Chapter Sixteen: Shaping

The advantage of wearing a mask is that, when you’re afraid, neither your enemies—nor more importantly, your allies—can see your fear, your doubts, or your confusion. And it buys you a little extra time to think.

—Wang Luo

August 16, 1993, 7:10 AM
15 kilometers west of the rendezvous point, Sass Street

The whole city was in chaos.

From the car, Yang Wentian saw four or five men smashing a store window with sticks, making off with clothes and handbags that probably weren’t worth much. Further along, a group of men had a woman cornered against a wall, seemingly in the midst of some negotiation.

“This is the result of your plan. Are you pleased with yourself?” Yang Wentian’s voice was laced with malice as he addressed Wang Luo.

“Of course I don’t like it.” Wang Luo put on his clown mask again, hiding his expression from Yang Wentian—though his tone remained calm. “That’s precisely why I don’t look.”

Burying your head in the sand? Yang Wentian paused for a moment, then burst out laughing.

The road to city hall was completely blocked by hundreds of demonstrators. From a distance, some banners demanded that the Umbrella Corporation come clean, while others urged them to get out of Grizzly City.

In other words, Wang Luo’s plan had worked.

“Would you like to savor your success for a while?” Yang Wentian asked.

“There’s nothing to see. Let’s go.”

So, they took a detour, carefully avoiding the unrest and those out searching for opportunity. Half an hour later, they arrived at their destination:

145 Golderd Street, the residence of Mr. Philip Dubois.

Mr. Philip seemed to harbor no resentment toward them for the previous night’s events. When Yang Wentian rang the bell and announced that some new acquaintances from last night had come to visit, a servant promptly ushered the two masked clowns and the man gripping a knife handle into the parlor.

“Welcome, gentlemen.” Mr. Philip, dressed in a black tuxedo, politely invited the three to sit and served them tea before getting straight to the point. “What is it you want from me?”

“To tell a good story, and make a lot of money,” Wang Luo replied.

The room fell silent for a moment. Mr. Philip stroked his chin, deep in thought and calculation; Zhou Yingxiong, as Wang Luo had instructed, sat perfectly still; Yang Wentian, meanwhile, observed the others, idly toying with his knife.

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“I can’t air it again,” said the station owner with a helpless gesture, about five minutes later. “As you predicted, they’re already suspicious. No one would run ads if they were being held hostage.”

“I’m sure you gave them an excellent explanation.”

Philip’s plump lips twitched. “Fine. If you pay enough, I can have the boys do it again. My friends—Louis from the paper and Simon from the radio—can help too. But you have to pay! And… tell me what you actually want. Otherwise, I’ll tell Nick…”

Who is Nick? Yang Wentian wanted to ask but held his tongue.

“What do I want? That, I can’t tell you. But I can give you a story. A hypothetical one,” Wang Luo said, placing both hands on the table.

“Suppose there’s an employee from another company. Suppose this employee discovers that Umbrella’s new product works extremely well, and they’ve made a breakthrough. Suppose his company orders him to obtain the product’s details. Then he finds Umbrella’s security is too tight—it’s almost impossible to get anything out.”

“So, this hypothetical employee spins a lie, spreads a story to distract Umbrella’s people. While their defenses are stretched thin, he sneaks in and retrieves the necessary information.”

“To make the story more convincing, and to apologize for any previous rudeness, he’s willing to compensate the aggrieved station owner. Would the owner be satisfied?”

Wang Luo set his case on the table, opened it, spun it around, and slid it toward Mr. Philip.

Most of it was cash, with a few gold bars. The creases on Philip’s face seemed to melt away at the sight. His eyes gleamed, and just as he was about to snatch the case, Wang Luo spoke again. “This is half. If the operation succeeds, you’ll get the other half.”

“The radio and newspaper—our hypothetical friend won’t go near them. Of course, if anyone wants to make a fuss, you can blame it all on him.”

“Ah, ah… Since you put it that way, of course there’s no problem. Is our hypothetical gentleman busy? My wife’s pies are divine, and I have some Bordeaux in the cellar…”

“When the job’s done, our hypothetical employee would be delighted to sample your wine. It won’t take long—and to speed things along, he’ll need contact with the city’s biggest gang, the mayor’s contact, and a letter of introduction. Can you provide them?”

“No trouble at all…”

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at a bar.

During the day, the place was nearly empty. Turning right at the entrance, a bespectacled, scholarly-looking middle-aged white man sat cleaning a pistol. Around him lounged four or five burly men—black and white alike—smoking or drinking, tattoos on display.

According to Philip, this man was Monty Collier, who controlled over half the local drug and arms trade. He was notoriously suspicious and unpredictable—not as easy to deal with as Philip. It was best not to mention hypotheticals.

“I need to run some tests.” After reading the letter of introduction, Wang Luo made his request directly, avoiding any mention of Umbrella. “I hear you have suitable people.”

“Tests? What kind?” Monty peered at Wang Luo’s clown mask. “You’d better take that thing off when talking to me, or I won’t be so polite.”

At this, one of Monty’s men grinned menacingly and reached for Wang Luo’s mask. Wang Luo didn’t move, but just as the man was about to touch it, Yang Wentian stood, slashing with his knife.

With a bellow, four of the man’s fingers fell to the floor. Monty’s men shouted and cursed, guns drawn.

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Zhou Yingxiong also drew his gun, waving it unsteadily at Monty. Yang Wentian gripped his blade, crouching into a ready stance as a few drops of blood dripped from the knife.

“If you want a fight, I’m happy to oblige,” Wang Luo said, lifting his jacket to reveal a string of grenades. “But let’s not turn this meeting into an explosion.”

It was even better if you could say that with a touch of wicked humor. Yang Wentian had always wondered why the usually stern Wang Luo played the clown.

Even if those were just toy grenades, they’d be enough to cow a gang boss like this.

“Put the guns down,” Monty finally ordered, his expression shifting several times. “It was just a joke—don’t take it personally…”

“So, do you have what I want?” Wang Luo opened his case, revealing half a box of dollars. “I need people who will cooperate, but who have something to lose—ties, obligations.”

“…I do,” Monty said, eyeing the money. “Men or women?”

“Makes no difference.”

“How many?”

“At least four.”

“Ten grand apiece. There’s a brother and sister on East Street—their father owes me two thousand for medical bills. Give them the money, they’ll do anything. There are also some women in the old quarter who want to earn, or send their brothers to school. Good stock, as long as you pay.”

“Bring them to this address.” Wang Luo tossed a stack of bills and a note onto the table. “This is the deposit. Money for people.”

“Y… yes.” Monty pocketed the cash, eyeing the remaining bills greedily. “Anything else you need?”

“Do you have any explosives?”

Monty’s lips twitched as he glanced at Wang Luo, now wearing his jacket again. “We don’t use that stuff often.”

“If you can get any, come find me. Did you catch the news yesterday?”

“Umbrella? I don’t deal with them, but yesterday’s story sounded fake.”

“You see, the truth is never the real issue. Right now, every corner of Umbrella’s warehouses, outlets, and factories is stuffed with cash and gold. The protesting crowds have already found plenty. You wouldn’t turn your nose up at that, would you?”

“Cash… gold… No, of course not. Thank you for the tip, sir.”