Shanghai, 1937.
Night blankets the Bund, where neon lights blur into a hazy glow in the damp air. Rickshaw pullers hurry past, splashing water as they go. A whistle sounds in the distance as a cargo ship slowly makes its way into the harbor.
Shen Mo stands on the terrace atop the Peace Hotel, the cigarette in his hand burned down to its end. He gazes at the brightly lit Japanese consulate in the distance, his expression grim. Three days ago, the Shanghai station of the Military Statistics Bureau suffered a devastating blow. Twelve agents were arrested, including his handler, “Old K.”
“Sir, your martini.” A waiter approaches with a tray.
Shen Mo takes the glass, his fingertips brushing a folded note tucked beneath it. Without betraying a thing, he slips the note into his sleeve and turns toward the restroom.
There is only one line on the note: “Tomorrow night, eight o’clock. Paramount. White Rose.”
It is a contingency contact method, used only in the direst circumstances. Shen Mo sets the note alight and watches it turn to ash in the ashtray. The man in the mirror has a lean face and sharp eyes. Dressed in a fine suit, he looks every bit the rising star of the business world. Who would imagine that this young industrialist making a name for himself in business is one of the Military Statistics Bureau’s finest agents?
