Siheyuan (traditional courtyard house): Starting with the Korean War, returning home to take charge

When the train came to a stop in Moscow, it was just dawn.

He Yuzhu got off the train carrying his suitcase. The cold wind rushed into his collar, scraping like a knife. He hunched his shoulders and followed the crowd out. The platform was crowded with people carrying large bags, wearing thick coats, and wearing leather hats, all speaking in a garbled, incomprehensible language.

Old Sun got off the bus at the border and patted him on the shoulder before leaving.

Be careful.

He Yuzhu nodded.

At the exit, someone was holding a sign with his name written on it in Chinese characters. The man was in his forties, wearing a black overcoat, with a round face and a cheerful smile.

"Comrade He Yuzhu? This is Xiao Wang from the embassy, ​​here to pick you up."

He Yuzhu shook hands with him and got into the car.

The place he stayed was a guesthouse next to the embassy, ​​a three-story building with plenty of heating. Xiao Wang escorted him to his room, gave him a few instructions, and then left.

He Yuzhu stood by the window, looking at the street outside. The streets of Moscow were wider and the buildings taller than those in Beijing, and the gray sky pressed down.

He stood by the window for ten minutes.

The third window from the left on the fifth floor of the building across the street reflected light three times. Each time, it was when he looked in that direction.

He drew the curtains.

The next day, He Yuzhu left early for the inspection.

He didn't take the main roads, but instead went into the alleys. The alleys in Moscow are narrow, with clutter piled on both sides, and the snow is hardened and slippery. He walked quickly, his footsteps echoing in the alleys.

After turning the third corner, he heard footsteps behind him.

More than one person.

He continued walking and turned into another alley. This one was narrower, with brick walls on both sides and no windows. Halfway there, he suddenly stopped and turned around.

Three people stood at the entrance of the alley.

The tall, thin man in the middle, wearing a gray wool coat, had his hands in his pockets. The two shorter, stockier men next to him stood still, staring at him.

The tall, thin man took a step forward and spoke in English.

"Mr. He, please come with us."

He Yuzhu looked at him.

Who are you?

The tall, thin man smiled.

"My American friend, I'd like to invite Mr. He for a cup of coffee."

He Yuzhu didn't move.

The tall, thin man took another step forward, and the two men beside him followed.

He Yuzhu pulled his hand out of his pocket.

The tall, thin man froze for a moment—and in that instant, He Yuzhu was already in front of him. A punch landed squarely on his stomach, not just any punch, but a full-force, all-over blow. The tall, thin man's eyes bulged out instantly, like a chicken with its throat stomped on, a groan escaping his throat, his whole body curling up like a shrimp, the gun in his hand clattering to the ground.

The short, stocky man next to him lunged at him. He Yuzhu didn't have time to dodge and took a punch, his shoulder burning with pain. But he grabbed the man's arm and, using the momentum, slammed him against the wall—with a dull thud, the man's face slammed against the brick wall, and he slid down limply.

The third person hesitated. In that moment of hesitation, He Yuzhu had already rushed in front of him, his right hand gripping his neck, his left hand grabbing the hand that was drawing a gun, his thumb twisting into the web of his hand—

"ah--!"

The sound of bones dislocating was as crisp as snapping a frozen carrot.

The tall, thin man recovered, picked up the gun, and just as he raised it—

Several people suddenly rushed out from the alley entrance.

Old Sun's men.

The leader kicked the gun out of the skinny guy's hand and pinned him to the ground. The other two were also held down and unable to move.

He Yuzhu, panting heavily, watched the three people being dragged away. He looked down at his hands; his knuckles were red, but the skin wasn't broken. Qin Huairu's thick woolen gloves, with extra loops around the knuckles, were now radiating warmth through the thin wool.

Old Sun walked over from behind and stood next to him.

"Are you alright?"

He Yuzhu shook his head.

Old Sun glanced at the direction in which the three people were dragged away.

"American. FBI."

He Yuzhu didn't say anything.

Old Sun patted him on the shoulder.

"Let's go, we still need to go on the inspection."

The site of the investigation was a research institute outside Moscow, a red brick building with guards at the entrance.

They were greeted by a vice-dean surnamed Ivanov, a man in his fifties, bald, and wearing gold-rimmed glasses. He led He Yuzhu and his group into a conference room, where several blueprints were laid out on the table.

He Yuzhu picked up the blueprints and flipped through them. They were from ten years ago. An improved version of the T-54, which they themselves had already phased out.

He pinched three creases into the edge of the drawing.

Ivanov spoke to his assistant in Russian, assuming that He Yuzhu wouldn't understand.

"What technology do Chinese people know? Showing them this is enough. Yellow-skinned monkeys, even if you give them the most advanced technology, they won't understand it."

He Yuzhu paused for a moment.

He recalled Old Man Tong's gaze. He remembered what Jin Zhong had said: "You think it's just us?"

He turned another page of the blueprint. He didn't absorb a single word.

Ivanov continued, "...I don't know what the higher-ups were thinking, cooperating with such a backward country is such a waste—"

He Yuzhu put down the blueprints.

Ivanov paused for a moment, then asked in English.

"Mr. He, what's the problem?"

He Yuzhu looked up at him and said in Russian.

"Comrade Ivanov, when you mentioned 'yellow-skinned monkeys' just now, I was thinking—you're over fifty years old, aren't you? Where were you when the Soviet Red Army entered Northeast China in 1945?"

Ivanov's face froze.

"Let me recall for you," He Yuzhu took a step forward, "Back then, when you saw the Japanese, you ran faster than anyone else. We Chinese people brought you water and food, and what did you call us?"

"you--"

"Call him 'Comrade'." He Yuzhu emphasized the word "Comrade." "It's only been a few years? And he's already turned into a yellow-skinned monkey?"

The meeting room was completely silent.

He Yuzhu pushed the blueprints onto the table.

"An improved version of the T-54? We've built better ones ourselves. Are you still trying to fool people with this?"

Ivanov's face turned a deep purplish-red, and he opened his mouth but couldn't utter a word.

He Yuzhu turned and left.

He walked to the door, then turned back.

"Tell your leaders that if they want to cooperate next time, they need to learn how to respect people first. Also—when you said 'yellow-skinned monkey,' speak louder. Let the guards outside hear you, let them know what kind of person their vice president is."

He pushed open the door and went out.

That evening, He Yuzhu boarded a plane back to China.

Xiao Wang drove him to the airport without saying a word the whole way. Before boarding, Xiao Wang shook his hand.

"Dean He, what you said today was really satisfying."

He Yuzhu didn't say anything and boarded the plane.

When the plane landed in Beijing, it was just dawn.

Old Sun was waiting for him at the airport, and his expression wasn't very good.

"The results are in."

He Yuzhu looked at him.

"Those three are from the FBI, and their target is to kidnap you. But they said they have someone back home to help them."

He Yuzhu's hand tightened slightly.

"Who?"

Old Sun shook his head.

"The code name is 'Iron Hammer.' It must be those old-timers who have gone into hiding even more deeply."

He Yuzhu didn't say anything.

He recalled the look in Old Man Tong's eyes when he was arrested, and the words spoken in Jinzhong.

"You think it's just us?"

Old Sun took a photo out of his pocket and handed it to him.

The photo shows three Americans in an alley. But behind them, in the blurred background, is the profile of a Chinese person.

"This was restored afterward," Old Sun pointed to the profile. "The technical department said that this person was watching from the alley entrance. He left as soon as our people rushed in."

He Yuzhu stared at that profile.

Facial features are indistinct. But the outline, the posture—

He seems familiar.

"A hammer?"

Old Sun shook his head: "I don't know. But one thing is certain—he knew you were going to Moscow. He knew from the day you boarded the train."

He Yuzhu pulled his gloves up a little. Qin Huairu's gloves were on, and they were warm.

But my back felt chilly.

From Beijing to Moscow, it's thousands of kilometers. This man watched the whole way.

He picked up his suitcase and walked out. Reaching the door, he subconsciously glanced back towards the airport terminal.

Behind that glass door, people come and go.

Nobody was watching him.

He stood there for a moment, then pulled his gloves up a bit.

Then he turned and walked into the hazy morning light of Beijing.