Chapter 11: Chinatown

Money makes the world go round. In any culture, this saying was absolute truth.

What could five hundred pounds buy you?

A round-trip ticket to America, for one — though to board that plane, you had to wear a flight crew uniform. In essence, Pierre was going to pose as part of the airline staff.

On the way to the seaplane dock, Kent, driving the car, glanced at Pierre in the rearview mirror and said bluntly:

"Mr. Pierre, I don't know why you're heading to New York, but just know: we only stay there five days. After that, whether you're back or not, we return to London. And next time... there might not be a next time."

"Don't worry, Captain Kent. I won't delay you."

Soon, they pulled into a parking lot by Tower Bridge. Moored on the Thames was a large, four-engine Imperial Class C seaplane.

"See that?" Kent said, nodding at the plane. "That's an Imperial C-class flying boat. Before the war, it was the pride of Britain's overseas routes — flying weekly from London to Egypt, India, East Africa, South Africa, Malaysia, and Australia... Now, only the New York line remains. One flight per week."

As he spoke, he led the way toward the dock.

The soldiers on guard merely glanced at them before waving them through. Clearly, Kent had arranged everything in advance. Judging by the guards' indifference, this wasn't their first time doing this sort of thing.

Even when Pierre boarded the plane, none of the actual crew paid him much attention. He simply blended in — another uniformed figure — and took a seat up front, just ahead of the mailbags.

About twenty minutes later, the hatch sealed. The four engines mounted on the wings roared to life, and the massive seaplane taxied out onto the Thames.

Spray lashed the windows as they picked up speed — then, suddenly, the plane lifted into the air.

For Pierre, it was his first time on a seaplane. At first, curiosity had him craning his neck to take in every detail.

But that novelty soon wore off.

"Better get some sleep," the mechanic Richard said, tossing him a sleeping bag. "We've got twenty-six hours ahead of us."

Twenty-six hours!

It wasn't a nonstop flight. They would refuel in Greenland before continuing to New York.

Throughout the long flight over the Atlantic, sometimes Pierre could see smoke columns rising from the sea below — wreckage of merchant ships sunk by German U-boats, their fires still burning.

A grim reminder: The Nazi wolfpacks were no myth.

Including the stopover at Greenland, the entire journey took nearly twenty-seven hours. Finally, they touched down in New York Harbor.

As soon as the plane docked, the crew grew restless — eager to rush into the city and unload the treasures hidden in their suitcases: watches, cameras, luxury goods — all meant to be traded for cash and necessities.

New York, in 1943, wasn't the neon paradise of later decades — but even now, it was already one of the world's grandest cities. Towering skyscrapers lined the avenues, and walking amid the endless crowd, Pierre couldn't shake the sense that he had somehow traveled into the future.

The Empire State Building itself soared high above Manhattan, a titan of concrete and steel.

As he moved through the rivers of people, past glistening storefronts and roaring traffic, he felt an odd sense of detachment — as if he were walking through two different eras at once.

For someone like him, unfamiliar with the city, there was really only one place to start:

Chinatown.

And he had a mission: to find a supply line for cigarettes.

When Pierre stepped into Chinatown, he immediately noticed something: there were quite a few people dressed almost exactly like him — same style, same color.

It was then that a Chinese man in a casual open-collared shirt approached him with a warm smile.

"Hello, sir. First time in Chinatown?"

His Mandarin carried a thick Cantonese accent, but hearing it nonetheless stirred a sudden surge of warmth inside Pierre.

"Yes," he nodded cautiously,

"My first time."

Seeing his guarded expression, the man hurried to explain:

"Sir, you have nothing to worry about. Here in Chinatown, half the people make their living off people like you. Why would we ruin our own business? Rest assured — no one here will try to cheat you. I just saw you looked new, and thought maybe I could help."

Intrigued, Pierre asked:

"Half the people?

What do you mean?"

The man explained:

"Look at the sailors around here — they're your colleagues.

These days, the best business in Chinatown is buying watches, cameras, furs...

all from sailors like you."

Through his explanation, Pierre quickly pieced it together.

Tens of thousands of Chinese sailors served in Allied merchant fleets.

When they docked in Britain, they would use cigarettes and other goods to trade for valuables — watches, cameras, jewelry, furs — then bring them here to Chinatown to resell for cash and supplies.

"So, if I'm not mistaken," Zhu Yihai said with a grin,

"you're here to trade too, right?"

"Correct."

Pierre smiled easily.

"I brought a few things.

Just not sure what the going prices are."

"That'll depend on what exactly you've got.

Don't worry — I'll find you the best shop.

As for my commission, you needn't worry — whichever store I take you to, the shopkeeper pays me. No extra cost to you."

Zhu's tone was open and forthright.

Business was built on trust, after all —especially when dealing with newcomers.

With luck, he figured, this client would become a repeat customer.

And regulars were good business.

Sizing him up, Zhu guessed Pierre was around thirty.

Well-dressed, clean, but the worn collar of his shirt suggested his fortunes weren't that great.

After a moment's thought, Pierre asked:

"Suppose I needed a large quantity of cigarettes —

Luckies and Camels especially.

Could you get them?"

"Of course!" Zhu laughed.

"That's what everyone comes here for.

How many do you need?

Twenty cartons? Fifty?"

"You know," he added seriously,

"even in America, cigarettes are rationed now.

Each person only gets a few packs a week.

Prices aren't cheap."

"How much markup?" Pierre asked calmly.

"At least fifty percent."

Zhu Yihai didn't even blink.

"Sometimes more — sixty, seventy — depends on the market.

But if you're buying a lot, I can get you a better deal."

Pierre nodded, satisfied.

"Good.

Because I need more than all of them put together."

He smiled faintly and added:

"If you can find me a reliable supplier — one who can guarantee volume — your commission...

will be generous."