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

The two proposals were placed side by side on the table.

The Soviet rejection letter, as thin as a publisher's note, was only five pages long, containing raw data on the T-7, and even the punctuation seemed perfunctory. The American rejection letter, as thick as a brick, was over sixty pages filled with densely packed drawings, curves, and parameter tables for the copper coil tokamak.

Lin Jianguo stood by the table, pointing to the Soviet copy. "When they see this, they'll feel like they've been fooled. The T-7 is something they were already using in the 1960s."

"So be it. After we've done this, they'll just think China is too poor to even afford new equipment." He Yuzhu put the Soviet plan into the drawer, then picked up the American one and flipped through it, stopping at one page. "Who drew this set of diagrams?"

"It was run by Galaxy 6. The magnetic field distribution, heat load, and stress analysis are all real data."

"Change the Q value to 1.15, don't use 1.2. A number that's too neat looks fake."

Lin Jianguo paused for a moment, then picked up a pen and changed it.

Two months later, the Soviet delegation arrived first. A month later, the Americans followed.

When the Soviets arrived, He Yuzhu waited for them at the conference room door. The leader was Vasily Korolev, whose name differed from that of the founder of Soviet rocketry by only one character, but who lacked the same knowledge. He shook hands with tremendous force, as if trying to crush He Yuzhu's hand bones.

"Director He, we would like to see your superconducting device."

"There's no superconducting device. Only the T-7."

Korolev released his grip, his smile freezing for a moment, like a layer of dried-out paint on a wall. "We have T-7s in the Soviet Union. Three are operational, two are gathering dust in storage. We want to see new ones."

He Yuzhu didn't reply, turning and walking into the corridor. His leather shoes clicked slowly on the terrazzo floor. Korolev followed behind with five men, the translator running back and forth, a fine layer of sweat beading on his forehead.

The lights in the underground laboratory came on. The T-7 sat on the lab bench, its silver-white exterior gleaming coldly under the fluorescent lights, and red "High Pressure Danger" labels were affixed to the vacuum pipes. Korolev peered through the observation window for three minutes, then straightened up, turned to the translator, and spoke a string of words in Russian.

The translation reads: "He said the cooling pipes of this device have been modified and are different from the original T-7."

He Yuzhu leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets. "We've changed it. We replaced it with a better vacuum pump; the pumping speed is twice as fast as the original. Nothing else was changed."

Korolev leaned back to look for another two minutes, this time without saying anything. Behind him, an elderly man with gray hair remained at the very back of the crowd, neither pushing forward nor asking any questions. He Yuzhu noticed his eyes—grayish-blue, his gaze lingering on each port of the T-7, scanning frame by frame like a scanner.

The old man's name is Igor Petrov.

After the visit, the Soviets returned to their hotel. He Yuzhu had just entered his office when the phone on his desk rang.

"Director He, there's an old man in the Soviet delegation who wants to see you alone. He says he has some private matters to discuss." Yang Xiaobing's voice was very low.

"Who?"

"Igor Petrov. He said he's waiting for you in the hotel lobby, alone. No translation needed."

He Yuzhu hung up the phone, sat for thirty seconds without moving, then stood up to get his coat.

The crystal chandelier in the hotel lobby shattered the light into countless spots. Petrov sat on a leather sofa in the corner, a glass of cold green tea in front of him, his fingers tapping unconsciously on his knees. When he saw He Yuzhu walk in, he immediately stood up, his movements unusually quick for someone in his sixties.

"Director He, thank you for coming." His Chinese was heavily accented with retroflex consonants, each word sounding as if it were being dug out from the depths of his throat.

He Yuzhu sat down opposite him. Yang Xiaobing stood three steps away, his gaze never leaving Petrov's back.

Petrov didn't speak immediately. He picked up the cup of green tea, took a sip, and set it down, the bottom of the cup making a crisp sound as it hit the tray. His gaze lingered on He Yuzhu's face for a moment, then shifted to the armrest of the sofa. He tapped his fingers twice on his knee, stopped, then tapped again.

"The braised pork in your cafeteria is delicious."

He Yuzhu looked at him but didn't reply.

Petrov took a deep breath, like a drowning person surfacing for air. "I've worked at the Kurchatov Atomic Energy Institute for thirty-five years. I've been involved in every single unit—T-3, T-4, T-7, T-10. Your T-7—the cooling pipes have been modified, and the diagnostic window has been moved. You've installed something else inside."

He Yuzhu's expression remained unchanged. "You're very observant."

"I make a living by observing." Petrov's voice lowered, so low that He Yuzhu had to lean forward to hear him. "Director He, my daughter married a Jew. Her name is Ekaterina, and her husband is Friedman. In 1973, they applied to immigrate to Israel, but were rejected. The KGB has been monitoring them, and monitoring me too."

His voice began to tremble. Not the kind of trembling that comes from cold, but the kind of exhaustion that comes from pouring out years' worth of pent-up emotions. His eyes were red, but no tears fell. He put his fingers under his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Half of my pension was withheld. My lab was shut down. My students were transferred, and an assistant who had worked with me for twenty years was arrested last month for having improper contact with foreigners. The KGB came to me and said that if I wanted to 'prove my loyalty,' I had to do something in China. I didn't agree."

He Yuzhu's fingers stopped on the sofa armrest.

"Director He, I want to leave the Soviet Union and come to China. I can give you everything I know: the complete design of the T-10M, the technical roadmap for the tokamak over the next twenty years, and all the details of plasma diagnostics. All I need is a job, a house, and for my daughter and grandson to be safe."

He Yuzhu remained silent for a long time. He looked into Petrov's eyes. There was no cunning in those grey-blue eyes, only a weariness born of being driven to the brink. That kind of weariness couldn't be faked.

"Mr. Petrov, did you ever cooperate with the KGB while you were in the Soviet Union?"

Petrov's face turned pale. "No. Never."

Do you have any other contacts in China?

"No. This is my first time in China. I've thought about it for a long time and I feel that you are the only person I can talk to about this."

He Yuzhu stood up. Petrov hurriedly got up, his chair sliding back a bit, scraping the floor with a sharp, piercing sound.

"Mr. Petrov, I will report what you have said truthfully. If your situation is true, China will consider accepting a scientist who is genuinely defecting. But until then, do not contact me alone again."