Courtyard House: I Rely on Time-Space Trade to Build a Nation

Twenty-eight days later, Los Angeles, America.

The California sun was blazing in August. Zhao Ping'an, dressed in a well-tailored suit and carrying a briefcase, walked into an apartment building in Pasadena.

His identity was that of a "representative of Hong Kong Chinese businessmen" who came to the United States to explore trade opportunities—this identity was carefully designed, with complete background information, and he even had a nominal trading company in Hong Kong as a cover.

When the doorbell rang, a woman in her thirties opened the door. She had a gentle appearance but a wary look in her eyes.

"Who are you looking for?"

"My surname is Zhao, and I'm from Hong Kong," Zhao Ping'an said in standard Mandarin.

"I was entrusted by a friend in China to deliver a letter to Mr. Qian."

The woman became even more wary: "What letter? Who sent it?"

"Leader Zhou," Zhao Ping'an said in a low voice, "Mr. Qian should know him."

Old Master Qian's wife scrutinized Zhao Ping'an for a few seconds before finally stepping aside: "Please come in."

The apartment wasn't large, but it was clean and elegant. The bookshelves were piled high with English books and periodicals, and some engineering drawings hung on the walls.

A middle-aged man came out of the study, saw Zhao Ping'an, and paused for a moment.

"You are...?"

"Mr. Qian, hello." Zhao Ping'an took the letter out of his briefcase and handed it to you with both hands. "This is a handwritten letter from Leader Zhou. He said you'll understand once you've read it."

Mr. Qian took the letter and opened it. He recognized the handwriting on the letter—it was indeed that of Mr. Zhou, with whom he had corresponded.

The letter was simple: Our motherland is about to be reborn, all industries are waiting to be developed, and there is an urgent need for scientific talents. If you wish to return to China, we will do our best to assist you.

He looked up, a complex expression flashing in his eyes. There was excitement, anticipation, and deep worry.

"Mr. Zhao, thank you for risking your life to deliver the message." Old Qian's voice was a little hoarse, "But you may not know that I am now... not in a very free position."

"I know." Zhao Ping'an nodded. "The FBI is monitoring you, the Immigration Bureau has restricted your departure, and the military may also be paying special attention. So, Leader Zhou sent me here not just to deliver a message—"

He paused, looking directly into Qian Lao's eyes: "I've come to take you and your wife back to China. Before October 1st."

Madam Qian gasped. Old Master Qian's hand trembled slightly.

"This...how is this possible?"

"It's possible," Zhao Ping'an said, "but you need to completely trust me and act entirely according to my plan."

There will be risks throughout the process, but the risks of staying here are even greater.

"You should understand that if the new republic is formally established, the United States will only impose stricter restrictions on you, and you may never be able to go back."

Mr. Qian fell silent. He walked to the window, lifted a corner of the curtain, and looked outside.

Across the street, a black sedan was parked with two people inside—FBI agents who had been watching the area for three months.

"What do I need to do?" He turned around, his voice becoming firm.

For the next three days, Zhao Ping'an stayed at a nearby hotel and visited the Qian family every day under the pretext of "discussing academic cooperation".

Through these contacts, he accomplished three things:

First, we figured out Qian Lao's daily routine.

Every Friday afternoon, Qian would go to the lab at Caltech to work until 9 p.m., and then walk home.

This route passes through two relatively quiet neighborhoods.

Second, they figured out the patterns of the surveillance personnel. The FBI usually has two shifts, two during the day and two at night. Weekends are relatively less busy, especially Sundays, when often only one person is on duty.

Third, they figured out the structure of the Qian family apartment building. The building has three exits: the front door, the back door, and the fire escape in the basement.

Three days later, Zhao Ping'an returned to the Qian family with the complete plan.

"Friday night is the only chance." He unfolded a hand-drawn route map.

"Mr. Qian will leave the lab at 6 p.m. and head home as usual. However, when he passes through the second block, a car will 'unexpectedly' break down, causing a brief disturbance. I will take this opportunity to pick you and your wife up."

"And then?" Mrs. Qian asked nervously.

"Then we'll go to the designated safe house. There, we need to complete the most crucial step—"

Zhao Pingan took out several photos from his briefcase and placed them on the table.

The photo shows two "people." To be precise, two people lying unconscious in bed.

Their appearance, physique, and even some subtle features are exactly the same as those of Mr. and Mrs. Qian.

"This is..." Mr. Qian stared at the photograph in shock.

"These are stand-ins," Zhao Ping'an said. "They were made using a special method. I'll deliver them to your apartment Friday night."

Friday night, you must stay in the safe house and not go out. Late at night, I will dispose of the body double and create the illusion that "Mr. and Mrs. Qian have been murdered".

By Sunday, when surveillance personnel discovered the "body" and the scene was in chaos, we had already left San Francisco.

The boldness and meticulousness of the plan left the elderly Mr. and Mrs. Qian speechless for a long time.

"Is...is this really feasible?" Mrs. Qian's voice trembled.

"You only have one chance," Zhao Ping'an said.

"But the success rate is over 80%. The key is—you two must completely trust me, and you can't make a mistake at any step."

Mr. Qian looked at "himself" in the photo, then at Zhao Ping'an in front of him.

The young man had a firmness and confidence in his eyes that I had never seen before, a belief that could turn the impossible into the possible.

"Okay," he finally said, "we'll go with you."

Friday evening, 6:05 PM.

As usual, Qian walked out of the gates of Caltech. The early autumn night was a bit chilly, so he tightened his coat and walked home along the familiar route.

In the second block, the streetlights were dim. An old Ford was parked crookedly on the side of the road, its hood open, and the driver was squatting beside it, seemingly checking something.

Just as Mr. Qian was passing by, the driver suddenly stood up and accidentally knocked over a toolbox. Tools scattered all over the ground, with a few rolling to Mr. Qian's feet.

"Excuse me, sir!" the driver said in accented English, bending down to pick up his tools.

Mr. Qian instinctively bent down to help. At that very moment, the door of another car opened silently, and a hand reached out and gently pulled him inside.

Zhao Ping'an and Mrs. Qian were sitting in the car.

"Drive," Zhao Ping'an said to the driver—who was a comrade who had been arranged in advance.

The car drove away smoothly. From bending over to getting in, the whole process took no more than five seconds.

By the time the "broken-down driver" had packed up his tools and driven away, Mr. Qian had already disappeared into the night.

The safe house is a secluded detached house in the eastern suburbs of Los Angeles.

When Zhao Ping'an led the Qian couple inside, simple daily necessities had already been prepared in the living room.

"Get a good rest tonight," Zhao Ping'an said. "We'll leave when I get back."

Zhao Pingan glanced at his watch: "Now, I need to deal with the stand-in matter."