“It didn’t look that way at first. But sometimes the old folks know what’s best.”

Another long silence.

“I sent him to Sham Shui Po to deliver a message to a British corporal.”

“You what?”

“I should have sent some other man’s son.”

Redness bloomed on Cheung’s placid face. He flushed redder and redder until he glowed as red as the statue of Duke Guan at the Tin Hau temple.

“Have you …” Lee struggled to ask the question.

Cheung’s mouth opened but nothing came out.

Lee took a deep breath and spoke the question fully. “Has he been here?”

Cheung’s stomach dropped. Lee’s face blanched.

“I came to see you, but I also came to look for him. You haven’t seen him …”

“I saw them take a man who looked very much like my son into the basement of the Supreme Court. But I didn’t think it was actually him, because—because—”

“Because you thought he was safe with me.”

They were both silent for a long moment.

Then the truth of what had happened to Tak-Tam dawned on them simultaneously, in a single bolt of horror. Neither knew what to say. The silence expanded, ugly and pitiful.

Finally, Lee found a few banal words. “Brother, I’m truly sorry.”

Cheung spoke slowly, as though through a cloud of dry dust. “It might not have been him.”

“He hasn’t come home.”

“You …” Cheung coughed.

Lee opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Cheung cleared his throat.

“I might have lost your son.”

Again, that raspy whisper. “I’m sure it wasn’t him.”

They were both silent for a long time.

“Brother Cheung, you have to believe me, the last thing in the world I wanted to do was lose my best friend’s son, who is also my daughter’s husband. I was asked to do it by one of the generals. As proof of my loyalty. Tak-Tam was—is—smart. I thought the risk was small and the payoff would bring peace in our ranks. It was stupid. I should have lied, said yes, then sent another man.”

The redness in Cheung’s broad face did not dissipate. Impossibly, it intensified. He tried to speak again, but only air and spit came out of his mouth.

“Brother, please say something. Punch me, kill me, I don’t care. Just don’t look at me like that.”

“My son.” Cheung said. His mind’s eye burned with what he’d seen—a garrison of Kempeitai marching a broken group of Chinese men into the basement of the Supreme Court. The men had already been beaten, and they descended into that terrible basement to experience the darkest horrors Noma could devise before dying a terrible death. He’d seen bodies come out in pieces before. This time wouldn’t be—couldn’t be—any different.