Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

At 5:30 a.m., Xisi Archway was still shrouded in a bluish-gray morning mist.

As usual, Manager Luo of Liu's Teahouse got up at the crack of dawn. In his early forties, he was as thin as a bamboo pole, wearing a worn-out gray cloth gown, and walked with a slight hunch, looking every bit the part of a small businessman struggling to make a living. Only his eyes—still sharp as an eagle's under the dim oil lamp, scanning his surroundings with an unconscious alertness—revealed that this man was unusual.

Manager Luo's real name was Luo Yong, and he was the head of the underground intelligence station of the Communist Party in Beijing. This teahouse, which had been open for ten years, was one of the organization's most important liaison points in Beiping.

He carried a copper kettle to the well in the backyard, drawing water at a leisurely pace. The wooden bucket sank into the well almost silently, and when he pulled it up, the veins on his arm bulged, yet he remained steady without splashing any water. This was a skill honed over many years—those who did underground work had to be completely silent, even when drawing water.

The fire in the stove was lit, and Manager Luo added water to the large iron pot. It would take fifteen minutes for the water to boil, so he used that time to wipe the tables and chairs in the front hall again—although they had already been wiped the night before, it never hurts to do it again. In this line of work, details matter.

With everything prepared, Manager Luo walked to the entrance of the teahouse, ready to remove the door panels and open for business.

Just as he bent down to move the first door panel, his gaze swept over the gap under the threshold, and his movements suddenly stopped.

There lay a manila envelope.

It was an ordinary envelope, the kind that costs two cents at the corner stationery store, without any writing or markings. It lay quietly in the gap between the bluestone threshold and the door panel, as if it had been blown in by the night breeze. But Shopkeeper Luo knew it wasn't—the gap between the door panel and the threshold was only a finger's width, and the wind couldn't have blown the envelope so upright.

Judging from the location, it must have been slipped in through the door last night.

Shopkeeper Luo's heart sank, but his face remained unchanged. He quickly scanned his surroundings—the Pailou Street was deserted in the early morning, save for the distant cries of a night soil collector calling out "Time to empty the night soil!" and the creaking of a wheelbarrow over the bluestone slabs. Further away, the faint sound of bells came from the direction of the Drum Tower, the morning broadcast of the Japanese's so-called "Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere."

After confirming that no one was watching, Manager Luo casually bent down, lifted the door panel with his left hand, and smoothly picked up the envelope from the gap with his right hand, his movements as fluid as if he were merely dusting off the threshold. He tucked the envelope into his pocket, carefully placing it against the inner pocket, before continuing to remove the remaining door panels.

His movements remained steady, but only he knew that his palms were already sweating.

The teahouse door opened, and Manager Luo, as usual, hung up the "Tea" sign, set up the abacus, and sat behind the counter. He didn't check the envelopes immediately, but instead brewed tea for the regular customers who came in one after another—two rickshaw pullers and a vegetable vendor heading to the early market, all of whom were old patrons.

Once the first group of guests were seated and the teahouse was filled with the sounds of people drinking tea and chatting, Manager Luo took out the envelope from his pocket, using the counter as cover.

It was very light. He squeezed it; it was as thin as a sheet of paper. The envelope wasn't sealed; it was simply folded in half.

Shopkeeper Luo didn't open the envelope immediately, but stared at it for a full half minute. He was judging—was this urgent intelligence from a comrade? Or a trap set by the enemy?

Having worked underground for ten years, he had witnessed far too many conspiracies and intrigues. False intelligence, fake communications, traitors posing as comrades... any one of these could potentially destroy an entire intelligence network. Last summer, the Xizhimen liaison station was exposed because of a note of dubious origin, resulting in the deaths of three comrades and the paralysis of two transportation lines.

In the end, he carefully opened the envelope.

There was indeed only one piece of paper inside. Manager Luo slowly unfolded it, and when he saw the contents of the paper, his pupils suddenly contracted.

It is a hand-drawn map.

It was drawn on a yellowed, rough-edged piece of paper. The paper was of very poor quality, rough and fuzzy, as if it had been torn from an account book. It was drawn on a piece of charcoal pencil—not a pencil, but a charcoal stick left over from burning wood, so the lines were uneven in thickness and in some places there was even some flaking.

However, the map's level of detail stands in stark contrast to its rudimentary material.

The map is about eight inches square and depicts the terrain of a section of the Taihang Mountains. Although the lines are crooked, all the necessary elements are present: the main mountain range is represented by thick double lines, while the tributaries are represented by thin single lines; the valleys are shaded; and several major rivers are marked with wavy lines, with arrows carefully drawn next to them to indicate their direction of flow.

A circle was drawn in a key position, not just a random circle, but one that was repeatedly drawn with charcoal three or four times to form a distinct black dot. Next to the circle were several simple drawings—the silhouette of a rifle, with the barrel, stock, and trigger clearly visible; and a box with a cross drawn very precisely, as if it had been drawn with a ruler.

What caught Manager Luo's attention most was a mark in the upper right corner of the map: three short vertical lines arranged in an equilateral triangle.

He had seen this mark before.

Three years ago, the organization discovered a similar mark in a batch of supplies donated by patriotic overseas Chinese. The boxes containing those supplies had a triangular mark printed on them. The comrade in charge of receiving the supplies said it was a code left by the donors, meaning "United in the Fight Against Japan."

Shopkeeper Luo's fingers traced the triangular mark, charcoal powder clinging to his fingertips. His heart raced.

If it was a trap set by the enemy, they wouldn't know about this marking, which only a very small number of comrades would recognize. But if it was sent by comrades... why not use the agreed-upon method of communication? Why use such a primitive method?

He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and his mind raced.

Wang Hongxia has been missing for five days.

As one of the organization's most capable liaisons and a key member personally trained by Manager Luo, Wang Hongxia's sudden disappearance put the entire intelligence station on high alert. The last time they saw her was five days ago in the evening, when she said she was going to the South City to retrieve an important document—a map of Japanese troop deployments obtained from within the puppet government, which was crucial to the success or failure of the spring counter-insurgency operation.

And then he never came back.

Shopkeeper Luo sent people to inquire in the southern part of the city. They heard that the detectives conducted a large-scale search in the Nanluoguxiang area that night and even fired shots. Rumors circulated that they were arresting Communists, but no one could find out whether they had arrested anyone or who they were. The detectives, those traitors, were very tight-lipped; it was probably a gag order from the Japanese.

He feared that Wang Hongxia had fallen into enemy hands. If that were the case, the map might be a trap set by the enemy using Wang Hongxia as bait—but if it was a trap, why use that triangle marker? How could the enemy possibly know that?

But there's another possibility—Wang Hongxia escaped, and she sent the map through someone else. But if it was her, why didn't she come in person? Why didn't she use the agreed-upon method of communication?

Unless… she is seriously injured, or in an extremely dangerous situation, unable to deliver the message herself, and can only find a complete novice to help her. And this novice happens to be a thoughtful person, having drawn the map in such detail.

"Shopkeeper, please refill my water."

A greeting from a regular customer interrupted Manager Luo's thoughts.

"Oh, coming." Manager Luo's face instantly lit up with a smile as he picked up the copper kettle to refill the water. His movements were practiced and natural, as if nothing had happened.

After refilling the water and returning to the counter, he had already made a preliminary judgment: the map was probably real.

It's not because of the markers—markers can be forged. It's because of the map itself.

When he was young, Manager Luo worked as a surveyor in the Jin-Cha-Ji base area. Although he was a latecomer to the field, he still possessed basic map reading skills. Although this map was roughly drawn, its proportions were basically accurate, and the mountain ranges and river distribution conformed to the topographical characteristics of the northern section of the Taihang Mountains. In particular, the location of that marker was very carefully chosen—deep in a valley, backed by a cliff, and with trees providing cover in front, it was an ideal hiding spot.

If it were a forgery by the enemy, they might draw it to look more "like" a map, but they would often give themselves away in the details. This map, precisely because it is drawn roughly, appears more realistic—isn't this exactly what a map drawn from memory by an ordinary person would look like?

"Shopkeeper, the bill please." The regular customer finished his tea and stood up.

"Three coins." Manager Luo took the money, gave change, and smiled as he saw the customer off.

The guests had left, and the teahouse fell silent for a while. Morning sunlight streamed through the cracks in the door, casting dappled shadows on the floor. In the light, dust motes swirled slowly.

Manager Luo stared at the light and shadow and made a decision.

He couldn't launch a large-scale search; that would be too dangerous. But he couldn't completely ignore it either—if there really was such a batch of supplies, it could be a lifesaver for the front lines.

He recalled last winter when Old Liu, a courier from the Jizhong base area, spoke of the situation at the front. His face, chapped from the cold, was full of worry: "Three soldiers share one gun, and each has only five bullets. There's no medicine for the wounded; even sulfa powder is a luxury. Many comrades have infected wounds and have to be transferred while running high fevers... Manager Luo, if only you could get more medicine in the city."

As Old Liu spoke, something flickered in his eyes. Manager Luo knew it was tears, but Old Liu stubbornly refused to let them fall.

"Okay, I'll think of a way." That was the only answer Manager Luo could give at the time.

Now, the solution may be right in front of us.