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

When the codebook arrived, He Yuzhu was looking at the map. Old Sun pushed open the door, carrying an oilcloth bag. Without saying a word, he placed it on the table and began untying the rope. He Yuzhu turned around and saw that the oilcloth bag was wrapped in a layer of kraft paper. Inside the kraft paper was a stack of yellowed paper, covered with densely packed numbers, arranged neatly in groups of four or five.

"Intercepted yesterday. Sent from Taiwan to Hong Kong, then transferred to Guangzhou." Old Sun took out a cigarette, didn't light it, and twirled it between his fingers a couple of times. "After watching for half a year, we finally cracked it."

He Yuzhu picked up the stack of papers and turned to the third page. Next to it was a handwritten translation, the handwriting neat and precise. He read it line by line, his finger pausing when he reached that particular line.

"The Prince has arrived in Taipei and is staying at a villa on Yangmingshan. The National Defense Intelligence Agency is providing security, with a monthly budget of US$5,000. He is also equipped with two radios and three sets of codebooks, which allow direct communication with his undercover agents on the mainland."

He turned the page over; the back was blank. He turned it back again and read the line of text once more. Five thousand US dollars, two radios, three codebooks. The Kuomintang treated him like a treasure.

"Anything else?" He Yuzhu put the paper down.

Old Sun lit a cigarette and took a puff. "There's more. Taiwan is asking the Prince to cooperate with the 'Recovery Action' and create chaos on the mainland. The key is to stage several major disturbances in Beijing, Shanghai, and Guangzhou around National Day."

He Yuzhu stared at him. "What's that noise?"

Old Sun shook his head, cigarette ash falling onto the table, which he brushed off. "The telegram didn't say anything. Just four words—'Proceed as planned.'"

He Yuzhu didn't reply. He turned around and looked at the map again. Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou—three red circles, drawn by him last month, neither perfectly round nor square. National Day was approaching, hundreds of thousands of people in Tiananmen Square; if something happened…

He gripped the page tightly, his fingers tightening, the edge of the paper curling up.

"Has it been submitted?"

Old Sun stubbed out his cigarette. "Reported. Commander Chen wants you to come over immediately."

On the way to the General Staff Department, He Yuzhu remained silent. Yang Xiaobing, driving, glanced at him several times in the rearview mirror, wanting to ask something but swallowing his words. As the car exited the alley, an old man carrying a load on a shoulder pole blocked the road. Yang Xiaobing honked twice, and the old man slowly moved aside, muttering something under his breath. He Yuzhu looked out the window; the dusty houses and bare trees flashed past.

He remembered that National Day, standing in a corner of Tiananmen Square, watching the red flag rise. He had just defused a bomb, his hands still trembling. It's happening again this year. Those people always choose this time to strike.

The door to the General Staff meeting room was open, and the smoke inside was so thick it could choke you. He Yuzhu walked in. Commander Chen was standing in front of a map, pointing to Taiwan with a pencil in his hand, and the ashtray next to him was piled high with cigarette butts. People from the Air Force, Artillery, and Public Security were all there; some were sitting, some were standing, and some were hunched over the table flipping through documents.

"Take a look." Commander Chen slammed the telegram page on the table. His voice wasn't loud, but the room fell silent instantly. "Taiwan has gotten in cahoots with the Manchu remnants. Pu Zheng is living in a villa on Yangmingshan. The Kuomintang is providing him with a radio, codebooks, and funding. They're planning to sabotage the mainland, mainly around National Day."

The telegram circulated around the long table. Some frowned, some shook their heads, and some put the paper down without saying a word. Minister Li of the Ministry of Public Security stubbed out his cigarette and looked up.

"There are hundreds of thousands of people in Tiananmen Square, and there are also many people at train stations and airports. The police alone cannot keep an eye on them all."

He Yuzhu stood up and walked to the front of the map. "We don't have enough people, so we'll bring in troops. Militia, reserves, use them all." He turned to look at Minister Li, "Special forces too, in civilian clothes, blending in with the crowd."

Minister Li didn't reply, but glanced at Commander Chen. Commander Chen nodded and placed the pencil on the table.

"You can arrange the personnel. What about the equipment? Are the security checks, communications, and surveillance systems sufficient?"

He Yuzhu thought for a moment. "That's not enough. There's a factory in Tianjin that produces security gates, but they can only produce thirty a month. We need a hundred for National Day."

Commander Chen looked at him. "You coordinate. Give them money if they need it, and give them manpower if they need manpower."

On the way to Tianjin, the car broke down once. The radiator boiled over, and white smoke billowed from under the hood. Yang Xiaobing cursed, jumped out of the car, and filled the radiator with water. It took almost an hour before they could get back on the road. He Yuzhu leaned against the car window, eyes closed, his mind racing with numbers—thirty units, one hundred units, seventy units short. The factory workers were working non-stop; could they even finish?

It was almost dark when they arrived in Tianjin. All the lights in the workshop were on, and the smell of machine oil was pungent. Factory Director Liu, shirtless, was squatting next to a security gate, soldering a circuit board with a soldering iron. When he saw He Yuzhu, he stood up and wiped his hands on his pants.

"Director He, what brings you here?"

He Yuzhu walked around the workshop. The machines hummed, the conveyor belts spun incessantly, and the workers were working with their heads down, no one looking up. He walked to the row of semi-finished products, reached out and touched the frame of the security gate; it was iron and cold.

"We need 100 units for National Day. You can only produce 30 units a month. That's a shortfall of 70 units."

Factory Director Liu's face fell. "Director He, it's not that I don't want to do it. The equipment is old, we don't have enough people, and we're short of materials. Last month, one of our workers collapsed from exhaustion and was hospitalized; he's still lying there."

He Yuzhu looked at him. "We'll transfer the staff from other factories. The materials will be from Ansteel. I'll coordinate the equipment. You just focus on production."

Factory Director Liu remained silent for a moment. The machines in the workshop were still running, and the rosin smoke from the soldering irons drifted in the light. He rubbed his hands together, then rubbed them again.

"Okay. I'll work three shifts, the machines will keep running even when people rest." He paused, "But you have to give me some overtime pay. The workers have elderly parents and young children at home, they can't work for free."

He Yuzhu nodded. "I'll take care of it."

By the time He Yuzhu stepped out of the workshop, it was completely dark. The streetlights at the factory gate cast a dim, yellowish glow, illuminating the rusty iron frames. He Yuzhu stood under the light, took out a cigarette, and lit it. He didn't smoke often, but he felt like it now. Yang Xiaobing leaned out of the car, glanced at him, and didn't say anything.

He Yuzhu stubbed out his cigarette after smoking half of it.

"Let's go. To Shanghai."

The factory in Shanghai was in Pudong, and you had to take a ferry across the Huangpu River. When He Yuzhu arrived, it was just dawn. The ferry was packed with people, bicycles, shopping baskets, live chickens and ducks, all making a racket. He stood at the stern, watching the gray buildings on the opposite bank slowly emerge from the fog.

Factory Director Zhou waited at the warehouse entrance, wearing a faded blue cloth jacket with frayed cuffs. He opened a wooden crate, inside which was a small, silver-white portable X-ray machine.

"Where does it grow? This is a new product. It can penetrate two centimeters of steel plate and see what's inside."

He Yuzhu picked up one of the machines and weighed it in his hand. "Beijing needs a hundred. How many can we deliver before National Day?"

Factory Director Zhou thought for a moment. "Fifty units. No more than that."

"Fifty units aren't enough. There's a factory in Shenyang that also produces these; I'll ask them to provide the rest."

Factory Director Zhou nodded, saying nothing more. He Yuzhu walked out of the warehouse and stood on the dock. A cool river breeze blew by. He took out the translated copy of the telegram and read it again. "Proceed according to plan"—what plan? He didn't know. "Goods"—what goods? He didn't know either. The words swirled in his mind, like a fishbone stuck in his throat, impossible to spit out or swallow.

On the train back to Beijing, he leaned against the window, watching the fields recede into the distance. Yang Xiaobing sat opposite him, munching on dry rations. After a couple of bites, he handed him a piece.

"Commander, have something to eat."

He Yuzhu took it, took a bite, chewed it twice, but couldn't swallow it.

Back in his office, it was already dark. He Yuzhu took the list out of his drawer, flipped to the "Security" page, and added a line after the words "National Day": Tianjin is sending 100 security gates, Shanghai is sending 50 X-ray machines, and Shenyang is sending 50 more. All factories are working overtime.

The phone rang. He answered it, and it was Old Sun on the other end, his voice very low.

"Old He, we've intercepted another one."

He Yuzhu slammed his hand on the table. "What did you say?"

Old Sun paused. "Just one sentence—'The goods are on their way; the recipient must collect them.'"

He Yuzhu held the microphone, remaining silent. "Goods—what goods? Explosives? Guns? Or something else? Consignee—who's receiving the goods? Where are they receiving them?" He stood by the window and pulled the curtains open a crack. The moon outside was bright, shining on the courtyard wall, casting patches of shadow on the ground from the large-character posters.

"Old He?" Old Sun called out on the other end of the phone.

"Continue listening." He Yuzhu hung up the phone.

He stood by the window, retrieved the telegram from the system space, and read it again. Just one sentence, nine words, each one glaring. He folded the paper, put it back, and drew the curtains.

Pu Zheng was in Taipei, sitting in his villa on Yangmingshan, drinking tea and waiting for news. The "goods" had already set off. He had to keep watch.