Spying

30 Phone Number

The Dahua Grand Theater, built before the war, was the most famous cinema in the capital, screening films that kept pace with global trends. Even film companies from Shanghai often chose this venue for their premieres. The theater’s facade was divided into upper and lower levels by an awning. The upper level’s curtain wall was perpetually adorned with giant posters of actresses—from Vivien Leigh to Greta Garbo, from Ruan Lingyu to Hu Die. The lower level featured a long staircase leading to the entrance, designed in a Western architectural style.

At this moment, Shen Tong stood outside the lobby, gazing up at the poster for the upcoming film Lights of Ten Thousand Homes . The eyes of the lead actress, Shangguan Yunzhu, reminded her of Lan Youyin. She mused that perhaps all beauties shared certain similarities.

Just then, Lan Youyin approached from the foot of the stairs and said with some exasperation, “Why does this feel like a spy rendezvous?”

Shen Tong made a playful face. “Exactly. That’s why, Youyin-jie, I’m breaking the rules for you.”

—After Li Helin’s scolding, Shen Tong no longer dared to openly speak with Lan Youyin at the Ministry of National Defense, fearing she’d have to write another self-criticism for “discussing the Second Department’s work with colleagues from other divisions.” So, she resorted to scribbling the “rendezvous” time and location on a candy wrapper, casually dropping it as she passed Lan Youyin. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lan Youyin pick it up, quickly scan it, then crumple it back into her palm.

Movie theaters were indeed popular spots for spies to exchange intelligence—crowded outside, dark inside, posters serving as markers, and program booklets doubling as disposable cipher pads.

Like now, Shen Tong handed Lan Youyin a movie ticket, face down, with a row of numbers written on the back.

Perhaps out of rebelliousness toward authority, or maybe just recalling the fleeting expressions of resentment, confusion, or helplessness she’d once seen on Lan Youyin’s face, Shen Tong thought: After all, it’s all about catching Communist spies. Does it really matter what method we use or who we work with? Besides, she genuinely wanted to help her Youyin-jie.

“I saw this in my uncle’s notebook, but only at a glance. The last digit might be a 7 or a 9—I couldn’t tell clearly.” Shen Tong handed her the ticket. “It’s six digits, so it’s probably not a phone number.”

Lan Youyin glanced down. “Not necessarily. Shanghai already has six-digit phone numbers.”

“Really?” Shen Tong’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Then that must be it! Because Ren Shaobai just went to Shanghai!” She grew excited, even dropping the usual respectful “Mr. Ren” in favor of his full name.

Or perhaps Lan Youyin had rubbed off on her.

“Ren Shaobai is in Shanghai now?” Lan Youyin studied the numbers, wondering if this could be connected to the same matter.

Shen Tong nodded. “He should be on his way. Before leaving work today, I passed the secretary’s office and overheard someone saying they’d invite him to a card game tomorrow. But the department head’s secretary said he was on field duty. The other person joked that even Ren Shaobai was working weekends now. The secretary replied that he’d be back by tomorrow at the latest, riding comfortably on the Blue Steel Express.”

—The “Blue Steel Express” on the Shanghai-Nanjing line departed Nanjing after work on Saturdays and returned from Shanghai by Sunday night. Many high-ranking officials who worked in the capital during the week and indulged in Shanghai’s glamour on weekends followed this very schedule.But was Ren Shaobai out on field duty?

Lan Youyin then realized he was on a secret mission—no one in the bureau knew except the director.

"And one more thing..." Shen Tong said mysteriously, "My father has a lunch meeting tomorrow noon. He originally wanted to invite Uncle, but he declined."

So, the bureau’s office director and the confidential secretary were both out on field duty—not only was it classified, but it also took precedence over the Communist Party lead Shen Tong had reported.

Initially, Lan Youyin had thought that since there was no direct evidence linking Ren Shaobai to Case 1207, she might as well try bluffing. Through Shen Tong, she planned to hint to Ren Shaobai that she had once deciphered a coded message he sent. She wanted to see his reaction—people who were guilty would act, and in acting, they would slip up.

But now, Ren Shaobai clearly had more urgent matters at hand and couldn’t spare the time to probe whether Lan Youyin knew the secret of Case 1207.

Looking at the phone number in her hand, Lan Youyin suddenly had an idea: If Ren Shaobai really was involved in Case 1207, given his track record of sabotaging every Ministry of National Defense operation he meddled in, then this time, he would surely try to disrupt things midway.

After leaving the Grand China Theater, Lan Youyin first went to the long-distance telephone office and dialed the number Li Helin had noted down.

She started by calling the number ending in 7, introducing herself as the front desk of Kaiser’s Restaurant, informing them that Mr. Huang had reserved a table for tonight and asking to confirm his arrival time.

The person on the other end was a woman, who immediately questioned, "What Mr.? What’s his surname?"

Lan Youyin replied, "Huang. Mr. Huang."

"Wait a moment," the woman said before switching to Shanghainese, rattling off a string of words to someone in the background, followed by an equally rapid response from afar. Though Lan Youyin didn’t understand Shanghainese, she could sense the hostility in the exchange.

Then the woman switched back to Mandarin, firing off questions: "Make it clear—did he call to book or come in person? One person or two? Did he bring a woman? Did you check his ID? Is it Huang or Wang?"

Lan Youyin decisively hung up, thinking to herself that the Second Bureau of the Ministry of National Defense wouldn’t be dealing with an ordinary couple’s domestic dispute.

Next, she dialed the number ending in 9.

This time, a young man answered. Lan Youyin repeated her spiel, and after a brief pause, he curtly said, "You’ve got the wrong number."

Lan Youyin quickly replied, "But this was the number left for the reservation. Isn’t this Mr. Huang’s residence?"

"No."

"Then is it Mr. Huang’s workplace? Could you please connect me to him?"

"Neither. There’s no one here by that name. You’ve dialed wrong."

The man finally spoke a slightly longer sentence, and it was precisely this that gave Lan Youyin a clue—his accent sounded like a foreigner speaking Chinese, more specifically, a Japanese person speaking Chinese.

Back when she was decrypting messages at the Sino-American Institute, there was a colleague who was a linguist fluent in Japanese. He used to mimic how Japanese people spoke Chinese as a joke. Some pronunciations were fine in isolation, but strung together in a sentence, the flow between characters felt stiff. And now, the man on the phone sounded exactly like that.Lan Youyin had intended to coax the other party into revealing his exact location, but he abruptly ended the call before she could.

Listening to the short, sharp dial tone from the receiver, Lan Youyin frowned.

She knew there might still be Japanese nationals in Shanghai who hadn’t been repatriated, but what kind of work had Ren Shaobai and Li Helin been assigned that would involve the Japanese?

Her next step was to visit A Mang’s newly opened photography studio. She took out the phone number again and asked if he had any way of tracing its origin.

A Mang, who mingled with all sorts of people and was something of a man of the underworld, made a few calls—since the last wiretapping incident, he had installed signal-jamming equipment in his shop. Sure enough, it didn’t take long before he reached an insider at the Shanghai Telephone Company and learned that the number was connected to a private clinic in Hongkou.

Upon hearing the result, Lan Youyin turned and headed straight for the door. A Mang called after her, “Sister Lan, what’s this about?”

Lan Youyin paused, glanced back, and said, “Don’t mention this to Wen Rang.”

As she stepped out of the studio, her hurried pace nearly caused her to collide with a passerby. Fortunately, the man reacted swiftly, sidestepping and lightly steadying her arm. “Are you alright, miss?” he asked.

Lan Youyin, briefly noting how agile he was, shook her head. “I’m fine.”

In her haste, she didn’t notice how, after she left, the passerby stared at her retreating figure before curiously glancing at the place she had just exited—a photography studio that had quietly opened in the best location downtown, yet without the customary celebratory flower baskets or ribbons.

“Assistant Manager Peng, just off work?” someone from the Industrial Bank across the street greeted him a moment later.

It was already late when Lan Youyin arrived at her final destination—Beiting Alley, not far from Xinjiekou.

Next to a middle school founded by foreign missionaries, several newspaper offices shared a squat building, with the Nanjing branch of Wenhui Bao occupying the innermost office on the third floor. Presenting a reporter’s business card, Lan Youyin was led by the gatekeeper to meet Zhu Yanjun, who was waiting for the newspaper layout to be finalized.

The next day’s front page would cover a stampede on Nanjing’s Baixia Road caused by citizens scrambling to buy flour, which had already claimed three lives—not the first such incident that year. Zhu Yanjun had spent the day at the Ministry of Finance and, by evening, had collaborated with a social affairs reporter to complete the article. She had written an investigative piece on how the currency reform had failed to stabilize price fluctuations, delving into the root causes behind the frequent food riots.

Zhu Yanjun was surprised to see Lan Youyin but navigated around the mountains of scattered newspapers and documents to usher her into the slightly less chaotic reception room. Lan Youyin explained her purpose—she needed help looking into something.

“What is it?” Zhu Yanjun asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Who’s involved?”

“I don’t know that either.”

The absurd exchange didn’t provoke Zhu Yanjun into thinking she was being toyed with. Instead, she patiently continued, “Then where did it happen?”

“Shanghai. A private clinic run by Japanese in Hongkou.”

Zhu Yanjun nodded. “Alright. So what do you want to find out?”"I want to know if there's anything unusual about this clinic recently—perhaps something that has happened, or is about to happen. Maybe it's something the doctors there have done or might do. I'm not certain, but it must be significant enough and likely occurred within the last day or two."

Zhu Yanjun blinked, studying Lan Youyin for a moment before speaking. "I can help you. With the network of informants I've cultivated in Shanghai over the past few years, there's a good chance I can assist. But you'll have to tell me—why do you want to know this?"

—Because it's a mission secretly assigned by high-ranking officials in the Ministry of Defense. Because Ren Shaobai is carrying out this mission. Because Ren Shaobai is a Communist spy codenamed "1207."

—So he will undoubtedly sabotage the mission. So he will leave behind clues and evidence of his interference. So I can obtain such evidence.

Lan Youyin answered silently in her mind, though of course she wouldn't voice her true thoughts aloud.

"Do you want to know if there's any news value here? Whether it could make for a compelling article?" she countered instead. "A Japanese clinic still operating in Shanghai—isn't that sensational enough already?"

Zhu Yanjun replied, "The war is over. Some ordinary Japanese have returned home, while others chose to stay. If those who remain are simply accustomed to Shanghai and wish to make a living here, what's wrong with that? I have no intention of using my power as a journalist to disturb them."

Lan Youyin hadn't expected such an answer. "Miss Zhu's perspective is bound to stir controversy," she remarked.

Zhu Yanjun shrugged, unfazed by the comment. Nor did she let Lan Youyin's deliberate evasion deter her from pressing further. "If Section Chief Lan finds my previous question difficult to answer, let me rephrase it—is this a matter of official business for the Ministry of Defense, or is it personal?"

Seeing no way around it, Lan Youyin conceded, "Personal. But how did you know my position and workplace?"

Zhu Yanjun smiled. "I'm a journalist. A name is all I need to investigate someone. But rest assured, Section Chief Lan, I have no interest in invading ordinary people's privacy. So—" She paused, drawing out her words. "If it's personal, then I won't pry further. Consider it a gesture of respect for your boldness in defending Miss Shen that day—I'd like to be your friend. But if my investigation uncovers something that transcends personal privacy and holds public value, even you won't be able to stop me from reporting it."

Lan Youyin thought to herself that Zhu Yanjun never strayed far from her journalistic instincts. Such professional pride would be difficult to counter, even if she tried. Besides... their objectives likely didn't conflict. So she nodded and said, "Very well."

Pleased, Zhu Yanjun stood and walked to a nearby table, retrieving a pen and paper to hand to Lan Youyin. "Leave me your contact details, Section Chief Lan. I'll inform you as soon as I find anything."

By the next day, Zhu Yanjun's extensive and well-connected network of informants proved its worth. With characteristic composure, she said over the phone, "I've found something, but we can't discuss it here. Let's meet at St. Paul's Church."On Sundays, St. Paul's Church was filled not only with devout worshippers attending services but also with local residents hoping for a free meal. Lan Youyin sat on a bench in the back row, watching the sunlight refract through the stained glass onto the cross on the wall. She couldn't help but think—she was supposed to be catching spies, yet over the past two days, she had somehow experienced every classic rendezvous and information exchange tactic used by them.

Zhu Yanjun, her stomach growling, walked back from the front with a piece of communion bread in hand. She took a small bite of the brown bread and sat down beside Lan Youyin, saying, "I take back what I said yesterday. They might not just be ordinary Japanese expats living their lives in Shanghai."

"What do you mean?"

"Didn’t you ask if there was anything unusual about that clinic recently? There is—but it’s not the clinic itself or the attending physician. It’s a patient they recently treated. A very unusual patient."

Lan Youyin turned to look at her. "Who? Someone we know?"

"Section Chief Lan, you really are sharp." Zhu Yanjun gave her an admiring glance, then, amid the singing of "Hallelujah," her lips parted slightly as she softly uttered a name—

"Okamura Neiji."