The library at the Maraclad Estate had become the reluctant war room for an unholy alliance. Here, amidst the scent of old books and bourbon, the two most powerful rivals in the Qing Empire were collaborating on a work of pure fiction, a conspiracy designed to save their own skins.
Yuan Shikai, playing the part of the concerned and cooperative statesman, laid out their plan to an impassive Captain MacArthur. Colonel Jiao stood beside him, a silent, endorsing presence.
"Captain," Yuan began, his voice laced with a tone of grave sincerity, "my private agents, whom I tasked with investigating this unfortunate affair, have made a breakthrough. They have uncovered a lead. A man matching the description of the assassin is hiding out in the city. He is not Chinese. Our intelligence suggests he is a Japanese extremist, a member of the radical Black Dragon Society."
He pushed a piece of paper across the table. It contained a meticulously fabricated dossier, complete with a Japanese name—Kenji Tanaka—and a plausible, if inflammatory, motive: to sow chaos between America and China to benefit Japan's war effort against Russia. It also contained an address: a derelict warehouse in the industrial district near the railyards, a place Yuan's agents had already secured.
"We believe he is preparing to flee the city," Yuan continued. "My men are in a position to apprehend him. However, given the diplomatic sensitivities, I felt it was my duty to inform you. I propose a coordinated, quiet capture, to avoid any further public incident. My men will handle the primary extraction, and your own observers can be present to ensure everything is handled… properly."
It was a masterful performance. He was offering the Americans a perfect, pre-packaged solution to their problem, a convenient scapegoat that absolved his own delegation of any wrongdoing. MacArthur, though his instincts screamed that Yuan was far too helpful, was in an impossible position. He had no other leads. The Pinkertons were still coming up empty. He had no choice but to agree to observe Yuan's "operation."
Meanwhile, in a grimy, smoke-filled office in downtown St. Louis, a very different hunt was reaching its own conclusion. William Pinkerton, his face set in a grim, determined scowl, looked at the large map of the city on the wall. His agents, using the brute-force, time-honored methods of his agency—intense surveillance, relentless questioning of underworld informants, and the liberal application of bribe money—had independently zeroed in on their target. They didn't have a name, but they had a location. A Chinese enforcer, a professional, was holed up in a flophouse in the railyard district.
"He's our man," Pinkerton growled to his top agents. "He's been quiet for days, but one of our informants says he's preparing to move tonight. We're not waiting for an invitation from the politicians. We're going in hard and fast. I want him alive if possible, but I want him. Full raid team, unmarked cars. I want that entire block sealed before he even knows we're there." The Pinkertons were completely unaware of Yuan's diplomatic maneuvering. They were simply a pack of wolves who had found their prey and were preparing for the kill.
The prey himself, the assassin known as Kai, was in his own squalid hideout, a single, greasy room above a noodle shop. He was cleaning his pistol, his movements calm and professional. He had followed his master's orders. He had created the chaos. Now he was waiting for the final phase of the plan: his own extraction and escape.
There was a soft, coded knock on his door. It was Madame Song, her face hidden by a veil, her presence a cool, silent authority in the squalid room.
"It is time," she said, her voice a low whisper. She laid out his final instructions. "You will go to the abandoned warehouse on Mill Street, by the fairgrounds. At dusk. A team will be waiting for you there. They will conduct a… performance… for the benefit of our American hosts. They will 'capture' you. From there, you will be spirited away to a safe location until we can arrange passage for you out of the country."
She handed him a small, wrapped bundle. "Your new identity," she explained. He unwrapped it. Inside was a new set of clothes, a forged Japanese passport bearing the name Kenji Tanaka, and a wallet containing a thick wad of Japanese yen and a small, sepia-toned photograph of the Meiji Emperor.
"It is all arranged," Madame Song assured him, her voice smooth and reassuring. "You have served the Minister well, Kai. Your reward will be great."
It was a complete and utter lie. She was not giving him an escape route. She was dressing him for his own funeral, turning him into the perfect, convenient scapegoat. He was a tool that had served its purpose and was now to be discarded.
Back at the Maraclad Estate, Meng Tian, having heard the details of the conspiracy, was deeply troubled. After MacArthur and Jiao had left the library, he confronted Yuan. The pretense of civility was gone between them.
"This is a dishonorable act, Minister," Meng Tian said, his voice a low, angry rumble. His injured leg throbbed, a constant, physical reminder of the brutal consequences of their games. "We are not just fabricating evidence. We are sacrificing one of our own men, a soldier loyal to you, to cover your crimes."
Yuan Shikai looked at him, not with guilt, but with a kind of weary pity, the look of a master explaining the world to a naive child.
"Honor?" Yuan scoffed, lighting a cigar. "Honor is a luxury we cannot afford, General. It is a fine principle for a storybook, but in the world of empires and assassins, it is a handicap. That 'man' you are so concerned about is not a man. He is a tool. He is a weapon. He performed his function when he pulled the trigger. Now, he will perform his final function by taking the blame. It is the price of protecting the Empire. And," he added, his eyes meeting Meng Tian's with a cold, meaningful stare, "the price of protecting ourselves. You are as much a part of this as I am now, General. Do not forget that."
He was right. Meng Tian was complicit. His reluctant agreement had sealed his own dishonor.
The scene concludes with a three-way split, the tension stretched to a breaking point. We see Kai, the assassin, alone in his room. He carefully burns his old clothes and dresses in the garb of Kenji Tanaka, the fictional Japanese radical. He places the forged passport in his pocket, a condemned man unknowingly preparing for his own execution.
Miles away, in a staging area near the railyards, we see the Pinkerton raid team. They are a dozen strong, hard-faced men in dark suits, loading shotguns and checking their revolvers. They are preparing for a violent, dynamic entry, a classic Pinkerton operation of overwhelming force.
And in the growing twilight near the World's Fair, we see Section Chief Ling and his team of Shen Ke's agents, also dressed as civilians, moving discreetly into position around the target warehouse. They are preparing to stage a quiet, fake arrest.
All three forces, two armies of hunters and their unwitting prey, were now converging on a single, fateful point on the map. Each group was operating with a completely different set of assumptions, on a collision course that was destined to end in nothing but chaos and blood.