"The Comprador's Agenda" originally appeared in Tevun-Krus #15: DieselPunk

Author's note from paolojcruz: At the surface level, "The Comprador's Agenda" is a Batman homage. But really, the Vengeful Ghost's narrative DNA includes a host of other urban vigilantes who masqueraded as wealthy industrialists in pulp serials and radio plays: The Green Hornet, The Spider, The Shadow, and more.

Aside from riffing on the costumed hero tropes, the story represents my fascination with 1930s Shanghai: the unbridled trade culture, the glam nightlife, the ritzy "foreign concession" neighborhoods, and of course, the looming specter of another war. It's an intriguing mess of colonial power dynamics, corporate intrigue, and lavish Chinoiserie. I can only hope my story does justice to the city and the era.

Note from Red_Harvey, who selected it: I've run into Paolo's work many a time on Wattpad, and I've always enjoyed his approachable method of story-telling. The Comprador's Agenda is a great story with a unique storyline, set in early 20th century China, featuring espionage and romance.

The Comprador's Agenda

by paolojcruz

"COMPRADOR: The name given to the native managers in European business houses in China"

- 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica

In the morning, I met with the board of the Whampoa Ever Prosperous Trading Company, to discuss our plans for fiscal year 1939. We agreed to focus on the basics: industrial quantities of fabrics, paper, and steel. War is now a matter of when, not if. I don't know about my peers, but I'm rather confident we can still make it out of this mess in the black.

I returned to the ancestral home in Changning District for lunch. My manservant Rajiv prepared his specialty: a hearty dal-bhat-tarkari befitting his fiery Gurkha heritage. Father George always thought it quite distasteful that I would be so fond of such an unrefined meal, but I've found it both a practical and tasty solution to the chill of a Shanghai winter. (Of course, my culinary preferences were the least of our disagreements, during that period when the good vicar served as executor of my family's estate.)

With a full belly, I took a moment to catch up with the day's papers. The latest edition of the North China Herald greeted me with yet another inflammatory headline: "VENGEFUL GHOST – HERO OR HAZARD?" The article featured the usual quotes from Commissioner Blake Connaught of the Municipal Police, lamenting how the masked vigilante's activities were getting in the way of his men's sworn duty to the public. To which I say: poppycock! Indeed, were it not for my Company's "special partnership" with the enigmatic crime-fighter, Connaught's forces would find themselves a lot more overwhelmed. The garden variety triads were difficult enough to handle, what more the flamboyant costumed types who've begun to emerge in the past year.

Shortly after noon, I test-drove the Bentley Mark V up to Eight Immortals Bridge Cemetery, near the border of the International Settlement. As usual, I made an offering at the shrine of my parents, renewing my vow to their memory.

Then it was off to supper at the Long Bar, on the Bund. It was there that I made the acquaintance of a rather persistent correspondent for the Herald, one Miss Rosalind Connaught. Indeed, that fine specimen of womanhood is every bit the spitfire as her father, the Commissioner. It was through our conversation that I came to know of a rumored business meeting between the tai-pan Sir John "The Younger" Keswick, of the Jardine Matheson Company, and visiting American mogul John D. Rockefeller, Jr. It appeared that the two Johns intended to discuss the possibility of developing experimental aircraft together. Whatever the true purpose of their liaison, it was to happen that evening, during the performance of the jazz leader Buck Clayton and his 14 Gentlemen From Harlem, at the Canidrome. The fair Miss Connaught implied that she had gathered this information from no less than Madame Chiang herself, Soong Mei-Ling, who is also Secretary-General of the Chinese Aeronautical Affairs Commission. And so it was that hearsay determined my plans for the night.

* * *

After sundown, I made my way to the French Concession. I swaggered into the Canidrome ballroom, proud to have Rosalind on my arm. I kept my distance from the two industrialists, observing their exchange from our position near the bar. As their negotiation seemingly grew more heated, I began to sense that trouble was brewing. Sure enough, just after the band ended a raucous version of "Stompin' at The Savoy", the first gunshots broke out in the hall.

The notorious gangster known as Bian Lian, the Lord of Masks, emerged from the crowd. He was flanked by thugs wearing various Sichuan opera masks, who forced the panicked audience to lie on the floor.

Taking advantage of the spectacle, I crept into the nearby men's room. Bian Lian was still going through one of his characteristic evil-doer monologues, when I reappeared – in full costume – amidst a flash-bang of smoke.

"I had a feeling you would be making your presence felt tonight, Vengeful Ghost. Get him, my brothers!"

Most of the henchmen were just very flashy goons – if one could look past the fearsome theatrics, they were little match for a determined fighter like myself. I managed to dispatch most of them with conventional kung fu, shrouded by a few clever parlor tricks of my own.

Bian Lian's second-in-command, however, was quite a nasty piece of work, a vicious Sicilian lady in a ridiculous armored cheongsam, wielding dual bladed war-fans. Despite her inappropriate dress, she countered my movements with precision strikes that betrayed extensive martial training. I thought I had finished her off, after I managed to toss her from the upper balcony. But as I moved towards Bian Lian's position, the crazed harpy snuck up on me. Damn near took my head off too! I would have been a goner for sure, had Rosalind not crept up behind her, smashing a bottle of Tsingtao pilsner across her skull. I briefly saluted Miss Connaught in acknowledgment, before heading on stage to confront the villain.

Once again, I faced my would-be nemesis. By that point, the Lord of Masks had personally taken Rockefeller hostage, with the scion quivering at the business end of a Czechoslovak light machine gun. Much as I was entertained to see a competitor reduced to a blubbering wreck, I understood my responsibilities. With lightning reflexes, I sprung forward, dragging the Yank to safety, all the while dodging Bian Lian's rapid gunfire. With Rockefeller now securely out of harm's way, I pierced the capsule of knockout gas in my cuff, releasing the Vapors of Grievance that my father developed. That's when I realized that Bian Lian's mask had to contain some kind of breathing apparatus – he seemed completely unfazed. Clearly, it was time for more severe measures – I rushed at him, grabbing the mobster's faceplate with my right palm. With controlled motion, I unleashed a non-lethal dose of medium-voltage Wronged Spirit Charge from within my insulated glove. The Lord of Masks wriggled desperately out of my grasp, knocking me down with a sudden kick to the groin. Within the moments I spent recoiling from the pain, the sneaky bastard had "changed his face" and disappeared, ever the consummate escapist.

By that point, sirens were blaring – my cue to end the Vengeful Ghost act for the night. I made it up to the rooftop, just as the cops started moving in to arrest Bian Lian's flunkies. Granted, the Lord of Masks had gotten away – again. But all things considered, it wasn't a total loss. The police took credit for busting up the gang. Rosalind got the scoop she was looking for – much to her daddy's endless anxiety. And I assumed that the experience discouraged Rockefeller from continuing with whatever plans he may have shared with Jardine Matheson.

As for me, I seemingly crawled out from underneath an overturned table, in the aftermath of the carnage. Rosalind wasn't having any of it, I could tell. But she played along, just the same. She had lost a heeled slipper in the fray. She took off the remaining one, and lovingly poured champagne into it.

"Here, drink up. You've earned it!" she said, with a conspiratorial wink.

"Oh, don't be modest, Ms. Connaught. I'd definitely say you had your own role to play in this affair."

"Tell you what, Mr. Li. Why don't we retire to your quarters to discuss the extent of our respective involvement in today's events? Then perhaps we'll find out just how immodest I can be."

* * *

Hours later, I was still wide awake. I wrapped my side of the comforter around the exposed part of Rosalind's body. Then I walked out to the Bodhi tree in the courtyard. I curled up below its frost-capped branches, letting the crisp air have its way with my skin. I was in no position to meditate. In fact, I did just the opposite. I filled my mind with an register of the challenges I would face, in the months ahead. What would happen when the specter of war reached Shanghai? I shuddered at the prospect: an entire city so in need of justice, it would take a million Vengeful Ghosts to be redeemed.

That's when I had my final waking dream, a portent of things to come. I saw an ornate puzzle box, Imperial espionage, and the betrayal of someone very dear to me. I saw the fiercest of ninjas, encrypted one-time pads, and the city gates in flames. And I saw myself, a shell of the man I am now, bequeathing the role of Vengeful Ghost to another, on the barren Spratly Islands. Then, at last, I fell into a deep, restful slumber, unprepared but willing to face what lies ahead.