C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Preston rushed through his breakfast and caught up with Robert Tessier at the job site. He explained that he would be absent for the day and asked his boss to make an apology to Dominique for his missing the tryst.
Sifu Chiang, holding a coarse woven satchel in his hand, was waiting in the garden when Diamond arrived. When the master and student bowed acknowledgement, Preston noted a softened look on the wrinkled face; a faint glow with a trace of kindness, akin to parental love. Xi-Ping's dark glittering eyes met the blues of his pupil and they held the stare for a long moment. They were not merely looking into each other's eyes, they were opening their minds; the student saw into the master's thoughts and the master read farther into the mind of his student. Sifu Chiang bowed again. In a husky voice, he said, “I had no son. Now, you my son. I teach; you learn. Sifu no hide from you, same, you no hide from Sifu… Now, what Sifu show, you not tell.”
Chiang scanned the garden. Satisfied no one was near, he passed the satchel to Preston, knelt down beside the white pillar and poked his fingers into a seam in the marble. With minimal effort, the heavy slab slid sideways and a dark gaping hole was exposed. Sifu looked around the perimeter again. Motioning with one hand, and reaching for the satchel with the other, he said, “In.”
Diamond stepped into the narrow opening and prepared for a drop as he lowered himself down. His feet found a ledge and he ducked his torso and head into the hole. He moved his foot ahead and found that he was on a set of steps. He felt his way down the stair far enough to allow Sifu Chiang to follow. The master quickly slipped into the pit, reached up and slid the marble doorway into position. It locked in place with a solid “thunk.” All light disappeared and the narrow room or stairway —Preston could not tell which— became tomb black. The air was dank, cool and musty. Sifu spoke, his voice a dull echo. “Do not use eyes, see better soon.”
Preston felt the light touch of Sifu's hand on his shoulder, then the master passed by him on the stairway. Straining his ears, Diamond could 'hear' the silence of Sifu Chiang moving away. He was going downward. Preston followed.
The student was six inches taller than his master and at every tentative step Preston expected to receive a knock on the forehead. He reached the bottom of the stair and felt around for a wall or something to give him direction. Hollow emptiness. Maybe the next step would drop him into a black abyss. He listened for Sifu but heard nothing. Scraping the floor with his shoe he tested the surface: dry gritty sand on an otherwise smooth and level landing. This was wrong, he wasn't seeing without his eyes; he wasn't seeing anything. Quelling the momentary rise of frustration, Preston closed his lids and concentrated. Soon, a dim form materialized; he saw Master Chiang, just across the way. They were in a room. Preston could make out no details in the gray vision but he could 'see' Sifu, an expectant look on his face, watching his student. Diamond walked toward him and Xi-Ping smiled.“Good,” Sifu grunted. “Now, we use light.”
A match flared, searing Preston's eyeballs with its brightness. Sifu Chiang reached up to a ledge above his head and his fingers located a small kerosene lamp. He touched match to wick and the room grew brighter. Black smoke curled off the burning wick and the yellow light flickered in the stillness. Sifu adjusted the flame and Preston saw that they were facing a short but sturdy wooden door. The door swung open at Xi-Ping's touch. He motioned Preston to follow and, carrying the lamp, led off down a low and narrow hallway, more like a square tunnel. The walls were made of brick and mortar, the roof of heavy beams.
Preston sniffed. He smelled creosote. He looked again at the beams: they were half length railway ties. Diamond knew that Chinese people made up the bulk of the work gangs on railroad construction. Referred to as coolies, they were not treated well and received insultingly poor wages. Railroad engineers must have been baffled by the persistent errors in their arithmetic when calculating the numbers of ties required. Preston grinned at Sifu's retreating back; the coolies had been paid better than the railroad magnates believed.
Xi-Ping led the way past several more closed doors and Preston wondered where each would end up. He had no sense of direction, didn't know how to find his way back, couldn't even guess as to whether they travelled a level path or if they were going up or down; probably down, he decided: everywhere was down from Capitol Hill. At times the hallway curved, sometimes it ended in a T and Sifu would turn right or left; Preston could not keep track. Passing another side door, he could hear shrill voices and the dull sound of machinery in the background. Sifu maintained the same steady pace. They came to a wider tunnel and, judging by the thick layer of lampblack on the ceiling, Diamond thought this area had seen more traffic. He also had the impression it had been more recently travelled.
How far had they come, Preston wondered. One mile, two, three? Time seemed warped down here in the darkness, too. Diamond believed they had been moving for close to half an hour, but it could have been fifteen minutes or a full hour. He wasn't at all tired in spite of the severe workout Sifu had demanded before breakfast. Preston thought about breakfast; he wasn't hungry so the clock had not yet ticked up to the noon hour (a hard working, growing boy makes few mistakes regarding the approach of lunch time).
Sifu Chiang came to another T, this one had a door opening straight ahead. Xi-Ping stopped and turned to Preston. “No white people here. Stay close me.”
Beyond the door, Diamond could hear busyness. People were talking, though he could not make out individual voices, dishes —pots and pans perhaps— were rattling and there was a steady hiss of steam.
Sifu extinguished the lamp, pushed the panel open and, with Preston at his heels, stepped inside. Except for the hissing of steam, which was much louder on this side of the door, the noise stopped. They were in a kitchen; a large kitchen. Smoke and steam hung in a cloud at ceiling level, several pale lamps were trying to cut through the mist to shed their light on the room below. A dozen or more black haired, yellow skinned people with blank faces and wearing flat round straw hats that came to a point on top, stared at Preston as though he were an alien being. Xi-Ping Chiang bowed to an older lady and said something in Chinese. The lady's face, a parchment match to Sifu's, broke into a wide smile. She bowed to Preston and he bowed back. Soon everyone had acknowledged the stranger. Xi-Ping stowed the lamp in the satchel and, with Preston in tow, threaded a path through myriad crates and supplies, past several food laden counters and the workers themselves, toward a single door on the far side of the kitchen. They emerged in sunlight in an alley. The door closed and Preston turned to look back. From this side, it did not look like a doorway; someone had painted a Chinese mural of a dragon on the wall of the building and the entrance was hidden in the artistry.
“What did you say to them, Sifu?”
Xi-Ping shrugged. “I say, you my son.”
Preston and Master Chiang came out of the ally and emerged on a broad avenue. The Patowmack River was just a stone's throw away. Preston recognized the area immediately. They were near the Washington Channel. Workers, with drays and horses, were cleaning up the charred and blackened ruins of what must have been a huge fire; half a block of waterfront property had been razed. Xi-Ping pointed. “Fire. Many Chinese die.”
Diamond stared at the carnage and then turned to his friend. “This fire was deliberately set. Your people were murdered.”
Xi-Ping nodded. “Chinese have opium den.” He raised a hand and pointed to a spot near the centre of the rubble. “Many bad men come, shoot Chinese, burn all. My friend go in tunnel, only one saved, he say bad men not English.”
“They were speaking French, weren't they, Sifu?”
Master Chiang nodded solemnly.
Whether Xi-Ping Chiang had known of the French invasion that day in the garden when he had said “We fight” Preston could not be sure; but it made no difference now. Sifu would go to the death for Preston and the reverse was also true. The odds had now come closer to even: Serge Ravenelle, Commandant L'Heureux and a well armed, twenty man unit against Sifu Chiang, Robert Tessier, Preston Diamond and only God knew how many underground Chinese. Preston now understood why Sifu had taken him into confidence and bared the secret of the Chinese network. Ravenelle's slaughter of innocent people must be stopped.
Diamond stared into the master's eyes and said, “We fight.”
Chiang led Preston along the avenue away from the river. They went into a tailor's shop and Sifu introduced his companion to the proprietor, a Chinese gentleman named Ricky Mah. Mr. Mah was younger than Xi-Ping —Preston guessed, by half— and he spoke better English. The three held a brief discussion then Ricky Mah ushered his visitors into the rear of his shop. From a can of kerosene Mr. Mah had, Sifu topped up the fuel in the little lamp while the tailor knelt down to roll up a sandal-worn rug laid out at the foot of a workbench. Under the piece of carpet lay a two foot square trap door with a flush handle sunken into the frame. Mah pulled on the ring, the door lifted, and Preston gazed into a black cellar hole. Sifu turned, bowed to the proprietor, Preston followed suit, then the two of them descended into darkness. Xi-Ping lit the lamp and, above them, the tailor gently dropped the trap door in place.
The oubliette was a small, brick lined excavation with barely enough room for Preston and Sifu to stand side by side. Chiang reached forward and touched the wall. The brick work swung away to open into another tunnel. Once again, Preston followed the master through a maze that passed by doorways, T's and bends to right and left. After an indeterminate passage of time, they stopped in front of a single door midway along a straight and lengthy stretch of hallway. The sound of voices and machinery emanated from the other side. It was the same sound Preston had heard shortly after they had started out from the passageway in the garden but he did not think it was the same door. Sifu slid back the bolt and they stepped into a hot cloud of steam, the rattle and clank of noisy apparatus and the strong smell of lye soap. As their eyes adjusted, Preston realized they were in a commercial laundry. As before, Chinese workers stopped, mid purpose, and stared at the white intruder. Most faces were a blank mask, dark eyes staring fixedly; a few smiled and acknowledged with a slight nod. Sifu did not make introductions. He explained to Preston that, by now, the entire community would know of Diamond's initiation into the Chinese underground.
They threaded their way through a maze of wash tubs, presses and clouds of steam to the far corner of the room. A young man stepped forward and opened a passage; Preston and Sifu entered into another tunnel and the door closed behind them. The noise, heat and dampness of the laundry room dropped away and Diamond shivered, feeling the abrupt change in temperature. Sifu raised the still burning lantern and Preston realized they were back in the passage near the garden.
After a few more turns and bends, the student was disoriented again. They came to a narrow set of stone steps and Sifu climbed up a short distance to the ceiling. He passed the lamp to Preston then, craning his head to one side, he heaved with his left shoulder and a trap door popped upward. Xi-Ping peered through the gap for a moment, then raised the lid sufficiently to climb out. Preston surfaced and handed over the lamp.
As the master readjusted a gray sheet to cover the cellar door, Diamond studied the room. They were in a basement. A large boiler system obscured Preston's view from this side and, conversely, from anyone who may be on the other side. They dusted off their clothes, Sifu secured the lamp in his bag, and the two of them stepped round the boiler. There were no people or peculiar identifying marks but Diamond had a feeling he had been here recently and before they had made their way the length of the room, he realized where he was. Preston had been in this basement with Robert Tessier; it was the building that housed the head of Foreign Affairs and the palatial apartments where Robert and Preston had visited with Gabriella and Dominique.
Exiting the basement, Sifu and Preston encountered a hive of activity. Renovations were in full swing and Hugh Bagnold's crew of carpenters and apprentices were busy. Diamond watched for, but did not see, Tessier among them. Maybe Robert had taken a moment to visit with Gabriella. Preston would have liked to see Dominique, too, but Master Chiang angled off across the lawns and Diamond had to take long strides to keep up.
Soon they were back in the garden where the underground excursion had begun. By the sun and his stomach Diamond thought it must be lunch time. Apparently, Sifu did, too, for he opened his satchel and extracted two paper wrapped packages and passed one to his student. “Eat now,” said he. Preston realized that it was the first time he and Xi-Ping Chiang had 'broke bread' together. The food was delicious; different from anything Preston had ever had before.
While they sat on the marble platform, nearly on top of the secret entrance he had unknowingly trained beside for almost two years, Diamond quizzed Xi-Ping about the tunnels: How many miles were there? Where did they all go? Why were they built? The old man's eyes twinkled when he said the Chinese are still making more. He said there were several on the Capitol grounds and named more buildings where tunnels terminated; the Capitol and the White House were among them. In the city were many more tunnels. Sifu himself did not know them all and no one dared keep a map or written description for fear it would be found out. There were an estimated twenty-five thousand Chinese in DC —far more than any census would reveal— and most of them had been involved in building the network of underground passages. Chiang explained that originally the tunnels were built to provide escape for the maltreated coolies. To a certain extent this continued to be the case but for the most part the subterranean maze was for freedom of movement for illegal immigrants, and, he admitted with a sly smile, the Chinese like to be informed.
Preston recalled words his father had expressed concerning the Chinese; Cutler Diamond had said, “We are making a big mistake, underestimating these people. Because they do not speak up, we consider them of lower intellect. We will one day be surprised to find that we haven't learned even half so much as they know.”
Diamond glanced at Chiang: A simple gardener with a long wispy beard, who spoke at least three languages, had more healing powers than a top physician, was one of the most deadly empty hand fighters in America and held more wisdom in his round, balding head than all the great philosophers. Preston grinned inwardly. “Yes, Papa, I suspect half to be an exaggeration.”
When the lunch was finished, Sifu and Preston again slipped back the marble cover and disappeared underground. Sifu had a determined step this time and Preston followed closely as the trail of smoke from the guttering light traced more sooty sketches on the confiscated railway tie beams of the ceiling. Preston realized they could have been travelling above ground but Xi-Ping obviously preferred to remain below; probably with more intent than to familiarize Preston with the tunnels. When they reached it, Diamond recognized the hallway that had seen more and recent traffic but he was soon lost again. Sifu brought them through a narrow door, up a short stairwell and slid open an upright panel. The master reached up and parted clothes hanging on a rod and Preston saw that they had emerged inside a closet. The door slid open and they stepped out into a small bedroom. A beaded curtain hung across a doorway and Preston trailed along behind Xi-Ping through that opening and found himself in the back of a clothing store. Two Chinese ladies bowed to Sifu and solemnly acknowledged Preston's courteous flection. They stepped out into the sunlit street and immediately slipped into a hotel lobby next door.
It was not one of Washington's posh establishments but clean and, on the surface, respectable. The first person Preston saw, just across the foyer, was Serge Ravenelle. He was in animated conversation with a huge fellow who towered over the Frenchman. Neither looked pleased. Xi-Ping must have recognized or surmised who Ravenelle was, for he grasped Diamond's sleeve and led him out of sight.
“Monsieur Ravenelle own hotel. Killers, here.” Xi-Ping said. “We find room, take back property.”
Serge Ravenelle and —Preston assumed, the giant Gabriella had spoken of and referred to as Henri L'Heureux— finished their palaver. Xi-Ping and Preston watched covertly while, first Ravenelle, then a minute later Commandant L'Heureux walked out onto the street. Each disappeared in a different direction.
Chiang and Preston went up a staircase that may have been quite elegant in the distant past; now the painted finish on the railing was scraped and chipped and a threadbare carpet covered the steps. On the second floor, the thin veneer of elegance stopped and the accommodation became utilitarian. A Chinese fellow, sweeping the hardwood floor, did not look up as Xi-Ping and Preston walked by. Sifu chose a dimly lit hallway to the right and scanned the numbers until arriving at room #24. No response came to his knock. He opened the satchel, extracted a twelve inch piece of steel with a point on one end and a flattened curve at the other, then proceeded to wedge the bar between door and jamb. To Sifu's surprise, Preston lay a hand on his shoulder and stopped him. In answer to Chiang's quizzical stare, the student reached in a pocket of his trousers and extracted a small rolled up leather pouch. He opened the pouch, selected a small tool and inserted it in the lock. In a slow heartbeat, the door swung inward. “I sometimes work with a locksmith,” Diamond explained as he strode into the room.
They closed and locked the door behind them and Sifu commenced searching the place. Preston didn't know what the Master sought so he stayed out of the way and surveyed the surroundings. There were two uncomfortable looking iron beds with coarse feather ticks, a washbasin and stand, a broken commode, a cracked mirror and, on the wall above the beds, two garish paintings. Luggage and clothes were strewn about. On a low table under the single window two derringers, knuckle dusters, and several evil looking blades lay amidst a small keg of gunpowder, caps and fusing material. Preston swept the the lot into Xi-Ping's satchel.
Sifu Chiang emerged from under the bed with two paper wrapped and string tied packets in his hands. He grunted, “I find.”
The half grin on Sifu's face vanished as he was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was a sharp, double rap followed by a single, lighter, tap; a code. “The sweeper!” Xi-Ping said, “Les Apaches come!”
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