Money makes the world go round. In any culture, this saying was absolute truth.
What could five hundred pounds buy you?
A round-trip ticket to America, for one — though to board that plane, you had to wear a flight crew uniform. Pierre didn't mind. He'd wear a clown suit if the profit margin made it worthwhile.
On the way to the seaplane dock, Kent, driving the car, glanced at Pierre in the rearview mirror and said bluntly:
"Mr. Pierre, I don't know why you're heading to New York, but just know: we only stay there five days. After that, whether you're back or not, we return to London. And next time... there might not be a next time."
"Don't worry, Captain Kent. I never miss my ride when there's money on the line."
Soon, they pulled into a parking lot by Tower Bridge. Moored on the Thames was a large, four-engine Imperial Class C seaplane.
"See that?" Kent said, nodding at the plane. "That's an Imperial C-class flying boat. Before the war, it was the pride of Britain's overseas routes — flying weekly from London to Egypt, India, East Africa, South Africa, Malaysia, and Australia... Now, only the New York line remains. One flight per week."
As he spoke, he led the way toward the dock.
The soldiers on guard merely glanced at them before waving them through. Clearly, Kent had arranged everything in advance. Judging by the guards' indifference, this wasn't their first time doing this sort of thing.
Even when Pierre boarded the plane, none of the actual crew paid him much attention. He simply blended in — another uniformed figure — and took a seat up front, just ahead of the mailbags.
About twenty minutes later, the hatch sealed. The four engines mounted on the wings roared to life, and the massive seaplane taxied out onto the Thames.
Spray lashed the windows as they picked up speed — then, suddenly, the plane lifted into the air.
For Pierre, it was his first time on a seaplane. At first, curiosity had him craning his neck to take in every detail.
But that novelty soon wore off.
"Better get some sleep," the mechanic Richard said, tossing him a sleeping bag. "We've got twenty-six hours ahead of us."
Twenty-six hours.
It wasn't a nonstop flight. They would refuel in Greenland before continuing to New York.
Throughout the long flight over the Atlantic, sometimes Pierre could see smoke columns rising from the sea below — wreckage of merchant ships sunk by German U-boats, their fires still burning.
A grim reminder: The Nazi wolfpacks were no myth.
Including the stopover at Greenland, the entire journey took nearly twenty-seven hours. Finally, they touched down in New York Harbor.
As soon as the plane docked, the crew grew restless — eager to rush into the city and unload the treasures hidden in their suitcases: watches, cameras, luxury goods — all meant to be traded for cash and necessities.
New York, in 1943, wasn't the neon paradise of later decades — but even now, it was already one of the world's grandest cities. Towering skyscrapers lined the avenues, and walking amid the endless crowd, Pierre couldn't shake the sense that he had somehow traveled into the future.
The Empire State Building itself soared high above Manhattan, a titan of concrete and steel.
As he moved through the rivers of people, past glistening storefronts and roaring traffic, he felt a familiar clarity: every inch of this city breathed money.
For someone like him, unfamiliar with the city, there was really only one place to start:
Chinatown.
And he had a mission: to find a supply line for cigarettes.
When Pierre stepped into Chinatown, he immediately noticed something: there were quite a few people dressed almost exactly like him — same style, same color. Smugglers and traders — just like him, working the angles.
A man in a casual open-collared shirt approached with a practiced smile.
"Hello, sir. First time in Chinatown?"
His Mandarin carried a thick Cantonese accent, but Pierre didn't care for the language — or the warmth behind it. He answered flatly:
"My first time. Here on business."
Seeing his guarded tone, the man hurried to explain:
"Sir, you have nothing to worry about. Here in Chinatown, half the people make their living off people like you. Why would we ruin our own business? No one's looking to scam anyone — I just thought I could help."
Pierre didn't trust goodwill. But he trusted incentives.
"Depends what kind of help," he said coolly.
The man shrugged. "Look at the sailors around here — they're your colleagues. These days, the best business in Chinatown is buying watches, cameras, furs... all from sailors like you."
Pierre pieced it together quickly. It was just a localized market — a black-market node plugged into the global flow of goods. Efficient. Predictable. He could work with that.
Tens of thousands of Chinese sailors served in Allied merchant fleets. They'd ferry goods to London, trade for valuables, then smuggle those into New York to sell in Chinatown for cash.
He wasn't impressed — but it could be useful.
"So, if I'm not mistaken," the man added with a grin, "you're here to trade too, right?"
Pierre's smile was measured.
"I brought some goods. Just here to get a feel for prices."
"That'll depend on what you've got. Don't worry — I'll find you the best shop. As for my commission, no need to worry — shopkeepers pay me. You don't spend a cent more."
Pierre made a mental note of the man's angle. Useful, but replaceable.
Business was about leverage — not friendship.
"Name's Zhu Yihai," the man added.
Pierre didn't offer his.
Zhu looked him over — about thirty, sharp suit, but a worn collar. A man used to the grind, someone who knew the value of a shilling.
After a pause, Pierre asked:
"Suppose I needed a large quantity of cigarettes — Luckies and Camels especially. Could you get them?"
Zhu laughed. "Of course. That's what everyone comes here for. How many do you need? Twenty cartons? Fifty?"
"You know," he added seriously, "even in America, cigarettes are rationed now. Each person only gets a few packs a week. Prices aren't cheap."
"Markup?" Pierre asked.
"At least fifty percent. Sometimes more — sixty, seventy — depends on the market. But if you're buying a lot, I can get you a better deal."
Pierre nodded, calculating.
"Good. Because I need more than all of them put together."
He gave a faint smile — all teeth and intent.
"If you can find me a reliable supplier — someone who delivers on time and in bulk — your commission will be generous. But screw me once... and I'll find someone else."