The outpost town clinging to the edge of the Wolf's Jaw Pass was a cesspool of desperation. Once a sleepy stop for caravans and smugglers, it had swelled into a sprawling, chaotic refugee camp. The single dusty street was choked with displaced Mongols, their faces etched with the anger and fear of men who had lost everything. They were the human flotsam created by the relentless tide of Yuan Shikai's Iron Census.
In the corner of the town's only tavern—a grimy, smoke-filled establishment that smelled of cheap liquor, unwashed bodies, and despair—sat Lieutenant Fang. To any casual observer, he was just another victim of the times. His Han merchant's robes were stained and frayed, his face was covered in a three-day-old stubble, and his eyes had the dull, weary look of a man who had stared into the abyss of ruin. He nursed a cup of foul-tasting, watered-down baijiu, the picture of misery. It was a perfect disguise.
"General Meng was right," Fang thought, taking in the scene with his peripheral vision. "The chaos is the perfect cover. In a sea of desperation, no one looks twice at another drowning man."
He had been here for three days, a silent, disciplined patience warring with the urgency of his mission. He had spent the time listening, observing, absorbing the rhythms of the town. He knew he couldn't simply start asking about a woman named Altan or a Russian agent. Such directness would get him a knife in the ribs before nightfall. He needed to find a natural entry point into the local intelligence network, a crack in the wall of mistrust. He had identified his target. The man was a local information broker known only as 'The Weasel'. He was a wiry, ferret-faced Mongol who moved through the tavern like smoke, his shifty eyes missing nothing, his ears open to every whispered deal and grievance. He survived, and even prospered, by selling secrets to anyone who would pay.
Fang knew he had to attract The Weasel's attention, but in a way that seemed organic. He couldn't appear too strong or too eager. He had to be prey.
He staged his move with the precision of a military exercise. He spotted another refugee, a big, surly man who had been loudly complaining about his losses. Fang, feigning drunkenness, stumbled into the man's table, spilling his drink. The argument that followed was loud, pathetic, and entirely one-sided.
"Watch where you're going, you clumsy Han dog!" the big man roared.
"My apologies… my feet…" Fang slurred, making himself look weak.
The big man, eager to vent his frustration on a safe target, shoved Fang hard. Fang went down, collapsing in a heap on the filthy floor, not fighting back, simply curling up like a beaten animal. From across the room, The Weasel watched the brief, pathetic exchange with a flicker of professional interest. A new piece had appeared on the board. A weak piece, perhaps, but one that might be useful.
Later that evening, after the tavern had thinned out slightly, The Weasel slid into the chair opposite Fang. "You have the look of a man who has lost everything, Han," he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper.
Fang looked up, rubbing a feigned bruise on his cheek. His eyes were bloodshot. "More than you know," he mumbled bitterly. "My silks from Suzhou, my spices from the south… my whole caravan. Everything. Taken by Toghrul's bandits, they say. Now I am stuck in this pit with nothing but the clothes on my back."
The Weasel smiled, a thin, unpleasant stretching of his lips. "Toghrul is a patriot, not a bandit. Perhaps you angered the spirits of the land. But a man's luck can always change. Information, you see, is the only real currency that matters in these times. And I am a wealthy man."
Fang scoffed, draining his cup. "What information could I possibly want? The road back to Datong is closed by your new 'census'. I am trapped."
"Perhaps you do not wish to go back," The Weasel suggested, leaning closer. "Perhaps you wish to… recover your losses. Or even profit from your misfortune. There are powerful people moving through these hills now. People who fight the Qing. People who have need of certain goods, and who pay well for them. Guns. Medicine. Information about Qing troop movements."
This was the opening. The bait had been taken. Fang looked around the tavern, then leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper of his own. "I am a merchant, not a spy. My fighting days are long past. But… my caravan was not just silks. I am not a fool. I had a hidden cache. German medicine. Quinine. For the swamp fevers. Very valuable. I buried it in a waterproof chest off the main road before the bandits found us. I could retrieve it."
This was a carefully crafted lie, but a plausible one. It was the perfect bait for this environment. The Weasel's eyes, usually dull and shifty, gleamed with genuine avarice. Quinine was like gold dust in these crowded, unsanitary refugee camps, where disease was beginning to spread like wildfire.
"Quinine?" he hissed. "A large amount?"
"Enough to matter," Fang said. "Enough to keep a small army on its feet. But I would need protection to retrieve it. And I would need a serious buyer. Someone powerful enough to make the risk worthwhile. I hear whispers… of a new leader. Someone who is not a reckless fool like Toghrul. A woman. They say she is the true spirit of the resistance."
He had dangled the name without saying it, a fisherman letting out his line. He was testing the waters, seeing how deep the loyalty to Altan ran.
The Weasel's expression immediately became guarded, his professional caution reasserting itself. "Whispers are dangerous things, Han trader. Such a leader, if she even exists, would not deal with a stranger. Especially not a Han."
"But she would deal with a man who can provide her fighters with medicine that will keep them from dying of fever," Fang pressed, adding a layer of cynical logic. "Let me be clear, Weasel. I do not care about your war. I do not care about your spirits or your resistance. I care about profit. I have something valuable. If this 'spirit of resistance' wants it, she can send someone trustworthy to talk to me. We can make a deal. If not…" he paused for effect, "I will find another buyer. Perhaps even one of the Qing officers at the census posts. I hear they have deep pockets, and their soldiers get sick too."
This was the masterstroke. He had presented himself not as a potential ally or sympathizer, but as a cynical, greedy merchant whose only loyalty was to coin. It was a persona The Weasel understood and trusted far more than idealism. He had also added a subtle but potent threat, suggesting he might sell this vital resource to the enemy. He had forced The Weasel's hand.
The Weasel studied Fang for a long, silent moment, his sharp mind weighing the risks and the potential rewards. The Han trader was either very brave or very, very foolish. But the prize… the quinine was too valuable to ignore.
"You have spirit for a ruined man," The Weasel finally conceded, nodding slowly. "Stay here. In this tavern. Do not talk to anyone else about this. If your offer is genuine, and if your medicine is real, you may receive a visitor. Or you may simply get a knife in your back for being a fool. Wait."
With that, The Weasel rose and slipped away, vanishing back into the shadows and the crowd. Lieutenant Fang let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. He took a slow sip of his drink, his heart pounding against his ribs, but his face remained a perfect mask of weary indifference. He knew he had succeeded. The first thread of General Meng Tian's snare had been successfully laid. He was no longer just waiting for Altan to arrive in the Wolf's Jaw Pass; he was now a baited hook, drawing her inexorably towards him.