Hidden Radiance

Shiliupu Wharf.

The river breeze, carrying moisture, stung my face.

Kenzo Yamamoto stepped off the gangway.

He carried a black briefcase in his left hand, holding it horizontally in front of his chest without setting it down. The briefcase, made of manganese steel by the Noborito Research Institute, weighed twelve kilograms, and its corners were polished to a silvery-white sheen.

He maintained this posture from the moment he stepped onto the pier.

The white rubber gloves were just pulled up to my wrists.

boom--!

Bullets from Mauser rifles came from the rooftops of abandoned warehouses outside the docks, tearing through the night wind.

Kenzo Yamamoto instinctively turned to the side, holding the combination lock box in front of his chest.

when!

The bullet grazed the surface of the manganese steel container, leaving a white mark, before veering off course and flying into the river. The impact of the container knocked him back two steps, his back slamming against the gangway handrail.

"Attack!" Ishihara roared, drawing his sword.

The searchlights turned on instantly.

The heavy machine guns of the three patrol boats on the river opened fire simultaneously.

Bullets ripped through the roof of the abandoned warehouse, sending bricks and tiles flying and rubble scattering everywhere.

Japanese military police, hidden in the cargo ship's hold and surrounding warehouses, poured out like a tide.

The encirclement closed in an instant.

Chen Jilian rushed out from the shadows and opened fire with a Thompson submachine gun.

"Retreat! We've fallen for their trap!"

He had barely finished shouting when two Type 38 rifle bullets pierced his right calf.

Blood splattered, and he collapsed headfirst into the muddy water.

The military police swarmed forward, their bayonets pressed firmly against his throat.

Kenzo Yamamoto straightened up from the armrest, put down the briefcase, took off the rubber gloves he had just put on, and casually threw them on the ground.

"take away."

Hidden villas in the French Concession.

Mao Sen slammed his hand on the table.

The teacup was knocked over, and water spilled all over the table.

"The entire army wiped out?" He stared at the radio operator, his eyes twitching.

"Captain Chen didn't get out. His fate is unknown."

Mao Sen clenched his back teeth, making a clicking sound.

When Zhou Fohai was assassinated, the special ink arrived ahead of time. He thought it was a perfect opportunity, but instead he walked right into the ironclad trap set by Yamamoto Kenzo.

"Send an urgent telegram to the Director." Mao Sen's tone was harsh. "The operation has failed. The Japanese defenses are too strong; conventional operations cannot destroy the ink. Request the activation of the highest-level inside contact in Shanghai—the Paper Kite."

Chongqing. No. 19, Luojiawan.

Dai Li looked at the telegram in his hand, his brows furrowed.

He slapped the paper on the desk.

Wang Puchen stood opposite him, his hands tucked into his sleeves.

"Mao Sen underestimated his opponent and lost Chen Jilian," Dai Li said coldly. "Now he'll use kites."

"Zhiyuan is one of my people." Wang Puchen coughed twice. "Single-line contact. Mao Sen's rank is high enough, but—"

"The bigger picture is what matters." Dai Li tapped the table. "Yamamoto, as the director of the Noborito Research Institute, has come to Shanghai with grand ambitions. Give him the information on the kite. Let him handle the communication directly and complete the interception mission."

Wang Puchen sighed and nodded.

"I'll take care of it right away. But Zhiyuan's current position is too high; if Mao Sen goes to make contact, he might get himself into trouble."

"I have to go, even if it means burning myself." Dai Li slammed the telegram face down on the table.

Mei Agency, underground torture chamber.

Blood flowed down the drain.

Chen Jilian was suspended from an iron frame, his ten fingers covered in blood and flesh.

His head was drooping, and he was breathing heavily, his entire chest hissing. Blood was still seeping from the bullet holes in his calves, and his trouser legs were soaked through; if you wrung them out, blood would drip out.

Shinichi Nakajima sat in a grand chair, holding a cup of hot tea in his hand.

Lu Minghui stood beside him, staring blankly ahead.

Nanzo Yunzi walked up to Chen Jilian, holding a bloodstained leather whip in her hand.

"Captain Chen," Nanzo Yunzi said softly, "Mr. Yamamoto's whereabouts are top secret. Who gave you this information?"

Chen Jilian spat out a mouthful of blood and didn't make a sound.

"Use torture." Nakajima took a sip of tea.

The iron pliers gripped the red-hot charcoal stick and pressed it against Chen Jilian's collarbone.

The flesh sizzled, and the smell of burning filled the air.

Chen Jilian's body sprang up, and the iron chains rattled.

The screams echoed against the concrete walls of the basement.

The second blow landed on the ribs.

The screams turned into gasps, and the gasps turned into sobs. Pink foam kept coming out of the corners of her mouth.

Nanzo Yunzi squatted down and whispered in Chen Jilian's ear.

"Your home is in Hangzhou."

Her voice was very soft.

He pulled a photo out of his pocket and held it up in front of Chen Jilian.

The photo shows a narrow alley. It has a stone-paved road, a wooden door, and a string of dried chilies hanging on the door frame.

"Qinghefang." Nanzo Yunzi tapped the doorplate on the photo with her fingernail. "Your mother has difficulty walking, and every afternoon at three o'clock, Aunt Zhang from next door will fetch water for her."

Chen Jilian's eyes suddenly turned to her.

His lips trembled slightly. His jaw clenched so tightly that it cracked, and the veins on the sides of his neck bulged out.

The whole person looked like a piece of wire twisted to its limit.

Then that force suddenly stopped.

The jaw relaxes, and the head droops forward.

I said…

My throat was sore, and the sound was being scraped out from deep within my throat.

"The intelligence was provided by a courier... Zhou Liangguang. French Concession, Avenue Joffre, Da Dong Bookstore."

Nakajima put down his teacup.

"Grasp."

Lu Minghui turned and gestured to Sun Yaozu.

"Lead the team."

Two hours later, Zhou Liangguang was dragged into the interrogation room.

The bookstore owner, in his forties, was as thin as a bamboo pole, and his hands were still covered with calluses from the paper cutter.

He clearly lacked Chen Jilian's toughness.

Seeing Chen Jilian's miserable state, Nanzo Yunzi didn't even wait for her to use electric shocks before kneeling on the ground.

"I'll confess! I'll confess everything!" Zhou Liangguang trembled all over. "I was just a messenger. The order came from the captain."

Nakajima suddenly stood up.

The armchair slid back one meter.

"Captain-Commander?" Nakajima's breathing quickened.

"Mao Sen." Zhou Liangguang swallowed hard. "He was the head of the Shanghai operations team of the Military Intelligence Bureau, a major general. Chen Jilian was his direct subordinate."

The interrogation room was deathly silent.

Major general.

Since the start of the war, the highest-ranking officer captured by the Military Intelligence Bureau in Shanghai was only a station chief, a colonel.

Commander-in-Chief of the Operations Team, Major General.

Nakajima clenched his fist.

"Where is he?" Nakajima walked up to Zhou Liangguang, his voice trembling.

"No. 142 Rue de la Fayette, French Concession. A villa with an iron gate."

Nakajima turned to look at Lu Minghui.

"Minghui," Nakajima ordered, "The entire Special Higher Police and 76th Division are mobilized. Blockade Lafayette Road. I want him alive."

"Yes." Lu Minghui stood at attention.

He turned and walked out of the basement.

His pace was neither fast nor slow, just like usual.

His left hand hung at his side, his ring and little fingers stiffly curled up, his nails digging into his palm.

Mao Sen. Major General of the Military Intelligence Bureau. Even if he was only a nominal Major General, with the actual rank of Colonel, he was still one of Dai Li's most trusted confidants.

Once Mao Sen opens his mouth, half of the Shanghai station will be over.

But he couldn't send the message.

Nakajima watched from behind; the entire May Agency was running at full speed. The drive from the interrogation room to Lafayette Road was less than twenty minutes.

Within twenty minutes, there was no secure way to get the message to Mao Sen.

142 Lafayette Road.

The night was dark.

Second-floor study.

Mao Sen sat at the table, holding a pencil, and quickly wrote down the translation on a piece of paper.

The urgent telegram from Chongqing had just arrived. Wang Puchen finally relented.

The codebook is turned. Words take shape on the paper.

"Paper Kite. Deeply embedded. Has already grasped the economic lifeline of the Japanese puppet regime. Single-line communication. Secret code..."

Mao Sen's pen moved across the paper.

He needs kites. If kites are sold, the ink and the cedar plan can both be solved.

A screeching sound of brakes came from downstairs.

Not just one, but more than a dozen.

Then came the loud thud of military boots hitting the stone pavement.

Mao Sen suddenly stood up and walked to the window.

Part a corner of the curtain.

Outside the mansion, a dense swarm of Japanese military police had completely surrounded the building. Agents from the 76th Special Operations Unit, armed with submachine guns, blocked off every blind spot.

The door was kicked open with a bang.

"What's going on!" The radio operator rushed into the study, his face ashen.

"We've been exposed." Mao Sen made a decisive decision: "Burn the telegrams! Smash the radio!"

He grabbed all the papers on the table—half-translated telegrams, loose pages of the codebook, pencil drafts—and stuffed them all into the copper basin.

The match was struck and lit.

The paper caught fire.

Mao Sen stared at the flames churning in the copper basin.

There were still a few words left untranslated on the last page of the draft.

He couldn't see what it was.

The flames swallowed all the ink, turning it into black ash.

The radio operator had already swung a chair at the radio station. The vacuum tube exploded, sparks flying everywhere.

Mao Sen drew his sidearm and chambered a round.

I just turned around.

boom!

The study door was kicked open. Wood chips flew everywhere.

Sun Yaozu rushed in carrying a Thompson submachine gun, the muzzle pressed directly against Mao Sen's chest.

"Don't move! Move and I'll riddle you with bullets!" Sun Yaozu roared.

Mao Sen held the gun.

The gun barrel drooped.

Steady footsteps echoed down the corridor.

The soles of leather shoes tapped against the wooden floor, slowly and deliberately.

The crowd parted to make way.

Lu Minghui, wearing a black trench coat and with his hands in his pockets, walked into the study.

His gaze swept over the radio wreckage on the ground.

It landed on the still-smoking pile of ashes in the copper basin.

It paused for a moment.

My gaze shifted to Mao Sen's face.

Mao Sen stared at the man in front of him.

Cold and aloof, upright, with an vacant gaze.

He had never met Lu Minghui. He had only seen his face in the wanted files of No. 76.

The telegram from Chongqing was burned. The last few words weren't translated in time.

He didn't know who Zhiyuan was.

"Mr. Mao," Lu Minghui said calmly.

Mao Sen threw the gun on the ground.

With a clang.

"Director Lu, you've got some tricks up your sleeve." Mao Sen smirked. "I, Mao, admit defeat."

"Take him away." Lu Minghui turned around.

Mao Sen was dragged out of the study with his arms tied behind his back by two secret agents.

As he passed by Lu Minghui, he turned his head away.

"Traitors and lackeys will be torn to pieces sooner or later."

The sound wasn't loud.

A nearby agent with a gun was pushing Mao Sen forward with his knee against his lower back, chewing peanuts, without even turning his head.

Lu Minghui didn't look at him.

His left hand was in his pocket, and the pad of his thumb was repeatedly grinding against the knuckle of his index finger.

Outside the window, the night rain started falling again.

Outside the interrogation room of the Mei Agency.

Shinichi Nakajima stood in front of the one-way glass, looking at Mao Sen, who was tied to a chair inside.

He was pressed against the glass, his nose almost touching the window.

"Major General," Nakajima murmured to himself, "a living Major General."

Lu Minghui stood behind him.

"Minghui, you've done a great job." Nakajima turned around, patted Lu Minghui on the shoulder, and said, "I'm going to interrogate him personally. I'll dig out all the roots of the Military Intelligence Bureau in Shanghai."

"Section Chief," Lu Minghui bowed slightly, "Mao Sen's rank is too high; conventional interrogation probably won't work. Moreover, he knows too much; whatever he reveals might not all be from the Military Intelligence Bureau."

Nakajima looked at him.

There was no response.

"Mao Sen is a mad dog." Lu Minghui stared directly at Nakajima. "If he implicates Colonel Sakata or Colonel Inoue, what will the section chief do? Believe him, or investigate?"

Nakajima withdrew his hand from Lu Minghui's shoulder.

The card "Mao Sen" can be a merit if used well, but a bomb if used poorly.

"What suggestions do you have?" Nakajima asked.

"Leave him hanging," Lu Minghui said. "Starve him for three days. Destroy his will. At the same time, spread the word that Mao Sen has confessed."

"Should we create chaos within the Military Intelligence Bureau first?"

"It's not just the Military Intelligence Bureau." Lu Minghui looked at Mao Sen's back through the one-way glass, "but also those who have secret deals with the Military Intelligence Bureau. They'll be even more eager than us to shut Mao Sen up."

Nakajima thought for a moment and nodded.

"Alright, do as you say. You and Yunzi will be in charge of guarding him together. No one may interrogate him without my authorization."

"Yes."

Lu Minghui walked out of the Mei Agency.

It was already daylight.

He got into the Ford sedan.

"Director, shall we go back to the company?" Sun Yaozu asked.

"Hmm." Lu Minghui leaned back in his chair.

Mao Sen did not finish translating the telegram.

The kite's identity was burned in the copper basin.

Three days. Mao Sen had to hold on for three days.