[h1]China[/h1]
[h2]Hong Kong[/h2]
[h3]Tai Po[/h3]

Stirring in the sheets, Mei slowly came to. On a breath of soft static crackling voices spoke low and soft in the room she awoken to find herself in. Her head felt muddled and slow from last night's acid and the colors and the light of the room felt more vibrant than they should be as she awoken. She was at first groggy, then a spike of terror drove into her heart as her thoughts collected. She sprang upright, gasping for air as she clutched the coarse bare-threaded sheers of the bed up to her breasts, she wrapped her free arm around her legs and gasped for shivering breaths as she turned her frightened watch to the source of the subdued noise.

For her modesty though, she was not naked. But she was frightened and confused and that made her feel all the more exposed.

The room was small and mostly barren. She sat atop of a sparse cot and a drawn sheet afforded some minutia privacy. But in the sliver of an opening where the sheet met the wall she could deduce all she needed. She was in some small apartment, the walls were blue; vibrant or dull blue she couldn't tell. A single large window produced much of the light and in the far corner a pair of elderly couples sat at a small table playing a game of mahjong each as a large, old wood-paneled radio crackled nearby with some subdued radio news show, she didn't recognize it as the one that often played in the streets of Hong Kong; it must be out of Macau.

Sitting up in her bed she tried to remember what had happen and to find some reason why she was there. The memories were ghostly. They escaped like a cloud of steam through her fingers as she reached out to grab them. What was there was a lost and fleeting image and broken pieces of something. She could remember specks, hardly a peep into what happened last night. There was colors, laughing, and light. Then screams, darkness, and the world feeling like it was melting. The later came onto her with the force of a bucket of cold water and her skull throbbed like beetles were eating her from the inside out. She curled up, resting her face on her knees as the pain subsided. Whatever had happened, it was a terrible trip. A part of her asked her to not take it again, to cut it out. And maybe she could.

She sat up in that strange bed, the curtains still drawn out of fear. Cold shivers ran up and down her spine like uninvited fingers. Beyond the curtain the slow purposeful clacking and snapping of the mahjong dominoes on the table continued their measured song. The radio continued to spill softly spoken words through a veneer of white noise. There was a stillness.

Until the door opened.

The sudden tick of the deadbolt threw Mei upright when the mysterious door swung open. There was light footsteps and a boy's voice spoke out, “Good morning Pa, Nana, Grandma, Grandpa.” he greeted in a friendly voice, it was Yan Cong.

Was she at Yan Cong's? How'd she end up here? Mei's head raced with questions and it again tried to pull for wispy memories. There was a distinct smell of fried rice and dumplings that hit her nose, but she couldn't place the reasoning. Angry and disgruntled she threw her head down into her hands and moaned. She could feel tears building in behind her eyes.

“I think your friend is awake.” croaked one of the seniors in the corner, her voice dry and raspy and heavy with an old accent.

There was the sound of anxious footfalls. Two, three, four, and five strides, then peeking in through the curtains was Yan Cong.

Mei looked down at him with a confused worried look. She rested her chin on her crossed arms. But there wasn't any pride in her look as she looked down at him. She felt ashamed, and she turned to look away. Her heart sank low. She could patch together what had happened from there.

Cong looked up at her as he stood on the bunk below. The weight of his body pulled on his fingers and he felt the hard corners of the bed frame dig into the joints of his fingers. It wasn't soft, and it was far from comfortable for him.

“Are you alright?” he asked. He didn't try to hide it, he was concerned. Mei had ran out into the middle of the market late last night screaming nonsense. And it was far from a normal thing. A heavy stone sat at the bottom of his stomach. If Tui wasn't there with him, would the police had got to the young girl before either of her friends?

Mei kept her head turned against the wall. A pitiful sorrow hang over her head and she kept a monastic silence.

“Oh the poor girl, I know the feeling. My sister, the war-” began the same old woman from before.

“Please my flower, not while a guest is here.” cautioned her husband, and a tense silence came again.

“I should just say: my dad will be coming home from the factory soon.” warned Cong, “Mom just left... Just... Just so you know.” he said cautiously in a low voice. Gingerly, he lowered himself and his face disappeared from her hiding spot.

There was an uneasy sense of some impending threat in Cong's warning. Although for sure not intended to be a ultimatum, it hanged the cost of frightful negligence over her head. She waited for a time after her friend had departed from the room and the sounds of the ancient game of domino continued to on the far-side of the tiny apartment. But as the seconds dragged to minutes, she slid herself off of the raised bunk and came to a delicate thud on floor; Yan Cong at least would be able to protect her more than his parents.

The living quarters afforded on the Yans was tiny, hardly a parcel larger than her family room. In a tight space all the necessities were packed together; kitchen and dining, sitting room and bedroom. Only a single door for a bathroom along side the exterior wall behind his grandparents signaled the only other room the family had.

She nervously smiled, wrapped her arms around her as she nodded to the elders sitting at the table and dashed out of the apartment. She met Cong in the hallway.

“So, ah-...” she hesitated, “Your grandparents?” she asked laconically.

Cong shot a look to his apartment's door. The hallway it occupied was dry and sparse, a gun-metal gray corridor with a browning red carpet. “They won't do anything.” he assured her. He turned to walk down the hall, plodding slowly.

“Oh...” Mei mumbled, following her friend as they strolled through the apartment, “So your parents won't know I was here?”

“They won't.” he comforted in a low voice, “They'll get engrossed in their game, tell mom or dad about the scores when they get back home. Dad'll pass out to sleep, and mom will busy herself with dinner. The topic shouldn't arise.”

“But if it does?” Mei asked. She was afraid. She nervously watched the solid-color walls as they walked. A tinge of paranoia crawled in her gut, afraid some misshapen form would melt into view from the blurred intermingling of cracks, shadows, and the soft yellow light. In subdued dred she watched thin hair-line cracks ripple gently and she wondered if the drug was still in her system.

She was also hungry. Terribly hungry.

“I'll figure something out.” Cong said, passing along unsure assurances by loyalty of friendship, “I'll make something up.”

Mei smiled nervously and laughed. But it felt empty and she bowed her head as they came around to the stairwell.

“Do- can I get something to eat?” she asked. The request felt shamefully selfish. “I mean, could we?” she corrected herself desperately, trying to not be self-centered with Cong.

He turned to look back at her as she started to climb down the stairs. “I guess.” he answered.

“Oh, thank you.”

Walking down the narrow cement stairwell the two held a silence between each other. It wasn't until they walked out into the bright mid-morning sunlight of Hong Kong that conversation was re-ignited. “So, what happened last night?” Mei asked. To a point, last night was a blur. She remembered being at the Catrina Madrid, having their local special. Then it became a mess of sounds, images, and smells. It felt as wet as the memories were in her grasp.

“We – Pui Tui and I - found you at the night market.” Cong began, “You were acting terrified, and screaming about animals and horses. Tui had the bright idea of pulling you out, you were acting like you were in a nightmare.

“Between there and his truck you passed out. I offered to keep you, Pui's parents can be too nosey.”

“So... I-...” she started, a sudden chilling dawning crept over her. But she held her tongue.

“You what?” Cong asked, looking up at her.

“Oh, nothing.” she stuttered nervously. She chewed her lips as they slowly strolled down the side-walk. Traffic bustled past them as the walked down the narrow streets of Tai Po. They passed under the shade of phoenix and banyan trees cluttered with colorful song birds. Cast-iron fences covered with flaking green-paint divided the side-walk from over-grown parkways or the untended back corners of apartment plazas. Cyclists competed with small cars and trucks for control of the urban streets.

Cong nodded, tepidly dismissing his line of questioning for now. He could see she was not in the mind or enthusiasm for pressing it and let it by the way-side.

“Cong.” Mei spoke up, “I never noticed until now: but you walk so slow.” she observed.

He looked over and up at her, a prying how-did-you-not-know expression on his face. “I mean,” she stammered apologetically, “I always thought it was Tui that walked slow, and we all walked at his pace if we were together.” she explained.

“Oh!” Cong exclaimed, “No, he's not slow. He's actually a fast walker.” he expressed dispassionately. “I can't run, or rather I don't.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“I'm just... I'm runtish.” he explained, holding out his arms, “You know, like that.” there was a look of self pity in his long face, and he immediately dropped his eyes from Mei to the ground in front of them.

“I've been this way always,” he said with a long sigh, “they said if I don't do anything about it I may be in leg braces and with a cane when I hit thirty. An- and yeah, I do. But I won't be anything more than a lanky, weak runt of a man.”

“Oh? But I've watched you play with Tui at the Center, after school. You never seemed that way at all.” she comforted supportivly, “Lin and I, we didn't think you were anything but a skinny awkward kid that liked to hang out with Tui.”

“Well thanks, but no I don't play games or anything like other guys would...” his voiced lowered pitifully, “I wish I could, but if I don't I'd probably be in worse shape than I am now.”

“How so?” asked Mei.

“I was diagnosed as being atrophic since I was a kid.” Cong explained, “Like, my muscles will waste away if I don't do anything. They can't do anything about it, only tell me to keep busy. It isn't hard to do, but I don't try to do anything more than keep moving.

“Understand Mei, I don't think I can ever be as good as Tui at American basket ball, I won't keep up in ping pong, and I can't do Wushu beyond maybe basic t'ai chi ch'uan. I'm afraid I could hurt myself.”

“Oh Cong, I'm sorry.” she expressed, “I didn't know...”

“Tui's always known, and he's been there to help me out.” smiled Cong, “He's been a good friend.”

“He has.” admitted Mei. She wondered if this was Cong's way of paying it forward, or the sort of loyalty they – she, Cong, Tui, and Lin – had together. It brought a sense of remorse over her infrequent forays to the Cantina Madrid over her, and the world seemed to darken some.

Crossing onto a bridge over the Shing Mun river they found a food vendor parked on the far-side. The sweet smell of pork dumplings mingled with the smell of rumbling trucks as they cross over the shallow murky water of the river in its shallow concrete and gravel bed, literally re-carved to accommodate the city at its banks. “I think we found dim sum.” Cong pointed out, “I'll treat.”

“Thanks.” Mei smiled.

[h2]Korla[/h2]
[h3]Southern Xianjiang[/h3]

“Where is our guest of honor?” a man demanded, thick and heavy. Large hands hovered besides a blue porcelain plate devoid of any contents. But his heavy dish-pan face was full of anxious hunger. His narrow brown eyes scanned the others present in the room.

“He will arrive, Inshallah.” offered his neighbor across from him. A younger man by his years, but baked in the desert sun and turned over in the military had made a strange sort of young wise man that was shone in the delicate wrinkles left in his squinted eyes by the desert heat. He was perhaps in his mid thirties. A thin pointed beard as well grew in a downward curl from his chin.

A long dinner table was set up in the middle of an empty room. Black and white photos and ink portraits hung from silk scrolls from the walls. It was a public space, filled in all by twenty men. Contained in closed wicker baskets the spread of the day waited being served. Though they kept the food arm, it did not help in retaining the smells.

Drifting out from the fibrous containers the rich, succulent smells of camel, mutton, and goat whetted the mouths of all present. Subtle fruity hints of rich fruit as well swam in the warm fan-churned air of a fry southern summer. Hidden among the baskets, maize and rice sat idly steaming themselves in patient waiting. There was a bowl of uncovered raisins, and another of stacked naan bread. It was a dinner in waiting, and it was lorded over by hungry wolves. Though some showed it more so than others.

“Perhaps he got arrested again?” asked a young man at the table. He was just barely a man, his face still boyish and clean, unshaven or withered by the sun. A thick head of dirty blonde hair sat atop his head and hung down before his narrow brow. He was Uyghur.

“Patience Burhan.” the old military vet cautioned, “If that were to happen we would have all heard by now.”

“And what use would the government have in holding Hua He?” the hungry impatient wolf of a Mongolian laughed, “He is a driver.”

“What reason would they even have in arresting Erkin Amas?” questioned another, “I was sure that era would be over.”

“I would not bet that in the end someone will charge a man such as he with something trivial.” someone laughed.

“Let's not dwell on it comrades, all the same. Let us return to waiting.” said the old veteran.

“Waiting will have us all killed.” commented the wider one with sharpened hungry wit.

“You expect that because we do nothing the Spanish will simply fly their airplanes this far east to strike this building?” joked the veteran, “Please Tomorbaatar, there are worse fates to be a part of than being hungry.”

“Would they do that?” asked the youth.

“Of course not.” the veteran consoled, “It's impossible.”

“Quiet, both of you. He's coming.”

The room went tense. A pair of heavy footfalls could be heard from behind a simple door behind the head of the table. All eyes turned to watch who came in as the door opened slowly, allowing in two men. The men rose from their seats and bowed to the new guests.

One was a short gaunt man. His face blemished with moles and a thin beard and mustache growth. He was dwarfed by the much taller man at his side, who wearing a trimly cut suit provided a much more regal and fairer purpose.  A simple light-blue knitted Taqiyah crowned his head, covering his combed back, dusty brown hair.

Pausing in the door the taller figure stopped and smiled, and returned the bow. “My friends!” he beamed with a smile, “How fairs?” he asked as he walked to take his seat at the table.

“All is well, Hua He.”  Tomorbaatar declared eagerly, “Now, may we eat?”

Hua He took his seat at the head of the table, nearest the Mongol and his veteran friend. A nearby empty seat was taken by He's friend. “You may.” he bid.

Tomorbaatar eagerly reached out to the middle of the table, and flipped the wicker lid off of one of the baskets before him. Digging his fingers into the dumplings within, he withdrew a few finger fulls of the golden-browned delicacies and placed them on his plate before assembling the rest of the lunch onto his plate. The others did likewise the sweet aromas of the meal was released in full as lids and covers were removed.

“So how does life fair, comrade?” asked the veteran across from Tomorbaatar.

“It does well for me, my son is to turn eighteen in the coming weeks and I feel he may follow his father's footsteps into the military.” He smiled, “Inshallah, his service is fruitful and honorable. And you, Ching Wa?”

“Well.” Wa replied simply, “That is all.”

“Nothing then?” He inquired as he piled a modest clump of rice onto his plate.

“To be truthful, hardly. I go out every morning with my family and neighbors and see to the fields. As it has been since I left the army.”

“To be honest comrade,” Tomorbaatar spoke as he began to pick through his plate, which had become a banquet in its own right, “I was beginning to suspect you may have been arrested again.”

Hue He smiled, “No, hardly. I think enough have recognized there's no use in arresting a retired general such as myself anymore.”

“I would not be so sure, we did not after all expect them to arrest anyone after Hajj some seven years ago.” a man from the middle of the table said, leaning over his plate to address Hua He. He was middle-aged, pale in his complexion. “So enemies, you are still not short of.”

“Don't remind me, Laquan.” Han Hue remarked bitterly.

“We shouldn't dwell too much on back then, we have a future to look towards.” Ching Wa remarked with a brimming smile, “Word has it that the proposals for Xinjiang being recognized as Uyghur territory has arrived to Beijing, and there's multiple considerations for Hui regions.” he declared.

“Mhm, yes.” He acknowledged, “A little recognition between out people can go a long way. Even if not much.”

“Besides that though, it's hardly as if it will grant us any new power over our homes!” Laquan decried, “What can our autonomous councils do that won't be overridden by Beijing?”

“Complain, officially.” Tomorbaatar said through stuffed cheeks, “And loudly.”

“Can I ask a question, uncle?” the youth pipped up.

“Sure.” He invited, hovering a few grains of rice in front of his face with his chopsticks.

“Can the Spanish reach us?” he asked.

He cracked a humored smile, “No, they can't Gang.”

“Will you go to fight them?” he asked.

Hua He looked down, at his plate as he contemplatively chewed his rice, “We will need to find out.” he answered simply.

[h1]Russia[/h1]
[h2]Volgograd[/h2]

At a park-bench in the shade of lush green trees Jun watched a man walk down the side-walk. Limping, he walked on a waxy, ebony cane. A worn-out business suit hung from his shoulders. He looked to be the age of Jun. The limp wasn't of age, but of injury. His leg was lifted with care as if it were fragile, and the weight of his step was carried through the cane. It wasn't there to prop up on imbalance, but to supplement for lost ability.

Having entered Volgograd, the Chinese agent had to find some sort of source of information to continue on. He had no leads on the location of anyone who might know where the Chinese expat community was, just that it was down river from Volgograd. But the Volga river opened into a wide and twisting delta that was too large to search. It was a great loss that Shu could not have provided more exact direction, and there was no way he could contact him again.

So now in the shade of the trees he fell back to the basic tricks he put to practice in Tibet ten years ago. To infiltrate a community and seek out anyone who might have leads, then case them to learn if they might be trusted; who they knew, where they went, and how much a political affiliation they had. And if they could not turn up information on some quarry on direct confrontation, then simply watching would help.

But so far he hadn't crossed any Chinese in Volgograd. But there were other curious persons. Potential Mafiya soldiers, Turkish mercenaries, and this individual.

As jaded it would seem, the demeanor of the man Jun was casing was something like someone who was going into money. His prime shaved face was that of an individual groomed to interact with others. Between his small townhouse and the building which he worked out of there was a considerable degree of traffic. There was no shortage in visitors and transport that worked out of his warehouse in the middle of the town.

Passing the hidden seat Jun watched him from the man passed out of his line of sight and kept down the side-walk. Jun stood up from his bench and turned to follow his path. So far he could believe his affiliations with anyone was minimal. He had not seen any horse masks around him, nor had he seen soldiers or police. So he followed.

Where Jun identified the man to work was a simple redbrick building, trimmed at the corners and around the windows in the vibrant and complex trimming and decoration of the late 19th century. High on the walls, narrow tall windows looked out onto the street while dark curtains prevented onlookers from peering inside. Jun watched from the street corner as he carefully climbed up the stairs and to the front door. Pulling keys out of his pocket he fumbled with the lock before gaining entry.

With the streets clear, and the man inside he took the opportunity to approach him, and followed him inside.

The air was heavy with the smell of malt and fermentation. Standing in the doorway Jun was hit with the sharp crisp, earthly aromas of brewing. It dominated the air and bubbled in his nose. The smell of fermenting grains, tubers, fruits, and berries was heavy in the halls.

There was a pervasive absence of sound, or that of habitation other than the distant sounds of furnaces. The naked hardwood floors groaned heavily under Jun's weight, and even timid careful steps could not muffle the admonishing groans of the old wood.

Reaching out a hand Jun pushed open a door at the far end of the main hallway. It swung gently on its hinges, revealing a vast room of copper pots and vats gentle bubbling away, the aromatic streams of steam that billowed from under the lids and from valves revealed the building to be what it's for: a brewery.

In the middle of the chamber, his target stood alone inspecting the contents of the middle-most vat. He rose in his hand a glass half-full of frothy golden-yellow beer, inspecting its very glow and foam with keen eyes. As he rose it to his lips to drink, Jun spoke: “I did not think the Turks would have allowed this.” he said in a low hostile voice.

The man jumped into a panic, dropping the glass and it shattered on the flagstone flooring. His heart in a panic in tore about in a sharp 180 degree, stumbling against the still and limping on his bum leg. “Verdammt!” he screamed, panicking.

“Who are you? What the fuck do you want!?” he bellowed, his voice was heavy with an accent. Not Russian, German. But his Russian was clear and exact, he was well mannered to the language.

Jun walked into the room. He cast a passing look over the rows and rows of massive copper tubs. They were well kept, like a mirror they reflected the room clearly on their golden-red hulls. “You work alone?” Jun asked.

“S-s-shit. Do you want money? Is that what you want!? I don't got any!” the fearful, crippled German cried.

“No.” Jun responded.

“If this is employment then you have terrible manners asking for a job, you fucking chink.” the German continued to rave. He grasped  the head on his cane in both hands, and with a swift whoosh of metal he unsheathed a dagger from the walking stick. He held it out before him, waving it nervously. But his leg was still bum.

Jun looked at the knife with a look of surprise but little more. He had not expected it, but between it and its wielder there wasn't much threat to it. “Put it away before you hurt yourself.” he demanded in a cold dispassionate tone.

“I'll gut you like a pig if you get closer!” the German sneered, his voice was shaking. And the threat was a failed pass at intimidation to the agent. Reaching into his tattered black coat he withdrew the pistol given to him from Shu. Seeing the gray steel flash in the warm light of the brewery forced the German to reconsider.

“I- ah, uhm...” he mumbled, the weight of gun-point diplomacy reaching that of reality, “Ok, I guess we can make a deal.” he said sourly.

“Thank you.” sneered Jun, tucking the revolver away, “I'm a little lost, and new to the area. I need directions.”

“I don't get around enough, Comrade Hou. I hope you can see that through those squinting eyes of yours. What could you possible need me for?”

“Your a man of many contacts. I've been watching.” Jun answered. He was willing to let the taunting slide, he needed him. But it did not quench the brief disgusting turn in his gut, “There's a community of my countrymen in this part of the country. Where is it?”

“Sorry, I don't work with the Chinese.” the man sneered, returning his blade back to his cane. He turned back to his vats and hobbled among them. Jun followed.

“Not asking that you do or don't, just if you know where they are.” Jun continued to press. The man had a lying air to him. He felt he knew something, but he wasn't giving it up.

“I don't know.” snapped the brew master, growing clearly tired from the line of investigation, “You can come back home to Peking, any time.”

“I'm not about to be turned away, I want to know where they are.” the agent continued to demand, “But what if I offered something in return?”

“What could you possibly give me?” the German inquired. He was still mad, but for a brief second his rage subdued itself. It passed into the realm of curiosity.

“You look like your short on help. You trying to manage this on your own?”

The German furrowed his brows and shot a spiteful look at Jun. “Fine.” he said, “I do have problems, and maybe you can help.”

Jun nodded. Folding his arms in front of him he waited.

“I don't know if you witnessed it or not, but several days ago so thugs visited by enterprise here. They demanded protection money, and I said I won't pay it. I didn't believe they could do much, they were scrappy and confused pieces of shit. They're not the big mafiya or the Cossacks out west. So they left,

“Come back tomorrow, and it seems they drove off my employees.” there was bitterness in his voice, “I can manage it on my own for a while and my brother won't notice. But he has most of the muscle. I could call for him, but last I heard he was north in Tyumen.”

“Why Tyumen?” Jun inquired.

“I tried to tell him to not get in the way of you fucking Chinese, but he insisted. But I don't see the difference now: you're here. So all might well be lost.” he turned from a vat, scowling. Jun was still in the dark as to what he meant so he elaborated: “He believed serving the front of a war with whatever alcohol they wanted without affiliation would be a good business model.” he elaborated dryly, “Free market adventurism he called it. As if Russia wasn't an adventure already.”

“And you can't import your own into the country?”

“Would you want to try?” the German shot, “The price jumps exorbitantly, no one wants to take the risk to move it in. And neither he or I are in a position to manage the supply into the country ourselves. Russian home-brew after the Tzar already took a big hit, so we figured there was a lack for quality and we moved in.

“But now we might be shut down, and I can't find willing help. Someone keeps murdering anyone who comes in for work and I think I'm marked.

“Take care of this, and I'll tell you where your Orientals are.”

“Fine.” Jun said, “So who am I looking for?”

“The Italian, I think.” the German muttered uncertainly, “And as if to spite me, he and his fucking bunch are down in Old Sarepta.”