The private suite Captain Jiang had rented was an exercise in calculated opulence. Overlooking a quiet, moonlit Venetian canal, the room was draped in heavy velvet and lit by the soft, flickering glow of a dozen beeswax candles in a silver candelabrum. The air was hazy with the smoke of expensive Cuban cigars and smelled of fine French brandy. It was a perfect stage, and Captain Jiang was its silent, observant director.
At a green baize card table, he sat opposite Sir Reginald Thorne, a senior official from the British Foreign Office who was ostensibly in Venice on "holiday." Sir Reginald was a man who wore his arrogance like a well-tailored suit, his face flushed with wine and victory. Two other British gentlemen, minor diplomats and fawning hangers-on, stood behind Sir Reginald's chair, murmuring encouragement. The stakes were already astronomically high.
"Raise," Sir Reginald announced, his voice thick with condescension. He tossed a small pile of gold sovereigns into the center of the table with a dismissive flick of his wrist, the coins clinking musically. "Your move, Mister Jiang. Or is the pressure of a civilized game proving to be a trifle too much for you?"
For hours, Jiang had been playing the part of the rich, foolish foreigner. He had been letting Sir Reginald win, feeding his ego, lulling him into a state of supreme overconfidence. But Jiang was not playing to win money; he was playing to dissect the man before him. He was conducting a psychological autopsy on a living subject.
Jiang met Sir Reginald's smug gaze with a placid, almost blank smile. He calmly reached for his own stack of coins and matched the raise without hesitation. "The pressure is invigorating, Sir Reginald," he said, his voice a low, even monotone. "In my homeland, we have a saying: 'To understand a man's character, share a drink with him. To understand his soul, play a game of chance against him.'"
Sir Reginald let out a loud, braying laugh that was meant to show his ease but only betrayed his tension. "How quaint. We British have a simpler, more direct saying: 'Fortune favors the bold.' And I, my dear fellow, am feeling very bold tonight."
Jiang gave a slight, deferential nod, but his eyes were cold and focused. He had been observing Sir Reginald's "tells" all evening. He had noticed that when the Englishman was bluffing, trying to steal a pot, his left hand would unconsciously fiddle with the heavy gold signet ring on his pinky finger. When he held a strong, confident hand, however, he became perfectly, unnaturally still, and his condescending insults became more frequent and more pointed. Right now, Sir Reginald was as still as a statue.
"He has a strong hand," Jiang concluded internally. "He is arrogant in victory. He believes I am nothing more than a source of easy money. Good. This is the moment."
The hand played out. Sir Reginald's cards were, as expected, superior. He won again, raking in a massive pot of gold with a triumphant grin. He was now up several thousand pounds sterling, a staggering sum. His companions were clapping him on the back, offering congratulations.
"Perhaps we should call it a night, Jiang," Sir Reginald said, magnanimous in his victory. "I wouldn't want to send you home to your mysterious empire completely penniless. It would be a poor reflection on British hospitality, what?"
Jiang showed no flicker of disappointment or frustration. He simply gave a slight signal to Marco, the Venetian guide, who had been hovering near the door like an expectant vulture. Marco hurried forward with a heavy, iron-strapped lockbox.
"The night is still young, Sir Reginald," Jiang said, his voice as smooth as silk. "And I find I am enjoying your… hospitality immensely. Let us make the next hand more interesting. A final hand. Winner take all."
He opened the box. Inside, gleaming on a bed of black velvet, were not coins. They were bearer bonds, issued by the Bank of England, crisp and official. The sight of them, tangible symbols of immense wealth, silenced the room. The mood shifted instantly from jovial entertainment to serious, high-stakes finance.
"Fifty thousand pounds sterling," Jiang stated calmly. "My entire remaining stake."
Sir Reginald Thorne's breath hitched audibly. His eyes, which had been full of smug amusement, now shone with a raw, naked greed. This single hand could set him up for life, pay off his numerous debts, and fund the lavish lifestyle he felt he was owed. His gambling addiction, a weakness Jiang had learned of through Marco's network of city gossips, roared to life, drowning out all caution.
"A bold move indeed, Mister Jiang," Sir Reginald said, trying to maintain his nonchalant facade, but a fine line of sweat had beaded on his temple. "Very bold. You are, of course, aware that I may not have that much in liquid assets on my person?"
"I am a man of business, Sir Reginald," Jiang replied, his eyes never leaving the Englishman's. "I trade in information and opportunity as much as I trade in goods. I happen to know that you are a key advisor on the upcoming British-financed railway project in the Argentine Republic. I also know that the primary financing consortium is being led by Barings Bank." He paused, letting the words sink in, watching as comprehension and alarm dawned in Sir Reginald's eyes. "A man in your influential position… surely your credit is good? I will accept your personal marker."
This was the spring of the trap. Jiang had revealed, with surgical precision, that he knew more than any random Chinese merchant should. He had subtly shown Sir Reginald that he was not who he appeared to be. More importantly, he had offered the Englishman a way to play far beyond his means, appealing directly to his two greatest weaknesses: his greed and his ego. Caught between the immense lure of the prize and the disquieting shock of Jiang's knowledge, Sir Reginald Thorne, a man trained in the subtle arts of diplomacy, made a fatal, gambler's error.
He forced a laugh, a dry, cracking sound, trying to regain the upper hand. "You have certainly done your homework. Very well, Chinaman. You have a game. I accept. My marker for fifty thousand pounds, against your bonds. Shuffle and deal."
The final hand was dealt in a thick, tense silence. Jiang was the picture of calm, his face a placid mask. Sir Reginald picked up his cards. Jiang did not look at his own cards immediately. He watched Sir Reginald's hands. There was no tell-tale fiddling with the signet ring. But he also did not display the arrogant stillness of a guaranteed winning hand. He was trying to project confidence, but he was hesitating. His bluff was more sophisticated this time, born of desperation, but Jiang, a master of observing men under pressure, read the micro-expressions of tension around his eyes, the slight tightening of his jaw.
"He is weak," Jiang assessed. "But his pride and his greed will not let him fold. He believes he can bully me out of the pot with sheer force of will."
The betting was swift and brutal. Jiang forced the action, raising with a calm finality at every turn. Finally, it was time for the reveal. Sir Reginald, with a shaky but triumphant flourish, laid his cards down: two kings and two aces. A very strong hand.
"Read them and weep, Mister Jiang," he said, his voice hoarse with relief and anticipation.
Jiang slowly, deliberately, turned over his own cards. A three of spades. A four of spades. A five of spades. A six of spades. And a seven of spades. A straight flush.
The silence in the room became absolute, broken only by the soft hiss of a candle. Sir Reginald Thorne stared at the five cards as if they were venomous serpents that had just materialized on the table. The color drained from his face, leaving it a pasty, sickly white. He had not just lost money. He had lost a catastrophic, life-ruining amount of money, and he owed it all, on a legally binding marker, to this inscrutable, mysterious foreigner.
Jiang reached out and calmly raked in the bonds and the marker, his expression unchanged. "It seems," he said softly, "that fortune favors the prepared, not just the bold. A pleasure doing business with you, Sir Reginald."
He stood, gave a slight, formal bow, the very soul of courtesy. Sir Reginald was left sitting there, a ruined man, his world collapsing around him. Jiang had not just won a card game. He had acquired a fifty-thousand-pound debt from a senior British official with access to sensitive economic and political information. He now owned him.
Walking back to the quiet solitude of his own rooms, leaving Marco to handle the stunned silence behind him, Jiang took out his sympathetic needle communicator. His hands were perfectly steady as he began to carefully tap out a message for May-Ling in London, one coded letter at a time.
Message: T. H. O. R. N. E. . C. O. M. P. R. O. M. I. S. E. D. . D. E. B. T. . 5. 0. K. . A. W. A. I. T. I. N. G. . I. N. S. T. R. U. C. T. I. O. N. S.
The first, crucial piece in his European game had been successfully placed on the board.