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

The ashtrays in the office were overflowing, with cigarette butts piled up like a small mountain.

Old Sun placed the seventeenth file on the table and rubbed his eyes. The clock on the wall pointed to two in the morning; it was pitch black outside the window, not even the moon was visible. He Yuzhu sat opposite him, staring at the pile of photos, motionless.

"Seventeen." Old Sun's voice was hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing against wood. "All the vice presidents and above are here."

He Yuzhu reached out and took the top one. The person in the photo had a round face, wore glasses, and smiled kindly. The resume was neatly written, showing his career path from technician to vice president, step by step, without skipping levels or making any mistakes.

"This," he pushed the file back, "is too clean."

Old Sun glanced at it, said nothing, and pulled the file out and put it aside. He continued flipping through the pages, his finger tracing lines on the paper, stopping when he reached the eleventh file.

He raised his head.

He Yuzhu looked at him.

"Tan Ming." Old Sun handed over the file. "Forty-eight years old, deputy general manager of a military industrial group, in charge of materials procurement."

He Yuzhu took the file. The face in the photo was still round and kind. He stared at that face for a long time.

"Materials procurement," he said.

Old Sun nodded.

"That supplier is the one in charge of material procurement."

He Yuzhu put the file down.

"Investigate him."

Five days later, in the evening, Tianjin.

The train station lights had just come on, casting a dim, yellowish glow over the crowd at the exit. Tan Ming emerged from the throng, wearing a dark gray Zhongshan suit and carrying a briefcase. He stood on the steps, glanced left and right, and then boarded a rickshaw.

Yang Xiaobing pushed his bicycle, following at a distance that wasn't too close. The traffic was mixed with people leaving get off work, and the bicycle bells jingled all around. He kept his eyes fixed on the rickshaw, about thirty or forty meters away.

Old Lu squatted in front of a stall selling roasted chestnuts, pretending to pick out chestnuts. The stall owner glanced at him, said nothing, and continued hawking his wares.

The rickshaw turned into an alley and stopped in front of a teahouse. The teahouse was small, with a bamboo curtain that rustled in the wind. Tan Ming got out of the rickshaw, looked around, and then lifted the curtain to go inside.

Yang Xiaobing leaned his bicycle against the wall and squatted down to tie his shoelaces. He kept his head down, glancing towards the teahouse.

After waiting for almost twenty minutes, the door curtain rustled again.

A thin man in a gray cloth jacket walked out, wearing a top hat with the brim pulled low. He didn't look to either side of the alley, and walked quickly with his head down.

Yang Xiaobing stood up, dusted off his knees, and followed.

The man walked several dozen meters and then suddenly turned around.

Yang Xiaobing didn't dodge; he bent down and lit a cigarette. It took him three strikes to light the match, the flame flickering in the wind.

The man looked at him for a few seconds, then turned and continued walking.

Yang Xiaobing exhaled a puff of smoke and followed at a leisurely pace.

The man walked to the alley entrance and slipped into an even narrower alley. Yang Xiaobing followed him in. The alley was pitch black, with only a streetlamp in the distance illuminating a small patch of dim yellow light.

The person disappeared.

Yang Xiaobing was stunned for a moment, and just as he was about to chase after him, he heard footsteps behind him.

He turned around.

The man stood five meters behind him, holding a knife in his hand.

"You've been following me all this way," the man said in a low voice, with a slight southern accent. "Whose man are you?"

Yang Xiaobing threw the cigarette butt on the ground and stomped it out.

"you guess."

The man lunged at him.

Yang Xiaobing dodged the blade and kicked the man's wrist. The knife flew out and clattered to the ground. The man staggered back two steps, but Yang Xiaobing grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.

"Don't move."

The man was breathing heavily, his eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Footsteps sounded at the alley entrance, and Old Lu led his men in. The flashlight shone on the man's face; he squinted and turned his head away.

Old Lu walked over and took an envelope from his pocket. He opened it and looked at it in the flashlight for a while.

He looked up at Yang Xiaobing.

"That's enough for a sentence."

Inside the teahouse, Tan Ming was still sitting at a table in the corner.

He ordered a pot of tea, but didn't drink it; he just sat there. When the curtain was lifted, he looked up. He saw the person rushing in, but he didn't move; he just sat there.

Old Lu walked up to him.

"Comrade Tan Ming, come with us."

Tan Ming put down his teacup and stood up. He straightened the collar of his Zhongshan suit and glanced at Lao Lu.

"You still managed to find me."

He walked out, and when he reached the door, he looked back at the pot of tea that was still steaming.

The lights in the interrogation room were blindingly bright.

Tan Ming sat in a chair, handcuffed, head bowed. Old Sun sat opposite him, lit a cigarette, but didn't smoke it, just held it between his fingers. Ashes fell onto the table, forming a small clump.

Old Sun didn't say anything.

Tan Ming didn't say anything either.

After a long time, Tan Ming raised his head.

"You're slower than I thought."

Old Sun looked at him.

"Slow? Then run!"

Tan Ming smiled. The smile was brief, gone in the blink of an eye.

"Running away means you've admitted it, right?"

Old Sun stubbed out his cigarette.

"You're denying it just because you're not running away?"

Tan Ming did not speak.

Old Sun lit another cigarette.

"Tan Ming, twelve years. That's long enough."

Tan Ming's hand moved slightly inside the handcuffs.

"How did you know?"

Old Sun did not answer.

Tan Ming stared at him for several seconds.

Then he leaned back in his chair.

"I am a blacksmith."

Old Sun pressed his hand on the table.

"When did it start?"

Tan Ming thought for a moment.

"In 1948. You hadn't entered Beijing yet."

He paused.

"I was in your team, I made contributions, I received awards. Those were all true, and also false."

Old Sun looked at him.

"Can you tell the difference between what's real and what's fake?"

Tan Ming was taken aback.

He looked at Old Sun, something gleaming in his eyes.

"I can't tell them apart anymore," he said. "Sometimes even I can't tell them apart myself."

After the interrogation ended, Lao Sun came out and stood next to He Yuzhu.

The corridor was quiet, with only the sound of footsteps echoing in the distance.

"He said it," Old Sun lit a cigarette, "He received orders to assassinate your family members before."

He Yuzhu didn't say anything.

His hand went into his pocket and touched the gloves. They were made of fine, woven fabric, old, with frayed edges.

Old Sun looked at him.

"He hasn't found an opportunity. The area around your compound is too heavily guarded, so he doesn't dare to make a move."

He Yuzhu nodded.

He took his hand out of his pocket, clutching the photograph. Yu Shui, Qin Huairu, and He Nianhua were huddled together, laughing happily.

He raised his head.

"Where's the list?"

Old Sun shook his head.

"He said he didn't know. The list is in someone else's hands. His code name is Butler."

He Yuzhu stood there, looking out at the night.

The moon was obscured by clouds, and the courtyard was pitch black. The wind rustled the leaves, as if someone was moving about in the shadows.

He put the photos away.

"housekeeper."

Old Sun stubbed out his cigarette.

"Yes. Butler."

He Yuzhu turned around and glanced into the interrogation room. Tan Ming was still sitting in his chair, head down, seemingly lost in thought.

He stood there for a long time.

When the moon came out again, he was still standing there.