“How about we assume that the dog is going to do ‘tricks’,” I said, keeping my eye on the statue as if it might move. “I’m hoping that having the protective items on me instead of on the sculpture will keep me safe without smothering its energy so much that we can’t get a reading.”
“What do you want us to do, Cassidy?” Teag asked. I smiled, because I had an answer ready. Both men nodded as I laid out my plan, and got into position. I swallowed my fear, and reached out toward the statue.
Behind me, with no one near it, the door to the hallway slammed shut.
We all flinched. I lunged forward before anything else could happen, and grabbed the statue’s head with both hands.
The room around me winked out. I found myself in a seedy wooden building that smelled of brackish water, wood, and hemp rope. Lamps barely pushed back the shadows, and from the smoke, I guessed these lights were burning whale oil. Nearby, I could hear waves lapping against something solid, and when I looked down, I glimpsed water through the gaps in the boards beneath my feet. Outside the building, I heard a jabber of languages, but one was more prevalent than the rest, Chinese.
“The crates are all here, as you ordered.” The speaker was a man dressed in a black frock coat and stained silk vest. A dark cravat was tied at his throat over a tall, fold-over collar. His mutton chop sideburns seemed exaggerated even for their time. I spotted a battered top hat to one side. From his clothing, I fixed the time period in the 1830s. By his accent, I figured him for American.
The building appeared to be a warehouse, and in the shadows behind me, I could barely make out stacks of wooden crates, no doubt from the ships in the harbor outside. I glanced overhead, and saw the ropes and pulleys that made it possible to unload heavy cargo from wagons. Oil lamps hung from brackets attached to heavy wooden beams along the walls. To one side was a worn wooden desk and on it, I saw an abacus, a ledger book, and an inkwell, along with the Foo dog statue.
“We must count.” The second man had a heavy Chinese accent, and was dressed in traditional robes.
He was an older gentleman, with gray hair and a carefully groomed beard and moustache. He barked an order in Chinese, and half a dozen dock workers sprang into action, taking up crowbars to open the nearest rows of wooden crates. Along one wall stood six men who looked European and were dressed like sailors.
“Don’t you trust me, Mr. Tuan?” the American asked. “Fifty crates, as promised.”
Mr. Tuan’s expression did not reveal his thoughts. “Patience, Captain McCreedy. A good count benefits both of us.”
The Chinese workers pried off the wooden lids and tossed them aside. They began to dig through the sawdust that filled the crates, revealing a cargo of what looked like Turkish rugs.
“Tell them to be careful with those,” McCreedy said. “That opium’s worth a lot.”
I struggled to remind myself that I had not left the room at Gardenia Landing, that Teag and Anthony were hovering nearby, no doubt worried and ready to step in if things went too far. But the reality of the sights, sounds, and smells of the vision made it very difficult to believe that what I saw happened long ago.
McCreedy grew impatient as Tuan’s workers moved from crate to crate. “Let’s get this wrapped up,”
he said. “My ship is due to sail.” “Patience,” Tuan repeated. “Verification weaves the fabric of trust.”
I didn’t trust McCreedy, and I wondered if Tuan did, either. The captain looked antsy, and I wondered what he was hiding. Finally, all of the crates had been opened to reveal their cargo of rugs.
“See? Just as I promised,” McCreedy said, a little too glibly.
Tuan nodded. “Yes. The number of crates and packages are correct. Now, we must make certain that what is in the packages is what we have agreed upon.”
McCreedy made a show of checking the pocket watch that hung on a chain below his vest. “Look, my ship can’t wait,” he replied, and his voice had lost its congenial tone. “I’ll be back in port in six months. If I’ve given you more than you ordered, we can settle up then.”
McCreedy turned to go, gesturing to the sailors who waited along the wall. But before he could take more than a few steps, more Chinese workers emerged to block his path. He turned back to Tuan angrily.
“What’s the problem?” he demanded. His expression was angry, but I thought I picked up a tone of fear in his voice beneath the bluster.
Tuan folded his hands in front of him, his face placid. “The problem, Captain, is that I have had reports that some of my customers have been unhappy with the quality of your opium.”
“That’s ridiculous! I only bring you the best of the crop, Turkey’s finest,” McCreedy huffed.
“Nonetheless, as a businessman, I must make sure,” Tuan replied, unruffled. “Keeping my customers satisfied is in both our best interests, wouldn’t you agree?”
McCreedy’s eyes darted to the workers who stood between him and the door. I had the distinct impression that he had read a note of threat into Tuan’s equanimity. “Of course,” he said, but his tone sounded forced.
An elderly Chinese woman dressed in a traditional silk robe came forward. A man followed her as she moved from crate to crate, indicating with a gesture which rug to unroll in each shipping container.
Inside the rugs were bundles wrapped in brown paper and twine. The woman selected a bundle from the box, and the man cut a slit into the paper with a knife he pulled from his belt.
Underneath the paper, I glimpsed a brownish-black brick of what must be raw opium. The man scraped off a small amount of material from the brick and handed the knife to the woman, who touched it to her tongue and nodded.
“I told you, it’s good stuff,” McCreedy said, in a tone that had become edgy. His earlier deference was gone, and for the first time, I noticed the gun thrust through his belt.
“I’m sure it is, Captain,” Tuan replied. His flat tone was neither assurance nor accusation, and I had a growing feeling that something was about to go very wrong.
Silently, the woman and the man with the knife moved from crate to crate, repeating the process. For the first few boxes, the woman nodded her approval. But when she reached the last ten crates, she scowled as she tasted the contraband. I didn’t speak Chinese, but I had a fair idea of what was happening. The old woman passed the knife with its most recent scraping to her helper, who also touched it to his tongue, and then spat. A torrent of clipped, angry Chinese followed, to which Tuan responded in his maddeningly placid tone.
The two moved to the next box, and then the next, apparently disappointed with the cargo in each. By the time they had finished the last of the boxes, both the old woman and her knife man looked livid with rage.
“What did he say?” McCreedy demanded. “What’s the problem?”