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

It was getting dark when the train arrived in Beijing. There weren't many people on the platform; a few in uniforms were walking around, and the rest were people there to pick up passengers. He Yuzhu got off the train, a cold wind blowing into his collar. He hunched his shoulders and pulled his gloves up. Yang Xiaobing followed behind, carrying a canvas bag, while Lao Lu walked at the very back, silent.

Old Sun stood beside the pillar, wearing an old cotton-padded jacket with the collar turned up, his face reddened by the wind. He saw He Yuzhu, threw his cigarette butt on the ground and stomped it out, said nothing, and just nodded.

The three men got into the jeep. The car drove slowly; it was rush hour, and the streets were crowded. The street scenes outside the window receded in sections—the shops on Qianmen Street were closed, but the grain station at Zhushikou was still lit, with people queuing to buy refined flour. He Yuzhu leaned against the window, his mind still replaying the last page of that ledger from Northeast China: "Beijing."

"We've found that 'shopkeeper'."

Old Sun turned around from the passenger seat, his expression a mix of relief and tension.

"Wang Defa. Forty-five years old, deputy director of the Deshengmenwai Subdistrict Office. In charge of public security, he has been doing this for six years."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He recalled the last page of the account book in Northeast China, where the words "Manager" were followed only by "Beijing," without a name or address. Now, there was one.

"What's your background?"

Old Sun pulled a small notebook from his pocket, opened it, and read it by the flickering streetlights outside the window. "A Hebei native, from a poor peasant family, started working in 1949, always in the neighborhood committee. Promoted to deputy director in 1958, in charge of public security. Usually performs well, colleagues say he's honest, doesn't talk much, and is a reliable worker."

He closed the notebook and put it back in his pocket.

"We've been watching him for three days. He goes to get off work and comes home on time every day, cooks dinner, and occasionally goes to the convenience store at the end of the alley to buy cigarettes. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. But—" He paused, "there's a cell phone signal near his house. It's intermittent, not for long periods, but it happens every month."

He Yuzhu waited for him to continue.

"There might be some activity tonight."

The car turned into a hutong (alleyway). The streets outside Deshengmen were different from those in the city; the houses were low, the roads were narrow, and piles of winter-stored cabbages were stacked neatly against the walls, covered with tattered cotton quilts. There was a smell of burning coal in the air, mixed with the sour odor of rotting cabbage stalks. He Yuzhu pushed open the car door, his feet hitting the ground, which was frozen stiff.

At the entrance of the alley was a small tavern, its curtain lifted, letting in the dim light of its interior, which shone onto the steps. No one spoke, only the crackling sound of a radio playing Peking Opera. Yang Xiaobing stood next to He Yuzhu and listened for a while.

"Boss Yang, here's the show you requested—"

Someone shouted on the radio, followed by a cacophony of gongs and drums.

He Yuzhu turned around and followed Lao Sun inside. The alley was narrow, with gray brick walls on both sides, much of the plaster had peeled off, revealing the rubble underneath. The streetlights were spaced far apart, some bright and some dim. When they reached the building at the very end, Lao Sun stopped and looked up. On the third floor, a light was on in a window, and the curtains were drawn tightly shut.

"That's the one."

Two men were squatting at the entrance of the building, dressed in plain clothes, their faces red from the cold, their hands tucked into their sleeves. Upon seeing Old Sun, they stood up, and one of them took a step forward.

"Section Chief Sun, there's someone inside. They just went in and haven't come out yet."

Old Sun nodded and looked upstairs. The light in that window was still on, and the curtains were motionless.

"Is there a backdoor?"

"Yes. It leads to the alley at the back. Little Zhang is guarding it there."

Old Sun didn't speak again, standing at the entrance, looking at the window. He Yuzhu stood beside him, also looking. The stairwell was pitch black; the lights were broken, and Old Sun used a flashlight to light his way. The stairs were narrow, and the wooden planks creaked underfoot, each step feeling like dismantling a house. When they reached the corner on the second floor, Old Sun turned off the flashlight, stood in the darkness, and waited for a while. There was no response from upstairs. They continued upstairs.

On the third floor, the corridor was even narrower, piled with broken cardboard boxes and rotten wood. The door to the innermost room was closed. Old Sun squatted down, pressed his ear against the door, and listened for a while. There were footsteps inside, very light, moving back and forth. There was also the creaking sound of a chair being dragged on the floor. Then it was quiet.

Old Sun waved to the two men behind him. They took out their keys, inserted them into the lock, and turned them. It didn't open. It was locked from the inside. Old Sun waved again. One of the plainclothes officers squatted down, took a wire from his pocket, inserted it into the keyhole, and flicked it a couple of times.

Click.

It was a very soft sound, like someone biting off something. Old Sun pushed open the door and rushed in first. He Yuzhu followed behind.

The lights were on in the room. A thin man sat at a table, a radio in front of him, headphones on, his fingers hovering over the buttons. Hearing the door open, he looked up—

His face was thin, with high cheekbones, small eyes, and thin lips. He wore a gray cloth jacket with frayed cuffs and patches on the elbows. He looked exactly like those honest, unassuming cadres on the street.

He paused for a second, then reached under the table.

Old Sun kicked the chair over. The man and chair fell to the ground, the radio fell off the table and smashed onto the concrete floor with a loud crack, scattering parts everywhere. Old Sun pounced on him and pinned him to the ground. The man struggled a few times, then stopped moving.

He Yuzhu squatted down and looked at that face.

"Wang Defa?"

The man didn't speak. His face was pressed against the cold cement floor, his eyes fixed on the scattered radio parts, his breathing heavy. After several seconds, he closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping.

"Who...who are you?"

His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping against sheet metal. It didn't sound like fear, but rather resignation.

Old Sun pulled him up from the ground and pressed him into a chair. His hands were trembling, and his lips were trembling too. Old Sun didn't rush to ask questions, but walked around the room. The room wasn't big, with a bed, a table, a wardrobe, and a washbasin stand against the wall. On the table was a radio, a new Shanghai Radio Factory model 144, which gleamed dimly under the lamplight.

Old Sun walked over, picked up the radio, looked at it, and put it down.

"Old Wang, this radio is nice. A new one would cost over a hundred yuan, right? And you'd need a receipt."

Wang Defa rubbed his hands on his knees without saying a word.

How much do you earn in a month?

"...Thirty-eight."

"Thirty-eight yuan. Where did you get this radio?"

Wang Defa lowered his head and remained silent. Old Sun didn't press further. He walked to the table and picked up the small notebook from the floor. It had a kraft paper cover with frayed edges. He opened the first page; it was filled with dense code, line after line. He placed the notebook on the table, then pulled an envelope from the drawer. Inside were several stacks of bills, brand new, bound with rubber bands.