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

When He Yuzhu returned to Beijing, it was already completely dark. The platform lights cast a dim, yellowish glow on the long shadows of the people carrying large and small bags. He walked quickly out, with Yang Xiaobing following behind, his canvas bag rubbing against his palms until they ached.

Old Sun was waiting at the exit, wearing an old cotton-padded coat with the collar turned up, his face tucked inside, only his eyes showing. Seeing He Yuzhu, he threw his cigarette butt on the ground, stomped it out, and walked over.

"There are forty-two people on the list."

His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping against sheet metal.

"They're located in Beijing, Shanghai, Tianjin, and Shenyang. How many we can catch depends on luck."

He Yuzhu took the paper. The list was densely packed, some names were circled in red, and others were marked with question marks. He looked at it for a few seconds, then folded the paper and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Let's make our move tonight."

Old Sun nodded, the dark circles under his eyes appearing even deeper under the streetlights.

"The people are all in place. We're just waiting for you to come back."

At two in the morning, the alleyway resembles a dead snake, curled up in the darkness.

He Yuzhu followed the first group in, his feet crunching on the frozen snow. He tried to be quiet, but the sound still echoed against the walls. The alley was narrow, the houses huddled together, their windows dark and empty, like closed eyes.

Yang Xiaobing walked ahead, crouching low, each step firm and steady. He stopped in front of a wooden door with peeling paint and glanced back. He Yuzhu nodded.

Yang Xiaobing scaled the wall and went inside, moving as quietly as a cat. A few seconds later, the door opened from the inside with a creak that sounded particularly loud in the night.

Several people slipped inside.

The light was on in the inner room, a dim yellow light seeping through the crack in the door. Someone was talking, their voice low, and it was impossible to hear what they were saying.

Yang Xiaobing kicked the door open.

There were two people in the room, one sitting on the kang (a heated brick bed), the other standing on the floor. The one sitting was a fat man in his forties with a fleshy face, clutching an enamel mug in his hand. The one standing was younger and thinner, reaching into his clothes for something.

Yang Xiaobing rushed forward, grabbed the hand, and pulled a knife from his pocket. The blade flashed in the light, and Yang Xiaobing snatched it away and threw it on the ground.

"Don't move!"

The fat one sprang up from the kang (a heated brick bed) and lunged towards the window. Old Lu was already waiting there; he grabbed him by the back of the collar and slammed him to the ground like a chick. The enamel mug flew out and smashed against the wall, splashing water all over it.

The two men were pinned to the ground, their faces pressed against the cold cement, panting heavily.

He Yuzhu went inside. The room reeked of mildew, mixed with the pungent smell of tobacco leaves. An old, dusty quilt covered the kang (a heated brick bed), its edges frayed. On the windowsill sat a half-cold bowl of porridge, a thin film floating on top.

He squatted down and looked at the fat man.

The man turned his head to the side, his fleshy face looking fierce under the light, but his eyes were evasive.

"What's your name?"

The man turned his face away and remained silent. The younger man next to him moved his lips, but was glared at by the fat man and shut his mouth again.

Yang Xiaobing searched the man and found a small notebook, which he handed to He Yuzhu. The notebook was small, with a kraft paper cover and frayed edges. He opened it and found several names and numbers written inside, the handwriting crooked and messy, exactly the same as in the account book.

He Yuzhu stood up.

"take away."

The second group was in the south of the city, the third in the west, and the fourth in the north. Overnight, of the forty-two names, thirty-one were arrested. The rest—some ran away, some went into hiding beforehand, and a few seemed to vanish into thin air.

As dawn broke, trucks drove into the police station's yard one after another. Their headlights were still on, illuminating the people being brought in. The handcuffs gleamed coldly in the lights, and their dragging footsteps left dark imprints on the snow.

The courtyard was filled with onlookers. Some were wearing cotton-padded coats, some were holding bowls, and some were standing on tiptoe to peek inside. An old woman tugged at the sleeve of the person next to her, her voice low but unable to hide her excitement.

"What's going on? Why are they arresting so many?"

The person next to him shook his head, almost spilling the porridge in his bowl.

"Who knows? He's definitely not a good person."

He Yuzhu stood on the steps, watching as the people were led inside one by one. Thirty-one people, lined up in a row, of all shapes and sizes, young and old. Some had their heads down, some had their necks stiff, and one was so weak in the legs that he couldn't walk and was being supported by two policemen, his cotton shoes leaving two marks on the snow.

Yang Xiaobing stood beside him, a streak of ash on his arm and a patch of soot on his face. He raised his hand to wipe it, only to make it smudge even more.

"Commander, eleven have escaped."

He Yuzhu nodded. He didn't speak, but his fingers unconsciously tightened, crumpling the edges of the list in his hand.

The interrogation began in the morning.

Old Sun sat in the interrogation room, facing a young man in his early twenties. The young man's face was as white as a sheet, and his hands, resting on his knees, were trembling. Old Sun slammed the account book on the table, the sound not loud, but the young man flinched.

"Your name is on it. Where did the money come from?"

The young man looked down, staring at his fingers. He rubbed his fingers back and forth on his knee, until the fabric turned white.

Old Sun didn't rush him. He lit a cigarette and slowly smoked it. Smoke rose between the two of them, spreading out and shrouding the young man's face in a hazy gray. He finished the cigarette, but still didn't say a word.

Old Sun stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and stood up to leave.

The young man suddenly looked up.

"I said."

The voice was thin and shrill, as if something was choking it.

"Someone notified us in advance that you had taken the account books, and told us to run away quickly."

Old Sun turned around and stared at him.

"Who notified them?"

The young man shook his head.

"I don't know. It was a phone call. Judging from the voice, it was a man, in his thirties or forties."

Old Sun looked at him without saying a word. The young man lowered his head again and began rubbing the piece of cloth with his fingers once more.

"That's all?"

The young man nodded, nodding vigorously, as if trying to convince himself.

That's all.

Old Sun walked out of the interrogation room. He Yuzhu leaned against the wall in the corridor, waiting for him.

"Someone tipped them off. A man, in his thirties or forties. He knew about the account books and the list."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He took the list out of his pocket and looked at the names circled in red. Eleven had run away. His finger unconsciously traced over the names, stopping at a code name marked with a question mark. Third Brother.

"Investigate the people inside."

Old Sun nodded and left. He Yuzhu remained leaning against the wall, the corridor light illuminating him, casting his shadow on the ground, motionless.

I investigated for three days.

He Yuzhu went through everyone who had access to the ledgers: the police, the research institute, the special forces. He questioned them one by one, eliminating one by one.

On the afternoon of the third day, Old Sun arrived. He stood at the office door, not coming in, his expression as if he had swallowed a fly.

"Found one."

He Yuzhu raised his head.

"Who?"

Old Sun walked in and placed a piece of paper on the table. It had a name and workplace written on it: Security Section, Officer, surnamed Zhou, 23 years old, just transferred here last year.

"This guy's been spending money like crazy lately. He bought an imported watch and treated his colleagues to meals several times. He only makes thirty-odd yuan a month, where did he get the money?"

He Yuzhu picked up the paper, looked at it once, and then looked at it again.

"Sure?"

Old Sun didn't answer, he just looked at him. He Yuzhu put down the paper and stood up.

The security department's dormitory was located behind the research institute. It was a row of single-story buildings with gray bricks and tiles, small windows, and dim lighting.

When He Yuzhu pushed open the door, the junior officer surnamed Zhou was sitting on the bed polishing shoes. A military blanket was neatly folded on the bed, and a shiny Swiss watch sat on the bedside table. He was polishing the shoes meticulously, spreading the shoe polish evenly and then buffing them with a cloth, stroke by stroke. Hearing the door open, he looked up, paused, and dropped the cloth from his hand.

"Where does it grow?"

He Yuzhu didn't speak, but walked around the room. A new wool coat hung in the closet, feeling quite soft to the touch. On the table was a half-smoked pack of cigarettes, the Daqianmen brand. On the windowsill sat an enamel mug filled with tea; the tea leaves were quite good, the pre-Qingming kind.

He turned around and looked at the young man.

"Where did the watch come from?"

The junior staff member stood up, his legs a little weak, and held onto the edge of the bed.

"Borrowed...borrowed from a friend."

He Yuzhu stared into his eyes. Those eyes were looking away, glancing left, right, and at the ground, but never at him.

"Which friend?"

The junior staff member fell silent. His lips moved, then closed again. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.

Yang Xiaobing pulled an envelope from under the cabinet, inside which were several hundred yuan, brand new bills, consecutively numbered.

He Yuzhu took the wad of money and patted it in his hand. The crisp sound was particularly jarring in the quiet little room.

"Tell me. Who gave it to you? And what did they tell you to do?"

The junior clerk slowly slid off the edge of the bed and sat on the floor. His face was as white as the paint on the wall, and a thin layer of sweat appeared on his forehead.

"I...I don't know who it was. It was a phone call. They told me to tell them about the account books, saying someone was going to run away. They gave me a thousand dollars, five hundred of which I paid upfront."

He Yuzhu squatted down to look him in the eye.

"Where did the call come from?"

The junior staff member shook his head vigorously.

"I don't know. It's always a different number. I've checked public phones, but I can't find the information."

He Yuzhu stood up. He looked at the young man huddled on the ground, remembering his earnest way of polishing shoes, the gleaming watch, and the new overcoat. He stood there for a long time, so long that Old Sun thought he wouldn't speak again.

"take away."

Yang Xiaobing helped the man up. The junior officer's legs were too weak to stand, and he was dragged out, leaving a mark on the ground with his cotton shoes.

He Yuzhu stood at the door, watching the figure disappear at the end of the corridor.

Old Sun walked over.

"I checked the phone numbers. Three different public phones. I couldn't find the person."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He leaned against the door frame, his fingers unconsciously tapping the door panel, once, once, and again.

It was getting dark outside the window. The streetlights weren't on yet, and the corridor was dim. He remembered that figure—thin, slightly hunched, walking slowly but steadily.

That person is still lurking in the shadows.