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She hurried away with a huff, dropping into the first free chair she found near the front. She hadn’t even wanted to sit down. She was trying to speak with the Communists. Why was she so bad at staying on task?

Kathleen looked around. To her left, an old woman was snoring away. To her right, two young university students—real ones, unlike her, if their notepads were any indication—were intently focused on discussing their plans for after this meeting.

Kathleen craned her neck, then craned some more, her fingers tapping the back of the chair frantically. A ticking clock appeared in her mind’s eye each time she blinked, as if her time here were a measurable thing that would soon run out.

Kathleen’s gaze snagged on a group of three balding men two rows behind. When she strained her ears and focused, she noted that they were speaking in Shanghainese, gibbering on about the state of the Northern Expedition, fingers stabbing down on knees, and tongues moving fast enough to spray spittle in all directions. The way they gestured made her think they weren’t just casual attendees. Party members.

Perfect.

Kathleen made her way over, dragging her chair until she could plop down right next to them.

“Do you have a second?” she cut in, pulling their conversation to a halt. “I’m from the university.” Kathleen produced a recording device from her pocket and held it out in front of her. The thing was actually broken, dug out from—strangely enough—a pile of unused bullets from the armory in the Cai mansion.

“We always have time for our students,” one of the men replied. He puffed his chest out, readying himself.

I’m recording your voice, not taking your picture, Kathleen thought.

“I’d like to publish a piece on the Party’s Secretary-General,” she said aloud. “Zhang Gutai?” Her eyes flicked to the stage. There were people gathering on the platform now, but they were speaking among themselves, shuffling around their notes. She had a few minutes before the place went quiet. She couldn’t ease these men into her questions. She needed to extract the information she wanted as quickly as possible, prime them into what she wanted.

“What about him?”

Kathleen cleared her throat. “The revolution needs a leader. Do you think his capable nature will be an asset?”

Silence. For a moment she was afraid that she had started far too strong, stepped her bare foot into a nest of vipers and scared them back into their holes.

Then the men started to guffaw.

“His capable nature?” one parroted with a wheeze. “Don’t make me laugh.”

Kathleen blinked. She had hoped her leading questions would prompt them into thinking she knew more than she actually did. It seemed a fair guess that Zhang Gutai would be capable, did it not? There were very few other personality traits fitting for a mastermind who had schemed up an epidemic. Instead, her stab in the dark had landed in the other direction.

“You do not think Mr. Zhang to be capable?” she asked, perplexity soaking into her voice.

“Why would you think him to be?” one of the three men shot back, returning the genuine bemusement.

Up on the stage, a speaker tapped the microphone. Sharp feedback rang through the whole building space, bouncing through the little nooks in the ceiling alcoves.

“It is a fair assumption.”

“Is it?”

Kathleen felt a tic begin in her jaw. She could not keep playing a game. She was untrained in the art of speaking untruths.

“Rumor has it that he has created the madness sweeping through Shanghai.”

The three men stiffened. Meanwhile, the first speaker onstage started to welcome the attendees, thanking them for coming and prompting those at the back to come closer to the front.

“What sort of piece are you writing anyway?” The whisper floated over to Kathleen from the man seated farthest from her. He spoke in a way that moved only half his mouth, the words pushed out through the gaps of his teeth and the slit of his lips.

Kathleen’s hands were heavy with the recording device. Carefully, she scrunched it into her fist, then put it away, determining it had served her purpose.

“A study of power,” she replied, “and the madness that comes with it. A study of the powerful, and those who are scared of him.” Allowing no mistake over the meaning of her words, Kathleen whispered, “The uncovering of the madness.”

Applause rang through the hall. From somewhere afar, Kathleen thought she heard a brief whine of sirens merging with the noise, but when the applause stopped, all she could hear was the next speaker—a real Bolshevik who had come all the way from Moscow—hailing the benefits of unionizing.

“Make no mistake.” The man nearest to her met her eyes briefly before he leveled his gaze on the stage again. Had he not beheld this information, Kathleen would never had thought him a Communist. What was it that made this man different from the others on the street? At what point did mere political self-interest cross into fanaticism, enough to die for a cause? “If you wish to uncover Zhang Gutai’s role in this madness, it is not his power that elevates him.”

“Then what does?” Kathleen asked.