December 25, 1941, Hong Kong.
Lead-gray clouds hung low overhead, like a blood-soaked shroud draped across Victoria Harbour. Japanese warplanes had just swept over the Kowloon Peninsula. Their engines still rumbled through the air, while shattered glass and charred scraps of paper littered the streets. A few scattered gunshots rang out now and then, quickly swallowed by the silence.
Ye Chong stood by the window of the intelligence office at the Japanese military police headquarters in Hong Kong, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. His Japanese army major’s uniform was immaculate, the gold stars on his epaulettes gleaming coldly in the dim light. His profile was sharp and clean-cut, but his eyes were like a deep pool, concealing currents no one could see. Outside, once-prosperous Nathan Road lay in ruins. A few Japanese soldiers were kicking down the door of a silk shop. A woman’s cries and the crash of breaking objects came from inside, sharp as needles, piercing the false calm of this so-called “Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere.”
“Ye Chong, Captain Sato wants to see you.” A knock came from the doorway. The signalman’s voice was deliberately respectful, though he could not hide the wariness in his eyes.
