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

In half a month, He Yuzhu looked at those two photos hundreds of times.

One photo shows Pu Zheng standing in front of a small Western-style house in Hong Kong, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, a dark suit, and his hair neatly combed. The other shows a rubber plantation in the mountains of Chiang Mai, with rows of houses shrouded in mist, the rubber trees so dense that the interiors are obscured. He pinned the two photos side by side to the wall, pressed the thumbtacks in, and stepped back to look at them. After a while, he leaned closer to examine Pu Zheng's eyes. Those eyes reflected the light in the photos, as if they were smiling at him.

He was standing in front of the wall when the phone rang. He didn't move, and waited until it rang five or six times before going to answer it.

"Where does it grow?"

Mr. Lin's voice came through the microphone, with a southern accent, slow and deliberate, as if he were choosing his words. He Yuzhu heard him inhale, pause, and inhale again.

"We've received news from Chiang Mai."

He Yuzhu didn't urge him. Mr. Lin paused for a few more seconds.

"The rubber plantation... has been sold. The new owner is from Bangkok and is in the timber business. All of Pu Zheng's people have left, and the guy surnamed Chen has also disappeared."

He Yuzhu's hand gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white. "Who did you sell it to?"

"Thai businessmen. They have nothing to do with the military." Mr. Lin paused. "Pu Zheng's people have all left. We don't know where they went."

He Yuzhu wanted to ask something more. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. What could he ask? It would be pointless. He held the microphone, listening to Mr. Lin's breathing on the other end, sometimes light, sometimes heavy, like someone halfway up a hill.

"Mr. Lin, please take care."

"Chang He, please take care of yourself too."

The phone call ended. He Yuzhu put down the receiver, stood in front of the table, and looked at the two photos. The sky outside the window had been gray all day, and the rain had been holding back. The edges of the big-character posters on the courtyard wall were curling up, and when the wind blew, they made a rustling sound, like someone clapping. He went over, closed the window, and the room became quiet.

He walked to the wall and reached out to touch Pu Zheng's photograph. The paper was smooth and cool. He pulled the thumbtack out, and the photograph fell to the ground, flipped over, and landed face down. He didn't pick it up. After standing there for a while, he pressed the thumbtack back in and pinned the photograph back on.

When Lao Sun arrived, He Yuzhu was still standing in front of the wall. Lao Sun stood at the door for a moment, then lit a cigarette, took a puff, and exhaled into the corridor.

"Old He, has the connection in Thailand been cut off?"

He Yuzhu turned around. "It's over. The rubber plantation was sold, and the people ran away."

Old Sun came in and closed the door. He didn't sit down, but stood by the table and flicked his cigarette ash into the enamel mug.

"We also inquired with the overseas Chinese community. Nobody knows where Puzheng went. The small villa in Hong Kong is also empty. We asked the property management, and they said he left last year."

He Yuzhu leaned against the edge of the table, his arms crossed over his chest, looking out the window. The rain still hadn't started, and the clouds hung even lower, like a dirty rag covering the sky.

"Old He, how about taking a couple of days off?" Old Sun stubbed out his cigarette.

He Yuzhu shook his head. "No need."

Old Sun left. He Yuzhu sat alone in his office until dark. The lights weren't on, but the streetlights outside came on, their dim yellow light filtering through the curtains and casting streaks on the floor. He stood up, walked to the wall, took down the two photos, and put them in the drawer. He closed the drawer and locked it.

One afternoon, the phone rang again. He Yuzhu answered it, and it was Old Sun on the other end, his voice very low, as if afraid of being overheard.

"Old He, there's some activity in Myanmar."

He Yuzhu clenched his fist on the table. "Speak."

"Someone saw a man surnamed Chen in Yangon's Chinatown. His physical features resembled Chen Zhiyuan. He was accompanied by an old man, thin, wearing gold-rimmed glasses." Old Sun paused, "The overseas Chinese in Myanmar recognized him and said the old man's surname was Pu, and he was from Hong Kong."

He Yuzhu stood up, walked to the wall, and looked at the map of Myanmar. Yangon was in the south, by the sea. The route from Thailand, overland, crossed the Myanmar-Thailand border, heading west. He traced the path from Chiang Mai to Yangon twice with his finger.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm not sure. But several sources match up," Lao Sun said. "They stayed in Yangon for a few days, then left. We don't know where they went."

He Yuzhu turned around and walked back to the table. "Continue the investigation. They've also set up a network in Myanmar."

Old Sun responded and hung up.

He Yuzhu stood by the window and pulled the curtains open a crack. It was dark outside, but the streetlights were on, casting their light on the courtyard wall. The ink on the big-character poster had bled and blurred, making it impossible to read what it said. He closed the curtains, walked to the wall, took Pu Zheng's photo out of the drawer again, and pinned it back to the wall. This time he only pinned one; the one of the rubber plantation photo remained in the drawer.

That evening, he called Yang Xiaobing in. Yang Xiaobing stood at the door, still clutching the velvet cloth he used to wipe his dagger.

"Commander?"

He Yuzhu pointed to the chair. "Sit."

Yang Xiaobing sat down and placed the dagger on the table. He Yuzhu spread out a map of Myanmar and drew a circle around Yangon in red pen.

"Pu Zheng and Chen Zhiyuan might be in Myanmar. Take two people with you from Yunnan, find out where they are and what they're doing."

Yang Xiaobing looked down at the map for about ten seconds. He looked up, his lips moved, but he didn't say anything. Then he looked down again and pressed his finger on the red circle.

"Commander, it's chaotic over there. Warlords, remnants of the Kuomintang, drug dealers, all sorts of people."

He Yuzhu nodded. "I understand."

Yang Xiaobing sheathed his dagger and stood up. "Whom should I take?"

"You choose. Two; any more will be too conspicuous."

Yang Xiaobing responded, walked to the door, paused, and didn't turn around. "Commander, when am I leaving?"

"Tomorrow. I'll get you the train ticket."

Yang Xiaobing left. The footsteps in the corridor were very light, and soon there was no sound.

He Yuzhu sat alone in his office, taking out the list from his drawer. Turning to the page for "Pu Zheng," he added a line after "whereabouts unknown": Suspected to be in Yangon, Myanmar, accompanied by Chen Zhiyuan. Yang Xiaobing has already gone to Myanmar to investigate.

After finishing writing, put the list back and lock the drawer.

The phone rang again. Ma Yuejin's voice came through the receiver, accompanied by the roar of machines in the workshop.

"Dean, Director Qian's steel, the directional tube has been tested. The range is 65 kilometers, 5 kilometers higher than the design requirement. The circular error probability is 35 meters, which is better than 40 meters."

He Yuzhu held the microphone. "What about the tank armor?"

"We tried it too. The composite armor made of new steel withstood the T-64's shells from the front. It was 250 mm thick and at a 68-degree angle, and it couldn't penetrate it."

He Yuzhu said, "Hurry up production. Northern Xinjiang is waiting for it."

Ma Yuejin responded and hung up.

He Yuzhu sat at the table, took out the list again, turned to the "Military Industry" page, and added a line: Improved rocket launcher with a range of 65 kilometers and an accuracy of 35 meters. Tank armor can protect against T-64s.

He finished writing, put the list back, and locked the drawer. He stood up and walked to the window. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds, shining on the courtyard wall, casting patches of shadows from the big-character posters on the ground. He looked at them for a while, then drew the curtains.

Yang Xiaobing is leaving tomorrow. He doesn't know what they'll find out in Myanmar. Pu Zheng has been on the run time and time again; whether he can catch him this time, he doesn't know. But he knows he has to pursue him.