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swept up. Kurt’s palm jabbed the slide back. The firing pin clicked a fraction of an inch from the cartridge.

    With an ear-shattering yell, Kurt dived in toward the gun.
     
    Kurt swung his right. The Chinese was lifted up a foot from the floor. Bent backward like a falling tree, the man crashed into a table and went down.
    The other man whirled about and whipped up his weapon. He fired, but the hand of Varinka was quicker than his trigger finger, and the shot furrowed the ceiling.
    Kurt stepped within two feet of the big Chinese and swung. The fist connected with a crack louder than a breaking staff. Kurt swung again and the Chinese folded into himself with a grunt.
    Varinka ran toward the entrance. Kurt paused long enough to pocket the two automatics and then he sped after her twinkling boots.
    They raced up the crowded street, Kurt spilling the crowd to the right and left as a cutter’s bow cleaves water. They dashed down a dark alleyway and through a garden.
    Breathless, they paused in the shadow of a wall. The girl leaned her head back and peered up at the muddy sky. She was smiling.
    “When . . . when Lin Wang . . . hears of this . . .” she chuckled. “How he’ll . . . pant for vengeance. The pick of his Death Squad knocked kicking by one man!”
    “Aw, they didn’t know how to box,” said Kurt, embarrassed.
    “Ah, but they do. You, American, were glorious. But come, my fine white knight—let me dispose of this letter another way. A block from here I have another man, one I should have contacted first. Come.”
    They picked their way through the littered alley and soon came to a low door on which Varinka knocked. A small, shaved head was thrust fearfully forth.
    “Ah, the white lady,” sighed the Chinese with relief. “Tonight Sing was taken and made to talk—we are no longer safe here. I waited another hour for your coming, against my will.”
    “They made Sing talk?” said Varinka, growing pale. “Then he is dead.”
    “Ai, dead. Lin Wang’s Death Squad strikes fast.”
    “But here, take this letter to the commander. I have not proof of it, but he will do well to watch Lin Wang.”
    “The commander left this for you,” said the Chinese, handing out a slip of thin paper.
    The girl pocketed the order, the door slammed shut. Varinka led the puzzled Kurt down another alley.
    “You are in trouble,” she said. “I might even guess who you are. Your name might be Kurt Reid?”
    He blinked at her.
    “And tonight, American, you found the cell door of the Rangoon mysteriously open?”
    “Yes, how—”
    “Never mind, American. Your destiny is written tonight. You can do one of two things. You can drift outward and try to lose yourself—which you cannot—or you can try to be of service to me.”
    “There’s no decision to make. Whatever I can do—”
    “Beware, think not fast, American. I am a dangerous woman.”
    Kurt laughed at her and followed her through the gloom.

CHAPTER TWO
     
    The Russian Disappears
     
    V ARINKA S AVISCHNA took Kurt Reid through the back streets of Shanghai’s native city to another garden. They entered through a small door and walked across meandering paths, past pools where stone storks stood in one-legged sorrow. Paper lanterns cast their gay reflection in the water and lit up well-tended beds of flowers. This was a spot of beauty in a squalid settlement, as unexpected as a warm house in the Arctic circle.
    Through a broad blackwood door they entered a large, well-furnished room. The light was subdued, suggesting mysteries behind the walls and in the shadows. A thick Oriental carpet softened their footsteps.
    Varinka made Kurt sit down in a long chair. She did not remove her coat. She looked about her with an air of worry. “She should be here.”
    “Who?”
    Varinka did not answer that. She sat down and studied Kurt. “You have a reputation, American, one that I might be able to use if things go well. We know of you here in Shanghai and we know what