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

"The eldest son is dead."

Old Sun's voice on the other end of the phone was like a bucket of cold water being poured over him. The pencil in He Yuzhu's hand pierced through the notebook paper, and the tip broke off on the table.

"When did this happen?" he asked, his voice as calm as a still lake.

"Last month. Bucharest, Romania, outside the emergency room of a public hospital. The locals treated him like a homeless person, burned him, and didn't keep his ashes." Old Sun paused. "The Bucharest liaison office of Interpol confirmed it. They found a residence registration card from 1973 in the immigration archives, and the photo on it matched my eldest son when he was young. His name was Jan Kovacs, born in 1925."

He Yuzhu picked up the broken pen and threw it into the trash can, staring at the hole that had been punched in the notebook. "Who confirmed it? Did they see the body with their own eyes?"

"No. They won't let us see it. They say it involves personal privacy." Old Sun's tone was tinged with frustration. "Director He, you know the situation in Eastern Europe. Romania has a decent relationship with us, but they are, after all, part of the Warsaw Pact, and the KGB is watching them. It's already quite remarkable that Interpol was able to help us confirm their identities. If we investigate any further, they claim the files are incomplete, that the records from back then are either lost or burned."

He Yuzhu stood up and walked to the window. The gray cement ground in the courtyard was bathed in moonlight, appearing almost white, and the distant roar of a night bus engine could be heard. He pressed his forehead against the glass, the coolness seeping into his skin. "Where are those seven or eight men under Lao Geda?"

"Scattered. Some went to West Germany, some to Austria, and some to Canada. Interpol gave us a list, and I had five of them checked—two are dead, one ran a Chinese restaurant in West Germany, one worked as a decorator in Canada, and the other is lying in a nursing home in Austria, paralyzed on one side and unable to speak properly." Old Sun took a breath. "These people have been away from China for almost ten years, and their contact with the country has long been severed. Pu Zheng is dead, Chen Zhiyuan was arrested, and Lao Geda turned to ashes. Director He, this lead can be closed."

He Yuzhu turned around, leaning against the cold glass. "Director Sun, do you believe it? Heart disease. Pu Zheng died in Russia, and Lao Geda died in Romania. The two died in the exact same way, even their illnesses were the same."

Old Sun didn't make a sound. His breathing became heavier after a couple of rounds.

"...You mean the KGB silenced him?" He swallowed the rest of his question halfway through.

"Both Pu Zheng and Chen Zhiyuan confessed that when Lao Geda ran away, the KGB escorted him all the way from Manchuria to Moscow, arranging for him to live in a villa for over a year. Later, when he moved to Eastern Europe, the KGB also arranged his identity and accommodation. Now that Pu Zheng has been arrested, Lao Geda is dead." He Yuzhu pressed his palm into the glass, leaving an imprint. "The KGB is cleaning up the evidence; they don't want us to get any more information out of Lao Geda."

Old Sun's bitter laugh came through the microphone, like sandpaper scraping against sheet metal. "Even if it really was the KGB, we can't investigate. Moscow won't admit it, and the Romanians dare not speak out. This matter has to end here."

He Yuzhu chewed the words "That's enough" twice before swallowing them. "But Pu Zheng's account books can't end here. The list of officials bribed that Chen Zhiyuan provided, as well as the names recorded in Pu Zheng's diary, should be handed over to the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection."

"It's all ready. Three files. Pu Zheng, Chen Zhiyuan, and Lao Geda." Old Sun's voice was weary as he spoke. "These three people together are involved in bribing 213 officials. Seventeen are at the bureau level or above, and 196 are below the division level. Some of these people have already been sentenced, some are still under investigation, and some may never be held accountable—because the money they received was transferred through shell companies overseas, so there's no direct evidence."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He walked to the table, took Pu Zheng's diary from the drawer—actually, he took it from the system space—and lightly tapped the inside of the drawer with his right middle finger, a subtle action to confirm its storage. He turned to the last page, where a piece of paper folded into thirds was tucked inside. Unfolding it, it was densely filled with names, organizations, positions, bribe amounts, and dates. Twenty-one thousand three hundred and fourteen pearls. No, two hundred and thirteen termites.

Just as he was about to put the diary back, there was a knock on the door.

Yang Xiaobing stood at the door, not coming in. His lips moved slightly, then closed again, and after two seconds he spoke: "Director He. Chen Zhiyuan... has been brought back. He's in the detention center." There was a noticeable pause between "brought back" and "in the detention center," as if he had something else to say.

He Yuzhu waved to him. Yang Xiaobing walked in, took off his shoes and placed them by the door—those sandals he'd worn back from the tropics, the soles still stained with red mud from Myanmar. He sat down in a chair, poured himself a cup of cold tea, and took a couple of gulps. The tea was long since cold; the tea leaves had sunk to the bottom of the cup, like a pile of tiny corpses.

"He behaved himself on the way and didn't try to commit suicide again." Yang Xiaobing put down his teacup, the bottom of which hit the table with a dull thud. "I told him that Old Geda died in Romania. He was stunned for a while, then said, 'The prince is gone, Uncle Geda is gone, and I'm all left.' Then he didn't say anything more."

He Yuzhu pushed the list over. Yang Xiaobing took it, scanned it from top to bottom, and stopped at one of the names. His face changed, and a livid look appeared beneath his tanned skin.

"This guy surnamed Jiao," his voice suddenly deepened, as if something was stuck in his throat, "wasn't he the factory director of Hongxing Machinery Factory last year? I've seen him. At the ministry's commendation meeting, he sat in the first row, wearing a big red flower on his chest, and the leaders even praised him for 'overcoming difficulties'."

He slammed the paper on the table, his hand striking it. The enamel teacup jumped, its lid rolling to the floor, clattering and spinning several times. "So it was some kind of deliberate sabotage!"

He Yuzhu didn't stop him. He waited until the man caught his breath before speaking: "In 1971, Pu Zheng wired him five thousand US dollars through a Hong Kong trading company. That's over twelve thousand yuan. A factory manager's monthly salary was less than one hundred yuan. A year later, Hongxing Machinery Factory received a batch of military orders, and Pu Zheng, through his connections in Taiwan, asked them to postpone the delivery date by two months. That guy surnamed Jiao really caused the production line to 'malfunction,' delaying the order by forty-five days."

Yang Xiaobing slammed his fist on the table, causing the teacup to bounce again. "This kind of person deserves to die."

"He doesn't deserve to die, he deserves to be investigated. The Central Commission for Discipline Inspection will investigate one by one. If the investigation proves true, they will take action; if not, they will be transferred from sensitive positions." He Yuzhu took the paper back, folded it, and put it back into his diary. Then, in front of Yang Xiaobing, he put the diary into the drawer.

Yang Xiaobing stared at the drawer for two seconds, then suddenly lowered his voice: "Director He, there's something I haven't told you yet."

He Yuzhu raised his head.

"After Pu Zheng's 'death' at the Chelyabinsk hospital, I went in to see the body," Yang Xiaobing said in a very low voice, so low that He Yuzhu had to lean forward to hear him. "I lifted the white sheet and saw a fresh needle mark on his left wrist, which didn't look like an IV drip mark. The IV drip mark was on the back of his arm, and this one was on the inside of his wrist, near a vein. I didn't tell the Russian doctor, nor did I write it in the report."

He took a piece of film from his pocket and placed it on the table. He Yuzhu didn't take the film. He stared into Yang Xiaobing's eyes, and Yang Xiaobing didn't look away.

"What do you think it is?"

"I don't know. Maybe it was some kind of medicine they gave me during the emergency treatment, or maybe not," Yang Xiaobing said in a low voice, "but I feel something's wrong."

He Yuzhu put the film into his pocket—actually, into his system space—and flicked his finger against the inside of his pocket. "Only you and I know about this. Don't tell anyone."

Yang Xiaobing nodded.

He Yuzhu stood up and walked to the window. He wiped the condensation off the glass with his palm, staring blankly at the water droplets on his fingers for a moment. "Pu Zheng's diary also mentions something. In 1968, before Lao Geda (Old Master) fled Manchuria, he left a package in a bank safe deposit box in Harbin. Pu Zheng said it was Lao Geda's 'backup plan.'" He took a slip of paper from the drawer—actually from the system space—with the bank's name and safe deposit box number written on it. "Go and retrieve it. The things may have already been taken by the Soviets, but what if they're still there?"

Yang Xiaobing took the note, folded it, and put it in his jacket pocket. "Leave first thing tomorrow morning."

He Yuzhu nodded, turned around, and picked up his coat from the back of the chair. "Let's go, let's have breakfast first. After that, you go to the Northeast, and I'll go to the Chengshan Research Institute. The model of the Kunlun is malfunctioning, and a whole roomful of people are waiting for me to go see it."

Yang Xiaobing put on his sandals and followed him out of the office.

The motion-activated lights in the corridor turned on as they passed, then went out one by one behind them. Reaching the stairwell, He Yuzhu suddenly stopped. Yang Xiaobing nearly bumped into him.

"What's wrong?"

He Yuzhu didn't answer. He turned around, took two steps back, and pushed open a door that wasn't fully closed in the middle of the corridor. It was a small conference room, dark. He reached for the light switch on the wall and pressed it. The fluorescent light flickered twice before turning on, illuminating the conference table.

A blueprint was spread out on the table.

He Yuzhu walked over, glanced down at the drawing, and tightened his grip on the edge of the blueprint. The drawing showed a cross-sectional view of the Kunlun-class submarine model; one module was circled in red, and next to it was written a single word:

"wrong."

Yang Xiaobing leaned closer, his expression changing. "Who drew this?"

He Yuzhu didn't answer. He flipped the drawing over to the back, where a sticky note had only one line of numbers written on it. He stared at the number for three seconds, then folded it up and put it in his pocket.

"Let's go," he said. "Let's go to the Shiroyama Research Institute first."

This time, the lights in the corridor were turned on even more urgently than before.