Gravedigger of the Empire

When Kahn walked into Albert's office with his hands behind his back, Liu Jingtang was engrossed in carefully checking the forms.

He was studying accounting with Albert, and his focused expression didn't seem like that of a nineteen-year-old at all.

The office was filled with all sorts of accounts, recording the assets of the vast underground empire that Kahn ran.

A row of clocks hung on the wall, ticking away incessantly. Below each clock were labels with names from around the world: New York, Berlin, London, and Moscow, just like in the hotel lobby.

A dozen or so telephones were placed on a table in the distance, with telephone lines scattered on the floor, making the place look a bit messy.

A newspaper lay on the sofa with a striking headline: Farm Murder Case Remains Unsolved, Mad Killer Still at Large.

Yesterday evening, a female leader of the Communist Party of Germany was shot in the chest on her way home.

She was still alive when she was found, but by the time the police arrived, she had stopped breathing.

No one knows who fired the shot. Some speculate it was the increasingly active Workers' Party, while others say they witnessed the police firing the shot.

Kahn called Old Mudfish this morning and was told that the police were systematically loosening their operational guidelines against the Communist Party of Germany.

None of his men were patrolling near the shooting site; if it was a police officer, it was one of another superintendent's men.

"How is it?" Kahn walked to the desk and looked down at the numbers on it.

That was a summary of the rubber smuggled from France in June, written in dense, dense lines.

"I'm helping Mr. Albert with the calculations. It seems you're really wealthy, Mr. Kahn," Liu Jingtang said to Kahn without looking up, comparing the figures in the two ledgers.

Now he realized just how challenging it was when Kahn said it was.

It is indeed not an easy task to sort out so many lines and organize so many accounts.

If he succeeds, he will have control over Kahn's money-making schemes.

"It's alright." Kahn smiled, walked over to Albert, and bent down to look at the accounts on the table.

He wasn't being modest; he genuinely felt he wasn't particularly wealthy.

Albert took off his glasses and gently wiped them with deerskin.

After wiping his glasses, he tapped a data point on the lens and reported to Kahn: "Last month we increased our shipments by 10%, but we still can't control prices in Berlin."

Kahn frowned but did not speak immediately.

Albert thought Kahn didn't want to get involved, so he continued to persuade him, "The shortfall is just too big, and what about Mr. Ron..."

He meant well, because traditional business people have a limit; if they exceed that limit, they will consider morality and give up some profits.

This is also an unspoken understanding: if I don't push the common people to their deaths, they won't revolt and kill me...

People like Ron break similar rules; they seem to have no bottom line when it comes to making money.

Kahn interrupted Albert, asking in an unfriendly tone, "Is he hoarding goods?"

"Yes." Albert pointed to a few places with his glasses: "He's not just hoarding goods, he's also buying up the goods we release."

Regardless of his motives—whether it was to win people's hearts or simply out of a sudden pang of conscience—Kahn did release a batch of supplies to the market every day.

Unfortunately, these supplies have now been taken away by people of unknown origin.

Those who truly needed these things couldn't buy them; they pushed small carts, their baskets piled high with German marks, hoping to buy just one incredibly hard loaf of bread.

No one paid attention to these civilians, and they were destined to go hungry.

Kahn sighed. "I've tried to persuade him, but he won't listen to my advice. If this continues, those angry people will eventually drag him out and hang him on a lamppost."

"Should we ask him out and try to persuade him again?" Albert, still kind-hearted, asked Kahn.

Kahn shook his head: "No need! We need to prepare for what's to come. Hoping he'll come to his senses on his own is probably impossible."

He's been very busy lately, so he doesn't have time to cause trouble for others.

"Go for it, Liu Jingtang!" Kahn waved to the two of them, pushed open the door, and walked out of the room.

The air immediately felt much fresher, and the musty smell of paper that filled the room was gone.

As he walked down the corridor, two sergeants stopped and stood at attention, saluting as they passed him: "Sir!"

Although he was used to being called that, Kahn still felt happy and nodded slightly to the two of them.

Soon, in the basement, at the door of a makeshift cell, Kahn signaled to the guards to use a key to open the cell door.

The metal door made a screeching sound as it opened because the hinges were rusty.

The voice was so shrill it sent chills down one's spine, successfully attracting the attention of the person in the cell.

"Hey! How are you? Major Petrov (Note 1)?" Kahn asked flippantly as he walked into the cell.

He looks exactly like a villain in a movie, it's like he's practically writing "I'm a bad guy" on his face.

"You'd better let me go! I'm under Russian diplomatic protection!" Petrov was somewhat flustered; he had been squatting there for several days.

He had no idea what was happening outside, and his so-called superior didn't even bother to ask where he was.

"Stop dreaming, Major Petrov! From the moment you betrayed the Russian staff delegation, you became a traitor to Russia."

He took out his cigarette case, opened the lid, and then paused: "Have you ever heard of anyone rescuing a traitor?"

"Kudesky..." Petrov still harbored a sliver of hope.

Kahn sneered, "Don't you understand yet, you Russian? Nobody cares about you or him anymore."

"Just yesterday, your Red Army sent two more men to take over your duties." Kahn pulled out a cigarette and handed it to the other man. "You're a dead man now."

"..." Petrov tried to put on a calm expression but failed to take the cigarette Kahn offered him.

His face was bloodless, and his features were contorted and twitching: "This...no...is...possible!"

"Nothing is impossible. Think it through here! Do you want to work for me as a non-existent dead person, or... stay here?"

After saying that, Kahn stood up and walked towards the door. The iron gate slowly closed, making a chilling sound in the quiet corridor.

Then, all fell silent.

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Note 1: A helpful netizen pointed out an error in this article: In the early Soviet Union, there was no military rank system; everyone was addressed as "comrade," and soldiers addressed senior officers as "Comrade Commander." When distinguishing between different roles, the officer's rank was used: Platoon Leader Comrade, Battalion Commander Comrade, Army Commander Comrade, etc. However, this system of address is too cumbersome in this book, so it has not been corrected; please understand the general meaning.