outflanking the South. This shows their resolve is already weak.” Puang took a long drag on his cigarette and let the smoke out slowly. “You are the world’s best general. We have the best battletested officers in the world. We beat the French.” He jabbed his finger up in the air as though pointing to the American planes already involved in bombing North Vietnam. “But the Americans have the best technology, the best weapons, and incredible resources.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward on his chair toward Giap. “I have the greatest confidence in you, myself, our general staff, and our soldiers, but it will not be easy to win this war on the battlefield. If our losses are great enough in the future, we may have to negotiate. We should also be prepared for that, and lay the political groundwork.” Giap leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. Talking around the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he said, “The reason we have to learn how to fight them is to learn how to bleed them and make good news for us. We will not win this war on the battlefield,” he declared. “We will not win it through negotiation. We will win it in the hearts and minds of the American elite and politicians. And the do ngu—stupid students. Especially the do ngu students.”

Chapter 22 July 28, 1965 Da Nang-Chu Lai region, South Vietnam General Chu Huy Man

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AVN General Chu Huy Man’s headquarters was located in the former home of a French plantation owner. His office was on the second floor of the red brick house, in a small, whitewashed room with a colored picture of Ho Chi Minh taped to one wall; creases from its frequent folding and unfolding marred the subject’s brow. An old French map of the region had been tacked to the wall across from the picture and covered with thin plastic on which red and blue symbols had been written with a grease marker. A rectangular table with three rattan chairs around it dominated the corner of the room adjacent to the only door. On two sides of it were ammunition boxes loaded with files, a filing system that allowed headquarters to instantly flee an attack by American or ARVN forces. The glass and casing in the room’s only window had been removed and a 50mm machine gun emplacement set up; the same had been done to windows in the other rooms facing the other three sides of the house. The perimeter had been cleared of the plantation’s mango and papaya trees, their trunks and branches used to form a redoubt at the home’s columned entrance. All this was necessary, even though temporary, since General Man commanded the operations of the Viet Cong against the newly landed American marines in the Da Nang-Chu Lai region. The Americans and ARVN had increased small-scale sweep operations, more for purposes of training the Americans and ARVN to work together and initiating American troops to the alien countryside than to find and fight Viet Cong. Still, they might discover Man’s headquarters by chance, or from a traitor. Though he thought that very unlikely—his

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well-placed spies would warn him of any pending sweep that could head his way—every week he ran an escape drill. The headquarters could be emptied of everyone and all essential files, equipment, and weapons in four minutes. He was not happy with his assignment. The Viet Cong were poorly armed with old, hand-me-down French and Chinese weapons. Though that was changing as the PAVN brought new weapons from the Soviet Union and China down the Ho Chi Minh trail for the Viet Cong, these new weapons were still wielded by poor peasants, often farmers during the day and fighters at night. General Man thought of himself as a fighting soldier’s general, well prepared to command a division in combat. What he commanded now was more like hornets pestering a lion. For this reason, when his RTO radioman gave him the coded, red-flagged, level one message from General Giap, he immediately opened his small safe and took out his one-time code pad. From that he determined what manual to use. He went to one of the ammunition boxes and picked out the translated “American Artillery: Specifications and Tactics” and sat down at the table with it. Each sequence of numbers in the order gave him the page, line, and word count to a specific word in the manual. The code was laborious, but unbreakable, and in about two hours he had the full message decoded. It was the order for which he had hoped. Giap was sending him to the Western Highlands to set up what he called a B-3 headquarters. He would have tactical and administrative command of all Viet Cong and, what made this delicious, a PAVN division in the Highlands. He would launch a division-size attack on the Americans to see what they could do and, if that succeeded, seize Pleiku, the command center of the ARVN’s 2nd Corps. This would drive a dagger into South Vietnam’s defense of its central region, and open the door to resurrecting the Dong Xuan campaign to split the South. He did not need to reread the message. He would remember every detail. He tore it into narrow strips and the strips into thirds, then walked over to the disposal bag hanging on a nail by the door and threw them all into it—the contents would be burned before nightfall. He had action reports to complete and preparations for his replacement, who would be here in two days. But first, he had to do the most important thing. He pulled a sheet of plain paper from a folder in one of the

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ammunition boxes and sat down with it at the table. Taking a blunt pencil out of a pocket of his ordinary, olive-colored shirt, he began to write. My Dear Ba ZZ, You will be happy to read that this is my last letter from ZZ region. We talked about this possibility during my last leave—each night I think of our days together and they sometimes fill my dreams—and now the order has come from ZZ himself. I will assume command of ZZ action in ZZ. I know you wish me the greatest success and hope that the Red Flag will rise over these, our capitalist-enslaved countrymen, soon. Tell ZZ that I know he will do his best in school and honor us all. I worry about both of you all the time. American bombing can only get more intense and dangerous as the American jackals more and more fear losing to us. I know, you refuse to move out of Hanoi. “It is my duty to stay,” you say, and I must admit I am proud of you. But use the bomb shelters. It is also your duty to bring up a dedicated son of the revolution. I miss you, ZZ He carried in his pocket the personal code pad that he and his wife had prepared when he was ordered to South Vietnam. He pulled it out now and converted all the ZZs to the numerical codes for their proper names. He then folded the letter into a two-inch square, and lit a candle. When wax pooled around the wick, he dripped it along all the edges of the letter, and stamped them with his special seal. He went to the door and called for his Viet Cong dispatcher. When he arrived, General Man handed him the letter and said simply, “This is to my wife in Hanoi.” From then on, the letter would move through a well-oiled machine, passing from Viet Cong to Viet Cong and eventually through one of the many secret passages between North and South Vietnam to be delivered as though a posted letter to the home of General Man at 43 Quang Trung Street, Hanoi. The letter needed no address. All that need be said as the letter passed was, “This is to the wife of General Chu Huy Man.” Rank had its privileges.

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Late September Ho Chi Minh Trail, Cambodia General Man walked up the low hillock overlooking the Ho Chi Minh Trail terminus for the Western Highlands, and pointed to a rocky area where he wanted his orderly to unfold his tripod seat. He sat down, and left it to his headquarters staff to find their own seats. Most sat in the shade among the hillock’s scrub trees. He watched a 33rd Regiment battalion of his soldiers stagger into the terminus with a mixture of sadness, shame, and pride. Some were carried on pole-litters, some were supported by the arms and shoulders of others, some used makeshift canes, and many trudged in without aid, their food tube over one shoulder and worn, dirty packs on their backs, with their canvas hammocks rolled and tied on top. Almost all suffered from malaria despite the malaria pills they took daily. Each man who could carried a particular weapon, or part of the heavy ones, and ammunition—he saw AK-47s, Siminov carbines, Degtyarev automatic rifles, Maxim machine guns, 12.7mm anti-aircraft machine guns, various-sized mortars, and grenades in abundance. Porters came in looking exhausted, pushing their bicycles with the long poles attached to the frames that carried 350-pound loads of ammunition, supplies, and rice. The general knew the statistics. He knew what he did not see—the bodies of his dead soldiers. Over the two-month trek down the trail, out of each company of 120 men, three or four would die from American bombing, snake bites, malaria, and dysentery. But now the survivors were here. They would have time for rest and rehabilitation before he engaged them in combat against the Americans along with the two other regiments, altogether six thousand men. Those of the 66th were still strung out along the trail, separated into battalions with three days between them. All the battalions of the 32nd Regiment had arrived and were recuperating in the rest camp a mile away. He’d taken his Tay Nguyen—Western Highland plan, really General Giap’s plan that Man had modified to local conditions, from the first two phases of the cancelled Dong Xuan campaign to split the country. With this 33rd Regiment, he would encircle the Special Forces camp at Plei Me, a Montagnard village about thirty miles southwest of the strategically important city of Pleiku. Plei Me contained—Man smiled to himself at how thorough his spies were—Green Berets De-

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tachment A-217 under a Captain Moore, some ARVN Rangers, and over four hundred poorly armed and trained Jarai, Rhade, and Bahna tribal Civilian Irregular Defense Group personnel. The camp was only about twenty-five miles from the Cambodian border, close to where Man now sat. His goal in this attack would not be to seize the camp, but to besiege it and present the ARVN 2nd Corps commander headquartered at Pleiku, Brigadier General Vinh Loc, with a dilemma. If he did not send ARVN reinforcements, Plei Me would surely fall, striking a psychological blow to the puppet government, and leaving General Loc with enemy forces on his doorstep. If he did send reinforcements, he would deplete his forces at Pleiku of their reserves and leave Pleiku vulnerable to attack. Therefore, he surely would send his reinforcements, but also call on the Americans for help. This was the clever part of the plan. The relief force would have to come down highway QL-14, where Man would ambush and annihilate it with his 32nd Regiment. Afterward, the 32nd would join the 33rd Regiment and seize the camp at Plei Me. Then the final battle. General Man had mapped out almost every square inch of this. With Pleiku’s defenses weakened by the relief column made up of their reserve, he would surround Pleiku with his 66th Regiment, wait for the arrival of the 32nd and 33rd Regiments, and give Pleiku the coup de grace. And throughout all this, General Giap insisted, seek out battle with the Americans. After the seizure of Pleiku, he wanted a detailed report on how they fought and the significance of their air and ground weapons. General Man saw a platoon of young girls dressed in tattered, dark green pajamas, conical hats, and rubber sandals, and with packs on their backs, entering the terminus from the trail. He knew they were among the thousands of girls working as construction crew all along the trial to keep it clear for the soldiers. They had not received the hard military training and conditioning of the men before they entered the trail, and too many died. He was even more saddened by that than the death of his own men. These girls were the future mothers of the revolution, and each a blossom in her own right. Were his wife unmarried and much younger, he knew she would have volunteered to be among them. He stood and walked down the hillock to the small marshalling area set aside from that for the soldiers, where they girls were beginning to collect. He would give them a little speech and tell them how important their work was to the revolution and his upcoming battles. It was the least he could do.

Chapter 23 1963–late 1970s Los Angeles Cyril Clement

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yril’s first teaching position was at the University of California at Los Angeles. He had tried for available positions at Yale, Princeton, and the University of Chicago. With his graduate grades and completed dissertation, he though he stood a good chance. So much depends on recommendations, and he thought his were excellent. But years later, he had access to his department file, and found his dissertation chairman’s recommendation in it. To Whom This May Concern, As his dissertation chairman, one from whom Cyril Clement has taken several courses, and his advisor, I am writing this recommendation for him. He is a bright, thoughtful, and hardworking student who always went well beyond the requirements of his courses. Mention a study in class, and I could be sure that he would read it. He always earned an A grade on both term papers and final grades. As to his dissertation, this is an original and solid piece of research and shows excellent control of the related literature. He defended it very well. I bet that in several years of seasoning, he will be making significant contributions to his field. He tends, however, to be independent minded, sometimes dogmatically unwilling to accept advice or recognize the knowledge of his teachers. He has a tendency to push silly ideas.

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Nonetheless, I would place him in the top ten percent of all graduate students I have taught, and believe he would make an excellent teacher and colleague. Yours Sincerely, Jim Condi Professor of Political Science When he read the recommendation, he knew why he had not been offered a position at the other departments to which he had applied. The recommendation was lukewarm in what it said and, coming from a dissertation chairman, in its brevity. It was a wonder he had the position he did, but he found out by asking around that he’d been lucky—a faculty member’s sudden resignation had made a position available at the last minute, when many top-rated applicants had already accepted positions elsewhere. In the mid-1960s, the social sciences were rapidly expanding the use of statistics and mathematics, including in the study of war and violence. The basic idea was that the study of war could be made more scientific and quantitative, and this would help find a scientific solution to war. Cyril was aware of this, but did not have the statistical training to take advantage of it. Alice did. In secret collaboration, they put together a proposal for the National Science Foundation (NSF) that would involve a sophisticated statistical analysis of the factors in war causation from the beginning of the nineteenth century. The proposal fed into the ballooning popularity of these methods to the social science peer group evaluators of NSF proposals. His proposal was approved for two years at $25,000 each year, and Alice quit her job to be his only research assistant. They were off. He took a simple approach: exploit what ideas and facts he knew about war and democratic freedom, treat them as hypotheses, and test them by scientific empirical research. He was back to being scientific, an incurable itch given him by his voluminous consumption of science fiction. But the ideas were not his own; they were Banks’. From this time to decades in the future when they would be widely accepted, he acted as if he’d based them on Kant. He could hardly give credit to Banks’ future Ph.D. dissertation in the Yale University Department of History of 2001. “Too bad,” he told Alice with a smile. “It would be interesting to see who would blindly copy his footnoted references.” Over their years of empirical statistical research, Cyril supplied the scholarship and deep knowledge of war, while Alice provided the statistical method and, with growing access to high-speed computers, the

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computer programming and analysis. Cyril finally insisted that they jointly author the articles growing out of their research, and Alice finally agreed when he threatened to mix her favorite Egret brand Chinese rice with some cheap Californian variety. Because of the sophisticated research and careful scholarship shown in the articles they published in major professional journals or presented at major conventions, Cyril got more grants. And with Alice’s background in secret defense research, they got approval for their joint research proposals that they submitted to the Advanced Research Projects Agency of the Department of Defense. Cyril, bringing in more research funds to his Political Science Department, was promoted to associate professor in four years. He got tenure in another two. Prior to that, he and Alice had been very careful. They knew what results they would get if they focused on democracy as an independent variable in analyzing war. But it was too early in his career. He had yet to develop the reputation to carry it. So, they analyzed hundreds of variables in unique studies, but always including some measures of democratic freedom. They always noted the results for democracy, of course, but in the context of the relationship of other variables to war. In an ego-sensitive profession, Cyril refused to treat any of his results as revolutionary. He always wrote them up as simply confirming or further clarifying the work or theories of such notables as Professors Quincy Wright, Karl Deutsch, and Hans Morgenthau. He knew how to play the academic game. Cyril soon became known in political science, especially in the subfield of international relations, and was widely quoted and referenced, even by those who disagreed with his conclusions. He, and sometimes Alice with him, frequently received invitations to give papers, and leading journals even asked him to be a reader for submissions. His grants, the solid research of the articles published almost every six months, and his humbleness with regard to the Big Names played a role. Perhaps most important, however, was that he was playing into the tremendous growth in the use of quantitative methods and mathematics in political science, and their growing dominance over other subfields of research. By the late 1970s, he and Alice thought it was time to reveal the importance of democracy to war. He wrote a book: Why War, How Peace? It was published by Yale University Press and became widely known, but not much used in classes. In it he covered the various theories and empirical work, including his own, on the causes and conditions of war and peace. He highlighted the findings on democratic

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freedom, and introduced Banks’ term democratic peace for the first time in his conclusion: Historical scholarship, empirical research, and scientific tests all show that a democratic peace has existed through history, and presently exists among nations. Democracies do not make war on each other; the more democratic two nations, the less severe whatever violence between them, and democracies have the least severe foreign violence. This suggests that the way of creating a peaceful world is through promoting democracy. In this time of the Cold War between communism and democratic freedom, some reviewers thought Cyril’s book was unconscionable flag-waving and others thought it a polemic, but some thought it provided a fresh look at war. As Cyril had hoped, some thought Cyril so wrong about democracy that they set out to disprove him. Some of them asked for his data; others generated their own. Some covered different time periods, and used different approaches and methods. This took years. But by the late 1980s, virtually all had come to accept Cyril’s conclusion, with slight modifications that did not detract from democracy as a solution to war. Indeed, a new article on the democratic peace came out saying it was the most substantiated and most solid proposition in the whole field of international relations. When a gleeful Cyril told Alice this, she observed, “I think now is the time to leave this area to others and do what you have always wanted to do: concentrate on democide. I’ve never really understood why you began with war rather than democide. The democratic peace applies to both, as you always insist.” Cyril nodded, but explained, “There is no such field for democide as there is for the study of war, and focusing on democide before I established my reputation in international relations would have made it difficult, if not impossible, to get grants. Even my tenure might have been in doubt, for two reasons. With my assertions about the amount of democide, I would have been considered an oddball. And, more important, Marxism and leftism are prevalent among the faculty, and they would hardly be happy with my pointing out that Marxist nations are the worst murderers by far. If my book presenting the democratic peace was called flag-waving and a polemic, consider what would be said about a book saying Marxism is guilty of most of the mass killing and genocide in the world—110 million murdered. No, tenure and a solid reputation for good scholarship and careful and sophisticated analysis had to come first.” He grinned. “I now have tenure and enough of a reputation. Let’s start on it.”

Chapter 24 October 19, 1965 Plei Me, South Vietnam

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t eleven p.m. on October 19, 1965, PAVN 82mm mortar fire and explosive-filled pipe sections blasted away the sound of night insects around the Special Forces camp at Plei Me. Then, two thousand PAVN infantry of the 33rd Regiment attacked the camp from three directions. They overwhelmed the defenders and fought through the barbed-wire perimeter on the south side, their 57mm recoilless rifle fire knocking out two of the three defense bunkers. The Americans and Civilian Irregular Defense Group fought back with machine guns and, in some places, hand-to-hand. Soon, A-1E Skyraider aircraft struck at the attacking PAVN infantry using missiles, bombs, and napalm, while other aircraft dropped parachute flares to illuminate targets for the Skyraiders. And during the night and into the day, American aircraft dropped ammunition and supplies to the beleaguered defenders. In spite of a vigorous defense with mortars, grenades, and a lethal wall of machine gun and rifle fire, the much larger PAVN force seized part of the camp. Their behavior puzzled the defenders, however. What had been an intense and deadly attack that looked like it would overrun the camp became restrained—the PAVN did not exploit their initial success. While some defenders credited the merciless, killing air bombardment they’d delivered for this, there was a simple strategic rationale. General Man had ordered Lieutenant Colonel Nguyen Huu An, the commander of the 33rd Regiment, to encircle the camp, threaten it with annihilation, but not to seize it. With this threat, they’d lure a relief force to be sent from Pleiku, and the full American engagement. General Du Quoc Dong of the ARVN 2nd Corps headquartered in Pleiku was faced with depleting his reserve force to relieve Plei Me, or

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letting it fall. He communicated his dilemma to the ARVN Joint General Staff, who asked for American help. All as General Giap had hoped. General William Westmoreland, commander of all American military forces in Vietnam, ordered General Harry Kinnard to reinforce the ARVN 2nd Corps with his newly arrived 1st Cavalry Division. Generals Kinnard and Dong ended up with a plan to send in a 1st Calvary division to reinforce the defense of Pleiku, and strengthen the defense of Plei Me by dropping into the camp American-ARVN Special Forces and sending a large relief force from Pleiku to Plei Me, which they would protect with artillery batteries helicopter lifted into position in range of the highway they would travel. General Giap would have what he wanted—a divisional-level battle against the well-trained, well-armed American troops with all their air power and artillery behind them. But he had not realized what a hellish inferno he would be calling down on his troops.

October 20, 1965, Pleiku Wang Dewu Private Dewu and Corporal Nam climbed into the open M113 armored personnel carrier with the rest of their infantry squad. Dewu moved to stand in an open top hatch at the rear of the vehicle, as did three others. He waited, the stench of gasoline and diesel fuel exhaust almost overwhelming him. Sweat soaked his fatigues, and the reeking, hot, humid afternoon air almost made him retch. Or was it his fear? He rested his .30 caliber Browning automatic rifle (BAR) on the top of the ridged aluminum hatch. The World War Two weapon was heavy and prone to malfunction, but he felt lucky having it. If he had remained a foot soldier, he would have had to carry and use one of those clumsy, although less heavy, American M-1 semiautomatic rifles from World War Two. But he had been among those picked at random from the infantry as replacements for the 3rd ARVN Armored Cavalry Regiment, and issued the BAR as a result. He took a sip from his canteen to wet his dry lips. He stood shoulder to shoulder with his friend Nam, their web gear almost interlocked. Around them, sergeants barked orders, the treads of M-41 light tanks rattled, and the diesel engines of theirs and other M113 personnel carri-

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ers added to the cacophony as a squadron of M8 armored carriers got into position within the long column. “What is going on?” he yelled at Nam above all the noise. “Are we being attacked?” Pug-nosed Nam turned his round face to Dewu, his narrow eyes barely showing beneath his oversized American helmet. “I hear we are going to defend or retake some outpost the Viet Cong have attacked.” “Viet Cong?” Dewu took off his own American helmet to scratch absently at an insect bite on his head. He looked up and down the long, dusty line of armored vehicles and infantry that was forming. Then he saw Lieutenant Colonel Nguyen Trong Luat and his staff watching the column come together. “Look,” Dewu shouted, pointing to the colonel. “If he’s in charge, we must have our whole 3rd ARVN Armored Cavalry Regiment with us. This is no Viet Cong sweep. I think we are going to fight real troops from the North. I hope so. Enough of this fighting the Viet Cong—they are only the North’s peasant night shift.” Nam squinted at him. “Sure, and get our asses shot off. You admit that the PAVN bo dois—soldiers are better than the Viet Cong. But you know what the Viet Cong did near Bai Gia. They ambushed and wiped out one of our battalions in less than twenty minutes. Maybe the PAVN would have reduced that to ten minutes.” He turned away and fumbled with quivering fingers for his pack of Salem cigarettes, partly squashed in his pocket by one of the grenades hooked to his webbing. He managed to pull one out and stuck it in his mouth to light it with his Zippo. He took a deep drag, blew the smoke out slowly, then waved his cigarette at the forming column. “Look at us,” he shouted to Dewu. “Ready made meat for an ambush, as sure as chickens crap.” Dewu chuckled, and yelled, “You can’t kid me, Nam. I know how hot you are for your first battle.” “Not like you,” Nam hollered back. “Just remember. You toss a grenade forward, and not behind you. That’s where I’ll be.” An hour later, at 5:20 p.m., Dewu and Nam jostled against one another as, all along the Relief Force column, vehicles jolted into motion with the roar of clashing gears and howling motors, clacking, rumbling, and jangling equipment, and rattling metal sides. The armored Relief Force of three battalions of twelve hundred men, Dewu’s infantry company mounted on the M113 armored personnel carriers, six M41 light tanks, a squadron of M8 armored carriers, and two 105mm howitzers set off from Pleiku for Plei Me along highway QL-14.

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Within minutes, spies reported to the PAVN commander of the 32nd Regiment that the Plei Me Relief Force was on its way. His battalions were in place on the only route the column could take. They were ready. And the Relief Force would be utterly destroyed. Of that he had no doubt.

Chapter 25 October 23, 1965 Highway TL-6C, South Vietnam

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oving only during the day and with frequent stops for repairs, meals, and to allow RECON platoons to scout ahead for ambush, the Relief Force rumbled slowly down highway QL-14 until it met the junction with highway TL-6C about five miles from Plei Me. This was a heavily wooded area with elephant grass several feet high, even higher anthills, and stands of small ironwood trees, with an occasional palm tree towering above them all. Colonel Luat was worried. They were on the final stretch and had met no ambush. Surely the PAVN would not allow him to so strongly reinforce Plei Me without a fight. Worried about the trailing column of supplies, he brought the M8 armored carriers forward as a second column that could be better protected by the tanks and armored personnel carriers. Then with two RECON platoons forward and on the watch for an ambush, he ordered the Relief Force forward down the most dangerous stretch of highway TL-6C. Almost immediately, the forward platoons ran into concentrated rifle and machine gun fire, and radio contact with them was lost within minutes. The 635th Battalion of the PAVN 32nd Regiment attacked the main column, while its 344th Battalion attacked the other one.

Wang Dewu Dewu and his squad rode in the M113 with its rear door and hatches left open for air circulation. Although it was hot inside, even now, at six p.m., it was better than standing under the hot, slanting rays of the sun with weapon ready. But when they heard the distant thump of mortars and the pop of rifle fire, Dewu, Nam, and two others sprang into the open hatches with their BARs ready.

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Ratatatatat! Bugles and shouting. Brrrttt! Brrrttt! Crack! Rifle fire. Bullets rapped the M113’s aluminum sides and whizzed overhead. The M113 driver suddenly engaged his diesel engine and jerked the troop carrier about one hundred feet forward, close to two M41 tanks whose turrets moved back and forth, their 76 mm cannons banging away and their .30 caliber machine guns spewing bullets and smoke. The other personnel carriers and tanks also deployed into fighting positions. Except for Dewu and the others manning the hatches, the soldiers in the M113s rushed out their rear doors and into defensive positions alongside the road with the infantry. Dewu had no time to think. He reacted through instinct and training, trying to show as little of himself as he could above the hatch while he took aim and fired his BAR in spurts at where the gun smoke rose from among the trees and anthills. An 81mm mortar shell exploded in the dirt nearby with a whump! Kaboom! One hit the road, rocking the M113. Shrapnel clanged against its side and whizzed by Dewu’s head. The vehicle’s .50 caliber machine gun responded. Ratatatatat! Nearby, a tank’s canons boomed. Closer still, Dewu barely heard what sounded like a paddle hitting mud; he did not hear his friend’s gasp. The sun slid below the treeline. In the dimmer light, Dewu saw the enemy’s green tracers coming from around a nearby anthill. Brrrttt! Ratatatatat! Brrrrrrrttt! As he and others fired back, Dewu could see their own stream of red tracers as they shredded the anthill. He ejected his clip, shoved another load of twenty rounds into the BAR’s receiver, and pointed the weapon at the gray shapes emerging from the smoke almost obscuring a stand of scrub trees. Two of them went down; the others took cover in the tall grass and behind a tree, and continued firing at them. The M113’s gunner swung his machine gun around and opened up on them. Rattattatatat! As his red machine gun tracers crossed the tracks of the PAVN’s green, they looked like ethereal swords clashing. Twang! Something banged Dewu’s helmet and kicked his head sidewise. No pain. He ignored it. The bedlam of battle increased to an impossible staccato roar. Hisssuee! A rocket propelled RPG-7 antitank grenade flew by the rear of Dewu’s M113, missing by a few feet. It would have blown a huge hole in the side, and probably exploded Dewu and the others out hatches.

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Brrrttt! Brrrttt! Brrrrrppp! From a line of towering hardwood trees, a PAVN company launched an attack directly toward them, shooting their AK-47s and Chinese 56-1 assault rifles from the hip. Rattattat! Rattattat! The M113’s machine gun and that of the tank in front cut them down. Another 81mm mortar exploded with a whump! that shook the M113. Two infantrymen fighting from behind its protection screamed, their agony almost entirely lost in the roar of battle. Dewu used up another clip and another, and then the flashing, blinking darkness lit up as American planes dropped flares. American F-100 jets roared overhead. Then hissing, and kaaarrrruummpped! as napalm fell on PAVN positions. Whump! Whump! Whump! Helicopter gunships blasted troop pockets with rocket and cannon fire. Trees and brush burst into flame, adding a wavering, hot light to that of the cold white flares. Dewu could see dim shapes in the smoke, trying to escape the concentrated and deadly bombardment from the air and the tanks. Sprayed by M113 machine guns and bursts of fire from his and other BARs, the shadowy figures fell. A gunship flushed a group trying to sneak up on the M113 out of the elephant grass; rather than be killed in place, they attacked the M113 with rifle fire and grenades. A grenade clunked off the side; another landed between the hatches and bounced over the side before exploding and killing two ARVN soldiers firing from behind the vehicle. Dewu and the M113 machine gunner shot them all down. In about two hours the air attacks and heavy fire from the tanks and armored personnel carriers beat off the attack of the two PAVN battalions, and the horrific battle died down, leaving a greenish, smoky haze, brush fires, and bodies as far as one could see. An occasional pop! pop! and crack! of bullets punctuated the cries and screams of wounded. Dewu began to shake so violently that he put down his BAR and grabbed the edge of the hatch with sweaty hands to steady himself. He felt nauseous and exhausted, as though he had run five miles. When the reaction faded, he looked around. The M113’s machine gunner was taking out a cigarette. Dewu was the only one above the rear hatch. He dropped down into the vehicle and saw three bodies. One was Nam. Half his face was missing. Dewu dropped to his knees beside his friend, then jerked his head to one side and vomited. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and climbed unsteadily over the bodies and out the open rear door. A medic passed him, looking inside

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for wounded—all were dead. He asked Dewu to help him pull them out of the M113 and then join other infantry in carrying them to a collection area, where dead and badly wounded would be picked up by medivac helicopters. Of Dewu’s squad, six had survived. Supply trucks wove in and out of the columns, providing canned food and water and replenishing ammunition. The order came from Colonel Luat to set up a defensive perimeter of infantry and selected M113s and tanks around the two columns for the rest of the night.

3:00 a.m. October 24 Highway TL-6C The night was alive with the hum of mosquitoes, croaking tree frogs, and the sounds of crickets, cicadas, and geckos. Suddenly loud PAVN whistles signaled another attack. Whump! Ratatatat! Bangbang! Brrrttt! Brrrttt! Inside the M113, Dewu had been slumped over his BAR, asleep. He jerked awake and stood up in the hatch with two others as three company-sized prongs of the 966th Battalion attacked the Relief Force. Dewu fired at the gun flashes. Nearby, infantry fired off their flare guns to illuminate the attackers. Soon over a dozen flares floated slowly down, and the tanks and M113s all opened up on the running shadows and the sources of the green tracers. Then the American planes and helicopters roared in again with lethal napalm, killing missiles, and deadly cannon fire to devastate the attackers. Dewu saw many of the enemy turn and seek shelter behind anthills, brush, and trees, only to collapse under the spray of bullets and shells from the tanks and M-113s. Some, flaming torches, staggered in circles and fell. The enemy retreated into the far darkness, leaving only the sound of the American aircraft and again the howls and groans of the wounded. An occasional Pop! or Ratatat! from the defenders’ guns disturbed the sudden stillness.

Daytime, October 24 Highway TL-6C ARVN sergeants went from company to company and vehicle to vehicle, doing an accounting. A number of armored vehicles in the first column had been damaged, but none beyond repair. All could continue to the relief of Plei Me. The second column, however, had been hit

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hard. Trucks, gas tankers, and two M8 armored cars had been destroyed, and more were heavily damaged, including the two 105mm howitzers. Clearly, the Relief Force needed more help to continue on through another inevitable ambush. American helicopters placed artillery batteries in range to provide protection for the columns. In the afternoon, helicopters from Pleiku resupplied the Relief Force. Dewu, eating his meal of hot rice and vegetables and an American candy bar, trembled with excitement. Then he remembered his friend had been killed, and felt guilty about being excited. But he couldn’t help it. He had survived his first combat, and he had killed many enemy soldiers, he was sure. This was why he volunteered. He was fighting communism. And it now looked like they would relieve Plei Me, which, his sergeant had finally told the squad, was their task. He leaned on the edge of the hatch of his M113, watching the activity along the column as one vehicle after another pulled back into line or shifted position into a moving defensive perimeter. Sergeants barked orders to their platoons and lieutenants moved up and down the loosely dispersed columns of infantry, their radiomen always close behind. He looked back and saw Colonel Luat, whom he recognized by the cluster of officers and the two American advisors around him, getting into an indistinguishable M8 armored car in about the middle of the column. A few of his officers and an American advisor joined him. Within minutes, Dewu’s M113 jerked, the diesel engine growled and belched a cloud of exhaust, and the whole column began to move. In hours, all hell broke out again. PAVN bugles directed the most vicious PAVN attack yet. Mortars, grenades, tracers, chattering machine guns, and whizzing bullets seemed to be everywhere. The aluminum sides of the M113 rang and pinged from bullets and shrapnel as mortars whumped nearby. Except for those firing out of the rear top hatch, the rest of Dewu’s squad rushed out the rear door, preferring to fight in the open over being torn apart inside by a rocket propelled RPG grenade. Three of them sprawled into unmoving heaps as they exited. An enemy, his pith helmet and green uniform blending with his surroundings, had slithered through the elephant grass to within ten feet of the M113. He rose to throw a grenade at its machine gunner. Dewu sprayed him with his BAR. Brrrrrrrppppp! Brrrrrppp! Brrrppp! Brrrrrpppp! Two more rose and fired their AK-47s at the machine gunner.

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The gunner’s steel shield deflected the bullets. He turned the gun on them. Rattattattattatt! They were cut almost in half. Bogged down, the Relief Force was in danger of being overrun. Responding to the urgent messages from Colonel Luat, the divisional command rushed artillery observers to them in a medivac helicopter. They heard the wopwopwop! of the Huey skimming the treetops before it swooped in close to the column and hovered three of four feet above the flattened grass just long enough for the observers to jump out. Then it rose straight up like an incredibly fast elevator. Guarded by infantry, the observers ran to the column’s leading vehicle, and from there directed artillery onto the massed PAVN. The Relief Force resumed its progress behind and alongside the artillery’s rolling bombardment. Boom! Kaboom! Boom! Shells sent towering showers of dirt, rocks, weapon fragments, and sometimes bodies into the air. In the evening, the Relief Force broke through the PAVN siege lines around the Special Forces camp at Plei Me, and then reinforced the defensive perimeter. It added its weight to the American 1st Cavalry infantry and artillery that had landed by helicopter within close support range. It was over for the PAVN. General Man’s plan to destroy the ARVN Relief Force, seize Plei Me, and then roll up Pleiku had failed. Leaving behind a reinforced battalion for cover, General Man ordered his 33d Regiment at Plei Me to withdraw to the west, back toward Cambodia, where they could rest and recover from the heavy losses they had sustained The defeat was worse than he’d feared possible and Dewu had hoped. Under the defensive fire of the Special Forces camp and three hundred air strike sorties conducted against its attacks, the 33rd Regiment had been reduced to only one company of effectives. The 32nd Regiment, which set up the ambushes, lost forty percent of its officers and men to the guns of the Relief Force, air strikes, and artillery. Two of three battalion commanders had been killed and the third one wounded.

November, Ia Drang Valley South Vietnam Highlands General Westmoreland, apprised of the victory at Plei Me, ordered the 1st Calvary division to pursue the retreating ARVN force, and

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committed a brigade to finding and destroying the PAVN battalions hidden in the Chu Pong Massif that ran along the Cambodian border. Among its peaks and ridges and double- or triple-canopied rain forests, the PAVN could rest and reform. The 1st Calvary first landed artillery support and then, with a huge complement of helicopters, landed the brigade to attack the PAVN where they least expected it, behind their lines near the Ia Drang River. In a bloody battle from November 14 to 19, the PAVN launched wave after wave of attacks on the brigade and the one that replaced it, and were defeated each time by concentrated fire from the M-16s, M-60 machine guns, and 81mm mortars of the American brigade, and the napalm, bombs, and missiles of American aircraft, including B-52s and helicopter gunships. By the end of the battle on November 18, the PAVN were forced to retreat toward Cambodia with the loss of about eighteen hundred men. That did not end it for the defeated PAVN battalions, however. A mass of helicopters transported an ARVN force of four airborne battalions commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Ngo Quang Truong, assisted by the American Advisor Major Norman Schwarzkopf, to attack the fleeing PAVN north of the Ia Drang River. With the support of twentyfour 105 howitzers set up at two landing zones within range, they strove to prevent as many enemy as possible from reaching their Cambodian sanctuary. Skirmishes erupted as soon as they were dropped into their landing zones, and they pursued and badly cut up what remained of General Man’s battalions. The artillery was especially effective, killing at least 127 troops, while the remaining threw down their weapons and ran. Days later, the last survivors of General Man’s three battalions entered Cambodia. General Giap’s strategy to lay siege to Plei Me, draw out the Americans, and ambush the Relief Force from Pleiku, then roll over Plei Me and Pleiku, failed. Yes, they had “lured the tiger out of the mountains.” And they got mauled as a result. But he could live with that. For the first time, complete and fully armed PAVN battalions had fully engaged American forces in battle. They had learned much about how Americans fought, and their courage. Most especially, they had learned much about the deployment and tactical use of American artillery and air power. But Dewu knew nothing about this. He would not know about the success of his Relief Force. He would not cheer the great defeat of the communist battalions. As his M113 approached the defensive works

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surrounding the Special Forces camp at Plei Me, as it rumbled past the last remaining shrubs on the right side of the highway, he stood watch in the hatch with his BAR resting on the edge of the hatch. My first battles, he thought. Nothing can prepare you for them—not for the deafening sounds, the exhausting heat, the stench of fear and death. Not for the confusion, and especially not for what a grenade, mortar, or machine gun can do to the human body. The written description of combat or the special effects of a war movie are to real combat as an erotic book is to real lovemaking. Well, Jia Li, your worry about my early death in battle was needless. I survi— The sniper’s bullet entered Dewu’s right eye and ripped through his brain.

aaa Shihao had tried to comfort his mother when the government’s death notice came. She lay grief-stricken on her bed for days, alternatively sobbing and moaning and refusing to eat. He had tried to help her, to soothe her, to hold her, and only when he was alone did he quietly cry himself, until he had no tears. He missed his father terribly. He kept a much-treasured photo of him in his wallet, and he had it enlarged and framed. It was over his chest of drawers at the foot of his bed, where he could easily see it when he went to bed or got up in the morning.

Chapter 26 1968–1970 Saigon Wang Shihao

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anh was his age and a neighbor, living one house over from his. They had both graduated in 1968 with a baccalaureate, and went on to Saigon University, he to major in the School of Law, she in the School of Pharmacy. The university accepted anyone with a high school diploma. Shihao passed her on his bike as she rode her own, and he paid little attention to her. She was just another lovely student he occasionally saw on the Saigon University campus. With nods, hellos, and smiles, they simply acknowledged that they were neighbors. Then her bike chain broke in a way that could not easily be fixed. She walked over to his house wearing a robin’s egg blue shirt over blue jeans, her long black hair pulled back tightly along the side of her head by ivory combs. “Can I have a ride to school on your bicycle?” she asked him. No shyness. Unusually direct for a young Vietnamese girl. He liked that, and he was happy to help her, and also take her back home on his bike after she’d finished her work in the university library for the day. Neither of their schools required attendance in class and the professors sold their lecture notes. Her closeness on the bike, her sweet jasmine smell, her soft voice in its South Vietnamese accent, especially when interspersed with French, the language in which pharmacy was taught at Saigon University, all sparked his interest. It deepened when they arrived at her house and she invited him to have tea with her, even though her parents were at work—a heretical thing to do. It had a rebellious, almost erotic tinge to it. He liked that even more. For some reason, the repair of her bicycle took much longer than it should have, and the two of them riding to and from school on his bi-

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cycle became commonplace. So did their afternoon discussions and increasing intimacy. Still, it was not love for him until she suddenly yelled for him to stop the bike one day, jumped off, and went over to an old lady sitting on the curb with two big bags on each side of her. She wore a shawl over her head, with a tuft of gray hair sticking out, and two denim shirts and black pants, and her bruised toes stuck out of her slippers at the bottom. Everything was meticulously clean. Hanh sat down on the curb next to the old woman, put one arm around her shoulders, and asked with compassion in her voice, “How are you today, Tam?” “Oh, okay.” She gave a hacking chuckle, then reached beneath her shirt and pulled out a folded dollar bill. She waved it in front of Hanh, and exclaimed in a surprisingly firm and feminine, though scratchy, voice, “I get from Yankee soldier. See? He good soldier. Feel sad for Tam.” She barked out another chuckle that bounced her body up and down. Hanh motioned Shihao over with her free hand, and said, “Tam, I want you to meet my friend Shihao.” Tam looked up, and he almost gasped. Her face was deeply lined, and her mouth hung askew, with gaps where some teeth should be. One eye was barely open and seemed to look in another direction, while the other was yellow-rimmed and bloodshot. Its depths seemed to reflect all the misery the poor woman must have been put through. “I’m happy to meet you,” Shihao said, unconsciously giving her a slight bow. Hanh gently rubbed the woman’s back, and asked, “Would you sell the dollar to me? I’ve always wanted one, you know, as a souvenir.” Tam held the dollar close to her chest, tilted her head at Hanh, and replied, “Oh, this is valuable. I don’t know if I can sell it to you.” Hanh opened her purse and looked in her wallet. She took out a handful of piasters and asked Shihao, “Can I borrow what you have?” Shihao opened his own wallet and took out all the piasters he had, and handed them to Hanh. She took them, quickly counted them, and added them to her own. She held them all out to Tam. It all was four or fives times the near 360 piasters the dollar was worth. “Here you are, Tam. This is for your dollar. Please hold the dollar for me for now, okay?” Tam took the money and crushed it and the dollar to her chest with another body shaking chuckle. “I will keep dollar for you. Do not forget that I have. Okay?” Tears trickled down Hanh’s cheeks as she stood, leaned over, and kissed Tam on the cheek. She took Shihao’s hand.

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As she led him back to the bike, he looked over his shoulder at Tam. “Goodbye, Tam.” She didn’t appear to hear him. She seemed to be chuckling to herself. At the bike, Hanh put her elbows on the seat, her head in her hands, and cried silently into them while Shihao held her to him with one arm. Finally she looked at him, her tears still flowing, and mourned, “She was a beautiful and very talented violinist. She is . . . oh Shihao, she is only forty-two years old. Her husband was killed in the army. So was her oldest son. Her younger son joined the Viet Cong and was captured, tortured, and died in prison. She was then picked up by the security police and tortured for information about her son’s friends. During that her only daughter was raped and then disappeared— she thinks she’s in a brothel somewhere, serving American soldiers. Now, nobody wants to have anything to do with her. It’s not fair, Shihao, it’s not fair.” She shuddered, stood straight, and looked at the woman sitting on the curb, humming to herself. “This can’t go on,” Hanh declared. Shihao never remembered what he said in return, or the bike ride to her home, or what they had discussed that evening. Not even whether it was about Tam. He just remembered it as when he knew, like sunlight bursting through the clouds, that he loved her. And somehow it became accepted that they would get married. They announced to their families their intent to get married during the summer semester break. Her father was an international tradesman and her mother kept his company’s books. He had no objection to their marriage. Even though Southern Vietnamese believed themselves superior to Chinese, Cambodians, Malaysians, and other Asians, his international trade had given him an unusual tolerance of ethnic and national differences. Except for the Americans, whom he condemned for coarsening Vietnamese culture with their jukeboxes, Coca-Cola, incredible wealth, and the beer parlors and prostitutes they spawned. It was Shihao’s mother who expressed unhappiness over the marriage proposal. “She is southern Vietnamese,” she lamented. They are too easygoing, undisciplined, and lazy.” “Not Hanh,” Shihao insisted. “She is going to the university to become a professional pharmacist. She works hard at her studies.” Jia Li stood staring at him. Finally she held out both hands palm down, crossed them, and quickly swished them to each side, creating a temporary vacuum in the air while she shouted, “Pham Hanh is not Chinese.”

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Shihao put his hands on his hips and leaned toward her. Barely controlling his voice, he reminded her, “You are more Vietnamese than Chinese. You are third generation Vietnamese. I am fourth. You love Vietnam, as you told me. So, is it not time for us to share our heritage with the Vietnamese?” She threw up her hands and cried, “What can I do? You are of a new generation. You are hardly Sino-Vietnamese now. You have been debauched by American movies, television programs, and perverted magazines.” She sighed, and a tear rolled down her cheek. Shihao remembered that tear above all. It mesmerized him as she said, her voice on the edge of quavering, “I gave up the tradition of picking your wife for you as soon as I realized what the Saigon urban culture and its Americanization has done to you. That, and your father’s independent spirit. I love you, my son. Your happiness and success mean more to me than an old woman’s old beliefs. So, I will accept Hanh.” He hugged her and thanked her, and she gripped him tightly for a moment, then stepped back and waved her finger at him. “When she moves in with us after the wedding, I will try to make her at home— that is, when she shows due respect to her mother-in-law.”

aaa Hanh’s active concern for welfare and human rights soon led her to consider joining the Student Union, which to her eyes often demonstrated for such causes. But to Shihao, the School of Pharmacy was riddled with students who supported the procommunist National Liberation Front (NLF), or were communist, and Shihao felt certain that they had misled her about the Student Union. “Why do you want to join with those communists?” he demanded. Her face turned to iron, eyes narrowed and chin thrust at him, which was so much a part of their arguments. “They are not communists. You see ‘communist’ everywhere. The leaders of the Student Union are trying to find a third way, a solution to this damnable war that is neither communist nor that of our corrupt government. Why don’t you understand that?” He shot back, “You can’t be so naïve. You will help the communists win. Don’t you understand what that means?” They had been eating lunch in the university cafeteria. Even though Hanh had not finished eating, she stood, her eyes tearing, and snapped, “Thousands of people are being killed while our government officials

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grow fat on bribes; many more are dying from disease and poverty while these officials get drunk in their rich houses. The American puppet masters, with their corrupt culture, lord it over us while our officials bow to them. I am not a communist, but there has to be an alternative, and I will work for it. Get that through your thick head.” She turned, knocking over a water glass with her swinging purse, and walked away from the table, her head high. She joined the Student Union. Afterward, she told him—rather, declared—that she would participate in the Student Union mass demonstrations against the government. He was ready with information on the union’s leaders. “They are communists, or NLF sympathizers.” And he briefly described their backgrounds. “So what,” Hanh said, “even if true. But that is government propaganda that you accept without question. If communists were going to demonstrate against raping children, you would not participate because the leaders are communists? That’s stupid.” “We are talking about these demonstrations. They will weaken the government, and provide more ammunition for those working for the communists who want to bring down the government. This is not an issue of raping children. It is whether you support the communist war on us or not.” “You are brainwashed,” she hissed. He could not get through to her. She actively participated in the demonstrations, holding up a sign that said Third Way! American Puppets Resign, and screaming it out at the police who blocked the demonstrators from marching on Tu Do Street. She pumped her fist in the air for the large number of foreign reporters and photographers. He had no sympathy for these NLF and procommunist people she not only consorted with, but aided. He remembered his youth too well, and still often thought of his friend Trai and his parents, Hoang Loi and Bian, whom the communists had sentenced to isolation. But most of all he remembered his father, Dewu. He would still be alive and doing well in Cholon, were it not for his fear of the communists taking over South Vietnam. He had volunteered for the army when he would never have been drafted, not for combat anyway. Now his fiancée was getting deeply involved in the student antigovernment movement and demonstrations and, as he saw it, in effect aiding the communist cause. At first he had been appreciative that Hanh’s social consciousness extended into politics. He liked that she had an interest in the world outside of pharmacy and social welfare and, unlike most Vietnamese women, was becoming actively involved in

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university and national political issues. But as her activism became more and more associated with the radicals in the Student Union, he became more and more concerned by the direction it was taking. As they argued about it more and more, her accusations almost became a mantra. “You are blind to the corruption of the Ngyen Van Thieu regime, and his bureaucrats from top to bottom. The whole edifice has to be overturned and a new, independent and free South Vietnam put in its place.” He replied with his own mantra. “Better the corruption than rule by the communists. You get corruption then also, along with total repression and death.” Recently, she was adding something far more dangerous to her argument. “Come on, so you had a bad childhood in North Vietnam. Those who mistreated you were bad communists. Bad people exist under any system. But we are promised by Radio Hanoi and the NLF Radio Giai Phong that we will have our freedom and independence if the communists win. And has not the NLF made this their reason for existence? Are they not promoting our independence at every opportunity? And are they not respected by the North?” When he heard her openly favoring a communist victory, he replied, “We are free and independent now. You and the Buddhist monks can demonstrate. They can burn themselves to death to protest government policies, and all the gory details and pictures appear in the newspapers. Do you think the communists would allow such reporting? You can even meet with and be seen on the streets with those communist students Huynh Tan Man and Nguten Tron Quang Nghi. Why do you say we are not free?” “Because the military and regime thugs control voting and everything else outside of Saigon, and only in Saigon is the press free. It’s the Americans. They have taken over the country and swamped us with their crude culture, and they control our government. It is colonialism again. We have never been free. We fought the French for independence and got the Americans. I agree with the NLF’s program of Hoa Binh, Tu Do, Doc Lap, Trung Lap, Hanh Phuc—Peace, Freedom, Independence, Neutrality, Social Welfare. Even Ho Chi Minh has said we should all have, ‘Independence, Freedom, Happiness.’ Sure, he’s a communist, but he was first a Vietnamese.” In spite of her seduction by the communists, he tried to accept it. He loved her. When there was a huge increase in the price of paper and the Student Union accused the government of trying to suppress freedom of speech by making it difficult to publish, she joined their protests and

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demonstrations without telling him. When he found out from one of their friends, he objected, but did not make a big point of it. But when she went out on that crazy, month-long student strike engineered by the Student Union after Mam and other students were arrested as communists, he opposed the strike. They had a screaming fight over it. When she wrote an article for the pro-NLF student newspaper Tu Quyet —Self-Determination, calling for American troops to go home, and supporting the Third Way between the current regime and communism, that same “Third Way” called for by the NLF, she didn’t show it to him until it was published. “What’s this?” he asked when she handed it to him. “An article I wrote. Congratulate me. I’m a published writer now.” Shihao began reading it while Hanh stood nearby, clearly hoping for his approval. He read only halfway through and skimmed the rest. He put it down gently and tried to control his temper, but he felt the anger building up. He lost control and smashed his fist down on the table. “How could you?” he hissed. He picked up her article, crumpling it between his fingers, and slapped it down on the table. “You . . . you have gone over to the other side. This is do khung—crazy. You condemn our government, you condemn the Americans who are helping us. But you don’t condemn the communists. You favor overthrowing our government. All in favor of your fucking Third Way. Third Way? Communist way!” As he ranted, her eyes grew large and she covered her mouth with one hand. Then she screamed at him, “Capitalist pig!” and ran out. That was the beginning of Shihao’s awareness of the decision he eventually would have to make.

Chapter 27 April 1970 Saigon Wang Shihao

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hihao pushed away uneaten his bowl of tiny green eggplants soaked in chilies, a few garlic cloves, and nuoc mam—fish sauce. Trembling, nauseous, he also ignored his French coffee. He put his elbow on the waxed tablecloth, leaned his head into his hand, and stared out the window of the Givral Cafe at the neoclassical building of the National Assembly across Tu Do Street. He looked over at the table where sat the pro-National Liberation Front (NLF) Student Union leaders Nguyen Van Thang, more a nationalist than an NLF or communist supporter Shihao guessed, and that very vocal favorite of the international journalists, pro-NLF activist Doan Van Toai. Hanh had not informed him of what was about to occur, nor how Thang and Toai were directing it from their table here. Shihao noted the young people his age who came in, talked briefly with the two organizers, and left. He waited for Hanh now. He had picked this time and place so she would be less harsh if she chose to refuse his demand, which he now thought she would do, but fervently hoped she would not. What he at first had found attractive—her enthusiasm, her desire to help others and improve the lives of those around her, her social consciousness—had taken a course that was now destroying him. Lately, as what she was doing became too glaring to deny, he had lost his appetite and had difficulty sleeping. A sudden “Chau—hello” broke through his reflections. A waitress stood next to his table. She looked down at his uneaten food, looked up at him curiously, and asked, “Is something wrong?”

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“No,” he answered lamely. Then he sat up straighter and strengthened his voice. “No. I am not as hungry as I thought. Please bring me a bottle of Ba-Mui-Ba—Thirty-three beer.” He hoped the beer would settle his stomach. When the waitress placed the bottle of beer with a glass in front of him, he tipped the bottle to his mouth and took a mouthful of the beer, then held the cold bottle against his cheek. He resumed staring out the window, remembering his happy moments with Hanh, and then the bitter arguments. I cannot help it, his anguished thoughts confessed. I love her. I hope there is still some way to— He saw her coming toward the cafe’s glass door with Nguyen Tuan Kiet, who Shihao was sure was an NLF agent. They came in together; Kiet went to the table where the two Union leaders sat, while Hanh came to his table. Shihao’s heart beat rapidly as he watched her walk toward him. He loved her no less now than he did when they got engaged. She had a beautiful, heart-shaped face with luminous eyes, and her long, lacquer-black hair, clasped to the side of her head as usual, fell to her waist. She wore a white silk shirt and black pants. Before she sat down, she glanced over at the leaders’ table where Thang and Toai sat staring at her. She nodded at them and sat in the chair closest to Shihao. She looked at him, eyes wide, brows slightly raised, and asked in her soft South Vietnamese voice, “Darling, I have to leave shortly. Why do you want to see me here, at this time?” He broke eye contact, gulped his beer, and then slowly put the bottle down. She did not know he knew, but word got around among students, especially for what was being planned. Yes, even among anticommunists. She and hundreds of other students were about to invade the National Assembly to stage a sit-in. Once he found that out, he had gone directly to one of the leaders and, evincing interest in participating himself, had asked what their demands would be. They wanted the Assembly to commit itself to an unconditional peace, immediate withdrawal of American forces, and South Vietnamese self-determination. As Shihao saw it, a communist victory. University students were among the elite, highly regarded in Vietnamese culture, more respected as students than they would be when they entered their professions. Therefore, this sit-in and the leaders’ demands would be an event for the world media. He knew opposition forces and the NLF would make a huge thing about it. It would be devastating to the government, and influence American public opinion. He knew that this was why the communists were behind it.

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He finally looked into her eyes. She stared at him, her lips slightly parted, her eyebrows raised higher. He knew what he had to say. He had agonized over it for weeks, and now, with what she was about to do, the moment had come. He felt like vomiting again. He’d begun to shake. But he could accept her activism—her procommunism—no more. “Did you join the NLF?” After so many years, he was surprised that his voice reverted to the northern accent of his youth. She looked down at the flowery waxed tabletop, then straightened and tilted her head back. “Yes.” She made it sound like a declaration. Then suddenly, her voice turned soft again. “But you must unders— “You are going to go across the street and participate in the sit-in, right?” She hesitated, and then narrowed her eyes. “How did you know that?” “You are going to do this even though it will seriously embarrass the government in the eyes of the world, and help the communists take over South Vietnam?” “The communists do not intend to take over. They guarantee our indepen—” “I love you as much as I ever did.” His voice had risen; it sounded to him like one long squeak as he threw at her the words he had to tear from his heart. “I want to marry you and have children by you. But you cannot be my wife and help the communists. If you walk across the street . . . .” He tried to stop his lip from quivering. He raised his hand, and as she jerked her head back as though expecting him to smack her, he pointed at the Assembly building. “If you walk across the street and join that do ngu sit-in, I never want to see you again.” His eyes were wet, but he held his head high, and waited. Her eyes opened wide and she tilted her head, momentarily covering her mouth with her hand. She visibly shuddered before gaining control and putting both hands on her lap. Leaning toward him, she replied firmly, “Darling. You cannot mean that. I love you. But I also love my country and freedom. You must understand.” He shook his head, suddenly feeling stronger. He stood and told her in a steady voice, “I’m leaving. Come with me to the university now. Me or joining the sit-in. Choose!” Her face hardened and she crossed her arms. “Go,” she said. “I guess I’ve known deep down all along that you and your corrupt government and your corrupt Americans are all that stand in the way of a truly free and independent Vietnam. Go, and my love be damned.” She looked away.

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He quickly strode to the cafe door. There he had to stop and look back. She had got up and was walking toward the organizers’ table, where the three seated there were smiling a welcome to her.

aaa The student sit-in was all the organizers had hoped and what Shihao had feared. From then on he avoided the Pharmacy School, he avoided Hanh’s home, he avoided any student events that she might attend. When he told his mother, she surprised him with her response, although he should have expected it. She gave him the same stern look she had when she’d scolded him as a boy for some misdeed. “I did a little investigation of her, and found out what you just told me about her months ago.” Taken aback, he blurted, “You never told me that.” The corners of her mouth lifted slightly to hint at a grin. “Then it would have taken you much longer to break from that procommunist. You are like your father. Stubborn and intelligent. I had to let him find out for himself truths obvious to me. Same with you, my son.” “And if I still planned on marrying her, regardless?” Across her face flashed an animal look he had rarely seen before. It was almost as though she were pulling her lips back to bare her fangs and warn off a threat to her young one, which in a split second morphed into a ghastly grin, and then morphed again into a slight smile. He caught it all, and a chill swept through him as she said, “You did not. End of story.”

Chapter 28 John Banks

H

e was, as he put it to himself, dragging ass this afternoon. Because of two committee meetings, one in the Department of History over changes in department undergraduate courses, and another in the College of Arts and Sciences over student demands for more representation on faculty committees, he had no time for a nap, and barely time to wolf down his lunch. And the last class lecture had not gone well. He had misspoken several times and had to consult his outline, and actually went to his notes in his briefcase more than once. He sighed. The trouble with taking naps is that the body gets used to it, and so when one doesn’t nap . . . . Hell with it. I’ll do my best, and if I get too wooly headed, I’ll turn the class into a seminar and let the students argue among themselves. “Good afternoon, students,” he announced with false enthusiasm. “Any questions about your reading?” There were none. “Okay, the United States to the rescue. Last time I concluded that South Vietnam was unable to defend itself against the North’s overt and covert war against it. Defeat and the communization of all Vietnam seemed inevitable. Clearly, then, only massive U.S. involvement held hope of saving the South from communism. And so it appeared to President Johnson’s administration. If the American foreign policy of containment—containing communism in its then current boundaries—meant anything, if U.S. defense treaty commitments were to be credible, the United States must save the South. “In August of 1964, they got their excuse. North Vietnam patrol boats allegedly attacked two U.S. destroyers patrolling international waters in the Gulf of Tonkin. What actually happened is controversial, for what was called an attack may have been mistaking radar blips of the ships’ wake for torpedo boats. In any case, torpedo boats had clearly launched an attack against one of the same destroyers in those waters two days before.

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“President Johnson moved swiftly. While launching retaliatory air attacks against the boats’ bases, he also presented Congress with the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution. Although falling short of a declaration of war, it would give the President a blank check to fully join the Vietnam War in defense of the South. With President Johnson and much of the elite establishment in Washington leading the charge and with strong public support shown by the polls, Congress promptly passed the resolution. “The result was that in the following years, the President poured hundreds of thousands of American troops and massive supplies of light and heavy military equipment into South Vietnam.” He stopped and reached for his outline. He was pleased that this subject—the war and democide that he had studied for his dissertation and now made the center of his career—had an excitement to it that cleared his mind. Still, he had to consult his outline for exact figures. Periodically glancing at it, he continued. “This formidable American effort, which reached its peak of 543,400 troops in April 1969, shored up the South Vietnam government and achieved a military victory on the ground. The Viet Cong were badly defeated after their abortive countrywide Tet Offensive of January to February 1968, in which they lost thirty-two thousand guerrillas. More important, the Viet Cong revolutionary infrastructure that had been built up in the villages and urban areas surfaced during the Tet Offensive in many places and was virtually destroyed. Overall, possibly some fifty thousand National Liberation Front cadre were killed. Moreover, by 1968 South Vietnam’s military was considerably restrengthened by U.S. aid and training, and numbered around 819,000 personnel. It regained control over a considerable portion of the country’s population. “The year 1968 was the turning point in the war, but not in the direction one might suppose. By then, the propaganda of communist front groups in the West, particularly in the United States, was pervasive, especially when recycled by the North’s sympathizers and those opposed to the war, often in the press and through mass demonstrations and political theater. With two hundred to nearly three hundred U.S. dead returning home from Vietnam in body bags every week, deep schisms already had appeared in U.S. public and particularly elite opinion. “Before 1968, what held the war’s support base together in the United States was the administration’s promise that the war was being won, that there was light at the end of the tunnel, that America needed only to stay the course. But the rosy assurances looked like lies with the Viet Cong’s obvious ability to launch the 1968 countrywide Tet Offensive.”

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Good, a hand. “Yes, Miss Shaeffer.” “What is Tet?” “Tet is the Vietnamese New Year celebrations taking place during the first seven days of a new year’s new moon, which may be in January or February. It is the most important holiday in many Asian countries, including China. Okay?” When Miss Shaeffer nodded, John hesitated and then asked the class, “Where was I?” “Tet,” a student yelled out. “Thanks,” John replied, grinning along with the students. “Our response to the Tet Offensive,” a student in front said with a smile. “Ah yes,” John said. His excitement over teaching this subject collapsed with his forgetfulness. Jesus, he thought, I’ve got to do something about my sleep. “To go on, while few Americans saw the magnitude of the Viet Cong’s defeat, what they did see, as universally displayed in the news media, was the Viet Cong’s bloody street-by-street occupation of the large city of Hue and the battle to evict them, the battles in the streets of many other cities, and the attack on the American Embassy in Saigon. That was it. This offensive, coupled with the North’s largely successful struggle for the hearts and minds of American intellectuals, won the only battle that mattered—the political one. The elite establishment’s support for the war, and that of Congress, was finally and irretrievably shattered. To the American people, the war now appeared unwinnable, or in any case unsustainable. “From that time on, it was only a matter of when and how the United States would withdraw from the war. President Nixon, whose election was partly due to his promise to bring the war to an end, gradually withdrew U.S. troops, and redoubled efforts to reach a political settlement with North Vietnam. The resulting Paris Peace Agreement and cease-fire was signed with the North in January 1973, and the last U.S. troops were withdrawn the following March. “This peace agreement in which, among other things, the North recognized the sovereignty of South Vietnam, turned out to be merely a fig leaf for the American defeat. Despite the promises the United States had made to the South about not letting it fall, or threats to the North about violations of the agreement, the United States not only withdrew militarily but in spirit, as well. While the North openly violated the agreement and prepared its forces for the final offensive against the South, the U.S. Congress voted in June to deny President Nixon any

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funds for use of the military in or around or over Indochina. And Congress reduced military aid to Saigon’s forces from $2.27 billion in fiscal year 1973 to $700 million in fiscal year 1975. “Ironically, for a war that was fought so much in the shadows by guerrillas and unconventional forces, by assassination and abduction, by subversion and terror, and by front groups and propaganda, it was ended by a massive, conventional military offensive. When an attack on the Central Highlands in early March 1975, intended as only part of a two-year strategy to defeat the South, ended in the rout of Southern forces, the North immediately deployed additional forces east to the coast and then south toward Saigon. The South’s forces saw whole divisions disintegrating through lack of coordination and incompetent leadership, at the very top and in the field. With their forces in disarray, the South could put up only spotty resistance. Saigon fell in April 1975. “So this Vietnam War ended with defeat for the United States and South Vietnam, and victory for North Vietnam. It would not mean peace for these poor people. Vietnam, now totally ruled by the North, would soon go to war against Cambodia, and consequently would be invaded by China. And most important in the number killed, there would be a war of the North against the South Vietnamese people after their defeat. But that is a future lecture. The next ones will be on the democide committed by the North, the South, and the Americans against the South Vietnamese people during the Vietnam War.” John looked at his watch. He felt too tired to continue. “I’ll have to leave a little early today. You have your assigned reading in Clement. It is especially important for the next lecture, and I may ask you some questions on it. Dismissed.” He had not even stolen a glance at Miss Phim.

Chapter 29 April 30, 1975 Saigon Jiang Jia Li

S

he knew Saigon was in danger. The booming sounds of battle had been close for days. Then last night, as she, Shihao, and his new wife Hua Jue Yan were discussing how and whether to protect their rattan store if the PAVN tried to take Saigon itself, the television that had been on in the background suddenly drew their attention. Following notice of a special announcement, Minister of Information Ly Qui Chung came on and read an official government communiqué. It ordered all ARVN units to stop fighting and lay down their weapons. Defeat! The communists had won. Soon the dark streets filled with the sounds of cars, trucks, motor bikes, bicycles, and crowds of people carrying what they could as all tried to escape Saigon and move south. She hardly slept afterward. Even now, in the light of midday, she could not believe what had happened. The communists were about to take over, with all the fear and horror that would surely follow. She heard the wopwopwop! of American helicopters flying overhead, ferrying escaping American civilians and Vietnamese government and military personnel out to American carriers at sea; she heard the boom! boom! and ratatatat! of the fight at the Saigon airport between PAVN troops and the ARVN paratroopers who refused to surrender. These should have dispelled her disbelief. But Jia Li registered none of it. She had drawn into herself. This morning, as she did six days a week, she had come to work in her rattan store. She now sat at one of her new rattan tables with Shihao and Yan with a radio between them, tuned to a Saigon news station. They heard only a continual repetition of the order by General Duong

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Van Minh that all ARVN troops lay down their arms. Finally, in late morning a government official announced that PAVN troops would be entering the city, and that they should be welcomed peacefully. The streets outside had grown as silent as the store. Jia Li fought with herself to accept this terrible truth. She had been sure that as Qui Non, Hue, Da-nang, then Phan Rang had surrendered north of Saigon, the United States would return and again save the South from this awful danger. She could not understand how they could have fought the communists for so many years only to let South Vietnam fall to them now. Yes, she and Shihao and Yan could have fled the country. But although she was of Chinese descent, Vietnam was her country; she had been born here, her roots were here, her parents were buried here. And where would they flee, anyway? Neighboring Cambodia was in the midst of a civil war with the communist Khmer Rouge guerrillas, and it looked as if they would soon take over that country, if they had not already, just like North Vietnam was taking over the South. Laos also seemed ready to fall to the communists. Fleeing to communist China was ridiculous. And it had been too late for months to try to get a passport from the collapsing South Vietnamese government, even if they could afford the bribes by selling their store. Even visas from the United States or France were impossible. They had not been associated with the American military in any way except selling them furniture. They had no skills other countries would want. They would be poor refugees with an unknown future in an alien land whose language they could not understand. Hua Yan had also refused to leave. Shihao thought they were dangerously wrong even in 1972. Then when the Americans finally withdrew all their troops last year, he had insisted, “We must leave. We can sell everything and bribe officials to get a passport to fly out. We must. When the communists take over it will be hell.” Jia Li and Yan refused to consider it. Yan exclaimed, “Vietnam is my home. Like you, I may be Sino-Vietnamese, but I’m Vietnamese in my soul.” Yan’s family stayed. Her father, a small producer of nuoc mam fish sauce, insisted, “I produce the sauce everybody uses. What are the communists going to do to me, take my sauce away? Then what are they going to use on their food?” So, although one semester away from graduation in 1972, Shihao had quit law school when it became obvious to him that the United States planned to withdraw all its troops and end its military aid. He said then that it was only a matter of time before the North’s conquest

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of South Vietnam, and he believed that all who became professionals under the so-called American lackey South Vietnam regimes would be subject to arrest and especially harsh treatment. He took over from Jia Li the management of their rattan store and the pick up and delivery of furniture, using the small three-wheeled Lambretta truck he bought for that purpose. Jia Li continued to work in the store and Yan helped when necessary, although her main responsibility was cooking their meals and taking care of their house, which was within walking distance of the store. Jia Li became aware of the strange stillness that had settled on the street. She sat absolutely still, ignoring the tears running down her cheeks and the pain of her eyes, which she knew were swollen and red. She looked at Shihao, and saw only a blur shaped by her tears. She asked rhetorically in a voice that sounded rasping and broken, “Our country, our freedom, our lives—they are over, aren’t they?” Wiping his own eyes, Shihao gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “Not our lives. We are nobodies. We just have to learn to live a new life.” He looked at her carefully, moved to hold one of her hands in both of his, and said softly, “I know you do not want to watch the North Vietnamese soldiers march in. I know how much you hate the communists, as I do. I will never forget my friend Trai.” He stood, looked out the window at the nearly empty street, and continued. “But I’m curious to see what they look like. We’ll be back right afterward.” He nodded to Yan, who rose and moved to give Jia Li a little hug. Then she headed to the door with Shihao.

Wang Shihao Once they were on Le Van Duyer Street next to the store, heading for broad Thong Nhut Boulevard in front of the President’s Palace, down which the victorious communist soldiers were sure to come, Yan scolded him. “Is this not a little cruel at this moment, leaving her alone like that to grieve over what happened? I bet she is thinking of the death of your father, whom I know she loved very much.” “You do not understand my mother as I do. In certain moments she wants to be alone with her grief. I know what she will do while we are gone—something she would not have done if we stayed. She will close the store and go home to her bedroom and talk to my father’s picture. I wanted to leave so she could do this. So we might as well also see the communist con khi—monkeys make their entrance.”

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Yan was quiet for awhile as they walked, sometimes dodging around ARVN uniforms and weapons discarded on the sidewalk. Then she asked, a glimmer of hope in her voice, “Are the communists really that bad? Their radio programs from Hanoi always talk about peace and freedom and uplifting the people. And especially about independence for the South and a ‘Third Way’ between North and South. And we have had a lot of South Vietnamese politicians, journalists, and professors—” she pronounced the last word with respect “—who say the same thing.” Shihao looked at her uneasily. She reminded him of his former fiancée, who had been in Chi Hoa prison for the last year because of her procommunist activism, which sometimes had turned violent. Yan was a typical southern Sino-Vietnamese girl. Thin, with the fashionably long, lustrous black hair and large, velvety eyes with long lashes; she had a graceful, willowy way about her, like a cat. By contrast he was swarthy looking, tall, and barrel-chested—unusual for SinoVietnamese, since they usually had migrated from southern China. He had the strong face and body characteristic of Manchurian or northern Chinese. As he grew older his father Dewu had been amazed by their different physiques, blaming it on his great grandfather, who had been an imperial officer from the north serving in Canton before defecting to join the Boxers during the Boxer Rebellion, then fleeing with the whole Wang family to Vietnam. Shihao said again what he had been telling her since their fist discussion about the war. “Don’t believe anything the communists say. It’s all lies. I’ve told you what I remember about my life in the North, about my friend Trai, and then what my father told me.” “I know, sweetheart, but I find it hard to believe that everything the communists say would be such lies.” She looked at him askance and put her hand in his. “Soon we’ll find out the truth. In any case, we are nothing to them. There is no reason for them to do anything to—” She stopped, distracted, as they passed a store obviously being looted—its plate glass windows were broken, and people ran out carrying goods. Shihao pulled her across the street and they walked in silence for several blocks. They heard the distant rumble of trucks and the clanking of tanks before they saw them They were the PAVN trucks and T-54 tanks of the 203rd Armored Brigade, accompanied by soldiers of the 116th Regiment, some riding in the back of trucks with their rifles ready, some on the tanks, some marching in with their AK-47s, RPGs, and Type 56 assault rifles on their shoulders. The soldiers wore green uniforms and pith helmets.

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Among them all bobbed a mixture of NLF, Viet Cong, and North Vietnam flags. Also marching in columns were soldiers in the black pajamas and soft, floppy hats of the NLF and Viet Cong. The soldiers soon reached Doc Lap Palace, where they raised a Viet Cong flag. There were few people to greet them, although communist flags were appearing in front of some buildings. As the dust and exhaust from the passing vehicles and soldiers enveloped them, Shihao sat down on the curb and vomited between his legs. “Oh am bo tat—the merciful Buddha,” he moaned, “how could this happen?” Yan immediately moved to crouch in front of him and shield him from the view of the soldiers. She pulled on his arm. “Quick, let’s go before they see you.” He rose, turning his back on the soldiers as he did so, and with head high and Yan’s arm in his, he walked down a side street. All he could mumble was “Cho de—son of a bitch, Cho de, cho de.”

Jiang Jia Li “Nam do a di da phat—may god protect us,” she cried to the empty store. There would be no business today and she wanted to be at home—their home, Dewu’s home—at an atrocious time like this. So she left a note for Shihao, closed and locked the store, and walked to their two-bedroom house. It was smaller than the home she and Dewu had in the North, but it was substantial enough, with electricity and cold and hot running water from a heater in a corner of the kitchen. It was a mansion compared to the shacks and cardboard boxes on Phan Van Khoe Street, near the Binh Tay Market, where many SinoVietnamese refugees from the cities and towns overrun by the North Vietnamese army lived, and where they had lived when they first came to Cholon. Where they had all lived, until the government informed her that Dewu had been killed in action. Images and thoughts tumbled through her mind. No, no, I could not allow that to happen to my son, too. . . I had to save him . . . . When he became of draft age, Jia Li had spent some of her secret savings and bribed the draft official to exempt Shihao. It was a selfish thing, very selfish. She never told Shihao what she’d done; she knew he would go into the army willingly and fight like his father had. But she had sacrificed her husband in defending this country; she would not sacrifice her son as well.

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She entered their home, Dewu’s home, and went to her bedroom. She took Dewu’s framed picture down from the wall and sat on the bed where they had slept together. Holding his picture to her cheek, she grieved. “Oh Dewu, my love, I miss you so much. But I am glad you are not alive to live under them again. You tried to stop them. You fought for our freedom. It is not your fault that our government failed us, that the Americans failed us. You tried, my love, and I hope with that your spirit will find peace.” She hugged the picture tightly to her chest and collapsed on her side in a fetal position around it, her tears wetting the bed.

Chapter 30 John Banks

H

e had forgotten to set his computer alarm and the extra halfhour he’d slept made him late for his last class. The nap didn’t make him feel any better. He entered his class to lecture on Vietnam wishing he could go back to his apartment and sleep. He now was certain that he had to do something about this. Fortunately what he wanted to say was all nicely packed into his mind for unloading. This lecture and the next one were the core of his interest in Vietnam, and he didn’t want to screw it up He entered the classroom just on time, with students again straggling in after him. “Good afternoon, students.” “Good afternoon, Professor Banks,” the usual ones replied, which didn’t include Miss Phim. But she wouldn’t, he thought, being in the back. “Last time I dealt with the combat, the military aspect of the Vietnam War. It was deadly, cruel, and often savagely fought. Overall, including the pre-Vietnam War guerrilla period and the war itself, it ended in 1975 with about 2.9 million killed on all sides. That was war as we know it historically and traditionally—gun against gun, shell against shell, general against general. However, there was also a different kind of war going on. That was fought against civilians trying to go about their ordinary lives. That is, a war whose prime weapon was democide—outright mass murder. It was fought as though the various Hague and Geneva Conventions defining the laws of war were never signed and ratified by nations. And they were not signed by North or South Vietnam.” John had a three-page outline this time, typed in a very small ninepoint font. He picked up the outline and held it in one hand to consult for place names and figures—and to wave like a weapon when punctuating a point. He glanced at it before continuing. “During the Vietnam War, North Vietnamese forces or their Viet Cong front continued their terror campaign against South Vietnamese

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civilians, amounting to 24,756 incidents just from 1965 to 1972. This number covers terrorist executions, as when the Viet Cong entered a government village at night, rounded up officials and civilians on a list, brutally tortured and murdered them, and then disappeared into the jungle. But it does not take into account the continuous, day-by-day terror in the Southern provinces they controlled. The Viet Cong arrested people even for such crimes as having close relatives who worked for the government or who were unsympathetic to the communists.” He glanced at his outline. “Note one captured Viet Cong roster of those arrested from 1965 to early 1967 in seven villages of the Duc Pho district, Quang Ngai province. Among those labeled government agents, spies, policemen, soldiers, and the like were people characterized as distorting communism; sympathizing with the enemy; spreading rumors to belittle, speaking evil of, or attacking revolutionary policy; opposing the denunciation campaign; opposing cadre; being the wife of an enemy soldier; having a husband who is an enemy tyrant or a son who joined the enemy army, and the like. Many of these people faced execution, along with others tagged as tyrants and spies. “One list of such executed from 1963 to 1964 in Phu Yen province included members of South Vietnam political parties, a number one cruel village policeman, an individual who had left the liberated area and who was cruel and stubborn, and a district agent who had incited Catholics to counter the revolution. “Even the wives or relatives of South Vietnamese soldiers were sometimes assassinated. A captured Viet Cong document, for example, revealed that in Binh Tan district the wives of two government officials were murdered; murdered also in Duc Hoa district, according to another captured report, were the dependents of two South Vietnamese military men. “The Viet Cong carried out a particularly gruesome massacre when they temporarily occupied the old city of Hue during the Tet Offensive. They brought with them prepared lists of victims that they sought out and arrested. In short time the victims were shot, beheaded, buried alive, or tortured to death. Hundreds of such victims were found in nineteen mass graves around Hue. The communists themselves estimated they murdered in this way around three thousand people. “Throughout the war, all such murder was planned and systematically conducted by North Vietnam. As part of its own organization and through its operatives placed in key positions, its Ministry of Public Security ran the Viet Cong Security Service, whose members in the years around 1968 reached over twenty-five thousand. It was this or-

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ganization that determined who would be assassinated, executed, murdered, and otherwise punished throughout the South, and then carried out the dirty work. “Aside from those assassinated or arrested and executed, many civilians were also killed by North Vietnamese or Viet Cong mines or booby traps. In Thua-Thien province in 1968, for example, a water buffalo tripped a booby trap and killed the twelve-year-old boy walking alongside; another killed a civilian clearing the area around a grave site. As for mines, special ones made to only explode at the weight of a bus were placed on civilian bus routes. This was no little matter, since buses were a major means of transportation between villages. In one case, for example, twenty-five civilians were killed and five wounded when a bus hit a mine. “Moreover, civilians were fired upon directly. Buses and other civilian vehicles were often raked by automatic fire or mortared from the roadside. Civilians were murdered indiscriminately in ambushes, or died when cities, hamlets, and villages in government areas were shelled and mortared. Twice in March 1969, rockets attacked civilian areas in Saigon, killing fifty-five people and wounding 117. “Then there was the Viet Cong practice of swimming in a civilian sea. They would set up their bunkers in villages and attack from the midst of helpless civilians. Using innocent civilians for protection is in itself a war crime, and makes the Viet Cong and thus the North criminally responsible for the resulting civilian dead. It is a form of democide. “They would also directly attack villages and hamlets and murder the inhabitants, including children, to create panic and social chaos in the area that the communists then could exploit. A particularly gruesome example was their December 1967 attack with flame throwers on Dak Son, a Montagnard hamlet. They murdered 252 Montagnards. In a similar attack in June the next year against the Son Tra hamlet in Quang Ngai province, they murdered seventy-eight civilians. I could spend the rest of our session mentioning one such attack after another. “To show that the government could not provide protection, the Viet Cong even attacked refugee camps or columns of refugees fleeing battle areas. They practiced this particularly criminal policy throughout the war. In one such attack on the Kon Horing highlander refugee camp in Kontum province, they left sixty-eight dead refugees. All this murdering of refugees was by order of Communist Party high officials. For the early 1969 attacks, for example, the party’s Decision No. 9 directed that refugee camps be the main targets for attack.

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“When the communists attacked civilian areas or population centers, it was their policy to leave wounded civilians to die from their wounds, no doubt often slowly and painfully. “As morally reprehensible as all this was, even more abominable was the use of quotas. Again. As the North did over its own people in its deadly land reform. As an example, consider a secret 1969 Viet Cong directive for the Can Duoc District Unit, Subregion 3, which specified for the month of June the following quotas for the units it covered.” John read the quote from his outline: “‘kill at least one chief or assistant chief in each of the following: Public Security Service, District National Police Service, Open Air Service, Information Service, Pacification Teams, and a District Chief or an Assistant District Chief, and exterminate three wicked tyrants living in district seats or wards. As to village units, they must kill three enemy.’ “Captured Viet Cong documents revealed that quotas played a role even in military operations. In capturing and taking over the capital of Ben Tre province, such a document ordered that they must, and I quote—” he read from his outline again “—‘kill from three to five and put out of action from five to ten others on each street, in each block of houses.’” He looked up and clarified that. “Those to be killed were called reactionary elements.” Eyes back to his outline. “To quote further, ‘Loosen the enemy’s oppressive control machinery, destroy seventy percent of the inter-family chiefs and one hundred percent of the administrative personnel in the area.’ “Other documents and sources reveal quotas as well. In the Quang Da Special Zone, a sapper unit was ordered to kill one hundred tyrants; another force in Thua Thien province had to completely destroy two hundred tyrants. “Often, such quotas were imposed at the village and hamlet level. Note the targets assigned by the command committee of the Chau Duc District Unit of Ba Bien province for the upcoming Tet Offensive: ‘Break the enemy grip. Destroy the three village administrative personnel in Phu My, Phuoc Thai, and Phuoc Hoa Villages along Highway No. 5. Kill the ten hamlet administrative personnel, three people’s council members and others of the reactionary political organizations.’ “In some cases the quota to be murdered per village was as high as twenty-five, particularly regarding the government personnel to be exterminated. Sometimes the quotas were even given in the aggregate for whole areas. Just for the coast in the Viet Cong’s Subregion 5, higher authority instructed them to ‘kill 1,400 persons, including 150 tyrants, and annihilate . . . four pacification groups.’”

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John looked around the class. “For those of you ignorant of communist terms, tyrant means government officials.” He could see that some students’ eyes were glazing. Not Phim’s— she leaned forward, her eyes seemingly intent on him. He waved his hand at the class. “Hello. You all with me?” Some nodded. “Take a five minute break. Stretch, tell your neighbor how awed you are by my lecture, but stay in the classroom.” He sat on the corner of his desk and reviewed his outline. Then he heard a very familiar voice say, “Professor Banks, I have a question.” He knew immediately that it was Miss Phim. Not only was her voice more familiar than it should be, given she had spoken in class only once, but when he looked at her so close, he felt . . . . Ah, how to put it . . . a sexual intimacy. He felt as though he could put his arm about her and his hand on her bottom and she would lean into him, as though they were lovers. He almost jumped off the corner of his desk to stand facing her, and must have communicated his confusion, for she hesitated, her eyebrows slightly raised and her full lips parted to show her white teeth. “I’m sorry,” he said, trying to recover, “you caught me in midthought. You have a question?” God, those black almond eyes. “Yes. Do you know of any cases where the North or South murdered Sino-Vietnamese because they were Chinese? I have in mind what the Khmer Rouge did in Cambodia in murdering SinoCambodians.” This is a mature woman, much older than the other students, he knew immediately. Aloud he replied, “No, not during this period. That came later, after the war, and was one of the reasons for the massive exodus of the boat people.” “I know,” she said, her voice low and tinged with an odd sadness. “Thank you, Professor Banks.” Before he could respond, she turned and went back to her seat. John refused to look her way, but he felt so excited that his mind was mush. He knew his five minutes were well gone, but he needed time. He held his outline up and looked at it unseeingly until his mind surmounted his emotions. He looked up at the class. “Okay, everyone.” He waited a moment for the students to get back into their seats or get comfortable. Then he resumed his lecture with, “So far I’ve empha-

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sized the Viet Cong democide, always under the direction of the North, it should be remembered. But it did not leave all this dirty work to its Viet Cong front. One example should nail this down.” John went to his lectern and picked up a book he had put there. He waved it to the class. “This is Victims and Survivors by Louis Wiesner. In Clement’s text it is listed among his references. I have also placed it on reserve for this class at the library.” He opened the book to a page that had a slip of paper sticking out. “This is in regard to the North’s Easter offensive in 1973, when North Vietnam’s 711th Division took the Hoai-An and Tam-Quan districts of Binh-Dinh. Then government,” and he started reading from the book, “‘officials were hunted down and tried in kangaroo courts. A hundred village and hamlet cadres in Hoai-An were summarily executed. In Tam Quan forty-eight people were buried alive. Able-bodied inhabitants were taken for forced labor into the jungle, where an estimated eighty died. Younger women were permitted to volunteer “for promotion of soldiers’ morale.” By the time the 22nd Division liberated the area three months later, all the goodwill with which the Communists had been received was gone; the lesson of northern Binh Dinh was not lost in Saigon and elsewhere.’” John put the book down, took a few steps closer to the front row, and returned to his lecture with a halfhearted wave back to the book on the lectern. He was surprised at how tired he felt. He had to finish this. “A count of the total number of civilians, government officials, or South Vietnam soldiers captured as POWs that were murdered is, of course, impossible. South Vietnam, however, did keep some record for part of the war of civilians and officials that were assassinated in the countryside. From this and other sources, I estimate that from nineteen thousand to 113,000 were so assassinated, probably around sixty-six thousand civilians and officials. “Keep in mind that these were noncombatants. They were South Vietnamese who, possibly because of the good job they were doing in a village, their honesty, industriousness, or leadership, or because of their beliefs or outspokenness, were murdered—sometimes with the greatest cruelty and pain. When this number is added to those killed by communist mines, shelling, and in other ways, the total democide by the North in the South was possibly around 164,000 South Vietnamese. Over the course of the guerrilla and Vietnam War this would be about one out of every ninety-eight South Vietnamese men, women, and children. “The various South Vietnamese regimes also murdered civilians and captured guerrillas and North Vietnamese. But that is the next lec-

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ture.” Much to his embarrassment, he heard his voice running down at the end. Then he felt himself slouching in front of the class. Shit. He scanned the class from left to right and back again, and finally had an excuse to look at Miss Phim. She seemed to be staring at him with an eyebrow raised. He straightened up and quickly asked, louder than he intended, “Questions, comments?” After the discussion and an argument between two male students about whether the Vietnam War was a civil war or not, he dismissed the class with a sigh of relief. Miss Phim seemed to take her time leaving and was almost the last one out. Did she hesitate before she left? He couldn’t really tell. A student co-opted his attention by asking for an extension of the due date on her term paper because her computer had crashed and she lost all that she had written. He felt like telling her, “Tough shit, you should have anticipated that.” But he just lifted both hands palm up in a shrug, and then extended her due date by a week.

Chapter 31 2001 Ralph Nieman

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r. Ralph Nieman finished up with the hypochondriac, not of her own health, but that of her daughter. She kept taking the girl to the emergency room at the hospital next door every few weeks with one alleged illness or another. Finally a doctor had the nerve to insist she see a psychiatrist, and recommended Nieman. It had become clear in a short time that the woman craved the attention that a sick daughter would give her from sympathetic relatives and friends. The problem was how to cure her sufficiently enough to protect her daughter. Otherwise he would have to turn the case over to social services. Maybe he would just tell her bluntly to stop using her daughter for her own social life. His nurse stuck her head into the office. “Ready for the next patient, a Professor Banks?” “Give me one moment.” When she closed the door, he picked up the report he had from Banks’ medical doctor and scanned it, then rubbed his chin a few times as he reflected on it. Finally he buzzed his secretary. “Please send Professor Banks in.” When Banks entered, Nieman was immediately stuck by the man’s presence. His eyes were large and frank and looked out from under full, straight eyebrows that contributed to a strong, well-structured face. All this sharply contrasted with his unruly, carrot-colored hair. Slim but well-built and about six feet tall, he carried himself well, but in a relaxed way, not like somebody with a military or executive background. Put a cowboy hat on him and he would be perfect for a cigarette advertisement, Nieman thought. Nieman stood to shake hands with him. Good grip. “Hello, I’m Ralph Nieman, Professor Banks. My pleasure.”

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“I’m John Banks. Nice to meet you.” Pleasant and well-modulated voice, Nieman observed. “Please sit down.” “Ah, on the couch or the chair?” Nieman chuckled as he sat down. “Let’s start with the chair. I’ve set aside two hours for our first meeting, and then for future meetings, we’ll see how it goes. Let’s begin with you telling me what the problem is. Would you mind if I recorded all of this?” “Not as long as I get copies.” “Of course.” Nieman switched on the tape machine on his desk, which had two sensitive microphones located at different places in his office. He moved his lined yellow legal pad by his right hand and picked up a pencil, and looked at Banks and slightly raised his eyebrows in anticipation. Banks described more fully what was in the report that Nieman had received from his doctor. “I’m often awakened with headaches, and they stay with me throughout the day. They’re not blinding headaches. I can function and teach, but they are still distracting and uncomfortable. I take a nap midday that sometimes helps, sometimes not. I know something is wrong with me because of my restlessness at night. I wake up in the middle of the night sweating, my heart pounding, and I have the strangest dreams—at least I sense they’re really strange, but I can recall only crazy snatches. Until a couple of months ago, I was a sound sleeper—usually got a good eight hours straight. Now, I’m not only restless, I am increasingly wetting my jockey shorts with nocturnal emissions.” Banks grinned. “Whatever dreams have been causing that I especially want to remember, but can’t. “Of course, it might all be natural. I have not been with a woman since 9/11, and I’m new to Bloomington. It being a university town, I’m wary of trying to find a prostitute. And being a new professor, you know, there is a wall between me and the female students that is too dangerous for my future to climb. In this age, a misunderstood pat on the back could elicit a harassment complaint, so I’ve kept my distance from the female students.” Nieman noted, No embarrassment, all matter of fact, no gestures, face relaxed, but set. Probably a very boring lecturer. Banks concluded, “Anyway, I went to the university doctor, who gave me all sorts of tests, even a finger to feel my prostrate, and then sent me to a neurologist. After more tests, he referred me to you.”

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“Do you have any specific problems, fears, worries?” Nieman asked. “IRS, stocks going down, relatives, tenure, screwing up a lecture, anything like that?” “Well, screwing up a lecture would be a nightmare. But I don’t think my dreams are about that.” “Okay, just relax and tell me about your background, notable events in your life, and so on.” For the next forty-five minutes, Nieman took few notes as he listened to Banks’ unexceptional life story—except for his awful experience during 9/11. Nieman speculated that it had burned deeply into Banks’ psyche, especially since Banks had no prior experience with the mutilated bodies of men and women, violence, or even death. He simply wrote down “9/11” in his notes, and circled it. This may be easy, he thought. Nieman asked just to be certain, “You say that you can’t remember your dreams.” “Snatches that don’t hang together and are crazy, as I said. I hate guns, but in one dream I’m shooting one. I know nothing of martial arts, but I’m throwing somebody over my shoulder as though it’s the most natural thing to do. I’m dressed funny, as though I’m living far in the past. I make love to a beautiful Asian woman, but I can’t make out her face or body—don’t ask me how I know she is beautiful and Asian. She just is.” “Okay,” Nieman said. “Are you familiar with hypnosis as a psychiatric method?” Banks shook his head. “I’m going to use it to uncover what is in your dreams. I’ll put you into a hypnotic state and then ask you questions about your dreams. If I can uncover their content, then maybe we’ll also uncover what your problem is.” Banks shrugged. “Whatever. If it helps, good. Just tell me about the sex, okay?” Nieman smiled. “I will tape the whole thing and you’ll get copies when I reach my conclusions. Please, lie down on the couch and put your head on that soft pillow on one side.” Banks did so, and then suddenly sat up and started taking his shoes off. “What are you doing,” Nieman asked. “Taking off my shoes.” “Yes. Why?” “I don’t know. I just feel it’s not right to put my feet on the couch with my shoes on.”

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“Were you taught that? Something your parents didn’t allow?” “No, I just felt it wrong now, never before.” Hmm, Nieman thought. Maybe a white coat reaction—one to me being a psychiatrist. With his shoes off, Banks lay back down on the couch. “Oh, this is great. I may fall asleep on you.” Nieman circled the air with his finger. “In a way, I will be putting you to sleep, a hypnotic sleep.” Nieman sat down in the chair near Banks’ head and leaned over him, holding a finger before his eyes. “Now, look at the end of my finger, and only at the end of my finger. Try to clear your mind of everything but my finger.” Nieman waited a moment. “Take a very full breath and let it out slowly. . . . Do it again . . . again. “You are getting sleepy, very sleepy. You are sitting on a warm rock overlooking a placid lake. The sun is shining on your back, and you can feel its warmth. You are relaxed, so sleepy . . . . You leave the rock and stretch out on the short grass under a nearby tree.” Banks’ eyes closed. He breathed softly and regularly. “Can you hear me?” Nieman asked. “Yes.” “Are you asleep?” “Yes.” Nieman began by asking him a few personal questions that he knew the answers to, and then moved to questions about the dreams, slowly trying to reveal their content. He succeeded. In fact, he succeeded well beyond his expectations. In snatches, and then with greater coherence, and finally in full paragraphs, Banks described what Nieman soon understood was one dream: “It’s 9/11. I am horrified by the body parts and people jumping from the burning building and my cousin dying in the collapsing building. I try to provide emotional support to my cousin’s wife, and finally after a week make it back to teach my class. “It’s awful teaching about mass murder and war when I only want to forget about it. Joy is in my class, and I want her. After my last lecture she invites me to a party given by her mother, Tor, for me. The other guests are people who suffered through one war or democide or another, and they have gathered to convince me to join Joy in one-way time travel back to 1906 on a mission to end war and democide and promote a global democratic peace. Joy seduces me into accepting.

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“It will be a dangerous trip. Joy is the martial arts and weapons expert, while I’ll provide the historical information and knowledge about the democratic peace. In preparation for our very risky mission in the past, she tries to teach me her skills so I can protect myself. We make delicious love for the first time during one such session. “We travel back in time and succeed in preventing the Mexican Revolution and World Wars I and II. We democratize China and Japan and spread democracy through much of the world. “But Joy begins to use her power to eliminate rapists and muggers on the streets. I hate her acting as judge, jury, and executioner. It becomes a source of much conflict between us, but it finally seems to be resolved. Then, in the late 1930s, Joy tries to assassinate the American presidential candidate Norman Thomas because she thinks he’s a communist. I stop her and with her help I suffocate her with a pillow to prevent her from ever killing again. Then I write a remembrance of Joy, the love of my life, my best friend, and commit suicide while clutching it to me.” Nieman waited for a few moments, but Banks was silent. What an unusual dream, Nieman thought. It’s coherent, logical and, if you leave the time travel aside, it could be an actual story. It has none of the fantastic or impossible happenings of dreams, such as being chased by a two-headed green man. But, he murdered his lover, no matter the reason. And he committed suicide. Not good. Let’s see if there is anything else to it. Nieman looked at his notes where he had recorded the turning points in the dream, and began to probe at those points. “What was this society that sent you into the past?” “The Survivors’ Benevolent Society. It’s made up of survivors of war and democide, who have devoted all their wealth to the society. Its purpose is to end war and democide.” He went on about the members and then about their backgrounds, with surprising detail. And so on for other questions. When Nieman decided it was time to end the session, he sat for a moment reflecting on what he had heard. Incredible detail for a dream. It was as though he was simply recalling part of his life or . . . something he read. We’ll see. Nieman sat back and told Banks, “I’m going to count to three. When I reach three, you will forget about what you told me about your dream, wake up, and feel good. One. Two. Three.” Banks turned his head to look at Nieman, his eyes wide open. “Did I fall asleep?” “Yes, you fell into a hypnotic sleep. You can sit up.”

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As Banks did so, Nieman asked, “Tell me, Professor Banks, do you know anything about a Survivors’ Benevolent Society? Maybe from something you read?” “No, never heard of it.” Nieman asked other questions, and got the same answer. Then, without any lead up, he asked, “Have you ever felt so depressed that you thought of suicide?” Banks seemed started by the question, and then answered, No, never,” as though he had been asked if he peed in public. “Have you ever hated someone enough to want to murder them?” Banks narrowed his eyes, and shook his head as he blurted “Christ, no.” Hmm. He’s either a good actor or being honest. I’ll go for honesty at this stage, Nieman thought. He gave Banks a few moments, then he asked what he suspected would give him a different answer. “What about a Joy Phim?” Banks eyebrows shot up, and he licked his lips. “I have a Joy Phim in my class. A true beauty. Asian. Is she the one I made love to?” Nieman noted that he actually looked hopeful, and smiled to himself. He answered, “She’s in your dream, but at this point, that’s all I want to reveal. Okay?” Banks nodded. Nieman stood and Banks followed suit. “That’s all for now,” Nieman said. “I think we made progress. I want to set up another appointment, an hour this time. Please do so with my nurse.” They shook hands. On the way out Banks said, “If I’m making love to her in my dreams, that’s great. No fear of sexual harassment, no fear of the relationship souring—it’s a real no-problem hookup.” Nieman smiled and waved goodbye. After the door closed, he wrote down on his yellow pad, Joy is critical.

Chapter 32 2001 John Banks

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e had gone without lunch to fit in his appointment with Ralph Nieman. He hoped the psychiatrist could find the source of his problem. Whatever it was, it was beginning to affect his teaching and writing. Especially his writing. He was in the process of converting his dissertation into something readable—a book on the democratic peace. As it was now, with all the verities demanded by his dissertation committee, the compromises with one or another member, the heavy footnoting, and the references to everyone who had even mentioned the democratic peace over their morning coffee, his dissertation was hardly fit for the educated mind. But when he sat down in the evening to work on it, his mind felt mushy and his concentration wavered. He entered the class a few minutes early. As he was opening his briefcase to take out his outline, Miss Phim came in and stopped at his desk. “Good afternoon, Professor Banks,” she said in her soft, feminine voice. She stood about five feet, eight inches tall to Banks’ six feet, so she tipped her head up as she talked to him. From this new angle, he admired her beautifully oval face and the full lips that she lightly emphasized with lipstick. But it was her remarkable black eyes that again captured him. They were large, almond-shaped, fringed with long black eyelashes, and tipped up at the corners. Jesus, no wonder she’s in my dreams. I could dream about her every night. “This is for you.” She held out a folded note to him. Her eyes and that voice . . . no more than four words, but from then on the memory of her voice and her eyes would attack him with their declaration, “I am woman. I am feminine.” They would never fail to melt him.

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He took the note too rapidly, hoping she did not see his hand shake. With a little smile—almost, it seemed to him, an acknowledgement of what she was doing to him and happiness over the personal note she’d passed to him—she turned to walk to her seat. He stood stunned. Open it. No, later. Now! No, when I can enjoy it. Now. No, I won’t be able to lecture then. His heart was fluttering; his imagination was wild with conjectures: Her telephone number. An invitation of some sort. A tentative opening line. Then it hit him. Goddamn it, she is my student. I can’t have anything to do with her outside of this class. Shit! Ah, but she is in my dream. His mind was out of control. He stood with his briefcase open, staring down into it as though looking at something, the note hanging in one hand. I’ll let her down easy. He began to compose how he would do it. He would say—no, rather write on the note and return it, I’m sorry, but you are my stu—Jesus, the class. He looked up see the students staring at him. He gently laid the note in his briefcase, took out his outline and placed it on the lectern. His headache felt worse. “Good afternoon, students.” he began. “Sorry for the delay. My mind was simply blasted by this incredible insight I had.” He let a few seconds go by as they stared at him. “Did you know . . .” and he let a few more seconds go by, “that the more the North Vietnamese murdered—” his voice took on the quality of a fundamentalist preacher concluding his sermon “—the greater the death toll!” Silence at first and then chuckles sputtering into outright laughter. Still, some looked at him and the other students in confusion, and some appeared to be writing in their notes. He looked at Miss Phim, and saw her shaking her head and laughing. “Absolutely brilliant,” he added. The headache was still there, but he had forgotten it. Humor always helped him. “Well, ready for more brilliance?” With the smiles and groans spreading throughout the class, he began. “The last time I was concerned with the democide by North Vietnam. The South also committed democide, although not as methodically, nor planned at the highest levels, or done under quotas. Still, it was democide nonetheless. “In the early years of the war, the Diem regime tried to resettle and relocate people, euphemisms for forcefully deporting entire villages and regional populations to more secure parts of the country. The os-

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tensible purpose was to better protect these people from the communists and to set up fire-free areas where anyone who moved could be assumed a communist. Presumably, these deportees would also be provided better homes and fields to plant, and be won over to the government’s side. None of this proved true. But in any case, these deportations, often brutally and hastily carried out, killed many people, either in the process or as a result of the relocation itself.” John consulted his outline. “For one minority group of Montagnards, for example, about 208 of the 2,050 people moved to Plei De Groi camp and fifty-six of the 760 relocated to Plei Bang Ba camp died in the next four or five months. “Consider also that out of six thousand Roglai, a minority ethnic group that had lived in the mountains and was deported in 1959, some six hundred died in the next few years. Since the total number of Vietnamese deported throughout the war runs well over one million, the associated deaths must have been in the tens of thousands. These deaths, and that the peasants were forced to leave their precious lands and graves, in some cases even their possessions and animals, hardly endeared the government to them. When the new areas were more difficult to live in, the fields to farm a much greater distance to walk, and above all, not even more secure, one can understand the failure of these relocation programs. “Moreover, the Diem regime, and those that forcefully succeeded it in rapid succession after he was assassinated in the 1963 coup d’etat, carried out their own terror campaigns against communists and procommunists. They arrested thousands, many of whom died in prison or were executed. In an attempt to unify government control in the early years, military and police sweeps were made of semiautonomous religious sects or locally independent militias or armies. Political opponents and nonconformists were murdered. “I have to be very careful when estimating the number of communists or political opponents killed in such operations or in South Vietnam’s prisons. Condemning the South for its massacres, atrocities, allegedly huge prison populations, and prison torture and deaths—and the United States for atrocities—was a communist industry during the war, with many communist agents posing as responsible critics. “For example, a Paris-educated Redemptorist priest in Saigon, Father Chan Tin, made many charges against the government, including that it had 202,000 political prisoners. He claimed to be part of a ‘third force’ that could negotiate an end to the war and an independent South free of the United States and the communist North. He created an or-

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ganization called the Committee to Investigate Mistreatment of Political Prisoners, and his charges were actually presented to an American congressional committee, and doubtless played a role in the increased reluctance of the American Congress to support the South. At the end of the war, it turned out that Chan Tin was a secret agent for the North. “Nonetheless, it is also clear that throughout the war the South Vietnam military treated captured communist soldiers or guerrillas with little respect. They were often, if not usually in the early years, tortured for information and then killed or, if wounded, simply left to die. While perhaps this order did not originate at the top, such killing must have been done with the acquiescence, if not nodding agreement, of the South’s high command. As the war progressed, the United States brought considerable pressure to bear on the government to more humanely treat its prisoners, and it apparently complied to a degree. “Nor were noncombatants immune to democide by the South Vietnamese military. Villages were often bombed and shelled indiscriminately and soldiers made little distinction when civilians were mixed in with enemy guerrillas.” Again a glance at his outline. “For example, in February 1964, the Viet Cong captured Ven-Cau village in Tay Ninh province. Even though the village had a population of six thousand people, government forces still bombed and shelled it. They killed forty-six civilians, wounded sixty more, destroyed 670 homes, caused two thousand refugees to flee, and killed eleven Viet Cong. Although occurring a few months after the anti-Diem coup, such indiscriminate military action reflected an attitude toward civilian lives all too common in the Diem years. “In such ways and in other forms of democide I’ve mentioned, the Diem regime probably murdered thirty-nine thousand Vietnamese. The successor regimes were little better. Executions, torture, the killing of POWs, and indiscriminate bombing and shelling continued. Through American pressure, public opposition, and the recognition that much of this killing was counterproductive, such democide lessened over the years of the war. Nonetheless, these post-Diem regimes themselves probably murdered some fifty thousand Vietnamese.” Another glance, but this time also at Miss Phim. His heart skipped. “Ah . . . when the democide of all South Vietnamese governments is added up from 1954 to the fall of Saigon in April 1975, the toll comes to fifty-seven thousand to 284,000 Vietnamese—likely eighty-nine thousand. While this number is fifty-four percent of the North Vietnamese democide in the South, during the war both the North and the South were in the same murderous league.”

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He had lots of time, but didn’t feel up to lecturing anymore, and this was a natural break. “Next time I will deal with the most contentious of all for Americans, which is American democide in Vietnam. What I will have to say about American democide is hated by the left as far too few and the right as far too many. But as with all my lectures, you can take it as the absolute, undeniable truth.” A big smile. I just want to get the hell out of here. “Questions, comments?” He sat on the desk, used his deck of names, and barely heard the discussions he stimulated among the students. Miss Phim seemed to have her eyes riveted on him, and he knew she was hoping for a positive response to her note. It was now like a rare delicacy to be prized, something over which his anticipation should build until unbearable, and then he’d consume it with the utmost joy. Oh, a pun. Ha-ha. I’ll open it in my faculty apartment. When he dismissed the class and several students came up to him, he tried to position himself so that he could sneak glances at Miss Phim. She left the classroom without a return glance at him. Maybe upset at my not responding, he thought, now worried that maybe he had missed his chance

aaa After the last lecture, he rushed back to his faculty apartment with Miss Phim’s note and increasing anticipation. He placed it on his little secretarial desk, got himself a cold beer, and sat down at the disk, beer in hand. He set the bottle down near the note. Then with his anticipation and the note’s sensual mystery now unbearable, he finally opened it. Professor Banks—there is a problem getting the Wiesner book in the reserve room. Betty Swartz, the reserve librarian, asked me to have you call her at x2143. That was it. All the air went out of him. He collapsed into a teenage boy’s slouch, hands hanging over the side of his chair, head downcast, chin resting on his chest. This was too passive a reaction for him, and soon he sat up, leaned over the desk, and knocked his head on the desktop several times, confessing, “Dumb, dumb, dumb.”

Chapter 33 1975–1976 Wang Shihao

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ay by day, through carefully listening to the communist news (the only news available now), talking to his friends from his university days, and picking up the stories and rumors flying around the city, Shihao made it his primary business to keep track of what the North was doing with its victory. He felt that ultimately their lives were at stake. “Better to anticipate than be surprised” was his new motto. And he was not surprised when, even before the sound of the communist T-54 tanks entering the city had died down, the communists set up a new Military Management Committee. Nor was he surprised when one of its first communiqués ordered the “temporary” suspension of publication of newspapers, books, magazines, pamphlets, and all other printed material, or when teams went block by block to confiscate all “reactionary” printed material. Jia Li had told him to expect the loudspeakers. They were set up everywhere, every twenty buildings or so, to carry all the new government’s— really the Communist Party’s—announcements and propaganda. From his knowledge of communism elsewhere, Shihao expected what the communists did seven days after the fall of Saigon—they renamed it Ho Chi Minh City. And since he expected nationalization of some sort, he was not surprised when the communists announced that the new government, and not private individuals, owned all foreign currency and metals. Nor was he surprised when they gradually imposed total rationing, or at the inflation that set in as a result of their control over food and prices—the price of a kilo of rice increased about seven hundred percent. This did not hit Shihao and his family too hard. Since they’d expected the rationing and resulting inflation, they had secreted canned

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food, rice, corn, and potatoes, and established a black market bartering arrangement with several sellers at the market—good rattan furniture for food when they needed it. But Shihao was surprised by the clever trick the communist pulled two months after their victory. In mid-May the communists ordered all former ARVN enlisted troops to attend three-day “reeducation camps.” Some former soldiers that he and Jia Li knew through their store did so fearing for their lives. Two of them wrote their wills beforehand. But the communists let them all return in three days, after attending lectures and group meetings led by communist officials, and writing their biographies. So, when on June 11 they ordered all officers and middle to high government officials to attend “reeducation” camps for a month, many were only concerned about the lost time from their work or families. Before going, Vo Dinh Nam, a former education official, told Jia Li, “Shihao is ridiculous about his warnings—the communists are really not that bad.” Shihao laughed ruefully to himself when he heard about it much later. They were all fooled. The communists imprisoned most in miserable concentration camps. If the communists did not immediately execute them or kill them from overwork, disease, or malnutrition, they refused to tell them when they would be released to see their loved ones again. The new underground had been very good at spreading the word about these so called “reeducation” camps, in reality deadly concentration camps. “Those prisoners should have known what would happen, and tried to disappear beforehand,” Shihao told Yan. “But people will believe what they want to believe, especially if it’s constantly repeated over the radio stations, TV channels—and the only existing ones are communist—and those pig–ass, universal, unavoidable loudspeakers. Soon we will not be able to pee without the communists knowing when, and how long it took.” Still, Shihao did not feel that he or his family were at risk, even though, as time went on, it seemed less and less a joke. And then the announcement came over the loudspeakers, to be repeated on radio and TV: “In each neighborhood, the government has set up a democratic People’s Committee. Now, by law, every family must register each of its members with its neighborhood committee. The committee will issue each family member a registration paper upon registration. This is a very important document and you must not lose it. You must show this paper to get rations or fabrics, and if you do not have it when a policeman asks to see it, he will arrest you.

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“Any family member who wishes to travel must apply to the committee for a permit. If you leave the city without a permit, the police will arrest you. You must record with the committee any and all guests in your home. It is illegal to have unrecorded guests. “Listen carefully for the address of the committee in your neighborhood . . . .” Because of the long lines for the first registration and the demand for one personal document or another, it took Shihao, Jia Li, and Yan three trips to register their family. Shihao made sure each of them smiled throughout. “But, of course,” Jia Li said, when she found out that the communists had also set up a Public Security Force composed of local toughs and youths who wanted to ingratiate themselves with the communists. They were supposed to spy on families, check registration papers, and look for unrecorded guests or homes that remained unoccupied overnight. These the communists then seized and looted. They were like gangsters given a free pass. With them on the prowl, low-level fear became a daily companion for Shihao and his family. “You know,” Yan told Shihao, “I think they will actually know when we pee.” The first great shock resulting from communist control was not experienced by Shihao’s family, nor the average citizen, but by all those who had bought the propaganda of an independent Viet Cong and NLF fighting for the independence and freedom of South Vietnam from both the North and the Americans. Shihao learned from friends that the communists purged the university of the Third Way by arresting its members in the faculty and student body. He could not help the glee that crept into his voice when he told his mother and Yan about it. “The communists completely fooled all those Third Way activists. They suckered even those leading the NLF. Since our defeat, they have squashed all attempts of Viet Cong and NLF officials to be independent, arresting those who insisted on what was promised, even those they see as a potential danger. They have even executed those rebelling against the North’s absolute rule—oops, I should say the North’s Glorious Revolution.” Jia Li nodded. “Good that I saved you from that do ngu—stupid Hanh.” Shihao looked wide-eyed at her for a moment, and then said humbly, “Of course.” But he felt his old feelings for Hanh welling up from his heart, and saw her again in his mind, approaching his table for their

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final meeting. I hope she survived . . . I bet she didn’t submit. He took a deep breath and tried to push the thought and accompanying emotions away. “Ah, yeah . . . .” The North had totally taken over. The government in Hanoi now dictated everything; the South had become little better than the North’s colony, and was treated as such. Shihao could not help wondering what those suffering in one reeducation camp or prison after another thought now—all those Third Way opposition delegates in the former National Assembly, or all those Buddhist monks, some of whom had actually committed suicide by dousing themselves in gasoline and burning for that cause. And Hanh? He forced his mind back on track and shook his head. “All those do ngu students demonstrating for a change in the political system, and for the independence and freedom of the South from the corrupt South Vietnam government and the United States—they must be realizing how do ngu they were.” He couldn’t help it. His mind again revolted and he saw Hanh as she sat across from him, telling him about her love for him. And how she’d looked when he glanced back at her while he walked away. He bit his lip. The pain helped. He took a deep breath, and tried to return to his verbal musings over what the communists had done.

aaa “Get rid of it,” Shihao demanded. “I do not want you to bring a child into this miserable world. It will be awful for the child, and will make life worse for us. How could you be so do ngu, to get pregnant?” he yelled. Then he realized what he had said, when Yan’s shocked expression collapsed into tears. Before he could apologize, Jia Li came into the room, put her hands on her hips, and barked at him, “It takes two, my son. You are the do ngu one.” Yan drew close to Jia Li. Looking at Shihao, she declared in a tremulous voice, “I’m having my baby. Your baby, Shihao. I love you and want your child.” Jia Li clasped her arm and said in a softer tone, “I support her, Shihao. I want grandchildren. I want our line, Dewu’s line, to continue.” “How long?” Shihao asked Yan, his voice still husky with irritation. “About five months.” Then she stood up straight, jutted her chin out at him, and rubbed her hand over her stomach. “I was afraid to tell you, but I’m beginning to show.”

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Shihao smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand, and muttered something about being blind as a rock. He sighed deeply, and then shrugged. I am only one man.

aaa In July 1975, Shihao and his family got hammered. No one expected it. No one had prepared for it. Suddenly, the established currency would be no good. A new currency would replace it. But only so much of the old currency could be converted to the new by an individual. Fortunately Jia Li, ever prudent with the business and family budget, had been converting as much as she could into gold every month. “How much will we lose?” Shihao asked her. “Too much. Not my fault. We had to keep so much in cash for our day-to-day business operations. We’ll lose most of it, unless we buy something with it.” They left immediately for the market, which was jammed full of people trying to spend their money. The prices of all goods soared. A riot threatened to erupt, as people pushed and fought to buy things while accusing sellers of trying to rob them. But soon nothing more could be bought with the old currency, for then the sellers would also be unable to convert all of their money. After the conversion, the economy was near collapse; one business after another folded. “We still have our business,” Jia Li said. “Also, the black market is becoming very good for us. And we can bribe the communists, I was told, to get some hard-to-find things that we need. Several people are acting as intermediaries.” “Yeah,” Shihao responded bitterly. “Soon, I bet that will be the only way to get something done.” He soon realized how prophetic he was. Corruption among the communists became universal. “The communist officials have so much more power, and power breeds corruption,” he told Yan. “With the absolute power communist officials and agents have over everyone’s daily lives, bribery has become their way of life.” He mentally shook his head at that, and remembered how upset Hanh had been at the corruption of the South Vietnamese government. Buddha, it hardly compares to what is going on now. Shihao kept hearing rumors of worse things to come. Now he was scared—frightened for their welfare and even for their lives, and fright-

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ened for the life of the infant on the way. But when he brought up fleeing Vietnam, neither Yan nor Jia Li would agree. “Do khung—crazy, do khung, staying here,” he admonished them. “We’ve got to leave. I’m telling you, things can only get worse.” Yan shook her head sadly. “You are always saying that. But it’s not as bad as that. We have the store—” “And our house, Dewu’s house,” Jia Li broke in. “I don’t want to leave it.” Then she stared down at her hands and said softly, “You two go. I will stay.” “I’m not going,” Yan insisted, staring at Shihao and crossing her arms. “You go, if you really want to.” “Sure, and leave you here pregnant.” That ended it for a while, but the communists gradually increased their control. Not even Jia Li, who had lived under communism in the North, had anticipated how bad it would get.

aaa Again, the same news over the communist loudspeakers. He must have heard it a dozen times in two days: “When the Chinese puppet Khmer Rouge marched into Cambodia’s capitol of Phnom Penh, they began the deadly evacuation of the whole city and dispersed the whole population into villages, where they were forced to labor in the fields from dawn to dusk, seven days a week. Hundreds of thousands died in the evacuation. Now, more hundreds of thousands are dying of starvation. The Khmer Rouge have also murdered former members of the government and military, professionals and Buddhist monks, and anyone disobeying them . . . they have been particularly vicious in killing Vietnamese Cambodians; within the last week, they have murdered several thousand. They have attacked our towns and villages near the border . . . .” He felt like putting his hands over his ears, but he couldn’t trust that somebody wouldn’t see him through the window of his house and report him. Jia Li seemed not to be listening. When the speakers turned to announcing the next levy of public service work teams, Shihao asked her, “What do you make of this sudden and continual interest in Cambodia?” “They want to turn our attention from what they are doing here. ‘See,’ they are saying, ‘we are not so bad.’ And I think they are beginning to prepare for war against the Khmer Rouge. That is the only explanation for what they are saying about fellow communists.”

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Shihao nodded glumly. “I have to give our communist rulers credit. They have not made the same mistake the Khmer Rouge did in being so public about their executions, and in such a hurry. Our own glorious North Vietnamese communists have tightened their control gradually, arresting people out of sight, killing them quietly, and setting up a positive-sounding campaign of reeducation for former government and military officials as a cover for imprisoning them in concentration camps—where many soon die or are executed.”

aaa Several months after the defeat, two low-ranking Northern communist officials barged into Shihao’s family home without notice, announcement, or knocking. They looked around inside and outside as though looking to buy the house. Yan was at home. At first she was afraid that the men were burglars, but they were polite to her, and showed no weapons. After about an hour of looking around, poking at things, and opening doors and drawers, they put it nicely to Yan: “Would you lend your refrigerator, TV set, camera, and binoculars to the government?” She knew the consequences of refusing, and Jia Li had instructed her in how to act toward communist demands. Placing her hand on her round belly, she gave both men a wan smile—she could do no better. Bowing her head slightly, she replied in a wavering voice, “Yes, of course. My family and I would be most happy to lend you these things.” One of the men started to write out a receipt for her, but she waved it away. “I trust the government,” she said, trying to sound indignant that they thought she needed a receipt. They gave her big smiles before carrying everything to a small Volkswagen minibus they must have “borrowed” from some other home, and driving off. Closely following this was the inventory of their home, which Yan knew was far more dangerous to them. She had been warned by a friend down the street who had it done to her that it would happen to everyone, and she passed the warning on to Shihao and Jia Li. District by district, home by home, security agents searched even the remotest corners, looking for anything antirevolutionary and now illegal, such as foreign currency, Western books, guns, incriminating photos, and so on. If they found any such items, the family was arrested immediately. Yan’s warning gave them time to thoroughly cleanse the house of anything dangerous.

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Security agents walked into the house while Shihao and Yan were home. With a nod to both, they began their search. Shihao smiled, offered to help, or tried to stay out of the way as they lifted things, emptied drawers, and moved furniture, stopping only to sip the jasmine tea Yan made for them. After a couple of hours, the home looked as if it had been ransacked by burglars. The agents found nothing. When the agents left, and both were certain they’d not be heard, Yan broke down into shuddering tears while Shihao held her tight.

aaa The yell of the midwife, following Yan’s final, tired screech, told Shihao all he needed to know. He ran into the bedroom where Yan was birthing, but Jia Li, seeing him enter out of the corner of her eye, waved him into a corner. Shihao stood there with his arms crossed, grinding his teeth in frustration over what would happen to them now. An infant . . . an infant. Oh, Buddha. Ngu Nhu Heo—you are as dumb as a pig, he told himself. He clenched his fist and began hitting his leg with it. Just an abortion. An abortion . . . that’s all. There would have been none of the problems we now will have with an inf— “It is a girl,” the midwife announced as she snipped the umbilical cord. Then she slapped the infant’s behind, and the infant began crying. She handed her to Jia Li, who wiped her dry and then covered her with towels. Yan was still gasping, but she managed to moan, “See her,” and held out her arms. Jia Li gently put the infant into her arms, and then motioned for Shihao to join her. For Yan’s sake, Shihao smiled at the baby as he stroked Yan’s hair. She cooed to the infant and kissed its ruddy cheek. He leaned over and kissed Yan’s wet lips, and then, when Yan held out the infant to him, he faked a happy grin as he took the child and held her. What else can I do? They had discussed names beforehand, and he and Yan had consented to his mother’s desire to name the infant Jy-ying after her honored mother. He handed the infant back to Yan with the admonition, “You bring up Jy-ying well, now. I want her to be just like her mother.” Her eyes sparkled with happiness. Well, Shihao thought as he kissed her again, I’ll be a good father. But I still should not have made Yan pregnant.

Chapter 34 2001 Ralph Nieman

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hen Banks entered Nieman’s office for his second visit, he wasn’t looking good. He appeared as though he was just getting over a cold. After greeting him, Nieman asked him if he was sick. Banks shook his head. “Bad night?” Nieman asked. Banks slowly nodded. “Remember anything about it?” “I had a gun and shot somebody who was throwing a knife at me,” he blurted. “There was a woman with indistinct features who seemed to have a double. I was tortured. I woke up screaming. That’s about it.” Nieman had already turned on the recorder, but he also made notes as Banks spoke. He lifted a brow in mute acknowledgment of the other’s bad night, then he asked, “Do you have anything to add to what you said at our last meeting?” Banks again nodded and rubbed his hand across his face. “Damn note,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry,” Nieman said, “what did you say?” “It’s nothing.” Banks shrugged. “Just a note I got from a student.” Nieman caught the underlying tone of disgust. “Do you want to put this off?” When Banks shook his head vigorously, Nieman pointed to the couch, and waited to see if Banks would take off his shoes before lying back on the couch. He did. Nieman noted it. When Banks was comfortable, Nieman used the trigger he had implanted in Banks’ memory during the previous hypnotic trance: “P, R, ti.” It was a meaningless phrase that Banks would never hear by accident. Banks immediately went into a trance. After the initial questions to gauge the depth of Banks’ hypnosis, Nieman asked him about his dream. In a wooden monotone, Banks described it haltingly at first, and then as though he were reading it.

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“An Islamic fundamentalist . . . Sabah was his name . . .seized power in Uighuristan in Middle Asia . . . . He eventually did the same in China, spreading his fundamentalist Islamic creed. When too old to rule . . . he passed his power on to his fanatical son . . . his son exploited China’s resources to build nuclear bombs. He hid them in New York and the other major cities of the democracies. Oh my God . . . my God, he set them off! Jesus, how horrible! Over a billion killed . . . . “The democracies have surrendered to the threat to set off more of them, and Sabahism rules the world . . . . “But . . . before they die from radiation sickness, survivors— actually survivors of an institute that my money sets up before I commit suicide—send a message downtime to Joy and me—me, with that beauty Joy again in 1906. Wow.” Nieman had to smile at the “Wow,” since the exclamation was stated in the same monotone in which the rest of the dream was delivered. “The message asks us to stop Sabah. We plan to assassinate him when he is a child in 1914 . . . . Followers of Sabah in China find out about the message, but they don’t know who received it. They fear that Sabah will be killed, and send back to 1906 a female Chinese warrior . . . Jy-ying . . . to assassinate the recipient of the message. “Jy-ying discovers that Joy and I received the message, and plans to kill us eventually . . . . First she goes along with our mission to set up the democratic world in which Sabah will thrive and world victory for Sabahism will be possible. But she soon falls in love with me . . . of course.” Banks chuckled. “She plans to kill only Joy . . . but she finds out that she and Joy are the same person from separate universes. “God, how stupid this is . . . . “Jy-ying confronts Joy with this . . . before she loses her own motivation, she sets up a fight to the death between them . . . . She badly injures Joy, and is ready to deliver the death blow to her when I rush into the gym where they are and shoot her. “My God, I killed her with a gun . . . . My God.” Nieman waited, but the silence continued. He asked, “Is that the end of your dream?” “No,” Banks whispered. “Then please continue.” “I don’t want to. It’s horrible. Again.” Nieman then resorted to the questions he often used when his client had trouble relating a bad dream. Banks’ eyes had grown misty, but he stuttered, “Joy and I travel to Uighuristan to . . . kill baby Sabah . . . we buy him from his parents to

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do so . . . . We can’t do it . . . can’t murder a baby. We decide to adopt him. And I propose marriage to Joy . . . . Oh, she’s so happy to accept. It’s what she always wanted. We celebrate by making great love . . . . And then we and baby Sabah are killed by an Islamic terrorist bomb— by terrorists upset at non-Muslims buying a Muslim child . . . . “Holy Christ.” Tears flooded Banks’ eyes. He began shaking. Nieman quickly brought him out of the hypnosis, and calmed him down with a series of easy biographical questions. Then he asked Banks how he’d felt after these dreams, and he answered as before. “Lousy, tired, sometimes headachy.” Nieman then asked Banks to set up another appointment. “I think that we are making progress,” he said. “Your dream has given me a lot to think about.” After Banks left, Nieman wrote down his impression of the dream. It was as coherent as the one he’d heard Banks describe during the last meeting, and this amazed him. The dream was not spotty and disconnected, with often implausibly fantastic segments, but a continuous story. One that would continue, it seemed. A nuclear war, and a Joy from another universe sent back in time to assassinate John and Joy . . . it was like Banks under hypnosis was reading out the story from a science fiction book. Hmm, and what to make of his feeling uncomfortable lying on the couch with his shoes on?

Chapter 35 1976–1977 Wang Shihao

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hihao parked their cart for delivering furniture and rushed into the store, looking for Jia Li. She was in the back repairing a chair. “I think our store is going to be taken from us,” he blurted. “What are you talking about?” Jia Li exclaimed. “The news is all over town. The communists will be taking over farms, plantations, and businesses through a tax trick. They are going to claim taxes are owed, or impose a tax that will be impossible for most businesses to pay. Then the communists will seize them for nonpayment of taxes.” “Is that all?” Jia Li asked, looking at him stone-faced. “No. They are also going to force farmers to join ‘cooperatives,’ which in effect will give the government control over what farms produce, and the prices of that produce.” Still Jia Li stood there. “Is that all? Yet?” “I hate to say it, but no. They will take over all fishing boats, and set the government prices for all fish sold.” “Are you done?” “Yes.” Jia Li slowly put away her tools, leaving the chair and debris from her repair work on the floor. She looked at Shihao, her head high, but her lower lip trembled. In a quavering voice Shihao could barely hear, she said, “We know what to do . . . don’t we.” Then she stopped and put her head in her hand. “I’m sorry, Dewu,” she murmured. They prepared for the tax bill by selling or bartering off their inventory of furniture, and even what was on the floor, including light fixtures, counters, window shades, curtains, and throw rugs. They converted the resulting cash to gold. They disobeyed the new law that all

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savings had to be in the government’s banks, which could only be withdrawn with government approval. They hid their gold temporarily underneath a large root of the tamarind tree behind their house. Their store’s tax bill soon came, addressed to “Owner.” Jia Li opened it and laughed, waving it in the air. Shihao had to see it. He snatched it out of her hand and looked at the amount. He broke out in laughter also. It was three times their rattan store’s gross annual receipts. Using their delivery cart, they transported to their home what items remained, locked the completely empty store’s door, and never returned. At home, Shihao again begged, “Please. We must leave this do khung country and find freedom for Jy-ying. For ourselves.” Yan shook her head vigorously. “No, Jy-ying is too young. And we still have our home. What more can they do to us.?” “They” had become a universal reference to the communists. Jia Li said simply, “I will not leave my country. I love Vietnam.” Yan added, “If you want to go so badly Shihao, go.” Her irritated tone carried its own message, “No, sweetheart, I will never leave you and my daughter. And my mother. That is no option. Period.” Shihao felt the heat rising in his face. “Never suggest it again,” he shouted at Yan. Jia Li stepped in. “Maybe things will get better. It cannot go on like this. People will rebel throughout the country. They are now rebelling in the south.” Everyone had heard the rumor that Viet Cong and NLF troops south of Saigon were in open rebellion, attacking PAVN units and government facilities. Shihao hated to squash such hope, but he knew the truth would make them better prepared. And maybe get them to flee, eventually. He calmed down enough to control his voice. “That such rebellion would spread, or be successful for long, is impossible, Mom. The control of the North Vietnamese is too absolute, too totalitarian. I’m sorry, but that is the truth.”

aaa It came as an absolute shock to the family, catching them unprepared. They’d heard no rumors about it. Communist preparations for the announcement must have been done by a small, tight group. The loudspeakers broadcast it while Shihao was playing with Jy-ying, and Yan was sewing Jy-ying little shorts. Jia Li was napping.

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“Special announcement. Special announcement,” the loudspeakers blared. “The rich and greedy capitalists who live in mansions and big houses have secured them on the sweating backs of the working class and poor of Ho Chi Minh City, while these people who are the backbone of the revolution can only cover themselves with tin roofs. The mansions and big houses are the people’s, and as their democratic representative, the government now will take ownership so that we can fairly allocate living room for everyone. “Henceforth, according to deadlines the People’s Committee will hand out, no one needs more than seventy-eight square feet of living space or, for a family, the number of members times this space. Those whose homes exceed this amount must find living space that meets this standard. Those who refuse to leave their mansions or big houses will be arrested for opposing the people’s rights. “Once this standard has been met, everyone will have fair and equitable living space. Long live the Revolution.” Shihao grabbed a paper bag, found a pencil, and sat on the floor to calculate what their maximum living space would be under the new rules. “We are only allowed 234 square feet,” Yan said. Shihao finished his calculation, looked at her askance, and said, “You are right.” He then went into their bedroom to get the title for their home. It was in a locked metal box they hid behind a loose board in the closet. The document said their home was 946 square feet. “Incredible! Inhumane! Typical!” Shihao swore. “We will have to move out and give up the land we own underneath as soon as they set our deadline.” It was finally too much. He slouched in his place on the floor, put his head in his shaking hands, and cried. “We should have fled. We should have fled,” he kept moaning as he rocked back and forth. Yan knelt next to him, put her arm around his shaking shoulders, and murmured, “We have each other. We are still a family and they cannot change that. We will find a place.” Jia Li came out of her bedroom, and Yan told her the awful news. She turned white, turned around without a word, and returned to her bedroom. The door shut with a soft click. Yan guessed that she was hugging Dewu’s picture.

aaa The deadline came. They had two weeks to turn their house over to the communists.

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Instantly, with the announcement, there were too many families looking for too few places to live. One-room shacks now cost in gold what a good three-bedroom house had before the defeat. Shihao found a tin-roofed hut downwind of the stench of Cholon’s Ben Tai Market, where they sold fish. It cost almost sixty gold taels. “Good Buddha,” he exclaimed to Yan, “that is almost twelve thousand dollars at the current price of gold. It’s making a big dent in our savings.” They moved what little furniture and appliances they could from their home, and hung up sheets to divide the shack into two tiny bedrooms and a cooking and eating area. There was no electricity for the shack, so they bought a little woodstove, and Shihao made a hole for its stovepipe in the wall of discarded wood behind it. Nor was there a toilet, so he cut a hole in the floor in a corner, and underneath dug a hole so he could put a bucket there for their waste. He dug the hole deeper than needed so that there was room underneath the bucket for all their gold and jewelry. They were no sooner settled than they heard by rumor and announcements of the so-called New Economic Zones. The communists were shipping whole families, especially refugees or those questionable in some of the many ways possible, to remote areas to drain swamps, clear forests, build dams, dig irrigation systems, and the like. Jia Li told Shihao that she would try to get as much information as possible at the market. A week later, she reported what she’d found out to Shihao and Yan. She did not try to keep the concern out of her voice. “It is awful, what is being done to the people being sent there. They labor without electricity or potable water. They have to build their own dwellings. And they must grow their own food. I heard that many are dying from disease and malnutrition, or overwork.” She stopped. With furrowed brow and tight lips, she looked over at Jy-ying sleeping on a blanket placed on the dirt floor. She sighed, and after a few seconds continued. “Those unwilling to work hard, or who try to escape, are likely to be executed.” No one spoke. It was a hot and humid day, and the stench from the market was especially bad. Yan reached for a small towel and held it over her nose. “Okay,” Shihao finally said. “We have been trying to keep to the rules, and we will have to be especially careful now. We must be friendly with communist functionaries. We will do however many days of ‘community service’ they demand with ready bow and smile. And if they ask us to wipe their ass, we will respond, ‘How good-looking it is!’”

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From then on, their fear of being sent to a New Economic Zone was a shuddering presence in all family discussion and activity, and even when they went to bed at night. But what they feared the least was the terror that befell them. Months later, in the early evening, three security agents walked into their shack while Yan was cooking on their little woodstove and Shihao was trying to make a chair with cast-off wood. Jia Li was at the market. One of them pointed his American military .45 at Shihao. “Are you Wang Shihao?”

Chapter 36 2001 John Banks

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e entered the classroom determined not to look Miss Phim’s way, even if she danced naked on her seat. He had been so dumb, so painfully dumb, about her note. He was still embarrassed; he felt like one of those old men who interpreted a young thing’s smile as a come-on. That morning, first thing before his appointment with Nieman, he had called the reserve librarian, who asked him if he minded having the Wiesner book cross-reserved. Another professor had reserved it for his class also. John could only say, “Okay.” He was not up to giving another lecture today, and had been tempted to cancel the class. But that would force him to omit some material from his lectures later, and he didn’t want to do that. He opened his briefcase, took in hand his outline, and turned to the class, consciously avoiding the slightest glance at Miss Phim. “Good afternoon, students,” he said. After the usual responses, he began his lecture. “I have dealt with the democide of North and South Vietnam during the Vietnam War. Now, let’s look at what the United States did. Although much lesser in extent and different in nature, the democide by U.S. forces in South Vietnam must be recognized. “Unlike the communists, and to a much greater degree than the South Vietnamese army, the Americans did in general try to make a distinction between combatants and noncombatants. This is evident, for example, in the treatment of wounded enemy soldiers, guerrillas, and civilians. Whereas communist forces would leave enemy wounded to die from their wounds, including civilians who had not given allegiance to them, U.S. forces generally made an effort to treat and evacuate to hospitals any wounded, regardless of what side they were on.

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“There were charges by the antiwar, pro-North Vietnam, and American communists and leftist propagandists that the United States carried out a systematic violation of the laws of war and the Geneva Convention. The evidence does not back this up. On the other hand, there are many isolated cases of the American military violating the laws of war. Much of the problem lies with the American command, which was, in the initial years of war, lax in educating its troops in proper conduct, and in enforcing such conduct on the part of its troops. “This is especially true with regard to democide. The My Lai massacre, in which about 347 innocent peasant women and children were massacred by U.S. soldiers, is well known. Other massacres probably occurred as well. Also, it cannot be doubted that U.S. soldiers killed North Vietnamese troops and Viet Cong who were trying to surrender. When Lieutenant James B. Duffy was court-martialed and found guilty for ordering that a prisoner be killed, the evidence showed that there was a ‘no prisoner’ policy from higher-ups governing the ground action of many soldiers. “This and other testimony, letters, and news reports, reveal that some American soldiers did torture and kill prisoners, shoot communists trying to surrender, machine-gun from hovering helicopters peasants running away, disproportionately bomb and shell villages suspected of helping the Viet Cong or from which some sniper fire may have come, and so on. There were hundreds of cases reported of villages destroyed from the air or by ground troops because of snipers firing from them, or on mere suspicion that the Viet Cong or North Vietnam troops were in them. In some cases, American troops shot down people because they were acting oddly or running away. Moreover, some American soldiers admitted that they had killed civilians or committed atrocities. “A measure of such killing of noncombatants is the number of weapons captured as a ratio of the enemy killed in action. The normal ratio killed to weapons captured was three to one. In one seven-month operation begun in December 1968 and focused on the densely populated provinces in the upper delta, the U.S. Ninth Infantry Division reported killing . . . ” John took a quick glance at his outline, “10,883 enemy. These killings occurred mainly in small-scale ground and air actions, such as by helicopter gunships. However, they captured only 748 weapons, or a ratio of killed to weapons of 14.5 to one. In some actions the ratio was as high as fifty to one. Observers of these actions verified what is obvious from such ratios—not all killed were active Viet Cong.”

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John stopped to give the students a chance to absorb what he had said. “Okay so far?” “That’s awful,” volunteered one female student. A boy asked, “How could they do that?” John was amused that North Vietnam’s much more massive and inhumane democide during the war had not received the same reaction. “Let me try to answer that,” he responded. “You cannot picture this war in the same way that the movies portray World War Two—soldier fighting soldier, tank fighting tank, and so on. The Vietnam War was a dirty war; guerrillas fought in the midst of civilians. Alleged atrocities were committed in the heat and fog of battle. When one’s buddies were killed by grenades tossed in the open door of a medical helicopter by civilians, for example, respecting civilian immunity appeared stupid and dangerous. “Also, civilians did plant mines, prepare booby traps, and willingly or unwillingly carry supplies and help build Viet Cong bunkers, which were often built under villages. The Viet Cong often used villages as protective cover when firing on American troops or aircraft. By the international conventions defining the laws of war, those specifically involved in such activities can become military targets, even though civilians. “Of course, it usually was impossible to tell which civilians helped the enemy and which did not. But this did not make all civilians fair game. Note that such excuses could have been given by the German soldiers in Yugoslavia or the Ukraine during World War Two, or by Japanese soldiers in the Philippines or North China. “When they killed civilians recklessly or wantonly, however, and I can show that this was the case, I count it as democide. And such actions by Americans should be democide if they were conducted with the explicit or implicit approval or knowledge of the high command, as was the case of the Germans or Japanese. However, this killing usually exceeded or occurred in spite of orders to the contrary. “Now, the person in overall command for much of this action was General William C. Westmoreland. He had issued explicit rules of warfare based on the applicable treaties and conventions governing it, such as the Geneva Conventions. These rules covered the treatment of prisoners and the rules of engagement established to protect noncombatants. But although they were republished every six months, they were not well distributed to lower levels, and battalion and company officers had different ideas about the rules. According to a senior embassy official investigating alleged excesses, one battalion commander even admitted that—” John

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quoted from his outline “—‘he had never read any such rules and wasn’t certain that there were copies of written instructions on the subject at his headquarters.’ “Declaratory policy is one thing, getting it understood down the chain of command is another, and applying it in the rapid action, noise, confusion, fear, and reflex shooting of combat is still something else. When, in the heat of battle, your life and those of your friends is at stake, fine distinctions are difficult to remember, never mind apply. Moreover, the rules covering specific situations were not always clear, such as how to handle a Viet Cong unit hiding among a group of refugees, a grenade lobbed from a bus at U.S. soldiers along the road, or civilians hiding in a Viet Cong bunker. “This notwithstanding, in the first years of U.S. involvement, the rules meant to protect noncombatants were often and blatantly violated by some lower-level U.S. officers and their men. Simply, the rules were inadequately communicated, those fighting on the front line were inadequately trained in them, and they were inadequately enforced. This was a High Command failure. “Such a violation raises the question of the High Command’s culpability in Vietnam, including General Westmoreland. It is clear that High Command was unaware of the My Lai massacre and would not have approved of it. However, it must have known of the many cases of excessive killing, and the severe problems soldiers in the field faced in this dirty war. “After My Lai and the questioning of American actions in the war, High Command did issue new training manuals dealing with the problems mentioned above, and explicitly stated that soldiers who disobeyed the rules of engagement or violated the laws of war would be held responsible, tried, and punished. “To be clear about democide: if, contrary to the rules of engagement, a soldier massacres civilians, and his superiors are unaware of it, this is murder by an individual, but not democide.” John looked around the class, still avoiding that one corner in the rear. He picked up his deck of names from the lectern, selected a card, and asked, “Mr. Ilalio, what is democide?” “Government murder.” He picked another card. “Miss Ne, could you fill in Mr. Ilalio’s definition?” She had been rapidly leafing through her notes before he called on her, and she took a few seconds more. Then she started to read, “It’s—” “Look at me, Miss Ne.” When she did, he said, “Now elaborate.”

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“Well, the government has to intentionally do it. Ah . . . it’s ordered at the top; it’s government policy.” “Good,” John said. “With that understood, did the United States commit democide in the Vietnam War? Now, My Lai did not occur as a result or in line with High Command policy or commands. It was an on-the-spot atrocity, actually contrary to rules of engagement. It was murder. Even when it was covered up by low-level officers in the field whose command responsibilities were minor, they were accessories to murder and this was a dereliction of duty, but it was not democide. “Generally, if command authorities, those giving orders from secure headquarters and responsible for major military operations in the field, cover it up or give orders resulting in atrocities or massacres, it is democide. Of course, there is an area of ambiguity between murder and democide. But it should also be clear that lieutenants commanding a platoon, or captains a company, and who act on their own initiative in combat, are not committing democide. The decisions, or lack of them by generals who command large operations, carry significant responsibility for a state, and directly represent its policies on the battlefield, can result in democide. “These distinctions for a war such as the one fought in Vietnam are critical. But they are also critical for similarly dirty combat, such as what took place in the Philippine War at the beginning of this century, when the U.S. High Command methodically carried out democide, and U.S. soldiers surely murdered tens of thousands of Filipinos. The same is true for a more conventional war like World War Two, in which American area bombing of German and Japanese cities killed hundreds of thousands of noncombatants. “To be sure, there are many publications available that describe U.S. atrocities in the Vietnam War. Some are communist, or sympathetic to North Vietnam or its façades, such as the National Liberation Front, the Alliance of National, Democratic, and Peace Forces, or the Provisional Revolutionary Government of South Vietnam. And there are many more publications on the other side that mention no atrocities, except perhaps for the notorious My Lai massacre. There have been ‘international tribunals’ set up by those who were more inclined to question the war aims and behavior of the United States than those of the North Vietnamese or Viet Cong, but their publications sometimes provide helpful clues to what kind of murder may have been committed, especially in the testimonies of former U.S. officers and soldiers.

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“One thing gradually emerges from the communist literature and from that sympathetic to the communists. Even though they were all attempting to display or, in the case of North Vietnam’s organs, exaggerate or misinform, the full extent of U.S. atrocities, massacres, and indiscriminate bombing of civilians, they provided virtually no overall estimates of those murdered. And, although the ‘massacres’ they list are outrageous in themselves, if true, the accumulated totals from their examples are relatively small compared to the intensity and blanketing nature of the accusations, and to the numbers murdered by the Vietnamese themselves. “Even then, what many of these sources label as atrocities or massacres may, by the Geneva Conventions and other accepted rules of warfare, be legitimate military actions or accidents of war. For example, burning down a village if in fact it sits on top of Viet Cong bunkers, or attacking civilian river junks that are actually carrying Viet Cong supplies, or bombs that hang up on their rack and then fall on a North Vietnam hospital near antiaircraft batteries. In fact, a communist ploy was to place some of these batteries close to sensitive civilian buildings or on river dikes that, if destroyed, would drown tens of thousands of civilians. “Now, it is true that the Americans heavily bombed Vietnam during the war. About fourteen million tons of bombs and shells were dropped on Vietnam, or six times the bomb tonnage the United States dropped in World War Two. However, those that were dropped on North Vietnam must be distinguished from the bombing in the South. In the former case, the impression during the war was that the United States was carpet bombing civilians and purposely attacking hospitals, schools, and other civilian targets. This impression was influenced by the North’s propaganda, which was widely disseminated by its friends, but it was not so. “The most important fact of this bombing was the scrupulous care with which targets were selected and bombed. Indeed, these matters were not left to local commanders. They were determined by the Pentagon and White House, and even President Johnson carefully orchestrated the bombing’s what, when, and how. Those who planned these attacks strove to limit them to purely military targets, even when it endangered the lives of U.S. pilots. I should note that pilots were even shot down because the angle and height of attack to protect civilians increased the risk from antiaircraft guns. True, civilians were killed, possibly sixty-five thousand of them, but these deaths were collateral to bombing military targets and often resulted from pilots trying to dodge the North’s vigorous air defenses, including missiles.

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“One prime example of restraint was the dikes that held back the waters in the Red River Delta. Had these been targeted, not only would the North’s economy have been thoroughly disrupted, but the resulting flood might have wiped out nearly one million innocent North Vietnamese. The North had put antiaircraft guns on top of the dikes, but High Command as far up as the president ordered pilots not to bomb the dikes, even though the gun emplacements made them lawful military targets. “American bombing of South Vietnam was quite different. It was often tactical rather than strategic, and frequently done under local command. Ground troops could call in air strikes on supposed enemy concentrations or movements and direct the bombing of villages and hamlets that presumably contained enemy bunkers or camps, or serviced the enemy in some way. These attacks received limited overview, and command authorities allowed considerable discretion. In many cases, innocent and helpless noncombatants were indiscriminately killed. Such bombing, apparently disproportionate to any expected military gains, was the direct responsibility of command authorities. “Of course, mortar and artillery shelling of villages and hamlets received even less supervision from the top. Although the published rules of engagement were supposed to govern, some of this shelling was also excessive, some out of all proportion to the military significance or target involved, and some out of whimsy. How many civilian casualties this shelling caused is unknown, of course. Overall, in each of the four years from 1966 to 1970, some forty-three, thirty-eight, thirty-one, and twenty-two percent of all civilian casualties admitted to South Vietnam’s Ministry of Health hospitals were due to shelling and bombing. “American democide in this war is most difficult to calculate. No source estimates such a toll; as I mentioned, not even the communists or those who pointed out atrocities and accused the United States of war crimes gave an overall accounting that I could find. Nor are such estimates available in the sources of information on Allied bombing and shelling in the South. From what qualitative information is available, and from figures on hospital admissions and causes of civilian casualties, I calculate that Allied bombing and shelling most likely caused ninety thousand to 180,000 civilian deaths. It appears that five to ten percent of this was likely democidal, and that of this, the United States was responsible for ten to twenty-five percent. This means that democidal U.S. bombing—that is, bombing consistent with orders from High Command, or known to be indiscriminate by High Command and allowed to continue, likely killed from five hundred to five thousand Vietnamese civilians.

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“Treating the scanty and suspect statistics on U.S. massacres, atrocities, and other kinds of democide in the same way, and adding the resulting calculation to the estimated number killed because of bombing and shelling, I must conclude that the U.S. democide in Vietnam seems to have killed at least four thousand Vietnamese civilians, POWs, or enemy seeking to surrender, maybe as many as ten thousand Vietnamese. A prudent figure may be fifty-five hundred overall.” John made a section break in his lecture by holding his hand up and putting his outline on the lectern. He turned back to the class. “To conclude, there was one more source of democide during the Vietnam War. Over a twelve year period, South Korea contributed a little more than three hundred thousand men to fight for South Vietnam, the second largest force next to the Americans. The Koreans became known for their brutal thoroughness, a reputation partly gained from their treatment of captured guerrillas or those trying to surrender, and their reckless and sometimes intentional killing of civilians. Taking all these and other possible cases into account, I estimate the Korean democide as at least three thousand Vietnamese civilians and enemy POWs.” He glanced at the clock. He had used up practically all his time. “There is time for just a few questions. Any?” One student near the rear shouted, “Was Hiroshima democide?” “Yes, the city of Hiroshima was targeted as a whole. This is indiscriminate urban bombing of civilians. It was bombing ordered at the highest level. It was intentional, obviously. It was illegal, even by the international law of the time. It was democide.” He looked around. “Any questions on today’s lecture?” A student in the front asked, “Why don’t we hear more about all the killing by the North? We keep hearing My Lai. You know, it’s like the North didn’t do anything like that.” John sighed. Perfect question, and with so little time. “We are Americans and American soldiers committed that atrocity. It should be held up to the light. It should tell us that we too can commit barbarous atrocities unless properly controlled and educated, with punishments for those who commit violations. But also, there is a virulent communist and left wing in the United States that wants to hold our nose to such atrocities as a way of proving how awful, to use their words, the ‘imperialist, capitalist, and corrupt’ America is.” More hands went up, but students were starting to collect at the door for the next class. “Sorry, folks,” John said. “Class dismissed.” Not once did he look at Miss Phim. That pleased him.

Chapter 37 Ho Chi Minh City Wang Shihao

S

hihao sat in the back of the old Renault car, sandwiched between two armed security agents. He contemptuously thought of them as cho vang—yellow dogs, because of the yellow uniforms they wore. Another one rode in the front with the driver. It was late at night, but they passed some familiar buildings, so he thought they were taking him to the Hoa Hoa police station in Giadinh, on the outskirts of the city—the worst of them all. Even though some of his friends had been arrested for some reason or other, he never worried that the police or security agents would come for him. He had scrupulously obeyed the rules, and never let a criticism of the communists be heard outside his home. He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. If only I could have persuaded my mother and wife to leave . . .if only I’d said no . . . I do not understand it . . . a happy life is important, not the misery we all suffer now. Buddha, now the worst has happened to me. In his mind, he went through each level of the deterioration in their welfare and security under the new North Vietnamese government of the South. He grimaced inwardly. So many . . . so do khung—crazy many bought the propaganda of an independent Viet Cong and NLF fighting for the independence and freedom of Vietnam from the North and the Americans . . . a Third Way, Hanh called it. His heart started beating rapidly and he tried to push the thought and emotion away. It wouldn’t submit, instead bringing up her outrage at the South Vietnamese government’s corruption. If she is still alive, I would like to know her reaction to the communist corruption. He was getting a tick under one eye. No good. No good. Stop it. To distract himself, he looked out the car window and saw two security Renaults parked on the lawn in front of a home. They had driven

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over a flower bed. Somebody else being arrested, he thought. That returned his mind to his fear and the terror of their lives. Before the defeat . . . so hard to understand totalitarianism personally, so hard to prepare for it. Still, damn it, Mom and Yan would not flee the country with me; they put their faith in rebellion. Shihao released a long sigh. He was getting a tension headache. After more than a year, they were confident of their power . . . none of us were prepared . . . . Shihao shook his head slowly and did not realize how tightly he had his arms folded across his chest until he felt the pain from his fingers digging into each arm. He tried to relax but could not, so he simply put his hands on his lap and clenched them together. Shihao’s attention was jerked to the present when the Renault swerved suddenly to avoid a rickshaw that had cut in front of them, throwing Shihao against the agent on his left side. The agent pushed him off with a grunt as the driver slowed the Renault, perhaps thinking that he would be ordered to arrest the rickshaw man. But the security agent beside him barked something, and the driver resumed his normal speed. Shihao slouched further down in the seat, grinding his teeth in frustration over what was happening to him now. Unconsciously, he again crossed his arms and clenched his fists over his utter idiocy. I made Yan pregnant. So, I now have a daughter. And now a new horror . . . always a new horror . . . the New Economic Zones. He sank further in the seat, jamming his knees against the seat in front, and screwing up his face with the anguish of it all. I am sorry, Mom . . . very sorry . . . but you and Yan were so foolish. We should have left the country. We are fleeing when I get out of this. He glanced at the security agent on his right. We are fleeing if I have to tie you both up and carry you and Jy-ying to a boat.

Chi Hoa Prison The Renault carrying Shihao entered an alley and parked in a lot with many other such cars, some with flashers on top. They took him around to the front of the building. I was wrong, he thought as they passed under a sign. This is Chi Hoa, Saig—Ho Chi Minh City’s central prison. One in front and two behind, the three security agents who had arrested him took him inside to a room where a PAVN officer sat at a

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huge mahogany desk. They stopped Shihao well back from the desk and one of the security agents went up to it, exchanged a few words with the officer, and signed a document of some sort that the man shoved toward him. The officer shouted at two armed soldiers standing near the desk, “Take him to K-23.” As the security agents left, one of the soldiers moved up to him and said, “Follow me,” and walked toward the open door. As Shihao followed him, the other soldier fell in behind. He was led through two locked and barred doors and down a hallway to a door guarded by another soldier. Passing through that door, they moved down an aisle between little cement cells, each with a large, barred, metal door. Shihao could see that the cells were stuffed with prisoners sleeping head to toe in fetal positions on the narrow concrete slab in each cell. In some of them there wasn’t enough room on the slab, and prisoners slept on the concrete floor. Shihao saw no blankets, sheets, or pillows. With a bang and a rattle of metal, the soldier opened a barred door near the end of the aisle and pushed him into a small, gray cement cell containing four other prisoners, three of whom were asleep on the cement slab, one on the floor. There was no window and only a dim, screened lightbulb in the center of the ceiling. The aisle between the cells that they had walked down had stunk, but the stench in the cell blasted him; he immediately felt like retching. Most of the smell must have come the hole in the corner, where the yellowish wetness around it and the brown cake on its edge announced its purpose. One of the soldiers ordered Shihao, “Strip everything.” He pointed to the concrete floor near the slab and ordered, “Sleep there.” Then he pointed to a bare corner of the slab. “During the day you must sit there with your feet on the floor, and your hands in view of the door. Look straight ahead. You cannot sleep or close your eyes for more than a second. You must think about your sins against the Glorious Revolution.” Both soldiers left, one carrying the stack of Shihao’s shoes, brown pants, white shirt, and underwear. Everything was still in the pockets, including his wallet. They banged the door closed with the intrinsic metal ring of all prison doors, and slammed its bolt home. He lay down on the concrete where the soldier had pointed. It was cold. Rolling over on his side and bringing his knees up and his arms across his chest, he tried to huddle into a ball for warmth. To distract himself from his discomfort, he focused on the snoring and muttering

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of the other men in his cell and those nearby, but when that no longer worked he again thought about what the “Glorious Revolution” had done to the South and him personally. His face was toward the cell door. At random intervals, as far as he could tell, a guard walked up and down the aisle between the cells. He had on soft shoes, and came without warning. About an hour later, a guard shoved clothes through a slot under the door and, not caring whether he woke the other prisoners, he yelled, “For Shihao. Put these on, and go back to sleep on the floor. You must get up at five a.m.” Shihao lifted the garments—threadbare khaki pants that were almost too small, and a baggy black t-shirt. Once he’d dressed and got down on the concrete floor again, the man near him on the floor, apparently awakened by the guard, whispered, “Come close. We can share our body warmth. I am Nguyen Cam. The three on the slab are Le van Na, Ly Bien, and somebody we only know as Chi. Who are you and why were you arrested?” “Wang Shihao. I wish I knew why I was arrested.” “Well, join the crowd. More in the morning. Now go to sleep, if you can.” They were all awakened in the morning by North Vietnamese patriotic music broadcast over a loudspeaker in the ceiling outside the cell. He did what his cell mates did. After using the hole in the corner, they sat four in a row on the concrete slab, staring straight ahead. Cam had warned him that the order he received must be strictly followed—that they must sit straight, stare straight ahead, and not talk. While sitting like that, Cam whispered, “As the guard said, we are to contemplate how glorious was Ho Chi Minh and the communist revolution.” Shihao snickered. Bien heard him and warned, “They are serious. Never doubt they will execute you if they believe you think anything different.” Then he looked scared for a moment, and his face turned flat and inscrutable. Shihao guessed that he feared Shihao might be a communist plant, hoping the prisoners would reveal their antirevolutionary thoughts. He knew then that he could not trust any of them either. Hours later their breakfast was slid under the door. On a sheet from a communist newspaper rested four compressed balls of cold, stale rice and four small bowls of almost clear soup, with some rotten-looking vegetables and tiny pieces of fish floating in it. “Hey, Shihao,” Bien whispered, “bon appetit—enjoy. This is your breakfast and your supper will be no different.”

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aaa A month later, actually thirty-three days by Shihao’s count, and the complete turnover—twice—of his cell mates, two soldiers came for him early in the morning. He was so happy at that, he didn’t care why they wanted him. He had run out of things to think about as he sat almost motionless on the slab day after day, and felt that he was on the verge of losing his mind. He had heard the screams and shouts, some of anticommunist slogans, of those who went crazy in the other cells. Then again, he thought, maybe they’re the smart ones, inviting execution rather than prolonging their misery. The whispered discussion with his cell mates only went so far, and after a while there was only silence. Everyone feared that one of the others might be a stooge, or reveal what was said to the soldiers for special privileges. He got no exercise, and slept fitfully, even though, with the turnover of prisoners in his cell, he now had the best part of the concrete slab next to the cell door on which to sleep. He no longer felt hungry, even though the pants that had been almost too tight when he’d arrived were now very loose and he had to double over the top hem to keep them up. He thought he might have dysentery, and seemed to be squatting way too many times over the hole in the cell floor. During his fitful sleep at night he was waking up with a dry cough. In the morning, he coughed out rust-colored phlegm. He could only walk slowly, and finally both soldiers took him by the elbows and half carried him. They took him from the cell area into a small room, obviously an interrogation room. A gray-haired woman wearing narrow wire glasses and a green officer’s uniform sat at an American Army-issue gray metal desk; her visored cap rested upside down on its cluttered top, almost touching a half-full tin ashtray. She had her hands clasped together on top of a pile of papers, and smiled at him when the soldiers brought him in. She nodded at the soldiers, who moved to the back of the room, and then nodded at a hard-backed chair facing the desk. Shihao plunked down with relief. The wood was softer than the concrete slab. The woman removed her hands from the paper before her, and said, “I am Dai Uy—Captain Tran That Ky. I will determine how you will be reeducated so that you see the glory of our revolution.” Then she looked down at the paper and read, “You are Wang Shihao. Your family is composed of your mother Jiang Jia Li, your wife Hua Jue Yan, and your child Jy-ying.” She looked at him over her glasses. “Is this correct?”

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Her soft and friendly South Vietnamese voice shocked him, and he could not respond at first. He did not recognize her name, but he did her face, with its unusual plump, double chin. Her picture had often appeared in the papers. She had been one of the opposition members of the National Assembly. It was obvious now that she had been one of the North’s agents, and her name then must have been an alias. She leaned toward him and asked, “Can you speak?” He shook himself mentally and tried to regain control. Not having spoken above a whisper in thirty-three days, his voice was hoarse when he replied, “Yes. I am Shihao.” She picked up a lined tablet and a pencil from her desk and signaled a soldier, who came and took them from her and handed them to Shihao. She leaned back and smiled again. “Write your autobiography. Do not exclude anything. This is very important.” She nodded at the soldiers. They took him to a small room nearby. It contained two tables, one with two chairs, and the other with one. One of the soldiers waved at the table with one chair, and after he sat down and put the tablet on the table to write, both soldiers leaned their American M-16 rifles against the wall and sat down at the other table. They both lit Camel cigarettes. One pulled a portable game of Go from his large shirt pocket and began to set it up. Many hours later, with his hand cramping almost uncontrollably and his body beginning to ache, and after the soldiers had been relieved twice, he gave the twenty-one page autobiography to one of the soldiers, and they took him back to his cell. Two days later, they came for him again. He stumbled along with the soldiers on each side, holding him up. He felt hot, and now his legs and arms had started throbbing. When he entered the interrogation room, the same captain sat at the desk. She did not offer him the chair, but scowled at him. He felt too sick to care. Waving his autobiography at him, she hissed in a voice that had lost any hint of softness, “You lied in your autobiography. I warn you, you had better not lie again. Write it over.” She tossed another tablet at him. Again he was taken to the same room, where he tried to write everything he could think of into the autobiography. He had to put less thought into it this time and it went faster, but it was harder nonetheless. Several times he had to put his head on the table to rest. Each time, the soldiers pulled up his head by his hair and demanded that he continue to write.

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When they took him back to his cell, he saw that one of his cell mates had been replaced by another prisoner. When he turned to look at him, he was surprised to recognize Hoang Manh Tuan, a member of the former Saigon University Student Union who had been a close friend of his former fiancée. Though forbidden to say anything, they greeted each other with a grin. With one fewer in the cell temporarily, the three prisoners could sleep together on the concrete slab. Shihao and Tuan lay down with their heads close together and whispered to each other. Shihao explained between coughs that left him wiping his mouth that “I am here for no good reason I know. What about you?” Tuan sighed. “I know the horrible crime I committed. When I was interrogated at Dai Loi Hotel, which has been converted into a prison, I found out that the communists already knew much about me, no doubt from those autobiographies. They knew especially that, while I had been a member of the pro-NLF Student Union, I had not joined the NLF. I had to write my own autobiography maybe ten times—I did not count—until my interrogator was satisfied that it corresponded with what they knew about me, including my sin. Now, as to why I am in this particular paradise, I guess that it is because prisoners are periodically moved from one prison and reeducation camp to another so they can’t form rebellious groups, or work together to escape.” Shihao asked, “What happened to my former fiancée, Pham Hieu Hanh?” Tuan leaned closer to hear him. He was quiet for a long moment, until Shihao said louder, “Do you know?” Tuan seemed to moan before softly replying, “One of the prisoners in my cell at Dai Loi also had participated in student demonstrations. Before he was arrested, he knew this woman—Duong Chi, a journalist—who had been imprisoned because of the articles she wrote during the war. She was sent to Reeducation Camp K41. There she was kept in a large cell with about thirty-two other women. Pham Hieu Hanh was in the cell with her. They knew each other and talked together frequently.” Shihao had a fit of coughing. His voice broke up, but he managed to ask, “Why was Hanh arrested?” “For insufficient enthusiasm for the revolution, which made her suspect. She did not join the NLF, even though she was such a proThird Way activist.” Shihao forgot himself and croaked too loudly, “She did not? She told me she did.”

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“Shhh! Lower your voice,” Tuan hastily whispered. Then he moved closer so that his mouth was an inch away from Shihao’s ear. “I know she lied to you. We all knew it. Everyone but you. She did that to test your love for her. She never quite got over the break between you, you know. She did not date after that. Her politics became everything.” Shihao tried to clear his throat several times. Tuan sighed deeply, then continued in a whisper that wavered through quivering lips. “Anyway, the cell she was in adjoined a men’s cell . . . they were separated by a brick wall the prisoners could not see over, with barbed wire from the top of the wall to the cell roof. There was a . . . sexual trade between the two cells. Much prized among all the prisoners was the ration of boiled manioc. So the men used to save their manioc, form it into balls, and toss the balls over the wall to the women. In return, the older and stronger women forced the young girls to strip and climb onto the wall where, supported by hands below and a grip on the barbed wire, they positioned themselves so that the men could see and play with their lon—pussy. If they refused . . . they were beaten.” Tuan hesitated, and Shihao could hear him crying softly. Now, already devastated by a terrible agony as he suspected what had happened, he hissed in a strangled voice, “Continue, dammit.” Tuan groaned, “You sure?” Shihao broke into another a fit of coughing. He wiped the phlegm away from his mouth and sobbed, “Yes.” Tuan whispered very fast, as though the words burned his lips, “It was her turn to go on the wall . . . she refused . . . three of them punched and kicked her . . . did something to her insides . . . she died three days later.” Tuan moved his head away, trying to stifle his weeping. Shihao lay as if frozen. A cold chill ran up and down his spine, despite his fever. Finally he gasped, and wailed so softly no one could hear it, “Oh Buddha, poor Hanh . . . poor Hanh . . . she only wanted to improve humanity, the downtrodden. Poor Hanh . . . .” Tuan turned back to Shihao and raised his hand to squeeze Shihao’s hot shoulder. They cried together, their tears wetting the concrete slab. In the morning, Shihao could not sit up on the slab. His whole body ached, and he felt as though he was burning up. His coughing was worse, and with each cough, globs of stinking green phlegm flew or oozed out of his mouth. Tuan banged on the cell door to draw the attention of a guard, and when he came and saw Shihao curled up on the slab, red-faced and

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wracked by coughs that left phlegm running from his mouth, he reported it. Three soldiers soon came with a stretcher, lifted a semiconscious Shihao onto it, and carried him to the prison’s small clinic. After a near three-hour wait in a room crowded with sick prisoners, a doctor appeared, looked Shihao over, tapped his chest, then pressed a stethoscope against it to listen to the sound of his breathing between coughs. He held a cup up to Shihao’s mouth when he coughed, and inspected the phlegm he collected. Finally he told the nurse hovering nearby, “He has pneumonia. Give him a shot of penicillin. I’ll take another look at him later.” Shihao’s pneumonia was viral; it did not respond to the penicillin, in spite of several shots. His condition worsened. He lay semiconscious throughout the day and night. The next day, he mumbled something as the nurse was giving him the last shot of his quota. She bent down to hear him. He could barely speak; all she could make out was, “Poor Hanh . . . Yan . . . love . . . Jyying.” Then he seemed to gather all of his strength to clearly whisper, “Ho Chi Minh du mai—Ho Chi Minh was a motherfucker,” before sagging into unconsciousness. He died hours later.

Captain Tran That Ky When a soldier reported Shihao’s death to Captain Ky, she took his two handwritten autobiographies from the stack on her desk and wrote a note on them. Pulling a form out of a drawer in the desk, she filled it in, then clipped it and the autobiographies together. She put it on a corner of her desk, where her orderly would make copies for security headquarters. They had to have a record of every death so they did not go around trying to arrest the dead. She looked through another pile of autobiographies. She pulled out one, then another from near the bottom of the pile. She put them side by side on her desk and thought of Shihao. She had looked forward to confronting him with Dinh Hieu Hanh and Pham Hao Quang’s autobiographies. Hanh had tried to protect him, saying that Shihao did not object to her supposedly joining the NLF, but Quang was quite clear about how Shihao had objected and made antirevolutionary statements. They had obtained Quang’s autobiography first and had verified it with others.

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Then came Hanh’s, and in each rewriting of her autobiography, she had continued to protect Shihao. So they had gone hard on her. She would never have been let out of the reeducation camps until she told the truth. Her lie was a sure sign of the anticommunist attitude she shared with Shihao. Well, they are all dead now. Good riddance, the captain thought. She leaned over the desk and put the autobiographies on top of Shihao’s.

Chapter 38 1980s–1996 Cyril Clement

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yril and Alice spent a year collecting the most available statistics on democide around the world, and then made that part of a proposal to the United States Institute of Peace (USIP). The institute then approved a two year, $50,000 grant for a thorough collection of data on democide and their analysis to determine its causes. It took two more grants in succession from USIP and six years to do the data collection, and another two years for the complex statistical analysis. They came up with a total democide estimate for 1900–1987 of nearly 170 million—in effect, Banks’ estimate for that period. Cyril and Alice published their findings in a 1990 book titled Murder by Government: Extent, Causes, and Conditions. Aside from the statistics, the book covered a number of case studies, including democide by the Soviet Union, communist China, Nazi Germany, militarist Japan, and communist Vietnam. In the analysis section of the book, they showed that democide was highly correlated with the extent of ongoing civil or international war, and the degree to which a country was nondemocratic. But war was also related to the degree a country was nondemocratic, meaning there was an indirect causal relationship between nondemocracy and democide through war, and a direct relationship whether war was occurring or not. In sum, the democratic peace also applied to democide. This was Cyril and Alice’s core book on democide. From then on, they wrote books dealing specifically with the democide in the Soviet Union, communist China, and Nazi Germany. The books were read and received good reviews, but they did not grab the minds of those working in the new field of genocide studies. Genocide had become a big thing. A voluminous literature centered on the Holocaust had developed, but while a number of books dealt with genocide in history, democide was yet too new a concept to catch on. It would.

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aaa Alice died of colon cancer in late 1994, leaving Cyril devastated. They had no children, but friends helped him through his first weeks alone. He took a semester’s leave of absence without pay and used Alice’s inheritance from her rich family to travel around the world on one cruise ship after another. Though one widow after another chased him, he only wanted Alice back. But the cruises did distract him from the pain of her death and helped him make the transition to a life without her. When he returned to teaching, he could not rise above routine. He stopped doing research and professional writing. The democratic peace and democide were now well known, and there was really nothing new he could add to them. He returned to reading science fiction, and particularly alternative history. He had read all the science fiction there was in his youth, but when he started college, he gave it up—too much to study, too many fascinating books on Asia, war, and politics. Now, picking up science fiction again, he found it had evolved into a new form that recognized that women exist as sensual and intelligent partners, a form with a far greater scope that went well beyond the natural sciences to envelop psychology, sociology, and even sometimes politics, as did George Orwell’s book 1984. In late 1996, as he sat in his campus office during his office hours, making himself available to students, he doodled on a notepad as his mind focused on John Banks, as it had thousands of times. He wondered what John and Joy were doing now. He wrote down “2002, time travel” to give himself a base for working backward. Nothing serious. Just a way to spend time. He then wrote “Ph.D. end of Spring Semester, 2001, Yale” He was sure of that because the 9/11/2001 terrorist attack played a large role in Banks’ “Remembrance,” and Banks had prominently mentioned his new Ph.D. Let’s see, Cyril reasoned, he could not have gotten a Ph.D. there in less than four years as a full-time graduate student. Was he fulltime? Was he a teaching assistant? I don’t remember him writing anything about that. In any case, he most likely spent at least four years as a graduate student, which means . . . he was there in at least the Fall Semester of 1997 . . . or a year earlier. Which would mean . . . he is there now. “Now!” Cyril sat up straight in his chair. “My God, I can’t believe it. I could talk to John Banks, if he’s there.” That was easy to determine. He turned to his computer and brought up the search engine on his browser. He typed in Yale University His-

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tory Department. Among the many listed Web sites, he found the one that gave the department’s telephone number, which he then called. He asked the woman who answered if she was the department secretary, and when she said she was, he said, “I am Professor Cyril Clement at the University of California. I am trying to locate a former student of mine, a Mr. John Banks. He may be a graduate student in your department. Is he?” “What was the name?” He repeated the name slowly, then waited while the secretary checked. Several minutes later she came back on the phone. “Yes, he is here.” Cyril was almost speechless. He could feel his heart racing. “Ah . . . is this his first semester there?” More waiting, which gave him a chance to calm down a little. “Yes it is. Would you like to leave a message for him? We have a graduate student mailbox.” His was still having difficulty with his voice. “Ah . . . well . . . no, but thanks for checking.” He hung up, then jumped off his chair and did a little jig around his office, clapping his hands. Not caring who heard him through his open door, he yelled, “Jesus H. Christ, I can talk to Banks! To the John Banks.” He hit his head with the palm of his hand. “My God!”

Chapter 39 1978 Cholon Jiang Jia Li

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an’s screams tore through their shack again and again. She had been in labor for almost a full day, and exhaustion slowed the hired midwife’s normally efficient bustle and Jia Li’s footsteps as she moved back and forth with towels, hot water, and wet rags. Her mother’s screams and the strange activity frightened little Jyying, who had no idea what was going on, and no place she could go to escape. She clung to Jia Li or hovered very close, probably as tired as they. Then the final scream came from Yan, and the midwife yelled for Jia Li to help her. The baby was coming out of Yan properly, headfirst, but still this was not right. The placenta had not come out first. Nothing seemed wrong with the infant, however. The midwife held the bloodied infant girl in a towel and gently tweaked her foot. She started crying, and with that the midwife handed the baby to Jia Li. Yan, utterly exhausted, lay unmoving, eyes closed, legs splayed. She was bleeding heavily. The midwife tried to wipe and inspect her vaginal area, but it bloodied almost immediately. She kept wiping Yan, putting clean towels underneath her pelvis, and muttering to herself. Finally, almost in tears, she yelled at Jia Li, “We must take her to a hospital. Her placenta is still inside, and she is hemorrhaging. She needs surgery to remove the placenta and I don’t have the necessary equipment.” Jia Li hurriedly wrapped the infant in a clean towel and, holding the baby to her chest, she ran into the street and headed toward the taxi stands at Ben Tai Market. She did not know how long an ambulance would take if she called the hospital.

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She found a taxi sitting at one of the stands and yelled breathlessly at the driver, “Quick, I’ll pay you anything. I have to rush my daughter to the hospital. Her life is in danger from a bad birth.” The driver followed her directions to her shack, and went inside with her to help the midwife support Yan, wrapped in a sheet and a blanket, to the taxi. Jia Li followed, holding the infant in one arm and clutching Jy-ying’s hand with her other hand. They sat in front while the midwife sat in the rear with Yan’s head on her shoulder. Soldiers stopped the taxi as it turned into the emergency entrance of Cho Ray Hospital. Jia Li and the midwife had to show their neighborhood registration papers, even though Jia Li kept screaming, “My daughter is bleeding to death.” Finally, the soldiers let them through to the emergency entrance, where the taxi driver ran in for a doctor. Two nurses came out with a gurney, and helped Yan out of the taxi to lie down on it, then trundled her inside. “Please, get three dong out of my purse and give it to the taxi driver,” Jia Li told the midwife, turning so the woman could reach the bag hanging on her shoulder. The driver gave her a toothy smile in thanks. It was the equivalent of a day’s pay for most workers. The midwife and Jia Li stood by Yan’s gurney, waiting for a doctor to show. Yan opened her eyes wide, as though suddenly realizing she had birthed a live infant, and reached out her hands. Jia Li put the infant in her arms and kissed her forehead. “She’s a beautiful child. Congratulations, my dear.” Within minutes a nurse with a clipboard joined them and took down essential information, including what the midwife saw as a problem. Another brought towels to replace the ones now soaked in blood. Both the sheet and blanket were bloody where they had been around Yan’s middle. Half an hour later a doctor came, read the nurse’s report, and immediately yelled at a nearby nurse, “Call Doctor Day. He has another one.” He turned to a nurse’s aide and said, “Rush the patient to S-5.” As the aide prepared to push the gurney off, Yan kissed the infant’s forehead and reluctantly handed her back to Jia Li. There were tears in her eyes. “I wish Shihao were here.” The words lingered in the air as the aide pushed the gurney through the double doors. The doctor then pointed to a room off the entry area and told them, “You can wait there. Doctor Day is our obstetrician. He will take her placenta out and make sure she is okay. Then he will check the infant to see if he—” “She.”

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“—is okay also.” Then he asked, “She wears a wedding ring. Where is her husband?” “Dead. Eight months ago.” The doctor nodded as though it was an everyday occurrence, and walked off. The waiting room was comfortable. A table piled with communist magazines from Hanoi and the Soviet Union, the Soviet ones in English, was surrounded by three easy chairs and a couch. In a corner, a TV set blared a report on Cambodia’s continuing expulsion of ethnic Vietnamese, its attacks across the border on Vietnamese villages, and the secret help the Cambodians were supposedly getting from China. Jia Li sat down in one of the chairs and held the infant on her lap, while Jy-ying squeezed in next to her. “We will name you Ting,” Jia Li told the infant. It had been one of Shihao’s favorite names. Hours went by. Jia Li had no way of telling how many; she had no watch and there was no wall clock in the room. She told the midwife several times that she need not wait, but the woman insisted. For the hundredth time, Jia Li dammed herself for persuading Yan to have a midwife help her in the birth. But she had heard rumors about the disorganization of the hospitals, and how those going in with relatively minor problems like a broken finger contracted serious infection or disease and died. She’d also heard that poor people, unlike communists and high officials, received shoddy treatment. Besides, having a baby is so routine, Jia Li thought. A midwife aided my birth of Shihao with no problems, and Jy-ying was born that way. So she’d sought a midwife. The one who had helped in Jy-ying’s birth had disappeared, but she found one with good references and more than twenty-five births to her credit. Oh Buddha, who would have thought Yan’s placenta would not be ejected by her body? “I’m sorry, Shihao,” she murmured. Jy-ying and the infant were asleep when a doctor appeared in the doorway. He wore a somber expression. He looked from the midwife to Jia Li; seeing that Jia Li held the infant, he came over to her. “Are you Yan’s mother?” Her lips began to quiver. “Yes,” she replied. The doctor stood before her, his head slightly bent to look down at her, his arms hanging aimlessly at his sides. In a low but firm voice, he said, “I am Doctor Day. We operated on your daughter and got her placenta out, but we could not stop her bleeding, and she soon had a total kidney failure. I am very sorry. She went into shock and died.”

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Jia Li sat speechless. The bottom fell out of her stomach with the doctor’s words, and her mind felt shattered. She tried to pull herself together enough to speak, but could not. The doctor put out his hands. “Can I see her child? I want to make sure he will survive.” She heard him, but for a second did not know what he asked, and then what to do. But something within her held out her arms and handed the child to the doctor. “I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes. I just want to check him out.” Jia Li did not think to correct him about the infant’s sex as he left the room. She heard a strange sound that gradually became familiar. She automatically turned her head toward it. Leaning over her thin legs, the midwife keened into her hands. That stopped Jia Li’s descent into the ugly, self-flagellating world of “What if,” and “If I only.” She sat up straight, wiped her eyes with her hands, and gently got out of the chair so as not to wake Jy-ying. She knelt down on one knee next to the midwife, and put her hand on her arm. “This was not your fault. You could not help an accident, nor could you do anything once it happened. You did your best, and infant Ting will survive, thanks to you.” The midwife looked up at Jia Li, her face lined with grief, and wiped her eyes with one of the extra towels she had brought with her. She gripped Jia Li’s hand, and said, “I want to make sure . . . Ting?” Jia Li nodded. “Ting is healthy.” “Then I’ll go home with you, and help clean up.” Jia Li shook her head vigorously. “No, I want to do this myself. I hope you understand.” The doctor soon returned with Ting. “She is in fine condition, but hungry. We have a list of milk-women, ones whose infants died in or near birth. I suggest you contact one, and begin the infant’s feeding.” She nodded, but that was not her way. As soon as she got home, and saw the mess of bloody towels and fluids on the bed, she took Jy-ying into the tiny, screened-off kitchen and sat down with her back to the cold wood stove. She told Jy-ying, “Sit here, next to me.” She opened her blouse and took out her breast, and offered her nipple to Ting to suck on. It must be true . . . all the old women mentioned it. And they had heard it from their mothers, that women will soon produce milk for a suckling child that is not their own if it persists, even if they’ve not recently been pregnant. It should work . . . I’m forty-seven, and not into menopause.

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The suckling was painful at first, then sensual, and finally she thought she might be producing some milk. Jy-ying watched wide-eyed at first, but soon got bored and went to sleep next to Jia Li’s leg. As the suckling went on and on, tears freely flowed down Jia Li’s cheeks, and she used the time to control her heartbreak and grief, and shape her thoughts. Nothing can be the same. Everything must change. My family is gone . . . I’ve lost a loving husband, my precious son, a daughter-in-law I’d grown to love. She choked up and her body tried to convulse with sobs. She held it rigid, pinching her leg painfully as distraction, and as the tears rolled down her cheeks, she tried to tilt her head so that they would not fall on Ting as she suckled. She shuddered as she fought nausea and growing panic. She tried to focus on the children. I have their children now to nurture and educate. I will not bring them up under this communist tyranny. Escape—we must escape, not for my future . . . for theirs. She felt her control returning. Her body grew still, but her tears still flowed. Their children must be free, to become what they want, to do everything they are capable of. If she was the only one, she would stay. This was the only country she knew. She loved its culture, its smells, its tastes, its sounds . . . Neither the French nor the Americans could change what is dear to me about my country, she reminded herself. The communists won’t change it, either. She looked down at Ting, still suckling, and then spoke loud enough for anyone in the shack to hear. “Yes, my dear Shihao, I will take your children and finally escape Vietnam. Your spirit should be happy with this.”

Chapter 40 2001 John Banks

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is visits to the psychiatrist didn’t seem to be helping. I’ve been hypnotized twice, and I know I said something or other about my dreams. I know that it’s no longer an “if”—something is not right, and I’m sure it’s in my head. But he doesn’t seem to be helping. He was still restlessness, waking at odd hours and having difficulty getting back to sleep. He’d catch hazy images, and often had the crazy feeling that he was shooting a gun. Me, the near pacifist, shooting a gun. I don’t even know where the trigger is on one. And the evening before, he had made vigorous, delicious love to someone so indistinct, he only knew she was a woman. That he would make love he could understand, but the gun? He sighed as he entered his class, barely on time. He was over his chagrin at his stupidity with the note. Not Miss Phim’s fault. He looked her way to see her looking back. He quickly averted his eyes. He pulled his outline from his briefcase. He hadn’t reviewed it; he hadn’t tried to impress on his memory the figures he would use to demonstrate his command of the material to the class. He didn’t need to. They were seared into his memory. “Good afternoon, students.” After their murmured response, he launched immediately into his lecture. “So, the war ended with the withdrawal of the American forces, by withdrawal of American military aid from South Vietnam, and by outright military victory of the North over a dispirited, collapsing South Vietnamese army. Obviously, the Vietnamese on both sides suffered grievously during the war, which can only be partially measured by the overall death toll through democide and war casualties. Nevertheless, on these scales alone, the human cost was horrendous. Slightly over 2.1 million North and South Vietnamese were killed or murdered: ap-

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proximately one out of every seventeen. From 1954 to the end of the Vietnam War, the democide in the South by its own regimes, or by the North Vietnamese, Americans, or Koreans, probably accounts for 261,000 of the total dead—slightly over twelve percent. Most of this democide, over sixty-two percent, likely was committed by the North and its guerrilla front, the Viet Cong. “After the South surrendered to the North in April 1975, and the North had consolidated its military control over Saigon—now Ho Chi Minh City—and the most vital sections of the South, the North moved to disband and absorb the most important personnel of the Viet Cong, the National Liberation Front, and the Provisional Revolutionary Government, whose pronouncements and declarations had been credible to so many in the West as an independent third force. If there is any doubt about the true nature of such groups, consider that the Northern party historian Nguyen Khac-Vien said the Provisional Revolutionary Government was always a group emanated from the North.” John read from his outline. “He said further that ‘If we had pretended otherwise for such a long period, it was only because during the war we were not obliged to unveil our cards.’ End quote.” He looked up and scanned the class. “Although the American antiwar demonstrators, as they were mislabeled in the press, and their pro-North Vietnam supporters chanted, ‘Stop the Killing,’ or ‘Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?’—LBJ were President Johnson’s initials—once the United States withdrew and the war ended, the killing did not end. Not in Cambodia. Not in Laos. Not in Vietnam. Vietnamese armies fought in Laos to consolidate their control. They fought against the Khmer Rouge army in Cambodia and, with victory in January 1979 and the installation of a puppet regime in Phnom Penh, they fought a nearly decade-long war against both the Cambodian Khmer Rouge and anticommunist guerrillas. This alone cost 150,000 Vietnamese lives. “In 1979, they fought a border war against China, which had invaded Vietnam across its northern border in order to ‘teach it a lesson’ over its colonization of Cambodia. This probably cost at least another eight thousand Vietnamese lives, and perhaps another five hundred died in postwar border clashes and artillery duels with China. They also fought internal rebellions in the South, where perhaps twelve thousand to fifteen thousand insurgents mined roads, laid booby traps, threw grenades in Ho Chi Minh City, and possibly fought pitched battles against communist troops. And they fought armed remnants of the National Liberation Front, many of whom believed that they had been betrayed by the North’s complete and utter takeover of the South after victory.

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“In these post-Vietnam years, over 160,000 more Vietnamese likely died from war and rebellion. This is no small number. It is over three times the 47,321 U.S. battle dead from the Vietnam War. In no way, then, did peace come to the Vietnamese people, nor to Laos and Cambodia. And neither did democide end in Vietnam or her neighbors.” John stopped to let what he’d said so far sink in. Then he raised his voice. “The number murdered after—after the Vietnam War, I say again—was about 3.5 million in these three countries.” Then he enunciated clearly and slowly, “The mass murder after the Vietnam War exceeds by over one million those killed during the war. Part of this incredible toll—I estimate 528,000—were those murdered by the triumphant communist North when it took over the South and erased it as a separate social, cultural, and political system. From then on there was only Vietnam, that is, North Vietnam extended over all the land formerly comprising the South. “After victory, under the pretense of giving them lectures, the communists rounded up former South Vietnamese government officials, military officers, party leaders, police, and supporting intellectuals and imprisoned them in what were called reeducation camps. Presumably they were all to be indoctrinated in communist thoughts and ways, and to discover the errors of their old behavior and beliefs. In reality, these were concentration camps whose purpose was to systematically weed out of the new society true enemies of the people—that is, potential critics and opposition—and to take the victor’s revenge on the communists’ die-hard enemies. “But the camps were not limited to those the communists called the South Vietnam government’s henchmen and puppets. Former South Vietnam ‘antiwar’ or antigovernment opponents, or ‘Third Way’ activists who were arrested after the war also ended up in the camps. No such independent thought could be allowed. More tragic still were the common folk the communists sent to the camps simply for joking about communism, idly criticizing the new regime, showing insufficient sympathy for Northern rule, or otherwise displaying ‘improper’ attitudes. At any one time in the early years, some 150,000 to five hundred thousand Vietnamese apparently suffered in these camps. Like the Stalinist gulag, living conditions in these camps were so poor that the inmates’ health rapidly deteriorated. They were weakened by malnutrition, and many soon died. “But inhumane conditions and constant thought reform— brainwashing—were not all the prisoners had to worry about. The

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communists viciously punished prisoners for minor violations or insufficient obedience, or for inadequate dedication to changing one’s beliefs. Many were simply executed. “The poet Nguyen Chi Thien, who by 1980 had spent over sixteen years in prison camps, must also have been expressing the feelings of reeducation camp inmates in a poem he called “From Ape to Man” that was smuggled out of the camps to the West.” John had clipped the poem to his outline, and read it to the class: From ape to man, millions of years gone by. From man to ape, how many years? Mankind, please come to visit The concentration camps in the heart of the thickest Jungles! Naked prisoners, taking baths together in herds, Living in ill-smelling darkness with lice and mosquitoes, Fighting each other for a piece of manioc or sweet potato, Chained, shot, dragged, slit up at will by their captors, Beaten up and thrown away for the rats to gnaw at their breath! This kind of ape is not fast but very slow in action, indeed Quite different from that of remote prehistory. They are hungry, they are thin as toothpicks, And yet they produce resources for the nation all year long. Mankind, please come and visit! John introduced a moment of silence after that by slowly removing the poem from his outline and dropping it in his briefcase. Then he returned to where he had been standing and said, “In sum, reeducation was a label for revenge, punishment, and social prophylaxis.” A hand up. “Yes, Mr. Svestka.” “What is social prophylaxis?” “In this context, it is the communists purging society of people, ideas, thought, and elements that might oppose or threaten them.” He waited a moment for a follow-up question. When none came, he continued. “The communists cleverly and at first successfully hid their

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mass murder from the outside world. They claimed that reeducation was a humane alternative to a bloodbath. But in private they boasted about their bloodletting to those they trusted. This was pointed out by Nguyen Cong Hoan, a member of the Buddhist antiwar opposition in South Vietnam during the war and of the postwar Vietnam National Assembly until his defection.” John again referred to his outline. “‘The party leaders themselves have told me,’ Nguyen said, ‘that they are very proud of their talent for deceiving world opinion. “We’ve been worse than Pol Pot,” they joke. “But the outside world knows nothing.”’” He went to his deck of student names. “Miss Bauernfeind, who was Pol Pot?” “A former dictator of Cambodia.” “And what can you add to that, Mr. Reantillo?” “Ah . . . a communist dictator. He led the Khmer Rouge.” “And . . . ” oh, it’s her card “ . . . ah, Miss Phim?” “The Khmer Rouge under Pol Pot murdered about two million Cambodians, about a third of the population.” John nodded. “Thank you.” He returned to his lecture. “To repeat, the North was committing massive democide in the South, but hiding it well. Much of the killing took place out of sight, in prisons and reeducation camps. Many notables and famous artists, politicians, government officials, high military officers, teachers and professors, and other professionals met their end in the camps. Based on a 1985 statement by Foreign Minister Nguyen Co Thach, the communists may ultimately have imprisoned 2.5 million people in these reeducation camps. One estimate is that of these, at least two hundred thousand of them died or were murdered. This is probably high, however. Taking account of the death toll in the similar Stalinist and Maoist gulags, a more likely figure is around ninety-five thousand. “For those who were less than an actual or potential threat to the regime, who were just excess population in the cities or had committed minor infractions, the New Economic Zones—a nice term for wildernesses—waited. Accepting the blandishments of the regime or wishing to escape the deteriorating conditions of the cities, some also volunteered for these zones. Most, however, were forcibly sent. Work in these zones was hard and living conditions harsh—in some places, deadly. But the only choices one had were to work or try to escape. If caught, though, one faced an even worse fate: prison, a reeducation camp, or execution. No numbers are available on the resulting deaths in

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these zones. Judging from their description and the toll at forced labor camps in the Soviet Union and China, possibly forty-eight thousand Vietnamese lost their lives, maybe even 155,000. “One could be sent for reeducation and die there from the abysmal treatment; one could be sent to a New Economic Zone and possibly perish there from the labor, exposure, or disease. Or one could be marked for execution on some communist list, or summarily executed for anticommunist behavior. “Jacqueline Desbarats and Karl Jackson carried out a survey of Vietnamese refugees in the United States and unexpectedly found that about one-third had seen executions or had detailed information on them. Thinking that they might be dealing with a biased sample of refugees, the two researchers traveled to France to interview refugees there. They found the same story. From the refugee reports, they calculated that at least sixty-five thousand South Vietnamese had been executed. Desbarats believes that these strictly extrajudicial executions might even have been as many as one hundred thousand. “Nguyen Cong Hoan, a former official of the new postwar government of Vietnam, estimates that in perhaps one year after the war, from fifty thousand to one hundred thousand people were executed outright. Others put the toll at around 250,000. Many of these estimates may include those executed in the reeducation camps. Then there were the pick-them-up-and-shoot-them type of executions; the various reports and estimates suggest that some one hundred thousand people were killed overall. In the months after South Vietnam’s defeat, the victims were most commonly high officers of the previous regime; after 1975, they were usually those characterized as antigovernment resisters, which could mean nothing more than not registering for reeducation. “I want to stop here, and pick up on what were called the ‘boat people’ in the next lecture. They are an incredible aspect of this truly terrible and fearsome period of Vietnam’s history, and twentieth century democide.” He looked around. “Questions, comments?” “Professor Banks.” “Yes, Mr. Lyons.” “There were all these antiwar demonstrators that opposed the war and . . . ah, sided with the North. What do they think of all this killing by the North when it won? And about taking away all rights?” “It seems most don’t care. Some protested as an opposition to the possibility of being drafted. To some it was a social and fun thing to do with friends, something involving drugs, booze, and sex. For some it was an expression of their anti-Americanism, or procommunism.

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“Keep in mind that the true repressive and murderous nature of communism was shown by Ho Chi Minh in the North against his own people, by China under Mao, and by the Soviet Union under Stalin, and their examples should have been an even greater warning of what would happen in the South once the communists took over. After such blatant examples, these antiwar demonstrators were either supremely ignorant and only doing their anti-draft or social thing, or procommunist to begin with. In either case, what happened in the South after the war hasn’t touched many of these people.”

Chapter 41 1978–1979 Cholon Jiang Jia Li

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eliable information about escaping Vietnam was as easily available in Cholon as the price of black market rice. And Jia Li had thought it through. The best time for our escape on the ocean is ocean is the dry season, January to August. So, it will be July of 1979 . . . almost a year after poor Yan’s death. This will give Jy-ying and especially infant Ting a chance to grow some, and better withstand whatever they will face on the ocean or . . . whatever. She had the gold and jewels that Shihao had hidden underneath the toilet pot, and she hoped that would be enough. It all depends on the secret syndicate or boat procurer . . . . But I will not be stopped. She hired a fourteen-year-old girl to watch Jy-ying and Ting while she carried or dragged her furniture, piece by piece, to Cholon’s Ben Tai Market to sell. Last to be sold was her precious heirlooms, and most of her jewelry. The North Vietnamese soldiers, officers, and officials frequented the market. Ho Chi Minh City’s wealth still amazed them, compared to the cities and towns in the North, even glorious revolutionary Hanoi. So they were always on the lookout for something they could “borrow,” “requisition,” steal, or buy to take home with them when they left the “capitalist-raped” South. Her wedding ring with Dewu’s love engraved inside the band, her mother’s old wedding ring, and her father’s sapphire ring, she kept. All money she converted to gold taels. Finally, in May 1978, sitting in her empty shack and checking her list of all the taels she had hidden, she told herself, “Enough. I have enough.” Sino-Vietnamese were still being driven out of the country by the North Vietnamese. It had begun in 1977 when tension with China developed over Cambodian attacks across Vietnam’s border. The

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Vietnamese communists, believing that the Sino-Vietnamese were proChinese and would support them in the event of a war, began expelling them from the Communist Party and government positions. They also discriminated against them in jobs, rations, and in all the approvals everyone had to get from communist officials for personal activities, such as travel. As a result, Sino-Vietnamese were fleeing into China, or taking boats to other countries. Earlier in the year, the communists had regularized these escapes to make money off them. They contracted with foreign syndicate operations to buy ships, loaded them up with Sino-Vietnamese while offering no guarantee that the ship would reach some foreign shore or sink, and unofficially charged around ten gold taels for an adult and five for a child. The old cargo ship Tung An alone carried twenty-two hundred escapees, some of whom had paid three ounces of gold for forged papers that documented they were Sino-Vietnamese. But that unofficial communist escape operation was over. SinoVietnamese, like all escapees, now had to take the risk of being caught and sent to a reeducation camp or prison, shot by shore security patrols, or drowned when their boat was sunk by the Coast Guard, storms, or pirates. Many died of starvation or exposure on the open ocean. Jia Li knew all this. She had asked around in Cholon, the Chinatown of Ho Chi Minh City, where close attention was given to the potential for escape. One could buy very good information, including where in Vietnam it was best to escape by sea, what captains were available, and how much it all would cost. For those willing to pay, there was even a register for notification of the next boat leaving. Bribes provided the best intelligence, but bribes cost money. So Jia Li had to dig into her accumulated escape funds for what information she got. Finally, after all her payments, all her secret work through intermediaries, all her careful weighing of this boat or that, this captain or another, this escape route or some other, she had made her decision, and she and the children had been accepted. She now often talked to Jy-ying, who understood very little, but that didn’t matter. So now, as Jy-ying ate her small portion of cold rice and wilted vegetables, Jia Li told her, “We will be included on a boat leaving in two weeks. Two weeks, and we will be gone. I cannot believe it, but it’s all set. Passage cost me nine taels. Then I had to bribe the Cong An Bien Phong—frontier police, and Cong An Noi Chinh—security police. And I had to pay the organizer of the boat escape. He is not going himself, but makes these escapes his business. Overall, Jy-ying, everything cost me eighteen gold taels. I had that and then a little more.”

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At the prevailing world price of gold, $11,000 in American dollars. She was almost ready. She had to catch the boat from the coastal town of Vung Tau, about seventy-eight miles southeast of Saigon, as she would always call that city. She would take a bus there in one week, to allow herself time to survey the area. The organizer had promised that there would be enough food and water aboard for ten days, more than enough to reach the Philippines. They would not head toward Thailand because the Gulf of Thailand was infested with Cambodian and particularly Thai pirates. Even heading south toward Indonesia risked the same danger, and Malaysia was forcing Boat People back into the ocean when they arrived on its shores, even if it meant their death. Two days before leaving, she prepared their food for the trip. She mixed sugar with lemon juice and dried the mixture in the sun until it coagulated into slabs. About two pounds would keep her and the children going for a day; she made six pounds. She made hard cookies out of powdered milk with sugar that she poured into molds, then dried over a fire she risked lighting next to the shack. She bought hard biscuits, and four half-pound bags of rice. She scoured Cholon and bought seasickness pills from a trusted black marketer. And she had bought three military canteens for their water. She would fill them just before she left her hotel for the boat. She packed a large, broken suitcase—she would tie a rope around it to hold it together—with everything, including what clothes she thought Jy-ying and Ting would need. They would be on the ocean in the hot summer sun, so to protect them from the sun she also included three umbrellas of a type that she could turn upside down when it rained, to capture rain water and funnel it into a container through a hole in the top nib. At three years of age, Jy-ying was able to carry a small case. Jia Li put her favorite stuffed animal into it, a furry, cuddly bear, and toiletries for them all, including a big bottle of aspirin. And in her purse she carried her most prized possessions of all. Tightly wrapped in cellophane to protect them against moisture, she carried colored photographs of Dewu and their wedding, her parents, Shihao, Yan, and their wedding picture. She had paid much to have them all copied, and she sewed the copies into the hem of her one summer coat. There she also inserted a little tube with the ashes of her parents. Over these many years, she had kept the little plastic container with a screw lid that Shihao had given her to hide some of their money inside her vagina. She would do that again with her most precious jewels, and wear her menstrual pad to keep it in and discourage a finger search.

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There was still a high demand for living space in the city. She easily sold her shack with its remaining contents for one tael. The day came. Before heading for the An Dong Bus Station, she prayed to Buddha. She was not religious. It was for her own comfort rather than divine intervention.

Chapter 42 1996 Cyril Clement

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is thoughts came in explosive exclamations after he found out that Banks was a graduate student at Yale. He could not sit still and had to bounce and jiggle around his office, almost colliding with his bookcases. He was not even aware that he was in motion. Several times he just smacked his forehead with the heel of his palm. Holy Christ. Finally, finally, after all these years, I’ll meet the Banks of the Banks folder . . . the Banks who may have saved my life, the Banks who made my career. For sure. the Banks who gave me the two greatest ideas—the democratic peace and democide—the Banks who gave mankind the solutions to war and democide. Holy Christ, I’m going to meet him. And shake his hand. Cyril could hardly eat that evening. The next morning, he called his travel agency and had them make reservations for a round tip to New Haven, Connecticut, where Yale University was located. He told them, “This is rush.” Then he taught his graduate seminar on war and peace almost mechanically, and tried to control his impatience when he met several students to go over their term paper grades. Afterward he called the travel agency to find out if he had reservations yet. He did, for arrival in the Tweed New Haven Airport late Tuesday night the following week, and departure very early the following Saturday morning. He then emailed a colleague in Yale’s Political Science Department with whom he had often corresponded about his research: I will be New Haven from Tuesday night to very early Saturday morning. While I’m there, would you like to set up a university or department presentation

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for me, any day or time, Wednesday through Friday, to talk about the history of democide, especially in our century? Academic departments jumped on an offer of a free presentation, since it usually cost them a couple of thousand dollars plus all expenses paid to bring in somebody as well known as he was to give a talk about his research. He got a return email the next day. Yes, his colleague had discussed it with the department chairman, who would arrange a two-hour, oneday seminar for faculty and students on the Thursday at two p.m. Cyril immediately responded to confirm the day and time. Next he called the secretary in the History Department again and asked her, “Would you please pass on a note to graduate student John Banks, asking him to contact Professor Clement by phone, collect, ASAP? It’s about meeting him when I visit Yale University next week. It’s important, so if he is in class, can someone please make sure he gets the message when the class is over?” Cyril then gave her his phone number and email address, and thanked her. Cyril waited at his desk, leaning over a biography of Peter the Great with his chin in his hand, unable to absorb a paragraph. Every minute or so, his eyes flicked up to his phone. He even picked up the phone once to make sure he got a dial tone. Many hours later—at least it seemed that long—the phone rang. Cyril jumped in his chair, and then waited, poised in anticipation, through four rings. Then he whipped the receiver off its cradle and almost crushed it against his ear. “He . . .llo,” Cyril squeaked. He cleared his throat, swallowed, and tried again. “Hi. I’m sorry. I had something in my throat.” “Hello. This is John Banks speaking.” He had a pleasant and masculine voice, which Cyril noted even through his initial nervousness. But once he heard “Banks,” he would not have noticed if Banks sounded like a choir boy. Oh my God, it’s him. “Thanks for calling, Mr. Banks. Ah . . . I will be at Yale next week beginning Tuesday evening, and would like to get together with you for a chat.” He felt his voice firm up. “Ah, I’m giving a seminar Thursday afternoon, and I hope that you’ll be free to see me before then, someplace in the history department.” Can’t make this too friendly in the beginning, he decided. “Yes,” Banks responded. “Just a minute, please.”

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Cyril heard him asking the secretary about the availability of the department conference room, which received a vague response Cyril couldn’t hear well. He realized that he was pressing the phone so hard against his ear, it was beginning to hurt. Banks came back on the phone. “We can meet at nine a.m. on Wednesday in the History Department office, and then we can go to an empty conference room nearby to talk. That okay?” “Yes, fine. I’ll see you then. Goodbye.” “Goodbye.” Cyril’s heart was beating hard. The phone shook in his hand as he replaced it on its stand. He stared at it, and then slowly shook his head. Oh my God, I talked to John Banks. Oh . . . poor Banks . . . he must be scratching his head, trying to remember where he met me—especially a professor well known enough to be giving a seminar at Yale! No problem, I can handle that when we meet . . . it will be handling me that’s the problem.

Chapter 43 1979 Vung Tau town Jiang Jia Li

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he two hour bus trip to Vung Tau was uneventful. Jia Li expected the bus to be checked by security guards, and she’d prepared for the worst of all—her suitcase being searched, which would make her intentions obvious. She’d planned to offer a bribe, and had the gold ready in innocent-looking packets in her large purse. She stayed at the Saigon Hotel on Thuy Van Road. It had been recommended by her contact in Cholon. She had a week to settle in, inspect the beach area from which the boat would leave at night, and make herself conspicuous in case the town’s security police were watching for strangers staying for just a day or so before trying to flee Vietnam by boat—only those security police who patrolled the beach or shore had been bribed. For six days she went everywhere with a baby in her arms and a child tugging along, fingers wrapped in the hem of her long white shirt. “I feel so free,” she told Jy-ying while they walked on a beach. “I feel as though we are on a vacation.” She explored, she ate in a variety or cafes and restaurants, and she enjoyed standing on the beach, letting the trade winds blow through her hair. She played in the sand with Jy-ying and made Ting giggle. In the evening she took out the photos of Dewu, Shihao, and Yan and propped them against a lamp on the chest of drawers. Their love kept her company during the night. On July 14th, as instructed, she asked the registration desk clerk the key question: “Do you think that Vung Tau is as beautiful as Hanoi?” She got back the answer recognizing her as an escapee: “Yes, I have been there many times.” He prechecked her out for the next day.

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She waited the rest of the day in her room, playing with Jy-ying and Ting, or keeping them busy until they got tired and fell asleep. Then she watched the do khung—crazy soap operas and TV movies from Hanoi. I can’t believe it. I’ll never see such propaganda crap again . . . never. At one a.m., she went to the front entrance of the hotel carrying her suitcase in one hand and Ting in the other arm, and a confused and sleepy Jy-ying tagging along with her little case. The Peugeot 203 she’d been told to expect, modified to hold about a dozen passengers, waited there. Three couples were already seated inside. Jia-Li took her seat with Ting on her lap, and Jy-ying huddled next to her with her feet on their suitcase and bags. The Peugeot drove a short distance and picked up a man at another hotel. Then it headed for Bai Dau—Mulberry Beach, a narrow, sandy beach at the foot of a steep hill, tucked between rocky beaches and the cliffs of Truong Ky and Tao Phung, two mountains forming a peninsula jutting into the ocean southwest of the city. The Peugeot discharged them by a narrow, brush-strewn path down to the beach. Men with dim, half-lidded flashlights directed them onto the beach, which seemed awfully crowded. The waves were small; Jia Li thought this must be because the ocean was shallow here for quite a distance out. Then she saw the shape of a boat offshore, darker than the night. Men were ferrying people out to it in a rowboat; the two oarsmen rowed slowly, just dipping their oars into the water so they wouldn’t create telltale white foam. A man came up to Jia Li, pointed the dim flashlight in her face, and whispered, “Ho Chi Minh.” She responded with the password: “Stalin.” Then she gave her name and those of the children. The man checked the names against a list he held under his flashlight, then took her by the elbow and Jy-ying by the hand and led them to a line of escapees waiting to be taken to the boat. Their organization surprised her. She had heard many stories about fights and even shootings as people tried to get on boats already too full, or when their forged papers were discovered, or they had not paid in full for the escape. After all her family’s bad luck, she felt it was about time something went right. She did not realize how lucky she really was. For once, those fleeing had found an honest arranger and an honest captain. The boat, VT 473, was well provisioned, as promised. It was eleven feet wide by forty-five feet long, and fitted with two forty-horsepower engines. It also had a mast, with a folded boom and sail, so although clumsy, the

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boat could still be navigated if the engines quit. They had sufficient fuel to reach the Philippines, unless they raced their engines or ran into a bad storm from the east. The night air chilled Jia Li, and she was shivering by the time their turn came to be rowed out to the boat. There, men helped her up and over the gunwale; since she had a baby and child, they directed her to sit down inside the small pilothouse. In the dim light cast by an instrument panel, she found a place where she could sit out of the way with her back to a cold metal wall. She took her coat out of her suitcase and put it on, and put a child’s wool blanket around Jy-ying. She cuddled Ting under the coat, close to her breast, and sat down, then motioned for Jy-ying to sit next to her. What a good little child, Jia Li thought, putting her arm around the little girl. She has suffered through the worst of our life in the last year, yet I’ve seen almost no tears or temper tantrums. But Jia Li had seen the fear in her eyes. Maybe she knows all this is very serious and she must be good—she is very intelligent. Jia Li smiled down at the somber child. Anyone who doesn’t know she can already speak some Vietnamese would think she is retarded, she’s so quiet. Jia Li sniffed. The pilothouse smelled of fish, oil, and salt. A good smell—the smell of escape. She kept hearing the thumping, scraping, and chattering of people arriving, and more couples with their children and babies came into the pilothouse. Occasionally a baby cried, the sound quickly muffled. Then she heard grunting and scraping and then a loud thump, which she thought might be the anchor. Three men squeezed into the pilothouse. One inserted a key in the ignition, turned it, and the engines started up with a low rumble. He adjusted a knob that was lit internally, and gripped the steering wheel. Jia Li could not feel the ship moving, but it had to be, for the man was turning the big wheel. Shihao! Shihao my loving son, she yelled in her mind. Your wish is granted. We are leaving. Your children will be free. She leaned forward to look out the pilothouse entrance. People on deck blocked the view, but she glimpsed shore lights. The pilot still moved the boat slowly away from the lights, evidently feeling he was too close to shore to attract attention with the sound of his engines. She kept her eyes on what lights she could see as they gradually receded. The rumble of the engines got louder as the boat speeded up. The lights now looked like stars in the distant blackness. “Goodbye my ancestors,” she murmured. “Goodbye Vietnam . . . goodbye my country. Vietnam, muon nam—long live Vietnam.” She hunched over, put her head in her hand, and quietly cried.

Chapter 44 2001 Ralph Nieman

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alph Nieman was looking forward to Banks’ third visit. He was more than professionally curious about the man’s unusual dreams, and made some preliminary notes about what he might expect this third time. He predicted that the dreams formed a loop and that about now, or by the next session, his dreams would begin to repeat the terror he experienced on 9/11, and his sex with the beautiful woman he called Joy, and his personal horror over killing another human being. If Banks was indeed locked into such a loop, this would explain much. When Banks arrived, Nieman led him through the same routine as the previous session, and his answers were similar. Not much had changed; he still had his dreams, and he felt physically down. So Nieman put him under hypnosis—after Banks took off his shoes and lay back on the couch—took in hand his yellow notepad, and began to probe. Soon, in the same wooden monotone as before, John began describing his dream. “Joy and I . . . ” Nieman noted the smile that touched Banks’ lips as he said that “. . . have become well known and honored in the future democratic world we’ve created . . . dictatorships still exist in a few isolated countries. Everyone in the future knows they will soon disappear, to be replaced by democratic governments. “One Islamic dictator fears what this will mean for the future of Islam . . . he seeks a way to return it to its former glory, when it conquered half the known world. He’s . . . impressed by what Joy and I were able to do for democracy . . . believes he can do that same thing for Islam—create an Islamic world. The technology of time travel is a closely guarded secret among a few democracies, but his well-paid spies are able to uncover enough about it that his own scientists are able

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to build a time machine for him. He sends back to 1906 a pair of warriors . . . Carla and Hadad . . . to kill Joy and me with their modern weapons. Once they have accomplished that, they are to promote Islam throughout the world using the incredible wealth they brought with them. “Stupid choice of warriors . . . these two never get along, not like Joy and me.” Banks startled him by barking out a sharp laugh that made his body jump. A smile lingered on Banks’ face as he continued. “Their various assassination schemes fail; Joy and I are alerted to their attempts.” “Jy-ying, whose ultimate goal is still to save Sabah and kill Joy, has joined us to protect our mission from the two assassins.” Jy-ying? Nieman quickly leafed to his list of characters in Banks’ dreams. Oh yes, Joy from another universe. “Finally, Carla and Joy have one battle in which Joy is wounded . . . Carla contrives to set up a second battle between them that Joy will not survive. However, a time policewoman . . . Jill . . . intervenes to save Joy . . . she arrests Carla and sends her to the future for trial . . . I capture Hadad and turn him over to Jill.” Banks stopped and remained still. His face contracted in remembered anguish. After a moment, Nieman asked, “What happened?” “Jy-ying is killed in a trap that Joy set up to kill Carla if Joy did not survive their battle, and thus save me from her . . .poor Jy-ying . . . I think we had won her over.” John let out a shuddering sigh. “Shit happens,” he mumbled. After a moment, he continued. “Well, anyway . . . Joy asks Jill for a favor . . . to bring her forward in time to see her mother Tor, so she can tell her about our success. Jill says she will ask permission from the authorities of her time. She also tells us that the new universe created by Carla and Hadad’s appearance in 1906 will have to be reset back to the point of Joy’s and my arrival. Otherwise the future will have been changed in unpredictable ways. “Jill leaves for the future . . . another time policeman named Jomo appears in her place. He tells us Jill has been killed while trying to arrest the Islamic dictator who sent Carla and Hadad to 1906. Jomo has permission for Joy to visit her mother. He takes her to the future, when Tor is about to die in a hospital . . . the only way this intervention can be done without changing the subsequent future. “After her visit, Joy returns to the past, and Jomo resets the universe.” Nieman scratched his head. I can’t believe this. He must be getting these dreams out of some book. In response to his questions about the

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dream, Banks provided more details. A contemporary police detective pursuing these Carla and Hadad characters . . . a little dog that saves Jy-ying from suicide? Nieman shook his head. But the more he pressed, the more Banks told him. By the time the appointment was over and a somewhat dazedlooking Banks had left, Nieman’s thoughts were no clearer. Another coherent dream. In fact, a sequence . . . it builds on the last dream, just as that built on the one before. This must be something he read . . . he is putting himself into the story as one of the characters. Except maybe for 9/11. Maybe that was added. I’ll go in that direction next time he’s here . . . and I’ll ask him about his reading material. What he’s read may be the clue that unravels all this.

Chapter 45 Day 4, August 1979 South China Sea Jiang Jia Li

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here is a boat behind us,” somebody yelled. Soon everyone saw it, and the yelling and crying began. “Is it the pirates?” “They are going to catch us. What are we going to do?” “Buddha, please help us.” Jia Li felt the boat speed up as the captain went to full power, but after half an hour at full throttle, their boat had not outdistanced the other; in fact, they could all see that the other boat was catching up. Jia Li watched the boat approach from the gunwale. As it gradually drew closer, she could see that it was a large fishing boat, with many men standing in the bow, waving rifles, machetes, fish-gutting knives, and handguns. Pirates! She picked up the suitcase that was never more the an inch away from her leg, told Jy-ying to hang onto her pants to keep the child with her, and toted Ting into the pilothouse. It was practically empty except for the captain and one other, and they were arguing about what to do. Setting Ting gently on the floor, she took out of her purse her little plastic tube, which still had her small jewels and rings inside, wet it with her mouth, and turned her back to the men. She slipped her hand inside her pants and inserted the tube into her vagina. She then put on a menstrual pad. She’d noticed a narrow door in one corner. Glancing back at the arguing men, she quickly opened it. A little closet, as she’d hoped, containing a storm slicker and hat, what she guessed were manuals, and some bottles. She put her purse and the remaining gold from her suitcase on its floor amidst some bottles, and then dropped the coat

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and hat on top of them. She shut the door, picked up Ting, and grabbed Jy-ying’s hand. They moved to a corner and waited. Brrrttt! Brrrttt! Automatic rifle fire zinged across their bow. Someone yelled in a foreign language. The captain must have understood, for he slowed their boat down. The man with whom he had been arguing tried to grab the wheel. The captain slugged him, knocking him to the floor. Jia Li looked out the door. Men from the other boat were jumping aboard, brandishing their weapons. She sat with her back to the corner and drew her knees up to her chest. She held Ting tight to her with one hand; her other clutched Jy-ying’s hand. The child’s eyes were wide, her lips puckered with fear. More yelling. Screams. Several more sharp reports as the pirates fired their guns. Three men burst into the pilothouse. Two brandished knives; the third pointed a handgun at the captain, who flung up his hands. The one with the handgun barked something at him and held out a bucket. The captain emptied his pockets, throwing everything into the bucket. His watch followed. The two with knives stood in front of Jia Li. She stared down at their black boots, struggling to keep calm. Then she gasped as one of them jerked her to her feet by her hair. Eyes watering from the pain, she looked into a deeply lined, bewhiskered face that leered crookedly at her. She stared at a black gap where one front tooth should have been. The other man was young, bearded, his face ruddy from sun and wind. Straight black hair poked out below a Yankees baseball cap. Gap-tooth made motions for her to strip. The other threw open her suitcase and began rifling through its contents. Jia Li gently put Ting down next to the metal wall. She pushed down her pants and pulled her underpants aside sufficiently to show her menstrual pad. Gap-tooth took a step back, his face screwed up in disgust. Then he unzipped his pants, wiggled to work out his erection, and then pushed her down on her knees and pointed to it. She looked away. He picked up Ting and shook her at Jia Li; the baby writhed in his hands and began screaming as only a baby can. Jy-ying began to cry herself and quickly crawled underneath a tarp jumbled in another corner. The boat had erupted in a cacophony of gunfire, screams and wails, cries and moans, the piercing cries of children yelling for their mothers, and the deep, demanding shouts of the pirates.

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Jia Li did what the man wanted while he held onto Ting, whose panicked screaming added to the roar of terror and death throughout the boat. When he arched is back and released himself with a loud grunt, he pushed her head away, left his penis hanging out, and yelled something to the young man. The younger pirate, still kneeling over the dumped contents of Jia Li’s suitcase, rose and unbuttoned his thick oiled pants in front of Jia Li. The stench of rotting fish made her gag. While Gap-tooth held the screaming Ting, she also did Yankee-cap. He ejaculated and stepped back. Jia Li spit everything out, then held out her hands for Ting. Gap-tooth laughed. Shoving his limp penis into his pants with three fingers, he strode out of the pilothouse, gripping the crying, wildly shaking baby by one arm. Sobbing, Jia Li stumbled after him, weaving through the unmoving bodies and the naked women and girls being either raped or sodomized. Their husbands, fathers, and brothers huddled together to one side, their backs turned. Jia Li screamed, “No! Please no! Give her to me. I have gold.” The man did not understand. He stood at the gunwale and tossed the screaming infant into the ocean. She shrieked, “Ting!” and hit him full body with her shoulder, knocking him over the side. She fell in after him. She could barely swim, but she managed to flail to the surface. Her sodden hair covered her face, half blinding her as she swung her body around, searching frantically for Ting. She could not see the baby in the waves. But she did see Gap-tooth as he swam past her toward the boat. She arched her body toward him, stretching out her arm as far as she could. Her fingers sank into his hair, and she pulled them together and wrapped her other arm around his neck. Twisting and turning under her, he tried to beat her off with his fists, but the water hampered him. She climbed up on his head, put her full weight on him, and held him under the waves with all her strength. His arms flailed above the water as he tried to punch her, but he could not reach a vital place. His struggling grew weaker and weaker. And then he was still. When his body started pulling her down, Jia Li released him. She paddled desperately on the ocean’s surface, gasping for air. She was now so weak, and she had gulped so much seawater, that she could hardly keep her head above water. She vomited, spewing out water, and started thrashing around in a circle, looking for Ting again. She was nowhere.

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Jia Li jerked her head toward her boat as the horrible screams, shouts, shrieks, and gunfire escalated. The pirates had tied the hands of some of the naked girls and were pulling them onto their fishing boat. One of the girls twisted free and threw herself into the waves. Other pirates were shoving overboard the men and older women, some unmoving and bloody. They threw shrieking children after them. All around the boat, heads bobbed in the water and outstretched hands pleaded mutely for help. Jia Li squeezed her eyes shut. Never before had she heard such pitiful cries. She knew it was hopeless for her, for Ting, and for poor Jy-ying, still alone somewhere on the boat. She turned her head to look up at the beautiful, baby-blue sky, where cottony clouds floated effortlessly, and seabirds coasted back and forth on the wind currents. The captain had been on a watch for them. He’d said they were a sign that land was close. She thought of Dewu and Shihao, and caressed their images in her mind, and told them of her love. She cried for Ting and Jy-ying, her tears mingling with the lapping sea. She remembered a few of the Buddhist psalms and hymns her mother had taught her, and then only parts of them. As she tried to keep her head just above the water, she made part of one into her death poem: All passion have I put away, and all Illusion utterly has passed from me; Cool am I now. Gone all the fire within. Only love remains. She gave her mother and father a mental kiss. Then she let herself sink into the water, breathing it in. At first her body convulsed, trying to cough the flood out of her lungs, but that soon stopped. She felt a great quiet. She sank into the peaceful embrace of the ocean, and the darkness slowly came. And then the light. “Hello my love.” “Hello, Mom. Is that you, Dewu? Shihao?” Their arms were open for her. She ran to them, and then the light dimmed. And went out.

Chapter 46 2001 John Banks

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e was tired, more tired than usual. Again he considered calling in sick to the History Department, but today’s lecture was one he had looked forward to and for which he had prepared well. He did get his nap, and that helped. As he walked to his class, he tried to make sense of last night’s dream, for what felt the hundredth time. I’ve gone through this one before. A number of times, I’m certain. And again I woke up screaming “No!” and wet with sweat, my heart beating like a drum in my ears. My teeth hurt . . . must have ground them together. Again, a gun in my hand . . . the smell of smoke, men rushing me with knives . . . . I was running with someone in my arms . . . something about medicine . . . a heart monitor? I can’t put it together. Can’t understand. Why the gun in so many dreams? I’m a gangster? I have a repressed desire to shoot someone? Hope Nieman is making something of it all. John didn’t remember much of what he said during the hypnosis sessions. He was glad Nieman was taping it all. It’s like I’ve been sleeping through the hypnosis. He’d been so upset by that damn dream that he couldn’t sleep afterward, no matter how he tried. He’d spent the remainder of the night tossing and turning, and again rose with a headache to swallow three aspirins. At least that helped. He’d sagged onto his couch and watched with drooping eyelids the old movie The Girl Who Had Everything. He’d been unable to fall asleep during the movie, or even after it. Shit. He got to class barely in time. And everyone was there for a change. He took his outline out of his briefcase and stood alongside the lectern, one hand resting on it. “Good afternoon, students.” And then he began. “Throughout the Indochina and Vietnam wars, with all the associated killing and democide, Vietnamese generally re-

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fused to leave their country. Not even when many were forced to flee for their lives from vicious battles, as did 417,300 such refugees in 1974 alone. Even then, they returned to their home villages when they could. Vietnamese are loath to give up their family, their ancestral roots, their traditional customs. But after the North seized the South, they were faced with a new terror—that of the reeducation camps and the New Economic Zones; of torture and execution for who knows what, or formal isolation and a slow death from starvation, exposure, or disease; of being conscripted to fight another of Vietnam’s wars. “As the communists tightened their hold on the South, they intervened more and more in all aspects of life, imposed and enforced more rules. Totalitarianism became another kind of war the North inflicted upon the Southern people. In this new police state, the North controlled everything, including when and where one could move or visit, employment, production, prices and wages, education, food rations, personal consumption, entertainment, speech, associations, and religion. The North abolished all private trade in the South, and took over or abolished all private firms.” Banks looked from one student to another. “Class, when I use the term, ‘the North,’ to what am I referring?” He shuffled his name cards and pulled one out. “Miss Garfield.” A girl near the front put up her hand to identify herself. “North Vietnam.” “True, but ordinarily it refers to both a geographical area and a political division. There is a more specific meaning when I say, for example, ‘the North eliminated all private trade.’ In that example, the North means what?” He looked around. “Miss Stanton.” “The government of North Vietnam?” “True. And who was the government of North Vietnam? Mr. Wong?” “Hmm . . . Ho Chi Minh?” “He died in 1969. When I refer to the North doing such and such, I’m referring to its Communist Party, which in effect is the government of North Vietnam, and with the capture of the South, the government of all Vietnam. “To go on—the alarm, dismay, and dread, the trembling fear the North created in the South with its imposition of totalitarian communism, was already the lot of Northerners. However, in 1976, the communists began to focus particularly on those of Chinese ethnicity in the North. It began expelling thousands of Sino-Vietnamese, calling them ‘fifth columnists,’ a rhetoric that forecasted more serious conse-

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quences. Indeed, as relations with China soured, this soon became a label used to indict all such Chinese, North or South. In the North, Sino-Vietnamese living in the provinces, especially in important areas bordering China, were deported, while their homes were burned and property stolen. Others in the cities suddenly found themselves without jobs and subject to sharp discrimination. “Understandably, more and more Vietnamese, including SinoVietnamese and other minorities, began to seriously consider escaping the country. But there were few options. China to the North was also communist and, in any case, refugees who were not Sino-Vietnamese could be forcibly returned to Vietnam. Laos was a Vietnamese satellite. From 1975 through 1978, Cambodia was under rule of a Khmer Rouge that hated and killed Vietnamese; after the short 1978–79 Cambodian-Vietnamese War, Cambodia also became Vietnam’s colony. “That left trying to get across at least several hundred miles of open ocean to reach Hong Kong, the Philippines, Malaysia, or Indonesia, or hoping that some passing ship would pick them up. “I want you to take a moment to look at the map of Southeast Asia in your text, and note particularly the countries to which the Vietnamese could flee by boat.” Banks gave them a moment so he wouldn’t have to compete with the clatter of books and the rustling of pages, and the whispers to neighbors of those who’d forgotten their texts. He grinned at the mild chaos that occurred whenever he unexpectedly asked students to do something with their texts. “Okay. Aside from the problem of finding someone with a boat, and the risk of being swindled out of one’s life savings, being turned in to the communists, or captured while trying to escape, few seaworthy boats were available. And not many knew how to navigate the open ocean. Some of this risk was alleviated when, for an often-quoted amount of $2,000 in gold or hard currency, government officials or quasi-government organizations secretly aided those Vietnamese, especially Sino-Vietnamese, seeking to escape. “Getting out of the country was only part of it. The primary danger lay on the ocean. Once out in the South China Sea, often in old, unseaworthy, and overloaded boats, some simply not constructed for deep ocean travel, these escapees—whom I will henceforth call Boat People—were subject to deadly storms. And they were prey for Cambodian and Thai fishermen turned savage pirates. Typically, these pirates would pull alongside a boat, brandish their weapons, forcibly board it, rob the escapees of their valuables, selectively rape the women and

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girls, kill those who tried to interfere, and take a few of the women with them when they left. Sometimes they would allow those still living to continue. Sometimes they would kill everyone or sink the boat and leave all on it to drown. “This piracy went on day after day, week after week, and year after year. In 1989, these pirates were still operating. For example, the UN high commissioner for refugees in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, reported in May 1989 that . . .” Banks read from his outline, “‘seven pirates armed with shotguns and hammers killed 130 Vietnamese refugees and set fire to their boat off the Malaysian coast . . . . The attackers shot and bludgeoned refugees to death after raping several women . . . . Other boat people died of exhaustion after floating in the sea clinging to bodies of fellow refugees.’ “If the—” A sudden thump from the rear stopped him. He and most of the students turned to stare at Miss Phim, who had knocked her book off her chair. She had her shaking head in her hands, and looked to be sobbing. He didn’t know what to do. This had never happened in any class he had been in, or those to which he had lectured. Then his male instincts took over and he quickly walked to the rear of the room where she sat. He could tell that she was trying to keep her sobbing quiet, but it seemed otherwise out of control. He put his arm around her shoulder—it felt so right— and asked quietly, “What is it? Is there anything I can do?” Miss Chisholm, a student who sat nearby, came up on the other side of her and put a hand on her arm. She soon gained some control and stopped shaking. She dropped her hands and looked at him. Her face was wet with tears that still trickled from red eyes. She almost shuddered with some kind of grief. Lips trembling, she tried to whisper something, but it wouldn’t come out. Then she set up straight, raised her chin, and stammered, “When I was maybe four . . . they didn’t know my age . . . I was . . . on one of those boats. . . . Pirates killed everyone.” She shook her head as though to clear away the pain. “They missed me . . . but must have killed my mother and father . . . I was alone.” John stood and looked at the class. “Miss Phim has had a terrible experience that has devastated her, as you can see. I don’t want to say any more without her permission. Class is dismissed. I’ll catch up next time.” The class broke out in agitated whispers. Chairs scraped, books thumped. The students left the classroom, accompanied by an unusual amount of chatter.

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Banks looked at Miss Chisholm on the other side of Miss Phim. “Could you take her to the restroom and help her . . . whatever—you know. I’ll wait outside. I would like to talk to her and try to help her afterward.” He told Miss Phim, “Take your time. When you are ready, Miss Chisholm can take you to the restroom to . . . ah, refresh yourself.” She nodded, the grief still in her eyes, but her tears had stopped. “I’m alright now. Thank you both. I don’t need to go to the restroom.” She started to put her things into her backpack, and then took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes and face. John glanced at the other student and said, implying by his tone that he wanted to be alone with Miss Phim, “Thanks for helping her.” Chisholm replied, “Glad to help.” Then she leaned over Joy Phim and said, “Hope you feel better soon,” and left. They were alone in the classroom. John pulled up a chair so that he could sit down facing her. “I caused you grief, and I’m sorry. I didn’t know your background. If I had, I would have suggested you skip this lecture.” She looked at him with swollen eyes, the only residual of her grief. Her tilted head was so familiar; he must have seen it a million times. His heart began skipping—no, impossible. He found himself struggling to control his own emotions. She said, her voice almost normal in its smooth femininity, “I thought I could handle it. I was ready for your lecture. But the example of what the pirates did to the one boat . . . .” She let out a wavering sigh. “I was found alone, barely alive, in a boat off the Philippines. It got into the local newspapers, was picked up by The New York Times, and when a Cambodian refugee in the United States read about it, she crashed through the United Nations refugee bureaucracy to adopt me. Her name is Tor Phim, and she is like a real mother to me. I love her very much.” She paused and sniffled. “I am sorry to bother you with all this personal—” “It’s no bother. I teach this, you may remember.” He let the dimples begin to form at the sides of his mouth—all his past female friends had commented on them, and she seemed to appreciate them, as well. Her eyes opened wider, and she gave him a hint of a return grin. “Would you mind if I ask you some questions?” he asked. “After I busted up your class—please do.” It started out as questions, but turned into a conversation as she asked her own, and before either of them knew it, students were beginning to come into the room for the next class.

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“Would you like to come to my office so that we can continue?” John asked. “If you don’t have another class, that is.” “I would be happy to,” she answered. “I am only taking— auditing—your class.” John felt his eyebrows shoot up. “No other class?” “No. I wanted to hear what you had to say about the democratic peace. I already have a BA in political science and an MA in computer science.” John imagined his jaw making a loud thump as it hit the floor. He rapidly recovered and started to say, “I don’t under—” “Hello,” a heavy, middle-aged man yelled at him. “We have a class starting in this room.” John yelled back, “Sorry.” As they got up to leave, John wondered, Why was I so surprised? It felt like I could have completed her sentence when she told me that . . . but I couldn’t have known that . . . . Crazy. He led her to his office, where he motioned her in first, then left the door open behind him—he never closed the door with a female student in his office. His desk faced the wall, since he hated to put a desk between him and a student. He offered his own cushioned captain’s chair to her, took the desk chair, and turned it to face her. They picked up the conversation where they’d left off. He found out that her mother owned Nguon Industries and was very rich—he was not told this, but surmised it—and Joy worked on computers at her godmother Gu Yaping’s company, Peng Magnetics and Propulsion. Her mother had her trained at a very early age in karate and judo. He told her about his mother the top-ten tennis pro, and the father he hardly saw as he grew older, and who died mysteriously while working for the CIA. Then he told her about his growing interest in doing something about war and democide, and that the democratic peace seemed the solution, the more he studied it. Totally lost in her eyes and manner, her tilted head, her caressing voice, he couldn’t recall where in the discussion they started calling each other Joy and John. But he did remember that she had said, “I’m Joy—that Miss Phim is a turnoff,” and emphasized it by jabbing a delicate finger into his shoulder. He had resisted. “You are my student. I can’t call you Joy.” “I am an auditor, not really a student,” she countered. “Besides, as I told you, I have already completed college and graduate school. And I am almost as old as you are. You’re twenty-six, and a fresh Ph.D. from Yale. I’m twenty-five. Call me Joy or henceforth I will forever call you Dr. Professor Banks.”

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He stared at her. That’s right . . . political science? Computer science? Holy Christ. He threw his hands up and replied, “I’m John. Nice to meetcha.” He hesitated, trying to get his mental feet under him. “Ah . . . why are you taking my class? With, ah, your degrees and all?” “It’s not strange at all, John. Some of my courses at Berkeley went into the democratic peace as an idealistic alternative view to the realist emphasis on diplomacy and the balance of power, and in my course on international relations from Professor Schuman, I wrote a term paper on it. Then I heard a speech by the former Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu in which he emphasized the democratic peace. That stimulated my interest all over again. Here, it seemed, was a solution to war and what you call democide. Amazing. So, I wanted to know more about it. I talked to some professors in the area at the American Political Science Association meeting, including, it turned out, your dissertation chairman at Yale. He was highly complimentary about your dissertation, and said you would be teaching it here. “So I asked my mother to investigate you. She is as interested as I am in the democratic peace. You passed her scrutiny, so I took time out from my computer work, got an apartment here in Bloomington, and here I am in the office of the very person I wanted to hear lecture about it.” Investigated? Jesus. He shook his head over that. But he wasn’t insulted, or even shocked, as he would have been normally. “You must know so much more about me than I do about you.” “Well,” she said, giving him a beautiful smile, “I’ll have to change that.” Wow, he thought. Outside his window, daylight was fading, but he didn’t want this to ever end. He was more than smitten. He was overcome. But he liked so much about her, was so comfortable around her, that he knew it wasn’t love at first sight. And it went beyond the familiarity that grew from seeing her in class. It was like déjà vu, as though he had gone through this before and he was rediscovering his love. That couldn’t be. No way. But the feeling was, mysteriously, there. “Would you like to join me for supper? We would have to eat in the cafeteria, which is the only legitimate place I can be seen with you. This is a college town, you know.” “John, I am an auditor, as I said. You are not grading me.” “Afraid of the grade I would have given you, eh?” That lilt to her voice, her “don’t you dare contradict me” way of asserting something, and his reaction—too comfortable, like a well-used easy chair.

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Her eyes narrowed briefly and her lips tightened, then she looked at him askance before seeming to relax. “I have never been afraid of any grade I would get.” Oops. Then she added, strangely, “Are you afraid of the grade I will give you?” John’s response just came out without his thinking. “I have never been afraid of any grade I would get from a beautiful, intelligent woman.” She laughed. “Does that include me?” “Don’t know, do you.” She hadn’t accepted his invitation to supper yet. He just assumed it, and said, “Let’s eat.” “Since you’re so sensitive about me being a student, you’re welcome to eat at my place. I’m not a good cook, but I have pizza in the freezer and beer in the refrigerator. I could sneak you in with a blanket over your head.” “Well now, that is very friendly of you, but the blanket might slip and I could be recognized. And then there is my moral reputation to uphold. It would appear that I’m sneaking into a student’s apartment for immoral purposes, and then where would I be?” Joy’s eyebrows disappeared into her bangs, and she gawked at him. He added, “Anyway, I don’t go to a woman’s place until the tenth date. I keep track.” He tried to keep his face straight, but he felt the dimple forming at the corner of his mouth. She looked into his eyes, then at his dimples, and finally studied his overly bland expression. And burst out laughing. “I’ll get you for that.” She hesitated, obviously thinking of something. Then she admitted, “I’ve never invited a man over to my place like this. We really haven’t dated. Except for seeing you teach and hearing you make corny jokes, you are a perfect stranger. But for some reason, it feels as though I know you . . . . ” She shook her head. “Enough of that. Should I get the blanket?”

Chapter 47 1996 Cyril Clement

W

hen Cyril walked into the History Department’s office, aflame with excitement over the upcoming meeting, a young man was standing by the secretary’s desk. Cyril almost stopped at the door and gawked. That’s him. That’s Banks. He doesn’t look like an ordinary student—too rugged-looking and masculine. More like he should be training horses. Cyril felt weak in the knees. His heart fluttered as he walked up to Banks and put out a hand that he was sure was moist and trembling. Struggling to keep his voice calm and straightforward, he said, “Hi . . . John. Great seeing you again.” John? Christ. Ever since I found his stuff, he has always been Banks. Banks . . . John shook Cyril’s hand firmly, his eyebrows slightly raised, his forehead slightly wrinkled. “Glad . . . good to see you again.” He quickly recovered himself and led a shaky Cyril to the conference room. Cyril sat down at the head of the table, and John pulled out the nearest chair and sat down. Cyril had to use every trick he knew to control his exhilaration and awe. Here, sitting by me, is John Banks! The John Banks who wrote the “Remembrance” . . . the John Banks who traveled back in time to 1906 . . . the great John Banks whose mission was to end war and democide and foster the democratic peace. One of the world’s greatest peacemakers, along with Joy. They prevented the bloody Mexican and Russian Revolutions, the War Lord period in China, World Wars I and II, and democratized China, Russia, and Japan— Jesus. Cyril mentally shook his head. Banks . . . he personally shot Hitler dead.

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A shiver ran up and down his spine. Damn, my heart’s beating so rapidly, he must see it thumping in my throat and shaking my body. If only Alice were alive . . . . Oh, how she would love this moment. Cyril mentally shook himself. He finally spoke up when Banks began to frown, seeking a topic that wouldn’t reveal they’d never met. “So, aah . . . John, how are your studies coming?” The frown deepened for a second, and then disappeared. Banks seemed to settle himself comfortably in his chair. “Well, this is my first semester here, and I’m just beginning to get a feel for the different specialties the History Department offers. Every one here is so respected and such experts in their fields, it’s hard to pick a course to take. I want to take them all.” Cyril was relaxing. The small talk did it. He was able to wave his hand and say, “I bet you signed up for twice as many courses as you could take, so that after week or two you could drop those that were the least interesting.” John nodded. Cyril couldn’t delay any longer. He had to ask, “Do you have any particular interest?” “I’m especially fascinated by the Spanish Inquisition. I can read Spanish, and might focus on its genesis and toll. But I’m also interested in the history of pacifism, particularly in the United States.” No wonder he did his dissertation on the democratic peace and democide . . . the basic interest is already there. Aloud he asked, “Do you know anything about my research?” I’ll bet he did research on me before this meeting. “Of course,” John answered. “I know your work on democide and the democratic peace.” “Does it interest you?” Cyril could see the fascination in John’s eyes. “Well, your research provokes a lot of questions.” Cyril made a point of looking at his watch. “I have some time. Go ahead, ask away.” For the next hour Cyril answered whatever questions troubled John, trying to be as provocative as possible but also suggesting possible areas needing research, particularly historical scholarship. Finally Cyril said, “I have to leave for other appointments,” which he did, with Political Science faculty. “I’m giving a faculty-student seminar on my research tomorrow, as you know, and I hope that you can attend. Afterward, perhaps you could join me for supper.” Banks seemed startled by the invitation. “Ah, I’d be glad to . . . and to also attend your seminar.”

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When they shook hands and parted, Cyril could see the deep confusion in the other’s eyes. He had no better idea how Cyril knew him, or especially why Cyril took such interest in him. Cyril floated through the rest of the day, stuck in a mental and emotional loop. I met the John Banks . . . I shook hands with him. My God, I talked to him . . . he’s coming to my seminar. The man to whom I owe my life and career. He was barely able to function when he met several faculty members in their offices. He answered their questions almost by rote, and hoped they put it down to jet lag.

aaa That evening, after a supper with the chairman of the Political Science Department, he stretched out on his hotel bed, eyes unfocused on the CNN programming on the TV, ears deaf to the parade of commentators. All he could think about at first was his meeting with Banks. Then, almost with a mental click, the image of Banks’ partner, Joy, popped into his mind. Joy? My God, Joy? She was half the Banks mission. She’s alive now somewhere. God, do I want to meet her face to face—to see this beautiful . . . warrior in person. Let’s see, where could I find her? I know she was a member of the Survivors’ Benevolent Society, but that society is secret . . . no address or phone number. He’d checked. I know that Joy’s mother, Tor, named her industrial conglomerate after her husband . . . can’t remember the name, though, nor Joy’s last name. Goddamn it, I can’t even remember where she got her BA in political science and MS in computer science . . . He did know that afterward, she worked for her godmother from China. Gu something or other. . . but I can’t recall that company name, either, if it was ever there. He sighed. I’m getting too damn old for this memory mining. I give up. But there will be an opportunity to meet her in the future. Until then, after I return home . . . He didn’t know what more to do with his life. Maybe I’ll just learn to write HTML and build a Web site to display my—Banks’ future research. Cyril had to laugh at that. And try to educate people about the democratic peace and democide. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. After all, it’s still part of Alice and my mission . . . and Banks’ . . . John and Joy’s.

aaa

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Banks attended Cyril’s seminar; in fact, he was there well before Cyril and most of the attending faculty had arrived. When Cyril walked in and saw him there, he gave him a little wave and a smile, and tried to ignore him the rest of the time. Cyril thought he had his emotions under control, but when he started to explain the democratic peace, the very idea he had taken from Banks’ stuff, he stammered and chewed up his words, and had to fake a cough to cover the awkwardness. “I must have caught a slight cold somewhere,” he apologized with a strained smile. He fumbled again when he introduced the idea of democide. He stopped, turned away from everyone, and faked a cough, then took out his handkerchief and wiped his nose and mouth to buy more time. Again he turned back and apologized for the interruption. He hoped his act would explain why his voice wavered slightly as he continued with his presentation, defining democide and then detailing the great extent to which such murder by government had been practiced. This was after all a seminar; with a mental sigh of relief, Cyril ended his presentation and allowed almost thirty minutes for questions and discussion. Banks left all the questions and interaction to others, either out of shyness in such a group of esteemed faculty or, more likely, Cyril thought, because he’d have what he must perceive as the privilege of asking questions privately when they met for supper. Truly, the privilege is mine. When they met for dinner at CO Jones Restaurant, John was now clearly into the subject. At first he expressed doubt, as so many historians did, and tried one argument after another to deny the truth of the democratic peace. By the time their Kendra’s Dip & Chips came to be picked at by both of them, Banks had moved from “can’t be true,” to “doubtful,” to “maybe.” Maybe is enough, thought Cyril. That will get him going into his own research and the dissertation I know he will do. When they discussed what Cyril had said about democide during his seminar, Banks was truly into it. “Its like the Inquisition,” he said, “but bloodier and more pervasive than any historian knows.” “That’s right,” Cyril said. “Historians have little chunks of it, depending on their specialty; one might know of the democide in Russia as part of his studies in Russian history, another as part of her Islamic studies, another through research into the Christian Crusades, or the Middle Ages, or the Roman Empire, and so on. No one, until I did my research . . . ” based on your mission, Cyril mentally added, hoping that he was not blushing, “has tried to put all these chunks into one whole.”

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Banks was even more skeptical of the relationship of democracy to democide, and offered a number of common arguments, which Cyril answered in each case. “I will be here until very early Saturday morning. If you have any more questions or simply want to discuss this, let me know,” Cyril said when they parted. “Anyway, you have my email address—write me whenever. And if you need any help or encouragement if you make this your focus, I would be more than willing to help.” As Cyril watched this incredible man of the future and the past and of a new peaceful universe walk away, “how could this be?” no longer troubled him. That he had read Banks’ stuff as a young man and discovered the ideas of the democratic peace and democide that he’d now introduced to Banks had happened. This was the way it was. And reality trumps doubt. When he returned to his hotel room at the Branford-Days Inn, he took a photograph of Alice out of his wallet with a trembling hand and kissed her face. “I wish you had been there,” he told her in a quavering voice, and then he held her to his heart, and cried.

Chapter 48 2001 John Banks

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oy’s one-bedroom apartment had a small kitchen off the dining room, itself simply an extension of the living room. When John followed Joy into her apartment—no blanket—she asked him to take off his shoes at the door, and then invited him to take a seat on the couch. “I’m going to change into something more comfortable. It’ll take a moment. Meanwhile, there are things you can look at on the coffee table.” She then headed for what must be the bedroom. One eye on her bottom as it disappeared through the door, John sat down. He stared at the closed bedroom door, head tilted, one finger rubbing his chin. What’s she doing? I don’t understand. Her usual gray sweatshirt and Levis seem as comfortable as she could get. He lingered on the thought of the tight Levis: Those would heat up a eunuch. Then: Unless . . . no, impossible. Don’t be stupid. He ripped his eyes from the bedroom door and looked around the apartment. Neat . . . not fussy. Comfortable. A place where I could relax. On the coffee table she had a pile of journals, news magazines— some dated months previous—and a little stack of folded newspapers. He looked through the stack. The New York Times, Washington Post, and the Washington Times. All current. A Mac laptop computer sat off by itself; though closed, its light told him it was active. He heard the bedroom door open, and she came back into the room. She had changed into a pink blouse with a V-neck that plunged down to her cleavage, and a tight denim skirt. Does she ever wear anything that isn’t tight around her hips? But what took his breath away was her hair. She had unleashed it from the ponytail she always wore to class into a black waterfall that fell with a slight curve to her hips. It emphasized her beauty and her figure both. He could only stare.

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She curtsied and said, “Ta-da. I got tired of my class uniform.” The hours went by in minutes. He knew he had eaten pizza and drank two bottles of beer, for the empty bottles and the pizza box were sitting on the kitchen counter when he happened to come up for air and see them. Afterward, he could not track what they talked about specifically, as their voices slid imperceptibly from conversation, to closeness, to comfortable intimacy; nor was he really aware of Joy going back and forth with the pizza and beers and cleaning up, for they kept communicating at all levels right through it. As the distance between them decreased, each assumed an unconscious physical openness to each other. He was soon drowning in Joy’s pheromones. The only break came when he had to use the bathroom, but then his mind was full of her and he could only hope afterward that he hit the toilet bowl. At some semiconscious level, he felt this was impossible. Many hours ago, before she’d emotionally broken down over the merciless death of her parents, she was the gorgeous, untouchable student sitting in the back of his class—free to desire, but forever unattainable. Now, in the same day, he was in her apartment, besotted by her, with all his quivering instincts telling him that she wanted him, too. Women found him attractive, and he’d had many relationships over the years. He had honed the choreography from “Hello, my name is . . . ” to “Your place or mine?” The sequence had never been as rapid as now. He felt the heat, he felt his partial erection, he felt his mind losing control to his desire and tried to stop it. Too fast . . . too fast, stupid . . . I’m letting my desire misinterpret the situation. If I try to kiss her she’ll slap my face and yell, “Go!” Slow this down . . . don’t ruin a possible future. Or am I over-intellectualizing what is naturally progressing? Boy, this one is beyond my experience . . . but then, there is that curious sense of familiarity. He fought his lust, and the time to put his arm around her came and went. The time to kiss her disappeared into what might have been. Yes, if it had been another woman, but not this one. They were both leaning against the back of the sofa, nearly facing each other. Joy had her legs drawn up under her and her arm resting along the sofa’s back cushion, almost touching John’s shoulder. She had been smiling invitingly, her voice soft and silky. Finally she tilted her head, looked sidelong at him with half-lidded eyes, her lips parted in a wanton, almost feral look. It was unmistakably female in heat. She stood and walked toward the bedroom. Oh my God, I’ve done it. I’ve turned her off. No, worse—alienated her. Oh, shit.

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Joy turned at the bedroom door, thrust out her right hip and put her hand on it, let the other arm fall across her other hip, and tilted her head. “Let yourself out,” she said evenly. Shit, shit, I screwed this up, John’s dejection screamed at him as he started to get up. “Or . . . ” an I-got-you grin slowly lit up her face, and her voice took on a sensual tone that suggested he had died and entered Paradise “ . . . you can join me in bed.”

Chapter 49 2001 Ralph Nieman

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ieman’s appointment book was half empty, so he had asked his secretary to schedule Banks on alternate days. He looked forward to seeing him in a few minutes. He had listened to the tapes of the last three dreams with an increasing insight into what was troubling the young professor. He had written down what he expected to hear in Banks’ recollection of the next dream, if in fact there was a new one. When Banks arrived, Nieman asked him the usual questions about how he felt, what he was thinking about his problem, and what he read in his spare time. No mention of science fiction, or anything similar. When he asked about the dreams, Banks replied, “I know that some of my dreams are repeating themselves, but I don’t know whether it is one dream or if they get mixed up. Guns always seem to be part of my dreams . . . and using them in a fight. And I seem to be learning, or . . . I don’t know, using martial arts—which is funny. I think I’m being taught, if that’s what it is, by some small woman. It’s damn annoying, not to remember.” He automatically moved over to the couch. “Anyway, they seem not to bother me as much. Last night my sleep was not as fitful, and the dreams seem almost ordinary in how they affected me. You know, I woke up when my alarm when off, and then as I was shaving and later eating breakfast, I hazily recalled patches of the dream, as I’d do with normal dreams. No waking up with screams in the middle of the night, no sweating. My face and pillow were wet for some reason, however.” “Has anything changed in your life that might account for this?” “Ah . . . hmm. Well, since you’re my psychologist and I can trust you to keep this secret, I’ve developed a relationship with the beautiful Asian student in my class.” Banks immediately held up his hand as

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though warding off an objection. “She’s twenty-five, and not taking any other class, and only auditing mine. So, I don’t see a facultystudent relationship problem.” “What’s her name?” Nieman asked. “Joy Phim.” Nieman tried to prevent his eyebrows from flicking up and down; before Banks could see his eyes widen, he dropped his head and started writing on his yellow pad. A key. He had just been given a key to this young professors’ psychological problem. He leaned back to his desk and pressed the button on his phone for his secretary. “Sandra here,” she responded. “Sandra, please . . . oh, just a moment.” He looked at his patient. “John, do you have an extra hour this morning? It’s important.” Banks nodded. Nieman again spoke into the phone. “Please reschedule my next meeting with Mrs. Hargrave with my apologies. Tell her an emergency has come up. If she gives you trouble, say the next meeting is halfprice.” Then Nieman turned to Banks. Keeping his voice professional, he said, “Please tell me all that you know about this woman . . . ah, Joy Phim.” Banks did so for the next forty-five minutes. Then Nieman suggested hypnosis. Banks took up his position on he couch, minus his shoes, and Nieman pronounced the phrase “P,R,ti” that put him under. At first, Nieman asked a series of questions about Joy to see if anything about her was hidden from Banks in his subconscious. He was straightforward about Joy; it’s clear that he is already deeply in love with her. He looked at his watch. Okay, time to move on. Let’s see about his dreams. In response to his questions, Nieman learned that the dreams he’d thought might repeat were indeed almost identical to the last dreams Banks had recounted. Then he asked, “Did you have a new dream?” “Yes,” came the wooden response. “Can you recall it?” “Yes, I think so.” “Please describe it to me.” “A strange man killed Stalin in 1903, and then helped Trotsky successfully revolt against the Russian Czar in 1905.” Nieman was surprised. Banks’ usually wooden tone under hypnosis had melted into a well-modulated storytelling voice. Hmm, what other surprises does he have in store for me? Not his shoes, he took them off again.

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“When Joy and I arrive in 1906, the Bolsheviks have seized power in Russia, and the anticommunist Civil War is eating up lives. This socalled Russian Revolution should not have taken place until 1917. But now, in 1906, the Red Terror and associated famine are killing millions of Russians! And Lenin isn’t leading the revolution this time. Trotsky is. “When Jy-ying—Joy’s double—Joy, and I discover this horror taking place in Russia, we have to believe a time traveler from the future is trying to change the past . . . we can only assume that his goal is to communize the world. We have to defeat him. Since we don’t know who he is, we decide to lure him to us. “In the meantime, Jy-ying and Joy discover they aren’t just doubles, they’re the same person, from separate universes. Joy also discovers that Jy-ying is as much in love with me as she is. And since they are one and the same, although from different universes, Joy invites Jyying to enter into a ménage à trois—a three-person sexual relationship—with Joy and me . . . . She accepts, and I’m . . . seduced into it.” Nieman waited, but Banks only started squirming on the couch. Finally he instructed, “Please go on.” “It was a wet dream. Then, when I woke up, I made love to the real Joy lying next to me in bed. It was a twofer.” Banks was actually grinning, and so was Nieman. “Was there more to your dream?” “Well, after I made love to the real Joy, I went back to sleep and the dream continued . . . . “The time traveler—we learn later it’s one man, a rogue time policeman—wants to change the universe, make communism triumphant. To lure him into revealing himself, we publish a book about the development of communism in the future, including references to Stalin, and use the nom de plume Adolph Hitler—a name only someone from the future would recognize. That gets him searching for us. Like us, he knows only other time travelers could have this information, and from the history he learned in the future, the history in which we are famous for what we did for democracy, he realizes the time travelers have to be us. “He finds us, as we planned. But we didn’t realize what powerful weapons he would have. He uses a device to teleport himself into our bedroom when only Joy is there. He partially paralyzes her and . . . rapes her. “A little dog Jy-ying adopted warns us of an intruder . . . we rush to the bedroom. Jy-ying springs into the bedroom from a side door with her dog, which distracts him long enough for her to shoot him dead.

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“But . . . he had . . . k-killed . . . Joy. Joy was dead. My Joy . . . was deeaad!” Tears flooded from Banks’ eyes to run down the sides of his face. He lay rigid on his back, the hands at his sides clenched into fists so tight, his knuckles were white. Nieman waited. He didn’t want to interrupt what might be a necessary, purging grief. Soon the tears stopped and Banks’ body relaxed, as did his hands. Nieman asked softly, “Can you continue?” “Yes.” A long pause. “Our mission, that of Joy and I, now becomes that of Jy-ying and I. As the months pass, my love for Jy-ying grows . . . but I cannot physically return her love for me, which is as great as was Joy’s. Until . . . Joy appears in a dream, to give my love for Jy-ying her spiritual blessing. With that, Jy-ying and I become true loving partners.” Nieman waited, and then asked, “Is that the end of the dream?” John’s eyes opened, and he turned his head to look Nieman in the eye. A dimple formed at the corner of his mouth, and he waved his hand across his body, as if including somebody invisible next to him. “Well, other than that,” he said, “we defeated the Russian Revolution, eventually democratized Russia, and still succeeded in promoting peace and democracy as Joy and I did in my first dream. But no biggie. What was most important was that Joy came back to me in my dream within a dream.” Nieman hid his chuckle, and then sat back and stared at the other man. Extraordinary. Is he still under? Maybe it’s his natural personality asserting itself. Nieman asked him, “Are you still asleep?” “Yes.” Nieman brought John out of hypnosis on the count of three, and studied him for a moment. “Do you remember what you said under hypnosis?” “Not really.” He brought a hand up and slid it across one cheek. “But, could you tell me why my face and hair are wet?” “You cried while describing part of your dream.” “I cried?” He paused in thought. “My dream must have been about what I’ve been teaching in class—the Vietnamese Boat People and what happened to them on the open ocean.” He hesitated. “I bet I cried about Joy Phim, who miraculously survived while everyone else on her boat was killed by pirates.” Almost gleeful over the success of this session, Nieman said without thinking, “It was about Joy.”

Chapter 50 2001 John Banks

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e walked toward his classroom with a buoyant step, happy over the way his and Joy’s relationship was going. They had spent almost the whole weekend together, and during each hour, he felt his feelings for her deepen. He was falling in love with her. I still can’t believe my day-by-day, almost hour-by-hour discoveries about her. He thought about their lovemaking. It had bothered him at first that she was extraordinarily good, and inventive; he was convinced that such skills could only be acquired in the practice of the world’s oldest profession. But then she’d told him that, at the age of seventeen, her mother Tor had enrolled her in a secret Three Pillows Art Academy in Chinatown to learn the arts of love. Just in time. I almost proved to her how stupid I am. He almost walked into a student cutting in front of him. “Oops, sorry.” He wondered how this afternoon would go. He’d told her that he would like to learn karate and judo from her, so after class she was taking him to the dojo she had found in Bloomington. “Not very good,” she’d said, “but adequate to begin your training.” He’d learned she was also an expert with weapons, particularly the knife. When she discovered that he’d never so much as held a BB gun, she’d volunteered to train him in weapons, as well. “Then you could be my backup when I clean the streets of muggers and rapists,” she said. Ha! Me, shoot a gun . . . not until pigs fly. Just to be extra sure, add horses to that. It hadn’t sounded like she was joking, so he’d hurriedly admitted, “No, I don’t like guns.” Then she’d revealed another of the million or so facets of her personality. She had stood back and stared at him as though he’d said he didn’t like puppies and kittens, or roses. She sighed loudly, and com-

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mented, “Well, good thing you have other upstanding virtues.” And then she leered at . . . my crotch, of all things. He was speechless. He felt the heat rising in his face. He had never been subjected—Yes, that’s the word . . . subjected to that kind of humor from a woman before, not by one so beautiful and desirable. She’d seen his expression and started laughing from the belly up, and after trying to look insulted, he gave up and joined her. He had told her about his dreams, about his inability to get a good night’s sleep, that a psychiatrist was trying to help him determine what the problem was. Now I know what the problem was. No lovemaking. Ha-ha. That first night with Joy had been . . . joyous. When they finally did go to sleep in each other’s arms, exhausted, he’d slept soundly for ten hours and woke up in the afternoon. It was Saturday, fortunately. He’d also slept well Saturday night, with Joy’s naked body against his, and woke up feeling rested, without the usual headache, not even a mild one. But there’d been one episode on Sunday night, when he awoke too early to get up, and his tossing woke Joy. “Did you have one of your dreams?” she asked. When he said he didn’t remember, she had been sympathetic, and tried to help him remember. All I could recall was shooting guns again, and people being killed, but I didn’t tell her that. A cluster of his students stood outside his classroom, sharing notes, and he nodded to them before entering the room. He was a few minutes early. Half the students waited in their seats. Just as he opened his briefcase to take out his outline, he saw Joy come in the door—in pigtails, sweatshirt, and tight denim jeans. Without looking at him, she took her usual seat in the rear. A number of students watched her, their curiosity obvious. Miss Chisholm, who sat next to her, struck up a conversation. He guessed that she’d asked Joy if she was alright. The rest of the students slowly filed in. John checked his watch. Time. “Good afternoon, students. I have Miss Phim’s permission—” Still using her surname like that . . . delicious “— to explain what happened to her during our last class. When I described to you what happened to some of those fleeing Vietnam when their boat was attacked by pirates, this is close to what probably happened to her. At the age of about four, she was on such a boat when it must have been attacked by pirates. They may have kidnapped into sexual slavery some of the younger women and murdered the rest, or murdered everyone. No way of knowing. But somehow, they missed Miss Phim. She may have been hidden somewhere on the boat by her parents before they were murdered. For

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whatever reason, the pirates overlooked her, and a Filipino fisherman finally found her on the boat, hungry, sunburned, and near death from thirst.” “Oh no,” one student exclaimed. Miss Chisholm put her hand on Joy’s arm, and some of the students close by turned to say something to her. Prepared this time, Joy maintained her composure; her face looked strained, but she thanked them graciously. John gave it a moment, and then continued. “This is the first time I’ve had someone in class who experienced the democide or killing episode I was lecturing about. I normally would ask them to talk to you about their experience, but in Miss Phim’s case, it is too personal and too sensitive. Also, I ask you, please respect her privacy on this. I’ve told you as much as she feels up to revealing. Now, to move on. Regarding the Boat People—” He walked to his briefcase and took out his deck of names. He shuffled it. “Miss Carden?” When she put up her hand, he asked, “What are Boat People?” “I think they are Vietnamese who tried to flee Vietnam by boat.” John nodded. “Thank you.” He strode back to the center of the room. He leaned forward, one hand holding his outline behind him while he gestured to the class with the other hand. “Those Boat People died in prisons or reeducation camps when caught in the process of fleeing Vietnam, or they were executed outright; they died on the ocean when their boat was shot out from under them by the communist Coast Guard; they died in storms, from thirst, or from starvation; they died at the hands of pirates. “Those refugees who did make it to another shore might be forced again out into the ocean in a rickety boat, perhaps to die this time. This is what Malaysia did; this practice may have been responsible for the death of seventy-six thousand Boat People. “If allowed to remain where they landed, they faced life in squalid refugee camps until maybe, eventually, some country whose culture and land was alien accepted them. “Yet at first thousands, then tens of thousands, and then hundreds of thousands of these Boat People fled their homes, relatives, friends, and country. And they fled largely during a time of peace. They truly used their bodies and lives as testimony against the kind of life the communists imposed on them.” John let that hang there as he raised his outline to glance at his figures. “In 1978 and 1979, this flight reached incredible numbers. In just

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one month in 1979, over sixty thousand Vietnamese risked pirates, storms, and other causes of death on the high seas, often in ridiculous boats, to reach Thailand, Malaysia, Hong Kong, Indonesia, Macao, the Philippines, and even Japan. According to the UN High Commission on Refugees, as of 1984, a total of 929,600 Vietnamese were actually given refuge by the first nation they reached. The American Department of State estimates that from 1975 to 1985, one million Vietnamese fled Vietnam. That number may be a minimum. No one knows for sure. But judging from the variety of estimates, it seems that probably 1.5 million attempted the dangerous escape from Vietnam by sea, possibly even two million. “The toll on the ocean is, of course, unknown. There are percentage estimates of these dead, however, which vary from twenty to seventy percent of the Boat People, the latter from an official of Ho Chi Minh City. Many refugee officials believe that up to 50 percent died on the ocean, the figure given by the Australian Immigration Minister Michael MacKeller. Some give actual numbers of dead. One source claims that three hundred thousand to one million died in the period from 1975 to about 1979. One ranking American official believed the toll was thirty thousand to fifty thousand per month up to 1979. For the period up to April 1988, the United States Committee for Refugees estimates that five hundred thousand died. “Such figures and other estimates of the percentage that died suggest that from one hundred thousand to 1.4 million Vietnamese drowned at sea or died of other unnatural causes. A prudent estimate seems to be five hundred thousand. If, of this number, we only count those fleeing for their lives under communist pressure, which I conservatively calculate at about half of them, then the deaths of 250,000 Boat People constitute democide.” Some of the students seemed overwhelmed; a few seemed to be going to sleep. He picked up his deck of names, shuffled it, and said, “Let me pick a name out randomly. I want this to be truly random so that my biases don’t influence my choice.” Trying to look very serious, he picked out a card, held it up and looked at the name, then shook his head. “Not this one.” He ostentatiously put it on the bottom of the pack. He picked out another and did the same thing. Some students caught on; they chuckled. Finally, a third card. “Ah, yes, Miss Asing,” No answer; no hand went up. He put an X at the top of her card to indicate her absence, and pulled out another one. “Miss Mahoney.” A hand went up.

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“Could you tell me how many Vietnamese fled Vietnam in boats?” She looked down at her notes. “One and a half million.” “Don’t forget the ‘probably.’ We don’t know for sure, and even the probability is a subjective judgment on my part.” Another card and name: “Mr. Sosa.” “Yes, sir.” “How many of the Boat People did I estimate probably died while fleeing?” “About half a million, sir.” “Yes; thank you.” John put his hands behind him and looked over the class. Joy was looking at him with her head propped on her hand. Probably can’t wait to get me in bed tonight, he thought with a mental laugh. Then he swallowed it. That was a hell of a thing to think in this context. Jesus, what she must be going through, listening to all this. He took a few more seconds to emphasize by his silence the section break in his lecture. Then, gesturing with his hand as though opening his mind to them, he began his conclusion. “Now, I want to sum up my lectures on Vietnam by providing an overall picture of the killing that took place from 1945 on. But first, I should mention Vietnam’s democide in neighboring countries. Vietnam fought alongside the Khmer Rouge guerrillas in Cambodia until their takeover of the country in 1975, and then in 1979, Vietnam invaded Cambodia and occupied the country. During all this, Vietnam appears responsible for the death of 461,000 Cambodians. “It fought in Laos to establish a Vietnam-controlled puppet government and murdered another eighty-seven thousand. “Adding these to the figures for the post-Vietnam War democide in Vietnam, the Communist Party of Vietnam likely murdered about 1,040,000 people. Just this post-Vietnam War toll makes Vietnam one of this century’s megamurderers.” John took the top card off his pack, looked at it, and asked, “Mr. Stein, what does mega mean?” “Huge.” “Right. That is one of its meanings. But what does it mean in the way I use it for Vietnam? That is, that communist Vietnam is a megamurderer?” “Ah . . . it murdered . . . a million or more?” “Yes, very good.” He continued. “Vietnam is already a megamurderer even before we add those it murdered during the Indochina and the Vietnam Wars. Including this number, this Communist Party is

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probably responsible for the murder of almost 1.7 million people, nearly 1.1 million of them Vietnamese. The figure might even be close to a high of 3.7 million dead, with Vietnamese around a likely 2.8 million. This means that from 1945 to 1987, the Vietnamese communists probably murdered about one out of every seventy-five Vietnamese men, women, and children. On an annual basis, this was about one out of every one thousand Vietnamese per year for each of slightly more than forty-four years.” A hand. “Yes, Mr. Watson?” “I still don’t understand why they did so much killing.” “They were communists, Mr. Watson. They killed for the same reasons that Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot, and other communist dictators murdered their people. It was the Marxist imperative. The revolution had to move forward, the utopia had to be realized. This required, in communist eyes, that actual and potential opponents be eliminated and that, like cogs in a machine, those that remained obeyed commands from the Communist Party, absolutely. No competing power structure could remain; not religious leaders, not village and hamlet leaders, not alternative voices. Nor could land or productive machinery be allowed to remain in private hands, for these might be used in a way contrary to the communist restructuring of society. Capitalists were seen as evil. “And for a whole society of millions of individuals, each with different interests and values, none of the most fundamental social engineering and reconstruction envisioned by the communists could be carried out without corpses. After all, this was a war on exploitation, poverty, and inequality, and in wars, people are killed. As the communist saying goes, ‘You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.’ “As for democide in the Vietnam War, this was after all a revolutionary war, a war ultimately for utopia. And, as in the war on domestic capitalism and feudalism, whatever is expedient, whatever is necessary to win the war, must be done no matter the number of civilians sacrificed. “And certainly the imperatives of power played their role. History teaches that power aggrandizes itself. Those who have power seek more power, and more power demands even more to protect itself. Nor can one deny that envy of the rich and productive, or individual greed, played a role, especially among lower cadre. But among the top communists it is clear that Marxism, as it became interpreted by the Soviets and Chinese, and the dynamics of power set in motion by the Vietnamese communists, were paramount. “In sum, the Vietnamese have suffered through horrible wars and horrible democide. Probably nearly 3.8 million of them were killed

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over forty-three years. Of these, 1.25 million of them were murdered by South Vietnamese regimes, by Frenchmen, Americans, Koreans, and Khmer Rouge, and particularly by the Vietnamese communists ruling in North Vietnam—they alone wiped out about 1.1 million Vietnamese.” Silence. He looked around at a room full of somber faces. Good.

Chapter 51 2001 Ralph Nieman

N

ieman thought that the upcoming session with Banks would be the last. He closely studied the first four tapes, did an analysis, and predicted what the fifth tape would record about Banks’ dreams. Now he could take Joy into account, the new element in Banks’ life, and the expectations he’d had about the fourth dream were pretty much on the mark. So, if this fifth session further verified his analysis, the rest would be up to Banks. This was an easy one. Some of his clients had dragged on for many months—he never let it go beyond six. When Banks arrived, he started off with the usual questions. Banks responded, “I’m much better. In fact, I think I’m back to normal. I sleep soundly now, and although I still have dreams, they don’t upset me. No headaches. No fatigue.” “Are you still involved with Joy Phim?” “Oh yes, the more I’m with her, the more I like her.” Nieman mentally grinned at that. Probably doesn’t want to seem too hasty in falling in love with the woman. He asked more questions just to be sure that the only recent change in his Banks’ life was his new relationship. Then he put him under hypnosis. “Have any of your dreams repeated themselves since last I saw you?” he asked Banks. “No.” “Have you had any new dreams?” “Yes, one.” “Please tell me about it.” “When that damn rogue policeman changed the universe by killing Stalin and helping launch an early Russian Revolution, he produced waves of change throughout the world. The history we know was no longer the same in that universe. One big change was in the Balkan

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Wars involving Turkey. They were far more intense and far-reaching in their effects, especially in when the Young Turks began their genocide of millions of Armenians.” Nieman raised his eyebrows and asked, “Was there such a genocide of the Armenians in our history?” “Yes, over a million were murdered by the Young Turks.” “Please continue your dream.” “When Jy-ying and I—oh, God, that’s right, Joy was killed . . .” Nieman waited. A few tears squeezed from beneath Banks’ closed eyelids, but his body remained relaxed. In a moment he continued without prompting. “When Jy-ying and I find out about the ongoing Young Turk genocide, we aim to stop it. We make preparations . . . hire a Turkish immigrant to help us learn about Turkey and the language . . . the bastard tells his wife, a Turkish patriot . . . she informs her nephew, who is actually a Turkish agent in Britain. “So when Jy-ying and I travel to London to request that the editor of The Times help us stop the genocide, we are assassinated by the Turks. We are killed. Jy-ying and I are dead . . . like Joy. “The twosome became a threesome became a twosome, and then a zero-some. Ha-ha.” Nieman frowned and looked sharply at Banks, but Banks’ tightly furrowed brow and down-turned mouth told him that the laughter was the same as a sigh of emotional pain. He waited, and then softly said, “Please go on.” Banks returned to his dream and his face gradually relaxed. “Those three young men that Joy and I hired in 1906 for our import and export company . . . we used it as cover . . . had become close friends. When we finally had to tell them about our mission, they became as dedicated to it as we were. “One of the young men, Hands, was engaged to a German actress named Kate—oh, what a fearless one! Her brother and his wife were killed in a pro-democracy demonstration, and she was arrested . . . my God, how she was tortured. Now she has her own mission—to execute those who carry out democide, especially against pro-democratic activists . . . . She had already executed four or five of them when Hands tells her about the murder of Jy-ying and me. “Kate becomes the leader of the others as they seek to revenge our deaths, and to stop the slaughter of the Armenians. They travel to Turkey to do so . . . actually assassinate the five top Young Turks with a missile launcher that Joy and I had brought with us from the future. But

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their intentions were suspected by a Turkish general . . .had them followed . . . lets them proceed with the assassination, so he can take over the government. When they do succeed, his troops attempt to arrest them . . . firefight . . . all killed. Holy Christ, everybody’s dead . . . . My God, nobody’s left. Oh my . . . God.” Banks’ face turned white as his emotional pain twisted and pulled it into a grotesque mask. He began to thrash about on the couch, and Nieman was just about to bring him out of the hypnosis when he suddenly relaxed, and his face showed immediate relief. “No, wait a minute. Ah, yes. “Can you beat that . . . a time policewoman from the future decides . . . against the laws of her time . . . to reset this universe back to the point just before Jy-ying and I are assassinated. As a result of our deaths, and then the deaths of the five others who tried to continue our mission . . . the universe proceeds on a bloody course with a future where not only billions are murdered, but almost all democracies are eliminated. The time policewoman cannot allow this. “When she resets the universe, Jy-ying and I protect ourselves in a different way . . . we survive the assassination attempt. “In the future . . . in her own time . . .the policewoman is tried for breaking the law against resetting a universe . . . convicted . . . conviction vastly unpopular . . . threatens the reelection of the president of the interplanetary government. She’s pardoned, with the stipulation that she resign from the time police . . . .” The sound of a fire truck’s siren and hooting horn came through the window, then gradually got lost in the muted sounds of traffic. Nieman waited, watching Banks’ relaxed expression. Finally he asked, “Is that it?” “Ah . . .yeah, I guess so.” Nieman thought this story must continue. Banks had not said anything about whether he and Jy-ying succeeded in stopping the genocide, or if, in that changed universe, they were able to prevent World War One or the major democides of the world. He asked again, “That was the end of it?” “Yes.” Nieman was surprised that he felt disappointed, a feeling that he immediately tried to squelch. He predicted this would be Banks’ last dream of this kind, but his “mission” came to no conclusion. So what? They are dreams, he chided himself. He brought Banks out of the hypnosis, and waited while the young man sat up and put his shoes on. “I think I need only one more ses-

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sion,” he told Banks. “Before then, I want to analyze your latest dream, and confirm my analysis. I think I can now provide you with an explanation of your problem.” He wagged his finger at him. “So don’t get restless again, don’t have anymore dreams that give you headaches and leave you fatigued, or I’ll have to take a lot more of your money and charge you for wearing out my couch.”

Chapter 52 2001 John Banks

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yril Clement had emailed John that he would be in Bloomington and asked if he would like Cyril to give a presentation to his class. Since John was using his book on the democratic peace as a text, he was more than happy to set up the presentation. And to spend an evening discussing it and democide research afterward. Besides, John owed him. They had remained in close touch after Cyril’s fateful visit to Yale. Yet again, John thought of that after responding to Clement’s email. Amazing, how, out of the blue, this renowned professor asked to meet me . . . and as a result I discovered an interest that deepened and ultimately became my Ph.D. dissertation and life’s mission. After that first meeting, he’d tried to remember Cyril, who seemed to know him well enough to contact him personally when he came to Yale. John had gone through all the possibilities—a meeting at someone’s dinner party; a chance meeting when he was an undergraduate or otherwise? After their first meeting, it didn’t matter, of course, but it always bothered him. So, when he felt he knew Cyril well enough, he simply asked by email: How did we first meet? I don’t recall. Cyril emailed back: At someone’s dinner party. I don’t remember whose anymore, but I remembered you because of the story you told me about your mother as a tennis pro, how she would take you into the women’s locker room with her, and that once you saw a famous woman tennis player coming out of the shower naked. That kind of thing sticks in the mind. I knew your major was history and you had mentioned you might be going to Yale for graduate work, so when I knew I was going to New Haven, I called the department and asked if you were there. Banks scratched his head at that. I didn’t think I had ever told anyone but Joy that story . . . but how else would he know? Well, I must have drunk a little too much alcohol that night.

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aaa John picked up Cyril at the little Bloomington-Normal Airport and drove him to his room at Days Inn. There they talked about John’s dissertation, his awful experience in the 9/11 terrorist attack, and his future plans. The next day, Cyril gave his talk on the democratic peace to John’s class, and allowed time for questions. The students were obviously in awe of him, since it was his book they were reading for the class. Joy asked no questions, John noticed. After the class she came up to Cyril and said sweetly, “Thank you for your talk. I am especially impressed by your book. I hope that it is used by many professors.” Cyril had stepped back when she approached him, and as she thanked him his brow shot up and his mouth fell open. He seemed to have difficulty replying, and finally got out, “Ah . . . thank you, Miss . . . ah?” “Joy Phim,” she replied, and dipped her head a moment before turning to leave. What’s wrong with Cyril? Why so tongue-tied? John wondered, then smiled. But, nothing odd about how closely he watched Joy as she left the classroom. John had also noticed him glancing frequently her way during his lecture. Well, what healthy male wouldn’t, he told himself.

Chapter 53 2001 John Banks

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ohn entered Nieman’s office with a certain trepidation. He was feeling good, his sleep had been solid, and he no longer felt tired and headachy in the morning. Indeed, I couldn’t be happier. There’s now a Joy in my walks. Ha-ha. He smiled to himself. Joy would have kicked me for that pun—no sense of humor. Nieman got up from his desk, shook John’s hand, and motioned for him to sit in the upholstered chair by the desk. He sat on the corner of the desk facing John. “Well John, I almost hate to say it, but we’re through. I’m sorry, but I’m breaking off our relationship.” He laughed. He put both hands on the edge of his desk and leaned toward John to say, “I’ll give you the tapes of your fascinating dreams when you leave. After you listen to them, you might consider using them as the plots for a series of novels.” He straightened. “Anyway, what they indicate, as do your answers to my questions before and under hypnosis, is that your problem is . . . was . . . being subconsciously tormented by three psychological tensions and their interplay. They worked their way into your dreams and emotions at night, fully stressing your bio-chemical balance in a flight or fight reaction, and sometimes drenching your body in adrenaline. Your headaches, tight chest, nausea, sweating, and so on were you body’s natural reaction to this, and your extreme fatigue was the postadrenaline letdown.” Nieman lifted three fingers in front of him and touched one with the forefinger of his other hand. “Your extreme inner tension was similar to battle fatigue. You lived a normal life. You were never involved in violence, and you never saw a dead person before. Then, suddenly, without warning, you saw not only dead people for the first time, but

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bloody human body parts, people committing suicide by jumping out of windows to escape being burned alive, and all the other horrors of 9/11. That devastated your psyche. “Since then, you had been in a state of continual, deep emotional shock. You just could not walk away from it, nor, I think, could I have. And like an injury for which you may not feel the pain for days, the psychological injury of 9/11 did not make its way into your dreams for many weeks.” Nieman touched his forefinger to the second of the three fingers. “I read a copy of your dissertation, and your notes that you loaned me. All that democide—the burying alive, the burning alive, the torturing to death, the shooting, the blowing people up by the millions—is bad enough to read once. But you have researched on this every day for years. You have read many horrible stories from refugees and escapees, observers and participants. You have written about it. You teach it.” Nieman shook his head, rubbed one hand across his chin, and rocked back and forth for a moment. “As a normal human being, that affected you deeply, and created a profound tension—even a terror— within you. The horror ate at you. And you developed a fanatical desire to stop the democide, to save those people. It became an imperative that was given an extra psychodynamic push by your terrible experience during 9/11. These two sources of psychic tension came together in your dreams.” Nieman stopped and let that sink in. Then he held up one finger, and added, “Finally, you had in your class a beautiful student who inflamed your passion, and entered your dreams as a transitional element. With your passionate study of democide and 9/11 bursting out of your subconscious into your dreams, this woman, Joy Phim, served as both a transitional element and moderating influence. She served to move your dreams from conflict to crises to resolution, and as a tension release that sex and love provide. “The subconscious is very clever at this kind of thing, and is superb at great theater. I think you’re lucky. Without Joy in your dreams, you might have developed a severe psychosis that could have prevented you even from teaching, and might have required institutionalization until cured. “But those tensions within you from the democide research and 9/11 did not accept Joy in your dreams. She was an intruder and they fought her, and contrived to have you kill her or that she be killed. But you kept bringing her back, and finally you just invented a second Joy from another universe to fill her place, to satisfy your sexual desire for her, to moderate your tension.”

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John gaped at Nieman. “Jesus, I did all that—my dreams were full of all that—and it was Joy I was making love to? Wait . . . what? I killed her?” Nieman held up his hand. “It was a dream, John. And Joy is now real in your life. And she resolved these tensions for you both in your dream and now in real life.” “She did? Oh, of course, I knew she would. That’s why I developed a relationship with her, you know. Can’t be any other reason.” He gave Nieman a huge grin. Nieman laughed. “Of course.” Then he continued. “As your relationship with her developed, her effect on your dreams decreased. First, you satisfied your sexual desire for her—” “Satiated,” John interrupted. “—and then you developed a loving relationship. This being loved and loving in return was just what you needed to emotionally release you from the deep emotional horrors you had suffered and dealt with in your research and teaching. You see, we are very social animals, and consciously and subconsciously, emotionally and biochemically, we need to love and be loved, to have a mate and to mate. Those tensions of yours are now much alleviated by your loving relationship with Joy, and your subconscious has redirected those that remain into your drive to study, understand, teach, and do something about democide and war.” “You mean I’m cured.” “That’s too strong a word, John. You have been . . . remodeled, and that’s what a truly profound love will do to a person. Also, keep in mind that something might happen in your relationship with Joy, something might happen to you, to recreate the tensions you have felt. But, I doubt it. Once these kinds of tensions are redirected, they tend to stay that way. So, John, that’s it.” John spent the next fifteen minutes asking questions, until Nieman stood, walked behind his desk, and took five tapes out of a drawer. He walked up to John and held them out to him. “Your dreams.” John accepted them, and as he stared down at them, Nieman said, “Oh, one more thing. I could not figure out why you kept taking off your shoes before lying back on the couch. No one else has ever done that, and it would not occur to me. That was never mentioned in your dreams, and I could get no answer from you under hypnosis.” John shrugged. “I don’t know. I can say that Joy will not allow me into her apartment unless I take my shoes off just inside the door. It’s an oriental custom, she says: ‘Dirty bottomed shoes are for outside. Clean slippers are for inside.’”

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Nieman looked puzzled. “But you were doing that before you got together with Joy.” He shrugged. “Well, no biggie.” He slapped John on the back. “Be good, now, and give me a call if this problem reasserts itself. The first minute is free.” John chuckled. As he opened the door to leave, Nieman called, “Enjoy yourself.” John’s groan lasted all the way to the elevator.

Chapter 54 December 11, 2001 John Banks

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ohn entered his classroom for the last lecture of the semester on the democratic peace. He’d arrived early again, and pretended to read his outline while he mused happily over the diagnosis he had received that morning from Ralph Nieman. But within minutes, he felt uncomfortable and took off his sport coat. Many of the students had removed their own coats and sweaters. The building’s heating system was not working properly and the classroom was overheated. Joy came in just in time, and avoided looking at him. They treated their relationship with the utmost prudence. Last night she had asked him how he was going to sum up the semester. He had shrugged. For this final lecture he had worried over the same questions he’d asked himself when he began the class: How can I make my students feel in their gut what ten million or one hundred million bodies mean in human terms . . . that people died in agony, often for nothing but their ethnicity, religion, or political views, or sometimes only to meet their ruler’s death quota. This frustrated him. He had lectured much about democide, he had given many examples. I’m still not sure that I’ve been able to convey the true horrors of democide. But, I also want to show them that there is hope, that by fostering democratic freedom throughout the world, we could end war and the terrorism, genocide, and democide. Finally, at the last minute, he had decided to relate one awful democide to them, to try to communicate the feeling of it, and how inhumane government—nondemocratic governments—could be. It was a new episode, not one they had read about for his class or that he had mentioned in detail. So, he had outlined it, and had typed relevant quotations on a separate page. It would serve as the introduction to his summation. Okay, time to begin. My first summation.

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“Good afternoon, students. As some of you may realize, this is my last lecture of the semester.” Some of the students looked at him blankly; some grinned. “I have given you a lot of information about democide and war, and their solution. Some of the figures may have stuck in your minds. No matter. I’m not after you remembering an abstract statistic; I’d rather have you remember that there has been such horrible killing in unbelievable, indigestible numbers. Now, before my summation, I want to give you one final real-life example that sums up the democide that has stolen the lives of over a hundred million people. This example is not unique; it exemplifies the sheer, coldblooded nature of much of it. And it demonstrates how much of this democide is unknown—not hidden, but put away like all unwanted memories, and in the particular case I will relate, for political reasons. I’m going to tell you what Pakistan’s military rulers did—not the present government, but a previous one. Its genocide is still unmentionable, since Pakistan is an ally of the United States and a part of its coalition in the war against terrorism.” John stopped and looked over the class. “Please put up your hand if you’ve heard about the mass murders and genocide carried out by Pakistan in 1971.” No hand went up, except for Joy’s. “That’s not surprising, since even in the many books on genocide, few mention this particular one. Now, open Clement’s text to page 126, and there you will find a map of South Asia. Look at it.” Banks scanned his outline while students got out their books, flipped pages, or tried to look over somebody’s shoulder. When they settled down, he continued. “Pakistan is India’s neighbor on the left. Squeezed into the lower right side of India is Bangladesh. Until 1971, that country was part of Pakistan, and was called East Pakistan. Its major ethnic group was Bengali, and their religion, as in West Pakistan, was Islam, although a slightly different variant. “Leading up to 1971, East Pakistan had been working politically and nonviolently toward independence from West Pakistan—look at the map again and you can see why, with that distance of almost one thousand miles between the two parts. And it was on the verge of success after the 1969 national election, when the Bengali Awami League gained an absolute majority in the Pakistan legislature. “However, the ruling generals of Pakistan were absolutely opposed to East Pakistan gaining independence, so in 1971 General Agha Mohammed Yahya Khan, the self-appointed president of Pakistan and

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commander-in-chief of the army and his top generals prepared a careful and systematic military operation against East Pakistan. They planned to murder that country’s Bengali intellectual, cultural, and political elite. John stopped, leaned toward the students, and shook both hands in front of him for emphasis as he repeated, “At the highest level of this regime, the rulers planned, prepared, and executed the cold-blooded murder of the best and brightest Bengalis in East Pakistan, and murdered indiscriminately many of its Hindus, driving the rest into India. This despicable and cutthroat plan was outright genocide.” He paused and looked into the eyes of one student after another. He had their attention. “After months of military preparation, the generals launched their genocidal campaign at night. And what was one of their first civilian targets? Students like you. “Now, imagine that you were a student there, as you are here. Before going to bed one night, you may have been in the library studying, working on your term paper, or doing a lab assignment. You may have written home or been out in Dacca with some friends. You may have given your friend a secret kiss before parting, already looking forward to seeing each other the next day. You go to bed that night with a future for which you are studying hard, with a future of loved ones and children, with a future of hope and bright dreams. You have not the slightest hint that the next day will be any different than the last; you close your eyes without any thought that you will be lucky to see the dawn, or if you do, that you will not live through the day. “So students the world over have gone to bed, to be destroyed there by earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, tsunamis, tornadoes, and fire. But these are nature’s doings. What would happen this night was done by fellow human beings. Intentionally. In the middle of the night, with no warning, West Pakistani tanks began shelling the dormitories of the University of Dacca, where students like you were sleeping. Visualize it: you are blasted awake by tank shells suddenly bursting through the dorm walls and windows to explode throughout the dorm amongst your beds, your study rooms. Red-hot shrapnel flies, randomly seeking out those who will die, lose a leg or arm, or have their belly slit open so wide, their guts tumble out. Then the trembling fear, wild panic, and screaming; the mute dead, the crying wounded, the smoke and fire, destruction and blood, everywhere.” John dropped his voice. “And the forever unknown courage and heroism as you and others help the wounded and try to escape the flames and explosions.

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“You try to run or crawl out of the dorm, and help others to escape. You’re shaking. Your heart is beating wildly. You can’t get your breath. But you finally climb over smoking debris and make it outside. “But outside, the West Pakistan troops are waiting, and you are rounded up at bayonet point to stand or sit in trembling shock. You don’t know what happened or what they will do to you. You can’t believe it. You think this must be a nightmare as you watch the dormitories burn down with your fellow students still screaming inside or jumping from windows. If you have only minor injuries or none at all, you may try to help the crying, moaning wounded on the ground around you. “Dawn slowly shows through the smoke, and soldiers begin pushing and prodding all of you through the haze toward a grassy area near a parking lot. The soldiers bayonet those who resist, or who are too wounded to move. You are stunned and trembling—you cannot believe what you just saw. Students are being murdered, some you know, and as they are repeatedly bayoneted their screams and pleas for mercy rip through your mind. “Self-preservation takes over and you allow yourself to be herded along with the other survivors toward the grassy area, where you see a pile of shovels, hoes, and digging sticks that a small truck nearby has dumped. You are jabbed and shoved toward the pile and then the soldiers form a tight ring around all of you. An officer shouts, ‘Dig a trench. Dig it deep. Or be tortured to death.’ “Your knees are almost knocking together, your heart thudding in your ears, and tears drip from your face as, in utter, mind-devastating terror, you pick up a hoe and begin hacking at the ground where one soldier is pointing. Through your fear, through your shock, through the terror, you have only one impossible realization—this trench is for you. For your dead body. You are going to be killed.” “You hack away; you pull the loose dirt out with the hoe; you hack again and again. You stop crying. You don’t hear the cannon in the distance or the shooting nearby. You hear but barely recognize the scream of the girl who was digging near you, but made a break for it. She is tripped by one of the soldiers, and then is stabbed in the leg—you refuse to look as she writhes on the ground and shrieks and screeches while being stabbed in the other leg, and then in one arm, then the other, and finally in the stomach. It’s a calculated lesson for you, which you dimly recognize, and you blank out the girl’s moans and cries for her mother.

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“Now you’re resolute and focused. You hurry up your digging. You want to get it over with. Your body has grown cold. You shiver. Your mind closes down as you hack and pull the dirt, and deepen the trench with the others. Your soft hands, used to books and pencils, are bleeding and sore; your body is getting heavy and fatigued. But you feel nothing. “You and the others have dug three feet down. You are on automatic. Four feet. Then five. Several of the girls and two of the boys have collapsed in heaps at the edge from the unaccustomed labor, or have fainted from fear. “Someone yells, ‘Stop. Enough. Get out of the trench and line up on the edge.’ This is it, but your mind refuses to recognize it. Your body obeys and lines up with the others. You see soldiers standing about twenty feet away with automatic rifles, but it means nothing. “You stand. You think of nothing. There is no passing time. You don’t see that the fire in the dormitories has nearly burned out, or that the smoke is drifting away, leaving the beautiful morning to prize. You don’t see the robin’s egg-blue of the sky, the gentle white clouds; you do not register the sound of birds chattering. You don’t even think of your loved ones, of your lost future, of your lost hopes, of your dead dreams. Of all your wasted study and effort. “Then, Brrrttt! Brrrttt!” Several of his students jumped. “Your body twitches from the impact of bullets ripping across your chest, blowing your last breath out the holes in a red mist. Now your body is as dead as your mind; you fall backward into the trench to be covered with dirt.” John held up his hand to stop questions, and waited for a few moments. The classroom was absolutely silent. He continued. “And how was your death received? The actual messages between the soldiers that killed you and army headquarters were intercepted. We know what was said. Your soul might be happy to know that you contributed to a prized well done.” Lifting his outline, John read the entire quote to the class: “‘What do you think would be the approximate number of casualties at the university—just give me an approximate number in your view. What will be the number killed or wounded or captured. Just give me the rough figures’.

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“‘Wait. Approximately three hundred.’ “‘Well done. Three hundred killed? Anybody wounded or captured?’ “‘I believe in only one thing—three hundred killed.’ “‘Yes. I agree with you that is much easier. No, nothing asked. Nothing done, you do not have to explain anything. Once again well done. Once again I would like to give you shabash and to tell all the boys . . . for the wonderful job done in this area. I am very pleased.’” John finished softly, “You and other students were not alone in being murdered at the university. Soldiers searched for leading department heads and professors, murdering thirty-two of them in the following two days.” He had immersed himself emotionally into the tale he told, mentally living the awful images and pain of these Bengali students as he tried to convey what this horror meant in human terms. He’d lost all contact with his own students. Now, he came back mentally to the classroom, breathless and sweating profusely in the hot room. He looked back at the students. The room remained utterly hushed. Some of the students looked dazed, staring at him wide-eyed, their mouths hanging open. Several dabbed at their eyes with their sleeves or handkerchiefs. Some leaned over their notebooks, eyes intent on the pages as they wrote intensely; others appeared frozen. He could only see the top of Joy’s head; she’d buried her face in one hand. John cooled his emotions by pacing back and forth a couple of times. Finally he stopped. He had much more to say about this genocide, more awful stories, some as moving. And more quotes. But his sense for timing told him that this was the place to end it. Into the dead silence of the room, in a tone so low and sad that it sounded as though he were playing taps with his voice, he concluded, “The Pakistan military ultimately went on to murder about 1.5 million Bengalis and Hindus. Only India’s invasion stopped them. The Indian army rapidly defeated them, and midwifed the formal independence of East Pakistan, which promptly named itself Bangladesh.” Maybe thirty seconds passed and then the class suddenly broke out in chatter, thumping, scraping chairs, and other noises of students coming alive. John waited. Just to be doing something, he strolled to his briefcase and dropped his outline inside and slowly closed it. He

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needed this break. Finally, when the class quieted down, he walked to the center of the room, close to the students in front, and began his general conclusions of the semester. He gestured, making figures in the air to shape his points. He paced back and forth, every so often writing a crucial word on the blackboard. He slapped his hand on the lectern for emphasis. He was an actor no longer playing out terror and death, but hope. From the horror and terror of democide and war, he would bring them into the sunlight to see the bright future within humanity’s grasp. He reviewed the major wars and democides, and the attempts over the centuries to do something about such killing. He sketched the peace plans, and the different international agreements to limit or prevent war and democide, all of which failed. Then he paused and stood still. He said, emphasizing each word, “This need not be. There is hope and a solution. Democracies do not make war on each other and, as a historian,” he said bluntly, wagging his finger as though each word hung at the end of it, “I say, they . . . never . . . have.” He took two steps to the lectern and folded his hands on top. “But what about genocide and mass murder, what we call democide— murder by government—such as what the Pakistan army did to the students?” he asked in a low voice. He waited as though expecting a student to throw him the answer. No one did. They all seemed mesmerized. He deserted the lectern and stepped as close to the front row of students as he could get. Leaning forward, pointing with both fingers toward the class, he answered, “Democracies not only don’t make war on each other; modern democracies, with their civil rights and political liberties, commit almost no domestic democide.” He returned to the lectern, leaned over it with his hand on each edge, and asked, “Is democracy a practical solution? Yes. Democratization is practical and in fact is being aided by many current democracies.” He hesitated, as though turning a page. “Is it desirable for reasons other than ending war and democide? Yes, it is desired by all those enslaved by autocracies around the world. Freedom is their most basic human right.” Now, a longer hesitation for the most important point of all. He looked over the class before he asked, “Is universalizing democratic freedom possible? Yes. Oh, yes. If we work to foster universal democracy, we—can—do—it.”

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He stopped, dropped his hands. Nothing remained. Emotionally and mentally exhausted, he realized he was still sweating; his armpits beneath his flannel shirt and t-shirt underneath were wet, and he imagined that he smelled. This was the first time he’d tried to communicate this horror and humanity’s hope to students, this was his first summation, this was now his life and the beginning of his career, and he came close to choking up. His voice nearly broke as he ended his class and the semester with a simple, “Thank you. Have a good future. All of you.” No one moved for several seconds, and then, almost with a gasp, students began to clap. They continued, getting louder and louder. Some of them stood and clapped. John’s eyes grew misty and he shook his head in wonderment. He began to clap for the class in return. Slowly, the students departed, some coming up to shake his hand and share their feelings before leaving. “You’ve changed my life.” “I’m changing my major.” “Thank you, Professor Banks. I’ll never forget this class.” Dressed in her gray sweatshirt—she actually had several—and her tight Levis, Joy hovered in the back until the last student left, and then she came up to him. Her eyes were still teary, but her smile belied sadness. She looked around to make sure all the other students were gone, and then said, “First you drive me to tears over that horrible genocide, and then you drive me to tears with happiness over the hope you give these students. And then you create even more tears over your success as a teacher and in getting across the democratic peace. I know how much both mean to you.” She stood straight and cocked her head, her eyes gleaming. “Thank you for your class, Professor Banks. You were. . . stimulating, and often deeply engaged my feelings.” She rubbed her nose to display the engagement ring he had given her. “Now that I’m no longer your student, if anything comes up, do give me a call. Goodbye.” And she glided out. Students walking by the open door of the classroom must have wondered at the professor standing alone in the classroom, crying and laughing at the same time.

Chapter 55 2001 John Banks

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hey were in Joy’s apartment, where he now practically lived. He still refused to take a chance on her being seen entering his faculty apartment. He had the tapes stacked on the coffee table and the tape machine next to it. Each tape had been numbered. The psychiatrist had said that there was a rough chronology to his dreams, but they were not sequential. So he had put them in their chronological order, regardless of when he told them under hypnosis They had eaten the stuffed chicken wings and Singapore noodles they had picked up at Mark Pi’s China Gate, and each had a bottle of Bloomington’s Vision Weiss beer in hand. “Well,” John said, putting the first of the five tapes in the machine, “I hope you’re not embarrassed by the high praise I give you in my dreams, or by the undreamed-of lovemaking positions I force on you.” “Ha!” Joy exploded. “Probably all missionary positions, and I bet it’s with some young bitch you dreamed up.” For a moment, he was actually worried that might be true. Too late now. He started the machine. He heard himself speaking in a monotone, almost as though he were reading a boring book. “It’s 9/11 . . . I’m horrified by the body parts and people jumping from the burning building. . . . “Joy is in my class, and I want her . . . .The Society had gathered to convince me to join her in one-way time travel back to 1906 . . . mission is to end war and democide . . . promote a global democratic peace. Joy seduces me into accepting.” John stopped the tape. “It’s just like when you seduced me in your apartment, that first night.” He imitated her voice. “‘Oh, I’m going to

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get into something more comfortable.’ I bet you straightened out the bed at the same time.” Joy frowned, her eyes narrowed, and her lips collapsed into a thin line. “Do I understand, Professor Banks, that you are . . . complaining?” The last word came out ten decibels higher. John felt the end of his nose freezing. “Heavens no, baby. I’m a historian you know, and just want to keep the record straight. You seduced me. But no complaint. I understand how irresistible I was, and to be truthful, I let the evening run on to build up your anticipation—” Whack! “Ouch!” John grabbed his shoulder and rubbed the spot where she had hit him. He joined in her laughter. She shook her head. “You’re impossible, dearest.” He restarted the tape. “We travel back in time. . . . Joy begins using her power to eliminate rapists and muggers on the streets. I hate that she acts as judge, jury, and executioner . . . source of much conflict between us . . . . It’s the late 1930s; Joy tries to assassinate the American presidential candidate . . . I stop her . . . suffocate her with a pillow to prevent her from ever killing again . . . I write a remembrance of Joy, hold it to my heart as I commit suicide . . . . ” The voice on the tape droned on. John finally clicked it off and looked at Joy. Her face had lost some of its color. She sat with her mouth open, her hand seemingly fastened to her cheek. “God, what an awful dream,” she said. “Where did you get that stuff from?” “Come on, baby. It was only a dream. I think I was dreaming my favorite thesis. We were sent back in time to fight power. But we were given tremendous power to do so, and that corrupted us. Power kills.” He hurriedly took out the tape and inserted the second one. “An Islamic fundamentalist named Sabah seized power in Uighuristan in Middle Asia . . . eventually does the same in China. . . . and Sabahism rules the world . . . . Survivors send a message downtime to Joy and I in 1906, asking us to stop Sabah . . . .

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“Followers of Sabah in China . . . send back a female Chinese warrior, Jy-ying, to assassinate whomever received the message . . . . She falls in love with me, plans to kill only Joy. “Jy-ying finds out, however, that she and Joy are the same person from separate universes . . . . Tries to kill Joy, but I shoot her just when she is ready to deliver the death blow. “We travel to Uighuristan to kill little boy Sabah . . . decide to adopt him . . . finally, after eight years, I propose marriage to Joy . . . she accepts . . . . As we celebrate, we and baby Sabah are killed by a terrorist bomb.” The tape rolled on. “Holy Christ,” John breathed. “I dreamt all that?” Joy’s hand was hanging from her cheek again. “Do you have a death wish? And for me, too? I’m going to keep the kitchen knives away from you.” “Now aren’t you glad I didn’t go to the range with you to fire those evil guns?” John quipped. “‘Oh, what fun they are,’ you said, trying to seduce me into going with you. ‘And we will be doing it together. If I go alone, I’ll be gone for half a day, or more.’ And your clincher: ‘I hope Charlie is there. He likes to help me with my guns. He’s so goodlooking.’” Joy wasn’t laughing. Or smiling. “Play the next tape. I can’t wait to see how you kill me in this one.” John shut up and complied. “An Islamic dictator, impressed by what we’re able to do for democracy, sends back to 1906 a pair of mismatched male-female warriors . . . Carla and Hadad . . . to kill Joy and I and. . . . promote Islam. “Their various assassination schemes fail . . . . Jyying , whose ultimate goal is still to save Sabah and kill Joy, joins us in protecting our mission against the two assassins . . . . Carla and Joy have one battle in which Joy is wounded, and Carla contrives to set up a second battle between them that Joy will not survive . . . . Joy is saved by a time policewoman who . . . arrests Carla and sends her to the future for trial . . . . I capture Hadad . . . .

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Joy taken uptime to see her mother . . . . Universe is disrupted by Carla and Hadad’s appearance in 1906 . . . . A time policeman resets it back to Joy’s and my arrival.” John shut off the machine and removed the tape. Joy frowned, lips pursed. Finally she looked up at the ceiling and murmured, “Hey, how about that? He didn’t kill me.” John thrust out his chin and glared at her. “Okay, enough of that. These are dreams. Dreams, damn it.” “Yes, John, and they reveal hidden desires.” “What, that you be dead? Isn’t that stupid?” “Play the next tape, John.” “No.” He reached for tape #4, but Joy grabbed it. She whisked the machine to her side of the sofa where he couldn’t easily reach it without going over her, and thrust the tape in with a loud clack. She punched the start button with her rigid finger and, stone-faced, she crossed her arms to listen. “A strange man killed Stalin in 1903, and then helped Trotsky successfully revolt against the Russian Czar in 1905 . . . . Joy and I, and then Jy-ying discover this . . . . The one from the future is a rogue time policeman, a procommunist, who wants to change the universe and make communism triumphant . . . . Uses a device to enter our bedroom while Joy is there . . . paralyzes her, rapes her, and finally kills her before he is killed by Jy-ying . . . mission now becomes that of me and Jy-ying, who is completely in love with me . . . with Joy’s spiritual blessing, I return her love. “The Russian Revolution is defeated . . . .” Joy let the tape run. She said nothing; she just sat next to the machine, her face frozen in disbelief. Out in the small kitchenette, the refrigerator chugged to life as its cold sensor restarted it. John couldn’t stand it. “Baby . . . .” When she looked at him, he saw the tear rolling down her cheek, saw the hurt in her eyes. “How can you love me when in your dreams

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you kill me again and again?” she asked. “And that . . . other woman— you . . . you love her when I’m dead. You don’t really love me.” She put her head in her hands and sobbed. John was stunned by the dreams, and by Joy’s understandable reaction. Jesus. For asking her to listen with me, I’m the missing village idiot. He tried to put his arms around her, but she shrugged him off. He tried to put a hand on her arm. She withdrew it. His voice exploded from his heart. “Sweetheart, I love you more than anything. I want to spend our lives together. I want you to be my wife. Forever—you and me, baby.” “You only think so, John. And you’ll only think so until that other woman comes along. Then, ‘Goodbye Joy.’” Her crying developed a frantic edge. He lost it temporarily. “Goddamn it, Joy, will you cut this fucking shit out.” The shock of his own words cooled him down. He had an idea. “Baby, don’t you ever have nightmares where something you hate, something you fear, something you would never want happens to you? Haven’t you ever dreamed about,” he was guessing now, but he knew something about oriental culture, “losing face or failing your mother? Does such a dream mean deep down that you want to do this to yourself, or does it mean that this is your fear? That you die in my dreams can only mean that this is something I terribly fear. This part of my dreams is a nightmare, baby. It’s a nightmare, not something I really want, no more than you want to fail your mother.” Joy took her wet face out of her hands and looked at him, her eyebrows raised, her puffy eyes questioning. Then she lifted her sweatshirt and wiped her eyes and face. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” “Well, now that you mention it, I—” “I’m sorry. I love you, dearest.” He leaned over a gave her a long kiss, which she returned with increasing enthusiasm. “However,” she said with the first hint of a grin, “I warn you. I’m a light sleeper. And I will have my magnum under my pillow. Shall we continue?” The tape had run to the end, and automatically rewound. She took it out and put in #5. “The rogue policeman had changed the universe . . . . the Young Turks begin their genocide of millions of Armenians . . . . Jy-ying and I aim to stop it. We make

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preparations, including hiring a Turkish immigrant . . . . his wife informs her nephew, who is actually a Turkish agent in Britain . . . . We . . . . are assassinated by the Turks. “Now the three young men we hired in 1906 . . . . Hands’ fiancée Kate . . . becomes the leader . . . . They actually assassinate the five top Young Turks . . . . Their general intent was known by a Turkish general, who let them proceed . . . . His troops attempt to arrest them . . . all are killed. “A time policewoman from the future resets this universe back to just before Jy-ying and I are assassinated . . . otherwise the universe would proceed on a bloody course . . . . After the reset, Jy-ying and I protect ourselves in a different way and survive. “The policewoman is tried for breaking the law in resetting a universe . . . . Her conviction is vastly unpopular . . . . She is pardoned . . . . ” The psychiatrist added his voice to the tape. “This is the last sequence of dreams. This and the previous ones provided sufficient information for a preliminary diagnosis of your problem. I’ll be more detailed when we meet for the last time. “Of special note is that, in these dreams, you risked your life to travel one way into a primitive past, one without any modern conveniences, to do away with war and democide. This is your way of redirecting the terror you suffered in the 9/11 attack, which remained in your subconscious to bedevil you. But not only that; you also were doing something about the horror you have been living with as a result of your research on democide for your dissertation, and your teaching of this topic. Another source of tension is your subconscious. You felt you knew how to stop all this evil, to use your word, and you were acting this out in your dreams. “Finally, you had this not unusual lust for Joy, a student of yours, and you acted this out by including her in your dreams as your partner, through both Joy and her surrogate, Jy-ying. “I must say, John, that these are the most interesting dreams I’ve come across in a long time. If I’m traumatized by some horror, I hope my dreams are as engaging, especially with regards to your Joy. “Let me know how you are doing from time to time.”

Chapter 56 2002 John Banks

T

hey were married in the New York headquarters of Tor’s Nguon Industries. John invited Cyril to be his best man, and Cyril gave a heartwarming speech at the wedding reception. He took an exceptional interest in both of them, although he had seemed befuddled for some reason when John called him, told him about the wedding, and asked him to be best man. He kept asking, “Is that it? You and Joy are just getting married?” John had to finally ask, “What do you expect, that we are going to fly to the Moon?” “Something like that,” Cyril mumbled in reply. Throughout the preparations for the wedding, the wedding itself, and the reception, Cyril really acted as though he were John’s father. Joy was taken with him, as he seemed to be with her, and most important, he and Joy’s mother Tor got on famously. He visited her constantly in New York, and seemed to stay over weekends. Joy commented on it happily: “I’m glad Mom still has it in her.” “Really, Joy—‘has it in her’? What a gutter mind.” Joy looked at him blankly for three seconds, and then yelled, “Beast,” and dragged him off the chair by one foot. She jumped on him and tickled him until he apologized. Joy told him that, “I expect great news about the Tor-Cyril relationship anytime now.” As a wedding present, Tor gave them a million-dollar bank balance to do with as they pleased. She let them know that much more was available when they needed it, adding that, in due course, they would inherit her business anyway. They set up a Democratic Peace Institute with the money. Joy was John’s full partner and officially copresident, but he sometimes jokingly referred to her as his assistant and translator. He didn’t know why.

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John quit teaching to devote all of his time to the institute. He was happy to thumb his nose at the Marxist professor in the History Department and the bevy of leftist faculty who supported him, but he felt guilty that the students would not have a strong voice countering his propaganda with examples of Marxist democide. He knew the other historians treated democide lightly, if at all. But he told Joy, “I can do more good through our institute than by teaching and suffering the limitations that involves. Teaching four hundred students a year is not the same as reaching thousands and possibly millions through the institute and its links to the Internet. And if we do this right, many teachers will use our material.”

Chapter 57 2002 John Banks

“I

’m home,” Joy yelled as she came in the front door of their San Francisco house, kicked off her shoes by the shoe bench by the door, and slid her feet into the slippers waiting there. “Welcome home, baby. I’m in the study.” She entered the study and leaned over John as he wrote on his new Mac G4 computer. She gave him a little kiss on the cheek. “What’s my hubby doing?” “Hi wifie,” John replied. He reached back and pulled her head down across his shoulder so he could bury his face in her hair. It smelled of the gun range she’d just left, but he didn’t care. He kissed her cheek. “You smell of gun smoke.” “And you smell of man. What were you doing?” “Oh, I was doing some karate exercises in our gym before sitting down here. Anyway, before that I was listening again to the tapes of my dreams, and a eureka hammer smacked me in the head. I realized that I could write them up as alternative history novels. It’s a good way of getting the idea of the democratic peace out to the larger public, and maybe the novels will be entertaining, as well. I even have a name for them: the Never Again Series.” Joy grinned. “Why not call them The Death of Joy Series?” John answered straight-faced, “I thought of that, but too many would interpret that series as being about the end of booze, drugs, sex, or whatever people think brings them happiness.” He continued briskly, “It will be five novels, like the five tapes, I think. But I’m concerned about one thing. If I do this over my or our name, this will become associated with the institute in its early, most important years. No good. The institute should be known for solid empirical and historical research that people can consult and depend on.

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When the institute publishes on the Internet and in hardcover that there is a solution to war and democide, and that is democratic freedom, then it has to be backed up with the best, most thorough research possible. Which we are now doing. “If the institute’s first books, authored by me, are a series of novels, who will take the subsequent publications of the institute seriously? And I can’t use a pseudonym. They are always leaked.” He paused. Joy regarded him. “You have a solution to this, I bet.” John smiled. “I already emailed Cyril about the series. I included a synopsis of the books, and asked if he would publish them under his name, all royalties to go to his research and his Web site. He emailed me back within an hour—he’s really excited about it. He understands our problem and would be happy to go along. One stipulation he mentioned: he will revise and edit to his liking. I agreed. It doesn’t matter who gets credit, if any is due. What is important is that the word gets out to the largest number of people possible that freedom is a solution to the horrors of war and democide. Since he is now retired and his reputation is so well established, that he’s published novels won’t subtract from his reputation at all.” Joy kneaded the muscles of his neck. “Maybe he’ll save the Joy in your dreams.” “Oh yes, one thing. I think I’ll have to rename the major characters. Too easy to connect them to us.” Joy looked at him, her brows furrowed. “No, I don’t agree, dearest. If anyone connects them to us, you or Cyril only need say that you gave Cyril the tapes of your dreams with permission to write them up as novels, if he wished. If anything, the novels may help draw more attention to the institute, our Web site, and especially the democratic peace. Anyway, since the Joy of your dreams is so much like the Joy that is me, I want the world to know, even in fiction, my joy over the wonderful woman who adopted me; my joy in how she brought me up; my joy in taking your class. And my joy in our love.” “Okay,” John conceded, “but I don’t know how I will stand the sheer envy of my friends and colleagues who read the novels. Why—” Joy quietly put her finger to her lips, then touched his mouth with it. Gently shaking her head, she left the room. John returned to the opening pages he’d written of his first novel, War and Democide Never Again: Joy had a body to die for. That’s why the deaths of over 200 million people—the vast majority murdered—

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never happened. Joy’s body . . . and the roar of a 110story building collapsing before my eyes. Just thinking about it brings back the suffocating stench of death . . . God, how could I, an ordinary Ph.D. in history from Yale, have ever smelled death? It began with good advice . . . . John wrote far into the night. Finally, when his mind wouldn’t work anymore, he went to bed. Joy was lying on her back, the covers pulled up to her shoulders. He slid under the covers and leaned over her and gave her a gentle kiss on the lips. She murmured something and reached out to touch him in her sleep. His restless nights had disappeared, as had his headaches and fatigue. He stretched out and put one hand on her naked hip. He was asleep in seconds. A breeze caressed his cheek. Hello, my dearest. It was Joy, the Joy of his dreams, in her gray sweatshirt and white shorts, with her hair in a ponytail. What are you doing in my dream? I thought I was over all that. She gave him a broad smile, her eyes alight. I came to tell you how happy you have made me. You finally married me; I am now your real wife, what I always really wanted. And now we can have children and grow old together and merge our souls when we die. How can that be, Joy? he asked. You were a figment of my imagination, an object of my desire that I satisfied through my dreams. The real Joy sleeps right beside me. That is true, my darling, but you don’t understand and you cannot, fixed in your three-dimensional universe of this time as you are. The me that you see now is of another place and time, of other universes, of those inhabited by such good people as our dearest friends Hands Reeves, Dolphy Docker, and Sal Garcia; the great humanitarians Edmund Morel and his secret time-traveling wife Janet; the “I see” detective Lieutenant Gary Ryan; the courageous time policewoman Captain Jill Halverson; the “White Knight” actress Kate Kaufmann; and the time policewoman Mari Demirchyan, who knew humanity was more important than the rules. There is also Jy-ying, the me from another universe. And her Little Wei and Prince Wei. You know them all, my love. These wonderful people and little dogs were in your dreams. The dream John narrowed his eyes and looked at her askance. Were my dreams of time travel and you, of our mission, of those people, your doing?

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She smiled. Maybe a little, but at their heart they were you—your fears, your hopes, your humanity, your conviction, and your love. And now you will make me live again through the Joy that sleeps beside you. We will be with each other, banter and joke, and make love to each other through your novels. And our mission, dearest, our mission that we fought together and died for in the past and in other universes, our mission to foster democracy will not die in this one. Others will pick this up, and there will be many Joys, Jy-yings, and Johns fighting for freedom. It is the most basic human right that ultimately cannot be denied. She came very close. Her almond eyes were shining, her lips slightly parted to show her white teeth, and there was a glow to her face. She touched her lips and blew him a kiss. John felt a slight wetness on his lips, and tried to put his arm around her, but it only went through her. She gave him a long, happy look. She said finally, caressing him with her voice, I will now leave you. This is the last time I will visit you in your dreams, but you now have the me of this time and place beside you. Eventually, my dearest, all our souls will meet, and we will joyously talk about our different lives. Before then, Jy-ying and I of different universes will live and love you through your novels. Now sleep well, my dearest, and make the love we all feel for each other defeat the power that will challenge us, and has challenged humanity.

Praise for books by Nobel Peace Prize finalist

R. J. Rummel "26th in a Random House poll on the best nonfiction book of the 20th Century" Random House (Modern Library) “. . . the most important . . . in the history of international relations.” John Norton Moore Professor of Law and Director, Center for National Security Law, former Chairman of the Board of Directors of the U. S. Institute of Peace “. . . among the most exciting . . . in years.”

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“. . . exciting . . . pushes aside all the theories, propaganda, and wishful thinking . . . .” www.alphane.com “. . . world's foremost authority on the phenomenon of ‘democide.’” American Opinion Publishing “. . . excellent . . . .”

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“. . . bound to be become a standard work . . . .” James Lee Ray, Professor of Political Science “. . . major intellectual accomplishment . . .will be cited far into the next century” Jack Vincent, Professor of Political Science.”

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SUPPLEMENT TO THE NEVER AGAIN SERIES

Never Again Ending War, Democide, & Famine Through Democratic Freedom

R.J. RUMMEL

Llumina Press

Copyright © 2005 R. J. Rummel All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher. Requests for permission to make copies of any part of this work should be mailed to Permissions Department, Llumina Press, PO Box 772246, Coral Springs, FL 330772246

ISBN: 1-59526-138-9 1-59526-131-0 Printed in the United States of America by Llumina Press

Relevant books by R.J. Rummel

Understanding Conflict and War (five volumes) Lethal Politics: Soviet Genocide and Mass Murder since 1917 China’s Bloody Century: Genocide and Mass Murder since 1900 Democide: Nazi Genocide and Mass Murder Death By Government Power Kills: Democracy as a Method of Nonviolence Saving Lives, Enriching Life: Freedom as a Right and a Moral Good (online book) Never Again Series (Alternative History) War and Democide Never Again Nuclear Holocaust Never Again Reset Never Again Red Terror Never Again Genocide Never Again (forthcoming) Never Again: Ending War, Democide, & Famine Through Democratic Freedom

The more power a government has, the more its foreign violence, democide, and famine. The more constrained the power of governments, the less its foreign violence, democide, and famine. At the extremes of power, despotisms kill, murder, and starve people by the millions, while many democracies grow surplus food, and refuse to execute even serial murderers. Power kills.

Acknowledgements Again, I owe many thanks to the editing of Marg Gilks. This was an especially difficult book to edit, but she did it with good humor and careful attention to details. I owe more thanks than they know to my close colleagues Douglas Bond, Harris-Cliché (Pete) Peterson, and Rhee Sang-Woo for their many comments and suggestions over the years. Many colleagues, students, and readers of my previous nonfiction books have unknowingly contributed to this one through their ideas, comments and suggestions, recommendation of sources, estimates, material they passed on to me, data, and their own research. In particular, I want to thank Rouben Adalian, Dean Babst, Yehuda Bauer, Israel Charny, William Eckhardt, Wayne Elliott, Helen Fein, Paul Hollander, Irving Louis Horowitz, Hua Shiping, Guenter Lewy, John Norton Moore, J. C. Ramaer, James Lee Ray, Storm Russell, Bruce Russett, Gregory H. Stanton, Robert F. Turner, Jack Vincent, and Spencer Weart. This book is a summation of my research career. It is appropriate, therefore, for me to note my profound obligation to those great scholars and scientists who have had a fundamental impact on my ideas and research: Bertrand de Jouvenel, Friedrich von Hayek, Immanuel Kant, Karl Popper, Lewis F. Richardson, Ludwig von Mises, Pitirim Sorokin, Quincy Wright, and Raymond Cattell. I continue to be indebted to the many visitors to my website at www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/ who commented on or questioned the material there. They often had an impact on my research and writing. And foremost, always, is the love of my life, my wife Grace. For over forty years she has provided the love and supportive environment that has enabled my research and writing. Come here, baby. Finally, I must insist. This is my book, and all its errors, mistakes, and misunderstandings are mine.

CONTENTS PREFACE

1

Concordance Between Never Again Novels, This Book, and Website EXECUTIVE SUMMARY

3

Human Security What Themes Run Through This Book? PART 1. ON FREEDOM AS A RIGHT CHAPTER 1. Life Without Freedom

5 7

Table 1.1. How Many People Were Free in 2004? Sudan Saudi Arabia Burma China North Korea Some Other Antifreedom Nations CHAPTER 2. Universal Human Rights

29

CHAPTER 3. Philosophical Justification of Freedom

35

CHAPTER 4. Freedom as a Social Contract

38

A Convention of Minds The Global Evolution of Rights Summary PART 2. ON DEMOCRACY

48

CHAPTER 5. What Is Democracy?

49

CHAPTER 6. Electoral and Liberal Democracy

51

Table 6.1. Characteristics of Electoral and Liberal Democracy CHAPTER 7. An Example of Liberal Democracy: President William Jefferson Clinton

54

CHAPTER 8. About Liberal Democracy

68

CHAPTER 9. Extent of Democracy

71

Extent of Liberal Democracies Extent of Illiberal Democracies Conclusion PART 3. ON FREEDOM’S MORAL GOODS: WEALTH AND PROSPERITY CHAPTER 10. Freedom Is an Engine of Wealth and Prosperity

75 76

The Moral Good of Wealth and Prosperity The Example of Bill Gates’ Freedom CHAPTER 11. The Power of the Free Market

81

Table 11.1. Human and Economic Development by Level of Freedom, 1998 Figure 11.1. Plot of Standardized Values from Table 11.1 Figure 11.2. Plot of Freedom and Economic Freedom Rating CHAPTER 12. The Free Market, Greed, and the Command Economy

86

CHAPTER 13. Scarcity and Famine: Lenin’s Command Economy

91

Communism Lenin’s Nationalization and Famine, 1920–1923

CHAPTER 14. Scarcity and Famine: Stalin’s Command Economy

95

Collectivization, 1929–1935 Famine by Design, 1932–1933 CHAPTER 15. Scarcity and Famine: Mao’s Command Economy

102

Murder of Traditional Agriculture: Land Reform Collectivization: The Commune Great Leap Downward The World’s Greatest Famine Ever CHAPTER 16. Democracy Means No Famine Ever

110

Table 16.1. 20th Century Famine Totals PART 4. ON FREEDOM’S MORAL GOODS: MINIMIZING POLITICAL VIOLENCE CHAPTER 17. The Mexican Revolution

115 117

Roots of Revolution Revolution CHAPTER 18. The Russian Revolution

125

Roots of Revolution Revolution CHAPTER 19. Freedom Minimizes Political Violence within Nations Table 19.1. Freedom and Violence Ratings: Observed Frequencies Figure 19.1. The Less Democratic a Regime, the More Severe Its Internal Political Violence. Selected Sample, 1900–1987 Table 19.2. The Less Democratic a Regime, the More Severe Its Internal Political Violence. Selected Sample, 1900–1987

135

PART 5. ON FREEDOM’S MORAL GOODS: ELIMINATING DEMOCIDE CHAPTER 20. Democide

144 145

Table 20.1. Democide, 1900–1987 CHAPTER 21. The Rwandan Great Genocide

150

Background The Great Genocide CHAPTER 22. Death by Marxism I: The Khmer Rouge of Cambodia

159

Background Rule by Murder Table 22.1. Conditions of Life Under the Khmer Rouge CHAPTER 23. Death by Marxism II: Stalin’s Great Terror

172

Prelude to the Great Terror The Great Terror CHAPTER 24. Death by Marxism III: Mao’s Cultural Revolution

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CHAPTER 25. Power Kills

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Deadly Communism Table 25.1. Communist Democide, 1900–1987 Other Mega- and Kilo- Mass Murderers The Unifying Cause of Democide: Power PART 6. ON FREEDOM’S MORAL GOODS: ELIMINATING WAR

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CHAPTER 26. Battle of the Somme

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CHAPTER 27. The Democratic Peace

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Table 27.1. Democratic Versus Nondemocratic Wars, 1816–1991 CHAPTER 28. The Freer the People, the Greater the Peace

213

Figure 28.1. The Less Democratic Two Regimes, the More Severe Their Wars, 1900–1980 Figure 28.2 The Less Democratic a Regime, the More Severe Its Foreign Violence. Selected Sample, 1900– 1987 CHAPTER 29. Why the Democratic Peace? PART 7. CONCLUSION CHAPTER 30. Freedom is a Right and Creates Human Security Table 30.1a. Wealth and Prosperity for 190 Nations by Level of Freedom, 1997–1998 Table 30.1b. Deaths by Cause and Freedom Rating, 1900–1987

218 222 223

Preface

I

wrote the original electronic version of this book for anyone interested in a solution to war, democide (genocide and mass murder), famine, and poverty, or in freedom itself. It appears online and as a pdf file at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/NOTE15.HTM. In this extensive revision, I still have the general reader in mind, but now I also am writing it as a supplement to my novels in the Never Again Series. Democratic freedom has an incredible power to solve our most important problems, and I have sought different ways of communicating this, including publication of a number of hardcover books; Death By Government (1994) and Power Kills (1997) are two. I built a large website (www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/) to provide the theory, data, analyses, sources, and references for what I assert about freedom; on it, I used photographs of democide and various techniques to make the numbers dance, all in an effort to help visitors visualize the toll of democide. Much impressed by the use of fiction to communicate a message under the guise of entertainment, as George Orwell did in 1984, I have now turned to writing novels to spread the word about freedom. In my Never Again Series, two lovers are sent back in a time machine to 1906 by a fictitious society of the survivors of war and democide. Their mission: to prevent the horrors that killed hundreds of millions of people in the last century, and to promote democratic freedom to assure a peaceful world. Although trained in martial arts and provided with modern weapons and incredible wealth, the lovers run into one difficulty after another in their attempt to change history. Not the least of their troubles is their naiveté about power, and its effect on their own lives. As readers of the series know, each novel in the series places the characters in an actual historical episode, bent on preventing democide or revolution, such as the mass murder by the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia, the Cultural Revolution of Mao, and the Stalin-ordered starvation of millions of Ukrainians. But fiction has to entertain above all, and I could not weaken this with lectures on the how, why, and context of what occurred. Nor could I give an extensive lecture on the value and meaning of democracy and freedom, or, in our age of value relativity, how one can rightfully promote freedom.

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So, for the readers of my novels, here is a factual supplement that does all that. It answers the question: how could the Survivors’ Benevolent Society be so sure that democratic freedom was a solution to the twentieth century’s major evils—so sure that they nearly exhausted their vast resources to send two people back to 1906 forever; so sure that the Society’s head sent her own much-loved adopted daughter. And why were these two time travelers, one a young professor of history, so convinced of the truth of this solution that they gave up the comforts of the modern age to live in the primitive past, never to return, and daily risk their lives with little probability of complete success? The reader of my novels might consider this a report to the Society on the democratic solution—part of the documentation that persuaded them to send the time travelers on a one-way mission to change history. Moreover, if readers want to learn more about certain events too briefly described in the novels, the Concordance below should be helpful for locating them in this book, or on my website.

Executive Summary To promote freedom for everyone is to promote human security for all.

Human Security

H

umanity now has a practical cure for foreign and civil war, democide (genocide and mass murder), famine and mass hunger, mass impoverishment, and gross economic inequality. Our accumulated scientific and scholarly knowledge, and the results of vast social and economic experiments involving billions of people over three centuries, now enable us to claim, with the same confidence that we can say that orange juice is nutritious, that we can create perpetual peace, long and secure lives, abundant food, wealth, and prosperity. This is no dream, no utopian claim. This is the well-established fruit of the free market and human rights, of democratic freedom. The knowledge of this exists among economists and political scientists working on these problems. Even some of the highest officials, such as former President Clinton and current President George W. Bush, know of, and have acted on, the most surprising claim that fostering freedom is the way to peace. However, as incredibly important as this knowledge is, it is generally unknown by the public, including the major media and most professionals outside the relevant research areas. In Never Again: Ending War, Democide, & Famine Through Democratic Freedom, I’m trying to communicate this knowledge in a way that everyone can not only assimilate, but understand it. You have a right to freedom, and it’s important that you know why freedom is so powerful in saving lives and enriching life. I have packaged the various threats to human life against which a people’s freedom protects them by the idea of human security. Human insecurity, then, involves: • • • •

economic and gender inequality, malnourishment and famine, poor health and disease, domestic turmoil and civil war,

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• • • •

poor health and disease, domestic turmoil and civil war, foreign war, genocide and mass murder.

Freedom is a solution to all these threats—democratic freedom produces human security. Throughout the various chapters of this book, and its research links, including that to the results of a systematic statistical analysis of 190 nations for over 70 variables, I will show this.

What Themes Run Through This Book? Several themes are repeated throughout this book, and provide the focus for the chapters. All concern the power of freedom to end or lessen threats to human security, and to drive human and economic development. • • • • • •

• •

Freedom is a basic human right recognized by the United Nations and international treaties; it is the heart of social justice. Freedom—encompassing free speech and the economic and social free market—is an engine of economic and human development, and scientific and technological advancement. Freedom ameliorates mass poverty. Free nations do not suffer from and never have had famines; by theory, they should not. Freedom is therefore a solution to hunger and famine. Free nations have the least internal violence, turmoil, and political instability. Free nations (liberal democracies) have virtually no domestic government genocide and mass murder, and for good theoretical reasons. Freedom is therefore a solution to genocide and mass murder, and the only practical means of making sure that it happens “never again!” Free nations do not make war on each other. The greater the freedom within two nations, the less violence there is between them. Freedom is a method of nonviolence—the most peaceful nations are those whose people are free.

PART 1 On Freedom As a Right

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reedom is like your arm—you take it for granted until its loss reveals its true value. Unfortunately, I do not have the power to wave my hand and teleport free people to live for a month or so under a tyranny where the ruling thugs totally repress freedom. The next best thing is to exemplify what life would be like under such a regime, and so in Chapter 1 we’ll look at Sudan, Burma, China, Saudi Arabia, and North Korea. After reading about life in these thugdoms, you may wonder how, in our age of value relativity, I can condemn such countries. One person’s freedom is another’s slavery, you might say, and we cannot judge one as bad and the other as good. So, in Chapter 2, we’ll look at the rights that all people have by virtue of being human beings—their human rights. There has been much effort by nations to define what these rights are and to foster their fulfillment. The United Nations and international agreements now well describe everyone’s human rights, and in sum mean that all have the human right to be free. This now has the force of international law. And from this flows other rights, such as the freedom of speech, association, and religion. Though nations have agreed that freedom is a human right, can philosophers justify this right? After all, by their practices and agreements, nations once accepted slavery. Turning to philosophy in Chapter 3, I point to several arguments that philosophers make to justify freedom: legal positivism, natural rights, freedom as a self-evident right, and utilitarianism. In Chapter 4, I provide my own argument based on a hypothetical social contract. We would find, I argue, that virtually all people, blind to their personal benefits and acting through a hypothetical Convention of Minds, would agree to a social contract giving each other the right— the freedom—to choose how they live, and the freedom to leave any community in which they live. And the circumstances of this decision make these socially just rights. We also find that millennia of human

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evolution have produced similar rights among nations, specifically the right any people have to sovereign self-determination and free immigration. In sum, these chapters will show that legally, morally, and by the practice of nations, then, people should be free. And to further and guard this freedom, a country should be democratic.

Chapter 1 Life Without Freedom Power kills and impoverishes life.

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illions of people live without freedom, as shown in Table 1.1, below. In the worst of these countries, they live in fear and insecurity. They are literally slaves, bought and sold, or effectively the slaves of their governments. They are hungry, starving, or diseased. They live in primitive refugee camps, suffer under torture or the immediate threat of death, or soon die of untreated diseases. They are prisoners, inmates of concentration camps, or internees in death camps. They are soldiers subject to the most barbarous treatment or involved in lethal combat. They are children performing dangerous forced labor. They are civilians cowering under bombing and shelling. They are women who, considered second-class citizens, cannot leave their homes without the permission of their husbands, and then must completely cover themselves and be accompanied by a male relative. They are the aged and infirm that barely subsist under dangerous environmental conditions. Table 1.1 How Many People Were Free in 2004?

Rating* Free Partially Free Not Free

Nations 88 55 49

World's population Total (Bil.) % 2.78 44 1.32 21 2.21 35

* From Freedom House (www.freedomhouse.org)

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Even those who escape all this still live under the very real threat that war, revolution, disease, famine, extreme poverty and deprivation, or a dictator may destroy their lives, or the lives of their loved ones. So they live in fear of arrest and prison, of disappearing forever, of forced labor, genocide, mass murder, and an unnatural death. Even in countries that are partially free, people still may be arbitrarily arrested, subjected to torture, executed without a fair trial, spied upon, and denied even basic rights because of their race, religion, or nationality. Criticize the government—especially its dictator or leader—and death may follow.

Sudan All this is abstract—simple words. Yet such abstractions are ultimately personal. Sudan is a case in point. It is an Arab Muslim nation larger than the United States, whose people make on the average $940 a 1 year (purchasing power parity ), have a life expectancy of fifty-seven years, and are among the least free in the world. Witness what happened to Acol Bak, a member of the Dinka tribe who lived in the southern village of Panlang. Arabs attacked her village, killing her father, and though her mother escaped, they seized her and her brother. They were forced to walk north for three days to the village of Goos, carrying on their heads the goods stolen by their captors. They were given no food, and were able to drink only from filthy ponds along the way. Their captors then separated Acol Bak and her brother and sold them separately to different Arabs—yes, sold them, as people were sold in the sixteenth century slave trade. She would never see her brother again. Her Arab master had a wife and daughter who forced her to work from morning to evening; in Acol’s words, “I was the only slave in that house. If I said I was tired, I was beaten by all of them.” She bore the scars of those beatings, and had her arm broken. Her accommodations were simple—outside and without bedding. Though she was only eight years old, her Arab master had her circumcised, in accord with Muslim tradition, and with no anesthetic. But unlike so many slaves, Acol was in luck. A foreign Christian 1 Purchasing power parity (ppp) equates the currencies in different countries so that $1,000 will buy the same kind and amount of goods in each country. Thus, a purchasing power parity of $940 ppp provides the same ability to buy goods and services in Sudan as it does in the United States, Mexico, Japan, or any other country.

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group, who secretly entered the Sudan for this purpose, bought Acol with 248 other slaves and set them free. Although this policy of buying the freedom of slaves is controversial and may encourage more slavery, she did not care. She was free. She could return to her village where her 2 mother was waiting. This happened in our modern age—not in the seventeenth or eighteenth century, but in the 1990s. Not all of the people forced into slavery were children. Soldiers raped one forty-year-old woman, Akec Kwol, and took her north to a slave market, where they sold her like an animal. Her slave owner also tried to circumcise her, but she resisted and got herself slashed with a knife and scarred. Had she not finally submitted, she later explained, “They would have killed me. Because I was a slave, they had the right 3 to do whatever they wanted to me.” And then among the thousands of other slaves, there was Victoria Ajang, a Sudanese now living in the United States. She testified before Congress regarding her escape from slavery: “On a summer night, the government militia forces suddenly swooped in on our village. We were at home relaxing, in the evening, when men on horses with machine guns stormed through, shooting everyone. I saw friends fall dead in front of me. While my husband carried out our little daughter Eva, I ran with the few possessions I could grab. All around us, we saw children being shot in the stomach, in the leg, between the eyes. Against the dark sky, we saw flames from the houses the soldiers had set on fire. The cries of the people forced inside filled our ears as they burned 4 to death. Our people were being turned to ash.” She and her family escaped by jumping into a nearby river. Buying and selling slaves in the Sudan is, ironically, a free market. There is no monopoly or government control over prices, which vary according to supply. In 1989, for example, a slave cost $90, but within a year, the increase in slave raids caused the price to plummet to $15. This is about equal to the cost of pruning shears at my local hardware store. How can such slavery exist in this age of the Internet and space exploration? It is part of a civil war between the Arab Islamic North, ruled by a fundamentalist Muslim dictator, and a majority black South. 2 Linda Slobodian, The Slave Trail, 1997. See: www.vitrade.com/slave_trail/home.htm 3 Karin Davies, “Slave Trade Thrives in Sudan” at: www.domini.org/openbook/sud80210.htm 4 Nat Hentoff, “A Sudanese Woman Tells Her Story: Our People Were Turned to Ash” at: www.villagevoice.com/issues/0013/hentoff.php

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This war began in 1989 when Lt. General Umar Hassan Ahmad alBashir and the Arab-led Sudanese People’s Armed Forces overthrew the democratic government in power at that time and imposed strict Muslim law and faith on the whole country. Sudan’s population is about 35 million people, of which Sunni Muslims are about 70 percent, mainly in the North. Some 5 percent of the population, mostly southern blacks, is Christian. The rest of the 6 million living in the South are animist, attributing conscious life to nature and natural objects. The South had a protected and special constitutional status under the democratic government, but with its overthrow and especially with the effort of the new regime to impose Muslim law throughout the country, the South revolted and a bloody civil war resulted. To defeat the South and motivate its Arab tribal militia to fight, the North made slaves part of their compensation, along with whatever they could loot, and gave Arab soldiers carte blanche to commit rape. Of course, old people did not fit into this scheme, since they are good neither as slaves nor for rape, so they were beaten up, if not killed. Young men were usually marched off to slavery, unless for some reason they were unsuitable, then they also were killed. According to the Muslim faith, all non-Muslim southerners, whether man or woman, old or young, are infidels. They have no rights, even to life. They may be killed as a matter of course, enslaved, raped, and deprived of their possessions. In this civil war, bombing from the air killed many living in heavily populated areas of the South; even schools were bombed and children killed. Hospitals did not escape. There were many bombing attacks on the Samaritan’s Purse, the largest hospital in southern Sudan. Bombers often attacked other medical facilities as well, sometimes with cluster bombs. Even more monstrous, the North bombed the wells that provided southerners’ water, as well as the sites of foreign relief supplies that included food for the starving southerners. All this, in addition to the regime’s socialist economic policies, has contributed to a massive famine. But because they live under a fundamentalist Muslim regime, even northern Sudanese far from the civil war enjoy few human rights. For example, the government harasses and monitors women for correct dress, forbidding even slacks. Women who dare to defy the law risk arrest, conviction by an Islamic court of immoral dressing, and flogging, as recently happened to nine women students. Women also cannot hold any public office that would give them authority over Muslim men, nor can they marry a non-Muslim. Neither men nor women have freedom of speech or religion—all

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must accept the Muslim faith. To further religious rule, the government appoints only Muslims to the judiciary. Police can arrest and imprison any commoner for up to six months without trial, and while detained, suspects can expect officials to torture them as a matter of course. Worst of all, a Muslim dare not convert to another religion, for the punishment for doing so is death. By 1999, 20,000 to 40,000 Sudanese were enslaved and nearly 4 million displaced from their homes and villages—the largest number for any country. Many more Sudanese simply gave up on the country. Over 352,000 had fled, escaping the fate of some 1.5 to 2 million who died as a result of the war, famine, or disease, or were murdered in cold blood by Muslim forces or rebels. As of this writing, a preliminary peace agreement has just been signed between the regime and the southern-based rebels. There have been a number of such attempts at peace, and whether this one will succeed remains to be seen. Regardless, however, of its success or failure, the bloody and tyrannical regime of President Ahmad al-Bashir will continue to exist in Khartoum and deny Sudanese even the most basic human rights. Now we have Darfur, a new democidal crises in the western region of Sudan. Perhaps over 350,000 people have been murdered outright or died as a result of the Muslim's dictator's war on those in Darfur alone, and possibly at least 2,000 people are dying of famine and associated diseases or being murdered there every day.

Saudi Arabia Sudan was a country at war with itself, and afflicted with government-created famine and disease. What about a country at peace, like Saudi Arabia? It also is an Arab Muslim country, with 22 million people who have a life expectancy of sixty-eight years, a much higher annual income of $9,000 (purchasing power parity), and who live under the rule of an absolute monarchy. Life is better than in Sudan in that there is no war, rebellion, or famine killing hundreds of thousands of people. But as in Sudan, Saudis still suffer one kind of repression or another. There is no freedom of speech in Saudi Arabia. Police may arrest Saudis for the most minor criticism of the ruling monarchy, the Saudi king or any royal personage, or the Muslim religion. People live in fear that something said or done in innocence will land them in prison and get them tortured and flogged. The authorities might even cut off a person’s head.

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Even trying to be honest can be dangerous. One poor fellow, Abdul-Karim al-Naqshabandi, apparently refused to help his employer by giving false testimony. In retaliation, his well-connected employer had him framed and arrested for a crime he did not commit. To get a confession, the police tied him up like an animal and beat and tortured him. He finally signed a confession to end the misery, and to get someone outside to hear his case. Even then, the police allowed no one to visit him in prison. And although he could present considerable evidence proving his innocence and provide the names of defense witnesses, the court would not give him the right to defend himself. He was sentenced to death and executed in 1996. King Fahd Bin Abd Al-Aziz Al Saud’s power is absolute. There are no national elections, no legislature, and no political parties. All are illegal. The country’s constitution, by the king’s decree, is the Koran, Islam’s holy book. Its precepts are law. What this means for average Saudis is that they had better be Muslim and of a particular type, called Sunni (minority Shiite Muslims are always at risk of arrest and detention), and that they must obey religious law. They dare not change their Muslim religion or, by law, the courts can have them executed. They must not question the Muslim religion or the monarchy. Just consider the two Sunni Moslems, Sheikh Salman bin Fahd al’Awda and Sheikh Safr ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Hawali. To make them repent for their “extremist ideas,” the police arrested them in September 1994. Security forces worked them over year after year, until a court tried them in June of 1999, virtually five years later. As long as they are careful over what they say and do, life is easier for Muslim men. The country’s near totalitarian, religious rule especially enslaves women, who comprise roughly half the population. The Committee to Prevent Vice and Promote Virtue, the Mutawaa’in, or religious police, watch over every woman’s behavior for violations of religious law, which they strictly enforce. This has created a harsh and rigid apartheid system against women. In public, they must wear an abaya, a garment that fully covers their body. It can be of any color, as long as it is black. The religious police keep a close watch that women also cover their head and face. The unfortunate case of Nieves, a Filipina maid, provides one example of how these religious police work. She accepted a married couple’s invitation to a restaurant to celebrate a birthday. By chance, a male friend of the couple also joined the celebration. The religious police happened by and, after spying on the group, arrested Nieves on suspicion of being there to meet the male—a clear immoral act. While under arrest she denied this, but since she could not read Arabic, au-

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thorities tricked her into signing a confession she thought was a release order. This gave the court enough excuse to convict her of an offense against public morals and to sentence her to sixty lashes and twentyfive days in prison. Then there was the Filipina Donato Lama. The police arrested her in 1995 for suspicion of committing the unpardonable crime of preaching Christianity. In a revealing letter about her later beating and confession, she wrote, “I was at my most vulnerable state when the police again pressured me to admit or else I would continue receiving the beating. ‘We will let you go if you sign this paper. If not, you may as well die here.’ Badly bruised and no longer able to stand another beating, I agreed to put my thumbmark on the paper not knowing what it 5 was I was signing.” The court sentenced her to seventy lashes plus eighteen months in prison. Women cannot travel abroad or even on public transportation without the permission of a male relative. Even then, they must enter buses by a separate rear entrance and sit in the women’s section. The government forbids them to drive a car, or even walk outside by themselves. Their husband or a male relative must accompany them, or for so “offending public morals,” the religious police will arrest them. Nor can women play any role in the king’s government. Most important, the police ignore the violence frequently committed against women, especially that committed by their husbands. Even harder to believe, severely injured women must still have the permission of a male relative to enter a hospital. The testimony of one man in court is worth that of two women. Men can divorce women without cause while women must give legal reasons. In school, women may not study many subjects restricted to men, such as engineering and journalism. In the words of feminist Andrea Dworkin, writing in 1978 but still applicable today, Women are locked in and kept out, exiled to invisibility and abject powerlessness within their own country. It is women who are degraded systematically from birth to early death, utterly and totally and without exception deprived of freedom. It is women who are sold into marriage or concubinage, often before puberty; killed if their hymens 5 Amnesty International at: www.amnesty.org/ailib/intcam/saudi/briefing/3.html

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are not intact on the wedding night; kept confined, ignorant, pregnant, and poor, without choice or recourse. It is women who are raped and beaten with full sanction of the law. It is women who cannot own property or work for a living or determine in any way the circumstances of their own lives. It is women who are subject to a des6 potism that knows no restraint. Saudi Arabia’s treatment of women and non-Muslims, as well as the enforcement of religious rule over male Muslims, is the norm among the sheikdoms of the Middle East. We also saw this religious absolutism in fundamentalist Sudan. Algeria and Iran share it to a certain extent. Even in nonfundamentalist Muslim countries such as Egypt and Pakistan, governments deny human rights and women are secondclass citizens. Before the American-led alliance defeated the Taliban regime of Afghanistan in 2002, it even exceeded Saudi Arabia in its harsh and barbaric application of the Koran, denial of human rights, and savage suppression of women. The courts could even sentence women to death for adultery, as was the woman simply identified as Suriya by Talibanrun Radio. After convicting her of adultery in April 2000, officials took her to a sports stadium and stoned her to death in front of thousands of spectators. There are few other ways the Taliban could have picked to execute a person that are more cruel, inhumane, and prolonged. There was no word on what happened to the man involved in the affair, if anything. The best label for the lives of all women in these Muslim countries is pseudo-slavery. Its only difference from real slavery is that the government does not allow men to buy and sell women. Otherwise, women are under the complete control of the government, their fathers, and their husbands.

Burma While the fear, insecurity, and risk that common people experience in daily life in the Sudan and Saudi Arabia exists in many other Muslim countries, life can be even worse in some non-Muslim ones, such as 6 Andrea Dworkin, “Take Back The Day,” 1978. At: www.nostatusquo.com/ACLU/dworkin/WarZoneChaptIIIC.html

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Burma (Myanmar). The 42.7 million people in this South Asian country are 89 percent Buddhist, have a life expectancy of fifty-five years, and earn in purchasing power parity $1,200 a year. They are ruled by a socialist military regime, which allows no freedom. Life here is hellish, due to the military’s savage repression of dissent, and their barbaric response to the rebellion of nearly a dozen ethnic minorities. In the nine villages of Dweh Loh Township, northwest of Rangoon and near the Thai border, the Karen ethnic group has long been fighting for independence. During harvest time in March 2000, military forces attacked the villages, burned down homes, and destroyed or looted possessions. By sheer luck, some of the villagers managed to flee into the forest, leaving behind their rice and possessions and risking starvation—starvation made almost inevitable by the military’s burning of crops and rice storage barns. Soldiers even torched the cut scrub needed to prepare the soil for planting. Those who remained in the village who were not killed were seized for forced labor or portering, or pressed into the military. That done, the soldiers mined all approaches to the village to prevent the villagers from returning. Soldiers kill any male suspected of being a rebel. These are not all easy deaths. Sometimes soldiers gruesomely torture the victim and prolong death to cause as much agony as possible. Women or young girls are only marginally better off—the soldiers “only” rape them. Then they march them, along with the children and the village men left alive, to work sites to build barracks, defensive works, roads, railroads, or fences, or carry bamboo and firewood. Alternatively, the soldiers force them to porter ammunition and military supplies like mules. This is the most dangerous form of forced labor and many die from it. Even the children do not escape. Soldiers routinely make them do such arduous labor, or even soldier. Worse, the military sell the girls into prostitution in Burma or into the Thai sex market across the border, which already exploits the bodies of 40,000 Burmese girls. Worse still, the military have forced children to walk ahead of soldiers to trigger mines. No military have used human bodies to clear mines like this since World War II, when the Soviets often compelled prisoners to sweep minefields with their feet. Even for those Burmese children not forced into labor and portering, general conditions are disastrous for their future and that of the country. Even children living outside the civil war zones are unlikely to go to school. No more than one in five get so much as four years of primary school. They are more likely to be working at some job to help their family survive. According to UN estimates, about one-third of all children six to fifteen years of age are doing so. Many children do not survive to adulthood—half of all those that die each year are children.

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In the civil war zones, children and adults alike routinely live on the edge of death. For example, anyone living in the township of Dweh Loh that contained the nine villages I mentioned, had an equal chance of doing forced labor, being looted, or suffering extortion by soldiers on the one hand, or of fleeing into the forests on the other. Those living in other townships throughout this area probably escaped to the forests to barely survive there on whatever food they could grow. Were soldiers to find these refugees, they might shoot them or make them porter under threat of death. Life was no better for those living in the Nyaunglebin District to the west, where handpicked execution squads of soldiers operated off and on in the area, searching for rebels or their supporters. If these soldiers suspected a villager of even the most minor contact with rebel forces, if a villager was even seen talking to someone suspected of being a rebel, they usually cut his throat. Sometimes the soldiers also decapitated the victim and mounted the head on a pole as a warning to others. This would have been an easy death compared to what soldiers did to three men they captured in Plaw Toh Kee, as reported by a 7 villager there. No matter that these were simple farmers and cattle breeders, thought good men by the villagers and the village head. The soldiers suspected them of working for the rebels and that was enough. They forced the three men to stand against trees for days without food or water, beat them and punched them in the face because they could not answer any questions about the rebels, and then systematically made one-inch slices all over their bodies. Then the soldiers cut out their intestines, pushed the mess back into their stomachs, and kept these poor souls in this condition until finally killing them. This is only one atrocity in many that I could recount as this civil war takes its toll on unarmed and peaceful villagers living in one civil war zone or another. There are around sixty-seven different ethnic groups in Burma, each with its own language and culture, many of which have rebelled and are fighting the military government. With more or less ferocity, these rebellions have been going on since 1948, with a death toll of 200,000 or even possibly 400,000 Burmese. Both sides have also murdered outright an additional 100,000 to 200,000 Burmese. Moreover, rebellion, fighting, and brutal military pressure on the Burmese people have caused 500,000 to 1 million of them to be displaced within the country, many of whom the military 7 An Independent Report by the Karen Human Rights Group, March 31, 2000. At: www.ibiblio.org/freeburma/humanrights/khrg/archive/khrg2000/khrg0002.html

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have commanded to live in inhospitable forced location zones. Others have escaped relocation for bare subsistence in the forests, bereft of home or village. Still 215,000 others have fled abroad and are formally listed as refugees by international refugee organizations. An added 350,000 Burmese are without refugee status and subsist in refugee-like conditions in neighboring Thailand. The vast majority of Burmese, however, live far away from the civil war zones and are not members of the rebelling minority ethnic groups. They have other things to fear. Burma is a military dictatorship, and this regime is willing to use its weapons on unarmed people who protest or demonstrate. When students demonstrated against the regime on July 7, 1962, soldiers shot one hundred of them to death. On August 13, 1967, soldiers similarly shot over a hundred demonstrating men and women, and even the children that accompanied them. And so on and on, from demonstration to demonstration, until the worst of them all. On August 8, 1988, doctors, students, teachers, farmers, musicians, artists, monks, and workers took part in peaceful, pro-democracy demonstrations in all major cities. The military demanded that the demonstrators disperse, and when they would not, soldiers fired round after round into the crowds. They massacred an incredible 5,000 to 10,000 unarmed people simply trying to express their desire for democracy. Soldiers and police then arrested hundreds of those escaping this bloodbath, and tortured them in prison. Many thousands escaped to border areas, leaving their loved ones, homes, and possessions behind. Those Burmese who stay home, avoid demonstrations, and arouse no suspicion might still be conscripted by the military for forced labor or porter duty. Socialist in mind and spirit, the military have been ambitious in building railways, roads, airports, and so on. And to do so, they simply draft civilians. For example, those who lived near the route of the 110 mile e-Tavoy railway, built by the military in southern Burma, were among the 200,000 people that soldiers forced to work on the project for fifteen days a month without pay. Then there were the 30,000 the military conscripted for the Bassein Airport extension. Those who missed this might have been among the over 920,000 the military compelled to labor on the Chaung Oo-Pakokku Railroad. For those living close to the soil, wholly dependent on what they can grow to eat, time is food. When the military force these civilians to work for days without pay, even bare survival is difficult. For many, the only choice is to flee or shirk work. But then the military’s punishment for not doing the work can be even worse, as reported by one refugee. Then the soldiers came to my house and poked my wife in the side with a rifle

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butt. They kicked her hard in the stomach, and she vomited blood. Then they kicked my baby son down into the fire, and all the hair on his head was burnt. They slapped my seven-year-old son in the face and he cried out. They beat them because I had 8 escaped. Those who do the forced labor have to sleep at the work site, guarded, and without much shelter—sometimes none. The ground is their only bed. To go to the toilet they have to get permission from a guard. Their only food is what the workers themselves can bring. And they have to be sure not to be injured, because there is seldom any medical care. They also can die, as many do, from sickness or exhaustion. If they try to escape from the work site and soldiers catch them, if they are lucky, the soldiers will only severely beat them. Just resting without permission can get them beaten and killed by guards. This happened to Pa Za Kung, a man from Vomkua village in Chin State’s Thantlang Township, doing forced labor on a road from Thantlang to Vuangtu village. But portering is even worse than forced labor. The military make those living in war zones porter for them, but since as many as two porters are needed for each soldier to move much of their supplies and equipment, people living outside the war zones are also conscripted. Porters suffer from hunger, malnutrition, disease, and exhaustion. Rebel fire kills them, they step on mines, or soldiers shoot them because they cannot force their bodies to work any longer. Or soldiers simply abandon them with no medical care, no food, no help, no way home. All told, this is another form of slavery suffered by millions of Burmese. Burmese generally have no rights other than to serve the military. This might have changed in 1990, when the military caved in to considerable international pressure resulting from their 1988 massacre of pro-democracy demonstrators, and held real democratic elections— and were shocked when the democratic opposition, under the leadership of 1991 Nobel Peace laureate Aung San Suu Kyi, won 82 percent of the seats in the new parliament. The military then refused to yield power, and have held Aung San Suu Kyi under virtual house arrest ever since. They also arrested and tortured thousands of her support8 “A Comprehensive Response To Burmese Refugee and Displaced People Problem,” The Parliament of the Commonwealth of Australia Joint Standing Committee of Foreign Affairs, Defense and Trade, October 5, 1994.

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ers and members of other political parties, and have killed or disappeared thousands more. They even arrested hundreds of those elected to parliament, some of whom died under the harsh prison conditions. Member-elect Kyaw Min, for example, died of hepatitis caused by his imprisonment. Having learned their lesson about the power of the democratic idea, the military no longer allow political activity or criticism. There is no freedom of speech or association. In this Buddhist country, the military keep a watch on Buddhist monks and prevent their involvement in political activity. They also restrict the leaders of other religions. There can be no unions. Just having a computer modem can lead to arrest, torture, and a fifteen-year prison sentence. Having a fax machine may even mean death, as it did for the Anglo-Burmese San Suu Kyi, who was honorary Consul for the European Union. No independent courts exist, and the law is what the military command. The military monitor the movements of common citizens, search their homes at any time, and take them forcibly from their homes to be relocated, without compensation or explanation. Nor are Burmese free to start a business or invest. Since 1962, when the military overthrew the democratic government, the military have pursued a “Burmese Way to Socialism.” This has left little room for private businesses and a free market, and companies run by the military dominate many areas of the economy, leaving as the most vigorous sector of the economy the heroin trade. This alone may account for over 50 percent of the economy. The result is what one would expect. Among all countries, Burma has plummeted to near the bottom in economic freedom, possibly better than only communist North Korea. And the country is nearly bankrupt. However, perhaps having learned from this economic disaster, the military are now trying to liberalize their economic control and have invited foreign investment.

China Burma is a small country, tucked beneath the mass of China to the north. China has more than 1.26 billion people, about 20 percent of the world’s population, living under a communist dictatorship. They have a life expectancy of seventy years, and a purchasing power parity of $3,800 (1999 estimate). Is life any better than in Burma, Saudi Arabia, or Sudan? This depends on when in the twentieth century one was born there. If a decade or so ago, yes. But anytime before then, no. Before then, many Chinese died from disease or starvation, or were killed by soldiers in one of the hundreds of battles fought between war-

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lords. And with the communist takeover of the whole country in 1949, tens of millions of Chinese were murdered in cold blood during the Communist Party’s national campaigns, such as Land Reform, Suppression of Counterrevolutionaries, Three and Five Antis, Collectivization, and the Cultural Revolution. Those who survived this monstrous bloodbath could well have starved to death in the famine caused by the Party’s “Great Leap Forward” industrialization campaign, and the collectivization of all peasants into communes for factory-like farming. This famine occurred in the late 1950s and continued into the early 1960s; it was the world’s worst ever. As many as 40 million Chinese might have starved to death or died from related diseases. This alone is over twice the 15 million killed in combat during World War II, including combatants from Germany, the Soviet Union, Japan, China, the United States, and Great Britain. All this I have detailed in my book on China’s Bloody Century. Life is better now for the average Chinese. Relatively. The Communist Party now largely leaves peasants alone to farm as they see fit and to sell their food. There is more freedom, especially, to pursue a business or invest. The Party is trying to liberalize the economy and give greater reign to private ambition and foreign investment. What was a deeply impoverished country in the 1960s, possibly even worse than Burma, is now rapidly developing its economy. Moreover, Chinese are freer from Party controls, rules, intervention, and especially Party attempts to remake their lives and culture. Though it does so with a milder and more tolerant hand, the Communist Party still controls all aspects of government—it is the government. It is supreme; it shares power with no legislative body, no courts, no military, nor any other group. No one elects high Party leaders; they rise through power struggles within the Party. And except for those parts of the economy, culture, and family over which its policy is being liberalized, there still is little that Chinese can do without Party permission. It allows virtually no freedom of speech or association. Nor does it permit the Chinese to protest or demonstrate. And whatever their religious faith, the Party tightly controls it or makes it illegal. Look at what happened to practicing members of the Jesus Family, a Protestant sect of which the Party does not approve. In 1992, police surrounded and arrested sixty-one members attending a monthly commune service in Duoyigou, Shandong Province. The police destroyed their village and confiscated all church belongings. A court eventually sentenced some of the members to between one and twelve years in prison for, among other things, taking part in an “illegal” religious meeting. The court gave the sect’s leader and his sons the heaviest sentence of all for “swindling,” because they were so bold as to collect

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contributions for the church’s annual Christmas celebration. Even if church members avoided prison, the police might harass them years later. After these people rebuilt their village, police sealed it off and those entering or leaving had to pay five yuan. Yuan Hongbing and Wang Jiaqi, two legal scholars, believed this was unjust and tried to help the sect take legal recourse, which only resulted in the police arresting them as well. Even Catholics have suffered repression; many can only practice their religion underground. The Party considers Catholicism a “foreign, imperialist” import and has tried to keep it under tight control, arresting bishops and priests and burning their churches. In some places, churches are disguised as factories so that Catholics can pray at secret services. As part of Party persecution of the Falun Gong sect (to members, it is not a religion), police are likely to arrest any Chinese who practice its combination of Taoism and Buddhism, and the meditation and martial arts techniques that lead members to a spiritual melding of mind, spirit, and body. There are as many as 100 million adherents in China, though the Party claims that no more than 2.1 million belong. Clearly, however, sect leaders can bring together many members quickly. On April 25, 1999, for example, a mass of 10,000 followers stood quietly in front of the compound housing the top Party leaders in Beijing. Police have already arrested over a hundred sect leaders and thousands of its adherents for what, until recently, the Party labeled a “counterrevolutionary crime,” and has renamed in less political terms a “crime disturbing social order.” The Party recently held over 35,000 Falun Gong members in detention or in prison, and has tortured many. It has sent some 5,000 additional members to labor camps without trial. At least eighty-nine Falun Gong have died due to Party mistreatment. Though this number is small and seems irrelevant in such a huge country, for each of the eighty-nine and those who loved them, it was terribly real. Sixty-year-old Chen Zixiu is a case in point. She traveled to Beijing to request that the Party lift its restrictions on the Falun Gong. The police arrested her, then beat and tortured her. Her aging body could not take it, and she was dead in four days. When her family collected her corpse, they found bruises all over her body, broken teeth, and dried blood in her ears. Another woman, Zhao Xin, a professor at Beijing’s Industry and Commerce University, died from a beating she received after her arrest for practicing Falun Gong breathing exercises in a Beijing park. The Party cannot leave alone even that which most people regard as superstitions or simply good health exercises. In a crackdown on a group of Qi Gong practitioners, for example, over 21,000 have

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been arrested for nothing more than fostering breathing and meditation exercises. Action against unapproved sects or religious groups is simply an example of the Party’s continuous campaign to suppress anything of which it does not approve—be it association, speech, unions, or movements. In China, there can be no association without Party permission, no nonprofit organization without registration. The Party must license all newspapers, magazines, and other publications, and no book can be published without Party approval. Censorship is common. There are even Party guidelines for publications, such as requiring that newspaper stories be 80 percent positive, 20 percent negative. Disseminating or selling unapproved literature can lead to a long prison sentence. For example, police arrested two Beijing bookstore owners, sisters Li Xiaobing and Li Xiaomei, for selling Falun Gong publications, and a court sentenced them to six or seven years. The police even arrested the environmental journalist Dai Qing, who justifiably criticized a mammoth dam-building project on the Yangtze River, which will create the world’s largest hydroelectric dam and displace one to two million people. A court sentenced him to ten months in prison and forbade him to publish in the future. Even for simply making a list of those convicted of protest-connected offenses—just a list—a court sentenced one fellow, Li Hai, to nine months in prison. After all, convictions are a “high-level state secret.” Arrest and incarceration in prison, a labor camp, or a psychiatric hospital, forced drugging, brainwashing, psychological torture, physical torment, execution, a simple beating—all are Party tools. Their purpose is to control the Chinese population, advance Party policies, and maintain Party power through fear. There is no humanity in any of this. Note how the prison authorities treated the forty-two-year-old woman Cheng Fengrong. They handcuffed her to a tree and beat her, made her stand in the snow barefoot while they kicked her, and finally poured cold water over her head, which ran down her body and turned to ice at her feet. Aside from the Party’s great concern over what Chinese say and whom they associate with, there is still more reason why one would not want to be born in China. The Party also deems restricting population growth to be vital. It therefore forcibly intrudes into the core of a family’s soul—the desire to have children. Since 1979, the Party has dictated who will have no more than one child, a policy largely applied to Han Chinese (comprising 92 percent of the population) living in urban areas. To prevent women from having a second child, the Party might sterilize them or, if they’re pregnant, force them to undergo an abortion. If there are many pregnant women in an area, or just to ensure that there are no

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second children, Party officials might enforce a local “Clean Out the Stomach Campaign” involving house-to-house examinations and forced abortions. If a woman still somehow manages to have a second child, the couple would likely be fined, and the child would be discriminated against and not allowed to attend the better schools. What happened to the owner of a small clothing store is an example of the trouble a second pregnancy might cause. I will name her Woman X, since she is now a refugee and fears harm if the Party knows her name. After she had her first child, officials ordered her to use an intrauterine device to prevent another pregnancy. She did so for a while, but because of connected health problems, secretly removed it—and got pregnant. When they found out about this, Party officials fined her and forced her to undergo an abortion. The fine was too much for her meager resources to cover, and she could not pay it. Officials then seized her store. Penniless and distraught, she borrowed what money she could from relatives and fled alone, deserting her husband, child, and mother. The result of the Party’s one-child policy was predictable in an Asian, male-oriented society. If a Chinese woman believed her first fetus to be female, she might well abort it. The second try might yield a male. If a female were born, the mother or her husband might murder or abandon it. Infanticide was naturally prevalent, and sometimes even encouraged by Party authorities. The result was that there were about 119 males born for every 100 females. It has led to playgrounds filled with masses of boys, few girls, and no siblings. For traditional Chinese families, the end result is even worse. Who will take care of the aged parents? This has led to a Party reconsideration of the policy. One resulting reform is to permit families to have two children, if both parents are from single-child families. With the liberalization of some controls, a much freer market, and less emphasis on remaking the society and culture, the Party now executes far fewer people than it did decades ago. Still, the numbers are very high by international standards. As expected, how many people the Party executes or otherwise kills without a fair trial and for political or religious “crimes” is unknown and difficult to estimate. Going by what the outside world knows, however, in just the one year of 1996 the Party executed at least 4,367 people. With a little more than 20 percent of the world’s population, and going only by documented executions, the Party performs about 75 to 80 percent of all known judicial executions in the world. Nor can Chinese expect a decent burial if executed. As the stillwarm body lies on the ground after being shot in the back of the head, doctors brought for this purpose will likely cut out the organs and rush

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these to a hospital, without the prior consent of the executed or the family. At the hospital, doctors will transplant the organs into well-paying foreigners or the elite, or prepare the organs for shipment, so the Party can sell them in the international transplant market for much-needed hard currency. An American Chinese-language newspaper even adver9 tised such organs for sale—one negotiated price was $30,000. Executions are the result of official court sentences, but Chinese also die “off the record” from beatings, torture, or other mistreatment by authorities in prisons or labor camps. Even the Chinese press sometimes reports these deaths, as it did of a worker who, suspected of embezzlement, died after being beaten and tortured for twenty-nine hours. Chinese who simply demonstrate for democracy can be killed. During the nonviolent, pro-democracy demonstrations in Tiananmen Square in Beijing in 1989, soldiers, armored vehicles, and tanks slaughtered 2,000 to 10,000 demonstrators. Those who escape execution or prison might still be sentenced to a forced labor or re-education camp. Life in either case can be worse than that in prison, however, and even death might seem preferable. It did for human rights leader Chen Longde. Beaten by guards with clubs and electric batons, tortured by other inmates who were promised reduced sentences if they got him to confess, and suffering from associated kidney damage, he finally jumped from a window. He survived, perhaps unfortunately, with two hips and a leg broken. The Party forces inmates to fulfill a work quota or meet certain “reform” standards. Failure to meet a quota or spout communist dogma can be lethal. Camp officials may simply deny them benefits, or they may impose a more deadly punishment—they may beat them, starve them, or put them in painfully tightened leg irons or handcuffs for long periods. The quotas are not easy for inmates to fill, and could require them to work overtime with little sleep—sometimes no more than three or four hours. Moreover, camp authorities might combine work with required communist study, making it even harder to meet quotas. In some camps, guards routinely beat and harass inmates to force them to do more work. Of course, guards beat prisoners in other countries as well. But in China these beatings are not the idiosyncratic behavior of sadistic camp guards. They are the Party’s method to ensure work output and proper brainwashing. Overall, the Party admits to keeping 1.2 million prisoners, including detainees. This total is probably far under the actual number.

9 The Laogai Research Foundation at: www.laogai.org/reports/profit.htm

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North Korea Then consider North Korea, surely the worst place in the world in which to be born. Its communist dictator Kim Jong-il rules a population of 22.5 million with an iron hand, most of whom he is starving or weakening with malnutrition. Perhaps as many as 3 million North Koreans have died of starvation or associated diseases, not to mention those that Kim’s regime has summarily executed. Even as I write this, people are dying by the hundreds, sometimes the thousands, every day, due to the long famine and poor rations caused by Kim’s fanatical devotion to communism itself. Consider what these people face just in their human need for food 10 and health, leaving aside their enslavement. North Korea’s population requires about 6 million tons of food a year for each person to have a minimum diet. The regime controls all farming, all agriculture, and can only produce about 4 million tons. There is a food shortfall of 2 million tons, or an amount 33 percent below what is minimally required. Kim has imposed rationing, and his handouts are the only legal way to obtain food. There are no independent channels of distribution, except for the black market. This means that people get food as Kim and his thugs desire. Kim’s food distribution system is highly unequal. Food is put aside first as “patriotic rice” and “military rice.” This has resulted in a 22 percent cut in food consumption, from 700g a day per person to 400g a day—well below the minimum rice requirement set by the World Food and Agricultural Organization. Kim uses the very food people need to live as a tool to reward and punish his subject slaves. In this “classless” communist society, the regime has divided North Koreans into a rigid hierarchy of three classes and fifty-one subdivisions, determined by their status within the communist North Korean Workers’ Party and the military, their perceived faithfulness to communism, and their family backgrounds. Thus, vast numbers of people whose loyalties are questioned or who are deemed useless to the regime do not receive enough food to live long. The worst off are those people and families incarcerated in Kim’s concentration or forced labor camps. They receive the lowest food allowance of all, despite being forced to work from 5 a.m. to 8 p.m. Attempts by South Korea, the United Nations, and the United States (the major provider) to supply food aid have not worked well. In 2002, 10 I have taken many of the following specifics from the exceptional report of Seong Ho Jhe’s article in Korea and World Affairs (Summer 2003) on the food crisis in Korea. It is available at: www.nkhumanrights.or.kr/NKHR_new/inter_conf/Seong_Ho_Jhe.pdf

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food aid was 62 percent under its target, but even meeting the target would not substantially improve the food available to the average Korean, even were it equally distributed. It is not. The regime will not guarantee that food reaches those who need it most, it does not allow aid givers to carefully monitor who gets the food and, in some cases, it has redirected the food to its favorite classes or to the military. Kim himself enjoys the best food the world can offer. Often this food is not merely imported, but gathered by his personal chef, sent from one country to another to buy the special food he desires. In his book Kim Jong Il’s Chef (published in Japanese in 2003), written under a pseudonym after he escaped to Japan, Kim’s chef described the countries he was sent to and for what food: x Urumqi (in northwestern China) for fruit, mainly hamigua melons and grapes x Thailand for fruit, mostly durians, papayas, and mangoes x Malaysia for fruit, mostly durians, papayas, and mangoes x Czechoslovakia for draft beer x Denmark for pork x Iran for caviar x Uzbekistan for caviar x Japan for seafood This while most of Kim’s people were starving, many to death. There are no hospitals, doctors, or medical distribution and supply companies independent of the regime. All are nationalized. As with food, medical treatment and medicine is distributed as reward and punishment. Not surprisingly, medicine is in short supply and not available everywhere. An indicator of this situation is that only half of the population is now inoculated for such diseases as infantile paralysis and measles. Thus, the diseases associated with famine and malnutrition often receive no medical treatment at all. Under such conditions, even a cold can be fatal. North Korea is one of the few countries in which population mortality rates have been increasing. The life expectancy has fallen to 66.8 years from 73.2; the newborn mortality rate has increased from 14 to 22.5, and the rate for those under five years of age has increased from 27 to 48 per thousand. Aside from the daily accumulation of dead, the effects on the living have been disastrous. Long-term malnutrition has affected about half the living, and caused excessive underdevelopment in children—they are stunted in growth and excessively thin. There is

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wide-scale dwarfishness and, most important from any humanitarian point of view, brain development has been retarded. Moreover, malnutrition has fostered rickets, scurvy, nyctalopia, hepatitis, and tuberculosis, among other diseases. And all this without even recounting the regime’s terror, repression, executions, and absolute violations of what those living in liberal democracies take for granted, such as the freedom of religion and speech, of opportunity and association, fair trials, rule of law, sanctity of the person, and freedom from fear. I can only describe this nation as a horrid, border-to-border slave labor camp, as I detailed in my Death By Government.

Some Other Antifreedom Thugdoms There are many other thugdoms—nations—whose dictators allow no or little freedom, and daily commit abuses against human rights, including mass executions. For example, east of Burma and to the south of China is Laos, in which the treatment of its people by the Laotian Communist Party that controls the country can be best described as Stalinist. Then in East Africa is the nation of Rwanda, where in 1994 Hutu soldiers and armed civilians killed hundreds of thousands of Tutsi, and armed Tutsi retaliated by murdering Hutu. By the end of this genocidal slaughter, Hutu and Tutsi had massacred as many as 1 million Rwandans within a few months, as Chapter 6 will report in full detail (and which I fictionalized in my novel War & Democide Never Again). Iraq’s former dictator Saddam Hussein (now held in prison by the newly sovereign Iraqi government under Prime Minister Iyad Allawi) gassed Kurdish women and children and destroyed over 3,000 of their villages in Iraq’s north, and massacred Shiite men, women, and children in the south. Overall, his regime may have murdered 750,000 or even a million Iraqis. And in 1971, as I also detailed in Death By Government, the West Pakistan military murdered Bengalis and Hindus by the hundreds of thousands in East Pakistan (now Bangladesh). There are tens of millions more whose murder by one government or another I will discuss in Chapter 6. Here I mention this only to make the point clear. In such countries, and in Sudan, Saudi Arabia, Burma, China, and North Korea, the lives of the people have been filled with disease, starvation, forced labor, slavery, beatings, torture, and death. Their rulers have absolute or near-absolute power. And for those with absolute power, their whim is law, their fantasy a command, their wish a campaign. They do not see people as living human beings, each a self-conscious person

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with a human soul. Such rulers see their citizens as bricks and mortar for building a paradise on earth, expendable pawns with which to fight a war, or robots to be programmed with a religious text. Still, by what right can one criticize the lack of freedom in these countries? Why should one be free? Is one’s personal enjoyment or desire for freedom sufficient to justify it for others? Really, what do we mean by freedom? And what are the consequences of such freedom for people or society as a whole?

Chapter 2 Universal Human Rights A free society is a most socially just one.

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f a people want to be free, should they be? Should those living in Sudan, Saudi Arabia, Burma, and China be free? Why? There are two ways of answering this. One is to prove that the benefits of freedom so overshadow any negative consequences as to be justified. This is what I will show in later chapters. The second way is to show that everyone has a right to be free regardless of the consequences, that freedom is moral and just in itself, and that it is immoral and unjust to deprive people of freedom. That this is so may seem obvious, but it is not in much of the world. We saw in the previous chapter that the dictators of many nations obey no law. The law is what they command it to be, and their subjects must obey or suffer severe consequences. The people have no way of voting these dictators out of power, and to demonstrate or protest against them is to risk imprisonment, torture, and death. Their life is one of fear. Yet these dictators and their supporters often justify their rule as moral, or as socially or religiously just. This belief is why some dictatorships come into existence in the first place. Large and powerful groups believe that this way of governing is necessary, as was true for Lenin and his Bolsheviks when they overthrew the pro-democratic provisional government of Russia in 1917. They may have such faith in their own ideology or religion and its teachings, as many do in Muslim countries, that they militantly demand that their church and government should be one. They may think their nation needs a dictatorship that can deal with its poverty and promote economic growth. They may be convinced that government must assure the economic right of the people to a job, social security, and health, before concerning itself with so-called Western human rights. They may be traditional monarchists who embrace a hereditary, authoritarian government that would maintain the great traditions and customs of their people. Even those who know what life is like for the people who have no freedom in Sudan, Saudi Arabia, Burma, China, and North Korea might

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still claim that believing they should be free is intolerant of different values, morally wrong, unfair, or ungodly. And fascists and communists are still around, though in the last half-century what we have learned about life under these isms has virtually discredited them. In my teaching I have known professors and students, for instance, who, persuaded by the Marxism-Leninism that provides the philosophical foundations of twentieth century communism that it is more socially just, were willing to replace their democratic freedoms with communist totalitarianism. If people wish to live under a dictatorship, that is their choice. But what about people who have no choice, the people dictators deprive of any freedom with the force of their guns? Do we have a right to say that Burmese or Chinese rulers, or those of any other nondemocratic country, should free their people and democratize? Do those trumpeting such freedom ignore an Asian or African way, for example? What about God’s way? Are not the holy teachings of the Bible or Koran above the selfish desire for freedom? To answer, we must recognize that freedom is a general term, like liberty, independence, autonomy, and equality. In reality, freedom cannot be absolute; no one can be completely free. A person’s talents, family situation, job, wealth, cultural norms, and laws against murder, incest, burglary, and so on limit their choices. And then there is the freedom of others that necessarily limits one’s own freedom. Broadly speaking, a person’s rights, whatever they may be, define the limits to their freedom. In the Western tradition of freedom, these are their civil and political rights, including their freedom of speech, religion, and association. Some philosophers see these not only as morally justified rights in themselves, but also as means for fulfilling other possible rights, like happiness. The opposing position is that such rights have no special status unless granted by government to maintain tradition, as does an absolute monarchy like Saudi Arabia; to pursue a just society, as the Communist Party of China claims; to protect a holy society, as does a Muslim government like that in Sudan; or to economically develop a country, as attempted by a military government like that in Burma. The internationally popular justification for a people’s freedom is by reference to human rights, those due them as a human beings. The term “human rights” is recent in origin: President Franklin Delano Roosevelt first used it in a 1941 message to the United States Congress, when he declared that everyone has four human rights—freedom of speech and religion, and freedom from want and fear. Since 1941, there has been a vigorous international affirmation of these and other human rights. Many a nation’s constitution has included them, and they now

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are part of an International Bill of Rights. The latter comprises Articles 1 and 55 of the 1945 United Nations Charter, the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights adopted by the United Nations General Assembly, and the two international covenants passed by the General Assembly in 1966, one on civil and political rights and the other on economic, social, and cultural rights. There is now a United Nations Human Rights Commission that can investigate alleged violations of human rights, and receive and consider complaints. In our nationcentered international system, this is a momentous advance for the human rights of all people. The conventions and declarations of regional organizations have further strengthened these human rights. To mention a few examples, the Council of Europe adopted the European Convention on Human Rights, and European nations now have the European Court of Human Rights and the European Commission on Human Rights. The Organization of American States adopted the American Declaration on Human Rights, and the American states have created the Inter-American Convention and Court on Human Rights. The Organization for African Unity has created the African Charter of Human and People’s Rights. Moreover, there have been many formal conferences among states and interested international government organizations on human rights, such as the 1993 Vienna World Conference on Human Rights involving 183 nations. Human rights have also been the concern of many private organizations. These have sought to further define and extend human rights (such as the right to a clean environment), observe the implementation of human rights in all nations, publicize violations of human rights by governments (for instance, the right against torture and summary execution), or pressure governments to end their violations. Some of the many such organizations include the International Committee of the Red Cross, the Anti-Slavery Society, Amnesty International, the International League for Human Rights, and the International Commission of Jurists. Even warfare or rebellion is no excuse for dictatorships such as Sudan or Burma to torture or arbitrarily kill their people. Nations have agreed to moderate their warfare to preserve certain human rights, as exactly defined in the 1949 Geneva Convention, its 1977 Additional Protocols, and now the International Court of Justice. All this international activity on human rights has multiplied the list of rights. People now have at least forty rights listed in the basic international documents on human rights, which are the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, that on Civil and Political Rights, and that on Eco-

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nomic, Social, and Cultural Rights. The most basic of all these rights are those defining what governments cannot do to their people. From those stated in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, these include everyone’s right to x life, liberty, and personal security; x recognition as a person before the law, equal protection of the law, remedy for violation of their rights, fair and public trial, and the presumption of their innocence until proven guilty if charged with a penal offense; x leave any country and return, and seek asylum from persecution; x the secret ballot and periodic elections, and freely chosen representatives; x form and join trade unions, equal access to public service, and participation in cultural life; x freedom of movement and residence, thought, conscience and religion, opinion and expression, peaceful assembly and association, and as a parent to choose their children’s education; x freedom from slavery or servitude, torture, degrading or inhuman treatment or punishment, arbitrary arrest or detention or exile, arbitrary interference with privacy or family or home or correspondence, deprivation of nationality, arbitrary deprivation of property, and being compelled to join an association. In effect, these human rights define what I mean by democratic freedom. A people’s freedom of thought, expression, religion, and association is basic, as are the secret ballot, periodic elections, and the right to representation. In short, these rights say that people have a right to be free. Therefore, those condemning the lack of freedom in, for instance, Sudan, are not imposing their values on another culture. This is not a matter of value relativity. Demanding human rights, and thus freedom, for the slaves in the Sudan—or Chinese political prisoners, or the women in Muslim countries, or Burmese forced laborers—is simply demanding that their rulers obey international law, itself based on general treaties, international agreements, and practices. This law is universal. Every Arabian, Chinese, Rwandan, and all the world’s peoples have the internationally defined and protected human rights listed above. No rulers can violate these rights of their

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people without risking mandated sanctions by the United Nations Security Council. Many nations now even include human rights monitors or representatives within their foreign ministries so that a foreign dictator who denies the human rights of his people can be publicly exposed and diplomatically pressured to recognize them. For example, the United States Department of State has a Bureau of Human Rights and Humanitarian Affairs run by an Assistant Secretary of State. The bureau publishes an annual review of human rights around the world. True, there is much hypocrisy here and with so many dictatorships in the world, the skeptic may feel that these rights are just words. Even some of the governments that signed the human rights documents allow few rights to their people. Note, however, that they felt compelled to sign them. This shows the sheer power and legitimacy of the idea of human rights. These human rights documents lay down a marker. They define what should be, what is right, the moral high ground. Those who deny such rights now must defend their policies, not those who grant these rights. Indeed, any violation of a people’s human rights by their rulers, as when the Chinese police arrest and torture people for practicing their creed or religion, is now a breach of international law. Unfortunately, the United Nations cannot automatically command sanctions or military intervention against governments for this. It is no longer a problem of what a people’s human rights are, but of international and domestic politics, power, and interests. Again, consider Sudan. Slavery and genocide against the southern black Christians continued without foreign intervention to stop it. This is because Sudan is a distant country, with little trade, few foreign embassies, hardly any foreign journalists, almost no tourists, and no cultural affinity with the world’s most powerful countries. Moreover, intervention probably would disrupt sensitive diplomatic arrangements within the region, including the relations of the Muslim countries with Israel. It also might mean a local war, perhaps with Libya or even Iran providing the Sudanese rulers with military aid, which the democratic peoples of the world lack the interest and will to fight. However, if every day they were to see televised images of the starving children and the scars of slavery, and hear the stories of those tortured, then they would demand that their leaders do something. Such was the case with the United Nations-supported, Americanled military coalition that intervened in Somalia. The Somali government had collapsed into clan wars, and people were starving by the millions, with about 500,000 already dead. When the world’s television screens and newspapers showed picture after picture of starving Somali

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children, the horrified American public demanded action, and finally pressured the first President Bush into doing something. Acting under a United Nations Security Council resolution, the United States intervened in December 1992 with 25,500 American troops. Their goal was to protect international famine relief efforts and end the political chaos. But soon after the Clinton Administration came into power in January 1993, its support for this intervention collapsed when the Somalis killed eighteen Army Rangers trapped into a firefight. President Clinton then reduced American forces, and the whole operation was handed over to a United Nations force of 22,000, which finally withdrew in March 1994. Journalists and politicians believe the operation was a failure. It did not produce a pro-democratic government, assure the human rights of Somalis, or end the civil war. Still, it did save possibly a million people from starvation, which may be justification enough. Even if international sanctions and intervention to protect human rights are difficult, the international community has moved more than one step forward. It has clearly articulated the law protecting everyone’s rights. It does pinpoint the behavior of a government that is morally wrong. And if the international community cannot impose sanctions on the dictators who trample on their subjects’ rights, or intervene to stop them, at least now the United Nations and international organizations can subject them to moral pressure. The preamble to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, for example, makes this clear by stating that human rights are “a common standard of achievement for all peoples and all nations, to the end that every individual and every organ of society . . . shall strive by teaching and education to promote respect for these rights and freedoms and by progressive measures, national and international, to secure their universal and effective recognition and observance . . . .” In sum, a people’s human rights well define their freedom. Regardless of how others may want people to live because of their ideology, religion, or moral code, wherever people live, no matter their culture, no matter what government they live under, the following principle applies to all. A people’s freedom—their human rights—is justified by United Nations certification, international treaties, agreements, and international law.

Chapter 3 Philosophical Justification of Freedom Nothing . . . is unchangeable but the inherent and unalienable rights of man. – Thomas Jefferson

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oes agreement on human rights, even the international consensus shown above, define just rights? Because a majority, even an overwhelming majority, says something is a right, is it a moral, just right? Few philosophers would agree to this. Being philosophers, they still must ask why a right is a right. And there are many answers. For one, there is the philosophical school called legal positivism, much influenced by the seminal work of John Austin (1790–1859), that does not accept internationally defined human rights as fundamentally moral or just. These philosophers separate law from morality, and argue that the rights of all people are only those that the world community has agreed to in their international deliberative assemblies, organizations, and by their treaties. Although for international law the positivist position is dominant among lawyers, judges, and academics, among philosophers it is a minority position. By this standard, human rights are international legal rights, as described, although not necessarily moral or ethically right. Philosophers have debated much about how to justify rights, especially about what used to be called natural rights or the rights of man. These rights are a particularly Western idea that grew out of the medieval concern for the rights of lords, barons, churchmen, kings, guilds, or towns. One of the great documents promoting the rights of all subjects was the Magna Carta signed by King John of England in 1215. He promised thereby to govern according to the law, that all have a right to the courts. It established that no person, not even the king, was above the law. With the eighteenth century Enlightenment and a growing faith in human reason, philosophers began to grapple with the meaning of “a right” and whether people generally had any. What emerged was the idea that all people have natural rights. These are what people think,

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with reason and without emotional prejudice or personal bias, are the rights everyone should have as human beings. For example, two such rationally grounded natural rights that all people share with each other are their rights to life, and to equal freedom. This philosophical conception of natural rights has been one of the most powerful ideas in history. It has been the force behind many revolutions and constitutions. For example, the philosopher John Locke, in his influential Second Treatise of Government (1690), wielded this idea like a sword, claiming that every human being has a natural right to freedom, equality, and property. He directly influenced the American Declaration of Independence, which almost a century later (1776) declared that “We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.” Some years later the French National Assembly approved the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen in 1789, which proclaimed that the purpose of political association is the preservation of one’s natural and inalienable rights to liberty, private property, personal security, and resistance to oppression. The Bill of Rights, the first ten amendments to the Constitution of the United States, further defined everyone’s natural rights, among them the freedom of speech, religion, and assembly. Nations now recognize these rights as human rights, as I have pointed out, and they have become part of the constitution of one nation after another. A variant of this natural rights approach is to claim that each person has only one natural right, and it is self-evident: each person exists, each is human, and therefore, each has an absolute right to equal freedom with all other humans. No more, no less. Then, treating this like an axiom in Euclidean geometry, no other right exists unless it is a derivation of, or implicit in, a person’s right to equal freedom. This thereby establishes the right to freedoms of religion, assembly, and speech. But, it denies the status of a right to what people want or need, but which can’t be derived from that of equal freedom, such as the right to a job, welfare, or clean air. Moreover, people do not have a right to what other people are compelled to secure for them. Regardless of approach, philosophers can only justify these natural rights by their abstract reason, as though doing a mathematical proof. Nonetheless, using their logic and reason, they still disagree on what rights people have—for instance, to abortion, social security, and a minimum wage. This problem of defining what is reasonable is universal, and has encouraged philosophers to chase less subjective justifications of rights.

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One favored solution among thinkers, such as the eighteenth century British theologian William Paley, jurist and philosopher Jeremy Bentham, and philosophers James Mill and John Stuart Mill, is their appeal to utility—what promotes the greater happiness of all is good. According to the utilitarians, the only rights that can be justified are those that assure the greatest happiness of the largest number of people. Utilitarians argue that this criterion provides an empirical measuring rod for what will be a right—overall, does it cause more happiness than pain? If so, then it is a right. If not, then it is not a right. I believe that in their hearts, this utilitarian argument has been the dominant justification for human rights by activists, and especially by diplomats from the democracies who negotiated the human rights agreements. They believed that by promoting human rights they were furthering human happiness in the world.

Chapter 4 Freedom As a Social Contract One man’s justice is another’s injustice; One man’s beauty is another’s ugliness; One man’s wisdom another’s folly; – Ralph Waldo Emerson

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inally, I will give my own argument for human rights. It’s based on a hypothetical social contract, a favorite conceptual tool of political philosophers like Thomas Hobbes, John Locke, Jean Jacques Rousseau, and Baron de Montesquieu. They used this idea to define a just society, and the power and limits of government. Imagine, as Hobbes did in his Leviathan (1651), that in the original state of nature life was primitive, brutal, and short. People, therefore, saw the absolute need to secure their lives and property, and therefore all (hypothetically) agreed to participate in a social contract that would ensure this. They implemented it by forming a central government, and granting it the power to protect their lives and property in exchange for a pledge that each member would obey its laws. This social contract then defined the reciprocal duties of citizen and government. Violate the contract, and government may justly punish the violator; conversely, if the government violates the contract, for example by not protecting its people’s lives from criminals or if the government itself is preying on its people, then they may justly overthrow it. This idea of an implicit social contract between the people and their government contributed to the writing of the American Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States. And it has much in common with that of the positivists, who stress international agreements as the source of human rights. After all, if universal in scope, thereby defining the rights of everyone, these agreements are akin to a general social contract.

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To be clear, when philosophers use a hypothetical social contract to justify rights in a state of nature, they are trying to determine those rights that all people would agree should be guaranteed by government. To make this social contract objective and unbiased, philosophers assume that in their agreement on it, people are ignorant of their wealth, status, race, talents, or other attributes. They therefore have no idea how their choice of a social contract—of rights—would benefit them personally, which makes these rights just. As I did in Part 2 of my The Just Peace, I will use a revised version of this social contract approach to more fully explore whether people would generally, regardless of their religion, ideology, or culture, agree on certain rights. I also want to broaden this contract to consider the connected principles of governance. Rights do not exist in a vacuum. Some possible rights, in their very definition, assume that government will or will not have certain powers. For example, among the human rights mentioned above are those to free association (one-party governments are then out), freedom of religion (so much for government based on the Koran or Bible), and the freedom to vote in free elections (which assumes a democratic-type government). However, this is not a one-to-one relationship between rights and governance. Monarchies and some dictatorships, for example, may allow freedom of religion, domestic movement, and immigration. But there is a close relationship between the rights people might want and how they should be governed to assure those rights, and I want to make this association clear. It is also critical that rights agreed to in the social contract and associated principles of governance be just—that is, they should define what is social justice. This demands that the social contract satisfy certain requirements. First, for the rights and principles to be morally just, they must be universal. It is hardly just if one person has the right to be a Buddhist while another person is not free to practice Judaism. Therefore, whatever people agree to in their social contract applies to all people, anywhere, at anytime. Second, to be morally just, the rights and principles must be practical. People must be able to live by them. A person can hardly judge another immoral for not doing something that is impossible to do. We could not obey, for example, a moral injunction against sexy dreams, if they were deemed immoral. Preventing these dreams is beyond our ability. Finally, a just right or just principle also means that it is fair, evenhanded. Two more requirements can assure this. One is that nearly everyone has a chance to discuss, debate, and finally agree upon the

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rights all will have and on their associated principles of governance. The other requirement is that the agreement is objective. This can be achieved by making everyone hypothetically blind to his or her selfinterests. A good example of this is the sculpture of a Greek goddess (possibly Themis) holding a scale of justice in the left hand and a sword in the other, which is found on the wall of many courthouses in the United States. So that her judgment will be uncorrupted and unbiased, she is blindfolded to hide from her whether the defendant is rich or powerful, young or old, man or woman, black or white. The rights these requirements define should not only be just, but also well considered and vital. To achieve this, people must have the strongest motivation to seek, propose, and weigh such rights and the related powers of government. It would be easy enough for a person to say that another should have a right not to be discriminated against, but is this a right that the person would passionately support, even at the risk of death? If a right can be agreed upon that meets the above requirements, then it is truly a basic and just right. Those rights and related principles meeting all these requirements will define social justice and just governance. Now to have a little fun: suppose all people suddenly hear a voice inside their head. They look around for the source of the voice, but no one is talking—or if anyone is, the inner voice overrides what is being said. Some get anxious, wonder if they are going crazy. But the voice has a soothing quality, and soon it tells everyone what is happening: People of earth, what you hear is being sent to you telepathically from a spaceship near earth. We are galactic conservationists from another star system here to give you the following message. All your lives are at risk. Your planet will be passing through a lethal galactic warp storm in two years, and the resulting radiation will exterminate all life on earth. As conservationists we are dedicated to protecting all intelligent life forms in the galaxy. We are here to save your species from death. To do this, we have found a habitable planet orbiting a distant sun. It has no com-

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peting intelligent life, and we can teleport all of you to it. However, according to the laws of our galactic federation, we can make such a transfer of intelligent life forms only if virtually all of you agree among yourselves on what rights you will have in your new world, and the related principles of government under which you will live. If you reach a strong consensus on this, we will then teleport you to this new world. But our galactic federation also commands us to inform you of one technological problem. Our teleportation equipment for transferring alien life forms is not perfect, and we cannot promise that our equipment can keep your mind and body together—some or many of your minds may end up in different bodies, but without physical harm or loss of intelligence or faculties. So that you may debate and agree on your rights and the principles governing your new world, in two months we will set up, telepathically, a Convention of Minds. In the convention all of you will be able to propose the guiding principles and human rights of your new world, debate them, and vote upon them. This hypothetical Convention of Minds and possible transfer to a new world meets the requirements set out for defining just rights. First, all people would take part and the resulting rights and principles, on which if they get a consensus vote, would be universal. Second, since people would not know what body their mind would end up in after the teleportation, they would have to make their judgments independent of their race, ethnicity, nationality, sex, age, handicaps, and other physical characteristics and skills, as well as their wealth, power, and prestige. This will assure their objectivity. And the fact that everyone—all humankind—would be wiped out unless nearly all agree on the principles provides the important motivation to reach a universal solution. Imagine now that the aliens convene the Convention of Minds, people make proposals, and the debate begins. What will be the patterns of

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these proposals? Surely, they will reflect the full range of the world’s ideologies, religions, and cultures. Democratic individualists, democratic socialists, state socialists, fascists, militarists, monarchists, and the few remaining Marxists and Maoists will offer their idea of rights and governance, as will Buddhists, Catholics and Protestants, Shiite and Sunni Muslims, Confucians, and pantheists. And surely, all secular humanists, nonpolitical atheists, advocates of nonviolence, environmentalists, feminists, gay activists, and many, many others will make their views known. Then there are the cultural differences between races, ethnicities, and nationalities that surely would influence, if not predetermine, the choice of rights and government. Could everyone agree on one set of rights and principles? I do not believe so, and simulations of this convention that I have set up in my classes over the years have all confirmed this. Even if the survival of our species were at stake, people across the globe would not be able to agree on their rights and the associated principles of governance. They hold their beliefs so deeply, and for some so fanatically, that they would be willing to die for them. Thus, human history has seen people volunteer for suicide bombings and terrorist attacks, for fighting and possibly dying in guerrilla, civil, and international wars, and in violent revolutions. To therefore expect, for example, a practicing Catholic to accept that all Christians should have only the right to obey the Koran, and live under a Muslim’s principles of governance, is unreasonable. Nor do I believe a liberal democrat would accept communist principles, nor a communist or socialist, capitalist ones. The Convention of Minds would achieve no agreement on rights and governing principles. It would be deadlocked. But there would still be a solution. The debate at first would be over the rights everyone would have to live by, and the principles governing all. Each would assume, naturally, that if everyone agreed on the socialist principles of government ownership of the means of production and its enforcement of relative equality in wages, benefits, advantages, and goods for all, these would have to be the principles operating universally and at all levels of government. Libertarians, however, surely would not agree to this. When their beliefs prevent agreement, a large majority of people in the Convention would be like a watermelon seed squeezed between two fingers. They would be squeezed hard on one side by the prospect of not only their own death and that of their loved ones, but of all humankind. Pressing hard from the other side would be their logical and emotional inability to agree on proposed rights and principles. These opposing mental forces would likely pop the debate to a higher, transcendent level.

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At this higher level, a metasolution would break the convention’s stalemate. Before I go into this metasolution, three examples may help clarify what “metasolution” means. If someone has a leak in his plumbing, he and his mate can debate how they should fix the plumbing, or they can hire a plumber to fix the plumbing as they see fit. The choice of plumber is a metasolution to the leak. As another example, imagine trying to divide farmland equally between two sons, but no matter how you divide the land, nothing is ever equal, and one or both will believe the division to be unfair. So, a metasolution: let one son divide the land and the other choose which half he wants. Finally, rather than continually trying to choose which of your two children gets what goodie or does what chore, alternate weeks—assign one child to take his bath first one week, and the other child the next. Then, simply give the child taking a bath first the goodie. Who gets to sit next to the window in the car on this trip? Why, the one taking their bath first this week. Another metasolution. And the convention would propose such a metasolution, and even the fanatics of one principle or another would see the advantage of agreeing on it. This metasolution would follow the well-known argument, “well, if we can’t agree, let’s agree to disagree and do our own thing.” That is, the metasolution upon which there would be a consensus would involve two simple rights. The first, a free choice right, would be that: People have a right to form their own communities. And the second, the free exit right, would state that: People have a right to leave any community. Together, these rights would give everyone the right to organize with each other a community governed by their own principles and with whatever rights they want, as long as they do not force this community on others and anyone is free to leave it. Surely everyone in the convention would realize that in the new world, these two rights would need to be enforced, and the resulting communities protected from aggression by their neighbors; therefore I believe the metasolution would also involve a single principle of governance. A limited, democratic federation of all communities would govern the new world.

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Its basic job would be to administer, guarantee, and protect the Free Choice and Free Exit rights. By demand, no doubt, the convention would give each future community an equal vote in the federation’s legislature. But also, those who see that their community might be one of the larger ones would equally demand that the convention protect them against rule by a majority of tiny communities. They would argue for a second legislative chamber of the world federation that would give each community votes proportional to its population. Moreover, even the most confirmed authoritarians or absolutists would settle for some mechanism to check the domination of this world government so that it does not unduly intervene in the affairs of their community, and so on. However these articles of the future constitution would work out, the basic principle and associated government is clear. It would be a liberal democracy, as defined in the next chapter, except that the democratic civil liberties and political rights would refer to communities and not individuals. All communities would have a right to vote for their representative to the world government in fair and periodic elections, all would be equal before the law, all would have the freedom to organize, the freedom of speech, and so on. And the convention would realize the necessity, I am sure, of limiting the power of the federal world government to guaranteeing and protecting the Free Choice and Free Exit rights. This would be the only type of government that would allow everyone to do their own thing consistent with all having the same right. Finally, if a vote of all people in the world were to be taken in the convention on just the Free Choice and Free Exit rights and democratic principle, then I believe that a huge majority of the world’s people would adopt them. For if any monarchist, fascist, communist, liberal democrat, Muslim, or whatever could find enough others to agree to form their own community, then they would have the right to do so. People can live, therefore, under whatever government they want, even an utterly totalitarian one. Just one qualification: they must allow any of their community members to leave if they wish. In short, people would be free to be unfree, and this is part of what democratic freedom means. Indeed, I would argue that the human or natural right to be free implies the Free Choice right. Free speech does not mean that you have to speak out. You can say nothing if you wish, or join a group in which this freedom is strictly circumscribed or even totalitarian in governance, such as the military or a monastery. Freedom of religion means that if people so desire, they can form a group in which only one religion is legitimate, and keep out those of other religions, as in a Catholic nunnery. And within liberal democracies today,

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people usually can support and participate in antidemocratic political parties and movements. The communist party, for example, is legal in the United States and most other democracies. We will get into this more in the next chapter, but here I might note that: Democracy is a metasolution to the problem of diversity. It provides a way of uniting under one government people who are vastly different socially, culturally, and philosophically. And as in the Convention of Minds, democracy solves this problem by saying “govern yourself, but do so in a manner consistent with the same right of others.” Democracy does not lay down a template for each person’s life, as do other types of government. Rather, as a metasolution it is a method of governance that prevents possible bloody conflicts over rights and principles for the greater society.

The Global Evolution of Rights Yes, people have moral, just rights. They are universal, and what people would choose to live under, were they given the chance. And they are socially just. But all this is justified through a bizarre science fiction tale. Quite rightly, you might want a real-world example of the Free Choice and Free Exit rights. So let’s look at the evolution of international relations and its legal principles. Throughout eons of human history, through the growth and collapse of clans and cities, nations and states, civilizations and empires; through the many human disasters and catastrophes, wars and revolutions; through the growth and decay of religions and creeds, philosophies, and ideologies; and through the countless day-by-day interactions of billions of people, a system of world governance has evolved based, in effect, on the two hypothetical rights emerging from the Convention of Minds. The most basic right people have in the modern international system is that of self-determination for their country or national group, with its allied international legal principle of state sovereignty. The idea of self-determination has had tremendous power in international relations. In the twentieth century it was the force behind demands for independence by the former British, French, Dutch, Portuguese, and Spanish colonies. Against the cries for self-determination, these nations could no longer justify their undemocratic and remote imperial rule. In a few decades after World War II, much of the world was decolonized, and by the end of the Soviet empire in 1991, no more than a few small and scattered colonies remained.

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A corollary to the principle of sovereignty is that no other nation has a right to intervene in a nation’s domestic affairs. The principle, really a metaprinciple, of sovereignty legally allows a community to govern itself with great freedom. Although by their agreements and treaties nations have placed certain restrictions on this sovereignty, such as restricting the right to carry out genocide or slavery, and obligating all governments to respect certain human rights, each nation still is nearly free to govern itself. Why, for example, has the United Nations or a powerful coalition of democratic countries not invaded Burma, Sudan, or Saudi Arabia to stop their killing and denial of human rights? Of course, it is partly a matter of the costs involved and the apathy or ignorance of democratic peoples about what life is like in these countries. It is partly that the media does not constantly pound us with images of the horrors going on in these countries, as already noted. But more important, the sovereignty of these countries protects them. It is a very high legal and political hurdle to jump over for those who want intervention. Each country that might approve such an intervention especially has to wonder whether it is setting a precedent for itself. Nonetheless, such intervention has happened—in Bosnia and Kosovo and, as I mentioned before, in Somalia. And now there are the intervention-invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq by the American-led coalition in its war against Muslim terrorists and their state supporters. But for this intervention to occur, the terrorists first had to hijack commercial jets loaded with passengers and fly them full throttle into the World Trade Center Towers and the Pentagon, killing nearly 3,000 people overall. And, although this is not respected by all countries, international law gives everyone the right to immigrate and, particularly, to request political asylum of another nation. This is, in effect, the Free Exit principle. Finally, the United Nations has become a very limited global, federal government. It has a head of government, a legislature, an administration, and a judicial system. It only lacks a monopoly of force over the world, but such monopoly is not a defining characteristic of government. In operation, the United Nations meets the constitutional principles needed to guarantee and administer the Free Choice and Free Exit rights. The greatest remaining difference from what the hypothetical convention would decide is that since it has no military force of its own, the United Nations must depend on military contributions from member nations for its peacekeeping operations or to implement a Security Council resolution. But the direction of change is toward a stronger and more capable United Nations and even, eventually, its own very limited military capability.

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So, through many millennia of civilizations, empires, city-states, nations, alliances, wars, and revolutions, the world’s peoples have slowly evolved a metasolution to their vastly different societies and cultures, as a species evolves in response to its environment. This realworld metasolution has globally institutionalized the Free Choice and Free Exit rights, along with a federal, world government. A final argument supports the outcome of the hypothetical Convention of Minds. Even before the Holocaust that began in 1941, the Nazi government increasingly discriminated against Jews living in Germany in the 1930s; many had relatives or friends imprisoned in Nazi concentration camps. Although immigration was legal and Jews could thereby escape from the Nazis, most still wanted to live in Germany. After all, it was where their ancestors were born, and where their friends and relatives lived. They could not easily pull up their roots and leave, and anyway, many knowledgeable Jews argued that the Nazi regime would change for the better or that, at least, things would get no worse. So they stayed—and most died. Before this horror happened, however, some perceptive Jewish families who did not want to take any chances with their children decided to send them to school abroad. But where? In what country would they have the greatest opportunity to realize their potential? Generally they chose a democratically free country, such as Great Britain, Canada, or the United States. These families made their choice under circumstances similar to those of the hypothetical Convention of Minds. They sent their children off to a different world, not knowing what their children would be like, ultimately, and therefore how they would benefit. They chose a nation in which their children would have the greatest freedom of choice, which was under a democratic government.

Summary Virtually all people, blind to their personal benefits, and acting through a hypothetical Convention of Minds, would agree to a social contract giving each other the right to choose how they live, and the right to leave any community in which they live. And the circumstances of this decision make these socially just rights. We also find that millennia of human evolution have produced similar rights among nations, specifically the right to sovereign self-determination and free immigration. Legally, morally, and by the practice of nations, then, people should be free. And to further this freedom and guard it, their country should be democratic. This raises the question: what is democracy itself?

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uman rights and the core idea of freedom are defining characteristics of a people. Their level of freedom can be measured on a scale. For instance, in Denmark, Japan, or South Africa, people have freedom; in Russia, Bolivia, and Burundi, they have partial freedom; in Algeria, Vietnam, and Cuba, they have no freedom. For a people to have freedom, they must live under a form of government that guarantees and protects their freedom. Such is liberal democracy. This part of the book describes this form of government in theory and in action. Chapter 5 begins with the meaning of democracy, and in particular discusses the modern meaning of democracy in contrast to the idea of a republic and pure democracy. Chapter 6 clarifies the characteristics of democratic institutions, separating those marking an electoral from a liberal democracy, with due attention to the often confusing term “liberal.” To give life to these abstract concepts, Chapter 7 describes the two presidential terms of President Clinton and his impeachment, a crisis period in the American democracy. The next chapter explains what the Clinton years tell us about how democracy operates, and why it should be valued. The final Chapter 9 shows that democracies are neither rare nor limited to Europe and a few other nations, but encompass a major, growing, and diverse proportion of the world’s population.

Chapter 5 What Is Democracy? Liberal democracy is the institutionalization of human rights—it is the most practical solution to the freedom of each being compatible with the freedom of all.

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hatever freedoms people have cannot exist in a political vacuum. There must be some way of assuring and protecting their rights—their freedom—and government is the answer. Even libertarians, although they are the most ardent proponents of the maximum freedom, and believe that government is evil, generally accept that it is necessary or inevitable. But not just any government will do. It must be one that not only commands obedience to its laws, but in its very organization embodies what being free means. This is democracy. As a concept, democracy has developed many meanings since its first use by the ancient Greeks, and even its well-established meanings have changed. We can define democracy by its inherent nature and by its empirical conditions. As to its nature, Aristotle defined democracy as rule by the people (Greek demokratia: demos meaning “people” + -kratia, cracy, meaning “rule” or “governing body”) and this idea that in some way the people govern themselves is still the core meaning of democracy. In the ancient Greek city-states and the early Roman Republic, democracy meant that people participated directly in governing and making policy. This was possible because of the small populations of these cities—hardly ever more than 10,000 people—and the exclusion of women and slaves from participation. Although limited to free males, this idea of direct participation of the people in government was the essence of democracy up to modern times; now it is usually known as pure or direct democracy. Many philosophers of the Enlightenment, such as Immanuel Kant and John Locke, disliked direct democracy, although otherwise they favored freedom. For one thing, it was impractical for nations of millions of people, or even for cities of hundreds of thousands. Clearly, a representative system was necessary. For another, they felt that direct democracy, as it

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was understood, was mob rule—government by the ill-informed, who would simply use government to their own advantage. This distrust was evident in the eighty-five essays of The Federalist (1787–1788) written by Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and John Jay on the proposed Constitution of the United States. They assumed that people behave to fulfill their self-interest and are generally selfish, making a direct democracy as a means to achieve justice and protect natural rights dangerous. Nonetheless, they believed strongly in the “consent of the governed,” and argued for a republican form of government in which elected representatives would reflect popular will. This was a general view among the authors of the Constitution, who believed that by establishing a republic they would institutionalize the central ideas of their Declaration of Independence (1776): . . . We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That, to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. . . . Constitutionally, therefore, the founders of the United States established a republic, not a democracy—as political philosophers then defined democracy. A republic is based on the consent and will of the people, but implemented through a buffer of elected representatives and indirect election, as by the president and vice president of the United States. These representatives are elected by an electoral college, with the electors chosen by the voters of each state and their number dependent upon the number of senators and representatives each state sends to Congress. That the United States was created as a republic and that we now call it a democracy has caused considerable confusion. My references to the United States as a democracy on my website have earned me well over a dozen emails informing me that it was not a democracy, but a republic. The problem is that, in the twentieth century, the understanding of democracy as the direct participation of citizens has been transformed to mean any government in which the people elect their representatives. Democracy now generally means a republican or representative government.

Chapter 6 Electoral and Liberal Democracy Freedom of religion, freedom of the press, and freedom of person under the protection of habeas corpus, and trial by juries impartially selected. These principles form the bright constellation which has gone before us, and guided our steps through an age of revolution and reformation. – Thomas Jefferson

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ith this contemporary understanding of the term democracy, what are its characteristics? One necessary and sufficient set of characteristics involves the electoral system through which people choose their representatives and leaders, and thus give their consent to be governed and to have those representatives communicate their interests. The manner in which democracies conduct their elections varies from one to another, but all share these characteristics: regular elections for high office, a secret ballot, a franchise that includes nearly the whole adult population, and competitive elections. Having a near-universal franchise is an entirely modern addition to the idea of democracy. Not long ago, governments that were called democratic excluded from the franchise all slaves and women, as did the United States through much of its history (male, black American former slaves got the right to vote after the Civil War; women did not get this right until 1920, when Congress passed the Nineteenth Amendment), as well as all non-slave males who did not meet certain property or literacy requirements. We now consider it perverse to call democratic any country that so restricts the vote, as did the apartheid regime in South Africa that limited voting to the minority population of whites. Real competition in the elections is a key requirement. Many communist nations exhibited all the electoral characteristics mentioned in their periodic election of legislators handpicked by the Communist Party, who then simply rubber-stamped what the Party wanted. “Competitive” means that those running for office reflect different political beliefs and positions on the issues. If they do not, as in the communist nations, then the government is not democratic.

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Besides its electoral characteristics, one kind of democracy has characteristics that, while neither necessary nor sufficient for democracy to exist, are crucial to freedom. These involve the recognition of certain human rights discussed in the previous chapter. One is the freedom to organize political groups or parties, even if they represent a small radical minority, that then nominate their members to run for high office. Another right is that to an open, transparent government— in particular, the right to know how one’s representatives voted and debated. There are also the rights to freedom of speech, particularly the freedom of newspapers and other communication media to criticize government policies and leaders; freedom of religion; and the freedom to form unions and organize businesses. One of the most important of these is the right to a fair trial and rule by law. Above the state there must be a law that structures the government, elaborates the reciprocal rights and duties of the government and the people, and which all governing officials and their policies must obey. This is a constitution, either created as a single document like that of the United States, or a set of documents, statutes, and traditions, such as that of Great Britain. If a democracy recognizes these rights, we call it a liberal democracy. If it does not, if it has only the electoral characteristics but suppresses freedom of speech, possesses leaders that put themselves above the law and representatives that make and vote on policies in secret, then we can call it a procedural, or better, an electoral democracy. For American readers particularly, there is conceptual confusion over the term “liberal.” In the mid-seventeenth to mid-nineteenth centuries, political philosophers emphasized the root meaning of liberal, which is from the Latin liberalis for “free man” and the French liber for “free.” It stood for an emphasis on individual liberty—on the freedom of a people versus their government. A liberal slogan of the time was “the government that governs least governs best.” It was hammered out in England’s Glorious Revolution of 1688, the French Revolution, and the American Revolution, and articulated in the works of John Locke, Adam Smith, and John Stuart Mill. This emphasis on freedom from government regulation and controls we now call classical liberalism, and presently is reflected best in the political philosophy of American conservatives. Libertarians also trace their philosophy back to classical liberalism, but this is true only regarding the classical liberal emphasis on economic freedom and human rights. Classical liberals, unlike modern libertarians and liberals, believed that the government had a strong moral role. Conservatives show their affinity for this moral role by supporting laws against dope, prostitution, and gambling.

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In modern times “liberal” has evolved to mean a belief that government is a tool to improve society and deal with the problems of poverty, discrimination, and monopolies, among others, and to improve public health, education, social security, the environment, and working conditions. There is no less an emphasis on human rights, a dedication that is shared by Democrats and Republicans, conservatives and modern liberals, but today’s liberals no longer accept minimum government, nor do they see in the government the danger that classical liberals attributed to it. In liberal democracy, however, the root definition of “liberal” is meant, not its modern sense. A liberal democracy means that a people rule themselves through periodic elections in which nearly all adults can participate; they elect their highest leaders to the offices for which they are eligible, and they are governed under the rule of law that guarantees them certain human rights. So democracy now means a republican form of government, which may be only electorally representative in its characteristics, or liberal. Table 6.1, below, summarizes these two kinds of democracies.

Chapter 7 An Example of Liberal Democracy: President William Jefferson Clinton Just as a large segment of liberal political opinion never could accept Nixon as a “legitimate” president, neither can a large segment of conservative political opinion today accept Clinton’s legitimacy in the Oval Office . . . . – Jim Hoagland

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o far, all I have written about democracy is in the form of concepts and abstractions that may roughly connect to real-life experience. It’s time for an example that well illustrates the nature of liberal democracy in action: the 1998 to 1999 impeachment and trial of William Jefferson Clinton, the president of the United States. The Clinton impeachment was a deeply divisive, partisan political battle, and most Americans developed strong opinions supporting or opposing it. After all, this was a matter of determining whether the nationally elected president of the United States would be fired. As I review the events leading up to the impeachment and the impeachment itself, my only interest is in what Clinton’s presidency says about liberal democracy, not in arguing for or against the president, the impeachment, or his two campaigns for the office. To begin at the beginning, Clinton was born in Hope, Arkansas, in 1946, a few months after his father died. When he was two years old, he lived with his grandparents in Hope while his mother studied nursing in New Orleans. Two years later his mother married a car salesman, and Clinton joined the new family. His stepfather was hardly a good role model for the young boy; he was an alcoholic who physically mistreated Clinton’s mother. At fourteen, Clinton joined a youth program to learn about government, and was a delegate in a group that went to Washington, D.C. There, President John F. Kennedy invited the group to meet with him in the White House. This was an unforgettable experience for teenage Clinton, who was very much impressed by Kennedy; he even shook his hand. More important for the future was the fact that the experience

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decided young Clinton on politics as a profession and sparked his ambition to be president. Clinton was an excellent student, and much involved in student politics. He completed high school, got a degree in international affairs from Georgetown University in Washington, D.C., and won a two-year Rhodes scholarship to Oxford University in England. On his return to the United States, he attended Yale Law School and received his law degree in 1973. During this whole period, from the time he attended Georgetown to getting his law degree, he tried to learn politics firsthand. He worked in the office of Senator William Fulbright of Arkansas, and in the presidential campaign of Senator George McGovern in 1972. He also took part in demonstrations against the Vietnam War. Note several things about Clinton’s rise so far. The first is that his humble beginnings did not prevent him from actually meeting and shaking hands with the president of the United States—not only the highest office of the country, but also the most powerful in the world. Second, he could obtain work in the office of an American senator and take part in the lawmaking of America’s highest legislative body. And, without fear of retribution or any negative consequences, he was also able to help Senator McGovern wage his election campaign to defeat that of the incumbent, President Richard M. Nixon. Most revealing about liberal democracy, Clinton felt free to join public demonstrations, even in England, against a war his country was conducting. As exemplified in the first chapter by Sudan, Saudi Arabia, Burma, and China, in many parts of the world such demonstrators could be arrested, tortured, and even executed by the regime on their return to their country; as well, the regime could retaliate against their family, even kill them. In other countries, demonstrators could be harassed by authorities, and perhaps forfeit any possibility of holding a future political office. But living in a liberal democracy, Clinton had nothing to fear from secret police. He could learn the art of politics from personal experience and prepare himself to run for political office while also exercising his right to public protest. After receiving his law degree, Clinton worked on the staff of the U.S. House of Representatives Judiciary Committee. Then in 1974 the University of Arkansas appointed him to their Law School faculty, and he also began his formal political career by running for Congress as a Democrat. He lost, but in 1976, he decided that he would be more successful if he worked up from a lower rung on the political ladder, and successfully campaigned for the office of the Attorney General of Arkansas. He then used this position to run for the highest state office, and the people of Arkansas elected him governor at age thirty-two.

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However, he had yet to learn the democratic limits of this high office. Because of his reform policies and a tax he had imposed, Arkansans kicked Clinton out of office in the 1980 elections. But he had learned well how to manage democratic politics. After Clinton showed public remorse for his “mistakes” in office (and after running a carefully calculated campaign), Arkansans returned him to the governorship in 1982. They also reelected him three more times. To Clinton, this was all preparation to run for president. He had passed up the opportunity to do so in 1988 because of rumors about his womanizing, but in 1992, he felt that he stood a good chance of being nominated by the Democratic Party. Much stronger candidates for the nomination had refused to run, believing that the huge popularity of President George Bush resulting from his victory in the 1990–1991 Gulf War made his reelection to the presidency certain. Clinton thought, however, he could stress poor economic conditions, the “Reagan-Bush deficit,” and the need for change. And to the surprise of many who did not see him as a national figure, he did win the nomination. Then, with the motto “It’s the economy, stupid,” he won the presidential election with 43 percent of the vote. Both sides in this election used their freedom of speech to the fullest extent, with Clinton’s opponents focusing on his womanizing, his participation in anti-Vietnam War demonstrations while in England, and his alleged draft dodging along with a subsequent cover-up. What is also noteworthy about this election is that out of nowhere, a wealthy business executive, H. Ross Perot, was able to capture public attention as an independent, even running ahead of President Bush and Governor Clinton in popularity at one point in the campaign. He finally got 19 percent of the presidential vote. Had he not made several missteps in his campaign and been politically inexperienced, he might even have won the three-way election. Since democratic campaigns are a running test of a candidate’s character, experience, strength, and capacity for office, those who try to run for the highest offices without prior political experience seldom succeed. Nonetheless, sometimes they do, as did Jesse Ventura, a professional wrestler, actor, and talk show host who, on less than $400,000, won a three-way election campaign for governor of Minnesota. In liberal democratic elections, outsiders are a constant threat to established parties and candidates, as it should be when the consent of the governed rules. Who people elect is a matter of their perception and interest, how well off they are in their job and income, and their judgment of the candidate’s character and promises. And they are free to exercise their judgment, no matter how biased, anywhere along the campaign trial,

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whether in voting for the candidates in caucuses or party conventions, or in voting for the final nominee, or in running themselves as a party nominee or an independent. During President Clinton’s 1996 reelection campaign, economic conditions were good, and Clinton and his supporters ran an excellent public relations and political campaign against Republican Senator Robert Dole and independent candidate Perot. Fearing a voter backlash over excessive negative campaigning, and thinking that the public already was upset by several scandals surrounding Clinton and his White House, Republicans did not capitalize on them. Near the end of the campaign, public opinion polls made it clear that these scandals would have little impact in the coming election, making Dole cry out in frustration, “Where’s the outrage?” Moreover, Republicans made some disastrous political mistakes, the worst of which was allowing Clinton and his supporters to establish in the public mind that the Republican-dominated House of Representatives had shut down the government in an argument with the president over the budget. They also allowed the Democrats to convince the public that the Republicans had no compassion for working families, children, and the elderly. Clinton easily won reelection in 1996 with 49 percent of the vote. While the Clinton story gives us insight into the nature of liberal democratic elections and the public’s participation in, and determination of, who governs them, it is President Clinton’s second term that provides a key understanding of this kind of government. This term would be a tumultuous and most historic one for the country. Even in his first term, President Clinton’s opponents forced him to respond to allegations of wrongdoing committed while he was governor of Arkansas, involving investments that he and First Lady Hillary Rodham Clinton had made in the Whitewater Development Corporation, an Arkansas real estate development firm. Revelations and questions about this, and associated affairs having to do with the savings and loans firm Madison Guaranty, eventually led to an official federal investigation by an independent counsel, Robert Fiske. Congress had established the office of Independent Counsel as a result of the Nixon Watergate scandal. Presumably, the independent counsel would be free from the assumed conflict of interest a Justice Department would have in investigating the president or members of his cabinet, since the president appointed the top people at Justice. Besides the Fiske investigation, the House and Senate Banking committees also held hearings on the Whitewater affair. Notice that democratic leaders cannot escape the law, even regarding what they might have done before being elected or appointed to

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office. Prosecutors may investigate their past and present activities, force them to testify before a grand jury, indict them, and even bring them to trial. This contributes to what keeps democracies limited, which is their checks and balances system. This means that the executive leaders, legislature, and courts are in constant competition against each other for power and influence, and they watch each other for opportunities to gain advantage or weaken one another. This balancing is particularly true when there are political parties close in power. If the opposing party controls the legislature, as it did during all but two years of the Clinton presidency, it acts as an ever-vigilant watchdog over the executive. Scandals play a major role in this, and provide the opposition with ammunition to weaken their opponents—which became particularly clear in the impeachment of the president. All this contributes to keeping democratic leaders responsible, prudent, and limited in their power. When one political party dominates a state, controls the legislature, executive, and courts, and has a sympathetic media, then there is usually political corruption. When there is a strong opposition party to exploit the corruption of the governing party for electoral gain, incumbents will be more careful about obeying the letter and spirit of the law. Moreover, when democratic states have a dominant party controlling all government bodies, with only a weak opposition to appeal to public outrage over high taxes and government intervention, they tend toward Big Government. Such had been the case in Hawaii, for example, which Democrats wholly governed in the four decades before finally electing a Republican governor in 2002. Clinton did not have it so easy. He always faced a strong Republican Party, and in all but two of the years of his two terms, they controlled both the House and Senate. As mentioned, there were several scandals involving the president and his White House during his first term. Although these did not prevent his reelection, they helped create a dominant view among conservatives that he and his administration were politically corrupt, and that he was engaged in a systematic abuse of power. The first White House scandal occurred when his aides suddenly fired seven long-term employees of the White House travel office in 1993. This firing was done in a rush, with unjustified and later disproved accusations of fraud made against the White House employees, and the FBI was used to investigate them. Apparently, these accusations and the investigation were only an excuse to cover the wish to replace them with Clinton friends and supporters. The First Lady officially denied any involvement in this, although there was evidence to the contrary.

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Because of the possibility that she was lying and that the presidential aides had misused the FBI, Attorney General Reno requested that a three-judge panel appoint an independent counsel to investigate. This turned out to be Republican Kenneth Starr, whose name in a few years would become almost as well-known as President Clinton’s. Judge Starr had served in President Reagan’s Justice Department, had been a federal judge, and had served as solicitor general under President Bush. A three-judge panel had already appointed him to replace Independent Counsel Fiske in the investigation of Whitewater. Years later, he would clear both the president and First Lady of indictable wrongdoing in this. Another scandal involved the apparent suicide of the Clintons’ close friend, Deputy White House Counsel Vince Foster, who had handled the Clintons’ taxes and Whitewater matters. Upon his suicide, Clinton’s aides removed files from Foster’s office before police could search and seal it. This raised the question of a serious cover-up of Whitewater wrongdoing. As if Independent Counsel Starr did not have enough to investigate, the three-judge panel asked him to also determine whether Foster’s death was a suicide and whether White House aides illegally removed files from his office. In his report to Congress on his investigation, Starr affirmed that Foster had committed suicide and that the president and First Lady had not carried on a cover-up. Yet another scandal was the discovery that the White House had requested from the FBI, and had been holding without official justification, as many as a thousand secret FBI files, many on top Republicans and opponents. Controversy, especially in 1996, swirled around how the White House used these files and who was responsible for this. A three-judge panel also turned the matter over to Independent Counsel Starr to investigate. After several years, he cleared the president and First Lady of any responsibility for this matter. Nonetheless, that these files were under White House control and that aides might have exploited them in their campaign against President Clinton’s opponents helped feed the outrage that would later lead to Clinton’s impeachment. Further scandals intensified the feeling among conservatives that the White House was corrupt, but the one that finally led to impeachment involved Paula Jones, a former clerk in the Arkansas State government. Encouraged and surrounded by President Clinton’s opponents (called “Clinton-haters” by President Clinton’s supporters), she alleged that while he was the governor of Arkansas in 1991, one of his state troopers invited her up to the governor’s hotel room, and that when she was alone in the room with the governor, he dropped his pants and asked her for oral sex. The White House and Clinton supporters responded aggressively to these charges, and tried to undermine

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her credibility. James Carville, a Democrat political consultant credited with guiding Clinton’s presidential election campaign to victory in 1992, and his chief defender against all accusations of abuse of power, called Jones “Arkansas trailer trash.” Angered by such personal attacks, Jones filed a civil suit of sexual harassment against President Clinton, and demanded $700,000 and a personal apology. Working through his lawyers, Clinton appealed the suit, and asked for a delay until after his term was over. But the Supreme Court ruled that the suit should go ahead. After more legal twists and turns and appeals, including Paula Jones upping her demand to a million dollars, President Clinton settled the case in 1999 by sending her a check for $850,000, with no apology. Notice first that no matter how powerful the president is, no matter how much support he has, a lowly citizen can sue him in court. Just as important, despite the president’s power, the White House sources at his disposal, his small army of lawyers, his broad support in the media, and his popularity, the courts can force the president to defend himself in court according to the law. Keep in mind that in military terms, he was the most powerful head of any country in the world. Moreover, he, his lawyers, and his supporters used the major media that supported him, every technical legal device ever written into the law, and any possible wayward interpretation of the law to claim that Jones had no right to sue him—an expected reaction from any high official caught in such a sexual sandal. The absolutely critical point here is not what Clinton and his supporters did, but that it all was to no avail. In a liberal democracy the law rules. In this case, no matter his twists and turns, the law sided with an unknown clerk from Arkansas against the president of the United States. While this suit was underway, Clinton began an eighteen-month affair in the White House and his Oval Office with twenty-two-year-old Monica Lewinsky, a White House intern. Although President Clinton disputes that he had sexual relations with Lewinsky, she did give him oral sex, a fact later proved by a DNA test of the semen on a blue dress she wore during one of these meetings. Lewinsky confided details of this affair to a friend, Linda Tripp, who began secretly taping their telephone conversations. Tripp later explained that she did this because Lewinsky had asked her to lie in a deposition for which Tripp had been subpoenaed in the Jones suit. Jones’ lawyers were trying to show that what allegedly happened to Jones was but a pattern of sexual misconduct by President Clinton, and had subpoenaed Lewinsky, who told Tripp she would lie to protect her lover. Tripp had worked in the White House, and there had seen Kathleen Willey, a White House volunteer, shortly after Willey left an Oval

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Office appointment with Clinton in 1993. Willey told Tripp that Clinton had kissed and fondled her, and therefore Tripp was important to the Jones defense; but if she told the truth in the deposition, she believed, the White House would try to ruin her credibility. After she’d gathered twenty hours of taped conversations with Lewinsky, Tripp turned them over to Independent Counsel Starr, whose investigative load was already heavy. Judge Starr took this information to Attorney General Janet Reno, who then asked the three-judge panel responsible for appointing independent counsels to appoint Judge Starr to investigate the Lewinsky affair. There is nothing in the law against sexual affairs in the White House, but the President might have broken several laws on other matters, including possible sexual harassment of Lewinsky, asking her to lie in court, and bribing her to keep quiet. By decision of the Supreme Court, President Clinton also had to give a pretrial videotaped deposition in the Jones suit. In January of 1998, with Jones sitting across from him, Jones’ lawyers then questioned Clinton for six hours. He had no idea that they knew about his affair with Lewinsky, and was quite surprised when they brought it up. Given a broad definition of sexual relations, approved by the judge sitting in on the deposition, President Clinton denied under oath that he had sexual relations as so defined with Lewinsky, and claimed that he did not remember ever being alone with her in the White House. Within days, news of the Lewinsky affair and the deposition swept the country. For weeks commentators, analysts, and politicians of all flavors discussed, argued, and dissected the news. Some top commentators thought President Clinton would have to resign within a week or so. The media exploited the slightest rumor, and bit players in the scandal, no matter how remotely involved, had their fifteen minutes of fame before television cameras. No two lawyers seemed to agree on the law covering this affair or the possible impeachment, and sometimes directly contradicted each other. It seemed that the law was a mess. But the law allows interpretation, and often the expertise of different lawyers varies. All of this was subject to partisanship, and nothing arouses partisan passions more in a democracy than a dispute over whether the head of government should resign or the people should fire him. Meanwhile, President Clinton denied to his supporters and White House staff that there had been any sex with Lewinsky. And of course Clinton’s defenders, especially those in the major media, tried to muddle the investigation by constantly claiming this was an investigation of sex, rather than of perjury or abuse of power. Within days Clinton tried to defend himself on television; wagging his finger, he made the now famous declaration that we all have seen a thousand times: “But I want

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to say one thing to the American people. I want you to listen to me. I’m going to say this again: I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky. I never told anybody to lie, not a single time—never. These allegations are false. And I need to go back to work for the American people.” In July the independent counsel finally gave Monica Lewinsky full immunity for testifying against President Clinton, and she gave him her blue dress with President Clinton’s semen stains. Before Judge Starr’s grand jury, she provided details about her sexual relations with President Clinton, but also claimed that he had not asked her to lie, or to keep quiet about their relationship. Shortly thereafter, President Clinton also had to answer questions before the grand jury. Independent Counsel Starr did this with a closedcircuit television hookup to the White House, which he also videotaped. President Clinton answered many questions on the Lewinsky affair and information she had provided, but would not answer any questions about sex. However, after President Clinton finished his testimony, he went on national television and admitted an “inappropriate relationship” with Lewinsky, and that his comments and silence had given a “false impression.” Then, in lieu of an apology, he said, “I deeply regret that.” In September of 1998, Independent Counsel Starr gave his report on this scandal to the House of Representatives, as required by law. It was, in effect, a 453-page indictment of President Clinton, listing eleven allegedly impeachable offenses. The House almost immediately released the full report to the public, as well as thousands of pages of evidence soon thereafter. Within days, the House Judiciary Committee also made public the full videotape of President Clinton’s testimony before the grand jury. This openness illustrates well the transparency of a liberal democracy. Opponents or proponents will disclose all that is politically important, including dirty laundry, about some politician, legislation, or policy. This is a crucial role of the opposition, and the reason why having a strong opposition is a basic ingredient of liberal democracy. They want to embarrass and weaken the party in power so that they can turn into law their favored legislation and win the next election. Even supposedly secret testimony, conversations, and reports are exposed this way—as is a mass of trivia. Surely partisans on all sides will spin whatever is disclosed to show its best or worst side. But it is public, and people are free to make of it what they will. The public release of the Starr Report, as it became known, was a serious blow to President Clinton’s prestige. It changed a partisan po-

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litical conflict into a super-charged political fight over President Clinton’s future. Over a hundred newspaper editorials eventually called for his resignation; television and the Internet covered the affair day and night. He was publicly mocked; cartoonists never had it so good, latenight comedians constantly made fun of him, and Clinton joke after joke made the rounds through email and the Internet. Political humor has an important function in a democracy. Although meant to be funny, the jokes express public dismay and pinpoint special concerns about high officials’ behavior. In a democracy it is better for a politician to be criticized by professors of political science than have well-known comedians earn their popularity at his expense. What saved President Clinton was the loyalty of Democrats, who circled Party wagons around him, and a politically astute offensive by the president and White House aides. Judge Starr became a target of constant demonizing attacks. He was accused of being “sex crazed, and an extreme right-wing zealot.” Legal action against him for leaking grand jury testimony was later dismissed by the courts. While polls gave the president a job rating above 60 percent, Judge Starr’s was in the twenties. Other opponents, such as Linda Tripp, were no less demonized. President Clinton’s supporters were vehement: “It’s only about sex, and nobody’s business,” “President Clinton told the truth; this is a conspiracy of Clinton haters,” and so on. It was all, the First Lady claimed, a “vast right-wing conspiracy.” Meanwhile, the other side claimed that “Clinton always lies, and is deceitful,” “what he did in the Oval Office is a disgrace to the presidency; he has systematically abused power” while in office, and so on. President Clinton’s previous scandals were revisited, and even Arkansas state troopers were brought out of obscurity for interviews regarding their claims of helping in his sexual escapades while governor. The president’s supporters also made a concerted effort to uncover sexual affairs of major Republicans in the House who were supporting impeachment, perhaps for revenge, but surely to show that “everyone does it.” They forced Speaker-designate Bob Livingston to confess to an extramarital affair and resign, even as the full House was about to begin deliberations on the articles of impeachment. They also made public a decades-old affair by Representative Henry Hyde, chairman of the very House Judiciary Committee set to consider the president’s impeachment. When the Republican-controlled Judiciary Committee began consideration of a resolution calling for a formal impeachment inquiry, the fight was now formally joined and in deadly earnest, but still constrained by the Constitution and House rules. This began the long, complex political process for removing President Clinton from office.

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Other than wartime, this legal process of removing a democratically elected chief executive in midterm is the most dramatic theater people in democracies experience. Everyone soon knows almost everything public and private about the cast of characters; the acting is superb, the speeches and exhortations moving, and the appeals to mind and heart well studied. Each day is a new scene, the plot is clear, and only the end is in doubt. A successful impeachment by the House is like an indictment brought by a prosecutor before a court. It describes the particulars of an alleged wrongdoing. Then, before a judge, a court holds the trial on the indictment, with both prosecutors and defense lawyers presenting evidence and arguments. For impeachment, the court is the Senate. The Constitution specifies “treason, bribery, or other high crimes and misdemeanors” as the grounds for impeachment, but what high crimes and misdemeanors are is subject to considerable legal interpretation. Only a majority vote of the House is enough to approve articles of impeachment, and this had only happened once before, in 1868 against President Andrew Johnson. Impeachment was also considered in 1974 when the House Judiciary Committee approved three articles of impeachment against President Richard Nixon, but before the full House could debate them, the audiotapes of President Nixon’s conversations in the Oval Office were released. They were the “smoking gun” evidence that he had participated in the cover-up of the Watergate affair; soon his support collapsed in the House, and he resigned. Once the House votes on impeachment, the Senate holds a trial on the impeachment articles, as noted. All senators sit as the jury, and the chief justice of the Supreme Court presides over the trial. The senators hear witnesses and can ask them questions, and at the end of the trial, they vote regarding removal of the president. Two-thirds of the senators must approve removal for it to occur. Were this to happen, the chief justice would swear in the vice president as the new president. The Senate vote on Andrew Johnson’s removal was one vote short of two-thirds. The House Judiciary Committee reported to the full House on its recommendation to investigate the impeachment of President Clinton, and in October 1998 the Republican House voted to conduct this investigation. Hearings by the House Judiciary Committee on impeachment began soon afterwards and were fully televised. A variety of witnesses gave testimony before the committee, including Independent Counsel Starr. He came down hard on President Clinton, claiming he intentionally deceived. Opposition to impeachment came from a variety of sources, most of them claiming that what Clinton did was not impeachable, though morally reprehensible. Many legal and constitutional scholars argued that his behavior did not meet

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the Constitutional basis for impeachment. Some argued that yes, he lied in his civil deposition, and yes, the independent counsel could (and some said should) indict him for this after he left office, but that it was not an impeachable offense. Chairman Hyde also sent President Clinton eighty-one questions to answer in place of direct testimony. At the end of the hearings, the Republican members presented the committee with four articles of impeachment, claiming that the president committed perjury before the grand jury, committed perjury and obstruction of justice in the Jones case, and provided false responses to the eighty-one questions. The committee approved the articles on December 11 and 12. All Republicans voted for three of the articles and all but one voted for a fourth; no Democrat voted for any. The committee then passed the approved articles to the full House for debate and a final vote. This American drama did not paralyze international relations and foreign adversaries, in particular Saddam Hussein, the dictator of Iraq against whom an American-led coalition fought the 1990 Gulf War. Possibly seeing a weakened president, Saddam refused to allow any further weapons inspections by the UN in his country, inspections he had agreed to when he was defeated in the Gulf War. Coincidentally or not, President Clinton launched air strikes against Iraq in retaliation just when the full House scheduled the opening debate on his impeachment. Republicans questioned the timing of this, and the Democrats demanded that the House put off considering impeachment until the president ended military action. But the Republicans were in control, and the continuing raids did no more than delay House proceedings for a day. On December 18, the full House began an acrimonious debate on the impeachment of President Clinton. The next day, the House passed 228 to 206 the first article of impeachment, perjury before Independent Counsel Starr’s grand jury. It also passed the third article, obstruction of justice related to the Jones case, with a vote of 221 to 212. The other two articles failed to pass. It was now up to the Senate to determine whether these two articles were enough to remove the president from office. The Senate trial began on January 7, 1999, and was televised throughout. As dictated by the Constitution, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, William H. Rehnquist, presided over the trial. The trial started with a reading of the charges, and then the chief justice swore in the senators, who went one at a time to the front of the chamber to sign an oath book promising to do “impartial justice.” There were fifty-five Republican and forty-five Democratic senators. If all Republicans voted for removal, twelve Democrats would have to join them to get the sixty-seven votes required.

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Thirteen Republican House members, headed by Chairman Henry Hyde, prosecuted the case for removal. In sum, they accused President Clinton of “willful, premeditated, deliberate corruption of the nation’s system of justice through perjury and obstruction of justice.” Charles Ruff, main White House counsel, led President Clinton’s defense with a team of seven lawyers. Their main argument was that the Republicans provided no more than “an unsubstantiated, circumstantial case that does not meet the constitutional standard to remove the president from office.” Both sides presented their arguments and evidence in three days, and the senators had two more days to ask questions. As the trial progressed, Democrats and Republicans used one partisan maneuver after another, although with less bitterness than in the House debate. The Democrats tried unsuccessfully to dismiss the case, and both sides fought over whether there would be witnesses, how many witnesses there would be, and who they would be. They argued over whether the witnesses would give testimony in the Senate chamber or by deposition. Most important, this partisan struggle ended in a Senate vote not to hear Monica Lewinsky’s testimony in person, but by video clips of a deposition she gave under questioning by House prosecutors. They also voted to question other witnesses by deposition. Finally, on February 8, this twelve-month, historic crisis in American politics was almost over. Each side had three hours in which to present their closing arguments, then for three days the senators debated behind closed doors. On February 12, in the Senate chamber and before television cameras, the Senate voted. All Democrats and ten Republicans voted President Clinton not guilty on alleged perjury, 55 to 45. On alleged obstruction of justice the vote was split, 50 to 50. President Clinton would remain in office. The national day by day, twenty-four hour discussion and debate over the fate of the president cannot be isolated from the House impeachment and the Senate trial. All this provided representatives and senators with an amazing input of knowledge, insights, legal opinions, and interpretations that made witnesses almost redundant. Most important, as the impeachment approached conclusion in the House, and then as the Senate trial progressed, public opinion not only continued to support President Clinton, but his numbers actually improved. During Senate deliberations, some polls showed over 70 percent support for the president. Moreover, polls showed that the people wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible; they felt that the Republicans were unnecessarily delaying the proceedings, and intended to punish Republicans in the next election if they removed President Clinton.

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Generally, answers to specific questions in the polls showed that arguments supporting President Clinton persuaded more people than arguments demanding his removal. The senators were, after all, politicians, and doubtless were influenced in their votes by public opinion. Indeed, David P. Schippers, chief investigative counsel for the House Judiciary Committee for the impeachment, claimed in his book Sell Out that, due to the overwhelming public support for Clinton, the Republican Senate leadership had decided against trying to fire Clinton, and had organized the trial to get it over with as soon as possible.

Chapter 8 About Liberal Democracy Democracy is not so much a form of government as a set of principles. – Woodrow Wilson

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hat do the campaigns, scandals, and the impeachment of President Clinton tell us about the nature and workings of liberal democracy? It is self-government. Throughout the history of the Clinton presidency, adult Americans could have campaigned and voted for Clinton or his opposition in the presidential elections of 1992 and 1996. Americans could also have campaigned and voted for the representatives and senators who voted on his impeachment and removal. Americans could make their voices heard regarding his scandals and impeachment by writing letters to the editors of newspapers, telephoning radio talk shows, or by posting their opinions for or against him on the Internet via chat groups or on their own web page. And Americans could organize demonstrations or participate in them, build organizations to work for or against him, and contribute money to one side or the other. Note also that there is a democratic culture involved. This dictates that compromise and negotiation will settle disputes with a tolerance for differences. If the conflict is profound and the stakes very high, if there is no solution other than one side losing and the other side winning, then democratic procedures must be used that are within or dictated by the law. Such was the impeachment and trial of President Clinton. But, consider. The president had vast public and secret resources at his disposal, such as the secret service, the FBI, and the CIA. As commander-in-chief of all American military forces, he had them at his command. Could he not have used this power, if he so desired, to have the army surround Congress and the Supreme Court and dictate the outcome of their impeachment proceedings? That this was not even considered by anyone in the media, that there was not the slightest rumor of this, that even his most extreme political enemies never thought this a possibility, shows the strength of this liberal democracy. But let’s say that the president did issue such orders. What would happen? There is no doubt about the answer: he would be disobeyed.

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His orders would have to go through the military Joint Chiefs of Staff and the secretary of defense, and then down the command structure. The respect for the Constitution is so deeply ingrained in the military and those who are appointed to high office, democratic norms and customs are so unconsciously held that, instead of being obeyed, the president’s very attempt to use the military unconstitutionally would be reported to Congress and become an article of impeachment. Alternatively, suppose that he had secretly plotted with a group of generals or colonels to use their troops in a coup against the Constitution. If anything like this had been launched, it would have been soundly defeated for three reasons. First, this junta could only be a very small group, and thus militarily outgunned. Second, even ordinary soldiers would not obey the commands of their officers, because this would too clearly be a treasonous, antidemocratic action. And third, even if this were successful, the people would rise up in rebellion against such a totally antidemocratic usurpation of power. One more example is the outcome of the year 2000 American presidential election. The Democratic candidate, Vice President Albert Gore, got a majority of the national vote and came within a couple of hundred votes of winning Florida’s electors, which would have given him the 270 electoral votes needed to become president. As it was, with Florida’s slim margin giving the Republican candidate, Governor George Bush, its electoral votes, he won the presidency by only 271 electoral votes. Because of the importance of the Florida electors and the very slight margin of victory for Bush, Gore refused to concede the election and he, his supporters, and the Democratic Party waged a public relations and legal onslaught on the ballots cast in Florida, particularly in highly Democrat counties. They argued that all the ballots had not been counted, the voting machines had malfunctioned, or that the ballots were too complex for many voters. I need not go into the legal and political victories and defeats in this campaign to overturn Bush’s victory, except to note that we all learned a new vocabulary about machine ballots, including chads, pregnant chads, tri-chads, hanging chads, swinging chads, dimples, and so on. Suffice it to say that after two Florida Supreme Court victories for Vice President Gore and two United States Supreme Court decisions vacating or overturning them, Gore finally lost hope of getting the recount of ballots that he wanted. Over a month after the election, Gore finally and graciously conceded the election to Bush. This was the closest election in American history. And yet—and this is the point to this example—in spite of the heated partisan rhetoric and the claims that the election had been stolen, there was no

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violence. There were no violent demonstrations, no riots, no necessity to call out the army, and no coup. The decision of the Supreme Court was accepted; law triumphed over the desire for power. This is almost unbelievable, considering that this election was to determine who would be the most powerful leader in the world, and which economic and social policies would dominate the country. But it is the way liberal democracy functions. This type of government stands in sharp contrast to the alternatives, such as rule by a king, as in Saudi Arabia; by a dictator, as in Sudan; by the military, as in Burma; or by an elite, as in China. It is inconceivable that any of these rulers would be questioned by a court, undergo examination by the people’s representatives over some scandal, stand trial while in office, or stand aside and let another person rule because of a court decision. In these countries or others like them, people would not be able to criticize or demonstrate against their rulers without serious and possibly lethal repercussions. They and their families might be arrested and tortured if documents—even letters or emails—criticizing the government are found in their homes. In such countries, when the people threaten the power of their dictators, those dictators could, and do, use tanks and machine guns against them.

Chapter 9 Extent of Democracy There are 88 liberal democracies scattered all over the world.

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ll this being understood, so what? Are there not only a small number of democracies? Are there not even fewer liberal democracies like the United States, almost all being in western Europe? In fact, is not my characterization of liberal democracy too Western, hardly fit for nations in Asia, South America, and Africa?

Extent of Liberal Democracies The answer is no to each of these questions. As listed on the Freedom house website (www.freedomhouse.org/), out of 192 nations in 2003, 121 are democracies. Of these, 89 are electoral democracies, accounting for 44 percent of the world population. They include the European and North American democracies, as well as such diverse nations as Andorra, Bahamas, Belize, Cape Verde, Chile, Costa Rica, Cyprus, Dominica, Grenada, Iceland, Japan, Kiribati, Mali, Malta, Marshall Islands, Mongolia, Nauru, Palau, Panama, Saint Kitts and Nevis, Saint Lucia, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, San Marino, South Africa, South Korea, Suriname, and Taiwan. This variety of cultures, races, ethnicities, and geography should dispel the notion that liberal democracy is a peculiarly Western type of government that the West is trying to push on the rest of the world. I should also mention that there are a number of more or less socialist economic systems among the liberal democracies, such as those in Denmark, Norway, India, and Israel. Their governments still protect human rights. Consider the socialist policies of Sweden, for example, which sometimes is called “The People’s Republic of Sweden,” a play on what communist parties call their own nations. Like the United Kingdom, Sweden is a constitutional monarchy, with a democratically elected parliament. The people also elect its prime minister to parliament, and he is usually the head of whichever

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party gets the most parliamentary seats. King Carl Gustaf XVI has no formal political power and only a ceremonial role. Sweden has extensive and comprehensive national welfare and health insurance systems. Doctors work for the government and hospitals are government run, with health care covered by taxes. If people are sick or must stay home to take care of sick children, the government will make up for most of the income lost. Bear a child, and get a year of government mandated leave from work, with pay. People also get government allowances for their children and support if their children continue their education after they are sixteen years old. Workers and their employers also must contribute to worker retirement benefits, which they receive when they turn sixty-five, and which are supplemented by added employee fees. Sweden has an industrial policy that sees the government as necessarily involved in and in some ways directing the economy. There are stiff laws covering the hiring and rejection of job applicants and, if hired, their firing. Government closely regulates, subsidizes, and sets price ceilings on home purchases or rentals, and strictly enforces regulations on home building. It stimulates investment, and provides special tax benefits to steer businesses in the direction desired by government. Also, as part of its industrial policy, the Swedish government favors and encourages very strong unions and large, centralized business associations. This has led to the economic dominance of large corporations and unions. To support government welfare policies and involvement in the economy, people pay over an average of 50 percent of their income in taxes, while businesses can pay as much as 65 percent. One measure of the cost of government regulation, and the opportunities people and businesses lose because of it, is that about 35 percent of all workers were working for the government in 1992. An even better measure is that the government alone creates one-third of the market value of all Sweden’s goods and services. Another third of the value results from government redistribution of income, through such channels as the national welfare policies and national health program mentioned previously. This shrinks the private economy’s value to only a third of all Sweden’s products and services. By contrast, this value is about two-thirds for the United States. Regardless of Sweden’s welfare statism and its reputation for socialist policies, as a liberal democracy the government protects the freedom of its people—their human rights—to speak out, protest, demonstrate, organize against these policies, and vote out of power those who support them. Swedes even enjoy a fair amount of economic freedom. Among 123 countries whose economic freedom was ranked for 1999 by the

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Economic Freedom Network, Sweden ranked in economic freedom about 22 out of 111 nations, and the Network rates it with 8 out of 10 possible points. The United States is ranked 4, with 9.1 out of 10 points. In further comparison, of the countries I described in Chapter 1, the Network ranks China 87, and places Burma at the bottom among all 111 countries in economic freedom. The Network did not rank Sudan, Saudi Arabia, or North Korea, but surely they must be near the bottom. As to the 89 liberal democracies, this number is a sharp increase from the 44 that existed in 1973, and the total lack in 1900 (the democracies that existed, such as the United States, were electoral but illiberal) and shows well that the world is becoming increasingly democratic. Democracy is now the world’s dominant form of government, and with the death of fascism through World War II, and of communism with the end of the Cold War, democracy has no real competitors for hearts and minds. When all 121 electoral and liberal democracies are considered, the odds of a person being born in a democracy today are slightly greater than 61 percent.

Extent of Illiberal Democracies In 2003 there were thirty-two nations that were electoral illiberal democracies—that is, their people were only partially free, some so marginal as to make it a toss-up whether we should call them democracies. These included such nations as Armenia, Colombia, and Turkey. All restrict some of the people’s basic rights against government that characterize a liberal democracy. An impeachment like that of President Clinton might still take place in most of them, but not with the same vigor, concern for the law, and intimate involvement of the public. In these countries, freedom of speech or religion or association may be under pressure or even compromised. Just to mention some of the problems regarding human rights in these countries, in Columbia the courts tend to be corrupt, and extortion is common. Colombian drug lords have considerable influence, and may even have dictated some of the laws. Violence is endemic; all sides commit atrocities, including the murder of officials and activists. In Turkey the military has undue influence, and security forces have often killed those suspected of terrorism or of supporting a Kurdish rebellion. The government limits freedom of speech. Turks may not, for example, insult government officials. Government-organized groups or sympathizers have attacked and threatened human rights activists. They may even be responsible for the disappearance or murder of journalists

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and newspaper owners. Appeal to the highest court over politically sensitive judgments may be useless, and the courts themselves seem to be under military control. And in the Ukraine government corruption is widespread as well, and bribery is a way of getting or preventing government action. Consistently, political pressure on the courts and intervention in their process is common. Starting and running a business is often difficult, since businessmen must compete with an in-group of present and former members of the political establishment. The government limits freedom of speech. Ukrainians cannot, for example, attack the honor and dignity of the president. Nonetheless, aside from the serious human rights problems of the illiberal electoral democracies, a citizen of any of them can vote regularly by secret ballot in competitive national elections. They can vote the top leadership out of power. This is why these countries are still democracies, although only electoral ones.

Conclusion Overall, the case for democratic freedom is strong, as I have tried to show in this and the previous chapter. But I can make an even stronger case. In the following chapters, we’ll see that freedom is not only a human or natural right, certified by international agreements and supported by moral reasoning, that it is not only a socially just metasolution to human diversity, but that it is also a moral good. This means that the social and political consequences of freedom make it a supreme value in itself.

PART 3 On Freedom’s Moral Goods: Wealth and Prosperity

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eople who are free to go about their business and interests create, innovate, take risks, do what is important to them, and spend long hours pursuing their dreams. Especially, they soon find out that they can often gratify their own desires by satisfying the interests and dreams of others. Such is the free market. Such is the power of freedom. Such is this force for wealth and prosperity. This does not mean that all free people are wealthy. It means, however, that economic well-being, good health, education, and opportunity are spread across the population. It is no accident that the most economically developed, technologically and scientifically advanced nations, the most healthful nations, the nations with the best systems of education, communication, and transportation, are those that are democratically free. I’ll illustrate the power of freedom with the example of Bill Gates who, with his partner Paul Allen, created Microsoft and the computer operating system that enables the vast majority of desktop and laptop computers to work. Then we’ll examine why freedom is so powerful, and discover that economic freedom is not a system of selfishness and greed, as the most prevalent myth claims, but that it reflects in practice the utopian ideal of people seeking, and often sacrificing to discover and then pursue, ways of fulfilling the interests and desires of others. Freedom’s power to create wealth and prosperity is best understood by contrast with its opposite, the command economy of communism. In Chapter 12 I describe this system and then in the next three chapters show what this political economic system did to the Soviet Union under Lenin and then Stalin, and China under Mao Tse-tung. Pure and simple, their tyrannical rule over their economies by absolute command, fear, and murder created monumental deprivation and starvation and the world’s worst famines, killing in total over the three regimes around 45 million Russians and Chinese—almost double all the combat deaths in World Wars I and II. And Chapter 16 reveals that, in stark contrast to the consequences of a command economy and nondemocratic types of governments, no democracy has ever had a famine.

Chapter 10 Freedom Is an Engine of Wealth and Prosperity What is most important for democracy is not that great fortunes should not exist, but that great fortunes should not remain in the same hands. In that way there are rich men, but they do not form a class. – Alexis de Tocqueville

The Moral Good of Wealth and Prosperity

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emocratic freedom is a right everyone has, as previous chapters have established. This in itself is just, and to deny people their freedom would be unjust. And as a just right, no one can morally deny people their freedom for whatever end, as has happened to billions of people. For example, some rulers and their supporters deny their people freedom by arguing that doing so is necessary to develop the country economically, achieve national glory, promote racial or ethnic purity, or create a communist paradise. This is to make of freedom a tool that those in power can manipulate or ignore, depending on the ends they seek. This is a destructive premise that, for too long, intellectuals have allowed dictators and their supporters to assume. Freedom is not a tool; it does not have a utility attached to it that justifies government granting it or taking it away. In this sense, democratic freedom is a moral good, something that is to be sought or held for its intrinsic moral value, and for no other reason. Yet, amazingly, there are actually consequences to freedom that are also important moral goods. When we compare what happens to an economy and society when people are free and democratic versus unfree, the results of freedom are often the very ends that some dictators try to fulfill by repressing freedom. So stressing that freedom is a moral good is not erecting a firewall against any negative consequences, for the consequences are not only positive, but moral goods in themselves. It’s like eating fruit, which is tasty and filling and inherently good, but which also reduces the probability of getting cancer or suffering a stroke or heart attack.

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One of freedom’s desirable consequences is to promote unrivaled wealth and prosperity; it is an unbeatable engine of technological and economic growth. As an example of how freedom can produce this miraculous result, consider the life of William (Bill) Gates, who could not have created the computer software he did other than in a free society—software that has contributed greatly to our prosperity.

The Example of Bill Gates’ Freedom Gates was born into an upper middle-class family in 1955; his mother taught school and was a regent of the University of Washington, and his father was a prominent lawyer. Gates went to public elementary school, then to the private Lakeside High School in Seattle, where he learned about computers and soon became fascinated by them. By the time he was thirteen, he and his best friend, Paul Allen, were already programming computers, and spent as much of each day as they could on the school’s mainframe computer—playing with it, causing it to crash, rewriting its programs, and writing new ones themselves. In those days, computer time was costly and had to be rationed; because of their excessive use of it, the school finally had to ban them from the computer for short periods. Gates and Allen had become so good at using it, however, that a computer business, the Computer Center Corporation, hired them and two other hackers from the school to solve some problems with their computer, paying them for their services with unlimited computer time. Now Gates and Allen could work on a computer day and night, while also reading computer manuals and picking the brains of other employees. This ideal life did not last, however, for in 1970 the company went out of business. Gates and Allen’s next break came when Information Sciences hired them to program the company’s payroll. Again they were given free computer time—probably more important to them than whatever money they made. The company also paid them royalties for any of their programs it sold. Encouraged by all this, Gates and Allen made their own small computer for measuring traffic flow, and started a little company, Traf-OData, to sell it. This earned them about $20,000. Though he was still only a high school student, Gates’ computer skills were becoming more widely recognized. His school asked him to program a scheduling system for them, and he and Allen wrote the program together. While they were seniors, company officials at the defense corporation TRW, impressed by what they heard about Gates and Allen’s

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successes, hired them to debug TRW computer programs. This was another big break for the two. The job not only helped them further refine their software writing skills, it started them thinking about setting up their own software company. In 1973 they graduated from Lakeside. Because of Gates’ excellent grades, recommendations, and achievements, he was able to get into Harvard University, where he chose to study pre-law. After all, his father was a lawyer and the field of computer sciences didn’t exist then. But he soon discovered Harvard’s computer center, and all else was lost. He would work at night at the center and sleep through his classes. Allen moved close to Gates so that they could continue to develop and work on their ideas. After Gates finished his freshman year, he and Allen got programming jobs at Honeywell Information Systems. They still were working for others, however, and Allen particularly wanted to set up their own company. Gates was reluctant to drop out of Harvard to do this. Then, in December of 1974, a chance event led to the start of Microsoft. Accounts disagree on how this event came about, but a popular version is that on his way to see Gates, Allen happened to stop to look over some magazines. On the cover of Popular Electronics he saw a picture of the new MITS Altair 8080, the first microcomputer. He bought the magazine, took it to Gates and, after both had read it, they saw what an opportunity the Altair was. This was a most propitious time to be interested in computers. The IBM room-sized mainframe dominated the computer market and most computer specialists were interested in mainframe hardware or programs. Microcomputers (also to be called desktop or personal computers) for the general market had yet to be made, but Gates and Allen recognized that small personal computers were the future for businesses and home computing. And all of these computers would need system software to run them, as well as software for specific needs. Stories also vary as to what happened next. One version is that Gates called MITS and claimed that he and Allen had written a program they called BASIC for the Altair. The company expressed interest and wanted to see it, but Gates had lied—there was no such program. Encouraged by the company’s interest, he and Allen raced to write one. One problem: they had no Altair at hand. So, while Gates focused on the writing of BASIC, Allen developed a way of simulating the Altair chip using one of Harvard’s computers, the PDP-10. In about eight weeks they finished, and Allen flew to MITS to demonstrate their new BASIC on the Altair, a computer he had yet to see or touch. The gutsy test was a success on the second try, and MITS bought the rights to the program. This victory finally convinced Gates that the personal com-

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puter market was set to explode and, more important, that they had the skills to share in it. In 1975, Micro-soft—later to be Microsoft—was born, and Gates soon dropped out of his junior year at Harvard to devote himself to the new business. Its initial product was the BASIC system Gates and Allen had written, and several large companies were eager customers. At the time, I was also writing computer programs for my research, and can attest to one overwhelming principle of computer life. It is cheaper to buy a good program than to write one or hire programmers to do it. This was one of the main reasons for Microsoft’s early success. By 1979, Microsoft had sixteen employees, and Gates moved the company from Albuquerque, its first home, to Seattle, Washington. The company continued to grow and create new products. It produced a spreadsheet program, which later would become the MS-Excel spreadsheet we know today. And it produced the first version of what is now the overwhelmingly popular MS-Word. Paul Allen, who had been instrumental in so much of Gates’ early work and then in the growth of Microsoft, had to resign in 1983 because of Hodgkin’s disease. Eventually he successfully fought off the disease and, made a very rich man with his Microsoft shares, went on to form his own software companies. He also bought the Portland Trailblazers basketball team. What made Microsoft so dominant in the computer market, and what has mainly contributed to Gates’ wealth, was a deal he made with IBM in 1981, when Microsoft had only grown to about thirty people. With great foresight, Gates had bought an operating system, which he rewrote into what he called MS-DOS (Microsoft disk operating system). The operating system is the software that runs a computer. It interfaces between the computer hardware, such as the computer processor, memory chips, hard disks, floppy drives, CDs, monitor, and so on, and the applications, such as word processing or spreadsheet programs. At that time IBM, the dominant force in the computer market, was preparing a new line of personal computers, and needed a good operating system for them. They were in negotiation with a more established company, but Gates impressed them, and Microsoft got the job to write the operating system for IBM’s new computers. This was an amazing deal for his small company. Within years IBM began to turn out personal computers like McDonald’s turns out hamburgers, and each one started up with a rewritten MS-DOS. This was not enough for Gates, however. He had always been interested in making the computer more graphically oriented so that users could clearly see on their monitor what they were doing with the computer, such as when trashing a file or transferring a file out of one

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folder to another, and he began the development of such a program in 1982. This evolved into a graphically-oriented, pseudo system program that operates on top of MS-DOS. Finally shipped in 1985, it was the first version of Windows. Its latest incarnation as Windows XP, or an earlier version, is now used on virtually all IBM computers and compatibles in the world. In 1986, Microsoft successfully went public with its stock offering of $21 a share, and by 1995 Microsoft had 17,801 employees. Gates had realized his dream. He has played a dominant role in making personal computing available to everyone, and his products have continued to dominate the field. I do my work on a Macintosh computer with an Apple Corporation operating system 10.3 that competes with Windows— and personally I think Apple’s system software is better. Yet because of their quality, I use Microsoft’s Word and Excel programs. In recognition of his contributions, President Bush Senior awarded Bill Gates the National Medal of Technology in 1992. Bill Gates also has been more than amply rewarded financially. On May 22, 2000, his wealth, tied partly to the near 141 million shares of Microsoft that he owns, was $72,485,700,000. This made him the richest man in the world. Not even the wealthiest of monarchs, with jewels and gold bars piled at their feet, can beat Bill Gates’ worth. According to one rumor, he is so rich that when he got the bill for his $50 million manor built on Lake Washington, he turned to his wife Melinda and asked her to get his wallet. If he had worked ten hours a day, every day of the year, since the founding of Microsoft in 1975, I calculate that he earned about $1.3 million per hour. How can one man become so rich? Surely, Gates was lucky in being in the right place with the right friends at the right time when the personal computer revolution was just beginning. Supportive and affluent parents played a role in his success, as did his naturally deep interest in computers, a proclivity for the mathematics of it, and a willingness to work hard. But most important, he was free to follow his star. He needed no government approval. Personal computers and related hardware and software were a new market, and there were virtually no government regulations telling Gates what programming he could and could not do. Of course, Gates and Allen had to satisfy certain government registration requirements when they set up Microsoft, and there were more regulations covering Microsoft going public in the stock market. But it was entirely up to Gates how hard he worked, what he produced, and what he charged for his products.

Chapter 11 The Power of the Free Market The more freedom a people have, the greater their health, wealth and prosperity; the less their freedom, the more their impoverishment, disease, and famines.

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or the world as a whole, there is a very strong, positive correlation between democratic freedom and the economic wealth and prosperity of nations, as Table 11.1 and Figure 11.1 show. Much of this is due to the close association between civil liberties and political rights and economic freedom, as shown in Figure 11.2. (I am tempted to call this the Bill Gates Effect.) And this positive correlation goes far beyond economic matters to include the social and physical welfare of a people, as well. The more freedom people have, the greater their nation’s technological growth and scientific contributions, and the availability of railroads, paved roads, and airports. The more freedom people have, the better their health services, hospitals, doctors, and life expectancy. The more freedom a people have, the higher the instance of literacy, high school and college graduates, universities, and books published; and so on. To adopt a current term for all this, the more freedom, the more human security. But why should freedom be so productive? One reason is that people like Bill Gates can follow their interests and fully realize their inherent capabilities and talents. But also, they have an incentive to work and produce what people want because they are rewarded—and handsomely so, if they can satisfy the desires of millions. There is something more here, however, than simply following personal interests and getting material rewards. People naturally take care of what they own. It is like driving a rented automobile versus their own car—in subtle and perhaps even in some extreme ways, they are probably rougher on the rented car. After all, they lose nothing when they rapidly start and stop a rented car, corner it at high speed, screech its tires, grind its gears, ignore potholes, and let it get filthy. The rental cost is the same either way.

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This is like the commons, or common areas of a neighborhood. People take care of their house and yard. It is personal property and a reflection of their inner self, a matter of personal pride. But the commons, such as a public park, is owned by the public and therefore by no one. Government bureaucrats are the stewards over such property, and by law must manage it. But this is not their personal property, and therefore they do not have a primary motivation to take care of it and improve it. Usually, their personal motivation is to do the least amount of work at the best wage, and even if they do the best job possible, they do not do more than needed. So I see trees and flowers planted along newly built public roads withering and dying for lack of water, and I walk in parks whose grassy areas are overgrown with weeds and littered with paper cups, beer cans, and all the debris of people who use facilities they do not own. And I dare not think about using a public restroom! The incentives of private ownership versus the commons gives us an understanding of why plantation owners often took good care of

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slaves they bought, though the owners might punish them severely for trying to escape or refusing to work. By comparison, the biggest slavelike establishment of modern times, the Soviet gulag—the forced labor camp system—took little care of its laborers. Camp managers often worked them to death or allowed them to die of malnutrition and exposure. The life expectancy in some camps, especially the mining camps in Kolyma, was a matter of months. Why? The incentive for the camp managers was to get the most out of the workers for the least cost, then pocket the extra funds—not to take care of the prisoners. These people were not personal property, but public property. This was the very worst of the commons. Besides the joys of freedom, the prosperity it creates, and the incentives of private ownership, there is the individualization of choice and behavior. While people share much with their neighbors, friends, and loved ones, each person is different. Each has values, perceptions, and experience that no economic and social planners can know, or usually

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even guess at; in no way can each become data in some planner’s computer, because the path through life for each is unique. This means that only the individuals can best judge what they value, desire, want, and can do. To borrow a useful cliché, each alone knows where their shoe pinches. This is more basic than it may at first seem. In the free market, everyone is free to buy and sell, to create and build, as did Bill Gates. This freedom enables everyone to best adjust to the world around them and apply their unique values and experience. Therefore, a farmer who has learned from his parents and his own direct experience how to till the soil unique to northeastern Ohio, to read the local weather patterns, and to plant and fertilize the seeds that will grow well in the rocky soil, will best know how to make his farm productive. No government official far away at the state capital in Columbus or the national capital in Washington, D.C., can do as well. And really, were they to command him how to farm, they would destroy his incentive to produce, and the farm’s productivity. The loss of this freedom to farm is a loss of personal experience, knowledge, and values that government commands cannot replace. History has shown the catastrophic results of this in communist nations, as I will detail in Chapters 13 to 15.

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Moreover, in a free market, buyers and sellers automatically balance the cost and amount of goods. This means it is often more profitable to sell many items at a small profit than a few at a high profit. This encourages lower prices and cheaper goods to meet the mass demand of poorer people. Some producers will specialize in building yachts and make a profit at it, but many others will find it most profitable to market cheap clothes, fast food, games, and thousands of devices that make life easier. And in this way, businesses are encouraged to produce more items, more cheaply, and of better quality. We have seen this regarding computers. Note also, as free market economists like Milton Friedman, Ludwig von Mises, and F. A. Hayek have stressed, free market prices are an economy-wide message system. They communicate shortages, where things are cheap, and where production might be profitable enough for a business to move into the market; they also communicate where demand is slack and businesses might cut back production. Prices in a free market tell businesses what to put on the supermarket shelves, where, when, and at what price. Therefore, the free market is equally a massive distribution system. Think about this for the moment, about the miracle of the thousands of goods on the supermarket shelves, many from faraway countries and other states. Who decides this? What great mind or computer figures out what is to be sold in what market for how much, when? And all without shortages, and long lines waiting for a supply truck to arrive, as is often the case in command economies. How is this done without the economic planners that socialists believe necessary? Automatically and spontaneously, by the decisions of hundreds of thousands of free producers, suppliers, truckers, and market managers, all responding to different prices and demand. This is why the command market and government intervention fail to improve prices and allocation over the free market. Instead, it creates economic dislocations, hardship, privation, and, as we will see, famine. No government officials, no social scientists, no central computer program, can possibly figure out what each person wants, when, and where, and how all this can be balanced for tens of millions of people. A government cannot improve the free market price mechanism, even at the minimum by antitrust, antimonopolistic laws; it can only distort or destroy.

Chapter 12 The Free Market, Greed, and the Command Economy Underlying most arguments against the free market is a lack of belief in freedom itself. – Milton Friedman

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ou may believe that I am exaggerating the role of freedom, and that for Gates’ success detailed in Chapter 10, his talent and initiative were most important. Then consider what his life would have been like in a country that allowed no freedom, such as the former Soviet Union. The Communist Party that ruled this country placed the strongest emphasis on economic and technological development, and it is natural to believe that someone with Bill Gates’ abilities and interests would prosper there. First, however, for Gates simply to survive without going to a labor camp or to his death, he and his parents could not question the Party line, and both his parents and grandparents could not have been connected to the previous czarist government, or be bourgeoisie. Presuming, then, that Gates was clean of any such “counterrevolutionary” taint, he might have succeeded as a scientist or engineer. But he could not have produced any great jump in software development. The Party strictly limited the use of computers, all of which it owned. For over a decade it kept computers under lock and key, to be used only with Party permission. Gates, therefore, would not have had the free use of computers that enabled him to develop his programming ability and to eventually write the programs he did. And, since all private businesses were illegal, there could be no Microsoft to design personal computers or write software. Such could only be done within some Party-run shop. If, in such a shop, Gates had written useful software, it would be the property of the Party, to dispose of as the Party bureaucracy wished. There is a slight hint of such a statist attitude in the American Justice Department taking Microsoft to court in 1997 for monopolistic practices. Specifically, it accused Microsoft of making its Internet Explorer part of Windows 95, and thus stifling competition with other

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Internet browsers, such as Netscape. In April of 2000, a federal judge ruled that Microsoft did violate antitrust laws, and in June issued a final judgment ordering the dissolution of Microsoft. However, this order was overturned by the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia, while the court did hold that Microsoft had an illegal monopoly on computer operating systems. With a new Republican administration in 2001 that brought a new Secretary to the Justice Department, its plan to split up Microsoft was dropped. This case reflects an anti-free market attitude toward competition, big business, and success—and likely some envy of Gates’ wealth. More important, this action by the previous Clinton administration probably shows the power of political contributions or their lack. Gates had naively refused to make any large contributions to the Democratic Party or President Clinton’s two presidential campaigns, while Microsoft’s chief competitors had done so. It was their complaints about Microsoft that brought action. Many of the commentaries on this case saw capitalist greed as Microsoft’s, and especially Gates’, primary motivation. Indeed, this view reflects a general criticism of free-market capitalism itself as the incarnation of greed. These critics see entrepreneurs and business people as being out only to make a profit, and economic competition as nothing more than capitalists climbing over each other to profit from the poor. Such critics want an economic system wherein each tries to help others and provide for their needs, rather than people trying to get rich at each other’s expense—a view that lies at the root of much leftist and socialist thought today. Even many that strongly support a free market see greed as its driving force. This not only gives ammunition to the enemies of this freedom, but also mischaracterizes it altogether by reference to something that is an aspect of the system and not its central, psychological dynamic. Imagine a utopia where people are highly motivated to provide services and fulfillment to others, usually total strangers. They see this as being in their own self-interest. Many of these people also spend sixty to seventy hours a week trying to provide such services. Also imagine—unbelievable as it may seem—that in this utopia some of these people spend their life savings and borrow huge sums of money to discover or provide new things that they believe other people might want. That is, in this society the chief preoccupation of people is to satisfy the wants of others, or to determine how they might do this, and do so with the least expense to those getting the services or goods. Such an unbelievable other-directed society does seem utopian. But if we could have such a society, would it not be inherently moral? Is this not the dream of many communitarians, philosophers, and theolo-

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gians—that people spend their time, energy, and resources to provide others with what they need and want? This utopia does exist. It is the free market. Lawyers, doctors, teachers, intellectuals, writers, authors, journalists, computer programmers like Bill Gates, movie stars, business owners, financiers, stock owners, and all other individuals making up the whole population comprise the free market, as do all large and small businesses. The automobile repair shop, the computer discount house, the Italian restaurant, the Chinese laundry, the small Catholic college, the mom and pop grocery store, and so on and so on, exist to give people a particular service. If this service is unwanted or the business charges too high a price, then it goes bankrupt. Moreover, entrepreneurs are constantly trying to invent new businesses or services that will fill some need or want not yet recognized by others. If no such want exists, or its fulfillment is not worth the cost, the businesses fail. Such working and striving to satisfy others is a moral ideal. That this is the essence of the free market is unappreciated. Again consider what Bill Gates and Paul Allen did. They spent unbelievable hours of their own time learning about computers and how to program them. This they were doing out of sheer interest, not because of greed. When they had learned enough, they began to satisfy the needs of others, particularly in helping to debug mainframe computer programs, and in writing their own programs to fill needs that others had expressed. When they started Microsoft, they wanted to sell software and make money, to be sure. But to do this, they had to speculate on what kind of software would most benefit the users of computers, and they had to make an initial investment of time and resources in writing it. If they were wrong, they lost what they put into the program. If they’d struck out enough times, Microsoft would have gone bankrupt. Microsoft succeeded, however, more than anyone dreamed possible, and the simple reason for this is that Gates and Allen, and then Gates alone, saw what people needed most, and worked to satisfy that need. Years ago I wanted a good word processor to use in writing my books, and a spreadsheet program with which to do my analyses. Microsoft foresaw my need with very good software, and I bought their Word and Excel. I thereby contributed to Gates’ wealth, to be sure, but I did this freely and received in return two programs I could not write, and which have made me far more productive. Bill Gates and Microsoft are participants in a technological revolution that began in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, one that was really a revolution in freedom. As government loosened its stranglehold on national economies and foreign trade, as it allowed creative and en-

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terprising people to produce new things, there was a surge in new inventions, new businesses, and the earnings and wages of the poor. Before this revolution, laws tied workers to a farm or manor and forced them to live the most basic and poorest of lives. They often faced the threat of starvation if a harvest was meager, if they lost or broke their tools, or if they were dispossessed of their land by the government or feudal lords. They wore the most basic and plainest of clothes and ate the simplest and cheapest food. The revolution of freedom liberated the poor from this kind of servitude, assured them of a basic wage, and enabled them to improve their consumption. Much to the complaint of the upper classes, who saw this as “putting on airs,” the poor began to dress in better, more colorful clothes, and to eat a greater variety of foods. All of us are the inheritors of this freeing of the market and the resulting technological revolution. The automobiles people drive, the televisions they watch, the movies they see, the cell phones they answer, the planes they fly, and—exemplified by Microsoft—the computers they use, all owe their development and availability to the free market. At a more basic level, we can best see the operation of the free market in the availability of an amazing variety of cheap foods for the poor and lower middle class. An American supermarket is a cornucopia of agricultural wealth, with choices of fruits, vegetables, meats, cereals, breads, wines, and so on from many areas of the United States and countries of the world. Similarly, department and hardware stores shelve, hang, and display a wide variety of goods. To see the results of freedom, you need only shop in any of democracy’s stores. Let’s look at new inventions and innovations. Freedom promotes a continuous reduction of the cost of goods compared to the average wage, such that even the most complex and advanced products are available to the common person. An example of this is the rapid evolution of the handheld calculator. When I was a graduate student working on my M.A. thesis in 1960, I had to calculate statistics on a large Monroe mechanical desktop calculator. I had to punch the numbers into it, move some switches to do a specific calculation, and physically crank it (like starting an old car) to get the results. By computer standards today, this Monroe was painfully slow and clumsy, but it was still better than doing the arithmetic by hand. I could calculate sums, cross products, and correlations, but it took me about two months and a sore arm to do all the necessary calculations. My university paid about $1,100 for the machine then, or about $6,408 in current money. By the early 1970s, I could pick up a handheld Hewlett Packard electronic calculator that would do all these calculations and many more, such as logarithms and trigonometric functions, store one figure

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or calculation in memory, and function on a small battery. It cost about $400, or about $1,709 in today’s dollars. Now I can get such a handheld calculator for $10; paying slightly more will get me a calculator that will do much more than the obsolete Hewlett Packard. And for about $900 I now can buy a personal computer—for example an iMac with monitor, keyboard, modem, CD drive, and an internal hard disk—that has a capability undreamed of a mere decade ago and on which I could have done all the necessary calculations for my M.A. thesis in seconds, not months. This is comparable to the free market, through innovation and competition, bringing the price of a new automobile in 1960 down to the cost of a new shirt today—which makes one wonder what the price of an automobile now would be without any government regulations on its production and quality. I did my Ph.D. dissertation on the Northwestern University mainframe, a central IBM computer worth tens of millions of dollars in current money. It had a memory of 36 kilobytes and filled a huge, airconditioned room with its blinking lights, spinning tapes, massive central processor, very slow printer, batch punch-card input, and bustling attendants. The whole atmosphere of computer, lights, air conditioned room, and all the rest created a feeling of almost spiritual mystery. To use this monster, I had to learn to write my own computer programs, and to change some of its functions I had to rewire part of the computer. That was in 1962 and 1963. Today I sit before a flat seventeen-inch color monitor connected to a new Macintosh G5 that has one gigabyte of memory (nearly 28,000 times the memory on the mainframe), a 28.5-gigabyte hard disk, a DVD-rewritable drive, a modem, and a color printer. The total cost of all this was about $3,500. Incredible power at an unbelievably low cost compared to what I could have bought only one human generation ago. This is the fruit of freedom. But still, while many may accept this productivity of the free market, they may believe that a command economy with the best and the brightest scientists and technicians doing the planning, and a focus on producing the most goods for the most people—on providing for the needs of all people—can be even more successful. Especially for the poor. Government is then seen as the best engine of wealth, prosperity, and equality for all. This idea has a solid grip on the minds of too many intellectuals and academics, and so in the next chapters I will describe what happened in the Soviet Union and communist China when this idea ruled each.

Chapter 13 Scarcity and Famine: Lenin’s Command Economy [I]t is necessary to . . . distribute the food provisions . . . with the view of cutting down on the number of those who are not absolutely necessary and to spur on those who are really needed. – Lenin

Communism

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his idea of a free market was the cornerstone of classical liberalism, whose bible in the eighteenth century was British philosopher and economist Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations. He argued that wealth is best created when government keeps its hands off the economy and there is free trade. This free, or laissezfaire, market is, however, only one political-economic model. The major competing model in the twentieth century was that based on the economic and historical analysis presented in Das Kapital, written by the nineteenth century German political philosopher Karl Marx. Along with Friedrich Engels, Marx established the “scientific” socialism that we now call communism. In his many works, including his influential pamphlet What Is To Be Done, Russian revolutionary and philosopher Vladimir Ilich Lenin then showed how Marx-Engel’s politico-economic theory could be put into effect—how a communist revolution could be induced and a communist nirvana achieved through the dictatorship of the proletariat. Scholars now think his work is such a basic addition to Marxism that they make Marxism-Leninism synonymous with communism. Communism has been the most influential politico-economic theory of the twentieth century. With its claims of empirical proof and a scientific theory of history, and its utopian plan to rid the world of poverty, exploitation, economic greed, and war (all of which it claims are due to capitalism), it captured the minds of many intellectuals and workers. And through revolution, invasion, and war, these believers took over one country after another: Russia, China, Mongolia, North

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Korea, Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, Cuba, East Germany, Poland, Hungary, Rumania, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, Czechoslovakia, Ethiopia, Angola, Mozambique, Grenada, Nicaragua, and South Yemen. This is an impressive roster indeed. The communist politico-economic model explicitly claims that while the free market will lead to the impoverishment of the worker and its own destruction, communism will create socio-economic equality and a society in which abundance will reign and provide “from each according to their ability, and to each according to their need.” This abstract model seems ideal and has misled many a compassionate person. But let’s look at what this model really meant in practice—what such a command economy in the former Soviet Union under Lenin and Stalin, and in communist China under Mao Tse-tung, accomplished compared to a free market.

Lenin’s Nationalization and Famine, 1920–1923 I will discuss in detail the 1917 Bolshevik (communist) coup against the Russian Kerensky government in the next chapter. Here, however, as a precursor to Stalin’s collectivization of the peasant and his intentional famine in the Ukraine described in the next section, I want to note the severe famine that Lenin created as a result of his command policies in the Soviet Union soon after he seized power. After the Red Army had won control over much of Russia, the Communist Party—in effect, the new government of the Soviet Union—issued a Decree on Land that encouraged peasants to seize large estates, thus depriving cities and towns of food. This created much local disorder, as did the Party establishing committees of peasants to “assume the responsibility for repression,” and the decree that in all small, grain-producing districts, officials should pick twenty-five to thirty “wealthy” hostages to be killed if the peasants did not deliver their “excess” grain. In practice, excess grain often turned out to be any grain—even the peasants’ reserve and seed grain was expropriated by detachments of workers ignorant of farming. The Party sent tens of thousands from the cities to uncover the peasants’ “excess,” which resulted in more disarray hardly conducive to good harvests. As Lenin himself confessed, “Practically, we took all the surplus grain—and sometimes even not only surplus grain but part of the grain the peasant required for food.” By 1920, in what was sometimes called ‘War Communism,’ thirty percent of what the peasant produced was being requisitioned. It was

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no longer necessary that Lenin requisition supplies for the Red Army’s conflict with the anticommunist White armies, which no longer posed a serious threat. Rather, Lenin’s purpose was to move from a capitalist free market to a socialist one—to a command economy, as he declared. He wanted to nationalize the peasant, although not in the total way that Stalin would do a decade later through collectivization. Nationalization and its attendant forced requisitions was Lenin’s solution to the problem of paying for peasants’ grain when funds were not available. And it prevented peasants from keeping their grain and other crops from the Party. The Party also made many new laws to assure this. It set low prices for the peasants’ produce, banned private trade, and established a system of rationing. Unlike a free market, this provided little motivation to produce—notwithstanding the likelihood of new detachments of workers coming through to expropriate or loot whatever was in a field or house. Understandably, the harvest of 1921 was only 40 percent that of 1913, before the revolution. This disastrous harvest, coupled with the loss (or consumption due to hunger) of the reserve food supplies necessary for peasants to survive periodic droughts, had human costs far beyond the hundreds of peasant rebellions it caused. In 1921, a drought that in some Russian provinces formerly would have created no more than a minor famine instead triggered one of the worst ones in modern times: over 30 million people faced starvation. Faced with a calamity that could threaten the survival of communism, the Party began providing some aid to the starving while urgently requesting international help. International relief, particularly from the United States through the American Relief Administration (ARA), was soon forthcoming. But even in the face of this historic disaster, Lenin wielded aid and food as a socialist weapon. Said Lenin, without an iota of compassion for the victims, “it is necessary to supply with food out of the state funds only those employees who are actually needed under conditions of maximum productivity of labor, and to distribute the food provisions by making the whole matter an instrumentality of politics, used with the view of cutting down on the number of those who are not 11 absolutely necessary and to spur on those who are really needed.” The Party requested foreign aid for the Russian Republic, but mentioned nothing about the counterpart famine in the Ukraine. The Party must have known as early as August of 1921 that the southern Ukraine 11 Quoted in G. P. Maximoff, The Guillotine at Work: Twenty Years of Terror in Russia (Data and Documents). Chicago: The Chicago Section of the Alexander Berkman Fund, 1940, p. 149.

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was verging on famine, but Lenin refused to allow a transfer of food from the north to the south. Indeed, the Soviets tried to feed Russia with Ukrainian grain, justifying this by exaggerating its grain production. In effect, many Ukrainians were starved to death to feed hungry ethnic Russians. The Party allowed no aid from the outside until American relief officers forced the issue, and even then the Party hindered the aid effort. Lenin was using starvation to pacify Ukrainian nationalism and defeat the many rebellions there—to crush peasant resistance, a goal that Stalin would also tackle with famine in the early 1930s. Then, in the summer of 1922, irrationally (unless one has firmly in mind the communist obsession with building socialism), the Party resumed large-scale grain exports. This, even though the Party had to starve part of the population to get the grain. But it wanted capital for industrial heavy equipment. So it asked the ARA to continue aid so that some of these people could be fed. Thus, the picture that displayed the heartlessness of communism versus the apolitical compassion of democracies: in the port of Odessa, Russians saw the SS Manitowac unloading American famine relief supplies while nearby the SS Vladimir was loading Ukrainian grain destined for Hamburg. Although there were agricultural dislocations caused by civil war, Lenin and the Communist Party were mainly responsible for some 5 million people starving to death or dying from associated diseases. The toll would have been much higher had not the ARA provided about $45 million in aid (about $474 million in 2002 dollars) to keep alive about 12 10 million people. But this was not yet the worst that the Russian people would suffer. That would be the fruit of Stalin’s tyranny.

12 For the overall toll of mass murder during the civil war and deaths from this manmade famine amounting to murder, see the estimates, calculations, and sources in Table 2A in my Lethal Politics: Soviet Genocide and Mass Murder Since 1917 (1990). The table is also on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/USSR.TAB2A.GIF. For other tables and a summary chapter of the book, see: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/NOTE4.HTM

Chapter 14 Scarcity and Famine: Stalin’s Command Economy You [Party activists] must find the grain . . . . It is a challenge to the last shred of your initiative and to your Chekist spirit . . . . Comrade Stalin expects it of you. –Hatayevich (Central Committee member)

Collectivization, 1929–1935

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fter Lenin’s death from a stroke in 1924, there was a struggle for Party rule between Leon Trotsky, commissar for war and Lenin’s heir apparent, and Josef Stalin, general secretary of the Central Committee of the Party. By 1928 Stalin had won the battle and had full control over the Red Army, secret police, and communist cadre. He could now carry out his plans to fully socialize what was now known as the Soviet Union. He especially intended to go much further than Lenin had dared go with the peasants, and nationalize—without compensation—independent farms, their livestock, and land, and consolidate them all into huge farm factories run by the Party. Each farmer was to become an employee earning a daily wage for his work. It was to be total collectivization of the peasantry. Theoretically, the idea has a certain appeal: turn “inefficient” small plots on which farmers could not use modern farming equipment (equipment they also could not afford) into large, factory-like farms, each with its own tractors, each efficiently allocating farmers to specialized tasks. Of course, this required persuading farmers to give up their land, livestock, tools, and often their homes to the communes, and to become workers with regular wages, hours, and tasks. The peasants resisted, of course. They killed their animals rather than give them up, burned down their homes, fled to the cities, shot at the troops who came to enforce the Party’s commands, and committed suicide. This Peasant War destroyed and depopulated whole villages. Even nomadic herdsmen were not exempt, as Stalin decreed that the Party also must settle them into communes, and collectivize their wan-

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dering herds. By March 1, 1930, 14,264,300 peasant holdings had been collectivized throughout the Soviet Union. As it turned out, once they “voluntarily” turned all they owned over to a collective farm, the peasants found it more like a penal colony. Party functionaries in Moscow commanded commune work and activity, usually from thousands of miles away. They regimented the life and daily routine of each commune member, although they knew nothing of local conditions and farming. Peasants, now commune “workers,” had to obey orders without question, or communist agents, spies, or their supervisors would report them. In words that a peasant living under Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge in Cambodia could have uttered, Myron Dolot pointed out: We were always suspected of treason. Even sadness or happiness were causes for suspicion. Sadness was thought of as an indication of dissatisfaction with our life, while happiness, regardless of how sporadic, spontaneous, or fleeting, was considered to be a dangerous phenomenon that could destroy the devotion to the communist cause. You had to be cautious about the display of feelings at all times, and in every place. We were all made to understand that we would be allowed to live only as long as we followed the Party 13 line, both in our private and social lives. This Peasant War was the largest and most deadly war fought between World Wars I and II. The Party fought the war by “persuading” peasants to “voluntarily” join the communes using lies, false promises, peer pressure, coercion, and finally naked force. A massive, coordinated propaganda barrage extolled the manifold virtues of collectivization and condemned those “rich” peasants—or kulaks—who were systematically and selfishly sabotaging this humanitarian Party effort to spread the benefits of communism to the poor peasant. Stalin also formally declared war on kulaks. Party activists and even everyday workers became convinced that these kulaks were wholly responsible for the resistance to collectivization and its associ13 Miron Dolot, Execution by Hunger: The Hidden Holocaust. New York: W. W. Noton & Co., 1985, p. 92.

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ated violence. Party officials throughout the Soviet Union spewed hate propaganda and consistently harangued activists on kulak evil-doing. Whipped into a frenzy of hostility, activists and cadres who were sent out to the countryside in waves of collectivization unleashed their pentup rage on any assumed kulaks. The kulaks were not only scapegoats, they were the focus of attack. Stalin pursued collectivization through a campaign to eliminate the kulaks as a class, and decreed the liquidation of all kulaks and their families, even extended families. This meant execution for many, or slow death in labor camps for many more. Others were barely more fortunate to be deported to forced settlements in remote regions like Siberia, which in some ways were worse than camps. Kulaks were regarded more as vermin than people. This kind of scapegoating, deception, propaganda, and use of naked force is intrinsic to a command economy. To command an economy means just that, to use commands that subjects absolutely must obey— or else face prison, camp, or death—to get done what is planned. Since human beings have their own interests and are unwilling to be used as the bricks and mortar to construct a utopia, they have to be persuaded or pushed, and as communist cadres everywhere have seemed to say, “If some die in the process, so be it—you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.” In actuality, those liquidated “kulaks” were mainly the peasants who had been more successful farmers—they owned fatter cows, they built better houses or barns, and they earned more than their neighbors. They were not the rich (the average kulak earned less than the average factory worker, or the rural official persecuting him), or the exploiting landlord. They were simply the best farmers. And they paid for their success. The Peasant War consumed their lives and the country. Speaking with Churchill during a World War II summit, Stalin admitted that this Peasant War was worse than that against the Nazis; it “was a terrible struggle . . . . It was fearful.” After saying that he had to deal with 10 million kulaks, Stalin claimed that “the great bulk was very unpopular and was wiped out by their laborers.” Stalin’s estimate was not far off. From 1929 to 1935, the Party deported to labor camps or resettlements, usually to a slow death, possibly 10 million, maybe even 15 million “kulaks” and their families. Even infants and children, and the old and infirm. Apparently even they stood in the way of progress, of Stalin’s collectivization. The cost in lives? The Soviets themselves admitted that their collectivization and dekulakization campaigns might have killed 5 million to 10 million

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peasants. This was mass murder, a hidden Holocaust that few in the world outside the former Soviet Union know about. All to apply an untested, theoretical economic model of a command economy—MarxismLeninism. And did collectivization work? No, this greatest of experiments in scientific, social engineering utterly failed. It denied the laws of economics and human nature, of the free market; and so, the communes never did produce enough food for even the Soviet table. The Party had to resort to massive food imports and to giving the communes some freedom, but to no avail. Stalin helped agricultural productivity most when he permitted peasants, during their time off, to plant food on a little plot of land the Party gave them near their collective. As one might expect, these little plots became highly productive, and eventually accounted for most of the food produced in the Soviet Union, strongly vindicating the free market model.

Famine by Design, 1932–1933 Incredibly, the horror of collectivization was only the beginning. The Peasant War and the resulting communes totally disrupted the agricultural economy. By 1932, famine again threatened, but there was the Peasant War, and the Party could not give aid to the enemy. In fact, Stalin saw the famine as positive—it would encourage peasants to join the collectives, particularly if that were their only source of food. But Stalin perceived another potential benefit from a famine. He could use it to squash Ukrainian nationalism. Ukrainians, even top communists, were becoming more assertive about strictly-Ukrainian interests: music, language, literature, and interest in Ukrainian history were undergoing a renaissance. Stalin could not allow this to continue, since Ukrainian nationalism, at the heart of which was the peasant, was inherently an opposing force to communism. Destroy the Ukrainian peasant, and Russian immigration into the Ukraine and collectivization would easily follow. So in 1932, Stalin launched a new and differently fought assault in the Peasant War by ordering an impossible grain delivery target of 7.7 million tons out of a Ukrainian harvest already reduced by a third from 14 For the overall toll of collectivization, see the estimates, calculations, and sources in Table 4A in my Lethal Politics: Soviet Genocide and Mass Murder Since 1917 (1990). The table is also on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/USSR.TAB4A.GIF. For other tables and a summary chapter of the book, see: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/NOTE4.HTM

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that of 1930. After much argument, Ukrainian officials got this reduced to 6.6 million tons, but when the Party apportioned quotas among the villages, said one survivor, “Our village was given a quota that it couldn’t have fulfilled in ten years!” In effect, the quotas were a sentence to death by starvation for Ukrainian peasant families. Stalin’s war strategy on this front was simple yet imperial in scope: force the unwilling peasants into communes, while also destroying the spiritual resources and cultural achievements that supported their nationalism. Although collecting and exporting more grain than ever, the Party showed the starving peasants no mercy. It took even warm baked bread off the peasants’ tables. It marshaled detachments of workers and activists to seize every last bit of produce or grain, including the seed grain needed for planting. They went through peasant homes with rods, pushing them into walls and ceilings, seeking hidden stores of food or grain; they dug up or poked around yards with rods, searching for hidden food; they brought in special animals to sniff out the food, much as trained dogs now sniff for drugs in travelers’ suitcases. To the Party officials and activists, peasants had to have food hidden somewhere, since they were still alive. To survive, the peasants ate roots; they boiled bark and the soles of their boots for the broth. But at each grasp for food, the authorities stepped on their hands. When the peasants started eating their dogs and cats, the Party ordered village officials to bag a “certain quota of dog and cat skins,” and they went through the village shooting these animals. When the peasants tried to eat birds and their eggs, communist activists organized systematic bird hunts, shooting birds out of the trees with shotguns. Finally, the peasants ate horse manure; they fought over it, sometimes finding whole grains in it. Emaciated, enfeebled, near the end they sometimes ate their own children and those of their neighbors that they could kidnap—as North Koreans have during their communist-made famine. The Party left the peasants with nothing. It ordered the military and police to seal Ukrainian borders to block the import of food. It blacklisted some villages with especially stubborn peasants, totally isolating them from the outside, and it forbade the sale of any food or other products—even soap. The starving peasants died by the millions in the winter of 1932–33. Stalin prevented any aid until he was sure that the Ukraine would no longer resist collectivization or be a threat to communism. About eighteen months of famine did it. With whole villages lifeless, highways and fields dotted with the dead, the survivors too weak to work, with the Ukraine prostrate and even workers in the cities now threatened, Stalin

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ended quotas in March 1933; in April some army grain reserves were released for distribution to the dying peasants. The result? The Ukraine was like a huge Nazi death camp, with about a fourth of all peasants dead or dying, and the rest so weak and debilitated that they were unable to bury the dead. On Stalin’s orders, about 5 million Ukrainians had been murdered through starvation, 20 to 25 percent of the Ukrainian farm population. Another 2 million probably starved to death elsewhere; 1 million died in the North Caucasus alone. While Stalin intended the Ukrainian deaths, those elsewhere were the unintended by-products of the war on the peasants— collectivization. Still, the Party did learn a little from this famine. It loosened its controls and, as mentioned, allowed the peasants to operate small, free market plots. But this was not enough to prevent famines. There were some local famines in the next decade, and another major one occurred in the Ukraine and Byelorussia from 1946 to 1947. This time only 500,000 to 1 million people starved to death. Regardless of these famines, no matter the costs of collectivization, some Western intellectuals claimed that the communist-induced, rapid industrialization had brought a better life to the average citizen. It’s hard to believe now, but there were Western books and articles extolling Soviet progress, and pointing to this as the wave of the future that all our politico-economic systems should emulate. One such work, Soviet Communism: A New Civilization?, was written by the English socialists Sidney and Beatrice Webb during the worst of the collectivization and the Ukrainian famine. Even years later, when details of the cost of Soviet communism and the famine and the nature of the Party’s dictatorship were much better known, they would write that the country was a “full-fledged democracy.” And the very influential British playwright and socialist George Bernard Shaw called the Soviet Union “a really free country.” In the eyes of these writers, the Soviets now had national health care, guaranteed housing, social security, no unemployment, and a “democratic government” that marshaled all society’s resources to create a better future, unlike the dictatorship of the rich in the West where greedy capitalists climbed over each other to impoverish the worker. This stuff could only have been written by utterly ignoring the reality of Stalin’s mass murder, his enslavement of his people, and his famines. It is as though these Western supporters had visited a Nazi concentration camp and emerged claiming that the camp’s government guaranteed that their subjects would have food, work, a place to live, and the democratic right to elect the head of their barracks.

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Even some thirty years after Stalin’s death in 1953, even after some seventy years of Party command over the economy, even after life in the Soviet Union had markedly improved since the collectivization and famine years of the early 1930s, the Soviet citizen hardly lived better than in czarist times. As is typical of communist countries, shopping in Soviet cities was often a long hassle, with days spent just to find toilet paper, sausages, or shoes. To buy scarce goods, people waited in line to be given a ticket to buy an item, waited in line to pick up the item, and waited in yet a third line to pay for it. The communist elite were too important to waste such time and deserved better, to be sure; they had their own restaurants, their own stores in which to buy the best goods, their chauffeured cars, and their Party-owned villas or retreats. On the rise was one of the best indicators of public health, infant mortality; it was not decreasing, as it does in all free market democracies. Such was the result of a command economy.

Chapter 15 Scarcity and Famine: Mao’s Command Economy [The famine] resulted mainly from the massive intervention of ignorant zealots in the agricultural process and from the tendency of the Central Plan itself to become an inexorable trap. – Miriam and Ivan D. London and Lee Ta-ling

Murder of Traditional Agriculture: Land Reform

“W

ell,” some with a sense of Russia’s long history under the czars might say, “this really is Russia, and you know the Russians; they are barbarians compared to Western Europeans.” Then consider a country that is far different culturally, one whose people have a reputation for intelligence and industriousness. In 1949, the Communist Party under Mao Tse-tung won the Civil War against the Nationalist government, and gained control over mainland China. Immediately, Mao moved to consolidate and centralize power, destroy any source of opposition, and make communist authority supreme throughout the land. Acceptance, if not outright loyalty, had to be assured to apply the communist economic model, especially among the mass of peasants. With actual or potential resistance liquidated, Mao then could command nationalization, collectivization, and forced industrialization. In hammering out this transitional “dictatorship of the proletariat,” Mao and his henchmen in the Party murdered many millions of Chinese, sent them to forced labor camps to die, or caused them to commit suicide. Often, simply being a more prosperous peasant, a simple businessman, a minor member of the former government, a humble priest, or a Westerner’s friend was enough to merit such a fate. Any resistance to the Party or criticism of Mao or communism was reason for a bullet in the back of the head. This terrorism soon reached into the smallest villages and farthest reaches of China. This preparatory softening up and totalization of Chinese society took almost four years. It involved many movements and campaigns,

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each an effort by the new rulers to define specific goals and identify enemies, to name these and assign suitable tactics and perhaps quotas to the lowest cadres, and to mobilize the masses through slogans, giant mass meetings, required political and orientation sessions, and often outright incitement to violence against the class enemy. Some of these movements were meant to improve economic growth or social welfare, such as the “Increase Production and Thrift,” “Patriotic Cleanliness and Health,” and “Elimination of Illiteracy” movements. Perhaps the best known of these movements was that of “Land Reform.” China was and still is a land of farming villages. Traditionally, much power in the village rested with the gentry and the relatively rich landowners. They were a largely independent power base, historically moderating between the peasants and the local and central governments. This was not a feudal, peasant-landlord class system as had existed in Europe. The Chinese peasant was independent and often owned his own small piece of land. Acting through the Party’s organization, officials, and cadre, the method Mao used to destroy this free agricultural market was simple: make the peasants hate their landlords and the “rich” and then give him their land and wealth. If the Party also could incite the peasant to kill or participate in killing the landlord, he would support the Party out of fear of revenge or of losing his new land. Therefore the Party’s directive to cadres: Adopt every possible measure to rouse the hatred of the people and excite them into frenzy and hysterical animosity against the landlords. The high-ranking cadres responsible for the Land Reform Movement must not hesitate to allow the Land Reform Squads a free hand in exe15 cuting landlords . . . . The technique was for a group of activists to occupy a village, and then within a few days to select the victims and arrange a “trial.” The cadre would then haul the victims out of their beds at night, beat, humiliate, insult, and spit upon them, and eventually bring them before a table at which sat a “tribunal” composed of Party activists, one or two local sympathizers and, if possible, someone with some judicial experience to lend legal color to the proceedings. Then there would be the 15 Quoted in Ching-wen Chow, Ten Years of Storm: The True Story of the Communist Regime in China. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winsten, 1960, p. 101.

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“jury,” a crowd of local peasants whom the activists had already aroused against the victims. Fear conjured manufactured hatred on peasant faces—the cadre was watching them for compassion for the victims or lack of enthusiasm for the proceedings. Amid cries of “enemy of the people,” or “counter-revolutionary jackal,” or “imperialist lackey,” the cadre would force the victim to face his “jury” with his hands tied and, with prompting from the “tribunal,” recite his crimes against the revolution. Then a member of the “tribunal” would say that the victim’s punishment should be death, at which the coached “jury” would shout, “Death!” Then the cadre would immediately shoot the victim, or wait until after he’d dug his own grave. The Party officially ended “Land Reform” in 1953. According to the Party, the movement affected around 480 million of about 500 million peasants; almost 114 million acres forcibly changed hands. Under this guise of redistributing land to the peasants, the party destroyed the power base of the gentry and rich peasants, and got the acquiescence, if not the support, of the poorer peasants. How many landowners and their relations the Party murdered or caused to commit suicide in this vast and bloody campaign, we can never know. A reasonably conservative figure is that about 4.5 million landlords and relatively rich and better-off peasants were murdered. As fantastic as this human toll may seem, the words of the highest Party rulers give it credibility. In official 1948 study materials about “agrarian reform,” for example, Mao instructed cadres that “one-tenth of the peasants [about 50 million] would have to be destroyed.” This would have to be “30 million landlords and rich peasants” according to a speech in the 16 same year by Jen Pi-shih, a Party Central Committee member.”

Collectivization: the Commune With power now tightly centralized, society totally under control, and all possible countervailing forces destroyed or weakened, and now with a true command economy to work with (and having learned nothing from Stalin’s horrible agricultural debacle), Mao put collectivization into effect. After some preliminary collectivization of the peasants into cooperatives, in April of 1958 Mao began the forced collectiviza16 For a breakdown of China’s democide by period, see Table II.A of my China’s Bloody Century: Genocide and Mass Murder Since 1900 (1991). The table is also on my website in two parts at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/CHINA.TABIIA.1.GIF and www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/CHINA.TABIIA.2.GIF. For other tables and a summary chapter of the book, see: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/NOTE2.HTM

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tion of peasants into communes with the establishment of the Sputnik commune in Honan Province. With unintentional irony, Beijing’s China Youth News described what it was like to live in this commune: At dawn the bugles sound and whistles blow to gather the population of the commune . . . . A quarter of an hour later the peasants are drawn up in a line. At the orders of their brigade and company commanders they now move off in military step to the fields, carrying their banners. Here you no longer see the small groups of peasants, two or three at a time, smoking and making their way leisurely to the fields. Instead you hear the measured tramp of many feet and the sound of marching songs. The age-old habit of living haphazardly has now disappeared forever with the Chinese peasants. What an enormous change! In order to adapt itself better for modern life and collective labor the commune has launched a movement for the shifting and reunification of the villages. The peasants now move together in groups to spots nearer to their place of work. What an astonishing change! From the days of antiquity the peasants have regarded the home as their most precious possession, handed down to them by their ancestors. But now that the little patches of land, the small houses and the livestock have become the property of the commune, and now that the bonds which attached the peasants to their villages have been severed so that there is nothing left of their former home which they could still desire, they feel at peace. Now they say: “The place where we live doesn’t matter to us; we are at 17 home anywhere.” 17 Quoted in Suzanne Labin, The Anthill: The Human Condition In Communist China. Translated by Edward Fitzgerald. New York: Praeger, 1960, p. 101.

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The “success” of this “model” commune, so the Party reported, led to a “spontaneous demand” by the peasants throughout China for communes of their own. Acceding to this, the Party ordered communes set up everywhere. Then the newly acquired land, and all else the peasants owned, such as farming tools of all sizes and types, and even houses, became the property of the communes. Virtually all that hundreds of millions of peasants owned was nationalized in one titanic gulp. By the end of 1958, the Party had organized into 26,000 communes over ninety percent of the population—about 450 million Chinese. The peasants were now the property of the commune, to labor like a factory workers in teams and brigades at whatever the Party commanded, to eat in common mess halls, and often to sleep together in barracks. In an instant, for about one-seventh of humanity, Mao had destroyed family lives, traditions, personal property, privacy, personal initiative, and individual freedom. Mao and Party functionaries now dictated every condition of peasant lives, truly creating a command agricultural economy. Mao still found time for even more movements to remove any possible critics or opponents to Party policies and ideology. One example was the “Anti-Rightist” Movement, which was notable for assigning quotas. Mao gave educational institutions, from primary and middle schools to technical schools and universities, quotas of between five and ten percent of their staffs to be delivered to the state as “rightists.” Those selected would then be imprisoned, tortured, and possibly executed. And because the quotas for rightists were often higher than institutions had legitimately qualified rightists to fill, rightists had to be invented. To understand this system is to know that some institutions would enthusiastically overfill their quotas.

Great Leap Downward But the Anti-Rightist Movement was a diversion from the main line. Even as Mao was displaying the first model commune and planning to modernize agriculture, he was also undertaking to catch up with the West in industrialization, particularly with Great Britain in steel production. Indeed, Mao considered collectivization and industrialization the two legs of China’s socialism, necessary for China’s “walking on two legs,” as he put it. Beginning in May 1958, slogans, exhortations, and drum-beating mass meetings mobilized the whole country in a “Great Leap Forward.” The Party hastily built workshops and factories—reportedly half a million in Hopei Province alone, in less than two months. It erected iron

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smelters throughout the countryside—1 million by October, involving 100 million Chinese. It ordered the communes, and “encouraged” millions of urban families to contribute pots, pans, cutlery, and other iron and steel possessions for smelting. Peasants had to work day and night, fourteen or sixteen hours or more, on these projects. Production statistics zoomed, but top Party officials soon realized that local authorities had falsified the statistics. What factories and workshops produced was often worthless junk; much of the iron produced in backyard furnaces was impure and unusable slag. All of this demolished Chinese living conditions. In a pre-1937 survey of 2,727 households in 136 different areas of China, an adult male consumed an average 3,795 calories a day. In 1956, official sources reported the daily individual food consumption as less than 2,400 calories—an astounding 37 percent drop. In 1957, according to official statistics, rice production was 82 million tons. This reduced to 340 grams (12 ounces) per person per day, and considering the better rations of officials, soldiers, and agents, the ordinary person got less than 320 grams, as refugees reported, or under half the normal daily calories needed. Although there were nearly 150 million fewer people in 1936, the rice production then was about the same as in 1957. Predictably, in 1956 and 1957 there was famine in certain districts. Then there were the many Chinese the Party murdered during this collectivization period. As best as we can estimate, the collectivization and the “Great Leap Forward,” as well as the campaigns against “rightists,” probably cost an additional 5,550,000 Chinese lives.

The World’s Greatest Famine Ever This was not all this economic model, supposedly vastly superior to the free market, cost the Chinese people. The worst was yet to come. The effects of collectivization and the “Great Leap” were disastrous. Already in 1959, the negative effects on public welfare evident in previous years were multiplying. For example, Honan Peasant’s Daily, a provincial newspaper, disclosed that many peasants died from overwork or malnutrition that summer. During two summer weeks, 367,000 collapsed and 29,000 died in the fields. Other papers revealed that over a similar period, 7,000 died in Kiangsi, 8,000 in Kiansu, and 13,000 in Chekiang.18 18 Valentin Chu, Ta Ta, Tan Tan: The Inside Story Of Communist China. New York: W. W. Norton, 1963, p. 74.

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Trapped by these conditions, with the Party forbidding peasants from leaving their commune or workplace, they could only rebel. From 1959 to 1960, peasants rose up in arms in at least five of China’s provinces, in rebellions that the military could not subdue for over a year. Reports from Honan and Shantung stated that “members of the militia stole weapons, set up roadblocks, seized stocks of grain, and engaged in widespread armed robbery.” In 1959, rebellions took place over a large area in Chinghai, Kansu, and Schechwan; during the same year Chinese, Hui, and Uighur forced laborers rebelled together and destroyed trucks, mines, bridges, and tunnels. All this was part of the buildup to the worst famine in world history. According to the demographer John Aird in a U.S. Bureau of the Census study, during the late 1950s and early 1960s possibly as many as 40 million people starved to death. However, the demographer Ansley Coale, using official Chinese data and adjusting for underreporting of vital statistics, concluded that 27 million died. More recent research now suggests that the toll was 30 million Chinese. As a comparison to this massive mountain of dead, it’s as though every person residing in Texas and Virginia in 2002 starved to death. This famine was largely the result of failed communist policies and the grandest, most ambitious, most destructive social engineering project ever: the total communization and nationalization of an agriculture system involving over half a billion human beings, its reduction to military-like central planning and administration, and the vast and hurried “Great Leap Forward.” A wide-scale drought affected 41 percent of the farmland in 1959, and 56 percent from 1960 to 1961. This doubtlessly triggered the Great Famine. It might have caused a million or so deaths, had it happened in the 1930s under the corrupt Nationalist regime. But now the agricultural system was in such disarray and social policies were so counterproductive that the greatest of all famines was inevitable. Famine added to privation was enough for some people. More so than in 1959 and 1960, peasants resorted to armed rebellion. During 1961 and the following year in southern China, there was continuous guerrilla warfare, and Fukien Province, across from Taiwan, also saw a serious armed uprising. Colonel Chung, a former army officer, led some 8,000 peasants to attack the militia and loot granaries in Wuhua. Official sources admit that, during 1961 alone, resistance included 146,852 granary raids, 94,532 arsons, and 3,738 revolts. In addition, according to General Hsieh Fu-chih, the minister of security, there were 1,235 assassinations of party and administrative cadres. As with the Soviet Union, many Western intellectuals were under the spell of Chinese communism, and particularly that of Mao, and ar-

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gued that he had greatly improved the lot of the average Chinese. Here also, if we ignore all the mass murder, total deprivation of freedom, and resulting Great Famine, we still must find these arguments naïve or illinformed. Life for the city dweller was better under the previous fascist Nationalist regime than under the communists. After more than twenty years of communism, the average Chinese standard of living had fallen below what it was before the Sino-Japanese War that began in 1937. Need I say more about the consequences for human life of a command economy versus a free market? Yes, and that is to make explicit that there never has been a famine in a democratic nation. Never.

Chapter 16 Democracy Means No Famine Ever . . . famines do not occur in democracies.

– Amartya Sen

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o further prove that to deny people freedom is to produce an economy of scarcity, famine, and death, note the wide-scale famines that communist parties also have made elsewhere. In Chapter 1, I mentioned the famine in communist North Korea and the Party’s bankrupting of the country. In an entirely different part of the world, communist Ethiopia put in place controls over agricultural production in the 1980s, and 1 million Ethiopians starved to death or died from connected diseases—this is out of a population of 33.5 million people, which made this famine nearly as large as China’s, proportionally. These empirical economic experiments with an alternative theoretical model to the free market, this incredibly bloody rebuilding of whole societies and cultures to match utopian plans, this forced fitting of people into one job or another, and this effort to do better by dictator’s command what free people can do for themselves has totally failed. Think of the marketplace in any liberal democracy compared to the shortages, long lines, limited choices, massive famines, and bloody repression that prevailed in these command economies. Better yet, just think of the success of Gates and Microsoft. There is a joke Eastern Europeans made about the command economy when they lived under communism: were a communist country to take over the great Sahara Desert, we would hear nothing for ten years, after which there would be a shortage of sand. Famines have also happened in authoritarian and fascist nations, although they were not even close in deaths to those under communism. By contrast, no democratically free people have ever had a famine. None. This is so important that I will put an even sharper point on it. By the very nature of freedom, a free people are immune to one of humanity’s worst disasters, a famine.

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This can be seen in Table 16.1. This is not because nature is kinder to democracies. Note, for example, that in 1931 the worst drought ever to hit the United States began in the Midwestern and southern plains states and centered on Colorado, Kansas, New Mexico, Texas, and Oklahoma. By 1934 the drought had spread to twenty-seven states and covered over 75 percent of the country. Without rain, farmlands that had been over-plowed and over-grazed became powder dry, resulting in huge dust storms called “black blizzards.” Drought took out of cultivation about 35 million acres of farmland, and dust storms were removing topsoil from 225 million acres more. In 1935 alone, 850 million tons of topsoil probably blew off the southern plains. As the drought and dust storms continued year after year, whole farm families fled in caravans, wagons and carts piled high with belongings, leaving behind vacant homes and farm machinery partly buried in dusty soil. Through a variety of relief, cultivation, and conservation projects and programs, Congress and the Roosevelt Administration acted to help farmers survive the drought, saving what land, crops, and livestock they could. Finally, in 1939, the rains came and the drought was over. While even lesser droughts had caused many tens of millions to starve to death where governments forbade a free market, I could not find a reference to even one American starving to death during the Dust Bowl. Some Americans did die of suffocation in the dust storms, however, and some died of related diseases. The worst famine to hit a European country in the last two centuries was the Irish famine from 1845 to 1849, which is sometimes blamed on a free market. A fungus attacked and destroyed the potato, the major 19 The list of countries with famines and the death toll is on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/WF4.TAB4.3A.GIF

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crop of Ireland’s peasants, causing massive famine throughout the country and the death of perhaps 1 million people, almost 13 percent of the population. Now, Great Britain had united Ireland with her by the 1801 Act of Union, and before that had ruled Ireland as, in effect, a colony. Over the previous centuries the British had tightly controlled the development of the Irish economy through many repressive laws, such as those inhibiting world and British trade with Ireland. In particular, various British governments were intent on suppressing Roman Catholicism, the religion of virtually all Irish peasants. Dating from 1695 and not fully repealed until 1829, laws to this end had a disastrous effect on Ireland’s agriculture. For example, the British forbade Irish Catholics to receive an education, engage in trade or commerce, vote, buy land, lease land, rent land above a certain worth, reap any profit from land greater than a third of their rent, and own a horse worth more than a certain value. This code so distorted Ireland’s agricultural system, so impoverished the peasants, and made them so dependent on their landlords that any natural disaster wiping out their crops could only mean a major famine. Moreover, because of limits on the franchise, the secret ballot, and the manner of representation and legislative voting, Great Britain was not even an electoral democracy at the time of the famine. It did not become a democracy until it democratized its electoral system later in the century. But there is even more to freedom than just avoiding disaster. It is no accident that democratically free people are the most economically advanced, technologically developed, and wealthiest in the world, as shown in Figures 11.1 and 11.2 of Chapter 11. Nor is it by chance that the poorest nations are those in which their dictators allow no or little open economic competition, prevent people from buying and selling goods freely, and encourage bribes of government bureaucrats or their relatives. Then look at the economic miracles in Germany and Japan. The Allied bombing of these countries in World War II thoroughly destroyed their economies and infrastructures. Germany and Japan also had to absorb millions of returning soldiers and civilians, which for West Germany alone was about 8 million ethnic and Reich Germans, most homeless and hungry. How did these countries recover as fast as they did, going from being among the most devastated of nations in 1945 to being among the most economically powerful states in the early 1990s? In each case, it was the effects of freedom, particularly a free market. Of course, when the Allies occupied these countries after the war, they provided aid to relieve starvation, but this would have been only a

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short run solution had they not also broken up monopolistic government-big business cartels, encouraged private enterprise, freed the marketplace of many government controls, assured the rule of law, and democratized the political systems. It is to the credit of the Japanese and West German postwar leaders that when given their nation’s independence, they maintained and enhanced their people’s democratic freedom. Both Japan and Germany are now liberal democracies. For further proof, note the rapid economic growth and modernization of now-democratic South Korea. A good measure of this growth is in its annual total of goods and services, or gross domestic product. This averaged a growth rate of 5.3 percent annually, 1950 to 1985, despite the devastating Korean War during the first three years. For the world as a whole, the average was less than half that, or 2.3 percent. In 1998, South Korea’s growth rate was even higher at 6.8 percent, and it is now becoming a close competitor to Japan. Compare this to North Korea, with the same ethnicity, culture, and traditions, and with a more developed industrial base before the communist takeover. While the southern half of Korea is prospering, the north under a command economy is bankrupt and economically ravaged, with its people suffering under a severe famine and dying in the millions. There is also the example of now-democratic Taiwan, whose economy from 1950 to 1985 grew at a rate of 7 percent, leveling off in 1998 to 4.8 percent. Taiwan now is among the industrially developed nations. Then there is the “Asian tiger” that is Singapore, whose authoritarian government has allowed the market to be free; it has become an economic jewel of southeast Asia. From 1950 to 1985 it grew at an average annual rate of 7.9 percent, making it then the economically fastest growing country in the world. Hong Kong, formerly under British colonial rule, was another free market, economic jewel; since communist China took it over from Britain by treaty in 1997, it remains to be seen how long this will last. Located on a series of small islands and a small strip of mainland China, it comprises only 397 square miles. In 1945 it had a population of fewer than 600,000, but through natural population growth and by absorbing millions of refugees fleeing communist China, its population swelled to over 6 million. Despite the many people on this small bit of land, there was little unemployment; it had a bustling, productive, and continually growing economy, and an annual growth rate of 6.9 percent up to 1997, which was only slightly behind Singapore and Taiwan at the time. Now compare the results of the freedom in South Korea, Taiwan, Singapore, and Hong Kong to what happened in mainland China when

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Mao deprived its people of any freedom: total economic disaster, rebellions, economic retrogression, and tens of millions of people starving to death. With the death of Mao in 1976, the new Party dictators began to liberalize its economy and introduced a semi-controlled free market in many areas of the country, as described in Chapter 1. Total Party control had so devastated the economy that once the Party lifted many of its controls, China’s economy leaped forward at or near a double-digit rate. In 1998, it was growing at 7.8 percent. The Chinese people are rebuilding their cities, a new class of Chinese investors and businesspeople is competing with businesses from abroad, and for the first time in decades, the Chinese now have plenty of food. The signs of economic vigor and growth now astound a visitor returning to China after thirty years’ absence. Of course, I have only given examples here and not a systematic analysis of the consequences of freedom for all nations. That has been 20 done elsewhere and proves in general what the above examples show: the evidence overwhelmingly supports freedom as a means to the economic betterment of society and the fulfillment of human needs. Quite simply, freedom produces wealth and prosperity. These are moral goods of freedom, a moral reason for people to be free. Part 1 established that people have an inherently moral right to be free, regardless of the consequences of freedom—its utility. Now we can say that freedom does have very desirable, moral consequences for humanity: wealth and prosperity. We have known for nearly two centuries this result of freedom, and its teaching by classical liberals of previous centuries did much to free Western economies from the heavy hand of government regulation and control. This may be the most important moral good of freedom, but it’s not the only one. Freedom has yet other moral goods, and of these not many people are aware.

20 See the appendix at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/WF.APPENDIX.HTM

PART 4 On Freedom’s Moral Goods: Minimizing Political Violence

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he daily news always seems to be about internal (or domestic) political violence somewhere in the world. People are constantly trying to replace their ruler by violence, revolt against their government, rebel against some government policy, or fight a civil war to achieve independence. In July of 2000, these violent political confrontations were occurring in about forty nations. I’ve briefly discussed the civil wars in Sudan and Burma, Somalia’s clan wars, the Civil War in Russia after the Bolshevik coup of 1917, and the numerous rebellions against Mao’s collectivization and “Great Leap Forward.” The question naturally follows: why do human beings constantly kill each other in this way? Before answering this, I want to provide an understanding of how violent this internal political conflict can be. Readers may not realize that such violence has been more destructive of human lives than international war. The probability of a person being killed in an international war is less than that of dying in a revolution, guerrilla warfare, rebellion, civil war, or riots. This is not even taking into consideration government democide—genocide and mass murder—such as that of Hitler, Stalin, and Mao, which itself has totaled more dead than all internal and international wars together. That is so important that I will devote the whole of Part 5 to it. China has lost tens of millions of people in her own civil wars—her Taiping Rebellion in the mid-nineteenth century alone might have killed as many as 40 million Chinese, and the Chinese Civil War between the Nationalist government and the communists left almost 2 21 million battle dead.

21 For the sources, estimates, and calculations, see Table 1.A of my China’s Bloody Century: Genocide and Mass Murder Since 1900 (1991) and on my website at: http://www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/CHINA.TAB1.A.GIF

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Of the twelve wars the United States has fought, including World 22 War II, none killed more Americans than died in its Civil War. In Chapter 17, we’ll look at the Mexican Revolution, which killed many times the number that died in the American Civil War. In the next chapter I try to untangle the many threads of the Russian Revolution and Civil War, one of the bloodiest of the twentieth century. This close look at the Mexican and Russian revolutions should show why people who share citizenship can kill each other on such a massive scale. The explanation for their excessive violence and that in other nations? Their undemocratic governments’ suppression of their people’s freedom. We’ll examine that in detail in Chapter 19.

22 For the Federal armies in the American Civil War 359,528 were killed in combat or otherwise died; for the Confederate forces the number was about 258,000 dead. The total dead in the war was near 617,528.

Chapter 17 The Mexican Revolution Said a Valle Nacional police officer of Mexican forced laborers: “They die; they all die. The bosses never let them go until they’re dying.” – John K. Turner

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he roots of Mexico’s revolution lie in the rule of Porfirio Díaz, a former general who in 1876 rebelled against President Sebastián Lerdo de Tejada and seized power. Mexicans later elected him to the presidency and, except for one term, consistently reelected him, sometimes without opposition, until revolutionaries forced his exile in May of 1911. While Mexico therefore had elections, they usually were a façade. Competition for office was not free and open, political opponents were assassinated, and the fear of government officials and their supporters limited political speech. Díaz tried to conciliate various groups, such as the Catholic Church, landed interests, and big business, and he was particularly committed to the economic growth of Mexico. He promoted foreign investments and ownership, eased the transfer of public lands to private hands, and helped concentrate the ownership of land for more efficient usage. He caused some one million families to lose their land, including the ancestral lands of some 5,000 Indian communities. By 1910, when the revolution broke out, fewer than 3,000 families owned almost all of Mexico’s inhabitable land, with over 95 percent of the rural population owning no land at all. Nearly half of these landless lived on large, privately owned farming or ranching estates or plantations, called haciendas. These sprawled across much of Mexico, containing about 80 percent of the rural communities. Some were huge; one was so large that a train took a day to cross its six million acres. Deprived of their land, impoverished and unemployed, the mass of Indians and peons (the unskilled laborers or farm workers of Latin America), were a huge pool for authorities and landowners to exploit. And so they did. Under Díaz, profiteering police and government officials protected greedy landowners and pitiless labor contractors. This

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enabled the venal, corrupt, and ruthless to ensnare Indians and peons in a nationwide system of chattel slavery and indebted labor. One of the main methods used to enslave peons on haciendas was to advance them money. While it was usually a small amount, the peon found it almost impossible to repay. His wages were abysmal because of the ready availability of impoverished peons in the countryside, and living costs were, by hacienda contrivance, high. For example, a peon usually could buy his necessities only at the company store, since he was paid in coupons or metal disks that only the company store would accept. Running away from this forced labor was not an option. If he did, the police would search for him, usually catch him, and return him to the hacienda. Then, as a lesson to others, he would be whipped publicly, sometimes even to death. Moreover, debt was by law inherited— passed down to a peon’s sons on his death—so his sons also could become indebted slaves through no fault of their own. But the peon could become indebted in ways other than through the hacienda. He was enmeshed in a system of Mexican customs and laws that encouraged, if not required, that he spend more money than he had. For example, baptism demanded a fiesta, a priest, and liquor, the cost of which the peon could only cover by pledging his future wages. This was also true for the cost of a wedding, a baby’s birth, and even tools. Whether they were on the hacienda or not, to the poor and landless a debt was usually forever, and once in debt, the peon had no rights. By law, the debt holder had all the power, which on the hacienda was power over life and death, as surely as though these peons were slaves in ancient Rome. Besides indebted peons, haciendas had other sources of such slaves. Hacienda bosses would entice impoverished and landless Indians and other peons into signing contracts to work on plantations about which the workers knew nothing; upon arrival, they would discover that there was no escape. The police would arrest and jail the poor and those dispossessed of land for trivial or trumped-up charges, and then sell them to hacienda owners. Yet another source was a police roundup of such people, as though they were cattle, followed by their deportation to a hacienda to work until they died. In some areas, these roundups were the routine—even a matter of government policy. Local officials would contract with a hacienda to supply so many peons per year, and the district political boss, or jefe politico, often fulfilled his contract by kidnapping and selling young schoolboys for fifty pesos each. There were some comparatively good haciendas, to be sure. There, owners still forced the peons to work, and would whip to maintain discipline and order, but they treated them with the paternalistic civility

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accorded to personal slaves. These haciendas were the exception, however. Normally, they were hellish for the peon, whose life on them was usually short and miserable. The owners had them whipped when their work slowed for any reason, and for the slightest infraction. They were sometimes whipped to death. After all, they were cheap to replace, and the police showed no concern over their murder. On many haciendas, the peon’s misery went far beyond whipping. Hacienda bosses would often rape the peon’s wife and daughters, and would force the prettier ones to be their concubines. Nor did all the haciendas provide enough nutritional food for their peons in the field, or changes of clothing, bath facilities, or toilets. Because of this ill treatment, many soon died from disease, exposure, and exhaustion, deaths that can only be classed as murder. In some places, such as Valle Nacional, the forced labor system became at least as deadly as that in the Soviet gulags and the Nazi labor camps at their worst, but the victims died within guarded haciendas instead of work camps surrounded by guns and barbed wire. The bosses especially mistreated the Indians enslaved on the haciendas, and they often were among the first to die. Two-thirds of Yaqui Indians on haciendas died in the first year; on some haciendas, a few would survive for two years. And haciendas were killing Mayans, members of another Indian nation, at a greater rate than they were being born. Bosses also badly mistreated non-Indian peons. In three months on one large hacienda near Santa Lucrecia, they killed more than half of three hundred new workers. In the Valle Nacional hacienda, out of some 15,000 new workers taken on in one year, bosses killed about 14,000 within seven or eight months. I would doubt this incredible death rate, were it not for the words of Antonio Pla, general manager of a large portion of the tobacco lands in Valle Nacional: “The cheapest thing to do is to let them die; there are plenty more where they came from.” Said one of the police officers of the town of Valle Nacional, “They die; they all die. The bosses never let them go until they’re dying.” Even the process of deportation to the haciendas was lethal, particularly for Indians. Soldiers seized and deported five hundred Yaqui Indians a month to work on haciendas as slaves. This was even before Díaz decreed that the War Department must capture and deport to the Yucatán every Yaqui Indian found, regardless of age. As many as 10 to 20 percent died during deportation, especially if the trip was a long one, and involved the military herding the deportees over mountains on foot. Sometimes whole families would commit suicide rather than endure the deportation and the slave labor that lay at the end.

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Out of a rural population of nearly 12 million in 1910, it’s possible that 750,000 unknowingly contracted themselves into slavery on haciendas in southern Mexico, and over 100,000 on the Yucatán peninsula. The far more prevalent debt bondage may have enslaved an additional 5 million peons—nearly 41 percent of the total population of Mexico. These numbers far exceed those of Sudan’s outright slavery and Burma’s forced labor. Compare this to American slavery in 1860 just before the Civil War, where there were 3,951,000 slaves, or 12 percent of the population. What was in effect slavery in Mexico is most comparable to the slavery of ancient times, yet it happened in our time, during the youth of some people alive today. This lethal slavery alone would be enough to condemn this reprehensible government and justify the coming revolution. But there is more. This slave system necessarily depended on a certain amount of terror and resulting fear. Each of the states of Mexico had attached to it an acordada, a picked gang of assassins. They quietly murdered personal enemies of the governor or jefe politicos, including political opponents, critics, or alleged criminals, no matter how slight the evidence against them. For example, officials gave the son of a friend of Díaz, a member of the acordada, two assistants and the instructions to “kill quietly along the border” any person he thought connected to the opposing Liberal Party. But much killing was also done publicly, and carried out directly by officials. In 1909, they summarily executed sixteen people at Tehuitzingo, and on a street at Velardena, officials shot several people for holding a parade in defiance of the jefe politico. They forced twelve to thirty-two others to dig their own graves with their bare hands before shooting them. In the state of Hidalgo, a group of Indians who had resisted government takeover of their land were buried up to their necks, then officials rode horses over them. From 1900 to 1910, this government probably murdered more than 30,000 political opponents, suspects, critics, alleged criminals, and other undesirables. Díaz’s policies obviously provided opportunity for the venal and corrupt, and offered security and assistance to the rich and well placed. As long as they went along with the system, bureaucrats, officials controlling government largesse, and the upper middle class and wealthy profited from Díaz’s rule. Nonetheless, his policies also created an explosive atmosphere. Many of the well-off Mexicans were still angered that he encouraged foreigners to exploit the country’s resources. Now, also, intellectuals were promoting among the lower class a sense of being enslaved. And Díaz’s army, the muscle he needed to back up his policies, was small, corrupt, and inefficient.

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Revolution Given all this, rebellion was inevitable, and it did happen, several times. The first successful rebellion was led by Francisco Madero in 1910; it launched the Mexican Revolution. A member of the upper middle class, as most revolutionary leaders are, Madero believed in a liberal constitutional government. Indians and peons understandably supported him. With the former bandit chief Pancho Villa as his leading general, Madero won major victories against government forces and encouraged other rebellions throughout the country. In May of 1911, the government collapsed, Díaz fled into exile, and Madero took over the presidency. Leading a revolution is one thing; rebuilding a government is quite another. In office, Madero turned out to be ineffective, especially in promoting changes to the system. He did, however, give peons and workers free rein to air their grievances and seek change. This did not sit well with the Mexican elite, who saw this freedom, added to the disorders still plaguing the country, as endangering their property. In early 1913, Victoriano Huerto, the general commanding the Mexican army in Mexico City, rebelled against Madero and, joining with other rebel groups, forced him to resign. General Huerto then made himself president, and in a few days, someone assassinated Madero. Huerto’s presidency was even worse than Madero’s. He was disorganized, repressive, and dictatorial, and instigated the most violent phase of the revolution. Separate rebel forces, Villa’s among them, took violent action to restore constitutional government in three northern states. In the south, Emiliano Zapata organized and generated a peon rebellion demanding land reform. President Wilson of the United States tried to help these rebellions by embargoing arms to General Huerto, resulting in the American Navy’s temporary takeover of Veracruz to stop a shipment of German arms, while allowing the rebel constitutionalists to buy them. Eventually, constitutionalist forces closed in on Huerto, and he escaped into exile in July 1914. Still, even the constitutionalists could not establish a stable government, nor could they agree among themselves on what was to be done and by whom. Civil war again broke out in December of 1914. Finally, by the end of 1915, the rebel leader Venustiano Carranza won control over most of Mexico. Despite the refusal of Zapata (assassinated in 1918) and Villa and some of the other rebel leaders to accept terms, Carranza took over the government and held control until 1920.

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Carranza never brought about the reforms he had promised, and in 1920, Alvaro Obregón, one of Carranza’s most effective generals during the civil war, threw him out of power and eventually had himself elected president. Though dictatorial, Obregón brought relative stability, order, and change to Mexico. What I left out of this sketch of the Mexican Revolution is the violence, ruthlessness, and cruelty on all sides. In the north in the opening years of this rebellion, for example, government forces simply shot all captured rebels, showing no mercy. In later years of the war, when President Carranza ordered General González to destroy the Zapatista “rabble” in Morelos, his troops burned down whole villages, destroyed their crops, marched women and children into detention camps, looted factories, devastated the local sugar industry, and hanged every male they could find. They left a wasteland behind them. Rebels were equally vicious and often extended their butchery to top government officials and supporters. A case in point was their seizure of the town of Guerrero. They murdered all captured federal officers, along with the town’s top Díaz supporters and officials, including the judge, jefe politico, and postal inspector. The rebels raped at will; in Durango, the U.S. ambassador reported that fifty women “of good family” killed themselves after rebels raped them. Villa himself forced “his attentions on a Frenchwoman,” creating an international incident. When rebels captured and held Mexico City in 1914, they pillaged homes and businesses, shot police officers and political opponents, and hung those they suspected of crimes. In one case, they hung three people outside a police station, with signs announcing their crimes. One was a “thief,” a second a “counterfeiter,” but the sign on the third said, “This man was killed by mistake.” From the beginning of the revolution, the forces of the Villistas and Zapatas showed disregard for human life. When Pancho Villa captured the town of Torre in 1910, he killed two hundred Chinese, a nationality he and his followers much despised. Nor did he have any high regard for the lives of his own troops. Once, when an American journalist was interviewing him, a drunken soldier yelling nearby disturbed Villa. Without interrupting his conversation, he pulled out his gun, looked out the window, and shot the man. Their officers were no better, but among them Rodolfo Fierro stands out. It is said that he once personally executed three hundred prisoners, pausing only when he had to massage his bruised trigger finger. Often, these rebels were simply bandits and murderers legitimized by a cause. In one especially heinous case, a rebel leader captured a coal train in a

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tunnel, burned it, and then waited for a passenger train to run into the wreckage so that he could loot the train of gold and rob passengers of their valuables. With the collapse of the Díaz regime, many state governors and federal generals no longer obeyed the central government. During the Carranza presidency, they in effect became warlords, some levying their own taxes, some refusing to turn over federal revenues, some ignoring federal laws and orders they did not like. Some became bandits, looting territory or states under their control; some bandits became generals controlling little states of their own. High military officers would loot and kill as they wished, even in Mexico City. Over all of Mexico for as long as a decade, all these warlords and rebel armies may have slaughtered at least 400,000 people in cold blood, perhaps even over 500,000—more than have died in combat in all American foreign wars. Before and during the revolution, the government used a detestable conscription system. With the choice of who would be drafted left to the local jefe politico, graft and bribery were endemic. If a man had the money, he could buy himself out of the draft or bribe officials. Even worse, those who criticized the regime, those who tried to strike, or those who otherwise annoyed officials found themselves drafted. The army served the function of a forced labor camp for the poor and undesirables, and so became known as “The National Chain Gang.” The government used press-gang methods extensively during the revolution. In one case, seven hundred spectators at a bullfight were grabbed for the army; in another case, one thousand spectators were abducted from a big crowd watching a fire, including women that they forced to work in ammunition factories. In Mexico City, people were afraid to go out after dark, even to post a letter, since it literally could result in “going to the cannon’s mouth.” Soldiers so conscripted received little training, and officers threw them into combat as so much expendable equipment—there were always replacements, including criminals, vagabonds, beggars, and, of course, Indians and peons. Rebels and Indians easily killed them all. Because of the graft among their officers, these soldiers often got little medical care and little food. Some would die of starvation, many of disease. One example of this was in the territory of Quintana Roo where, before the revolution, an army of 2,000 to 3,000 soldiers was in the field, continuously fighting the Maya Indians. These soldiers were almost all political suspects and therefore really only armed political prisoners. According to a government physician who served as the chief of sanitary service for the army in this territory, all the soldiers—over 4,000— died of starvation over a two-year period while General Bravo, their

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commanding officer, stole their unit’s commissary money.23 This is murder. And from 1900 through the first year of the revolution, aside from combat deaths, the army’s treatment of its conscripts murdered nearly 145,000 of them. In total, the battles, massacres, executions, and starvation during the revolution probably killed 800,000 Mexicans. Nearly 1.2 million more probably died from influenza, typhus, and other diseases. In fact, the overall toll from all causes might even be closer to 3 million, given the 23a population decrease for these years.

23 John Kenneth Turner, Barbarous Mexico. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1969, p. 123. 23a For a breakdown of the toll, see Table 16.1 in my Death By Government (1994). The table is also available on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/DBG.TAB16.1.GIF

Chapter 18 The Russian Revolution When we are reproached with cruelty, we wonder how people can forget the most elementary Marxism. – Lenin

Roots of Revolution

T

he Russian Revolution that began while that in Mexico was still going on was no less bloody, and like the one in Mexico, to understand it we will have to begin several years before it took place. With the death of his father Alexander III in 1894, the last Russian czar, Nicholas II, came into power. He was a dedicated autocrat opposed to any liberal tendencies in Russia, a view strongly shared by his wife, Princess Alexandra. He was also an absolute Russian nationalist who imposed a policy of Russification throughout the empire, which included Poland and Finland in the west. As were many of his officials and Russians in general, he was anti-Semitic, and he overtly supported anti-Semitic activity. Russians economically and culturally discriminated against their 5 to 7 million Jews, and government anti-Semitism encouraged and helped legitimize the periodic pogroms that swept Russian cities and towns. Officials allowed incendiary anti-Jewish propaganda to be published on government printing presses, and just stood by while gangs attacked Jews and their property. From 1900 to the abdication of the czar and the end of the Romanov dynasty in 1917, at least 3,200 Jews were murdered throughout Russia. In line with its general suppression of freedom, officials killed and massacred others as well, such as shooting two hundred demonstrating workers in the Lena gold field. The most important massacre of these years occurred in January of 1905 in St. Petersburg, when soldiers shot down 150 to 200 peaceful demonstrators. This “Bloody Sunday,” as it became known, catalyzed what was a revolutionary situation into outright revolution.

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In the years leading up to Bloody Sunday, Russia had been in turmoil. Strikes, student demonstrations, and peasant disturbances were frequent. Several revolutionary movements were violently seeking reform, such as the Socialist Revolutionaries and the Social Democrats, who organized protests and tried to incite the masses. Because of Bloody Sunday, student demonstrations became almost continuous, revolutionary groups organized huge strikes, and in many regions, peasants rebelled. Bombings and assassinations were widespread. This culminated in a massive general strike that finally persuaded Nicholas II and his officials to compromise. They issued the so-called October Manifesto that promised civil liberties, a new duma— legislature—with actual power to pass and reject all laws, and other reforms. The manifesto went far toward turning the government into a constitutional monarchy. It split the opposition into moderates willing to accept it and radicals believing it hardly went far enough. The radicals fought on—in the next year alone, terrorism by the Battle Organization of the Socialist Revolutionaries and the Socialist Revolutionaries Maximalists caused 1,400 deaths and, in the year following that, still another 3,000 deaths. But the Manifesto ended the 1905 revolution. Throughout the years leading up to and following this revolution, the monarchy fought the revolutionaries in one district or another with harsh regulations, newspaper closings, arrests of editors, and, for six months, even summary court martials with almost immediate execution. The records of overall executions tell the story of these tumultuous years and the monarchy’s response. From 1866 to 1900, officials executed no more than 94 people, perhaps as few as 48; from 1901 to 1904 it executed nearly 400 people; from 1905 through 1908, the number rose to 2,200; and from 1908 through the remaining years of the monarchy, executions might have reached 11,000. Nonetheless, considering the revolutionary activity and the bombings, assassinations, and disturbances involved, the violent deaths would have been surprisingly low for an empire this huge and diverse and with an already bloody history, had it not been for World War I, its treatment of ethnic Germans and POWs, and the massacre or extermination of rebellious nations and groups in the empire’s southern periphery. In 1915, the Duma expropriated all the property of the 150,000 to 200,000 Germans living in Zhiton-tir Gubernia and deported as many as 200,000 to the east under conditions so harsh, anywhere from 25,000 to almost 140,000 died. The worst killing took place in the Kirghiz Kazak Confederacy. Following Russian orders, local authorities murdered Turkish-speaking Central Asian nomads outright, or, after robbing them of their animals

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and equipment, drove them into the winter mountains or desert to die. Except for some who escaped across the border into China, authorities may have murdered as many as 500,000 nomads. Then there were the Armenian volunteers who wore Russian uniforms, but served as irregulars with the Russian army. When Russia invaded the eastern provinces of Turkey during the war, these Armenian irregulars quite possibly murdered hundreds of thousands of Kurds between 1915 and 1916, as revenge for Kurd murders of Armenians in Turkey. It’s unclear whether the Russian army was responsible for this, but it at least bears some onus for these deaths. Worst of all, the Russian monarchy bears full responsibility for its treatment of 2.3 million German, Austro-Hungarian, Czech, and Turkish prisoners of war. Surely the Russian people suffered greatly during the war. There were wide-scale shortages of necessities and resulting localized famines; medical services that had always been poor deteriorated during the war, resulting in the spread of disease. Moreover, Russian soldiers themselves suffered from hunger, poor medical care, and unsanitary conditions, with perhaps 1.3 million dying of disease. Russia was in no shape to give POWs the same treatment that Britain, for example, could give them. Nonetheless, even taking this into account, Russian-held POWs were abysmally mistreated and died in transit to camps and in the camps themselves by the tens of thousands. Just consider that during the transportation of POWs to camps, they might be locked in railroad cars or wagons for weeks. In one case, officials kept two hundred Turkish POWs suffering from cholera in sealed wagons for three weeks until they reached their destination, where they found sixty scarcely alive in the filth; 140 had died. Already weakened by hunger and sickness during the long trip, prisoners then might have to plod ten to thirty miles to their final camp; some died on the way. Reaching camp provided no security, since the conditions in many were lethal. During the winter of 1914–15, in just one camp 1,300 men died—over half of the camp’s POWs. When the doctors complained about the number of deaths to a general who came on a tour of inspection, his answer was that still more men died in the trenches. During this same winter in the Novo Nikolayevsk camp, the prisoners were lucky even to have rotten straw to sleep on, and especially lucky to get a blanket. Camp doctors had no medicines or surgical appliances; they did not even have soap. Sick and healthy lay together indiscriminately. Often water was not to be had for days, or it would drip from icicles onto their straw beds. No wonder that when typhus

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broke out, it spread rapidly and prisoners died in huge numbers. Only when these epidemics threatened the Russians themselves did they finally allow captive officers to help their men. The Russian monarchy probably was responsible for the deaths of 400,000 POWs altogether. Since officials knew about the conditions in the camps and could have done much to alleviate them, this was as much murder as the death of 3 million Soviet POWs in Nazi concentration camps during World War II.

Revolution By 1917, the war was going so badly for the Russians that many troops refused to fight and whole units were deserting, while on the home front there was continuous turmoil, including general strikes and massive demonstrations against the war and the monarchy. On March 8 alone, 30,000 people were on the streets, demonstrating. Nicholas II’s cabinet tried to dismiss the Duma it had called into session to deal with the crisis, which it thought responsible for much of the unrest, but instead of dissolving, some members set up a provisional cabinet—in effect, a rebel provisional government. Nicholas II and his cabinet had lost all power to affect events—the Russian Revolution had begun. Events moved fast as one military unit after another joined the rebels, including the czar’s own guards who, under orders from the provisional government, took the empress and her children into custody. On March 14, France and England, Russia’s allies in the war, recognized the provisional government as the legal government of all Russia. Under tremendous pressure, having lost the crucial support of the aristocracy, his troops, and foreign powers, and no longer able to control the streets, Nicholas II abdicated. The day before the abdication, the provisional government formed a new government to be headed by Prince Georgy Lvov. This government and the subsequent one of Aleksandr Kerensky, a democratic socialist who took over as prime minister in July, inherited a country in economic and political chaos, with a near-total breakdown in government authority and military morale, frequent strikes, plots, and the opposition of diverse, radical revolutionary groups. Not the least of these were the Bolsheviks, founded and led by Vladimir Ilich Lenin, who already in July had organized an unsuccessful uprising in Petrograd. Kerensky’s government itself was disorganized, feared a coup from the right, and was quite unable to move against those openly plotting to seize power from the left.

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Originally the left wing of the Russian Social Democratic Labor Party, Lenin’s Bolsheviks were a small, uncompromising, and militant group of dedicated Marxist communists. Their incredibly small number, considering subsequent events, was clear when the first all-Russian Congress of Soviets was held, and only 105 out of 1,090 delegates declared themselves as Bolsheviks. In November of 1917, with the powerful Petrograd garrison remaining neutral, Lenin seized the Winter Palace in Petrograd. Since this was the seat of Kerensky’s shaky government, and he had only 1,500 to 2,000 defenders, the 6,000 to 7,000 soldiers, sailors, and Red Guards Lenin’s Bolsheviks had thrown together easily overthrew the government. Widely unpopular, however, and faced with strong political opposition, Lenin at first made common cause with the Left Social Revolutionaries, a militant socialist group, in order to survive, centralize power, and consolidate this communist revolution. In 1919, Lenin adopted the name “Communist Party” for the Bolsheviks and their political allies. To fight this forceful takeover of the government, generals throughout the Russian empire created whole armies—some led by anti-Russians and nationalists, some by anti-communists, some by promonarchists or pro-authoritarians, some by advocates of democracy. These so-called White armies were a direct threat to the new Communist Party and its so-called Red Army. Moreover, in the areas the communists controlled, the clergy, bourgeoisie, and professionals opposed them. The urban workers, who had been communist allies at first, also soon turned against them when they saw that the communists had taken over the soviets (elected governing councils) and would not yield power to worker unions or representatives. Peasants, who had also been especially supportive when the communists began to divide among them land taken from rich landowners and the aristocrats’ estates, turned to outright rebellion when the communists began forcibly requisitioning their grain and produce. In the first year and a half of Lenin’s rule, in twenty provinces alone, there were 344 peasant rebellions. Up to early 1921, there were about fifty anti-communist rebel armies. For example, in August of 1920, the starving peasants of the Kirsanov District, Tambov Province, rebelled against further communist extortion of grain. The rebellion soon spread to adjoining districts and destroyed Party authority in five of them. Under the command of Aleksandr Stepanovich Antonov, the rebellion became a full-scale armed insurrection. He created two armies composed of Red Army deserters and revolting peasants; by February 1921, he had as many as 50,000 fighting men, including internal guard

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units. Until his defeat in August of 1921, he controlled Tambov Province and parts of the provinces of Penza and Saratov. Many such rebellions broke out throughout the Soviet Union, as it was now named, although few were as dangerous to Communist Party control. (In 1921, the Cheka—secret police—admitted to 118 uprisings.) This Peasant War, which could just as well be called a Bread War, continued even after the White armies were defeated. It was so serious that in 1921, one Soviet historian noted that the “center of the [Russian Republic] is almost totally encircled by peasant insurrection, from Makno on the Dnieper to Antonov on the Volga.” White armies and peasant rebellions aside, even in the urban industrial areas, communist control was precarious, at best. What saved Lenin and the Party was their “Red Terror.” By 1918, Lenin had already ordered the wide use of terror, including inciting workers to murder their “class enemies.” According to Pravda, the Party organ, workers and poor should take up arms and act against those “who agitate against the Soviet Power, ten bullets for every man who raises a hand against it . . . . The rule of Capital will never be extinguished until the last capitalist, nobleman, Christian, and officer draws his last breath.” Understandably, there was a wave of arbitrary murders of civil servants, engineers, factory managers, and priests wherever the communists controlled the country. Mass shootings, arrests, and torture were an integral part of covert communist policy, and not simply a reaction to the formation of the White armies. Indeed, the Red Terror preceded the start of the Civil War. After an unsuccessful assassination attempt on Lenin in August of 1918, he legalized the terror, and directed it against “enemies of the people” and “counter-revolutionaries,” defined primarily by social group and class membership: bourgeoisie, aristocrats, “rich” landowners (kulaks), and clergy. The Party’s organ Pravda helped launch this expanded Red Terror with this cry for blood: “Workers, the time has come when either you must destroy the bourgeoisie, or it will destroy you. Prepare for a mass merciless onslaught upon the enemies of the revolution. The towns must be cleansed of this bourgeois putrefaction. All the bourgeois gentlemen must be registered, as has happened with the officer gentlemen, and all who are dangerous to the cause of revolution must be exterminated . . . . Henceforth the hymn of the working class will be a hymn of hatred and revenge.” Lenin’s Red Terror operated through a variety of official organs, including the People’s Courts for “crimes” against the individual, the Revolutionary Courts, and the various local Chekas for “crimes” against the state. Lenin also gave the right of execution to the Military

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Revolutionary Tribunals, Transport Cheka, Punitive Columns, and the like. Communists jailed actual or ideologically-defined opponents, tortured many barbarously to force them to sign false confessions, and executed large numbers. For example, communists executed a butcher in Moscow for “insulting” the images of Marx and Lenin by calling them scarecrows (a clear “enemy of the people”) and threatened to shoot anyone in Ivanovo-Vornesensk who did not register their sewing machines (obvious “counter-revolutionaries”). A communist functionary issued an order in Baku that local officials should shoot any telephone operator who was tardy in response to a call (doubtless “sabotage”). With information that an Aaron Chonsir in Odessa was engaging in “counterrevolutionary activities,” the Cheka looked through the street directories to find his address. Finding eleven people with the same name, they arrested them all, interrogated and tortured each several times, narrowed it down to the two most likely “counter-revolutionaries” and, since they could not make up their minds between the two, had both shot to ensure getting the right one. Obviously the revolution was still immature—in the late 1930s, Stalin would have had all eleven shot. And so communists shot vast numbers of men and women out of hand: 200 in this jail, 450 in that prison yard, 320 in the woods outside of town; even in small outlying areas, such as the small Siberian town of Ossa Ochansk, they massacred 3,000 men in 1919. This went on and on. As late as 1922, the communists executed 8,100 priests, monks, and nuns. This alone is equivalent to one modern jumbo passenger jet crashing, with no survivors, each day for thirty-two days. Moreover, the communists showed no mercy to prisoners taken in clashes with the White armies, and often executed them. They even shot the relatives of defecting officers, as when the 86th Infantry Regiment went over to the Whites in March of 1919—the communists killed all the relatives of each defecting officer. Places reoccupied after the defeat of one White army or another suffered systematic bloodbaths as the Cheka screened through the population for aristocrats, bourgeoisie, and supporters of the Whites. When the Red Army captured Riga in January of 1919, communists executed over 1,500 in the city and more than 2,000 in the country districts. When defeated White General Wrangel finally fled with his remaining officers and men from the Crimea, the Red Army and Cheka may have slaughtered from 50,000 to 150,000 people during reoccupation. Undeniably, the Whites themselves carried out massacres, killed prisoners, and were guilty of numerous atrocities. But these were either the acts of undisciplined soldiers or ordered against individuals by sa-

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distic or fanatical generals. Lenin, however, directed the Red Terror against entire social groups and classes. Then there was the Peasant War, which, although it tends to be ignored in the history books, was no less vicious than the Civil War. Under the guise of requisitioning food, communists tried to plunder village after village, which understandably resulted in pitched battles, massacres, and frequent atrocities. Just in July of 1918, twenty-six major uprisings began; in August, forty-seven; and in September, thirtyfive. The communists fiercely fought the Peasant War over the full length and breadth of the new Soviet Union from 1918 through 1922, and at any one time, there were apparently over one hundred rebellions involving thousands of peasant fighters. If, of course, any “enemies of the people” were captured or surrendered, the communists were likely to kill them out of hand; they also massacred those who had helped the rebels, provided them with food and shelter, or simply showed sympathy. They leveled some villages “infected with rebellion,” slaughtered inhabitants, and deported remaining villagers north, with many dying in the process. About 500,000 people were killed in this Peasant War, half in combat and the other half murdered by the communists. The effect on food production was catastrophic and, as described in Chapter 13, was a partial cause of a severe famine in which 5 million people starved to death or died of associated diseases. The number of combat deaths in the Civil and Peasant Wars— rather than those resulting from mass murder—was likely about 1,350,000 people. Although a fantastic toll by normal standards, this was a fraction of the total killed during this period. With the growing strength and improved generalship of the Red Army, and the lack of unity and a common strategy and program among the opposing White armies and peasant rebels, by 1920 Lenin and the Communist Party had surely won the Civil War. And through the Red Terror, they also had secured the home front. The terror eliminated or cowed the opposition and enabled Lenin to stabilize the Party’s control, assure its continuity and authority, and, above all, save communism. Lenin bought the success of the Red Terror at a huge cost in lives. Not only did the communists shoot political opponents, class “enemies,” “enemies of the people,” former rebels, and criminals, but they shot citizens guilty of nothing, fitting under no label but “hostage.” For example, in 1919 the Defense Council commanded the arrest of members of the Soviet executive committees and Committees of the Poor in areas where snow clearance of railway lines was unsatisfactory, to be shot if the snow was not soon cleared away.

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The number murdered throughout Soviet territory by the Red Terror, the execution of prisoners, and revenge against former Whites or their supporters, as a conservative estimate, was about 500,000 people, including at least 200,000 officially executed. All these are added to the probable 250,000 murdered in the Peasant War. Don’t dismiss all the communist executions during these years as the traditional Russian way of handling opposition. Czarist Russia executed an average of seventeen people per year in the eighty years preceding the revolution—seventeen! From 1860 to 1900, Soviet sources give only ninety-four executions, although during these years there were dozens of assassinations. And in 1912, after years of revolts, assassinations of high officials, bombings, and anti-government terrorism, there was a maximum of 183,949 imprisoned, including criminals—less than half the number executed, not imprisoned, by the communists during the Civil War period. Lenin and his henchmen did not shrink from their carnage. They not only accepted this incredible blood toll; they proclaimed the need for one many times higher. In his speech in September 1918, Grigory Zinoviev, Lenin’s lieutenant in Petrograd, said, “To overcome our enemies we must have our own socialist militarism. We must carry along with us 90 million out of the 100 million of Soviet Russia’s population. As for the rest, we have nothing to say to them. They must be annihilated.” To those killed in the Red Terror and the Peasant War, we must add those that died from the brutal regime in the new concentration and labor camps, or in transit to them. Lenin created these camps in July of 1918, with a Party decree that officials must compel inmates capable of labor to do physical work. This was the beginning of the communist forced labor system—gulag—which we could as well call a slave labor system, and which became as deadly as some of the most lethal haciendas for forced laborers in pre-revolutionary Mexico. Within a year, Party decrees established forced labor camps in each provincial capital and a lower limit of three hundred prisoners in each camp. The communists established the first large camps on the far north Solovetsky Islands. In an August 1919 telegram, Lenin made the criteria for imprisonment in such camps clear: “Lock up all the doubtful ones in a concentration camp outside the city.” Note the word “doubtful,” rather than “guilty.” From the beginning, the communists intentionally made the conditions in some of these camps so atrocious that prisoners could not expect to survive for more than several years. If prisoners were not executed, they often died from beatings, disease, exposure, and fatigue.

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The communists occasionally emptied camps by loading inmates on barges and then sinking them. With all this misery, one would think that a court had tried and sentenced these prisoners, but no. A simple bureaucratic decision sent people to these camps. By the end of 1920, official figures admitted to eighty-four such camps in forty-three provinces of the Russian Republic alone, with almost 50,000 inmates. By October of 1922, there were 132 camps with about 60,000 inmates. During this revolution period, 1917–1922, the communists probably murdered 34,000 inmates in total. Overall, in the Red Terror, the Peasant War, the new concentration and labor camps, and the famine reported in Chapter 13 (of which, conservatively estimated, the communists are responsible for half the deaths), Lenin and his Party probably murdered 3,284,000 people, apart from battle deaths. When these are included, this revolution cost about 24 4.7 million lives, or about 3 percent of the population. This is almost twice the death toll from all causes in the American Civil War—1.6 percent. How do we account for such violence in the Russian and Mexican Revolutions, and other such violence in Sudan, Burma, Iran, Pakistan, China, Congo, Nigeria, and wherever else people by the hundreds and even millions have been killed? That is the subject of the next chapter.

24 I give the estimates, calculations, and sources for this Russian Civil War toll in Table 2A in my Lethal Politics: Soviet Genocide and Mass Murder Since 1917 (1990). The table is also on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/USSR.TAB2A.GIF. For other tables and a summary chapter of the book, see: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/NOTE4.HTM

Chapter 19 Freedom Minimizes Political Violence within Nations The use of force alone is but temporary. It may subdue for a moment; but it does not remove the necessity of subduing again: and a nation is not governed, which is perpetually to be conquered. – Edmund Burke

A

lthough few have been as violent as the Mexican and Russian, twentieth century revolutions, civil wars, violent coups, and re25 bellions number in the hundreds. What sense can we make out of all these? Does the fact that the Mexican and Russian people were not free have anything to do with the revolutions? To answer these questions, I looked at those nations that experienced political violence 26 during 1998 and 1999. Table 19.1 provides a contingency count of the level of a nation’s freedom versus its violence, almost all internal. To determine the table, I divided 190 nations into four groups in terms of their level of freedom, and similarly, but independently, in terms of their level of violence. The results show how the level of a nation’s freedom matches up with its level of violence. Out of the fortyseven nations that had extreme violence, thirty-one of them, or 66 percent, were unfree. No free nations had any high violence. Then consider the nations that had low or no violence—mainly the free nations. Of the forty-seven nations with low or no violence, 74 percent were free. All unfree nations had some sort of violence, none at the low level. To see especially the relationship between freedom and violence, look at the count of nations in the diagonal cells from the low for free nations to the high for unfree. By far, the highest count is in the di-

25 For a list of present conflicts, those concluded since WWII, and a conflict map, see www.globalsecurity.org/military/world/war/index.html. I provide some links to data sources on conflict and war on my links page at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/LINKS.HTM 26 The list is available on my website as a freedom versus violence table at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/WF.TAB.A.19.GIF

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agonal, as it should if there is the close relationship between freedom and violence pointed out in this chapter. Of course, all this may be by chance. But this is tested by the chi square statistic at the bottom of the table, which shows that the odds of getting these results by chance is greater than 10,000 to 1. By now, it seems obvious. The one common ingredient for bloody internal violence is that the people who usually suffer from it also must endure being partially or totally enslaved. Liberal democracies had little internal political violence. But, you may object, these results were only for two years, and these could have been odd years. To answer this objection, I have collected internal conflict statistics for 214 governments (regimes) from 1900 to 1987, selected to best represent the variation among nations in their development, power, culture, region, and politics. Then I calculated the average number killed for democracies, authoritarian regimes (where people are partly free), and totalitarian ones (where there is no freedom), and listed the results in Table 19.2. The results are plotted in Figure 19.1. As we can see, the stark difference in average internal violence between democracies and those nations whose people have no freedom holds up even over these eighty-eight years. For internal violence, therefore, there is this very important correlation:

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The more democratic freedom a people have, the less severe their internal political violence. 27 This is a statistical fact. That freedom minimizes such violence does not necessarily mean that freedom ends it, however. Some rioting, civil strife, terrorism, and even civil war might still occur. Freedom is no guarantee against this. In the world at large, with all the issues people and governments may fight over, we have no proven and useful means of ending every kind of internal political violence forever, everywhere, even for democracies. But we now know that we can sharply reduce such violence, on the average, to the mildest and smallest amount possible, and that is through freedom. 27 For the tests of the general relationship between internal political violence and democracy, see Chapter 35 in my Understanding Conflict and War, Vol. 2: The Conflict Helix (1976; at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/TCH.CHAP35.HTM); “Libertarianism, Violence Within States, and the Polarity Principle,” Comparative Politics, 16 (July 1984), 443–462 (at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/DP84.HTM); “Libertarian Propositions on Violence Within and Between Nations: A Test Against Published Research Results,” Journal of Conflict Resolution, 29 (September 1985), 419–455 (at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/DP85.HTM); Chapter 5 in Power Kills: Democracy as a Method of Nonviolence (1997); and Appendix: “Testing Whether Freedom Predicts Human Security and Violence,” on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/WF.APPENDIX.HTM

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How do we understand this power of democratic freedom? Many believe that the answer to this is psychological and personal. They think that free societies educate people against the mass killing of their neighbors; that free people are not as belligerent as those elsewhere; that they have deep inhibitions against killing others as people were killed in Mexico, Russia, Burma, and Sudan, for example; and that free people are more tolerant of their differences. There is much truth in all this, but commentators often neglect the social preconditions of this psychological resistance to political violence. The answer is that: The social structure of a free, democratic society creates the psychological conditions for its greater internal peace. Where freedom flourishes, there are relatively free markets, and freedom of religion, association, ideas, and speech. Corporations, partnerships, associations, societies, leagues, churches, schools, and clubs

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proliferate. Through free people’s interests, work, and play, they become members of these multiple groups, each a separate pyramid of power, each competing with the others and with government for their membership, time, and resources. We can liken these pyramids to what we might see from a low flying plane, looking across the downtown core of a city and out to the suburbs. Some buildings are very tall, some short, and others, away from the downtown area, are close to the ground. Imagine each building standing for some group’s power in a free society, and we have a good analogy of how a free people disperse power. In contemporary societies, the government will be the tallest and largest building of all, with some other buildings close in size. One might be a church, as in Israel or in a Catholic democracy; another big building might be some corporation, like Microsoft in the United States. Others might be some powerful political party, a wealthy and influential family, or a group like a labor union. While each group is distinct and legally separate, their memberships overlap and crosscut society. As stockholders, political party members, contributors to an environmental group, workers, tennis players, churchgoers, and so on, people belong to many of these groups. Friends and coworkers probably belong to some of the same groups, but also to some different ones. Similarly, in a free society the critical social distinctions of wealth, power, and prestige are subdivided in many ways. Few people are high on all three. More are low on all three, but these people are not close to a majority. Most people have different amounts of wealth, power, and prestige. Even Bill Gates, while the highest on wealth, does not have the prestige of a top movie actor or a popular musician, or the power of the judge that decided to break up his Microsoft because of its “monopolistic practices.” Even the president of the United States, despite his great power and prestige, is only moderately high on wealth. And the adored movie actor will be high in prestige and moderately high on wealth, but low on power. All this pluralism in their group memberships and in wealth, power, and prestige cross-pressures people’s interests and motivations. That is, their membership in separate groups cuts up into different pieces what they want, their desires, and their goals; each is satisfied by a different group, such as their church on Sunday, bowling or tennis league on Tuesday night, the factory or office for forty weekday hours, the parent-teacher association meeting on Wednesday, and family at home. These interests differ, but overlap, and all take time and energy. Moreover, each person shares some of these interests with others, and which others will differ depending on the group. For all free people across a society, there is a constantly changing crisscross of interests and differ-

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ences. So, for a person to satisfy one interest requires balancing it against other interests. Does one take the family on a picnic this weekend, play golf with friends, do that extra work that needs to be done around the house, or help a political party win its campaign? This cross-pressuring of interests is true of a democratic government as well. After all, a democratic government is not some monolith, a uniform pyramid of power. Many departments, agencies, and bureaus make up the government, each staffed with bureaucrats and political appointees, each with their own official and personal interests. Between all are many official and personal connections and linkages that serve to satisfy their mutual interests. The military services, for example, coordinate their strategies and may even share equipment with other departments and agencies. Intelligence services will share some secrets and even sometimes agents. Health services will coordinate their studies, undertake common projects with the military, and provide health supplies when needed. So multiple shared and cross-pressured interests sew together a democratic government itself. And these interests are shared with nongovernmental interest and pressure groups, and will be cross-pressured by them as well. Because of all these diverse connections and linkages in a democratic society, politicians, leaders, and groups have a paramount interest in keeping the peace. And where a conflict might escalate into violence, as over some religious or environmental issue, people’s interests are so cross-pressured by different groups and ties that they simply cannot develop the needed depth of feeling and single-minded devotion to any interest at stake, except perhaps to their families and children. Keep in mind that for a person to choose, along with others in a group, to kill people or destroy their property demands that they have an almost fanatic dedication to the interest—the stakes—involved, almost to the exclusion of all else. Yet there is something else about democratically free societies that is even more important than these violence reducing links and crosspressures. This is their culture. Where people are free, as in a free market, exchange dominates and resolves conflicts. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.” “You give me that, and I’ll give you this.” Money is often the currency of such exchange, but exchanged also are privileges of one sort or another, benefits, positions, and so on. Except where such exchange is so standardized that there is little room for bargaining, as in buying a hamburger at the local fast food restaurant, in a democracy people soak up certain norms governing their conflicts. These are that they tolerate their differences, negotiate some compromise, and in the process, make concessions. From the highest government official to the lowest worker, from the consideration of bills

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in a legislature to who does the dishes after dinner, there is bargaining of one sort or another going on to resolve an actual or potential conflict. Some of this becomes regularized, as in the bargaining of unions and management in the United States as structured by the Labor Relations Board, or the tradition in some families that dictates that the wife will always wash the dishes. But so much more involves bargaining. Therefore, in a free society, a culture of bargaining—what one might call an exchange or democratic culture—evolves. This is part of the settling in that takes place when a nation first becomes democratic. Authoritarian practices, doing things through orders, decrees, and commands sent down a hierarchy, gradually gets replaced by many hierarchies of power and the use of bargaining and its techniques of negotiation and compromise to settle conflicts. Free people soon come to expect that when they have a conflict, they will negotiate the issues and resolve it through concessions and the splitting of differences. The more years a democracy exists, the more its people’s expectations become hardened into social customs and perception. No matter the conflict, people who have long been democratically free do not expect revolution and civil war. For, most important, they see each other as democratic, as part of one’s in-group, one’s moral, democratic universe. They each share not only socially, in overlapping groups, functions, and linkages, but also in culture. This structure of freedom, this “spontaneous society,” as F.A. Hayek called it in his Law, Legislation, and Liberty, serves to inhibit violence, as shown, and to culturally dispose people to cooperation, negotiation, compromise, and tolerance of others. Just consider the acceptance and application of the Constitution of the United States and Congressional rules in settling that most serious of political conflicts in 1999—whether President Clinton would be fired from office—and the even more potentially violent, month-long dispute over the outcome of the 2000 American presidential election. These supremely contentious disputes, these most potentially violent issues, were decided with no loss of life, no injuries, no destruction of property, no disorder, no political instability. These two examples, more than any others, show the sheer power of a democratic institution and culture to peacefully resolve social and political conflicts. But this is, so to speak, one end of the stick. This spontaneous society explains why a free people are most peaceful in their national affairs, but why should those societies in which people are commanded by absolute dictators, where people are most unfree, be most violent? The worst of these dictators rule their people and organize their society according to ideological or theological imperatives. Be it Marxism-Leninism and the drive for true communism as in the Russian Revolution, socialist egali-

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tarianism as in Burma, racial purity as in Nazi Germany, or the realization of God’s will as in Sudan, the dictators operate through a rigid and society-wide command structure. And this polarizes society. First, the competing pyramids of power—church, schools, businesses, and so on—that discipline, check, and balance each other and government in a free society do not exist. There is one solid pyramid of power, with the dictator or ruling elite at the top, with various levels of government in the middle and near the bottom, and with the mass of powerless subjects at the bottom. Second, where in a free society separate cross-cutting groups service diverse interests, there is now, in effect, only one division in society: that between those in power who command, and those who must obey. In the worst of these nations, such as Pol Pot’s Cambodia, Kim Chong-il’s North Korea, Stalin’s Soviet Union, and Mao’s China, the people can only work for the Party, buy food from its stores, read newspapers it publishes, see only its movies and television programs, go to its schools, study its textbooks, and pray at a church it controls, if it allows a church at all. These restrictions sharply divide society into those in power and those out of power—into “them” versus “us.” This aligns the vital interests of us versus them along one conflict fault line traversing society, as a magnet aligns metal filings along its magnetic forces. Any minor gripe about the society or politics is against the same “them,” and when one says “they” are responsible for a problem or conflict, friends and loved ones know exactly whom is meant—the whole apparatus of the dictator’s rule: his henchmen, police, officials, spies, and bureaucrats. Since this regime owns and runs nearly everything, any minor issue therefore becomes a matter of the dictator’s power, legitimacy, or credibility. A strike in one small town against a government-owned factory is a serous matter to the dictator. Such a strike may be symbolic for the people, a display of resistance they should support, and if the dictator shows weakness in defense of his policies, no matter how localized, the strike can spread along the us versus them fault line and crystallize a nationwide rebellion. So the dictator must use major force to put it down. The regime cannot afford to let any resistance, any display of independence, anywhere in the country by anybody, go unchallenged. Even a peaceful demonstration, like those in Burma and China, must be violently squashed, with leaders arrested, tortured for information, and often killed. So, rule is by the gun; violence, a natural accompaniment. But there is more to this. As a culture of accommodation is a consequence of freedom, a culture of force and violence is a consequence of dictatorial rule. Where such rule is absolute, this is also a culture of fear—the re-

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sult of not knowing when another might perceive something one is doing as wrong, and report it to the police; not knowing whether authorities will consider one’s ancestry or race or religion reason for persecution; and not knowing about the safety of one’s loved ones, who may be dragged off to serve in the military, disappear because of something they said, or be made some sexual plaything. The fear exists up and down the dictator’s command structure, as well. The secret police may shoot a general because of his joke about the “Great Leader,” or they may jail and torture top government functionaries because of a rumored plot. The dictator himself must always fear that his security forces will turn their guns on him. Where power becomes absolute, massive killing follows, and rebellion is a concomitant. There also are partly free regimes, such as a monarchy ruled according to tradition and custom, as in Kuwait or Saudi Arabia; or an authoritarian one, as in Mexico before its revolution, where arranged elections and compliant military, police, and rich landowners kept the dictator in power. Power in this case is more dispersed, and some freedoms do exist. And therefore, the violence, on average, is less than in those nations in which the people have no freedom. If, however, the authoritarian rule is especially unjust and despicable, as it was in Mexico and Russia before their revolutions, the resulting violence can be quite bloody. Regardless, the correlation holds. The less free a society and the more coercive the commands that dominate it, the greater the polarization and culture of fear and violence, and the more likely extreme violence will occur. In Part 3, I showed that by promoting wealth and prosperity, freedom is a moral good. Here, I have pointed out that freedom also promotes nonviolence and peace within a nation. This is also a moral good of freedom. It is another moral reason why people should be democratically free. Political violence within nations is only one form of violence, however. There is another form, far more deadly than any other, and that is democide—genocide and mass murder. I need a separate part of this book to deal with this.

PART 5 On Freedom’s Moral Goods: Eliminating Democide

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y shooting, drowning, burying alive, stabbing, beating, and crushing, with torture, suffocation, starvation, exposure, poison, and other countless ways that lives can be wiped out, governments have killed unarmed and helpless people. Intentionally. With forethought. This is murder. It is democide. Few people seem to know about democide, and for this reason Chapter 20 provides a description of democide, its massive accumulation of corpses, and where it has occurred. But these are all statistics— abstract, remote, cold; they do not touch the heart and mind. Therefore, in the four chapters following, I try to provide a deep human understanding of democide in Rwanda, Pol Pot’s Cambodia, Stalin’s Soviet Union, and Mao’s China. The explanation for all this killing is theoretically solid. It is empirically grounded. It is historically recognized. It speaks to the essence of democide. And, it is simple. Namely: Power kills. Absolute power kills absolutely. We’ll see this in Chapter 25.

Chapter 20 Democide In the twentieth century, governments murdered, as a prudent estimate, 174 million men, women, and children. It could be over 340 million.

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he absolutely incredible number of murders governments have carried out, often as policy decided by ruling thugs, is largely unknown. Were people, even the most educated, asked to guess at the number governments murdered in the last century, they probably would suggest 10 million. Maybe even 20 million. This is much too low. The more popularly understood term for government murder is 28 genocide, but there is a difference between democide and genocide that must be understood. In short: x democide is a government’s murder of people for whatever reason; x genocide is the murder of people because of their race, ethnicity, religion, nationality, or language. The most infamous example of genocide was Nazi Germany’s coldblooded murder of nearly 6 million Jews during World War II. Men, women, and children died simply because they were ethnic Jews. Many people incorrectly believe that was the only major case of government murder. But as we’ve learned, there has also been the Burmese military genocide of the Karen minority, the Sudanese Muslim regime’s genocide of the southern black minority, the Chinese Communist Party’s genocide of the Falun Gong (Chapter 1), and the Mexican government’s genocide of Indians (Chapter 17). Nongenocidal democides include the Chinese Communist Party’s Land Reform (Chapter 15), Burma’s military murders of pro-democracy demonstrators (Chapter 1); the Mexican and Saudi Arabian governments’ murders of political op28 Described in my “Democide versus Genocide: Which is What?” at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/GENOCIDE.HTM

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ponents (Chapter 17 and Chapter 1 respectively), and the deadly famine Stalin imposed on the Ukraine (Chapter 14). Those who have been living in a democracy all their lives may find it difficult to accept the truth that governments murder people by the thousands and millions. Even some of my political science colleagues have resisted the thought. I could see them wince when, at a conference or meeting, for example, I said outright that Kim Il-sung, the deceased dictator of North Korea, was responsible for the murder of something like 1.7 million people. We can easily call someone who kills people in cold blood a murderer, such as London’s famous “Jack the Ripper,” who killed six or seven people in 1888, or the “Boston Strangler,” Albert DeSalvo, who killed thirteen people in 1962–1964. But we may resist calling a “government leader” a mass murderer, even when speaking of Uganda’s Idi Amin, who physically took part in some of the murders carried out by his regime, and who was responsible for the violent deaths of some 300,000 of his subjects. Part of this reluctance to call a government or its ruler a murderer comes from the fact that to do so is a new and strange thought. Democide is a black hole in our textbooks, college teaching, and social science research. Few people know the extent to which governments murder people. In the twentieth century, the age of great advances in technology, medicine, wealth, and education, governments nonetheless probably murdered around 174 million people. The worst of these mur29 derous governments are listed in Table 20.1. This is more than four times those killed in combat in all international and national wars, including World Wars I and II, Vietnam, Korea, the Mexican Revolution, the Russian Revolution, and the Chinese Civil War. The toll could even be more than 340 million. This is as though we’d had a nuclear war, but with its deaths and destruction spread over a century. Yet, few know about this obscene slaughter. There is a good reason why. The authoritarian and totalitarian governments that do most of this killing usually control who writes their histories, and what appears in them. Also, democratically free people project onto the rest of the world their own democratic cultural biases. They see governments as largely doing good things for people. Some policies may be wrong, some stupid, but the idea of murdering people because of their politics, religion, or ethnicity, or by quota, is alien— except, of course, for what those evil Nazis did to the Jews. And our 29 For the genocidal component and the democide as a percent of the population, see Table 1.2 in my Death By Government (1994). This is also available on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/DBG.TAB1.2.GIF

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political science textbooks tell us that governments have positive functions, such as national defense, welfare, and security—that they provide a legal framework within which people can achieve their own interests. With this background, it is difficult to conceive of nondemocratic governments as many are: a gang of thugs holding a whole nation cap-

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tive with their guns, enslaving the people to their whims, and looting, raping, and killing at will. Moreover, democratic culture predisposes liberal democracies to avoid conflict and seek cooperation with other nations, even those ruled by despots. Democratic governments do not seek to arouse public opinion against other countries that will destabilize diplomatic arrangements and create pressure for hostile action. Seldom do democratic governments point their fingers at those guilty of democide, unless already in conflict with them and therefore in need of public support. Even then, they often will avoid doing so until the proof is overpowering (as in Rwanda, as discussed below), and even then, democracies will avoid the terms murder or genocide. Even in the American war against the Taliban and then Saddam Hussein, and subsequently the Iraqi and foreign terrorists and insurgents, the argument for these wars was not that these thugs murdered people wholesale, but that the wars were justified as part of a war on terror and in defense of American national security. Such reluctance to term foreign rulers or nations guilty of genocide is also illustrated by the many decades-long refusal on the part of the U.S. State Department to admit, despite the evidence from its own ambassador and other diplomats at the time, that the Turkish government planned and launched a genocidal campaign against its Armenian citizens during World War I, murdering as many as 1.5 million of them. Turkey is a member of NATO, refuses to admit the genocide, and has taken strong diplomatic action against those who make this claim. Yet Turkey perpetuated the first large-scale act of genocide in the twentieth century, not Russia or Germany. Although I have mentioned democide in previous chapters, I have not focused on it to show the nature and extent of this abominable and utterly inhumane practice. Now I will, beginning with Rwanda’s Great Genocide of 1994. This involved the plotted murder in four months of over 600,000, perhaps 800,000, even possibly as many as 1 million Tutsi and Hutu—at least 14 percent of the population. In the number of people killed within such a short period of time, it is one of the twentieth century’s worst acts of democide. Second we will look at the largely non-genocidal democide committed by the Khmer Rouge government in Cambodia, 1975–1979. This killer regime murdered about 2 million Cambodians in four years, or a little less than one-third of the population. Many more were killed than in Rwanda, but over a much longer time. I also will give examples from Stalin’s democide, unmatched historically in the 42.7 million he

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murdered, and Mao’s vast democide of 37.8 million, second only to Stalin. The various totals I will present, such as 100,000 or 200,000 murdered, in terms of human beings killed is hard to grasp. To feel what 100,000 dead means, think of laying 100,000 corpses head to toe, in a line alongside a straight road. Assume, since many were babies, young children, and short adults, that each corpse averages a little more than five feet long. Now, to drive a car down this road along these 100,000 bodies, you would have to drive almost one hundred miles to reach the last corpse. This provides a simple multiplier—200,000 murdered would stretch head to toe nearly two hundred miles, and a million murdered would be almost a thousand miles. Maybe now you can feel how incredible, how horrible it is that 100,000 or even 1,000 human beings (end to end, a little less than a mile), each a separate soul, each with a unique personality and emotions, each a thinking, feeling human being, would have their precious lives wiped out. Each death also leaves countless heartbroken loved ones, thus multiplying the toll. This human misery is not in the numbers, but numbers are necessary for recounting the sad tale of such gargantuan crimes.

30 This figure is based on the estimates, sources, and calculations summarized in Table 1.A of my Lethal Politics: Genocide and Mass Murder Since 1900 (1991). The table is also given on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/USSR.TAB1A.GIF 31 Includes the Civil War period. The figure is based on the estimates, sources, and calculations summarized in Table 1.1 of my China’s Bloody Century: Genocide and Mass Murder Since 1917 (1990). The table is also given on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/CHINA.TAB1.1.GIF

Chapter 21 The Rwandan Great Genocide For innocents on both sides this was a historically unprecedented catastrophe. Over 1 million might have died, and around 2 million Hutu were forced to flee their homes, with possibly some 1.2 million ending up in Zaire alone.

Background

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he Rwandan Great Genocide of 1994, though by far the largest in the country’s history, was only one of many acts of genocide carried out by different Rwandan governments in the decades before 1994, and that have continued since. Located in the south-central region of Africa and bordered by Burundi, Zaire, Uganda, and Tanzania, Rwanda is smaller than the state of Maryland. In 1999, its population was about 7.2 million, making it one of the most densely populated countries, and one of the poorest. One important ethnic group was the small minority of Tutsi, who made up 15 percent of Rwandans, and who tended to be tall and thin. The overwhelming majority of Rwandans, over 80 percent, were ethnic Hutu, more likely to be short and stocky. The Western media have greatly misunderstood the 1994 genocide as a tribal meltdown, as ethnic hatred and intolerance run amok. The mental picture is of a Hutu running wildly down a street, swinging a machete at any Tutsi he can catch. This is largely a myth. Rather, the genocide was a well-calculated mass murder planned by Hutu government leaders. Surely individual Hutu who hated Tutsi, or had grievances against certain Tutsi, joined in the bloodfest, and undoubtedly, sadistic Hutu saw this genocide as an excuse to kill. But we should not overlook the many Hutu who refused to kill, and protected Tutsi even at the risk of their lives. This genocide was, pure and simple, part of a political struggle to maintain power, as was the “ethnic cleansing” that happened later in Bosnia and Kosovo. It exemplified the iron law of human behavior: power kills.

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Centuries ago, the Tutsi migrated from the north to Rwanda and proceeded to dominate the Hutu with a feudal system, but without the strict tribal or ethnic divisions one sees in Rwanda today. At the time, “Hutu’ and “Tutsi” distinguished social and political groups, rather than ethnic. Generally, Tutsi were cattle owners and members of the court, while Hutu were farmers, but these were not indelible distinctions: Hutu could become Tutsi, and vice versa. Nor was Tutsi political domination absolute. Hutu chiefs became part of the hierarchy, and custom required Tutsi governors to recognize certain obligations to the Hutu. In many ways there was a sharing of power, and eventually, both Tutsi and Hutu spoke the same language, generally were Catholic in religion, and shared the same culture. Then came colonization. Germany first took Rwanda in the nineteenth century, and then after the defeat of Germany in World War I, the victors turned Rwanda over to Belgium as a protectorate. As Germany had, Belgium tried to rule at a distance by indirectly governing through existing Rwandan political institutions, which largely meant working through the Tutsi. Certainly colonial authorities thought the Tutsi to be more intelligent and vigorous, more like Caucasians, and therefore favored them in government, education, and business. In effect, Belgium promoted a more rigid and pervasive Tutsi rule over the Hutu. Since the difference between Tutsi and Hutu was not always readily evident, the colonial authorities defined a Tutsi as anyone who owned ten or more cows, and a Hutu as anyone with less. Moreover, Christian missionaries, particularly of the Roman Catholic Church, taught that the Tutsi were Hametic rather than Negroid in origin, possibly from Ethiopia, and with Christian roots. Where the difference between Tutsi and Hutu had been unclear before colonization, hardly stressed in social affairs and interaction, it now became a precise government and social matter. In 1926, Belgium introduced identity cards indicating whether the holder was Tutsi or Hutu. After the end of World War II, there was much talk about equality and freedom. Western intellectuals began spreading the word about the benefits and justice of democracy, and Christian missionaries joined in this new ideological wave, promoting democracy and equality among the Hutu. Yet for all the teaching about social justice, the Hutu were still required to carry ethnic identity cards; and behind the scenes, the colonial authorities continued to support Tutsi control over all governmental functions. All this did much to aggravate Hutu and Tutsi differences, therefore, while encouraging the wish for self-government among the great majority of Hutu. Independence and self-determination were the irresistible cry during the 1950s, and Belgians came to see Rwandan independence as

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inevitable. This raised the question of what kind of government an independent Rwanda would have. Being members of a democracy themselves, colonial authorities wanted to give more power to the Hutu majority and prepare free elections and a democratic government. So they changed colonial policy and began to prepare the Hutu for a large role in government by encouraging their education, and phasing them into more numerous and more important official positions. This further encouraged the belief among Hutus that by right, the government belonged to them. In 1959 this rising sentiment culminated in a Hutu rebellion against both Belgium and the Tutsi government and elite. The Hutu massacred about 10,000 Tutsi, and the next year forced 100,000 to 200,000 to flee the country with their king. The Hutu then declared a republic, and in 1962 Belgium granted Rwanda full independence. Over the next decades, Tutsi would continually invade one border area of Rwanda or another to overthrow the Hutu government. In the years between 1961 and 1967 alone, they tried this ten times. The resulting fighting and genocide over the years forced Tutsi from their homes, and increased the number of refugees to about 600,000, among whom the men became ready fighters in new Tutsi incursions. In 1963 they launched the most serious of these invasions, this one from Uganda, and for the first time threatened to bring down the government. But they were soon defeated, and only succeeded in provoking another Hutu massacre of Tutsi who had remained in the country. Also, during this and other invasions of this period, Tutsi carried out their own genocide, murdering some 20,000 Hutu. Despite their unsuccessful attempts to defeat the Hutu government, the Tutsi refugees would not give up. Under German and then Belgian colonial rule, they had come to believe that they were superior to Hutu in all-important ways, and that it was only right that they, and not the Hutu, rule the country. Among themselves, the Hutu were split between the north and south, as shown in 1973, when Defense Minister General Juvenal Habyarimana overthrew the president, accusing him of favoritism for southern Hutu, and made himself president. His new power was not secure either, but he did defeat a coup against him in 1980, and remained in power until the beginning of the Great Genocide. Added to the political difficulties of his rule was the collapse in the international market for coffee, the principal crop of Rwanda, which led to famine in some areas. Moreover, President Habyarimana drove the government deeply into debt, forcing him to turn to the World Bank for aid. This he got in return for the promise to liberalize the economy

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from government controls, but he spent the money on building up the army, and ignored the World Bank’s stipulations. President Habyarimana’s government allowed Rwandans virtually no freedom. He created a strict one-party state with the intention of controlling and quickly mobilizing the population. The government divided people into communes, and any citizen who wanted to move in or out of an assigned commune had to report to the police. All citizens had to register, and, as in Burma, the government forced everyone to do a certain amount of forced labor: building roads, clearing brush, digging ditches, and so on. They also had to participate in weekly propaganda meetings to glorify the party. Rwandans have been among the least free in civil and political 32 rights. On a scale of 2 (free) to 14 (unfree), Freedom House rated the Rwandan people as 13 in lack of freedom for 1993, and a bottom 14 for the following year, when the Great Genocide occurred. In 1990, in the midst of Rwanda’s economic troubles, Tutsi refugees again invaded the country. With the help of the Ugandans, they had formed a political and military force they named the Front Patriotique Rawndais (FPR, sometimes called the RPF), but were again defeated, this time with the help of Belgian and French troops. The FPR tried to hold onto parts of the country and periodically resumed its offensive until the government launched the Great Genocide in 1994. While this civil war was devastating part of the country, economic troubles increased. Inflation, along with personal and government debt, rose sharply. Coffee prices dropped so low that the government destroyed coffee plants and replaced them with other crops. The World Bank responded to another request for aid, and provided more funds toward overcoming Rwanda’s huge national debt. By this time, Hutu extremists had resurrected the old nonblack, Ethiopian theory about Tutsi origins that Belgium had once used to justify Tutsi rule, only now, the Hutu used this myth to their advantage. Extremists claimed that the Tutsi did not belong in Rwanda, that they were outsiders who had invaded the country and subjugated the Hutu. They argued for the total expulsion of all Tutsi. Government anti-Tutsi propaganda also made much of the genocide of Hutu by the Tutsi in neighboring Burundi. There, the ethnic division was about the same as in Rwanda, but the Tutsi were in control. In 1972, the Burundi government responded to a Hutu uprising by massacring about 150,000 Hutu, and after another Hutu uprising in 1988, the Tutsi massacred as many as 200,000 of them. The Hutu Rwandan government regularly cited this 32 At: www.freedomhouse.org

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genocidal slaughter by the Burundi Tutsi as a reason why they could not allow the Tutsi within their own borders to take or share power. However, the United Nations, United States, Belgium, and other African nations were applying considerable pressure to President Habyarimana to come to terms with the FPR and end the civil war. Badly in need of more foreign aid, in 1992 he agreed to form a coalition government with all political parties, and to share power with Tutsi leaders until he could hold an election. This hardly sat well with the Hutu political and military elite and extremists, but in any case, President Habyarimana found one reason or another to delay fulfilling this agreement—perhaps in order to prepare for the Great Genocide. Also, the United Nation’s mandate for overseeing this accord was to expire in April of 1994; then UN troops would have to withdraw. Meanwhile, Tutsi FPR forces, helped by Ugandan military, continued the civil war, broken by only occasional cease-fires. By April of 1994, events had prepared the way for the Great Genocide. The economy was a mess, and tensions between Hutu and Tutsi were at a boiling point due to the continuing FPR assaults. The country was so beleaguered that it began to look as though Habyarimana would finally surrender to foreign pressure and allow the Tutsi to share power. Radical Hutu elite and top governmental leaders, however, had other plans.

The Great Genocide In April of 1994, a plane carrying Habyarimana and Burundian President Ndadaye crashed under mysterious circumstances. The prevailing theory was that Habyarimana’s own Presidential Guard shot it down. Whether radical Hutu planned this assassination or not, it triggered the Great Genocide. There was bloodlust in the air, and some Hutu and Tutsi now felt free to settle scores and kill those they resented. However, the government—that is, President Habyarimana’s wife, a few close advisors, and three brothers-in-law—had prepared for the Great Genocide before Habyarimana’s death. Their middle-level organizers numbered about three to five hundred officials and bureaucrats. The police, with a special Hutu militia (interhamwe) of 7,000 to 14,000 Tutsi-haters at their command, did the dirty work. Officials in on the plan had specifically organized the militia to murder Tutsi, and they succeeded very well: some may well have killed as many as two to three hundred people. Militia killers also encouraged—and sometimes ordered at gunpoint—Hutu civilians to kill their

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Tutsi friends and neighbors. Hutu who refused, or who showed reluctance, were themselves murdered. Insiders had also trained a Palace Guard of about 6,000 Hutu to help the militia and exterminate Hutu and Tutsi political opponents and their supporters. Even Hutu moderates did not escape death. Meanwhile, every day a radio station from the capital exhorted Hutu, as their patriotic duty, to grab whatever weapon they had and kill Tutsi without mercy. Note that this was not an act of massacre by the uneducated, undisciplined masses, ordinary folk easily misled and aroused. As with the Holocaust, when Nazi killing squads were often led and composed of Ph.D.s and other professionals, the claims of the powerful and authoritative easily swayed the well-educated to murder. In the Great Genocide, Hutu lawyers, teachers, professors, medical doctors, journalists, and other professionals made their contribution to the methodical annihilation of the Tutsi or defiant Hutu. Since most Rwandans were Christians, the country had many churches in which the Tutsi sought refuge. Not to be deterred, the Hutu killers simply surrounded the churches and set them on fire, or forced their way in and systematically butchered all inside. Hospitals were also a favorite target, since they not only hired many Tutsi, but also were places where the Hutu killers could easily find and kill wounded or sick Tutsi. For example, on April 23 militia and soldiers from the Rwandan army killed 170 patients and medical personnel at the Butare Hospital. Dr. Claude-Emile Rowagoneza, a Tutsi, gave testimony on what he saw happen in and outside the hospital: The massacres were delayed until April 20th. That day everyone was asked to stay at home except those working in the hospital. Medical staff was transported to the hospital. Nurses had to walk and many were stopped at the checkpoint, asked to show their identity cards, and killed if they were Tutsi. There were 35 doctors at the hospital of which four were Tutsi. Because of the danger all four Tutsi stayed at the hospital, as did some nurses. Drs. Jean-Bosco Rugira and JeanClaude Kanangire are known to have been killed, and the fate of Dr. Isidore Kanangare who was hiding in the hospital and may have been evacuated by the French, is unknown. In mid-May injured

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soldiers from the Kanombe barracks started being brought to Butare Hospital and no more civilians were being admitted. They also started deciding who were Tutsi on the basis of their features, looking at the nose, height, and fingers because the identity cards were no longer accurate. Some of the doctors at the hospital risked their lives by helping threatened staff by hiding and feeding them . . . . When the patients’ wounds had healed some of the doctors—the “bad” doctors—expelled the Tutsi although everyone knew they would be killed outside. At night, the interhamwe and the soldiers came in but these doctors were colluding willingly. If people refused to go, they were taken out at night. They could be seen being killed by the interhamwe waiting at the gates. Later the Prime Minister came down to Butare . . . and while here he had a meeting with medical staff. They all said peace had returned and told the patients that it was safe to return home . . . . Those who did were then killed . . . . My wife was taken twice by interhamwe but neighbors insisted that she was Hutu . . . . My sister, mother, and father fled to Burundi but all my aunts, uncles, and in-laws were killed except for my mother-in-law. In other words, more than 40 of my relatives were killed. By June 6, eight weeks later, this deliberate Great Genocide had already taken some 500,000 Rwandan lives, mostly Tutsi. Whole families were massacred, including babies. As the Great Genocide progressed, the United Nations, Belgium, and particularly the United States showed extreme caution in calling this genocide a genocide. Nor could they decide whether to remain engaged in the country. In the first few days, Belgium withdrew completely when Hutu killed ten of its soldiers. Not understanding what was going on, the UN reduced its peacekeeping soldiers from 4,500 men to 270, and fully restricted the

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action of even this small contingent. As UN troops retreated from one base after another, waiting Hutu militia set upon and massacred the Tutsi families that had huddled under the UN flag for protection. It took the Clinton Administration three weeks—by which time hundreds of thousands had already been massacred—to declare a state of disaster in Rwanda. Even then, they characterized the situation as one of tribal killings, with crazed Hutu civilians roaming the streets with machetes hacking away at any Tutsi within reach. In actuality, this genocide was no less planned than the Holocaust or Turkey’s World War I genocidal slaughter of their Armenians. The American declaration provided unintended cover for the Hutu government to continue its Great Genocide. Even when the deliberate nature of the government’s action became too blatant to ignore, the Clinton Administration refused to call it genocide. To do so would have required foreign signatories of the Genocide Convention, including the United States, to immediately get involved. The Clinton Administration also continued to delay agreeing to the details of a UN dispatch of troops, and prevented any foreign action until June 8, nearly three months into the Great Genocide. Then, the Security Council finally received U.S. agreement, and authorized troops to enter Rwanda and prevent further genocide. These troops backed the Tutsi FPR, helped defeat the Hutu conspirators, and caused their government to collapse. An FPR-backed government then took power, and installed a dictatorship as severe as the one it replaced. At this point I should stress that the Tutsi were not blameless in the Great Genocide. In retaliation for the government’s actions against them, Tutsi civilians and the FPR killed Hutu, sometimes at random. For innocents on both sides, this was a historically unprecedented catastrophe. As mentioned, over 1 million might have died, and around 2 million Hutu were forced to flee their homes, with as many as 1.2 million ending up in Zaire alone. All would live miserable lives in refugee camps, suffering from hunger and disease, and often in danger from attacks by armed gangs of Tutsi. Localized cholera epidemics were frequent; just one of these killed 20,000 refugees. Still, Hutu were unwilling to leave the camps, fearing Tutsi reprisals—with good reason. When the new Tutsi government tried to close one camp in southwestern Rwanda, troops opened fire on an unarmed crowd of Hutu protesters, an act which the United Nations claimed killed 2,000. Overall, perhaps one-third of a 1993 population around 7.3 million died or fled the country during the Great Genocide and the subsequent fighting. Though foreign troops and the FPR had ended the Great Genocide itself, the killing was not over. Several thousand Hutu rebelled against the new government, and with the support of the local

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Hutu population, they continued to attack and murder Tutsi. To deny these rebels cover, soldiers cleared rebel areas of banana plantations, particularly in the northwest, all but destroying the local economy. From May 1997 to March 1998, these hostilities killed about 10,000 Tutsi and Hutu in this region alone. These are just numbers, of course. At the personal level, we can more easily feel what these facts mean for one Tutsi small businessman, Immanuel Sebomana. He was on a bus in northwestern Rwanda when Hutu rebels stopped it. Sebomana immediately jumped from a window and ran for his life into the bush. Behind him, the rebels surrounded the bus, set it on fire, and killed any of the remaining passengers who tried to escape. Meanwhile, Hutu civilians joined the soldiers gathered around the bus, cheering and singing while thirty-five passengers died.

Chapter 22 Death by Marxism I: The Khmer Rouge of Cambodia In proportion to its population, Cambodia underwent a human catastrophe unequaled by any other country in the twentieth century.It probably lost slightly less than 4 million people to war, rebellion, manufactured famine, and democide—genocide, nonjudicial executions, and massacres—or close to 56 percent of its population.

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wanda represents a clear case of genocide by a government trying to maintain power. The incredible killing that took place in Cambodia from 1975 to 1979 is different. First, it is an example of large-scale, nongenocidal mass murder, and only secondarily one of genocide. Second, this democide was part of an attempt by communists to impose a revolution on the country. They tried to abolish its religion, eradicate its culture, totally remodel its economy, communize all social interaction, and control all speech, writing, laughing, and loving. They exterminated anyone with any ties to Western nations, or to Vietnam, Laos, and Thailand, and eliminated everyone who had any connections to the previous government or military. Because of all this, it is necessary to focus on the intended revolution itself to explain how and why this one government, in four years, could and did murder more than one-quarter of its population. A little smaller than Oklahoma, Cambodia is located in southeast Asia, bordered by Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, and the Gulf of Thailand. Cambodia’s population in 1970 was about 7.1million, slightly smaller than Rwanda’s. It was almost wholly Buddhist. The devastating history of Cambodia during the 1960s and 1970s is intimately bound up with the Vietnam War. Communist North Vietnamese provided military aid and soldiers to Cambodia’s own communist guerrillas, the Khmer Rouge, or Red Cambodians. Cambodia was an avenue for war supplies from North Vietnam to their army and Viet Cong guerrillas fighting under their command in South Vietnam against South Vietnamese and American troops. As a result, the

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United States systematically bombed Khmer Rouge guerrillas and Viet Cong supply routes and, in a final attempt to destroy these routes, invaded Cambodia from South Vietnam. But American congressional and public opinion hostile to the invasion soon compelled American forces to retreat back to South Vietnam. In proportion to its population, Cambodia underwent a human ca33 tastrophe unequaled by any other country in the twentieth century. It probably lost slightly less than 4 million people to war, rebellion, manufactured famine, and democide—genocide, nonjudicial executions, and massacres—or close to 56 percent of its 1970 population. Successive governments and guerrilla groups murdered almost 3.3 million men, women, and children, including 35,000 foreigners, between 1970 and 1980. Most of these, probably as many as 2.4 million, were murdered by the communist Khmer Rouge, both before and (to a much greater extent) during their takeover of Cambodia after April 1975. The United States had supported and supplied the Cambodian military government of General Lon Nol, but the American Congress ended all aid to him with the withdrawal of the United States from the Vietnam War in 1973. After successive retreats, Lon Nol could no longer even defend the capital, Phnom Penh, against the Khmer Rouge guerrillas. The Cambodian army declared a cease-fire and laid down its arms. On April 17, 1975, a ragtag bunch of solemn teenagers clad in black pajamas, red scarves, and Mao caps, and carrying arms of all descriptions, walked or were trucked from different directions into Phnom Penh. They were part of an army of 68,000 Khmer Rouge guerrillas that had achieved victory for a Communist Party of only 14,000 members against an army of about 200,000 men.

Rule by Murder At first, the people hardly knew what to make of these victorious guerrillas. After all, the war was over, the killing had stopped, and people who had chafed under the Lon Nol government were relieved and happy. Many intellectuals and middle-class Cambodians, disgusted with the everyday corruption of the government, were willing to try anything that brought change, even communism. The Khmer Rouge was cheered, and there were public and private celebrations. 33 See Figure 1.2 of my Death By Government (1974), which is also available on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/DBG.FIG1.2.GIF. I provide estimates, calculations, and sources of the Khmer Rouge catastrophe at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/SOD.CHAP4.HTM

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But before the people could settle down and enjoy a few days of peace, the Khmer Rouge did the unimaginable: they turned their weapons on the 2 to 3 million inhabitants of the capital. Shouting threats of immediate death, waving their arms angrily, and actually shooting inhabitants, they demanded that everyone leave the city. In Phnom Penh and all other newly-occupied cities and towns, their order to evacuate was implacable. The Khmer Rouge kicked nearly 4,240,000 urban Cambodians and refugees, even the sick, infirm, and aged, out of the cities and towns into a largely unprepared countryside. Even for those on the operating table or in labor during childbirth, the order was absolute: “Go! Go! You must leave!” Families evacuated any way possible, carrying what few possessions they could grab. The wealthy and middle classes rode out in cars that were soon abandoned or stolen from them by the Khmer Rouge. Some left on heavily loaded motor scooters or bicycles, which were also soon confiscated. This vast multitude of urbanites and refugees, with only their feet to move them, formed barely moving lines that extended for miles. Some ill or infirm hobbled along; others, thrown from the hospitals, crawled along on hands and knees. According to a British journalist who watched the slowly moving mass of evacuees from the safety of the French embassy, the Khmer Rouge was “tipping out patients [from the hospitals] like garbage into the streets . . . . Bandaged men and women hobbled by the embassy. Wives pushed wounded soldier husbands on hospital beds on wheels, some with serum drips still attached. In five years of war, this is the greatest caravan of human misery I have seen.” Failure to evacuate meant death. Failure to begin evacuation promptly enough meant death. Failure of anyone to obey Khmer Rouge orders meant death. Failure to give the Khmer Rouge what they wanted—whether a car, motor scooter, bicycle, watch, or whatever— meant death. The direction from which people exited the city depended on their location at the time they received the evacuation order. The Khmer Rouge told refugees to return to their home villages, but particularly for the urbanites, where they went after evacuation and what village the Khmer Rouge eventually settled them in depended on the whim of the soldiers and cadres along the way. People were jumbled together, trudging along for days or weeks, usually with only the clothes, coverings, and provisions they had snatched at the last moment. Many had minimal supplies, since they had believed the Khmer Rouge who, to minimize disorder, had told them that the evacuation would be for only

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a few days. The very young and the old, and those already sick, injured, or infirm soon died on the roads or trails. One of these trudging millions, a medical doctor named Vann Hay, said that every two hundred meters, he saw a dead child. And, as the pitiful evacuees reached their homes or assigned villages, there was usually no relief from the horrors they’d already suffered. The situation was just different in kind. The toll from this outrageous and bloody evacuation, including those killed outright, is in dispute. Whether 40,000 to 80,000 evacuees were murdered or died, as one scholar sympathetic to the Khmer Rouge claimed, or 280,000 to 400,000 died, as the CIA estimated, the sheer horror of this urban expulsion is undeniable. Primarily, this was done as a matter of ideology. The Khmer Rouge saw the cities as the home of foreign ideas, capitalists, and their supportive bourgeoisie intellectuals; they were thoroughly corrupt, and required a thorough cleansing. And those the Khmer Rouge believed the city had corrupted—its professionals, businesspeople, public officials, teachers, writers, and workers—must either be eliminated or reeducated and purified. To the Khmer Rouge, the best way to remake those “corrupted minds” that they allowed to survive was to make them work in the fields alongside pure peasants. Consider the slogans broadcast over Radio Phnom Penh and spoken at meetings at the time: “what is infected must be cut out . . . . What is rotten must be removed . . . . What is too long must be shortened and made the right length . . . . It isn’t enough to cut down a bad plant, it must be uprooted.” This inhuman expulsion was an opening salvo in the Khmer Rouge campaign to utterly remake Cambodian culture and society, and to construct pure communism forthwith. Pol Pot and a few henchmen, who organized and loosely commanded the Khmer Rouge, planned all this. Pol Pot was a Cambodian communist revolutionary who had received his higher education and radical ideas in France, and helped found the Khmer Workers party—Khmer Rouge—in 1960, which he then headed. He subsequently organized and led the guerrilla attacks on Prince Sihanouk’s Western-oriented government in the 1960s, and against the American-supported General Lon Nol government that overthrew it in 1970. It should be noted that under Khmer Rouge rule, Cambodia was not one totalitarian society dictated by one set of doctrines or rules, except at the most abstract and general level. How the Khmer Rouge applied such abstractions, under what rules, and with what punishment for violations, varied from one district or region to another. This is why I write that Pol Pot “loosely” commanded.

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Conditions of Life Under the Khmer Rouge Civil/Political no freedom to travel abroad or from village to village no freedom to choose employment no freedom of speech no freedom of organization no freedom of religion—no religion allowed no courts, judges, or appeals no codified law or rules Social/Cultural no public or private worker rights no independent work or living (all in collectives) no skilled private or public medical care no foreign medicines no mail or telegrams no radio, television, or movies no international telephones or cables no newspapers, journals, or magazines no books or libraries no general schooling no holidays or religious festivals Economic no money (all money eliminated) no banks no wages or salaries no markets no businesses no restaurants or stores Personal no independent eating (all cooked and ate collectively) no personal food no regional gastronomic specialties (all ate the same) no private plots to grow food no personal names (all personal names had to be given up) no independent family life no sexual freedom no music no freedom from work after the age of five no personally owned buses, cars, scooters, or bicycles no personal clothes, pots, pans, watches, or anything no freedom to cry or laugh no private conversation

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Nonetheless, Pol Pot and his henchmen managed to hold the initiative, establish control throughout the country, and create the surprising uniformity in most regions shown here in Table 22.1. Take a moment and study the table. It shows that, with the Khmer Rouge seizure of power over Cambodia, its people were plunged into a border-to-border prison with rigid rules that made their lives worse, more controlled, and more dangerous than those of slaves. The Khmer Rouge collectivized peasants everywhere—95 to 97 percent of the population was eventually forced into collective farms— and expected evacuees and peasants to work solely for the communist revolution. They forbade all political, civil, or human rights. They prohibited travel without a pass from village to village. They forced Cambodians to eat and sleep in communes, and ordered even young children to work in the fields. In some regions, they made peasants work from about 6:00 a.m. to 8:00 or 10:00 p.m., with time off only for “political education.” They closed permanently all primary, secondary, and technical schools, as well as colleges and universities. They shut down all hospitals and automatically murdered Western-trained medical doctors. They prohibited sex between the unmarried and, in some places, they threatened boys and girls with death for as little as holding hands. Unauthorized contact was forbidden even between those who were married, also at risk of death. The Khmer Rouge allowed no appeals, no courts, no judges, no trials, and no law. They eliminated all money, businesses, books, and newspapers. They banned music. They eliminated practicing lawyers, doctors, teachers, engineers, scientists, and all other professionals, because whatever truths these professions possessed, “the peasant could pick up through experience.” This is all incredible; some details may help its digestion. Just consider how the Khmer Rouge controlled personal relations. They made showing love to relatives or laughing with them dangerous, often perceiving this as showing less dedication to, or poking fun at, the Great Revolution. It was even dangerous to use some term of endearment, such as “honey,” “sweetheart,” or “dearest,” for a loved one. When a spy overheard the doctor Haing Ngor referring to his wife in this manner, the spy reported him for both this and eating food he picked in the forest, instead of bringing it into the village for communal eating. The local cadre interrogated him about these sins, and told him, “The chhlop [informers] say that you call your wife ‘sweet.’ We have no ‘sweethearts’ here. That is forbidden.” Soldiers then took him to a prison where cadre members severally tortured him, cut off his finger, and sliced his ankle with a hatchet. He barely survived.

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This deadly communist revolution created pitiful human dilemmas. Think about what this same doctor, Haing Ngor, went through when his wife suffered life-threatening complications during childbirth. To help her deliver her baby would mean death, since the Khmer Rouge forbade husbands from delivering their wives’ babies. In any case, to use his medical skills to save her would in effect tell the cadre that he was a doctor, and would result in not only his death, but possibly that of his wife and newborn child. To do nothing might mean their death anyway; still, if he did nothing, the wife might pull through. He chose to do nothing—perhaps he could do nothing anyway, since he had no proper medical instruments. Both mother and baby soon died, leaving a gaping wound in his heart that never healed. (Haing Ngor subsequently came to the United States after the defeat of Vietnam, became an actor, and received an Academy Award for his performance in The Killing Fields, the movie about the murderous Khmer Rouge regime. In 1996 he was murdered for money as he arrived home in Los Angeles, for which three members of the Oriental LazyBoyz street gang were subsequently tried and convicted.) But even if Ngor’s child had been born, he could not have kept it for long The Khmer Rouge took children away from their parents and made them live and work in labor brigades. If the children died of fatigue or disease, the cadre was good enough to inform their parents; then, what emotion the parents showed could mean their life or death. If they wept or displayed extreme unhappiness, this showed a bourgeois sentimentality—after all, their children had sacrificed themselves for the Great Revolution and the parents should be proud, not unhappy. Similarly, a wife expressing grief over an executed husband—an enemy of the Great Revolution—was explicitly criticizing the Khmer Rouge. This unforgivable act of bourgeois sentimentality could mean her death. Throughout Cambodia, fear was a normal condition of life. The Khmer Rouge systematically massacred people because of past positions, associations, or relatives. Top military men under a previous government, former government officials or bureaucrats, business executives or high monks, when discovered by the cadre, were murdered along with their whole families (including babies), sometimes after extended torture. This root-and-branch extermination of the tainted even reached down to cousins of cousins of former soldiers—when Khmer Rouge cadres came to believe that the villagers of Kauk Lon really were former Lon Nol officers, customs officials, and police agents, troops forced every villager (about 360 men, women, and children) to march into a nearby forest. As they walked among the trees, waiting soldiers ambushed and machine-gunned them all down.

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Similar slaughter often awaited those who had had any relations with the West or Vietnam, even sometimes with the Soviet Union, or with those who had ever opposed the Khmer Rouge. The Khmer Rouge were even known to execute those found with Western items, such as books, or those who spoke French or English, or who had been schooled beyond the seventh grade. In some areas, even wearing glasses was a capital offense. Then there was the killing of people for laziness, complaining, wrong attitudes, or unsatisfactory work. I will give only one example of this, but for me, as a teacher, it is the most hideous of all the accounts I read. This is the Buddhist monk Hem Samluat’s description of an execution he witnessed in the village of Do Nauy: It was. . . of Tan Samay, a high schoolteacher from Battambang. The Khmer Rouge accused him of incompetence. The only thing taught the children at the village was how to cultivate the soil. Maybe Tan Samay was trying to teach them other things, too, and that was his downfall. His pupils hanged him. A noose was passed around his neck; then the rope was passed over the branch of a tree. Half a dozen children between eight and ten years old held the loose end of the rope, pulling it sharply three or four times, dropping it in between. All the while they were shouting, “Unfit teacher! Unfit teacher!” until Tan Samay was dead. The worst was that the children 34 took obvious pleasure in killing. The scale of these murders can be gauged from the admission of Chong Bol, who claimed that, as a political commissar at the end of 1975, he had participated in the killing of 5,000 people. Think about this for a moment. If this murderer had been a citizen of a democracy and had admitted killing even one-tenth this many people in cold blood, historians would record him as history’s most monstrous mur34 John Barron and Anthony Paul, Peace with Horror: The Untold Story of Communist Genocide in Cambodia. London: Hodder and Stoughton, pp. 148–149. American Edition titled Murder of a Gentle Land. New York: Reader’s Digest Press—Thomas Y. Crowell.

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derer. As an officer of a government, as with the Nazi SS soldiers, Soviet death camp managers, and Chinese commissars, who also exterminated thousands, his murders will be noted as acts of his regime, and history will forget the individual murderer. Such heinous crimes are depersonalized, their horror lost among general abstractions. They are just statistics. Not only did the Khmer Rouge run amok massacring their people, they also tried to destroy the very heart of peasant life everywhere. Hinayana Buddhism had been a state religion, and the priesthood of monks with their saffron robes was a central part of Cambodian culture. Some 90 percent of Cambodians believed in some form of Buddhism. Many received a rudimentary schooling from the monks, and many young people became monks for part of their lives. The Khmer Rouge could not allow so powerful an institution to stand and therefore set out to destroy it. They exterminated all leading monks and either murdered or defrocked the lesser ones. One estimate is that out of 40,000 to 60,000 monks, only 800 to 1,000 survived to carry on their religion. We do know that of 2,680 monks in eight monasteries, only seventy were alive in 1979. As for the Buddhist temples that peppered the landscape of Cambodia, the Khmer Rouge destroyed 95 percent of them, and turned the few remaining into warehouses or allocated them for some other degrading use. Amazingly, in the very short span of a year or so, the small gang of Khmer Rouge wiped out the center of Cambodian culture, its spiritual incarnation, its institutions. This was an act of genocide within the larger Cambodian democide, and it was not the only one. In most if not all of the country, simply being of Chinese, Vietnamese, Thai, or Lao ancestry meant death. As part of a planned genocide campaign, the Khmer Rouge sought out and killed other minorities, such as the Moslem Cham. In the district of Kompong Xiem, for example, they demolished five Cham hamlets and reportedly massacred 20,000 people living there; in the district of Koong Neas, only four Cham apparently survived out of some 20,000. The cadre threw the Cham Grand Mufti, their spiritual leader, into boiling water and then hit him on the head with an iron bar. They beat another leader, the First Mufti, to death, tortured and disemboweled the Second Mufti, and imprisoned and murdered by starvation the Chairman of the Islamic Association of Kampuchea (Cambodia). Overall, the Khmer Rouge annihilated nearly half—about 125,000—of all the Cambodian Cham. The Khmer Rouge also slaughtered about 200,000 ethnic Chinese, almost half of those in Cambodia—a calamity for ethnic Chinese in this part of the world unequaled in modern times. They murdered 3,000 Protestants and 5,000 Catholics, around 150,000 ethnic Vietnamese (over

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half), and 12,000 out of 20,000 ethnic Thai. One Cambodian peasant, Heng Chan, whose wife was of Vietnamese descent, lost not only his wife but also five sons, three daughters, three grandchildren, and sixteen of his wife’s relatives. In this genocide, the Khmer Rouge probably murdered 541,000 Chinese, Chams, Vietnamese, and other minorities, or about 7 percent of the Cambodian population. As though this was not enough, by threat of death the Khmer Rouge forced ordinary Cambodians to labor to the point of life-endangering exhaustion, and fed them barely enough to keep them alive while further weakening their bodies through extreme malnutrition. The Khmer Rouge fed their hard laborers an average of 800 to 1,200 calories per day—for even light labor, a worker requires an average minimum of 1,800 calories. Nor did the Khmer Rouge provide them with protection against exposure and disease. Even Pol Pot admitted in 1976 that 80 percent of the peasants had malaria. In many places, people died like fish in a heavily polluted stream. People are not fish. They are thinking, feeling, loving human beings. As one would expect, in this hell the Khmer Rouge did not spare each other the fear of death either, but often executed their soldiers and cadres for infractions of minor rules. More important, as the Pol Pot gang maneuvered to consolidate its rule over Cambodia, the struggle for power at the top, and the paranoia of top leaders, increased. Not only was there the usual despot’s fear of an assassin’s knife in the night, there was also an intensifying fear that dissident Khmer Rouge might destroy the communist revolution. Increasingly, the Pol Pot gang saw sabotage, and CIA, KGB, or Vietnamese operatives behind all production failures and project delays. Purge after purge of high and low Khmer Rouge followed. They increasingly filled the cells of Tuol Sleng, the major security facility in Phnom Penh, with communist officials and cadre members. Pol Pot’s gang had these people tortured until they fingered collaborators among higher-ups, who were then executed. Confessions were the aim of most torture, and the gang would even arrest, with all the lethal consequences, interrogators who were so crude as to kill their victims before getting a confession. On the suffering of the tortured, one such interrogator reported, “I questioned this bitch who came back from France; my activity was that I set fire to her ass until it became a burned-out mess, then beat her to the point that she was so turned around I couldn’t get any answer 35 out of her; the enemy then croaked, ending her answers . . . .” 35 Arch Puddington, “The Khmer Rouge File,” The American Spectator (July 1987): pp. 18–20.

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The sheer pile of confessions forced from tortured lips must have further stimulated paranoia at the top. The recorded number of prisoners admitted to Tuol Sleng was about 20,000, suggesting how many were tortured and made such confessions. Only fourteen of them survived this imprisonment—fourteen. And this was only one such torture/execution chamber, albeit the main one in the country. In summary, the Cambodia of the Khmer Rouge was a giant forced labor and death camp, in which all suffered the torments of hell. In foreign relations, Pol Pot and his people hated their neighboring communist Vietnamese and felt no fraternal loyalty to them. They saw the Vietnamese as racially inferior, and as the foremost danger to the Khmer Rouge revolution. Even before their victory over Lon Nol, the Khmer Rouge had tried to purge their ranks of those trained in Hanoi, and had carried out the pogrom against ethnic Vietnamese described above. It was not long after their victory that they began to attack Vietnamese territory across the border. In many of these incursions they fought pitched battles with Vietnamese units, attacked and burned Vietnamese villages, and murdered their populations. These attacks grew in intensity and became, in effect, a war against Vietnam. The Vietnamese first responded vigorously to these attacks; then, apparently to buy time for war preparations, they tried to negotiate Khmer Rouge border complaints, and to find a basis for cooperative relations. This phase lasted until December of 1979, when Vietnam launched a full-scale invasion of Cambodia. Her heavily armed troops, backed with gunships and tanks, easily rolled over the fewer, more lightly armed Khmer Rouge defenders. In the next month, the invading forces occupied Phnom Phen. As Vietnamese troops approached one village after another, most peasants rebelled against the local Khmer Rouge cadre and troops, killing them with their own weapons, with farm tools, and sometimes with their own hands. Surviving Khmer Rouge, along with possibly 100,000 people they forced to move with them (vengefully killing many on the way), retreated to a mountainous region along the Thai border. From there and from refugee camps they soon controlled in Thailand, they carried out a guerrilla war against the Vietnamese and their puppet Samrin regime, and then against the government Vietnam established when it completely withdrew from the country. Only in the last decade would they finally be defeated. The human, social, and cultural cost to Cambodia of the Khmer Rouge years is incalculable. In democide alone, the Khmer Rouge probably murdered 600,000 to 3 million Cambodians by execution, torture or other mistreatment, malnutrition, famine, exposure, and dis-

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ease. A most prudent estimate is 2 million dead, or about one-third of the 1975 population. Some 352,000 refugees escaped the country. As wholesale murderers, the Khmer Rouge are in a class with the Rwandan Hutu government. For rapidly killing a high proportion of their population, they have no competitors. Not even Stalin or Mao could come close. Even Hitler might be shamed by the poor performance of his killers compared to Pol Pot’s gang or the Hutu government. And, yes, the Khmer Rouge were racists—they believed in the racial superiority of the dark-skinned Khmer over the Vietnamese, Chinese, Moslem Cham, and others. This racism underlay the genocide they committed against these minorities, but it also played a role in their vicious incursions into Vietnam and the massacre of its citizens. This being noted, the basic motive behind much of their democide was ideological. The Khmer Rouge were fanatical adherents to a new variant of communism, one that combined the Maoism of the destructive Great Leap Forward and communes, the Stalinism of the Soviet collectivization period in the early 1930s and the later Great Terror (Chapter 23), and an obsessive and deadly nationalism. To create their revolution, the Khmer Rouge were willing to kill millions of Cambodians—even, they said, until no more than a million remained—as long as they were able to do three things in a few short years. One, to totally reconstruct Cambodia; to fully collectivize it and exterminate all class enemies, capitalists, monks, former power-holders, and anything foreign. All others would work and eat communally, and the Khmer Rouge would satisfy their every need. All would be equal; all would be happy. Two, the Khmer Rouge wanted to immediately create a thoroughly independent and self-sufficient Cambodia. For the Khmer Rouge, the key idea was “independence-sovereignty.” They wanted to end any dependence on other nations for anything, whether food or newsprint or machinery. As crazy as it was—all nations depend on trade—this was a basic, constantly repeated fixation. And three, they wanted to recover the ancient glory of the Khmer Kingdom. Part of this glory, they felt, lay in the pure soul of the Khmer that existed then, a soul that modern life and Western influence had corrupted. The Khmer Rouge believed that by emptying the cities and ordering the millions of urbanites to work like oxen in the fields to absorb the simple peasant life, they were purifying the people and the nation. During the evacuation of Phnom Penh, a political official explained to the French priest François Ponchaud, “The city is bad, for there is money in the city. People can be reformed, but not

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cities. By sweating to clear the land, sowing and harvesting crops, men will learn the real value of things. Man has to know that he is born from a grain of rice!” Yes, ideas do have consequences, as the Cambodian death toll under these ideologues well attests.

Chapter 23 Death by Marxism II: Stalin’s Great Terror What is so hard to convey about the feeling of Soviet citizens through 1936–38 is the similar long-drawn-out sweat of fear, night after night, that the moment of arrest might arrive before the next dawn . . . [J]ust as in the mud-holes of Verdun and Ypres, anyone at all could feel that he might be the next victim. – Robert Conquest

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ther governments have murdered many more of their citizens than did the Rwandan Hutu government and the Khmer Rouge, but over a longer period and with a much larger population. The most murderous of these have also, like the Khmer Rouge, been communist governments, as I’ve already shown in Chapters 13 to 15. Here I will focus on Stalin’s democide alone, and Mao’s in the next chapter, in order to further illustrate the shocking consequences of their absolute power on human life. During this period, as I described in Chapter 14, Stalin also forced mass starvation upon Ukrainian peasants as a means to defeat their nationalism and opposition to collectivization, thus murdering around 5 million of them within a couple of years. It is as though the American Federal Government purposely starved to death or killed by associated diseases everyone in Maryland, Minnesota, or Wisconsin. Yet Stalin was not satisfied with this; he also struck at Ukrainian nationalism in other ways, such as directly murdering those who communicated the Ukrainian culture—he ordered shot Ukrainian writers, historians, composers, and even itinerant, blind folksingers. The following, from the memoirs of composer Dmitri Shostakovich, contains its own chilling horror. Since time immemorial, folk singers have wandered along the roads of the Ukraine . . . . they were always blind and defenseless people, but no one ever

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touched or hurt them. Hurting a blind man—what could be lower? And then in the mid thirties the First All-Ukrainian Congress of Lirniki and Banduristy [folk singers] was announced, and all the folk singers had to gather and discuss what to do in the future. “Life is better, life is merrier,” Stalin had said. The blind men believed it. They came to the congress from all over the Ukraine, from tiny, forgotten villages. There were several hundred of them at the congress, they say. It was a living museum, the country’s living history. All its songs, all its music and poetry. And they were almost all shot, almost all those pathetic blind men killed. Why was this done? . . . Here were these blind men, walking around singing songs of dubious content. The songs weren’t passed by the censors. And what kind of censorship can you have with blind men? You can’t hand a blind man a corrected and approved text and you can’t write him an order either. You have to tell everything to a blind man. That takes too long. And you can’t file away a piece of paper, and there’s no time anyway. Collectivization. Mechanization. It was easier to shoot them. And so they 36 did.

The Great Terror As bad as this democide was, the worst was yet to come. By 1934 the Peasant War was over. But it left an aftertaste. Some activists and 36 Quoted in Oksana Procyk, Leonid Heretz, and James E. Mace, Famine in the Soviet Ukraine 1932–1933: A Memorial Exhibition. Widener Library, Harvard University. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1986, pp. 53–54.

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party officials in the field could not quite accept the horrors of the previous years with ideological equanimity. Shooting children as kulaks? Starving to death helpless old women? Was this what Marxism meant? Moreover, many old Bolsheviks in the Party who could contrast Bolshevik ideals with the present still had the old rebellious spirit. Then there were the top contenders for Stalin’s power, each with his own followers, each willing to criticize Stalin’s policies and argue alternatives. Stalin ruled, but with an increasingly shaky party beneath him and the real possibility of a palace coup, he did not rule securely. This was underlined in January 1934 at the Party Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. Most delegates had decided to replace Stalin; some wanted as his replacement Sergei Kirov, a popular member of the Politburo, head of the Leningrad Party, and a Russian, unlike Stalin. Obviously a major purge was needed, and Stalin was a man of action. He met this early challenge by directly confronting his opponents, in effect launching a coup d’état against the Communist Party. First he had Kirov assassinated; then, under the guise of exposing the perpetrators of this abominable deed, he set up special staffs of NKVD in every district executive committee of Leningrad to uncover all those involved in the assassination (which turned out to be almost the whole Leningrad Party, of course). The “conspirators” were shot or sent to labor camps. None could appeal. A quarter of Leningrad was purged—cleaned out— in 1934–1935. This bloody purge was extended to other major cities and eventually to the whole country. It reached its zenith with Stalin’s appointment of a supreme headhunter, Nikolai Yezhov, as chief of the NKVD in 1936. Immediately justifying Stalin’s faith in him, Yezhov inaugurated his reign by having all the NKVD People’s Commissars in the Union republics, and usually their deputies as well, shot. And no NKVD officer who had served under the former head, Yagoda, was safe either. In 1937 alone, 3,000 were shot. As the murderous purge embraced one Party bureau and then another, one government agency and then another, and one social institution and then another, its nature, extent, and scope began to defy reason and belief. Yet, we can see a rationale in it. Stalin may have wanted to go beyond simply exterminating the opposition, and create a new party in abject fear of him, one that would work in lockstep to achieve his utopia. Now consider these aspects of what came to be called the Great Terror, and see if this is not the only way in which they can be understood. Throughout the vast country, “top and middle echelons of the Party and government were executed or sent to camps to die. Their replace-

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ments, and sometimes even their replacements again, also were subsequently murdered or sent to labor camps. In 1938 in Tbilisi: . . . the Chairman of the City Executive Committee, his first deputy, department chiefs, their assistants, all the chief accountants, all the chief economists were arrested. New ones were appointed in their places. Two months passed, and the arrests began again: the chairman, the deputy, all eleven department chiefs, all the chief accountants, all the chief economists. The only people left at liberty were ordinary account37 ants, stenographers, charwomen, and messengers . . . .” Many old Bolsheviks and other top communists were given show trials during which they confessed to spying, “counter-revolutionary” plotting, and other “crimes”; they were sentenced to death. In August 1936, after a dramatic public trial, sixteen top Party leaders, including Lev Kamemev, Ivan Smirnov, and Grigori Zinoviev, were executed as Trotskyites. In January 1937, another public trial of seventeen more top communists, including Karl Radek, was held; all but four were later executed. In March of 1938, more top Party members, among them Nikolai Bukharin, Alexei Rykov, and Genrikh Yagoda, were tried and executed. Many Westerners, including the American ambassador, were completely duped by these trials. They thought them legitimate, and these top Party men guilty; they could not believe that all the confessions of these high officials were false. But they were, as the Soviets in later decades admitted. The chief of Soviet military intelligence was also shot. Military intelligence agents serving abroad were brought home and shot. Major Soviet officers and diplomats who had played a role in the Spanish Civil War were shot. The top military echelons of the Red Army and Navy were shot. Marshal M. N. Tukhachevsky, the Chief of Staff, was shot along with seven high-ranking generals for plotting against the country (the marshal was posthumously exonerated in 1956). Overall, about half of those in the Red Army officer corps were shot or imprisoned—35,000 men. These included three of the five marshals, thirteen out of fifteen commanders, all eight admirals, 220 out of 406 brigade commanders, seventy-five out of the eighty sitting on the supreme military council, all military district commanders, and all eleven vice-commissars of war. Heroes of the Soviet Union many were, unto their death. There is no evidence that they plotted against Stalin, Party, or country, or even tried to use their military forces to save themselves. 37 Aleksandr I. Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago 1918–1956: An Experiment in Literary Investigation I–II. Translated by Thomas P. Whitney. New York: Harper & Row, 1973, pp. 68–69.

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Not only were the officers, officials, and workers in Party or government executed or sent to labor camps, often with an impossible twenty-five year sentence, but so were their wives, parents, and children, and often, associates and friends. It was assumed that all those arrested and interrogated had to be part of a plot or conspiracy. NKVD interrogators labored over each prisoner (interrogators themselves could and were arrested for “wrecking” if they seemed insufficiently dedicated) to uncover names and dates, often supplied by the interrogators themselves. But this was a vicious cycle. A prisoner was forced to confess to at least two coconspirators; these in turn were arrested and each confessed to at least two more, and in turn came more new names. It was a mathematical certainty that the NKVD would eventually interrogate every adult in the Soviet Union except for themselves and Stalin. The countrywide scope of these arrests, the sheer mass of those raked in, is unimaginable. Even race and ethnicity were bases for arrest. Greeks were arrested throughout the nation in 1937. Chinese were arrested en bloc. National minorities in Russian towns were all but eliminated. All Koreans from the Far East were arrested; all those in Leningrad with Estonian family names were arrested; all Latvian Riflemen and Chekists were arrested. Sometimes, the NKVD would murder people on no pretext at all— simply to meet a quota. This is so incredible to a person born and raised in freedom that I will repeat it. This communist government—really the Communist Party, which was the de facto government— would set up a quota for the number of people its lower officials had to murder. How could this be? Top communists believed that a certain percentage of the population opposed the Communist Party, and therefore had to be eliminated. But in typical communist fashion, this was not something that could be left to the discretion of a low-level cadre. After all, to ensure that lower level cadres were correctly guided in their work, the Party had to put a production quota on iron, steel, pigs, wheat, and virtually everything else of an economic nature. It followed that officials should also be given quotas of people to murder. Furthermore, it was consistent with the communist idea of central planning and control. From Moscow NKVD headquarters, the order would go out to officials or the communist cadre in a village or town to kill so many “enemies of the people,” and soon enough, the NKVD would receive word that it had been done. That such orders would be given is incredible enough, but that the local official would obey them is also unbelievable. Vladimir and Evdokia Petrov, in their book appropriately titled Empire of Fear, ques-

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tioned why “quite ordinary decent human beings, with a normal hatred of injustice and cruelty” would carry out these merciless purges and executions. The answer was simple: sweating, trembling, fear. They related what a friend they called M— said of his experience as an NKVD official in a country town in the Novosibirsk region: The number of victims demanded by Moscow from this town was five hundred. M— went through all the local dossiers, and found nothing but trivial offenses recorded. But Moscow’s requirements were implacable; he was driven to desperate measures. He listed priests and their relatives; he put down anyone who was reported to have spoken critically about conditions in the Soviet Union; he included all former members of Admiral Kolchak’s White Army [an anti-Communist force in the Civil War of 1918 to 1922]. Even though the Soviet Government had decreed that it was not an offense to have served in Kolchak’s Army, since its personnel had been forcibly conscripted, it was more than M—’s life was worth not to fulfill his quota. He made up his list of five hundred enemies of the people, had them quickly charged and executed and reported to Moscow: “Task accomplished in accordance with your instructions.” M— . . . detested what he had to do. He was by nature a decent, honest, kindly man. He told me the story with savage resentment. Years afterwards its horror and injustice lay heavy on his conscience. But M— did what he was ordered. Apart from a man’s ordinary desire to remain alive, M— had a mother, a father, 38 a wife, and two children. 38 Vladimir and Evodkia Petrov, Empire of Fear. New York: Praeger, 1956, pp. 75– 76.

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Indeed, the whole country also came under an arrest quota: “Orders were . . . issued to arrest a certain percentage of the entire popula39 tion.” How many were arrested? About 8 million people just between the middle of 1936 and the end of 1938. Possibly as many as 14 million people were under NKVD detention, or about 9 percent of the population. These were not all Party members or officials; most were simple peasants and workers. They had nothing to do with the Party, or with Stalin’s power over the Party and thus the country. They had done nothing wrong. Yet they were arrested by the millions. Why? Only one answer is plausible. There was a growing labor shortage, and needing more forced laborers for its enterprises, the NKVD had developed a quota system to arrest and collect its slaves. This becomes even more plausible when those whose camp terms were expiring— those who, against the odds, had managed to survive the deadly camp conditions—were given another ten, fifteen, or twenty-five year sentence. This, without interrogation or hearing, for nothing the prisoner had done, was disclosed to the prisoners as they stood in brigades called up to the administration building for the purpose, and for which they were even made to sign their names. The millions and millions of arrests during 1937 and 1938 got out of hand. Interrogators were swamped, prison cells were stuffed with new arrivals, and the system was breaking down by the end of 1938. In some places, faced with finding space for the daily crowd of newly arrested, officials had holes dug in the ground, a roof put over the top, and prisoners herded in. Small prisons teemed with thousands—a prison in Kharkov built for around 800 held about 12,000 prisoners. Not at all unusual, Butyrka Prison in Moscow had 140 men squeezed into a cell for twenty-four. The Great Terror had to end. His purpose accomplished, Stalin purged Yezhov, the top purger himself, and replaced him with Lavrenti Beria. Yezhov was given a token position and soon disappeared. Then, arguing that NKVD fascists had been responsible for the terror, and like Yezhov before him, Beria had nearly all senior officers of the NKVD executed, and sent most of the others to the camps (many camp inmates briefly enjoyed seeing their former interrogators and torturers joining them). As told by a former official in the Secretariat of the Politburo, Beria had his own methods: He invited the Ministers of the Interior of all the republics and all the higher 39 Nicholas V. Riasanovsky, History of Russia. 3rd ed. New York: Oxford University Press, 1977, p. 559.

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Cheka officials who had especially distinguished themselves during the purges to a conference in Moscow. Having been asked to leave their weapons in the cloakroom, they were received in the banqueting hall with lavish hospitality. Everybody was in excellent spirits when Beria appeared. Instead of the expected address he uttered just one sentence: “You are under arrest.” They were led from the hall and shot in the cellar the 40 same night. Executions during the Great Terror were not limited to those purged; there still was an absolute requirement to liquidate “enemies of the people,” party members with insufficient revolutionary consciousness, independent thinkers, and the like. Of those arrested, the number executed cannot be known confidently. While the Great Terror focused on the Party, it still fell hardest on peasants, workers, intellectuals, and the religious. Evidence of this terror was uncovered during the 1943 Nazi occupation of the Ukraine. In Vinnitsa, a mass grave was discovered that contained over 9,000 bodies, more than 13 percent of Vinnitsa’s prewar population. The Nazis invited an international commission of medical experts to examine the bodies. Almost all were found to have been shot in the back of the neck, all apparently in 1938. A number of those murdered had been sentenced to forced labor “without the right of correspondence,” an apparently normal deception. The result of the Great Terror was a whole new Communist Party. Of 139 candidates and members of the Party’s central committee, 98 were shot. Only 59 of 1,966 delegates to the Party Congress in 1934 were alive to attend the Congress in 1939. In total, the purge eliminated 850,000 members from the Party, or 36 percent. Throughout the country, extravagant adulation of Stalin became common, while the population learned silence and obedience, fear and submission. It was a revolution not in structure, but in personnel. Virtually all the old guard and Party faithful who lived through the Bolshevik Revolution were murdered. Stalin had liquidated the old Party; the new Party was totally terrorized into obeying his slightest whim or command. Stalin’s power was 40 Bernard Roeder, Katorga: An Aspect of Modern Slavery. Translated by Lionel Kochan. London: Heinemann, 1958, pp. 205–6.

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absolute. He needed to obey no laws, no customs, no tradition. He feared no man under him. With no competing vision, he was free to achieve his own version of utopia, unhindered by any norms, traditions, or ethics. How many were killed overall during this terror? The probable 1 million people executed does not cover camp and transit deaths. In 1936, the camp population was largely generated by the collectivization campaign. When these camp deaths are included, along with an estimated 65,000 dying from deportation, and with the number shot, the total murdered in the Great Terror years is probably 4,345,000. This is a prudent estimate. The democide could be as high as 10,821,000 or as 41 low as 2,044,000. Even this very conservative, absolute low is not to be taken lightly. If it alone were the only estimate for democide in the Soviet Union in this century, it would still be terribly significant. It is over twice the number of Armenians the Turks probably murdered during World War I; it likely exceeds the number of Cambodians killed by the Khmer Rouge during their brief reign; it is over twice Japan’s battle dead in all of World War II, almost twice the overall battle dead in the Vietnam War, and much greater than the total battle dead in the Korean War. Yet, this low is probably too low by over 2 million lives. And even the more likely figure of 4,345,000 is less than one-third the probable democide of the previous collectivization period!

41 For my estimates, calculations, and sources on this toll, see Table 5.A in my Lethal Politics: Soviet Genocide and Mass Murder Since 1917. The table is also available on my website at www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/USSR.TAB5A.GIF

Chapter 24 Death by Marxism III: Mao’s Cultural Revolution There is no construction without destruction. – Mao Tse-tung I think this is a civil war!

– Mao Tse-tung

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he Great Famine that the Chinese Communist Party caused from the late 1950s to the early 1960s that I described in Chapter 15 helped split the Party. Many communists militantly and fervently supported Chairman Mao’s desire to continue his Glorious Revolution. Opposed to him were powerful pragmatists, the “capitalist roaders,” who wished to liberalize the economy. Mao now wanted to purge his Communist Party as Stalin had in his Great Terror. But when he began the purge, he created one of the most violent civil wars of the last century instead. Mao’s purge began in May 1966, when he launched a written public attack on P’en Chen, mayor of Beijing and member of the Politburo. He put it in the form of a circular of the Central Committee and disseminated it throughout the Party and the army. It concluded that: The whole Party must follow Comrade Mao Tse-tung’s instructions; hold high the great banner of the Proletarian Cultural Revolution; thoroughly expose the reactionary bourgeois stand of those so-called ‘academic authorities’ who oppose the Party and socialism; thoroughly criticize and repudiate the reactionary bourgeois ideas in the sphere of academic work, education, journalism, literature and art, and publishing; and seize the leadership in these cultural spheres. With this end in view, it is at the same time necessary to criticize and repudiate those

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representatives of the bourgeoisie who have sneaked into the Party, the government, the army, and all spheres of culture, to clear them out or transfer some of them to other positions. Above all, we must not entrust these people with the work of leading the Cultural Revolution. In fact many of them have done and are still doing such work, and this is extremely dangerous. Those representatives of the bourgeoisie who have sneaked into the Party, the government, the army, and the various spheres of culture are a bunch of counterrevolutionary revisionists. When conditions are ripe, they would seize power and turn the dictatorship of the proletariat into a dictatorship of the bourgeoisie. Some of them we have already seen through, others we have not. Some we still trust and are training as our successors. There are, for example, people of the Krushchev [sic] brand still nestling in our midst. Party committees at all levels 42 must pay full attention to this matter. Many reasons have been offered for Mao’s mobilization and unleashing of forces that probably consumed millions of lives in countrywide terror, mass murder, and battles, and almost destroyed the Party. What stands out, however, is that Mao was losing power over the Party and that basic policies he favored were being ignored or overridden. He wanted the commune, forced industrialization, tighter economic controls, more mass movements. The central Party, however, under Liu Shao-ch’i (vice chairman of the Party and since 1956, apparent successor to Mao) was for further dismantling the commune, more decentralization, and some liberalization. An obvious “capitalist roader,” as Mao called such pragmatists in comparison to those in favor of his strict communist policies. 42 Circular of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of China, 16 May 1966, Chung Fa no. 267 (66), translated in American Consulate General, Hong Kong. Current Background, no. 852.

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Mao’s purpose in organizing and exciting the Cultural Revolution, therefore, was to discredit and overthrow his party opponents (the “capitalist roaders”), train through struggle a whole new generation of proletarian revolutionaries, and to create an ideological revolution among the masses—to replace old ideas with Mao’s thought. It was to be the communist revolution all over again. Thus aiming to regain supreme power and to put China back on track toward true communism—to again reinforce the Party with the “spirit of the masses”—Mao used the army to promote, direct, and support the idealism and energy of millions of high school and college students in a student rebellion against those who were now treated as Mao’s enemies. Massive meetings were held involving millions of “Red Guards,” as these students soon became known. They were encouraged to uncover “capitalist roaders” or “counterrevolutionaries,” in every organization, to attack and even torture and murder such suspects in and out of the Party. Throughout August and September of 1966, Red Guards conducted a reign of terror. People thought to be bourgeois or counterrevolutionaries were beaten, in homes and on the street; houses were invaded at will and ransacked; belongings that Red Guards thought unnecessary for a proletarian family were destroyed or confiscated. Having Western books, records, or goods was sufficient to be accused of spying. And as Chou En-lai later admitted, “the police and soldiers were under orders 43 not to interfere.” Even Central Committee members, mayors, and other prestigious officials were not exempt. The China News Agency admitted that there “was a special prison [apparently Qin Ching] outside of Peking where thirty-four senior leaders were tortured to death, twenty maimed, and 44 sixty went insane during the Cultural Revolution.” It secretly held at one time about five hundred of China’s leaders, each isolated in a small cell, forbidden to talk to anyone, and known to guards only by a number. No word was allowed out about their imprisonment, even to families. Soon this revolution deteriorated into the murder of anyone who disagreed with how one faction or another defined Mao’s thought or policies. Red Guard fought Red Guard, “leftist” military units fought “leftist” military units, and “conservative” workers and peasants fought both. According to a report by Minister of Security Hsieh Fu-chih, dur43 Edward E. Rice, Mao’s Way. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972, p. 257. 44 Fox Butterfield, China: Alive in the Bitter Sea. New York: Times Books, 1982, p. 354.

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ing the first ten days of May 1967, Beijing saw 130 “bloody incidents” 45 involving 63,000 people. Throughout China many such “incidents” went well beyond fists and knives. There were savage pitched battles with machine guns, grenades, and mortars. In fact: Serious clashes, and in some places heavy fighting, reportedly broke out, during July and August [1967], in every one of China’s twenty-six provinces and autonomous regions . . . . In Szechwan, possibly in consequence of a split within the armed forces stationed in the province, heavy fighting broke out in which even gunboats, tanks 46 and artillery were involved. Parts of cities and even whole towns and villages were destroyed. In Wuhan in July 1967, a unit of the army mutinied, occupied key points, and led an “anti-left” uprising. In the wake of this, struggles broke out in Canton and spread to other parts of the military region and were fought with great violence. One large wall poster put up in Canton in 1974 claimed that in “Guangdong Province alone nearly 40,000 revolutionary masses and cadres were massacred and more than a mil47 lion were imprisoned, put under ‘control’ and struggled against.” Fighting continued intermittently throughout the year and into the next, and then broke out with renewed ferocity in the spring of 1968. There were “very serious” engagements, with army units involved on both sides of the battling factions. The deputy commander of the Wuhan Military Region declared “that the ammunition they had fired within the preceding several days would have sufficed ‘to fight several 48 battles in the war against Japan.’” From the first comprehensive account of this period published in China, we learn that elsewhere

45 Jÿrgen Domes, The Internal Politics of China 1949–1972. Translated by Rÿdiger Machetzki. New York: Praeger, 1973, p. 183. 46 Edward E. Rice, Mao’s Way. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972, p. 408. 47 Quoted in Roger Garside, Coming Alive: China After Mao. New York: McGrawHill, 1981 p. 104. 48 Edward E. Rice, Mao’s Way. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972, p. 450.

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several tens of thousands of militia troops surrounded Wuzhou and took the city after three weeks. Both sides suffered untold casualties; some areas were razed to the ground. The “Allied Command” took up to a thousand prisoners among the “April 22” faction, whom they treated with inhuman cruelty. For instance, they would randomly pick out prisoners on forced marches to shoot on the spot. Family members, including children of prisoners, were mercilessly slaughtered. The brutality matched the Japanese massacre in Nanjing. Liuzhou and Guilin were subject to similar holocausts, except that the latter, being the stronghold of “April 22” power, never fell to the “Allied Command.” In some localities on the island of Hainan, whole villages had joined the “Banner” faction. These localities were designated as “bandit areas” where military troops were sent to reduce them to a shambles. Survivors described massacres as “worse than the time of the Japanese 49 invasion.” In the countryside and the major cities of Kwangsi Province, violent battles went on for weeks, and even involved tanks, artillery, and anti-aircraft guns. Large urban areas were destroyed, and “gas shells or explosives were used to flush out those who were fighting from sewer 50 ducts.” This also happened in other provinces. In the cities of Suchou and Liuchou there were over 50,000 battle dead from military-like clashes between Red Guards and the army. Such revolutionary engagements went on for a third year. In the spring of 1969 there was a resurgence of violence in Szechwan, Kweichow, Shansi, Sinkiang, Tibet, and elsewhere. A July Central 49 Liu Guokai. A Brief Analysis of the Cultural Revolution. New York: M. E. Sharpe, 1987, pp. 121, 123. This analysis of the Cultural Revolution was originally published in China. 50 Edward E. Rice, Mao’s Way. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972, p. 451.

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Committee directive claimed that in Shansi “‘a small handful of class enemies and evil people,’ . . . had ‘infiltrated’ mass organizations, staged armed attacks on units of the [army] and seized their arms; destroyed railways, roads, and bridges and carried out armed seizures of trains; forcefully occupied state banks and warehouses; and used armed force to occupy territory and set up bases for counterrevolutionary pur51 poses.” All these battles, clashes, and military-like operations notwithstanding, it would be a misunderstanding of the Cultural Revolution to conceive of its violence only or mainly in terms of violent engagements. The violence against the individual by one fanatical faction or another continued everywhere. Incarceration, torture, and death were readily meted out to supposedly rich peasants, landlords, counterrevolutionaries, rightists, leftists, spies, or alleged sympathizers of opposing factions. For example, the minister of Public Security in 1968 cited what the leaders of production brigades in one rural county alone had done about people with “bad” personal or family backgrounds—in ten brigades, he said, all “the landlords, rich peasants, counterrevolutionaries, bad elements, and rightists and their children, including babies, 52 were killed in one day.” According to an authorized book on the Cultural Revolution, the socalled “East-Hebei Wrong Case” in Tangshan accounted for 84,000 people purged, 2,955 of them to death; in Yunan Province during the 1968 53 “Zhao Jianmin Wrong Case,” 14,000 people were purged and killed. In this regard, the official, post-Cultural Revolution indictment of the “Gang of Four” (Mao’s wife and three other top leaders during this period) is revealing. They were accused of being personally responsible for wrongfully persecuting 750,000 people, of whom 34,380 died or were killed, including six mayors or deputy mayors of Beijing and Shanghai. In one case, over 346,000 cadres and others had been wrongfully accused of membership in a secret party—16,222 of them were then killed. The “Gang of Four” were also accused of persecuting 142,000 cadres and teachers of the Ministry of Education, 53,000 scientists and technicians of the Academy of Sciences, and over 500 of 674 professors in China’s medical schools, some of whom subsequently died. During the trial of the “Gang of Four” it came out that in a forty-day wave of terror 51 Ibid., p. 473. 52 Ibid., p. 460. 53 Yan Jiaqi and Gao Gao, The Ten Year History of the Cultural Revolution. [in Chinese] Tianjin: People’s Republic of China, 1986, p. 287. Translated for the author by Hua Shiping

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in Beijing in 1966 started by the minister of Public Security, “1,700 people were beaten to death, 33,600 households were searched and 54 ransacked, and 85,000 people were driven out of the capital.” Just two personal examples of the fate suffered by millions should suffice. Three reporters of the New China News Agency related that “a contingent of government officials went to the Shanghai home of the mother of a young woman named Lin Zhao, who had been jailed for keeping a diary critical of the Party. The officials told Lin’s mother that her daughter had been executed three days earlier as a counterrevolutionary. But the money spent on the execution had been a waste, the officials added sardonically, and they demanded that the mother pay five fen—a little more than three cents—to cover the cost of the bullet 55 they had put through the back of her daughter’s head.” Then there is the story of Yu Luoke, whose parents were called rightists. He tried to offer a reasoned refutation of the so-called “theory of the blood line” that decreed him, because his parents were counterrevolutionaries, a rotten egg . . . . Yu Luoke argued that the connection between the class from which an individual was descended and an individual’s political behavior was minimal, that the influence exerted on young people by the social environment far outweighed the influence of the family. Yu Luoke thought the children of rightists should be treated the same as children of parents from “good” class backgrounds. In the summer of 1967, Yu Luoke was arrested for those views. During the nearly three years he spent in prison, Yu Luoke was given the opportunity to repudiate the opinions he had earlier expressed, offered a chance to confess that the argument he had made was a crime. Yu Luoke refused. 54 Quoted in Fox Butterfield, China: Alive in the Bitter Sea. New York: Times Books, 1982, p. 349. 55 Ibid., pp. 17–18.

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On March 5, 1970, at the age of twenty-eight, because he continued to refuse to recant . . . . [i]n Peking’s Workers’ Stadium, before a crowd of tens of thousands, little red books waving, revolutionary slogans filling the air, Yu Luoke 56 was shot. As indicated in the above indictment of the “Gang of Four,” intellectuals and scientists, the educated and talented were also victims. At least in the Soviet Union under Stalin’s bloody fist, science, learning, and expertise were not attacked per se. But, as in Cambodia under the murderous Khmer Rouge, those Chinese intellectuals “who survived or escaped physical torment, were, at best, forced into a state of intellectual suspension or paralysis.” No intellectual or scientist of any sort was to be trusted, especially in governing any organization. Instead, it was customary in these years to put fanatical radicals, regardless of their lack of experience or poor knowledge of their job, in charge of universities, schools, scientific institutes, hospitals, and intellectual associations. Consider the following experience related by a Chinese scientist when Shan Guizhang, a fanatic and ignorant radical, was appointed to head one of most prestigious of China’s institutes, the Institute of Optics and Precision Instruments in Changchun. Shan had read Tales of the Plum Flower Society, a spy thriller about an entirely fictional effort to break a Kuomintang espionage network in the Academy of Sciences. The chief Kuomintang agent was named Peng Jiamu, a name, unfortunately, that also belonged to a real scientist working at the institute. Incredibly, Shan believed that scientist Peng was, in fact, the real-life version of the spy in the book. So, it being fully understandable in the context of the Cultural Revolution, Shan had 166 scientists at the Institute arrested as spies, along with local accountants, policemen, workers, and even nursery attendants. Some were beaten to death; others committed suicide. The existence of a radio or camera at home or the ability of a person to speak a foreign language was considered sufficient proof of spying. Shan was eventually promoted to a provincial Party committee. And then there were the peasants. They had survived the Great Famine and were now confronted with civil anarchy and bloodshed. They 56 Anne F. Thurston, Enemies of the People. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1987, p. 111.

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were harangued by different factions, often caught in the factional cross fire, and watched their sons and daughters marching to one drummer or another, sometimes to battle and death. And they rebelled. During 1967 alone, there were peasant uprisings in twenty-one provinces. Tibet as well saw several revolts. Tibet had suffered severely from the Great Famine, and now the Cultural Revolution had also been exported to the colony. Fighting between Red Guard factions disrupted “Tibet’s delicate system of food distribution [that] abruptly fell apart. By the end of January [1968], subsistence conditions—which had prevailed since the easing of the famine in 1963—gave way; once more, starvation reappeared. This time, it was not to depart for a full five years—until 1973—with isolated regions thereafter continuing to expe57 rience famine until l980.” Caught in the Cultural Revolution, Tibetans were subject to a ruthless terror. One report claimed that over seventeen days in 1966, in and 58 around Lhasa, 69,000 people were executed. This seems much too high an estimate, but there are other reports of “tens of thousands” killed and imprisoned in 1966. By the end of 1968, a number of revolts forced Chinese troops to concentrate their forces in the capital, leaving isolated garrisons in the countryside with their communications cut. In 1970, rebels in southwestern Tibet killed over 1,000 Chinese soldiers and continued fighting into 1972. The largest revolt during these years covered sixty of seventy-one districts, and cost 12,000 Tibetan lives. During the Cultural Revolution in China itself, the Party was being destroyed at the center and the very authority and power of communist rule was endangered. By 1969, seven out of seventeen members of the Politburo were kicked out and declared enemies of the Party; also purged were fifty-three of ninety-seven members of the Communist Party’s Central Committee, four out of six regional first party secretaries, and twenty-three out of twenty-nine provincial first party secretaries. In the country as a whole, claimed Party General Secretary Hu Yaobang, from 1957 to the end of the Cultural Revolution, 100 million people were persecuted, politically harassed, or ended up 59 victims. (By 1980, 2.9 million of them had been officially rehabili57 John F. Avedon, In Exile from the Land of Snows, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1984, p. 299. 58 Phuntsog Wangyal, “Tibet: A Case of Eradication of Religion Leading to Genocide” in Israel W. Charny (Ed.). Toward the Understanding and Prevention of Genocide: Proceedings of the International Conference on the Holocaust and Genocide. Boulder: Westview Press, 1984, pp. 119–126 p. 123. 59 Fox Butterfield, China: Alive in the Bitter Sea. New York: Times Books, 1982, p. 349.

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tated; by 1981, over 300,000 of the 1.2 million cases formally tried and through which people had been sentenced were officially declared “un60 just,” “frame-ups,” or “wrong.” ) But Mao had won the battle; opposing party leaders had been destroyed or shaken out of power. Having destroyed the “right,” he could now move on the “left” that was out of control in many areas. He called upon loyal army units to restore order. The country was gradually brought under control, at the cost of much greater military involvement and dictation in Party affairs and decisions. Scholars agree that the revolution ended in April of 1969, with the Ninth Party Congress. While scattered bloody clashes and local anarchy were soon eliminated, reconstruction of the Party, cleansing of residual Party “rightists” and “leftists,” and dampening the violent, chanting enthusiasm of Red Guard factions preoccupied Mao until his death in 1976. About 17 million youths were sent to the countryside after 1967 to be disciplined, and by about 1975, it was conservatively estimated that a total of 70 million educated youth were deported to labor in the countryside and border regions. Moreover, executions continued apace. For example, those assigned to work in the countryside who returned to the city without permission were executed; so were those helping refugees to escape the country. But ultimately, Mao failed. For after his death, in a “right-wing” coup, the “Gang of Four” were arrested and imprisoned. Deng Xiaoping, the “capitalist roader” who had been maltreated and dragged from power by the Red Guards, eventually took over the Party and country. During the following years, economic and social pragmatism and liberalization—the line that Mao fought against so bloodily—was pursued and institutionalized. And Mao’s “revolutionary masses” hardly remained so after his death, if they existed at all. Indeed, judging from the massive Beijing Tiananmen Square demonstrations in 1976 and especially in 1989, rather than becoming infused with communist revolutionary spirit, the masses increasingly demanded bourgeois democracy, Mao’s bête noire. Mao won the revolution, all right, and lost the hearts and minds of China. At what human cost? As mentioned, the Party itself admits that some 100 million human beings—one out of every eight Chinese!—suffered some kind of harassment or persecution during the revolution. This does not even count their loved ones, relatives, and friends who shared their pain and suffering, and grieved over their death or imprisonment. 60 China: Violations of Human Rights: Prisoners of Conscience and the Death Penalty in the People’s Republic of China. London: Amnesty International Publications, 1984, p. 6.

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But leaving this inestimable misery aside, what was the revolution’s death toll? Estimates vary widely, and there can be no sure accounting after such a chaotic revolution. On the high side, estimates exceed 10 million killed. One estimate of 18.1 million dead (which includes those killed in the so-called “Four Cleanup” Movement) is based on sources collected by the Republic of China. A communist “restricted internal 61 publication.” reported an estimate of 20 million unnatural deaths dur62 ing those years. Still another estimate claims 15 million were killed. In evaluating these and many other estimates in China’s Bloody Century,63 I calculated it most likely that both sides in the revolution murdered about 7,731,000, including those who died from mistreatment and malnutrition in prisons and concentration camps, “leftists” and “rightists,” “counterrevolutionaries,” the “bourgeoisie,” “spies,” Party officials and cadres, government officials and workers, and the more successful peasants, scientists, writers, teachers, students, and those unlucky enough to be around—and, of course, sometimes their husbands and wives, and even children. In addition, nearly 563,000 army troops, members of Red Guard factions, and rebelling peasants may have died in battle. Then there also was a famine aggravated by the revolution that killed around 1 million people. Adding it all together, this revolution cost about 9,292,000 million lives, more than the cost in lives of World War I. All in one nation. And all to determine one thing: which dictators would rule.

61 Richard L. Walker, The Human Cost Of Communism In China. A study of the Committee on the Judiciary, United States Senate, Washington, D.C., Government Printing Office, 1971, p. 16. 62 Maria Hsia Chang [Professor of Political Science, University of Nevada-Reno], Speech to the Ethics and Public Policy Panel on "China in Transition." Washington, D.C., May 22, 1989. 63 See Appendix II in the book. Appendix II is also available in two parts on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/CHINA.TABIIA.1.GIF; and www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/CHINA.TABIIA.2.GIF

Chapter 25 Power Kills Power gradually extirpates for the mind every humane and gentle virtue. – Edmund Burke

Deadly Communism

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ew would deny any longer what the previous bloody examples attest: communism—Marxism-Leninism and its variants— meant in practice bloody terrorism, deadly purges, lethal prison camps and forced labor, fatal deportations, man-made famines, extrajudicial executions and show trials, outright mass murder, and genocide. 62 In total, as Table 25.1 shows, communist (Marxist-Leninist) regimes murdered nearly 110 million people from 1917 to 1987. For perspective on this incredible toll, note that all domestic and foreign wars during the twentieth century killed in combat around 35 million. Communists, when in control of a nation, have murdered over three times the number that have been killed in combat in all wars, including the world wars. And what did this greatest of human social experiments, communism, achieve for its poor citizens at this most bloody cost in lives? Nothing. It left in its wake an economic, environmental, social, and cultural disaster. The Khmer Rouge example provides insight into why communists believed it necessary and moral to massacre so many of their fellow humans. Their absolutist ideology was married to absolute power. They believed without a shred of doubt that they knew the truth, that they would bring about the greatest human welfare and happiness, and that to realize this utopia, they had to mercilessly tear down the old feudal 62 See my “How Many Did Communist Regimes Murder?” on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/COM.ART.HTM

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or capitalist order and culture and then totally rebuild a communist society. Nothing could be allowed to stand in the way of this achievement. Government—the Communist Party—was above any law. All other institutions, religions, cultural norms, traditions, and sentiments were expendable. The communists saw the construction of this utopia as a war on poverty, exploitation, imperialism, and inequality—and as in a real war, noncombatants would unfortunately get caught in the battle, and there were necessary enemy casualties: the clergy, bourgeoisie, capital-

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ists, “wreckers,” intellectuals, counterrevolutionaries, rightists, tyrants, the rich, and landlords. In a war millions may die, but these deaths may well be justified by the end, as in the defeat of Hitler in World War II. To many communists, the goal of a communist utopia was enough to justify all the deaths. The irony of this is that communism in practice, even after decades of total control, did not improve the lot of the average person, but usually made living conditions worse than before the revolution. As we’ve seen, it is not by chance that the greatest famines have happened within the Soviet Union (about 5 million dead from 1921–23 and 7 million from 1932–3, including 2 million outside Ukraine) and communist China (about 30 million dead from 1959–61). Overall, in the last century almost 55 million people died in various communist famines and associated epidemics—a little over 10 million of them were intentionally starved to death, and the rest died as an unintended result of communist collectivization and agricultural policies. This is as though the whole population of the American New England and middle Atlantic states, or California and Texas, had been wiped out. And that around 35 million people escaped communist countries as refugees was an unequaled vote against communist utopian pretensions. Its equivalent would be everyone fleeing California, emptying it of all human beings. There is a supremely important lesson for human life and welfare to be learned from this horrendous sacrifice to one ideology: No one can be trusted with unlimited power. The more power a government has to impose the beliefs of an ideological or religious elite or decree the whims of a dictator, the more likely human lives and welfare will be sacrificed.

Other Mega- and Kilo- Mass Murderers Certainly, communism does not stand alone in such megamurders (see the list in Table 20.1 of Chapter 20). We have the example of totalitarian-socialist Nazi Germany, which exterminated some 21 million Jews, Poles, Ukrainians, Russians, Yugoslavs, Frenchmen, Germans, and 64 other nationalities. Then there is the fascist Nationalist government of 64 See my Democide: Nazi Genocide and Mass Murder (1993). A summary chapter and most of the statistics are on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/NOTE3.HTM

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China under Chiang Kai-sheik, which murdered nearly 10 million Chi65 nese from 1928 to 1949, and the fascist Japanese militarists who murdered almost 6 million Chinese, Indonesians, Indochinese, Koreans, 66 Filipinos, and others during World War II. There also are the 1 million or more Bengalis and Hindus murdered in East Pakistan (now Bangla67 desh) in 1971 by the fascist Pakistan military. Nor should we forget the mass expulsion of ethnic Germans and German citizens from eastern Europe at or after the end of World War II, particularly by the authoritarian, pre-communist Polish government, which murdered perhaps over a 68 million of them as it seized the German Eastern Territories.69 In Chapter 17, I outlined the democide before and during the Mexican Revolution, and I mentioned the democide by the governments of Burma and Sudan in Chapter 1. I could go on to detail various kinds of noncommunist democide, as I did in Death By Government, and more comprehensively in Statistics of Democide.

The Unifying Cause of Democide: Power What connects all these cases of democide is this: as a government’s power is more unrestrained, as its power reaches into all corners of culture and society, the more likely it is to kill its own citizens. As a governing elite has the power to do whatever it wants, whether to satisfy its most personal wishes, or to pursue what it believes is right and true, it may do so whatever the cost in lives. Here, power is the necessary condition for mass murder. Once an elite has full authority, other causes and conditions can operate to bring about the immediate genocide, terrorism, massacres, or whatever killing the members of an elite feel is warranted. 65 See my China’s Bloody Century: China’s Genocide and Mass Murder Since 1900 (1991). A summary chapter and most of the statistics are on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/NOTE2.HTM 66 See my chapter on Japanese democide in my Statistics of Democide (1994) on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/SOD.CHAP3.HTM 67 See my chapter on Pakistan’s democide in my Statistics of Democide (1994) on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/SOD.CHAP8.HTM 68 See my chapter on Poland’s ethnic cleansing in my Statistics of Democide (1994) and on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/SOD.CHAP7.HTM. Some Poles have written me irate emails about this chapter. My response is at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/SOD.CHAP7.ADDENDA.HTM 69 The total number of Reichdeutsch and Ethnic Germans murdered in these expulsions from Eastern Europe at or after the end of the war is about 1,863,000 out of about 15 million expelled.

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All this provides a solid, life oriented argument for freedom: Freedom preserves and secures life. That which preserves and protects human life is a moral good. And, as I have shown, freedom is already a moral good for promoting human welfare and minimizing internal political violence. I now will add to this list the moral good of saving human lives. I have saved a discussion of another moral good until the next chapter. It may be even more surprising than the life-preserving aspect I have described here.

PART 6 On Freedom’s Moral Goods: Eliminating War

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lthough it is sometimes the lesser evil, as in the war against Hitler, war is always a horror. It consumes human lives and property with the most savage appetite. Humanists, idealists, and pacifists have focused on it as the supreme human problem that mankind must solve. Stacks of library books provide histories of war, analyses of its causes and conditions, and solutions. Now, finally, a well researched, well studied solution is at hand. It is practical. It is much desired for itself. It is consistent with human rights. It is supported by clear theory. It is based on two facts: democracies throughout history have never, or virtually never, made war on each other. And the odds of this fact being a matter of chance are millions to one. The solution, therefore, is to spread democracy throughout the world. Histories, and often analyses of war, are dry discussions or descriptions of what generals, commanders, and national leaders or rulers did, the mechanics, strategies, and tactics of battles, and the consequences of lost lives, territory, and equipment. They are too often removed from the human side of it—from the slogging misery, pain, and death in combat for the soldier. In Chapter 26, I try to provide some understanding of what war can be like for the soldier in just one battle, for just one side, in just one war. With that understanding, we’ll move on to discuss the nature of the democratic peace, the idea that democracy is a solution to war and violence, and its sources. This is not an either-or solution, but the degree to which nations are democratic also makes a difference in the severity of their wars. Why is democracy so potent in preventing war? Democracies share their institutions and culture, and are bonded by the governmental, societal, and economic threads that sew them together.

Chapter 26 Battle of the Somme From its beginning in 1914 to its end in 1918, World War I combat ate up about 5,500 lives per day, to total by its end at least 9 million combat dead—both men and women.

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uly 1 had finally come. Now, at 7:25 a.m., an incredible, all-out bombardment was ending the weeklong shelling of German trenches. The roar of continuous explosions sent fountains of rock and soil, and sometimes whole tree trunks, into the air. What few trees remained were little more than shredded trunks. Some 50,000 British and French artillery gunners had shot 1.5 million shells—21,000 tons of explosive material of all descriptions—onto the Germans. They even fired some gas shells at them, sending a cloud of gas seeping downward into the German trenches, all the way to the lowest bunkers. The British and French commanding generals were confident that this shelling would leave few of the enemy capable of fighting in their front trenches, and would destroy much of the barrier of barbed wire protecting them. The noise had been deafening but reassuring to the young British volunteers waiting in their trenches to attack the Germans. Fresh from home and hardly trained, they were apprehensive, nervous, feeling the suspense after waiting over a week for the battle. They had prayed, made out their wills, written home, and shaken hands with their friends. Some were sweating; some were slightly intoxicated, or drunk outright on army-issue rum. Above all, they were optimistic. They knew they were going to win a great victory. After all, they were the volunteer regiments—the British “Pals” who had enthusiastically enlisted with their friends, coworkers, and neighbors to be formed with those same fellows into regiments. Clerks and workers from a single commercial company composed whole platoons. And their officers had told them how easy it would be. In any case, they had been hearing the thunderous shelling from their own artillery for seven days, and watching the stupendous explosions just a thousand or more yards in front of them.

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Finally, it was 7:30 a.m. The shelling stopped. Utter silence engulfed the front. Suddenly the British officers blew their whistles, waved their polished sticks—many thought it beneath them to carry guns or to personally kill—and yelled for their troops to follow them. Along a front twenty miles long, nearly 100,000 young men crowded up the trench ladders and across the parapet in the first wave of this mighty offensive. Shoulder to shoulder, they walked in the morning light toward what remained of the German trenches, redoubts, and fortified villages. They could not run if they wanted to, since each carried sixty-six to ninety pounds of ammunition and equipment. Besides, several days of heavy rain had turned the clay soil into deep and slippery mud; in some areas, it was marshland. In many places along the line, the advancing soldiers were preceded by a walking barrage of friendly shells timed to keep German troops hunkered down in their trenches. Since the gunners had a strict rate of advance for their shells, however, the barrages were often too far ahead of the men. These soldiers did not know they were marching 1,000 to 2,000 yards toward their death; most would not reach the parapet of the German trenches. The Germans had survived the barrage deep within their trenches, sometimes thirty or forty feet down, within well-fortified dugouts; some were actually concrete bunkers. Few of the shells that exploded above or around them had been the type of heavy artillery that could reach or bury their fortifications. Once the shelling stopped and the Germans heard the British whistles, they scrambled for what remained of the parapet of their trenches. Physically, the Germans were in sad shape. They had been under a continuous rain of shells. Day after day, they’d faced the prospect of being blown up or entombed in their trenches. They’d had little sleep; they were mentally exhausted by the bombardment and a week’s wait; they were scared. They knew they were going to be attacked and possibly shot or bayoneted. Still, many were first to the top, with time to set up their machine guns and arrange themselves along the parapet. They couldn’t believe what they saw. Walking toward them shoulder to shoulder were thousands of British men, often with their unarmed officers in front. German soldiers opened fire with their rifles. Machine gunners triggered the lethal chatter of their guns, not aiming but simply moving their barrels left to right, right to left, spraying bullets back and forth into the line of oncoming men. Then the German artillery opened up. They’d known weeks before that an attack was coming, though they had thought, because the preparations were so clearly visible from the high

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ground they held, it could only be a diversion, and not a full-scale attack. So German headquarters had not reinforced them. Nonetheless, they had sighted their artillery beforehand, and now their shells fell among the advancing British soldiers. The explosions flattened whole sections of the oncoming wall, throwing men violently aside or heaving them up in the air in a fountain of mud—full bodies here, parts of bodies there. The air was a maelstrom of whizzing bullets, buzzing shrapnel, exploding shells. British officers could not make their commands heard above the noise, nor could their men hear the yells or cries of pain from a friend only three feet away. Miraculously, some reached the wire in front of the German trenches, but shelling had done little to destroy it. Those who tried to go over it were caught in the barbs, becoming easy targets for the Germans only feet away. Soon the bodies of British soldiers hanging at all angles along miles of wire formed a grotesque line. Other British soldiers found the few openings the shelling had cut in the wire, but as they funneled through, the Germans found a concentrated target, and slaughtered them. Some of the attackers who did reach the German trenches were burned to death with flamethrowers Within minutes, no-man’s land was a dead man’s land of human bodies, body parts, scraps of uniform, helmets, destroyed equipment, metal fragments, shrapnel, shredded wood, and shell holes. Before the morning was over, the body count of British soldiers had mounted to nearly 20,000 dead and 38,000 wounded or missing. Nor was this the end of it for the wounded. Since the German soldiers could not risk someone crawling up to throw a grenade into their trench, they shot any wounded that moved. Enemy shelling had partly buried some British wounded in the mud, and some had fallen or been blown into slippery-sided shell holes, soon to die of their wounds or drown in the sludge at the bottom. Many bodies were so deeply buried in the mud, or so badly disintegrated, they were never found. At 10:00 a.m., despite the carnage, the general order came down from British Army Headquarters to continue the attack. This only threw many more lives away. By noon, the trenches from which the British soldiers had launched the offensive were in chaos. They were full of dead, wounded, and the terrified and exhausted men of the first waves who had managed to make it back to the trenches. Mingling with them were horror-stricken soldiers fresh from the rear, ordered forward by their officers. But there was a blessing to this confusion: further efforts to breach the German trenches died away as local officers became increasingly reluctant to send more men to their deaths. Meanwhile, the British soldiers’ initial exuberance and confidence had sunk to a dull expectation of death. At best, they hoped for a wound

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that would take them to the rear—a shot through the hand, a shredded leg, even a lost arm would do, if they could then escape the almost certain death of no man’s land. Some even wounded themselves to avoid battle. Some—but not as many as one would think—tried to run away. The British army had positioned soldiers behind front trenches for just this possibility, and these “battle police” either turned these men around to return to battle and probable death, or shot them then and there. Reported British Lieutenant Alfred Bundy on his part in leading this first day’s attack: Went over top at 7.30 a.m. after what seemed an interminable period of terrible apprehension. Our artillery seemed to increase in intensity and the German guns opened up on No Man’s Land. The din was deafening, the fumes choking and visibility limited owing to the dust and clouds caused by exploding shells. It was a veritable inferno. I was momentarily expecting to be blown to pieces. My platoon continued to advance in good order without many casualties and until we had reached nearly half way to the [German] front line. I saw no sign of life there. Suddenly however an appalling rifle and machine-gun fire opened against us and my men commenced to fall. I shouted “down” but most of those that were still not hit had already taken what cover they could find. I dropped in a shell hole and occasionally attempted to move to my right and left but bullets were forming an impenetrable barrier and exposure of the head meant certain death. None of our men was visible but in all directions came pitiful groans and cries of pain . . . . I finally decided to wait till dusk and about 9.30 I started to crawl flat on my stomach. At times I made short wild dashes and finally came to our wire. The [Germans] were still traversing our front line trenches and as I lay waiting for strength to rush

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the final few yards sparks flew from the wire continuously as it was struck by bullets. At last the firing ceased and after tearing my clothes and flesh on the wire I reached the parapet and fell over in our trench now full of dead and wounded. I found a few of my men but the majority were still out and most were dead. Came across my Company Commander Hunt who was almost insane. Took charge of 69 ‘C’ company of about 30 men. a Throughout the night, the cries and groans of the British wounded never stopped. Sometimes someone would cry for his mother. Wounded and unwounded managed to walk or crawl back to their trenches, and stretcher-bearers brought in what casualties they could find. In the rear medical stations, nurses made those wounded sure to die as comfortable as possible, while those standing a chance of survival were rushed to hospitals in the rear for immediate treatment. Clare Tisdall, who worked as a British nurse at a Casualty Clearing Station during the battle, described her experience. [W]e practically never stopped. I was up for seventeen nights before I had a night in bed. A lot of the boys had legs blown off, or hastily amputated at the front-line. These boys were the ones who were in the greatest pain, and I very often used to have to hold the stump up in the ambulance for the whole journey, so that it wouldn’t bump on the stretcher. The worst case I saw—and it still haunts me—was of a man being carried past us. It was at night, and in the dim light I thought that his face was covered with a black cloth. But as he came nearer, I was horrified to realize that the whole lower half of his face had been completely blown off and what had appeared 69a Malcolm Brown, The Imperial War Museum Book of the Somme. Trans-Atlantic Publications, 1997.

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to be a black cloth was a huge gaping hole. It was the only time I nearly fainted.70 This was war, and luck and the natural variations in geography, leadership, weapons, and experience assured different outcomes from one section of the front to another. In a few places, German trenches were overrun; in other places, the British bombardment destroyed German trenches—yet attacking the second line of trenches was often no less deadly than attacking the first line had been in other places. Why did the British commanding generals order these men to walk across no man’s land toward the higher German trenches, in full daylight, putting them for five to six minutes in easy range of machine gunners, snipers and riflemen, and artillery? Simple—since British Pal battalions of “citizen soldiers” were poorly trained and lacked combat experience, the battle plan gave them the easiest and strictest of commands: “Go up the ladder, stand up, hold your rifle across your breast pointed at the sky (so that no one would be accidentally shot), walk in a line abreast to the Germans’ trenches, shoot or bayonet any Germans in the trench, and occupy it.” They gave no room for initiative; the battle plan was rigid and finely detailed in pages of orders given to the front line officers. Above all, the British commanding generals believed in the ability of massed artillery to conquer infantry. They thought the artillery would more than compensate for the lack of surprise and the vulnerability of their men. They had planned on a massive six-day bombardment (extended to seven days because of rain) that would be so devastating it would destroy the German trenches and fortifications and cut the frontal barbed wire. Then the British soldiers need only stroll to the Germans’ wrecked trenches and occupy them. In other words, these generals did not understand the limits of their artillery and the resources of the Germans to strengthen their trenches against the rain of shells. Not only did they spread the shelling evenly across the whole front, despite the variations in fortifications their soldiers faced, they did not understand the killing power of the machine gun. And they did not have any contingency plans for failure. Nor did the first day’s military catastrophe deter the British generals. They saw it as only a setback, not a defeat. After all, their reasoning went, the offensive had weakened the Germans. So they turned the battle into one of attrition, intending to make the Germans lose so 70 From www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/FWWcasualties.htm

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many lives and so much material, they must finally retreat. No matter the dead, the British launched offensive after offensive and chewed up more human lives. Four months later, the British finally ended the battle after an unbelievable 1,120,000 casualties: 620,000 on their side, and 500,000 Germans. And the winnings? The offensives had gained at most sixteen miles of moonscape littered with the debris of battle, all of which the Germans soon recovered in later battles anyway. As for those British soldiers who day after day climbed the trench ladder and, as though moving against a stiff wind or rain, walked toward the Germans through a hail of bullets and shells, one might wonder how they could do this. The usual characterizations come to mind. Patriotism, duty, hatred of the enemy—all surely played a role. Mostly, however, it was loyalty to fellow soldiers, friendship, the desire not to let anyone down—even the inspiring heroism of their officers. The latter were often the first up and over the parapet, unarmed yet standing up fearlessly, knowing they would likely die, and still leading their men onward. Then why did the British officers do what they did? Unlike their men, who had just joined the service and were from the working classes, the officers had attended the finest schools, and had usually been acculturated into a military role that they accepted without question. They were “gentlemen.” They looked after their men, helped them with their problems, and showed them compassion—but also tough discipline. Their job was to lead men into battle and to win the objective, and to do so calmly and fearlessly. As a result, their life expectancy was no more than a few weeks, compared to a few months for their men. This battle was the Battle of the Somme in World War I, an engagement named after a French river that flowed to the south. The British Expeditionary Force in France launched this battle in 1916 against the German front lines. The French, far more experienced and much better trained for this type of warfare, manned the southern part of the front. By making better use of their artillery, the French largely achieved their first day’s objectives against weaker German fortifications. The French commander-in-chief, Joseph Jacques Cèsaire Joffre, conceived the offensive, which Field Marshal Sir Douglas Haig, newly appointed commander of the British Expeditionary Force, then put into action. Joffre hoped the offensive would break through German defenses, create chaos in the rear, and enable the encircling of the Germans in northern France. At the very least, Joffre wanted to take German pressure off French troops holding fast against the Ger-

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man offensive at Verdun 150 miles away, but by the time the Battle of the Somme was launched, the Germans had already been defeated at Verdun—another bloody meat grinder that created some 1.2 million casualties for the two sides before it ended. Not only was the Battle of the Somme a military failure and a human disaster, but also, not launching it could have saved Russia from defeat. Had the British and French transferred the guns and ammunition used in the Somme to help the Russians, they might have defeated the Germans and thereby forestalled or prevented the Russian Revolution that turned Russia into a communist state in 1917, which then withdrew from the war. British support for war has not been as robust and enthusiastic as before the toll and nature of the Battle of the Somme became public. Those killed in just the first day of this battle exceeded that of any other day of war in British history, before or since. Even during the first day of the D-Day invasion of Normandy twenty-eight years later, the English and Canadians suffered only 4,000 casualties, compared to the 58,000 for the first day of the Somme offensive. Since the British army kept those enlisting from a neighborhood or town together, whole communities were devastated by the death of most of their young men. In the first hours of the offensive, for example, the Ulster division from Northern Ireland lost 5,600 men, all from a relatively small community. For the British, this battle became symbolic of the horrors and uselessness of war, and decades later, when the threat of Hitler was clear, the British people and especially British intellectuals recoiled from the thought of rearmament and another war. No one could forget the useless death of Britain’s best and brightest in the Battle of the Somme. Yet, as bloody and stupid as this battle was, it was only one in the war. From its beginning in 1914 to its end in 1918, World War I combat ate up about 5,500 lives per day, to total by its end at least 9 million combat dead—both men and women. Of all the soldiers’ correspondence I have read, one exchange touched me most deeply, and shows the misery and horror of war not only for the soldiers in combat, but for their loved ones as well. This letter is from Private William Martin to his fiancée Emily Chitticks, written while he was fighting in France with the Devonshire Regiment. It is dated March 24, 1917. My dearest Emily Just a few lines dear to tell you I am still in the land of the living and keeping well, trusting you are the same dear. I

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have just received your letter dear and was very pleased to get it. It came rather more punctual this time for it only took five days. We are not in the same place dear, in fact we don’t stay in the same place very long . . . . we are having very nice weather at present dear and I hope it continues . . . . Fondest love and kisses from your loving Sweetheart Will Martin was killed in action three days after writing it. Unaware of this, Emily continued to write, even when receiving no reply. Finally, the army returned five of her letters with “killed in action” marked on them. This March 29, 1917 letter was one of those returned. My Dearest Will I was so delighted to get your letter this morning and know you are quite alright. I am pleased to say I am alright myself and hope dear this will find you the same. I was so pleased to hear darling that you had such a nice enjoyable evening, It was quite a treat I am sure. I don’t suppose you do get much amusement. I am glad you are getting my letters dear, I am not waiting until I get your letters dear now before I write because it would make it so long for you to wait for a letter, and I guess you are pleased to get as many as possible. I can understand darling your not being able to write as frequently. I shall get used to waiting for your letters soon I guess, but at first it seems so strange after being used to having them so regularly. Well darling I don’t know any more to say now and I am feeling sleepy. Oh I wish you were here darling, but its no good wishing.

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Fondest love and lots of kisses from your ever-loving little girl 71 Emily. William Martin’s grave was never found. Emily was so heartbroken by his death that she never married. When she died in 1974, Martin’s letters were buried with her, as she requested.

71 From an October 1998 British Broadcasting Corporation Special Report on World War I.

Chapter 27 The Democratic Peace The absence of war between democracies comes as close as anything we have to an empirical law in international relations. – Jack Levy

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hat can we do about war? Most wars, like World War I, should never have been fought. It was the result of flagrant political and diplomatic errors. The lesson so many learned from this war, however, was not that avoiding such errors would prevent future conflicts, but that we must never fight another war, and that armaments and arms races cause wars. This was the wrong lesson, and it led to World War II. When Great Britain and France could have stopped Hitler cheaply—when a strong military showing by them would have avoided World War II—the awful memory of the bloody cost of the battles of the Somme and Verdun proved too strong. Finally, Great Britain and France drew the line against Hitler in Poland in 1939, but it was too late to avoid a war. And with the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941 and Hitler’s declaration of war against the formerly neutral United States, it more truly became a world war. As hellish and bloody as war is, I believe that we had to fight this war. Just think of what it would mean in lives and misery if the Nazis had controlled all of Europe, including Great Britain and Russia. Add to this the control of all of Asia and the western Pacific by the Japanese military. The butchery that these murderers would have unleashed on both sides of the world would undoubtedly far exceed the human cost of World War II. Even before their defeat in 1945, remember, the Nazis already had murdered about 21 million people—many more than the 15 million killed in battle in all of World War II for all countries involved. The Japanese militarists murdered an additional 6 million people. Dictators of all kinds have killed several times more people than has combat in all the wars, foreign and domestic. As horrible as it was, the Hutu rulers of Rwanda killed more people in four months than did the Battle of the Somme during the same length of time. And this was only one murderous government in a fairly small country.

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Virtually all proposals to prevent war have suffered from this defect: they ignore how dictators and dictatorships differ from democratic leaders and democracies. There have always been those who, when they inherit or seize power, forcefully fill their army with unwilling soldiers, and then grind them to death in a war to grab more power and control over others. The rogues’ gallery of these murderers and aggressors is long, and surely at the top would be, for the twentieth century alone, Adolf Hitler, Joseph Stalin, Vladimir Ilich Lenin, Mao Tse-tung, Chiang Kai-shek, Tojo Hideki, and Pol Pot. When there are such people controlling large armies, the solutions to war, such as pacifism, unilateral disarmament, or disarmament treaties, do not work. Worse, these solutions weaken or disarm democracies and make the world safe only for such tyrants. Now, finally, we have the proven knowledge to avoid both wars and the aggression of dictators. This solution was proposed in the latter part of the eighteenth century and recent social science research has shown its veracity. In his Perpetual Peace, written in 1795, the great German philosopher Immanuel Kant argued that the way to universal peace lay in creating republics, or what today we would call representative democracies. Kant wrote, “The republican constitution, besides the purity of its origin (having sprung from the pure source of the concept of law), also gives a favorable prospect for the desired consequence, i.e., perpetual peace. The reason is this: if the consent of the citizens is required in order to decide that war should be declared (and in this constitution it cannot but be the case), nothing is more natural than that they would be very cautious in commencing such a poor game, decree72 ing for themselves all the calamities of war.” Note two things about this solution. First is that, where people have equal rights and freely participate in their governance, they will be unlikely to promote a war in which they or their loved ones might die and their property be destroyed. And second, where leaders are responsible to their people as voters, they will be unwilling to fight. Then when both leaders of two nations are so restrained, war between them should not occur. The idea that democracies are therefore inherently peaceful was not lost to others. It became part of a more general philosophy of governance that Kant shared with liberals of the time, a system of belief we now call classical liberalism, which I dealt with in Chapter 6 with regard to democracy and in Chapter 11 on the free market. Adam Smith, 72 Immanuel Kant, Perpetual Peace.Translated by Lewis White Beck. New York: The Library of Liberal Arts, Bobbs-Merrill, 1957, pp. 12–13. It is online at http://www.mtholyoke.edu/acad/intrel/kant/kant1.htm

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John Stewart Mill, and John Locke, among other influential thinkers of the time, argued for the maximum freedom of the individual. They believed in minimal government. They also supported free trade between nations and a free market within. Such freedom, they argued, would create a harmony among nations, and promote peace. As Thomas Paine—who like most of America’s founding fathers was a classical liberal—wrote in his influential Rights of Man in 1791–1792, “Government on the old system is an assumption of power, for the aggrandizement of itself; on the new [republican form of government as just established in the United States], a delegation of power for the common benefit of society. The former supports itself by keeping up a system of war; the latter promises a system of peace, as the true means 73 of enriching a nation.” Full proof of this point had to wait, however, until scientists such as Bruce Russett, Zeev Maoz, James Lee Ray, and I could develop research 74 methods to document it. We did related research throughout the 1970s, thanks in part to the growth of new statistical models made possible by the advent of the computer, and in the 1980s we, and scholars who followed our lead, proved Kant correct. By then we had collected data on all wars that had occurred over the last several centuries, and by applying various statistical analyses to these data, we established that there never (or virtually never) has been a war between well-established democracies. Moreover, through these techniques, we also proved that there was not a hidden factor accounting for this, such as a lack of common borders, or geographic distance between democracies. Nor was this democratic peace attributable to the wealth of democracies, or their international power, education levels, technology, resources, religion, or population density. Our findings are straightforward: Well-established democracies do not make war on each other. 75

Table 27.1 provides some evidence on this. It gives a simple count of wars between democracies, wars between democracies and nondemocracies, and those between nondemocracies from 1816 to 1991. As the table shows, in all the wars during this period, 353 nations fought 73 Michael Howard, War and the Liberal Conscience. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1978, p. 29. 74 For links to such work on the Internet, see the link page on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/LINKS.HTM. For much of my research results on this, see my theme page at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/MIRACLE.HTM 75 This is Table 1.1 in my Death By Government at www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/DBG.TAB1.1.GIF

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each other. The numbers refer to pairs of nations (dyads) violently engaged in war against each other. For example, in the brief 1979 war between Cambodia and Vietnam, there was only one pair of nations at war. In the Six Day War of 1967, Israel fought Egypt, Jordan, and Syria, thus making it three pairs at war (Israel vs. Egypt, Israel vs. Jordan, and Israel vs. Syria). The table presents the result of adding all pairs at war for all wars from 1816 to 1991. In no case did a democracy clearly fight another democracy, which is also true since 1991. There never has been a Battle of the Somme between free people. No battle has come even close. In fact, there has been no lethal military action between liberal democracies, as they are defined in Chapter 6, ever. But one might still ask whether this is owed to chance. Since in the twentieth century democracies were a minority among nations, and in previous centuries there were only a handful of democracies at any given time, is not it likely that this lack of war is by chance—luck? Statistical analysis enables us to calculate the probability of such events taking place. True, statistics can be misused and have been, but this is true of any scientific method. Virtually all the medical drugs deemed safe for us to take today are based on statistical tests, not unlike those used to test whether democracies not making war on each other is a chance occurrence. If we are going to be cynical about statistics, then we should also be very wary of taking any modern drugs for an illness or disease. This issue is really not about statistics but how well they have been applied, and whether the data meet the assumptions of the statistical model used.

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Different researchers have tested the lack of war between democracies in different ways for different years, the definitions of democracy, and the ways of defining war, and in those studies using tests of significance, the positive result has been statistically significant in each 76 case. Thus, the overall significance of this absence of war is really a multiple (or function, if some of these studies are not independent) of these different significant probabilities, which would make the overall probability (subjectively estimated) of the results occurring by chance 77 alone surely at least a million to one.

76 An annotated bibliography on the earlier work on the democratic peace is at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/MTF.ANNOTBIBLIO.HTM. See also the “Democracy and War” links at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/LINKS.HTM 77 Readers may have many other questions about this lack of relationship between democracy and war, often called the democratic peace. I have tried to answer a number of them in an Appendix Q&A to my Power Kills. The appendix is on my website at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/PK.APPEN1.1.HTM. See also my article on “What is the Democratic Peace?” at: http://www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/DP.IS_WHAT.HTM

Chapter 28 The Freer The People, the Greater the Peace There is a near perfect correlation between the lack of freedom in two nations and the number killed in wars between them.

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t is not just a free, democratic populace that inhibits war, but also the degree to which people are free. To understand this, we must stop thinking about war as a single event that happens or does not happen. Rather, we should think of war as embodying different amounts of killing, just as a yardstick embodies different degrees of length. A war may be as vast in scope as World War I or World War II, in which the fighting between Germany and the Soviet Union alone took more than 7.5 million lives. But the severity of a war may only be in hundreds killed, not millions—as was the war between India and China in 1962, at a cost to each of around 500 dead, or the Gulf War, when the United States lost 148 people from battle and 35 from friendly fire. All are wars, but the relevant distinction among them here is one of magnitude. Imagine a yardstick of freedom, with at one end democracies like Canada, New Zealand, and Sweden, and at the other end the least free countries like North Korea, Sudan, Burma, Cuba, and Laos. Toward the middle would be such authoritarian countries as Egypt, Bangladesh, and Malaysia. Then, for any two countries, the closer the government of each is to the democratic end of the yardstick, the more likely it is that there will be fewer killed in any war between them. Thus we can establish a correlation between the degree of freedom and the degree of intensity in war. Figure 28.1 graphs this correlation for governments divided into democratic, authoritarian (people are partly free), and totalitarian (people 77 have no freedom) subgroups. This shows a near-perfect correlation between nonfreedom and war dead over the years 1900–1980. At one end of this correlation we have two nations that are both democratically free 77 This is from Figure 3.1 in my Power Kills (1997) at www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/PK.FIG3.1.GIF

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(labeled “demo” in the figure) that have fought no wars and have experienced, if any at all, very minor violence between the most marginal (electoral) of the democracies. At the other end, we have nations in which there are no civil rights and political liberties, and a dictator commands all politically relevant activity and groups. Such totalitarian governments (labeled “tot” or “total”), as the figure illustrates, are most likely to have the bloodiest wars. The part of World War II involving totalitarian Germany and the Soviet Union is a case in point. In fighting against each other, the Soviet Union lost 7.5 million in battle, and Nazi Germany lost most of its 3.5 million battle dead. No two nations have ever, before or since, inflicted such massive bloodshed on each other.

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Authoritarian nations (labeled “aut” or “author”) are between democratic and totalitarian ones in their degree of freedom and, as should be true empirically, their violence is more or less, depending on whether they fight against democracies or totalitarian nations. To the iron law that democracies do not make war on each other, we can now add: The less democratically free any two nations are, the more likely is severe violence between them. There are many other kinds of international violence besides war. There is violence short of war, such as American jets shooting down Iraqi fighter planes that violated the United Nations-defined no-fly zone over southern Iraq in the late 1990s; the blowing up of a South Korean passenger jet by North Korean agents; or military action by Cuban forces against Somalia during the Ethiopia-Somalia War over the Ogaden (1976–1983). And despite this absence of violence between democracies, democracies overall can be violent and aggressive. Democracies direct violence only at nondemocracies. However, when one considers the explanation for why democracies are peaceful—that democratic peoples are acculturated into negotiation and compromise over violence—one should expect that democracies overall would have the least severe foreign violence and war, the least dead in all their violence fighting other countries. Another way of putting this is that, the more freedom a nation has, the less its leaders squander the lives of their people in foreign violence 79 and war. And this is true, as I show in Figure 28.2. The less democratic a country is, the more intense its foreign violence. This is not to say that democracies are generally pacifist. They have engaged in bloody wars, usually to fight aggression and defend themselves and other democracies. And certainly democracies have also been the aggressors, as was the United States in the Spanish-American 79 This is from Figure 4.2 in Power Kills (1997).

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War, the Philippine-American War of 1899–1902, the Grenada and Panama interventions, and the Afghanistan and Iraq invasions. On the average, however, democratic leaders are more careful about the lives of their citizens and, therefore, they fight less severe wars. There also are exceptions to this, as in the Battle of the Somme during which the British commanding generals continued to throw troops into battle even after its bloody losses and lack of success. However, it should be pointed out again that the repercussions of this on British public opinion were so great as to make British foreign policy naively pacifist for a full generation. Totalitarian regimes have no such negative feedback. Their dictators can, time after time, in war after war, use their people as mass instruments of war, like bullets and shells, throwing them at the enemy in human waves, for whatever purpose. As a species, we have been killing ourselves by the millions in war after war throughout history. Now, finally, we have the power of knowledge to end forever—or at the very least drastically reduce—all this human slaughter. Freedom gives us the answer.

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We must foster democratic freedom for all humanity to end this bloody scourge. Until all people everywhere enjoy this freedom, we must foster at least some freedom where none exists to lessen the mass killing by war. War is an evil, and the fact that it has necessarily been fought by free people to preserve their freedom makes it no less so. What would eliminate this evil must be a moral good. Therefore, lessening and potentially ending war is another moral good of freedom.

Chapter 29 Why the Democratic Peace? [Democracies] have other means of resolving conflicts between them and therefore do not need to fight each other . . . and . . . they perceive that democracies should not fight each other . . . By this reasoning, the more democracies there are in the world, the fewer potential adversaries we and other democracies will have and the wider the zone of peace. – Bruce Russett

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hy is it that free and democratic peoples do not make war on each other? Remember Immanuel Kant’s hypothesis that, since people generally do not want to bear the cost of war, they would, if they could, restrain their leaders. On the surface, this seems a good explanation, and it does help to explain why democracies do not make war on each other. Yet democratic people have also been jingoistic. They have favored war and encouraged their leaders to fight. For instance, the public outcry in 1898 over the explosion aboard the American battleship Maine in a Cuban harbor and its sinking with a loss of 260 men pressured Congress and President McKinley into intervening militarily in Cuba. Spain then reluctantly declared war on the United States. American public opinion also strongly favored President Truman’s commitment of American troops to the defense of South Korea against the North Korean invasion in 1950, and similarly favored President Johnson’s request to Congress for a blank check—the Tonkin Gulf resolution of 1964—to come to the defense of South Vietnam, then near collapse under the weight of North Vietnam’s aggression. Clearly, then, there is something much deeper than simply a democratic people’s fear of death and destruction at work in preventing wars among democracies. This peacekeeping factor is analogous to what inhibits democratic nations from internal political violence, as I described it in Chapter 19. Where democratic freedom flourishes in two countries, where there are free markets and freedom of religion, association, ideas, and speech, then societies of mutual interest such as corporations, partnerships, associations, societies, churches, schools, and clubs proliferate in and between the countries. Examples of these are the

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the Boy Scouts, and the Association of Tennis Professionals. These cross-national groups become separate pyramids of power, competing with each other and with governments. As a result, both democratic nations then are sewn together into one society, one crosscut by these multifold groups, with multiple bonds between them. Moreover, between democratic governments there are many official and unofficial connections and linkages made to achieve similar functions and satisfy mutual interests. Their militaries freely coordinate strategies, and may even share equipment in line with their mutual defense arrangements and perceived common dangers. An example is nuclear weapons and military equipment shared by Great Britain and the United States. Intelligence services will share some secrets and even sometimes agents. Health services will coordinate their studies, undertake common projects, and provide health supplies when needed. Such multiple shared interests bond these societies together. Politicians, leaders, and groups, therefore, have a common interest in keeping the peace. And where conflict might escalate into violence, such as over some trade issue or fishing rights, interests are so cross-pressured by different groups and ties that the depth of feeling and single-minded devotion to the interest at stake is simply not there. Keep in mind that for democratic leaders to choose to make the huge jump to war against another country, there must be almost fanatical dedication to the interests— the stakes—involved, almost to the exclusion of all else. There is also something about democracies that is even more important than these links, bonds, and cross-pressures. This is their democratic culture. Democratic peoples see one another as willing to compromise and negotiate issues rather than fighting violently over them. More important, they see one another as the same kind—part of one’s in-group, one’s moral universe. They each share not only socially, in overlapping groups, functions, and linkages, but also in political culture. Americans and Canadians, for example, have no expectation of fighting each other over trade restrictions and disputes. Both see each other as similarly free, democratic, and willing to bargain. And therefore, they have a totally unarmed 5,525-mile border between them. Similarly, with the development of a solid liberal democracy in Japan since the end of World War II, there is now no expectation of war between Japan and any other democracy, including the United States and democratic South Korea. Finally, credit should be given to the ideology of democratic liberalism itself. Democratic liberals believe in the right of people to make their voices heard, to have a role in government, and to be free. Such liberals, who in domestic policy may be conservative, progressive, so-

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cial democrat, Democrat, or Republican, greatly oppose any violence against other democracies. Even if those in power would consider such actions, democratic liberals—who compose the vast majority of intellectuals, journalists, and politicians—would arouse a storm of protest against them. To summarize, there is no war between democracies because their people are free. This freedom creates a multitude of groups that produce diverse linkages across borders and cross-pressured interests, and make for an exchange culture of negotiation and compromise. Free people see each other as being of the same kind, as morally similar, as negotiators instead of aggressors, and therefore have no expectation of war; and there is a prevalent ideology of democratic liberalism that believes in democratic freedom and opposes violence between democracies. Then why do nondemocracies—or rather, the dictators who control them, since by definition the people have little say—make war on each other? Do the dictators not see each other as being of the same kind, sharing the same coercive culture? Yes, and that is exactly the problem for them. They live by coercion and force. Their guns keep them in power. They depend on a controlled populace manipulated through propaganda, deceit, and fear. Commands and decrees are the working routine of dictators; negotiations are a battleground in which one wins through lies, subterfuge, misinformation, stalling, and manipulation. A dictator’s international relations are no different. They see them as war fought by other means. They will only truly negotiate in the face of bigger and better guns, and they will only keep their promises as long as those guns remain pointed at them. This is also how one dictator sees another—and, incidentally, how they see democracies. This is not to say that war necessarily will happen between two countries if one or both is not democratic. They may be too far away from each other, too weak, or too inhibited by the greater power of a third country. It is only to say that the governments of such countries lack the social and cultural inhibitions that would prevent armed conflict between them, and that their dictatorial governments inherently encourage war. War may not happen, but it can, and the more undemocratic the governments, the more likely it will. There are two beliefs about democracy as a possible solution to war that I should address. One is the belief that what we have always done throughout our history is an inevitable force of our nature. Since we always have had war, we always will. Note, however, that down through the ages, almost all the world lived under absolute monarchs, be they kings, queens, emperors, czars, or whatever. Monarchs inherited their rule and commanded without question. There were exceptions for his-

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torically brief periods, such as in the classical Greek city-states, ancient Rome, and Switzerland during the Middle Ages. But so dominant was monarchism that just three centuries ago, in most of the world, it would have seemed natural to our species, unchangeable. Now, absolute hereditary rule only exists in a few small countries such as Saudi Arabia, and should be gone entirely within a generation or so. Another example of an institution that once seemed inevitable was the ownership of slaves. Slavery was even more universally accepted and practiced than absolute monarchies. Yet now it is virtually ended except in some small backwater countries like Sudan, and there only as an adjunct to its civil war. As a species we may kill and murder each other, but also as a species we have the mental freedom, will, and creativity to eliminate that which we collectively despise or which endangers us. We need only the knowledge to do so, and we now have this knowledge about war. The second belief that inhibits accepting freedom as a solution to war is its simplicity. My social science colleagues often rave about this. “The social world is too complex,” they say, unaware that this statement itself is not a proven truth, but only a hypothesis. “You can’t reduce human behavior to one variable like this,” they say. “War must be the result of many factors interacting in complex ways—diplomatic, political, military, social, cultural, and so on. I cannot believe you would simply reduce all this to freedom. How can you ignore the balance of power, historical grievances, religious conflict, territorial conflicts, and the like?” I do not. In relations between democratic and nondemocratic nations, or among nondemocratic nations themselves, all these complex factors beloved of the historian and political scientist may indeed cause war. It is just that the less freedom the people of these countries have, the more likely it is that war will result. Only between democracies does freedom create the conditions to override these factors.

PART 7 Conclusion

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n the last sentence in the final Volume 5 of my Understanding Conflict and War (1981), I wrote what could as well sum up this book: To eliminate war, to restrain violence, to nurture universal peace and justice, is to foster freedom.80

80 These books are also on my website. The page with the quote is at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/TJP.CHAP13.HTM

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Chapter 30 Freedom is a Right and Creates Human Security We have identified power with greatness, thugs with statesmen, and propaganda with results; we have let moral and cultural relativism silence our outrage, while conceding the moral high ground to the utopian dreamers; we have refused to recognize evil as evil; and we have ignored the catastrophic human cost of such confusions, and the natural and moral right to freedom.

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he best way to sum up this book is by reference to Table 30.1. In Table 30.1a at the top, we can clearly see the difference that freedom makes in the wealth and prosperity of a people. The greater their freedom, the more their purchasing power compared to other nations, the less their poverty, and the greater their human development. In short, freedom is the way to economic and social human security. There is more to human security than wealth and prosperity. There is also the security of knowing that one’s life and the lives of loved ones are safe from lethal repression, genocide and mass murder, and deadly famines. Here Table 30.1b could not be more consistent—the more freedom people have, the fewer their deaths due to famine, genocide and mass murder, and international and civil war. From this table and the analyses and statistical tests done else80 where, I can assert with considerable confidence that freedom is in fact what it appears to be in Table 30.1, and what I have claimed for it in the previous chapters, which is that:

80 Because of the technical nature of the appendix to my online Saving Lives, I have omitted it from this revision. It tests the relationship of freedom to human security (a people’s wealth, prosperity, health and the absence of a threat to their lives by genocide and mass murder, war, and political turmoil and instability) for 190 nations over 70 variables through the use of factor analysis, analysis of variance, and multiple and curvilinear regression. The results further confirm the conclusions of this book. The appendix is at: www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/WF.APPENDIX.HTM

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The freedom of a people is the cause of their greater wealth and prosperity, of human development, and of security from violence. But as important as such statistics are, they are still only statistics; they miss the sheer misery, pain, and horror of the unfree. They can only imperfectly reflect what is a wretched and bloody hell: in the world today, billions of human beings are still subject to absolute privation, exposure, starvation, disease, torture, rape, beatings, forced labor, genocide, mass murder, executions, deportations, political violence, and war. These billions live in fear for their lives, and for those of their loved ones. They have no human rights, no liberties. These people are only pieces on a playing board for the armed thugs and gangs that oppress their nations, raping them, looting them, exploiting them, and murdering them. We hide the identity of the gangs—we sanctify them—with the benign concept of “government,” as in the “government” of Khmer Rouge Cambodia, Stalin’s Soviet Union, or Hitler’s Germany. The gangs that control these so-called governments oppress whole nations under cover of international law. They are like a gang that captures a group of hikers and then does with them what it wills, robbing all, torturing and murdering some because gang members don’t like them or they are “disobedient,” and raping others. Nonetheless, the thugs that rule nations “govern” by the right of sovereignty: the community of nations explicitly grants them the right by international law to govern a nation when they show that they effectively control the national government, and this right carries with it the promise that other nations will not intervene in their internal affairs. International law now recognizes that if these gangs go to extremes, such as massive ethnic cleansing or genocide, then the international community has a countervailing right to stop them. However, this area of international law is still developing, and as we saw in the current examples of Sudan, Burma, North Korea, Rwanda, Saudi Arabia, and China (and one could include Cuba, Pakistan, Iran, and Syria, among others), the thugs still largely have their way with their victims. This is unconscionable. As I showed in Chapter 2, citizens of all countries—a Chinese peasant, a Sudanese black, a Saudi Arabian woman, a Burmese Karen, and all of the 6 billion other people—have the right to freedom of speech, religion, organization, and a fair trial, among other rights, and all these civil and political rights are sub-

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sumed by one overarching right to be free. This right overrules sovereignty, which is granted according to tradition based on a system of international treaties, not natural law. Freedom, by contrast, is not something others grant. It is a right due every human being. It can only be taken from a people and denied them by force of arms, by power. For too many intellectuals, however, it is not enough to point out that a people have a right to be free. They will counter by arguing that freedom is desirable, but first people must be made equal, given food to eat, work, and health care. Freedom must be limited as a means to good ends, such as the public welfare, prosperity, peace, ethnic unity, or national honor. Sometimes the intellectuals who go about creating such justifications for denying people their freedom are so persuasive that even reasonable people will accept their convoluted arguments. Need I mention the works of Marx and Lenin, for example, who provided “scientific” excuses for the tyranny of such thugs as Stalin, Mao, and Pol Pot? There even were many now-forgotten, or now-excused, intellectuals and other influential figures who praised the economic efficiency and progressiveness of Hitler and Mussolini before World War II. And one should not ignore the large number of Western intellectuals, academics, and students who fell in love with Mao Tse-tung, some even carrying around his Red Book of Mao quotations, while this absolute, tyrannical dictator murdered millions of people, created the world’s greatest famine through his policies, and caused a civil war—the Cultural Revolution, among the bloodiest in history. To many compassionate people, such intellectuals, arguing that freedom must be sacrificed for a better life, have had the best of the argument and the moral high ground. These intellectuals have tried to show that freedom empowers greed, barbaric competition, inefficiency, inequality, the debasement of morals, the weakening of ethnic or racial identity, and so on. In spite of the international certification of freedom as a human right by the United Nations, and treaties and agreements among nations, those defending freedom often feel guilty, as though they somehow lack sympathy for the poor and oppressed. For example, some say of communist Castro’s barbaric rule over the Cuban people, “After all, the Cubans have free medical care, a good educational system, and a right to work.” Never mind that Castro is responsible for the murder of tens of thousands of Cubans, the torture and beating of many more, and the imprisonment of vast numbers of those who have only protested their lack of rights. To be defensive about freedom in the face of such justifications is morally wrong-headed. No moral code or civil law allows that a gang

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leader and his followers can murder, torture, and repress some at will as long as the thugs provide others with a good life. But even were it accepted that under the cover of government authority, a ruler can murder and repress his people so long as it promotes human betterment, the burden of proof is on those who argue that therefore those people will be better off. There is no such proof. Quite the opposite: in the twentieth century, we have had the most costly and extensive tests of such arguments, involving billions of people. The Nazis, Italian fascists under Mussolini, Japanese militarists, and Chinese Nationalists under Chiang Kai-shek have tested fascist promises of a better life. Likewise, Lenin, Stalin, Mao, and Pol Pot have tested the utopian promises of communism, to mention the most prominent communist experiments; and Burma, Iraq, and Syria, among others, have also tested state socialism. All these vast social experiments have failed, utterly and miserably, and they have done so at the vast human cost that has included global social upheaval, the displacement of millions, the impoverishment of billions, and the death of tens of millions from famine, extreme internal violence, and the most destructive wars—not to mention the many tens of millions more murdered outright. These social experiments carried out by force against billions of people have produced a vast nation of the dead which, if it were a sovereign country, would be among the world’s top ten in population. In sharp contrast, there are the arguments for freedom, which is, as I have shown in previous chapters, not only a right, but a supreme moral good in itself. The very fact of a people’s freedom creates a better life for all, as shown in Table 30.1. Free people create a wealthy and prosperous society. When people are free to go about their own business, they put their ingenuity and creativity in the service of all. They search for ways to satisfy the needs, desires, and wants of others. The true utopia lies not in some state-sponsored tyranny, but the free market in goods, ideas, and services, whose operating principle is that success depends on satisfying others. As described in Chapter 10, Bill Gates of Microsoft did not become a billionaire by stealing people’s money, looting

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their possessions, taxing them and secreting money away in Switzerland, or by using public funds to build himself mansions. No one had to buy Gates’ products or invest in his company. He became the world’s richest man by providing people with computer software that they wanted, that made their life or work easier. People rarely do things for others because they are completely selfless—we set apart and admire those rare Mother Theresas who are. Rather, almost all act out of self-interest, and it is therefore better to create a society in which self-interest leads to mutual betterment, rather than one in which a small coterie of fanatics exert their own selfinterest at the expense of the lives and welfare of others. What underlines this moral good of freedom even more is the independence and incentives farmers have to best use their land to produce crops and food that people need to live. The result is that, in a democratically free country like the United States, farmers produce a surplus of food that the government then buys, stores, and grants in aid to poor countries. At the same time, in many of those countries where the rulers have denied their farmers any freedom in order to achieve some utopian future, where they order farmers what to grow, where, and how, and at what prices to sell the resulting crops, famines have killed tens of millions of people. The roll call of these famines is long, but must include the Soviet Union, China, Ethiopia, Somalia, Sudan, Cambodia, and North Korea. It is not by chance, as shown in Table 30.1, that: No democratically free people have suffered from mass famine. It is extraordinary, how little known this is. There are plenty of hunger projects and plans to increase food aid for the starving millions, all of which is good enough in the short run. A starving person will die before the people can kick out their rulers or make them reform their policies. Yet simply feeding the starving today is not enough. They also have to be fed tomorrow and every day thereafter. However, free these people from their rulers’ commands over their farming, and soon they will be able to feed themselves and others as well. There is an adage that applies to this: “Give a starving person a fish to eat and you feed him only for one day; teach him how to fish, and he feeds himself forever.” Yet teaching is no good alone, if people are not free to apply their new knowledge—yes, teach them how to fish, but also promote the freedom they need to do so. Surprisingly, the incredible economic productivity and wealth produced by a free people and their freedom from famines are not the only moral goods of freedom, nor, perhaps, even the most important moral

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goods. When people are free, they comprise a spontaneous society the characteristics of which strongly inhibit society-wide political violence, as shown in Table 30.1. Freedom greatly reduces the possibility of revolutions, civil war, rebellions, guerrilla warfare, coups, violent riots, and the like. Most of the violence within nations occurs where thugs rule with absolute power. There is a continuum here: The more power the rulers have, and the less free their people, the more internal violence these people will suffer. Keep in mind that throughout the world, people are essentially the same. It is not that the people of any culture, civilization, or nation are by nature any more bloodthirsty, barbaric, power-hungry, or violent than those of another. What makes for peace within a nation is not national character, but social conditions that reduce tension and hostility between people, lessen the stakes of conflict, cross-pressure interests, and promote negotiation, tolerance, and compromise. Such are the conditions created by democratic freedom. The more a people are free, the greater such conditions inhibit internal violence. Surely that which protects people against internal violence, that which so saves human lives, is a moral good. And this is freedom. Then there is mass democide, the most destructive means of ending human lives of any form of violence. Except in the case of the Nazi Holocaust of European Jews, few people know how murderous the dictators of this world have been, and could be. Virtually unknown is the fact that the number of non-Jewish Poles, Russians, Ukrainians, Yugoslavs, Frenchmen, Germans, and others murdered by Hitler surpasses by two or three times the Jews he killed. Then there are the shocking tens of millions murdered by Stalin and Mao, and the other millions wiped out by Pol Pot, Ho Chi Minh, Kim Il-sung, and their kind. Just omitting foreigners, who are most often murdered during a war, such thugs murdered about 123 million of their own people from 1900 to 1987. Adding foreigners and including the whole twentieth century raises the toll they have killed to an incredible nearly 174 million. Even now, in the twenty-first century, these mass murders still go on in Burma, Sudan, North Korea, Rwanda, Burundi, Zaire, Sierra Leone, Liberia, and the Congo, just to mention the most glaring examples.

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It should be clear, then, why I refer to the rulers of these murderous regimes as thugs. I am not a diplomat or a government official and do not have to worry about the delicate sensitivities of these rulers. I can call these thugs the thugs they are. As should be clear from this book, they often murder people by carefully thought-out plans, they set up a bureaucracy to do so, they train people for this purpose, and then they order the killing. Sometimes they murder people because of their race, ethnicity, or religion; sometimes for their parents’ or other relative’s political activities or beliefs or speech; sometimes for their lack of proper enthusiasm for their glorious rulers. Sometimes they establish a murder quota to fill, or kill people randomly to set an example. While we can approximate how many these thugs have killed, we cannot even guess at the heartbreak and misery these deaths have caused their surviving loved ones, and how many of these poor people have died of a broken heart or committed suicide. Moreover, the term murder hardly carries the full weight of the pain and misery of the victims. Some lucky ones died quickly with a shot to the back of the head, or by decapitation. Most died quite wretchedly, in pain from torture or beatings, by drowning or being buried or burned alive, or in agony from wounds. Many died from intentionally administered starvation, thirst, exposure, or disease. Some died horribly as the result of repeated human medical experiments. We have no pain/misery index to measure all this except for the incredible pile of corpses these thugs have created in one century. We must assume that a penumbra of pain and misery, of love and hope squashed, of a future stolen surrounds each of these millions of corpses. What is true about freedom and internal violence is also so for this mass democide: The more freedom a people have, the less likely their rulers are to murder them. The more power the thugs have, the more likely they are to murder their people. Could there be a greater moral good than to end or minimize such mass murder? This is what freedom does and for this it is, emphatically, a moral good. There is still more to say about freedom’s value. While we now know that the world’s ruling thugs generally kill several times more of their subjects than do wars, it is war on which moralists and pacifists generally focus their hatred, and devote their resources to ending or moderating. This singular concentration is understandable, given the hor-

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ror and human costs, and the vital political significance of war. Yet it should be clear by now that war is a symptom of freedom’s denial, and that freedom is the cure. Three points bear repeating from Chapter 27. First: Democratically free people do not make war on each other. This is so important that some scientists have made this historical fact the subject of whole books, such as Bruce Russett’s Grasping the Democratic Peace, James Lee Ray’s Democracy and International Conflict, and Spencer R. Weart’s Never At War. Chapter 29 gives a very good explanation for why democracies do not make war on each other, and it is the same as that for why there is by far the least internal violence and democide within democracies. The diverse groups, cross-national bonds, social links, and shared values of democratic peoples sew them together; and shared liberal values dispose them toward peaceful negotiation and compromise with each other. It is as though the people of democratic nations were one society. This truth that democracies do not make war on each other provides a solution for eliminating war from the world: globalize democratic freedom. This solution is far in the future, however. It may only kick in when most nations are democratized. Therefore the second point: The less free the people within any two nations are, the bloodier and more destructive the wars between them; the greater their freedom, the less likely such wars become. And third, as seen in Table 30.1: The more freedom the people of a nation have, the less bloody and destructive their wars. What this means is that we do not have to wait for all, or almost all nations to become liberal democracies to reduce the severity of war. As we promote freedom, as the people of more and more nations gain greater human rights and political liberties, as those people with-

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out any freedom become partly free, we will decrease the bloodiness of the world’s wars. In short: Increasing freedom in the world decreases the death toll of its wars. Surely, whatever reduces and then finally ends the scourge of war in our history, without causing a greater evil, must be a moral good. And this is freedom. The implications of this for foreign policy and international activism are profound. Since peace, national security, and national welfare are the paramount concerns of a democratic nation’s foreign policy, clearly the overriding goal should be to peacefully promote human rights and democratic freedom. This should be the bottom line of international negotiations, treaties, foreign aid, and military action (if necessary for defense or humanitarian reasons, as in Kosovo or Bosnia). As to defense policy, military planning is based on assessments of intentions and capability. What is clear is that the less free the people of a nation are, the more we should beware of the intentions of their rulers. In other words, it is not the democracies of the world that we need to defend against. Moreover, think about what the peace-creating power of freedom means for nuclear weapons. Many people are justly worried about the ultimate danger to humanity—nuclear war. They protest and demonstrate against nuclear weapons. Some cross the line into illegal activities, such as destroying military property, and risk prison to draw public attention to the danger of such weapons. Were these dedicated people to spend even half this effort on promoting freedom and human rights for the people of the most powerful dictatorships that have or may soon have such weapons—for instance, China, North Korea, and Iran—they would be striking at the root cause for the risk of nuclear attack. The power of freedom to end war, minimize violence within nations, and eradicate genocide and mass murder almost seems magical. It is as though we have a single-drug cure for cancer. Had I not actually done much of the research myself over more than forty years, I would have doubted all this. Yet, my work and that of other social scientists and scholars have proven it true. Our knowledge of the peace-creating and peacemaking effects of freedom now gives us a nonviolent way to promote a nonviolent world. As should now be clear:

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Democratic freedom is a method of nonviolence. Enhancing, spreading, and promoting human rights and democracy are the way to enhance, spread, and promote nonviolence. Proponents of nonviolence have worked out many peaceful tactics for opposing dictators, such as sit-down strikes, general strikes, mass demonstrations, refusal to pay taxes, underground newspapers, sabotage by excessive obedience to the rules, and the like. Much thought has gone into how a people can nonviolently promote human rights. Overall, however, nonviolence works best among a free people. And: Freedom itself promotes a nonviolent solution to social problems and conflicts. In conclusion, then, we have wondrous human freedom as a moral force for the good. Freedom produces social justice, creates wealth and prosperity, minimizes violence, saves human lives, and is a solution to war. In two words, it creates human security. Moreover, and most important: People should not be free only because it is good for them. They should be free because it is their right as human beings. In opposition to freedom is power, its antagonist. While freedom is a right, the power to govern is a privilege granted by a people to those they elect and hold responsible for its use. Too often, however, thugs seize control of a people with their guns and use them to make their power total and absolute. Where freedom produces wealth and prosperity, such absolute power causes impoverishment and famine. Where freedom minimizes internal violence, eliminates genocide and mass murder, and solves the problem of war, such absolute power unleashes internal violence, murders millions, and produces the bloodiest wars. In short, power kills; absolute power kills absolutely. Now, to summarize this whole book, why freedom? Because it is every person’s right. And it is a moral good—it promotes wealth and prosperity, social justice, and nonviolence, and preserves human life.