“That must have been a great honor,” Claire murmured. She imagined the scene: Edwina Storch summoned to Government House, given tea, scones, a cordial reception from a man who had little knowledge of his new territory, still settling into his private quarters, getting to know the servants, his enormous task, Edwina condescending, as only a woman of her age and experience could be. How did she get away with it for so long and without challenge?

“They knew I had been a long time in Hong Kong and knew a great deal about the people, the history, the place, which I do, of course,” Edwina mused. “And the other two. Well, I found out who they were as well. We weren’t supposed to know, but this kind of information gets around. The governor was nervous and confided in a few people, not the location but our identities. As chatter grew, it all came to light. One was Reggie Arbogast. Do you know him?”

Claire nodded. “Slightly.”

“He turned a bit queer after the war.” Her mouth grew set, grim. An unforgiving expression settled on her face. “And a silly cow of a wife, Regina.”

“And the third?” Claire couldn’t help asking.

Edwina looked surprised.

“I thought you would guess. The third was Victor Chen.”

April 1942

WHEN IT RAINS in Hong Kong, the world stops. The deluge is so overwhelming, so strong, that the city disappears under a sheet of gray water and people vanish like panicked rats, scurrying into doorways, shops, restaurants. Inside, they shake off the water, ordering coffee or browsing through dresses while they wait for the rain to stop.

Trudy and Victor Chen sit inside Chez Sophie, a small French restaurant in Causeway Bay, and watch the rain fall outside.

“It never seems clean here, even after the rain,” Trudy says. “The water washes the grime off the streets but it’s back two instants later. Hong Kong is just dirty. Always has been. Can’t live anywhere else, though. This filthy city is home.” She rubs the arm of her chair, red velvet, the fabric starting to shine from constant use. “I’ve always loved this restaurant,” she says. “As a child, Father used to take me to the Sunday brunch here every week, and I’d buy a new dress to wear.”

Victor harrumphs.

“Every week?” he says. “You were spoiled, weren’t you?”

“Spoiled?” she asks. “Don’t worry, Victor. I’m sure this war will beat every last shred of privilege out of me.”

“People will show their true colors.”

“They already are, Victor, dear cousin, and people are already commenting on it. I’ve heard people call us collaborators. Isn’t that what you call those who get too close to the conquerors?”

“Collaborator is a dirty word, Trudy. I’d be careful how you use it.” Victor sips Cognac, his face reddening. Trudy lounges in her chair, sleek in a tan wool skirt and ivory blouse. A half-empty coffee cup sits in front of her.

“But that’s what we are, aren’t we, Victor?” Trudy asks, needling him. “Isn’t that what they call people like us?”

“Don’t be naïve,” he snaps. “You are providing English lessons and etiquette. You’re basically a governess to the good general, educating him in the ways of the Western world that he is so interested in, despite himself. And I am merely doing my best to provide a smooth transition so that our people do not have to suffer. Never say something so stupid again. Not everything is so black and white. Should we spite ourselves and alienate the very people who might help us through this difficult time? Trudy, you are no longer a child.”

“But Otsubo is so…”

“You do not have to concern yourself with him other than to give him English lessons and try to fulfill his requests.” His face turns shrewd. “I would say you should comply with every request, no matter what it is or how veiled it is.”

“He is a pig,” she says quietly. The waiter comes and silently refills her cup. She puts sugar and milk in, takes a sip.

Victor studies her face.

“You’ve changed,” he says. “Is it the Englishman? Has he inculcated you with his timeless values, the right way to do things, honor and all that rubbish the English are so good at spewing? And yet, when it comes to their responsibilities, they always find a reason why they can’t fulfill them, and they always sound so good when they do. They’ve refined it to an art. They sound good and do nothing.”

“Who don’t you hate, Victor?” She thinks privately that his speech is undermined by his Oxford accent.

“You are more Chinese than anything else, Trudy. You will always be viewed as foreign in any other country. You belong in Hong Kong.”

He lights a cigarette, doesn’t offer her one. She knows he’s always disapproved of her smoking in public. He thinks women should be demure and quiet when out.

“These are going to be currency too now, you know,” he says, inspecting the lit tip. “Things are going to be different, and getting a foothold in the new world is going to be like building a foundation on quicksand. You have to be adaptable.”

Trudy puts her hands on the table and leans forward. If she could, she would bare her teeth and hiss.

“I’m busy, Victor. Why did you want to see me?”

“I just want to be sure we’re on the same side,” he says. “Being as we’re family and all.”

Trudy laughs.

“You’ve never felt so familial before, I’m sure.” She hesitates. “Maybe I’ll go into Stanley instead. Will said…”

“Don’t be idiotic, Trudy. You can get a lot more accomplished out here than you can by being in a prison. And make no mistake, that’s what it is in there, a prison. Why would you give it up?”

“But Will…”

Victor laughs.

“I didn’t know you were so sentimental, my dear. And of course, there’s the matter of your father.”

Trudy tenses. “What of him?”

“I didn’t want to say anything but… he is not well.”

Trudy’s face doesn’t move. “He’s never said anything to me.”

Victor looks at her as if she were stupid.

“And you think he would?”

“I don’t believe you.”

Victor waves his hand. “It doesn’t matter to me in the least.” He catches himself. “Of course, I am concerned with his welfare and I thought you had a right to know.”

In the restaurant, the pianist comes in and sits down. He starts to practice. Trudy and Victor sit across from each other, each unwilling to make the next move.

“Debussy,” Trudy says.

“Yes.”

They sit, two chess players, looking at anything but each other. Victor smokes his cigarette down to the stub and crushes it in the crystal ashtray. He speaks first, oblique.

“The Players are already hard to get. The Japanese are bringing in their own brands, Rising Sun and rubbish tobacco like that. It’s going to be all about transportation and access to imports. The channels are going to get narrower. Goods will be dear.”

Trudy looks up. “Goods like, say, medicine, you mean?”

“Well, of course. That’s just one example. Good-quality medicine. American and British pharmaceutical companies are certainly not going to be shipping goods to conquered territories. At least not legally. People are going to have to be clever.”

“And you’ve always been clever, Victor. And criminally unsubtle.”

He throws up his hands. “I’ve always been called something. But I’m just trying to make sure you understand the entire situation. Food is going to be in very short supply. It’s not just a matter of silk stockings and good port.”

Trudy stands up. “Excuse me, I just have to powder my nose.” She walks gracefully over to the powder room and the door closes silently behind her.

Victor waits, tapping his pack of cigarettes on the tablecloth. When she emerges, she is fresh-faced, with a new coat of lipstick, woman’s armor.

“People will think we’re in love, Victor. This illicit meeting in an out-of-the-way restaurant.” She smiles at him.