after they first arrived in London. The organization had grown quickly and it had become the most powerful fighting tong in London. Its aims were primarily to help smuggle Chinese into England and to protect those already there. Even before he had left China, Lin Tao had learned how Europeans often looked down on Orientals and he knew that Chinese immigrants were frequently taken advantage of. And despite his advanced age, Lin Tao was not one to suffer insults meekly. He had once been a powerful man in his own country and now, in Limehouse, he had become a powerful man again.
From time to time, it became necessary for the Green Dragon tong to exert some influence. The police were familiar with the Green Dragon tong. That is, they knew of it and they had seen the results of some of its actions, but they knew almost nothing about its membership, much less who its leaders were. More often than not, the actions of the tong were never reported to the police. One such case was that of a factory owner who hired Chinese laborers, refused to pay them the same wages he paid his occidental workers and frequently had his foreman heat the 'heathens,' as he called them. 'for good measure.” He also had some of the younger Chinese workers brought to his home, where his wife directed them in their household duties with the aid of a braided leather riding crop. The factory owner was requested to desist from these practices. He not only refusal but he redoubled his efforts.
One night, a group of masked men broke into his home. The factory owner awoke in his own bed to find himself bound and gagged his terrified wife beside him, likewise restrained. Neither the servants nor the children were disturbed. They were never even aware of the late night visit. The uninvited guests stayed for just under an hour, long enough to leave a souvenir of their visit tattooed on the lower abdomen of the man's beautiful young wife, just above an extremely private part of her anatomy. It was a very intricate tattoo of a coiled green dragon, about three inches long and beautifully executed. Thereafter, each time the factory owner attempted to have sexual relations with his wife, the sight of the tattoo brought home the memory of the late night visit and he was rendered impotent. Eventually, his beautiful young wife became quite proud of the tattoo. She delighted in showing it to all her lovers.
Of course, Jasmine knew nothing of such things. She knew the tong existed; she had long ago surmised that her grandfather was its leader, but she knew little of the actual workings of the secret group. She had never discussed the subject with her grandfather and his manner indicated that it was not a subject that was open to discussion. Jasmine had been raised in the traditional ways of her people. She did not question her elders. She did not speak unless she was first spoken to. But some things had changed from the way they might have been back in the old country. Jasmine no longer kept her eyes downcast when she was speaking to a man, unless that man was her grandfather, though in most other respects, she still followed the old ways-western influence was coming to her very slowly.
Every day now, men were coming into the apothecary shop-young Chinese men, men who were not customers-and they were asking for her grandfather in the most respectful tones. Her grandfather would peck out from behind the curtains and beckon them into the back room, where they would converse for a short while in soft, low voices, almost whispers, and then the young men would leave, bowing to her grandfather, some to come back the next day, some a day or two later, some only several hours later, and then the process would repeat itself.
Something was happening. The men of the Green Dragon tong had been mobilized. They were searching for something- or someone-and Jasmine was certain that it had something to do with Dr. Morro and the new gentleman, the Englishman named Wells. And somehow, Jasmine knew, the man named Drakov had to be involved, the evil man with whom Dr. Morro was obsessed.
She wanted to help in some way, but it was not her place to offer, much less admit that she even knew anything about it. Her sense of helplessness and frustration was causing her to lose sleep and it was because of this that she had overheard a conversation between her grandfather, Dr. Morro, and Mr. Wells.
She had been coming down the stairs, on her way down to the shop to get some herb tea that was good for sleeping. She had been barefoot and she was walking softly, quietly, so as not to disturb anyone else, when she heard the low voicesof her grandfather and the two men coming from the back room. The man named Wells had raised his voice briefly, but was quickly silenced by Dr. Morro.
'Absolutely not!' said Wells, his voice lower, though no less intense.
'Herbert, please try to understand,' Moreau said. 'There really is no other way.'
'Icannot and will not be a party to murder,” Wells said vehemently. 'No matter what the man has done, we still have laws-'
'Which cannot possibly avail us,' said Moreau. 'What would you have us do, call in Scotland Yard and tell them that an insane renegade from another time has created a vampire and a werewolf, perhaps several of them, and released them in the East End? That the reason he has done this is that he wishes to create a disruption in the flow of time and alter history? That right here, in Victorian London, there are agents from the future, on the trail of this man and undoubtedly on my trail, as well, a fugitive from another time in a parallel universe? How do you think they would react to that?'
'Granted, if we told them that, they would be sure to think us mad,' said Wells. 'but we do not have to tell them everything. We need only tell them that it is Nikolai Drakov who is behind these murders and-'
'And where would be our proof?' Moreau said. 'Even if we could supply it to them, don't you see, they would be as children to a man such as Drakov. They simply do not possess the skill, the intelligence, the experience or the technology to deal with such a man. There is not a jail in this time period that could hold him and even if there were, he is far too dangerous to be allowed to live.'
'And who are we to make such a decision?' Wells said. 'If we take the law into our own hands, then we become no better than Drakov. In that event, we must abandon reason altogether.'
'Listen to me. Herbert,' said Moreau, 'I understand what is troubling you, but think a moment. This curious phrase, 'taking the law into our own hands,' what does it mean? What is the law, after all, but an agreement reached by men such as ourselves who, in the act of formulating the law, have taken matters into their own hands? It is not my intention to become embroiled in a philosophical debate with you. I have neither the time, the energy, nor the inclination. Drakov must be stopped and his creatures destroyed along with him. We are bound by an imperative far greater than any British law. But if you must have some form of justification for what I am proposing, then consider this: if a citizen of another country were to come to England, someone who is a wanted criminal in the nation of his origin, and if officials of that nation were to request his extradition so that this criminal might be tried under the laws of his own land, then there is a process whereby such a thing might be accomplished, is there not? Well, the three people who came to see you at your home are representatives of the law in their own time and they have come here to bring Drakov to justice for his crimes. For obvious reasons, they cannot approach the officials of your government and ask them for assistance.
However, weare in a position to give it to them. It is our moral duty to do so, mine because I have given Drakov the means to do what he has done and yours because you respect and believe in the laws of your country, but have no recourse to them. If you will not take the law into your own hands, then avail yourself of the law enforcement agents from the future. In either case, it would make no difference, I can promise you. Either Drakov dies, by their hand or by ours, or we all die by his. The question is not one of principle, but of survival.'
'The first question is that of finding the one we seek,' Lin Tao said. 'It may serve to consider the example of the Siamese fighting fish. When two males are present, they must inevitably do battle to the death. But if a third male should be present, he will wait until one of the first two combatants has died and then he will engage the weakened winner, thereby greatly increasing his chances of a victory. We would do well to emulate his example. Let us pit Drakov and these agents from the future against each other while we wait and watch. If these agents from the future should succeed, so much the better. If they fail, then we shall be fresh, strong and prepared to act. Let us not attract too much attention to ourselves while these other fish do battle. Our turn will come. In the meantime, we must locate our adversary's sanctuary and identify his minions. In that regard, we have already made some progress.
'I have had my people making discreet inquiries,' Lin Tao continued, 'and every Chinese man, woman and child in London has been enlisted to help us in our cause. Now it has come to my attention that a certain unused warehouse near the docks has been the site of some unusual activity. Although it is locked and apparently still empty, it has been visited by several people, always wry late at night, most notable among them being a certain wealthy gentleman. Sometimes he brings servants with him and they carry large sacks from their coach into the warehouse. One of these sacks was heard to moan. On two separate occasions, I have had men attempt to search this warehouse. They have not been seen again. I have had this gentleman followed and it has been reported to me that he has rooms at the Grosvenor Hotel. He does not answer to Drakov's description, yet his name is curiously
