Empire of Fu Manchu

Medan, Sumatra
Dutch East Indies, Kingdom of the Netherlands
Monday, August 11th 1940



‘That went quite well, Miss Cheng!’ Bond said in mild surprise, throwing his suitcase on the double bed of the small hotel room. The getting there, including passing through the dutch customs with fake passports, had gone surprisingly smoothly.

‘Yes Mr Stanley!’ Fah Lo Suee answered, giving Bond a warning glance. It wasn’t time to start shooting their mouths yet, even while staying in cover character. Bond nodded, acknowledging the warning and began a systematic search of the room for hidden microphones. It was unlikely that they would find any – even they themselves hadn’t known until they checked in what hotel they would stay at. But procedures were there to follow, and sometimes agents died if they weren’t.

The Medan Palace Hotel was a middle range establishment, certainly not as posh as the name would imply, but not down on its luck either. The wooden floor was well swept and polished, the light gauze-like curtains cleen and the bed properly made. The bibles laid out on the night tables clearly indicated what clientele the hotel pandered to – not the indigenous muslim population, but dutch colonists and european businiessmen.

Finishing his search Bond let out his breath. ‘Nothing.’ Even now, it was better not to be too overt, in case he had missed a particularly well hidden bug. Therefore he didn’t say “There are no microphones”.

Fah Lo Suee arched an eyebrow and directed a smile of mock sympathy at him. ‘Don’t sound so dissappointed, Will, dear.’

Had there been any microphones, they would have had to continue the cover of a businessman and his Chinese “secretary” of the kind that shared rooms through the night. Not something that would have displeased Bond in the least, which was what Fah was alluding to.

This brought back far too vivid memories of his recent humiliation in that respect. He couldn’t stop a pained wince from a brief haunt of his feautures.


Alexandria, two days earlier

They were sipping drinks at the terrace of the Windsor Palace Hotell. The night was balmy with a tang of salt and rotting seaweeds drifting in from the Mediterranean. Crickets living in the hotel Garden were making their best to blot out the cacophony coming from Alexandria’s old city, even at that late hour. The place was busy; laughter, an almost homogenous murmur of small talk, a pianist playing tunes on request.

‘I’ve been practising that line you had me work on’ Bond said, leaning over the white table cloth and affecting a smile to indicate he was not being overly serious.

‘Oh?’

‘My name is Bond. James Bond.’ His plan was to remind Fah of her earlier “lessons”, maybe suggest a refresher course or something along those lines. The effect, however, was not quite the expected one. Fah frowned slightly, cocked her head somewhat to one side which he always found almost unfairly attractive, and studied him in silence for a few seconds. He fought to remain confident and smiling under that scrutiny, but was sweating inside his light linen suit.

‘Do you want to sleep with me again, James?’ she finally asked.

‘God, yes, please!’ he spat out before having time to check himself, making Fah Lo Suee explode in that spine-chilling silver-bell laughter of hers.

‘No silly, that was a question, not an offer! Although I suppose I got my answer anyway.’

‘And?’

‘And, regrettably, no. Don’t get me wrong, I had fun with you, and as a matter of fact I wouldn’t mind a little tumble in the hay right now, to take away the aches of the journey, you know. But you’re falling in love with me, and we can’t have that. It’d come in the way of work, you’d be hurt, and far more importantly, you’d annoy me and waste my time with sentimental drivel. Convince me you no longer give a damn, and I might reconsider though. In the mean time, there’s a sporty latino type over at the bar who has been appraising me for the last thirty minutes. I’ll just go over there and see if he’s any good. I suggest you console yourself with that businessman’s wife over there. Yes, the blond pretty one who’s looking so thoroughly bored while her chubby hubby is exchanging war stories over beers with his buddies.’

Bond was so shocked he couldn’t even speak for a few moments. To his eternal and unredeemable shame, tears welled up in his eyes.

‘I don’t care about that cow!’ he blustered out.

He didn’t get any symphaty from Fah though.

‘That’s why you should vent your steam with her, or someone equally unimportant. Damn it, James! In this line of business you cannot afford that bleeding heart of yours; it’s a weakness and your enemies will exploit it. So forget me, for now at least. I’m not available!’ she concluded, knocking back her Gin Fizz before strolling over to the bar, a lioness on the prowl.

Since returning alone to the room didn’t seem like an option once he saw Fah smiling and joking with her oily admirer, Bond followed her advice, but not even his total success in that endeavour, partly thanks to those special techniques learnt from Fah was enough balm to his shattered ego. The remainder of the long journey was fraught with awkward silences and a foul mood. Now, finally arrived in Medan, he welcomed the opportunity to devote himself to work and ferret out whatever nefarious plans the Si-Fan were hatching on Sumatra.


Medan, August 11th

‘I’m not dissappinted, Marie’, Bond lied drawing a short, derisive ‘Ha!’ from Fah Lo Suee.

Being descended of Fu Manchu and an exiled Russian Countess, she had a mixed race cover, Marie Cheng from Hong Kong. Bond was William Stanley from Edinburgh, travelling salesman from British Steel. That identity would check out even if someonce ran it by British Steel head offices.

Bond was searching for something devastitng to say in return when the exchange was cut short by a knock on the door. The two Secret Service agents exchanged a worried glance.

‘What the hell...?’ Bond muttered, checking that his Beretta was easily avialable in the small of his back as he walked to open the door.

‘Probably the hotel management checking if we’re happy with everything’, Fah ventured to guess.

They were three, all tall, Caucasian, wearing very light tan suits and hats and narrow, discreet ties. The slight bulge to their jackets under the left armpit were a clear indication to Bond’s trained eye they were packing. For the barest instant he struggled with the decision of what to do – smash the door in their faces and escape, attack before guns came up?

‘Medan Police Department! You’re both under arrest!’ the middle man of the trio shouted under a thick moustache, brandishing an authentic-looking badge.

That decided it. They did look like police, rather than Si-Fan. As a Secret Service agent, you didn’t mess with the police of friendly countries, especially if you had done nothing illegal yet. The embassy would sort things out for them.


‘Fraud? Tax evasion? This is a joke, right?’ Bond’s voice was more tired than outraged.

The Dutch Police comissioner in Medan, Lucius Van der Gelden, shook his head ruefully, the slightest smile crooking the corners of his broad, toad-like mouth. The chair creaked under his weight as he leaned back. Bond half-expected him to throw up his feet on the polished oaken table top, so smug did he look, but of course he didn’t.

‘I’m afraid not, Mr Stanely. But do not worry, if there has been any misunderstanding, the court hearing should clear it up quickly enough.’

‘Which will be..?’ Bond left the question hanging in the air.

Van der Gelden shrugged. ‘Maybe tomorrow even, or the day after. Apart from some residual piracy, this is a quiet colony, Mr Stanley. The courts are not very busy.’ His wide smile, positively beaming under the wispy reddish moustache said something else.

‘That’s a relief at least!’ Bond muttered, staying in character. ‘In the mean time, I’d like you to contact the British consulate for us!’

Again, the policeman shrugged, and held out his open palms as if to show his innocence to the world. ‘Didn’t you know? Becasue of the tension with Pan-Asia, it has been evacuated. But do not worry, Mr Stanely, you will get a british lawyer well in time before the trial.’

That was a lie. Bond knew damn well the consulate was still in operation, but this confirmed what he had began to suspect as soon as he heard the charges. He had as of yet conducted no business in the Dutch East Indies, so they were patently absurd.

The agent shrugged too, and sighed deeply. ‘All right, all right. I’ll write a letter to my company so they know why I’m not carrying out my assignment here. All right?’

The policeman smiled in surprised delight. ‘Excelent idea, Mr Stanley! You do that!’

Back in the bleak brick cell, Fah Lo Suee was sitting quite calmly on the wooden bench that passed for a bed and looking for all the world as if she was just waiting for the bus.

‘The Police have been corrupted by the Si-Fan!’ Bond blurted out as soon as they were alone.

She nodded. ‘Obviously. It also means that my network has been compromised or that there is a mole at the operations branch of Secret Service HQ.’

Bond sat down next to her. ‘That’s bad. But the good news is that we have a line into the Si-Fan organisation here. It’s just a question of finding out who excatly has corrupted Van der Gelden.’

Fah smiled. ‘Aren’t you forgetting the little detail of us getting out of here?’

James shook his head. ‘Not at all. They may have taken my gun, but with those eyes of yours, I’m fully counting on a police escort out through the main door. I wonder why the Si-Fan didn’t take your hypnotic powers into account? They, if anyone, know what you can do.’

‘They are taking it into account. That’s why they’re dangling the prospect of sorting this out by tomorrow, so that we’re not tempted to escape. Wich means they plan to assainate us tonight. Probably some poisonous animal inserted through those bars.’ She nodded towards the unglassed window.

Bond paled. ‘Well, then we’d better be out of here by then.’

‘Agreed. Should I call for a guard or will you?’​

Imperial Palace, Tokyo
Japan, Pan-Asian Empire
Tuesday, August 12th 1940

The rice paper door to Fu Manchu’s private quarters almost slammed open, so hurriedly did the Imperial army officer open it.

’Kōtei-Heika, you need to hear this!’

Fu Manchu almost dropped his cup of breakfast tea out of sheer surprise. He recognised the young officer, who was part of his intelligence staff. In essence he was a spokesman for the “Ears of the Dragon”, the amalgamated Pan-Asian military intelligence. That he would be entering Fu’s private quarters unannounced and shouting was so superlatively irregular that he didn’t even begin to get angry. Somehting extraordinarily serious must have happened.

‘Speak then’, he said simply.

Instead, the officer ran straight across the spartanly furbished private quarters of the Emperor to the great radio receiver standing on a laquered table. It was a luxury item, hand-panelled in noble woods and inlaid with copper and silver. He switched it on and turned the tuning dial until a clear, female voice filled the room. She was speaking in Japanese, and it took Fu only a few moments to realise who she was and what she was saying.

‘…the attempt on the life of the Crown Prince, the young Prince and on myself was also on his orders. Not only was the usurper Fu Manchu trying to dispose of all those who know the Emperor and would know that he is not himself - he plans to end the Imperial dynasty and replace it with his own! Sons of Japan! Our Empire has been conquered, not by open warfare but the basest treachery, villany and cowardice! The Crown Prince, the young Prince and your Empress, we are all safe under the protection of our good friend King George of England, our old and traditional ally. But your Emperor is in danger, kept drugged and subject to the will of that criminal fiend, Fu Manchu who calls himself the Twin Emperor! Will you stand idle? Or will you fight and die for the Emperor and the freedom of Japan? Rise, sons of Japan! For the Emperor! Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!’

Fu Manchu said nothing, although his mind was in turmoil, reeling from the blow he had just received. His carefully laid plans were unravelling before his eyes, and almost without conscious knowledge he began weawing new ones to limit the damage done. Black Naga had failed! How was that even possible? Had Fah Lo Suee found some way of killing or disposing of the creature? Or had she been cooperating with that damnable German magician who used her beefy boyfriend as side-kick from time to time?

A voice speaking in British-accented English replaced that of Empress Nagako.

‘Thus concludes the speech of her Imperial Majesty, Empress Nagako of Japan, who has today officially requested asylum in Britain and the protection of His Majesty King George VI. Now follows a translation to English of the extraordinary speech just made by her Imperial Highness Empress Nagako of Japan. This is the BBC Overseas Service.’

‘I assume this is being recorded somewhere?’ Fu asked in a level, almost tired voice.

The servant nodded, looking frightened. ‘Yes, Kōtei-Heika’

‘Then turn this off, and leave me.’

‘Yes, Kōtei-Heika!’ the officer said, bowing deeply.

‘Wait!’ Fu interrupted, arching a devilish eyebrow. ‘Tell me truthfully, lieutenant, and without fear; do you believe what you just heard?’

The officer could not answer at first, cold sweat breaking out on his fore-head as he began to stutter.

‘Thank you, that will be quite enough. Begone!’

The young officer bolted at the opportunity and left the Emperor’s private quarters.

Fu shook his head in silent wonder and raised his tea cup in a sarcastic toast.

‘Touché! Nayland Smith, Favoured daughter; This round goes to you!’ he whispered, smiling in bitter self-mockery.

This was a disaster of the first order. Obviously, Fu would have Hirohito publicly deny the accusations, claim that Nagako had been abducted by the British and forced to sprout propaganda lies. Nayland Smith had been wise to delete all mention of hypnosis from the speech, because that made it more credible; but being a lie, the accusation was easier to refute. Fu Manchu could easily get impartial experts testifying that Hirohito was not drugged in any way, but that would only convince those that still hadn’t made up their minds entirely. In the end, all that such propaganda could achieve was some measure of damage control. Many, many, would still believe the Empress, probably in the military too. There would be desertions, underground resistance, possibly even uprisings. Fortunately, he had made sure most of the Japanese divisions were abroad, fighting in America or poised on the border with Burma. Pan-Asian troops in Japan were mostly Manchurian and Mongol, and totally loyal to Fu. But the navy… the navy was manned and officered almost exclusively by Japanese. And military intelligence, ripe with Japanese officers had just become as useless and unreliable as the Si-Fan network, riddled with moles of Fah Lo Suee. Only Blofeld’s network remained, and even they had failed to warn him about this. He would have to have words with him about that.

An ultimatum demanding the return of the kidnapped Empress would have to be declared at once, of course. The British would refuse and war would erupt, which probably was what they were after in the first place. If so, they would be surprised. War was coming a tad early according to Chiang’s plans but it would probably not matter much – the Pan-Asian forces were almost fully deployed along the borders with the British Empire. Hong-Kong and Malacka would fall in short order. So, probably would Sarawak. India, because of it's size would take a while, but the outcome would be decided quickly. Then would come the battle for Singapore, which would decide the outcome of the war.

But now he had to worry, could Yamamoto still be trusted to carry out his plan to destroy the Royal Navy?

Stalingrad
German-occupied USSR
Tuesday, August 12th 1940



’So are we going to be allied with the Engländers now, Sturmbannführer?’

A near dozen Waffen-SS officers and NCOs, people Otto trusted implicitly, were gathered in Skorzeny’s command vehicle, an Sdkfz-251/3 halftrack. Fitted with diverse communications equipment, it was the one vehicle of the battalion in which it was possible to pick up international shortwave transmissions, like those of the BBC German Service. Even though the war with Britain was long over, the British continued to emit news in German, as they had before the war. The complete ban on listening to such emissions was likewise also in place, so all hatches were closed, despite the stifling heat inside, and guards were posted outside to warn of any visits from the Kettenhunde of the Feldgendarmerie.

‘Shut up!’ Skorzeny hissed, straining not to miss a word of the German translation of the Empress's speech.

As it concluded and was replaced with the usual news bulletin, Skorzeny nodded in satisfaction. Somehow, he hadn’t dared believe they would actually succeed, and that despite all of Nayland Smith’s precautions, somehow, Fu Manchu would find a way to eliminate the Empress before she had the chance to expose him. But he hadn’t and now the Reich and Britain would fight a common foe.

‘I doubt we’ll marry and live happily ever after’ Skorzeny finally answered, fishing out a Galouise which he didn’t light. It would have turned the crowded halftrack into a miniature gas chamber. ‘But yeah, we might just be fuck buddies for a while at least. Luftwaffe long range recon has spotted large bodies of troops forming up in Ivan’s deep rear – infantry, mostly, but in large numbers, concentrations we haven’t seen the likes of since June. Those are probably Pan-Asian reinforcements. For now it seems they’re simply digging in, shoring up Ivan so he doesn't roll over and die. In time, I’ve got no doubt they’ll take the fight to us. I wonder why we’re not pushing on? We’ve been sitting pretty here for weeks!’

SS-Hauptstumführer Meyer, Skorzeny’s PAK commander sighed and pinched a cigarette from the package held out by his CO. ’Logistics are falling apart, boss. An old friend of mine is a junior officer at OKH. He painted a bleak picture last I saw him. You know how Ivan’s rail tracks are not as wide as ours – they’ve hardly even begun to fix that, and in the mean time, we have to move around everything we need with trucks or transport planes.’

‘We have plenty of trucks!’ Skorzeny protested. ‘Do you have any idea of how many we took from the Franzozen?

Meyer shook his head. ‘Not any more. Most of our trucks were civilian models pressed into service. They can’t take the abuse on the poor excuses for shit roads they have here in the paradise of workers and peasants. The Führer alone knows how many have broken down, and spares are hard to come by. Partisans pick of quite a few almost every day. We had the devils own time just getting ammo and fuel to the troops fighting in Moscow. Couldn’t have done it without the Luftwaffe, but now the Tante-Ju are breaking down too, from never getting any time off for maintenance. We’ve been on short rations while you were away, and I don’t want to think of what would have happened if we had actually been consuming any gas or ammo, instead of sitting tight, with Ivan cowering somewhere far beyond the Volga.’

‘Shit Kurt, I don’t like the sound of that! If they can hardly get us our sausage and sauerkraut while we’re farting around here, how the hell are they going to cope when we actually do any fighting at all?’

Meyer shrugged. The answer hung unspoken and ominous in the stuffy air of the command compartment.​