Spying

14 Car Accident

The International Recreation Club was as lively as ever, filled with song and dance.

To be honest, Nanjing was a city quite adept at indulging in a life of pleasure and oblivion. Back during the Xinhai Revolution, when the gunfire erupted over Wuchang, revolutionaries across the south rose up in rebellion. Cities along the Shanghai-Nanjing railway were liberated one after another, from the south to the north of the Yangtze—only Nanjing remained encircled, still dazedly loyal to the Qing government.

Yet, with its strategic terrain likened to a crouching tiger and coiled dragon, it was chosen as the provisional capital. Later, as the Northern Expedition progressed, fate brought it full circle, and on April 18, 1927, this politically indifferent city officially became the political center of the Republic of China.

Nanjing’s sluggishness was also evident in 1937. After the Marco Polo Bridge Incident, the idea of full-scale resistance remained an abstract concept for most of its residents—something heard but not seen. Anti-Japanese sentiment ran high, but the real battlefield, with its blood and steel, still felt far away. It wasn’t until the Battle of Shanghai on August 13 that people saw Japanese planes flying overhead and realized it was time to flee.

Wei Ningsheng, Ren Shaobai’s colleague, was in his first year of middle school that year. By autumn, before all the plane tree leaves had turned yellow, classes were suspended. He fled with his family to the northern suburbs, listening to the artillery fire from nearby Lion Mountain, thinking these were the most terrifying days. But soon, news came of heavy bombing in the southern Zhonghua Gate, the fall of the Yuhuatai defense line, and then the Zijin Mountain line—the Japanese had truly broken through.

The northern suburbs were no longer safe either. They had to cross the river and keep fleeing.

The Wei family had six members, the youngest sister not even a year old. Along the way, the baby cried incessantly, and the adults, overwhelmed, didn’t know what to do. Someone suggested leaving her behind, hiding her in a haystack outside a farmhouse, leaving her fate to the heavens.

But in those days, the only things falling from the sky were enemy bombs—no divine intervention.

Wei Ningsheng, continuing with his family, argued the whole way. Half a day later, gritting his teeth, he turned back alone, found the haystack, and dug out his sister. In the bitter cold, the infant had miraculously survived—perhaps the last act of divine mercy.

After that winter, many Nanjing residents, including Wei Ningsheng, returned. After all, home was here. Later, whether it was the Japanese puppet "Reform Government" or Wang Jingwei’s puppet "National Government," none of it mattered to them. After so many years of shifting regimes, they had grown numb.

Now, Wei Ningsheng wore a cheerful smile every day. It was hard to imagine how, as a mere teenager, he had carried his infant sister alone for over ten kilometers, finally catching up with his waiting family at Zhongshan Wharf. Afterward, the family never spoke of it again, and Wei Xiaomei, now nearly graduating from elementary school, would never know she had once been abandoned by her own kin.

The people of Nanjing seemed remarkably skilled at making peace with themselves.

And those who later arrived in the city quickly mastered the same skill.

By the third year of the civil war, the Nationalist forces were retreating steadily. Debates over whether the country would split along the Yangtze were rampant, yet officials in the capital remained engrossed in dancing and card games, treating Nanjing as if it were Shanghai—a place to indulge in pleasure.Ren Shaobai sat at a table waiting for Lu Peng. A bartender with a northern Jiangsu accent recommended a newly arrived whiskey to him. Glancing around, Ren casually asked, "Is that Hunan lad not here today?"

The bartender replied, "We don't have anyone from Hunan working here."

Ren was momentarily taken aback but quickly realized the bartender was probably working on commission. This eager salesman clearly didn't want to share his potential earnings, so Ren just smiled and didn't press further.

Truthfully, Ren didn't know much about whiskey. Only when the ice in his glass had melted slightly, diluting the overpowering smoky flavor, did he find it palatable. But as the brown liquor grew increasingly pale, Lu Peng still hadn't arrived. After eight o'clock, the manager approached and asked, "Mr. Ren? There's a phone call for you from a Mr. Lu."

Following the manager behind the bar to take the call, Lu Peng's voice on the line sounded agitated as he explained he couldn't make it tonight, inviting Ren instead to breakfast at Liufengju the next morning.

Hanging up and preparing to leave, Ren noticed the earlier bartender standing nearby, seemingly waiting for him.

"Sir, I've only been here a few days, so I asked around. There hasn't been any Hunanese before me either. The guy who quit right before I started was from Sichuan."

Surprised by this follow-up, Ren said, "Maybe I was mistaken. I just once heard him speaking Hunan dialect with a customer—" Mid-sentence, an idea struck him. Turning to the manager, he asked, "You must have seen him? That customer was probably a regular, about my age, worked at the Confidentiality Bureau, quite talkative, with an elderly mother in poor health."

As he described his memory of the man he'd seen here before, Ren wasn't sure what he was really investigating—just following a strange hunch. The manager's changing expression confirmed there was indeed something hidden here.

"You know who he is?"

The manager nodded. "You must mean Big Pan—Pan Dahe. The Confidentiality Bureau folks used to prefer the Army Club, but after the bombing, they started coming here."

"Has he been around recently?"

"You didn't hear? He's gone."

Ren was startled. "Gone?"

The manager said regretfully, "Yeah, drunk driving accident, nearly a month ago now..."

The next morning, Ren Shaobai and Lu Peng sat in Liufengju eating scallion pancakes and tofu pudding. The Nanjing-accented waitstaff called it "doufulao"—tender white tofu topped with cilantro, dried shrimp, and pickled vegetables. Though savory like northern tofu dishes, the lighter seasoning of soy sauce and sesame oil maintained its clean presentation.

In stark contrast to the pleasant breakfast was Lu Peng's detailed account of the recent tragedy involving his subordinate Zhao Xiaowu from the operations division, who had been in a car accident.Two days ago, Zhao Xiaowu went outside the city on business. It was nearly the last rain before the end of the rainy season, yet an accident still occurred. The road conditions near Saihong Bridge outside the city had always been poor, and the rain further obscured visibility. Zhao Xiaowu completely failed to notice the heavy truck suddenly approaching from another section of the road. The two vehicles collided, and he died instantly. By the time the traffic police arrived after receiving the report and dragged Zhao Xiaowu out of the mangled vehicle, his face was already unrecognizable.

"Yesterday his family came demanding compensation, insisting it should be at the standard for fallen soldiers. If we didn’t pay, they threatened to rally other dependents to cause trouble," Lu Peng said, mashing the tofu in his bowl before tipping it into his mouth with one hand, making the soft tofu look like he was downing hard liquor. "Damn it, he wasn’t even driving a Bureau vehicle. If they want compensation, they should go to the rental company."

Ren Shaobai asked calmly, "Other dependents? Have others been involved in accidents recently?"

"Things have been a bit eerie lately. There was another kid who got into a car accident, but that was entirely his own fault—drunk driving on a mountain road at night. He lost control on a curve and flipped over."

Ren Shaobai considered it but decided not to mention that he had once crossed paths with that person.

But Lu Peng keenly noticed his hesitation and asked, "What? Do you also think we’ve killed too many people and are being punished for it?"

Ren Shaobai was startled. "Who said that?"

Lu Peng grinned, unfazed. "I know what you’re thinking—could it be some radical group like the Iron Blood Youth League stirring up trouble? But none of these organizations in Nanjing have much influence. The police are keeping an eye on them, and there haven’t been any major moves. Besides, if they really wanted to target the Confidentiality Bureau, they’d go after someone more important. Worry when I mysteriously drop dead one day—not before."

"Tch." Ren Shaobai quickly rapped the table a few times. "Don’t jinx it."

Lu Peng felt somewhat comforted. He knew that as a special agent leader, he had a bad reputation with most people. But this junior brother of his still saw him the same way he had back in military school years ago. He nodded along and tapped the table twice with his knuckles. "Fine, my bad for saying that."

Then he paused, his tone unexpectedly somber. "Pan Dahe was a bastard. I told him to quit drinking ages ago. His death might’ve been a clean end for him, but he left behind a sickly old mother. What a damn unfilial son..."

"Ah? His family isn’t trying to pin it on you guys too, are they?"

Lu Peng shook his head. "His wife is a decent woman. The Bureau brothers pooled some money together to help send her back to their hometown in Anhui. That was the end of it."

For a moment, neither spoke, silently finishing their tofu pudding.

Lu Peng smacked his lips. "Had enough? Want more?"

Ren Shaobai wiped his glasses with the corner of his shirt and shook his head. "No, I only finished this bowl by sticking to the President’s frugality campaign. Otherwise, every time I think of Zhao Xiaowu, I imagine his brains splattered all over—human brains aren’t much different from tofu."

"Stop it." Lu Peng glared at him, then asked, "Wait, you didn’t come to me yesterday just to ask about our Bureau’s recent streak of bad luck, did you?""Oh right, no." Ren Shaobai adjusted his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, leaning slightly forward as he spoke in a hushed, mysterious tone. "Senior brother, it's still about Qiao Mingyu."

"About him? What is it?"

"Actually, it's not about him personally, but... it's Lan Youyin."

Lu Peng raised an eyebrow, visibly surprised.

"Has the Confidentiality Bureau investigated her? Is she really not with the Communist Party? I've heard Communists like to run husband-and-wife operations?"

If Peng Yongcheng had been present, he might have broken into a cold sweat for Ren Shaobai—this was far too reckless, too much like probing for information. Yet, faced with Ren Shaobai's rapid-fire questions, Lu Peng's expression grew increasingly amused. He narrowed his eyes at this junior brother whose background he knew inside out and said, "No way?"

"No way what?"

"You're not falling for her, are you?"

"What kind of joke is that?!"

His voice suddenly rose, drawing glances from others in the shop.

—Not good, overacting. Ren Shaobai gave his own performance a rather low rating internally. Then, lowering his voice again with a hint of reproach, he said, "Senior brother, you're a director at the Confidentiality Bureau. You can't just say things like that. If Lan Youyin were a Communist suspect, wouldn't I have to go with you for questioning?"

"Her Kuomintang party membership is more genuine than ours—specially approved, with signatures from two senior party members."

Lu Peng had no intention of telling Ren Shaobai that the Confidentiality Bureau had once monitored Lan Youyin, so he trotted out this years-old history to answer him.

Ren Shaobai pressed, "You're sure?"

Lu Peng nodded. "Like you said, I'm a Confidentiality Bureau director. Wouldn't I have checked something like this?"

Ren Shaobai stared into his eyes. After a moment, as if struck by a sudden thought, he pressed further, "Could she actually be working for the Confidentiality Bureau?"

Lu Peng chuckled. "We stopped using those old Military Intelligence Section female agent tactics long ago. But seeing you like this reminds me of something."

"What's that?"

"That college girl you couldn't stop talking about—the one solving math problems on the bus back then—could that have been Lan Youyin?"

Ren Shaobai's eyes widened in shock, his eyebrows lifting at least a centimeter.

Lu Peng said smugly, "Didn't expect me to remember? Honestly, I wouldn't have made the connection if you weren't so fixated, but it suddenly came to me—one of your Section Two colleagues in charge of code translation was her group leader at the Sino-American Institute. Said she solved Sudoku puzzles incredibly fast. Oh right, she recently helped crack a Communist Party cipher too, proved quite useful actually. So you can rest easy on that front—she's no Communist." Watching Ren Shaobai lower his head in embarrassment, he adopted a mentor's tone. "But junior brother, take my advice—forget about Lan Youyin. Forget that she's a widow, just her current social circle alone is complicated enough. She's no longer the 'moonlight before your bed' in your heart..."

Ren Shaobai remained silent for a long moment before looking up and murmuring, "Senior brother, I never took you for a loyal reader of The Magazine. Heard several of their lead writers have already gone to Communist areas..."Lu Peng was taken aback for a moment before realizing Ren Shaobai was retaliating for his earlier slander of his long-time crush from years ago. He couldn't decide whether to be angry or amused, so he grabbed the spoon from his bowl and hurled it at him. Ren Shaobai, having anticipated this, dodged nimbly with a triumphant smirk on his face, while already plotting his next move in this verbal sparring match.