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

The list was laid out on the table before it was fully light outside.

He Yuzhu read from the first page to the last, and then back again. The pages felt rough under his fingers; the names, one by one, were like nails driven into them. Seven missile systems, five aircraft systems, four tank systems, three radar systems, and eighteen in total for communications, electronics, and materials. Following these were the units, positions, and code names, densely packed, filling the three pages to the brim.

Old Sun sat opposite him, took a cigarette out of his pocket, put it on the table, but didn't light it.

"Did Fang and Liu Dehou confess?" He Yuzhu asked.

Old Sun picked up the cigarette, then put it down again. "There are also those from Shaanxi, Hunan, and Sichuan. String them together, and you get this whole bunch." He finished speaking, picked up a cigarette, and lit it. The flame flickered on the tip and went out; he struck another one.

He Yuzhu didn't ask any more questions. He stood up, walked to the wall, and looked at the map that had been hanging there for half a year. The red dots started from Beijing, heading west to Xi'an, Baoji, and Chengdu; south to Wuhan, Changsha, and Guangzhou; and northeast to Shenyang, Changchun, and Harbin. The dots connected to form lines, and the lines wove into a network.

Old Sun said from behind, "Thirty-seven. We'll make our move tonight."

He Yuzhu turned around. "Wait for my call."

He didn't say when he would make his move. Old Sun didn't ask either, and stood up and left.

He Yuzhu stayed alone in his office, looking at the map again. The line connecting the red dots ran diagonally from northeast to southwest, dividing half of China. He remembered the year the anti-ship missile test was successful, and how Dean Wang's hand trembled as he held the stopwatch; he remembered Ma Yuejin adjusting the gyroscope parameters in the parts workshop, going through seventeen revisions before it met the standard. All those things were hidden in these dots.

The phone sat on the table, not ringing. He sat down and read the three pages again. By the third time, he folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He stood up and walked to the window. It was fully light outside, and the large posters on the courtyard wall were curled up, rustling in the wind. He looked at them for a while, then picked up the phone and dialed Old Sun's number.

"Let's do it."

The one in Xi'an was caught in the dormitory.

Yang Xiaobing later told He Yuzhu that the corridor light in that tenement building was broken, and when they felt their way up, they stepped on something crunchy. On the fourth floor, in the innermost room, light shone through the crack in the door, and someone was walking back and forth inside. He knocked three times, and the footsteps stopped. He knocked three more times, and the footsteps started again, heading towards the window.

"When we kicked the door open, he had already opened the window and was leaning half his body out," Yang Xiaobing gestured. "Fourth floor. The ground below is concrete."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. Yang Xiaobing said that the man's hand was gripping the window frame, his knuckles white. He glanced down, then pulled back. When he was pinned to the ground, the radio was still on, and the earpiece was hanging on the table, swaying back and forth.

The one in Shenyang was stopped at the factory gate. Ma Yuejin called to say that the man had just finished get off work and was pushing his bicycle out of the workshop when they stopped him. There was a lunchbox on the back of the bicycle, made of aluminum, with a dent in it. He pulled out a few neatly folded pieces of paper from the lunchbox's lining; they were radar frequency parameters.

"He didn't say anything," Ma Yuejin said in a muffled voice. "He just stood there, gripping the handlebars for a long time."

He Yuzhu held the microphone but didn't say anything. Ma Yuejin continued, saying that some workers who were leaving get off work passed by, glanced at the man, and left. The man was still standing there, but then his legs gave way, and he slowly slid off his bicycle and sat down on the ground.

The one in Guangzhou was caught at the dock. The ferry tickets were bought; it was going to Hong Kong, and the ship departed at 4:30 PM. Old Sun said he was mingling in the crowd boarding the ship, his hat pulled low, carrying a bulging canvas bag. Yang Xiaobing tapped him on the shoulder from behind; he turned around, his face pale.

"What's in the bag?" He Yuzhu asked.

Old Sun stubbed out his cigarette. "Blueprints. Missile blueprints, radar blueprints, and a list. We haven't had time to hand them over yet."

He Yuzhu didn't ask any more questions. He recalled the year they were working on anti-ship missiles, when Dean Wang said the gyroscope's accuracy wasn't enough, and Ma Yuejin and his team spent three months revising it. Those blueprints were locked in an iron cabinet in the archives, wrapped in kraft paper, and marked "Top Secret." Now they had been photographed on film, packed into a canvas bag, and almost made it onto a ship bound for Hong Kong.

It was completely dark. He Yuzhu sat in his office, took the list out of his drawer, and spread it out on the table. He mentally reviewed each of the thirty-seven names. He circled the seven from the missile system. He circled the five from the aircraft system. He circled the four from the tank system. He circled the three from the radar system. He circled the eighteen from communications, electronics, and materials. He put down his pen and leaned back in his chair.

The door opened. Old Sun walked in, didn't sit down, but stood in front of the table, took out a cigarette, and twirled it between his fingers twice.

"The one in Guangzhou has been reviewed."

He Yuzhu waited for him to continue.

Old Sun lit a cigarette, took a drag, and slowly exhaled. The smoke dispersed under the lamplight, hazy and gray.

"He spent time on Zhenbao Island."

He Yuzhu pressed his hand on the table. Old Sun didn't look at him, but stared at the table lamp. The wick flickered, then settled.

"The Sino-Soviet border conflict. He was a technician there, in charge of radar. Before the Soviets attacked, he reported the radar's deployment location, detection range, and blind spots to the Soviets. He also reported the troop deployment, firepower configuration, and ammunition reserves." He stubbed out his cigarette, the butt leaning in the ashtray, still emitting a wisp of smoke.

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He remembered the snow on Zhenbao Island that year—it was so heavy and so cold. Those men lying prone in the snow, their rifle bolts wouldn't pull back, their hands frozen to the butts. They didn't know that those planes overhead had been let in by someone. He remembered someone—a man who had returned from Zhenbao Island that year, missing an arm, surnamed Sun, from Northeast China, with a loud voice. Later, he was transferred away, and he didn't know where he went.

"Anything else?" he asked.

Old Sun shook his head. "That's all. That's all."

He Yuzhu stood up and walked to the window. The streetlights outside were on, illuminating the large-character posters on the courtyard wall; the edges of the paper curled up, casting patches of shadow on the ground. He stood there for a long time.

"Old He?" Old Sun called from behind.

He didn't answer. The wind outside the window blew, making the big-character posters rustle. He turned around.

"What should we do with that guy surnamed Liu?"

Old Sun looked at him and waited a moment. "Follow the rules."

He Yuzhu walked back to the table, sat down, picked up the list, and glanced at it. All thirty-seven names were circled. He closed the list and put it in the drawer.

The next morning, the truck stopped at the entrance of the research institute. Thirty-seven people were brought out and lined up in the courtyard. Some had their heads down, some had their necks stiff, and some were so weak in the legs that they could not stand and were being supported by two policemen. They were wearing work clothes, blue and gray, some with frayed cuffs and some with patches on their elbows.

He Yuzhu stood at the gate, watching them being forced into the truck one by one. The door closed, the truck started, a plume of black smoke billowing from its exhaust pipe, and it drove out of the gate and around the alley. The courtyard was empty, with a few puddles of spit on the ground and crushed cigarette butts.

He squatted down, picked up a cigarette butt, looked at it, and threw it into the trash can.

He turned and walked towards his office. The corridor lights were still on, and the green light from the emergency exit cast a long shadow on the wall. He stopped at the door of the records room. The door was closed and securely locked. The key was in his pocket, feeling heavy.

He pushed open the office door and sat down. Outside the window, the sun peeked through the clouds, shining on the courtyard wall. The ink on the big-character posters had bled, blurring the text and making it impossible to read what was written. He drew the curtains, took out the list, and turned to the first page. All thirty-seven names were circled. He looked at it for a while, then closed the drawer, put it back, and locked it.

The phone rang. He answered it; it was Ma Yuejin on the other end.

"Dean, some of the missile parameters have been changed. The rest still need to be calculated."

He Yuzhu held the microphone. "Calculate it. Show it to me when you're done."

Ma Yuejin said, "Okay."

The phone call ended. He Yuzhu sat down at the table, took the list out of the drawer again, and placed it on the table. Thirty-seven names—he read it from beginning to end, then from end to beginning. Then he put the list back and locked the drawer. Outside the window, the wind had stopped, and the big-character posters remained motionless on the wall.