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

The door to the task force's office opened, and smoke poured out. He Yuzhu squinted.

Old Sun sat at the table, clutching a telegram in his hand. The ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts, a few of which had burned down to the filters and were sticking out crookedly. Li Jianguo was hunched over the large map, a red pen hovering over the Guangdong coastline for a long time before finally dropping. He drew a circle, then an arrow that curved from Hong Kong and landed near Shantou.

He Yuzhu stood at the door for a few seconds. Old Sun didn't look up, and neither did Li Jianguo. He went in and closed the door. The latch clicked in, and Old Sun moved slightly, pressing the cigarette butt into the jar. He didn't extinguish it, picked it up, glanced at it, and then pressed it down again.

"He was in Guangzhou, and he's been arrested. He was the deputy director of the supply and marketing cooperative, in charge of material allocation."

He Yuzhu sat down in the chair, waiting for him to continue. Old Sun folded the telegram, stuffed it into his pocket, and pressed his fingers against the outside of the pocket as if afraid it would fall out on its own.

"Have you confessed?"

Old Sun didn't reply. He took a notebook from the drawer; it had a kraft paper cover with frayed edges. He opened to the first page, ran his finger across the paper, and stopped. He Yuzhu saw the names, densely packed, some circled, some crossed out, followed by codes and organizations.

"The radio's still on," Old Sun said, his eyes not on He Yuzhu, but looking out the window. A layer of dust covered the windowpane, and the sky outside was a hazy gray, indistinguishable between clouds and dirt. "When our men rushed in, he was sitting there transmitting, his fingers still pressing the keys, ticking away. When he saw us come in, he paused, raised his hand, and then put it down again."

He Yuzhu took the notebook. Military industry system: thirty-two. Energy system: twenty-eight. Transportation system: forty-one. Communication system: nineteen. There were also education, health, and postal services. He flipped through a few pages, the edges curled up. Some names were marked "Contacted," others "Under Development." The handwriting was messy, but every stroke was firm and solid, as if engraved.

"His name is Jin Dehou, from Liaoning. He worked at the supply and marketing cooperative for twenty years." Old Sun took out his cigarette case, squeezed it—it was empty—crumbed it into a ball, and threw it into the trash can. "He handled more than a hundred of them. He said there was also a master list, in Pu Zheng's hands, containing more than 1,200 people."

He Yuzhu closed the notebook. The cover was worn shiny, as if it had been touched repeatedly.

The interrogation room was at the corner of the outer corridor. He Yuzhu stood outside the glass window and saw Jin Dehou sitting in a chair, handcuffed, head bowed. His hair was gray, and he wore a faded blue cotton jacket with frayed cuffs. Old Sun sat opposite him, placing items one by one on the table: a miniature camera, a codebook, and remittance slips. After placing the last item, he leaned back in his chair without speaking.

Jin Dehou looked up and glanced at the items. His gaze lingered on the remittance slip for a moment—He Yuzhu saw his finger twitch, as if he wanted to reach for it, but then withdrew it.

"Jin Dehou, are these things yours?"

Jin Dehou remained silent. He lowered his head, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair, his knuckles slowly turning white. Old Sun waited a while, then stood up and walked over to him. His leather shoes clicked softly on the terrazzo floor, each step sounding faint, but in the quiet room, each step seemed to tread on something heavy.

"You worked at the supply and marketing cooperative for twenty years. The organization entrusted you with the power to allocate resources. Is this how you repay them?"

Jin Dehou's shoulders trembled. He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed, tears welling up but not falling. His Adam's apple bobbed, as if he were swallowing something.

"I...I just helped allocate some supplies."

His voice was hoarse, as if there was a wad of cotton stuffed in his throat.

"To whom should it be transferred?"

"The Northeast. Whatever they need, I'll give them. Gasoline, diesel, steel, cement, and..." He paused, his lips moving slightly. "And detonators."

Old Sun turned to a page in the ledger and pointed to a line of text. Jin Dehou glanced at it and nodded. "I know him. He's from the Northeast. He needed gasoline, and I approved it." Old Sun turned to another page. Jin Dehou nodded again. "Also from the Northeast. He needed steel."

Old Sun closed the ledger and placed it on the table. Jin Dehou stared at the ledger for a long time, tears welling up in his eyes. He didn't wipe them away, just let them flow, dripping to the corner of his mouth, salty. He pursed his lips, then let them fall.

"Who gave you these things?"

Jin Dehou fell silent. He lowered his head, his shoulders shaking with sobs. Old Sun stood there, waiting. After a long time, Jin Dehou raised his head, his face streaked with tears.

"The Prince. He's in Hong Kong. He sent me a letter and money, asking me to help allocate supplies."

"What's his last name?"

"His surname is Pu. He's from the Manchu Qing dynasty. He's been there for many years." Jin Dehou's voice grew lower and lower, as if he were talking to himself. "I've never met him. I've only received his letters and his money. I did whatever he told me to do."

Old Sun collected the items and put them in an envelope. He walked to the door and glanced back. Jin Dehou sat there, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair, his knuckles as white as bone.

He Yuzhu stood outside the glass window, watching the gray-haired figure recede into the distance. He had worked at the supply and marketing cooperative for twenty years, approving countless orders, but no one knew that there was someone behind him. That person was in Hong Kong, surnamed Pu, a Manchu, who remotely controlled these people, who in turn controlled those below them. Layer upon layer, from Hong Kong to Guangzhou, from Guangzhou to Northeast China, from Northeast China to all parts of the country.

Old Sun came out of the interrogation room and stood next to He Yuzhu. "He cooperated and answered all our questions. We can't touch Pu Zheng for now. Hong Kong is British territory; we can't go there."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He turned around and walked towards his office. The lights in the corridor were broken, only turning on intermittently, so when he stepped into the shadows, he could hear his own footsteps.

Dawn was approaching. He Yuzhu stood by the window, watching the pale light of dawn break in the east. The streetlights were still on, illuminating the empty courtyard. He took the list out of the drawer, looked at it for a long time, and then put it back.

When He Yuzhu opened the door, the courtyard was dark, with only a small patch of light shining from the window of the west wing. He Yuzhu opened the door to find He Nianhua already asleep, her small body curled up in the blankets, only half her head showing. Qin Huairu sat on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed), an old garment spread on her lap, the needle and thread tucked into the collar, barely sewn. Hearing the door open, she looked up, pulled the needle from the collar, and tucked it into the cloth.

"You're back?"

He Yuzhu sat down next to her. Qin Huairu looked at him for a while, then folded the clothes on her knees and placed them on the kang cabinet.

There's still porridge on the stove.

She stood up and walked towards the stove. The fire in the stove was still burning, casting flickering light on her face. She brought the bowl over, placed it in front of He Yuzhu, and sat down beside him. The porridge was still warm, the rice grains cooked until soft and tender. He Yuzhu picked up the bowl and took a sip, feeling a warmth spread through his stomach.

Qin Huairu watched him finish the bowl of porridge, then took the bowl from him and set it aside.

"Aunt Wang came today."

He Yuzhu looked at her.

"I borrowed some vinegar. We don't have much left, so I poured her half a bottle." She paused. "She asked if you're rarely home."

He Yuzhu didn't reply. Qin Huairu put the bowl in the basin, poured in water, washed it, dried her hands, and came back to sit down.

I told you you were busy.

He Yuzhu nodded. "Yes, I'm busy."

Qin Huairu didn't say anything more. She spread out the blanket, tucked He Nianhua's exposed little hand back in, and tucked the blanket in. He Nianhua turned over, mumbled something, but it was hard to hear what she said, and then fell asleep again.

The light went out. He Yuzhu lay on the kang (a heated brick bed), listening to the wind outside. Jin Dehou's words kept replaying in his mind: "He said he would come back when the time was right."

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Moonlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the room in a pale light. Pu Zheng was in Hong Kong, in Kowloon Tong, in a small Western-style house. There, he drank tea, waiting for news. The news came from Beijing, from Shanghai, from the Northeast, and from the spies he had planted. After reading them, he would write a few words, send them out, and issue the necessary approvals or bomb the targets.

He Nianhua turned over and placed her small hand on his face. He gently put that hand back under the covers.

They'll be back sooner or later. So let's wait and see.