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

It was still dark when the car left Beijing. He Yuzhu leaned against the window, watching the streetlights recede one by one, becoming increasingly sparse until they disappeared completely. It was pitch black outside; nothing could be seen except for the car headlights illuminating the road ahead as it circled and turned.

Old Sun sat in the back seat, flipping through the notebook he'd found in Fang's office over and over again. He paused on a certain page, tapped it with his finger, as if to say something, but then swallowed his words. He Yuzhu saw his action in the rearview mirror but didn't ask.

After passing Mentougou, the sky began to turn gray. A person was pushing a bicycle along the roadside, a vegetable basket tied to the back seat filled with large cabbages, their leaves wilted from the cold. A breakfast stall had just started its fire, white smoke billowing from its chimney; a person squatted by the roadside eating noodles, slurping them down. Yang Xiaobing slowed down, circled around a tractor loaded with stones, and then lifted it up again. The mountain road grew narrower and more winding; the headlights illuminated the cliff face beside the road, where the words "Beware of Falling Rocks" were carved—the white paint faded considerably, but still legible.

Daylight broke. The outline of the factory area emerged from the valley, with its gray walls, tin-roofed factory buildings, and chimneys piercing the sky without emitting smoke. The gatekeeper, wrapped in a cotton overcoat, was dozing in his guard post. Hearing the sound of a car, he poked his head out, squinted for a while, and then pushed the gate open.

Factory Director Sun ran over from the office building, his cotton-padded coat open and his shoes untied, the laces undone, he kept stepping on them after every few steps. When he saw He Yuzhu get out of the car, his face twitched, and he stopped.

"Director He, what happened?"

He Yuzhu didn't answer. "Technician Liu, in which workshop?"

Factory Director Sun paused, his lips moved as if he wanted to ask something, but then he swallowed his words. "Parts workshop. Gyroscope group." He hesitated, his voice lowering. "What happened to him?"

He Yuzhu didn't reply, but followed him into the workshop. The corridor was pitch black, the lights weren't on, only the emergency exit lights were lit, glowing green. Factory Director Sun walked ahead, his steps hurried, his canvas shoes making a clattering sound on the terrazzo floor. Reaching the corner, he stopped and turned around.

"Director He, Liu Dehou has worked for me for eight years. He's a man of few words, but very skilled, and he's been recognized as an advanced worker every year. He..." He didn't finish his sentence before He Yuzhu walked past him.

The parts workshop was located at the far end of the factory area, a row of drab, single-story buildings with small windows and dim lighting. Factory Director Sun pushed open the door; the machines inside weren't running yet. Workers stood in twos and threes in front of their workbenches, some smoking, some chatting. In the corner, a workbench was empty, covered with a blue cloth, its tools neatly arranged—wrenches, screwdrivers, calipers—stacked up one by one, as if waiting for someone to use them.

"Where's Liu Dehou?" Factory Director Sun called out.

No one answered. Several workers looked up, glancing at him and then at He Yuzhu. A young worker put down his cigarette and glanced towards the empty worktable. "Master Liu didn't come today. He left after get off work yesterday, saying he had something to do at home."

He Yuzhu turned around. "Where does he live?"

Factory Director Sun thought for a moment. "The dormitory building behind the factory. Third floor, the innermost room." He paused, then added, "Should I go up and take a look?"

He Yuzhu had already walked out.

The dormitory building behind the factory was built in the 1950s. It was a three-story red brick building, with much of the plaster peeling off, revealing the mortar underneath. The stairs were narrow, and the handrails were rusted, creaking underfoot. The lights in the third-floor corridor were broken, making it pitch black. Yang Xiaobing used a flashlight to light his way. The door to the innermost room was closed, and a faded New Year's picture was pasted on the door, its image illegible. He Yuzhu knocked, but no one answered. He knocked again, still no one answered.

Yang Xiaobing took half a step back and kicked the door open.

The light was on in the room. A man was crouching in the corner, clutching a bulging brown paper envelope. Hearing the door open, he jerked his head up, saw He Yuzhu, his face changed, and he stood up and ran towards the window. Yang Xiaobing rushed forward, grabbed him by the back of his collar, and the two of them fell to the ground. The envelope flew from his hand and slid under the bed.

He Yuzhu squatted down and pulled the envelope out from under the bed. It wasn't sealed. He took out the photo inside and examined it against the light. The lines on the drawing were dense and the annotations were neat and precise—it was the gyroscope assembly drawing that Ma Yuejin revised to the seventeenth version before finalizing, and the corners still bore traces of pencil annotations. He put the photo back into the envelope and pocketed it.

"Liu Dehou?"

The man was lying face down on the concrete, his breathing heavy and labored. Yang Xiaobing turned him over and pressed him into a chair. He was thin, with high cheekbones, sunken eyes, and a grayish complexion. He wore a faded blue cotton jacket with frayed cuffs. He raised his head, glanced at He Yuzhu, and then lowered it again.

"You've got the wrong person." The voice was hoarse, as if it were being squeezed out of the throat.

Yang Xiaobing searched him and found a miniature film roll, then pulled a small notebook from under the bed and threw it in front of him. The notebook was open, and several names and phone numbers were written on it. The ink was of varying shades, some written a long time ago, and some written just a few days ago.

Liu Dehou stared at the notebook, saying nothing. His hands began to tremble, first his fingers, then his wrists, then his entire arm. He clenched his fists, held them for a moment, then relaxed them, then clenched them again.

"Where did these things come from?" He Yuzhu asked.

Liu Dehou kept his head down and remained silent. Yang Xiaobing held the miniature film reel up to his eyes. "You know perfectly well what this thing is filming. Fang has already confessed, are you still going to deny it?"

Liu Dehou's shoulders slumped, and he curled up in the chair as if his bones had been removed. His lips moved, uttering a few indistinct sounds. "I... didn't send it." He looked up, his eyes red. "You came before you even sent it."

He Yuzhu picked up the small notebook and flipped through it. "Are all these names your people?"

Liu Dehou nodded. "One from Shaanxi, one from Hunan, and one from Sichuan. They're all tech people. They..." He paused. "They don't know who their suppliers are. They only contact me."

He Yuzhu closed the notebook and put it in his pocket. "Take it with me."

When Liu Dehou was lifted up, his legs were so weak he could barely stand. Yang Xiaobing and another policeman supported him on either side, their shoes scraping against the ground with a soft rustling sound. Reaching the door, he turned back and glanced at He Yuzhu. His expression was ambiguous, like pleading for mercy, yet also like a sigh of relief.

Factory Director Sun stood in the corridor, his face as white as paper. He followed He Yuzhu downstairs, and after a few steps, he seemed about to say something, but then swallowed his words. When they reached the factory gate, he finally couldn't hold back any longer and grabbed He Yuzhu's hand.

"Director He, this man... he's worked for me for eight years, and he's been recognized as an outstanding employee every year. How could I..." He let go of his hand, stood at the door, and watched the jeep drive away. He Yuzhu saw him in the rearview mirror; he was still standing there, his figure getting smaller and smaller.

Back at the research institute, He Yuzhu sat in his office, emptying the photographs from the envelope and laying them out one by one on the table. The blueprint that Ma Yuejin had revised in the seventeenth edition had been photographed, put in an envelope, and almost sent to Taiwan. He picked up the photograph, looked at it under the light, and then put it down. His finger pressed against the edge of the photograph, pausing for a few seconds.

Yang Xiaobing pushed open the door and came in, carrying two enamel mugs. He placed one in front of He Yuzhu, and then sat down opposite him with the other mug in his hand.

"Commander, Lao Sun has already gone to Shaanxi, Hunan, and Sichuan. He should arrive tonight."

He Yuzhu picked up the mug and took a sip; it was cold. "Tell him not to make a move when he gets there. Keep an eye on them and see who else they're contacting."

Yang Xiaobing nodded and stood up to leave.

"Wait," He Yuzhu called out to him. Yang Xiaobing stopped.

He Yuzhu put the photos away in a drawer. "After arresting the people in that notebook, interrogate them separately. Remember who speaks first and who confesses first."

Yang Xiaobing responded and left.

Old Sun called the next afternoon. He Yuzhu answered, and the voice on the other end was very low.

"They've arrested people in Shaanxi, Hunan, and Sichuan."

He Yuzhu held the microphone. "Have you confessed?"

Old Sun was silent for a while. "He confessed. But he also mentioned one place, which wasn't the military factory."

He Yuzhu waited for him to continue.

Old Sun didn't speak. A few seconds later, the call ended. He Yuzhu stood by the window, listening to the busy tone on the receiver, each ring grating on his ears. He put down the phone, took the small notebook from the drawer, opened it, and looked at the names. Shaanxi, Hunan, Sichuan—three tech people. Where was the place they mentioned?

Outside the window, the moon peeked out from behind the clouds, shining on the courtyard wall. The shadows of the big-character posters were cast on the ground, patch by patch.