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

When Xiao Zhao collapsed, Yang Xiaobing was crouching behind a large rock, surveying the terrain. He heard a thud behind him, turned around, and saw Xiao Zhao curled up on the ground, his face as white as paper and his lips a dark purple. The medic rushed over, put an oxygen mask on his face, and shouted back to Yang Xiaobing, "Captain, we have to get him down! Otherwise, he'll get pulmonary edema!"

Yang Xiaobing squatted down, looking at Xiao Zhao's half-open eyes. Xiao Zhao's mouth was moving, but he couldn't hear what Xiao Zhao was saying. Yang Xiaobing put his ear closer.

"Captain... I'm fine..." The voice sounded like it was being squeezed out of his throat.

Yang Xiaobing stood up and slung the electromagnetic rifle over his shoulder. "Deal with it on the spot. The rest of you, follow me."

Old Lu glanced at him, said nothing, and dragged the unconscious soldier behind a rock.

The rocks on the cliff face were like knives. Yang Xiaobing grabbed a crevice, bracing his feet against a protruding rock, and moved up half a meter. The rope swayed around his waist, snapping against the cliff face in the wind. Old Lu followed behind, his electromagnetic rifle hitting the rocks with a dull thud. Yang Xiaobing turned and glared at him.

Further up, Xiao Zhao lost his footing. He slid down a section of the path, the rope tightening around his waist. He groaned, gripping the crevice in the rock with both hands. Yang Xiaobing reached out, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him up. The two of them caught their breath for a while, neither speaking. The wind howled up from the ravine, biting cold.

"Captain, how much further?" Xiao Zhao's voice was weak.

Yang Xiaobing looked up. The top of the rock face was right there, the moonlight outlining a grayish-white ridge. "Almost there."

The lights were still on in the wooden house. Yang Xiaobing lay behind a large rock, looking down through night-vision binoculars. A white man stood in the doorway smoking, the cigarette butt glowing. Shadows flickered in the windows.

Captain Zhao's voice came through the walkie-talkie, hoarse and panting. "Captain Yang, we're in position."

Yang Xiaobing pressed the call button. "Let's do it."

Gunfire erupted from the front. The armed police opened fire simultaneously with their rifles and machine guns, bullets thudding against the sandbags. People inside rushed out, some lying prone behind sandbags to return fire, others running towards the back of the building. The white instructor tossed aside his cigarette, drew his gun, fired a few shots at the front, and turned to retreat.

Yang Xiaobing picked up the electromagnetic rifle and aimed at the white man. He pulled the trigger—with a "whoosh," the man fell forward and lay motionless on the ground. He then aimed at the second man and pulled the trigger again, but there was no response. Looking down, he saw the battery indicator light had changed from green to red. Three rounds left.

He tossed the gun to Old Lu. "Save it."

He pulled out his dagger and crouched down to reach the back of the house.

Gyatso lay prone under the table, his hand gripping the gun, his knuckles white. Yang Xiaobing kicked the chair aside, grabbed him by the back of his collar, and dragged him out from under the table. Gyatso struggled, and the gun fell to the ground, bouncing far away. Yang Xiaobing pinned him to the ground, pressing his knee against his lower back.

"Don't move."

Gyatso lay face down on the concrete, panting heavily, and remained motionless.

Old Lu came out of the next room, carrying an M16, the barrel still hot. "Captain, we've taken care of the guys next door. We found a box of American-made rifles and C4."

Yang Xiaobing turned Jiacuo over. He was thin, with high cheekbones and a tuft of beard on his chin. He stared at Yang Xiaobing, his eyes showing no fear, only an inexplicable ruthlessness.

"What's your name?"

Gyatso did not speak.

Xiao Zhao pulled a man out from under the bed. He had blond hair, blue eyes, wore camouflage clothing, and a military watch on his wrist. "Captain, this is also an instructor."

Yang Xiaobing squatted down and flipped up the white man's collar. A chain hung around his neck, with a dog tag as a pendant. U.S. Army, number. He took the dog tag off and put it in his pocket.

"Who sent you?"

The white man didn't speak. Yang Xiaobing searched him and found an American passport. He opened it and found a photograph tucked inside. The corner was curled up and had slipped out of the passport cover, falling to the ground. He bent down to pick it up and turned it over—a line of words was written in pen: Brazil, February 1974.

He flipped it back to the front.

First, he saw a rubber plantation. Bowls for tapping rubber hung from the tree trunks. Then he saw the man on the left. Thin, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, a dark suit, and neatly combed hair. Yang Xiaobing's hands began to tremble. He stared at that face for five seconds, then slowly shifted his gaze to the right. Wearing a Tibetan robe, with a beard and a tuft of hair on his chin—Gyatso.

He squatted down, placed the photo on his lap, and closed his eyes. The wind blew in through the broken window, making the edges of the photo curl up and rustle.

Old Lu walked over and stood beside him. "Captain?"

Yang Xiaobing tucked the photos into his pocket and stood up. "Let's tally up the spoils."

Old Lu opened his notebook. "Twelve killed, nineteen captured. Over thirty M16s, a box of grenades, five kilograms of C4 explosives, and three radios were seized. On our side, one armed police officer was killed and three were wounded. Xiao Zhao scraped his arm, it's nothing serious. The two suffering from altitude sickness have already been sent down."

Yang Xiaobing nodded and walked up to Gyatso. Gyatso was sitting on the ground, handcuffed, with his head down. Yang Xiaobing squatted down and held the photograph up to his eyes.

"How much did you pay this person?"

Gyatso stared at the photograph, his pupils contracting slightly. He turned his face away, staring at the ground, and remained silent. Yang Xiaobing didn't urge him, but turned the photograph over and read the date on the back. "February 1974. Brazil."

Gyatso's shoulders twitched.

Yang Xiaobing put the photos away. "Five hundred thousand?" he guessed.

Gyatso's lips moved, but no sound came out. Yang Xiaobing stood up and turned to leave. Gyatso suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse, as if squeezed from his throat.

US dollars.

Back in Lhasa, Yang Xiaobing dialed He Yuzhu's number. He leaned against the wall, holding the receiver, his voice so hoarse it was almost inaudible.

"Commander, arrest him."

There was a two-second silence on the other end. "Speak."

Yang Xiaobing swallowed hard. "Gyatso. And three American instructors. They confiscated a bunch of stuff." He paused, then reached into his pocket, touching the corner of the photograph. "The photograph... was found too."

There was silence again on the other end of the phone. Longer than last time. Yang Xiaobing could hear He Yuzhu's breathing, slow and heavy.

"With whom?"

Yang Xiaobing closed his eyes. "Pu Zheng. It was filmed in Brazil this February."

On the other end of the phone, He Yuzhu remained silent. After a long pause, he said, "Bring them back. Bring back the photos, the confessions, and the captured weapons."

"clear."

Yang Xiaobing put down the phone and leaned against the wall. The light bulb above his head flickered, dimmed, and then brightened again.