Spying

51 Ripples in Stagnant Water

Faced with Peng Yongcheng’s denial, Lu Peng merely responded with a faint, “Is that so?” After a brief pause, he pushed the pass he had received across the table. “Then let’s talk about your trip to Jinan. What did you go there for?”

“A glass factory was collaborating with our bank. I went to sign a loan agreement.”

“Oh? Why would a factory in Jinan come to you?”

“Testing the waters. They’re planning to relocate south.”

“Workshops aren’t easy to move, are they?”

“Technology matters more than hardware.”

“True. When did you go?”

“I don’t remember the exact date.”

“How did you get there?”

“By train, the Tianjin-Pukou line.”

“What was the weather like in Jinan?”

“Still warm during the day, but cooler after sunset.”

“Did it rain?”

“No.”

…

If not for the obvious interrogation setting, this exchange would have sounded like small talk between two barely acquainted individuals. In reality, however, every word from the person being questioned was a carefully prepared answer, while the interrogator focused intently on recording every flicker of the eyes, every gesture, and every inflection in tone.

Then came the moment when the dagger was finally drawn from the map.

“So, what message did you bring to Wu Huawen?”

Peng Yongcheng’s pupils contracted sharply. Lu Peng smiled—this was the moment he found most enjoyable in the otherwise tedious interrogation. The subtle shifts in expression on the other man’s face were like rewards for his prolonged patience.

“The telegrams you sent under the bank’s name were intercepted. All of them were decoded. Your codename is ‘Silkworm Keeper,’ but you haven’t held the title for long. I’ve dealt with your predecessor—much like you, serious, composed, and tenacious. Just not very cooperative, lacking a sense of the times.”

Peng Yongcheng met Lu Peng’s gaze in silence, a wordless admission—he did not deny it.

This was laying the cards on the table. Lu Peng smiled again, but Peng Yongcheng’s next words froze the grin on his face.

“But Jinan is about to fall into our hands. The wind of the times should be on our side now.”

Lu Peng narrowed his eyes, pausing briefly before saying, “…You admit it.”

“When I met with General Wu, I presented him with three options: first, to revolt independently and liberate Jinan; second, to coordinate with us from within to liberate Jinan; or third, to resist to the bitter end. He chose the most straightforward one.” Peng Yongcheng’s tone carried a hint of provocation, but this time, it was his turn to feel puzzled—Lu Peng didn’t seem as interested as he had expected.

Lu Peng simply waited for the stenographer to finish writing before taking the record, rotating it 180 degrees, and sliding it toward Peng Yongcheng. “This is everything you just said, right? If there are no mistakes, sign it.”

Peng Yongcheng hesitated as he looked at the confession in front of him—an almost verbatim transcript of his words. He had no intention of denying it later, but… he lifted his eyes to Lu Peng.

“No wonder,” Lu Peng said.

No wonder what? Peng Yongcheng didn’t voice the question, but Lu Peng clearly understood his gaze.

“No wonder your marksmanship is so poor. You’re just a messenger. I remember your predecessor was more of an operative. So why would the Communist Party send someone like you to carry out assassinations?”Peng Yongcheng understood now—what Lu Peng truly cared about wasn’t the battle situation in Jinan.

"Director Lu is a sharpshooter, so Chiang Kai-shek specifically sent you to protect the Japanese war criminal."

Lu Peng remained expressionless and continued, "We found that rifle. It had been modified for easy disassembly. You were disguised that day, weren’t you? In the photo, you were even leaning on a cane. Was the barrel hidden inside it? But where were the other components?"

"Black Tortoise Lake is vast enough—there are plenty of places to hide things."

"Oh, I see. You fired three shots in total? We recovered three intact bullets."

"Two dead. Not too wasteful, then."

Lu Peng felt his throat tighten. In that instant, he grasped something—

"You're not the shooter."

He pushed himself up from the table, looming over Peng Yongcheng. "It would have been impossible to find three intact bullets at the scene because those dumdum rounds explode on impact. Whoever used them relied on that feature to compensate for poor marksmanship—yet you knew nothing about it. So why admit to it?"

Based on the first appearance of the codename "Silkworm Keeper" in radio surveillance months ago, he had been recruited by another Communist agent codenamed "1207." Recent intercepted transmissions, disguised as foreign exchange messages, further indicated that "Silkworm Keeper" operated more as a handler than an operative in Nanjing.

And that operative—the real assassin—was the reason Peng Yongcheng, now captured, had to claim responsibility for the attempted assassination of Okamura Neiji. The true shooter was a spy hidden even deeper.

Lu Peng understood how this worked.

A spy and their handler were tightly bound, but the relationship wasn’t equal. The handler provided protection and upheld an unspoken promise: the spy’s safety came above all else.

"You might really be the Silkworm Keeper, but you’re definitely not the shooter. Thank you for telling me—not only do you have an accomplice, but you’re also their handler. Because you’re sacrificing the pawn to save the king. The person you’re protecting must be far more important than you."

This time, before Peng Yongcheng could deny it again, Lu Peng was certain of his answer. He left the interrogation room.

Just then, the forensics team returned with the fingerprint analysis. As expected, Peng Yongcheng’s prints bore little resemblance to those found on the rifle.

To the subordinate waiting outside, he said, "I don’t need him anymore. Hand him over to Director Mao."

Lu Peng was after the real killer—the one who had left fingerprints on the rifle, the one who had tried to assassinate him under the guise of targeting Okamura Neiji, the one who had murdered Yang Kaizhi, the Military Intelligence Section veteran and security team leader. Peng Yongcheng wasn’t that person. But Peng Yongcheng was protecting him. Would an ordinary spy-assassin lurking in the streets really warrant the sacrifice of a high-ranking handler? Peng Yongcheng’s title as assistant bank manager already gave him access to influential figures. If so, the "1207" he was shielding must be even closer to the centers of power—perhaps already embedded within them.

Suddenly, Lu Peng remembered: when Yang Kaizhi was gunned down, he had suspected the shooter knew about their operation to capture Communist agents that day.Lu Peng felt that after going in circles, he had finally made some progress. However, the one thing that still puzzled him was how a seasoned underground Communist Party member like Peng Yongcheng could allow the spies under his charge to carry out a series of assassinations—actions that would inevitably leave more and more traces behind.

He thought that if he could solve this puzzle, he might finally catch that elusive villain who had been hiding in the shadows for far too long.

Zhonglan Lane, with its gray bricks and tiles, was quite different from Huiyuan Lane where Ren Shaobai lived. The row houses in Zhonglan Lane faced the street, with several families living in each building. Those on the first floor had to borrow the balcony from the second floor, while those on the second floor habitually softened their footsteps when passing by the first-floor homes—the stairs were so close to the living quarters that the slightest noise could spark neighborly disputes.

But today, the residents of No. 17 no longer had to worry about their crying child disturbing the entire row of neighbors at night. They were moving out—not just leaving Zhonglan Lane, but leaving Nanjing altogether.

The wife of Pei Tianjun, a graduate of the 17th class of the Central Military Academy and battalion commander of the 121st Brigade, 45th Division of the National Army, stood by a rented car with her four-year-old son, Xiao Ying, watching as Ren Shaobai helped load their modest luggage into the trunk. When only a wicker basket remained, Ren said, "If you and the child are sitting in the back, we can put this basket in the front passenger seat."

Mrs. Pei nodded. "Alright, thank you."

Ren waved off the thanks, placed the basket on the passenger seat, and adjusted its position to prevent it from falling during the drive. Then he closed the car door and turned to ask, "Is that everything?"

"Yes, that's all," Mrs. Pei replied, glancing at the luggage in the car. "Truthfully, one doesn’t need so much to live. In the end, we bring nothing into this world and take nothing with us when we go."

"True enough," Ren said, "but since we’re here for the day, we might as well live it properly."

Mrs. Pei smiled. "I understand what you mean. Thank you for all your help these past days." She then patted her son’s head and said, "Xiao Ying, you should thank Uncle Ren too."

With his round face, Xiao Ying was the spitting image of his father. Besides saying thank you, he also gave Ren Shaobai a crisp military salute—his fingers straight and slightly upturned at the tips, exactly like Pei Tianjun’s salute that Ren had seen in the Weixian prisoner-of-war camp.

After returning from Shandong, Ren had indeed followed through on his promise to his unexpectedly reunited old classmate. One day, he arrived at No. 17 Zhonglan Lane in Nanjing and met Pei Tianjun’s wife and son, who had been waiting there without knowing whether their husband and father was alive or dead. Ren told them that while on a business trip to Shandong for the Ministry of National Defense, he had learned that Pei Tianjun had died in battle earlier that year. Though there was no official record, he could help them apply for survivor benefits from the military logistics department.

At first, Mrs. Pei had refused the offer, as if not claiming the benefits would keep alive the slim hope that her husband might still be living. But Ren persuaded her that in these times, an extra monthly stipend meant little to the military but would be a lifeline for her and Xiao Ying. A growing boy like Xiao Ying, he argued, would surely benefit from eating two eggs a week instead of just one.Thus, Madam Pei finally accepted the proposal. Ren Shaobai added that before Tianjun left, he had reportedly said that if he were no longer around, he wished his comrades to inform his wife and child that if they chose to return to her maiden home, the Pei family was not bound by rigid traditions.

At last, Madam Pei broke into loud sobs. Before the Mid-Autumn Festival, she told Ren Shaobai that after the holiday, she would take Xiaoying and leave Nanjing for her hometown in Guangxi.

Ren Shaobai came to help one last time.

The driver from the car rental leaned out and said, “Madam, if we don’t leave now, we’ll miss the train.”

“Right away,” Madam Pei replied. She first lifted Xiaoying onto the back seat and closed the door, then approached Ren Shaobai and asked quietly, “Mr. Ren, one last question—is my husband truly gone?”

Ren Shaobai stared at her blankly for a long moment before saying, “I hope that in the near future, your family of three will reunite in a peaceful new world.”

Madam Pei’s eyes instantly welled up. Pressing her lips together, she fought back the tears and whispered, “Thank you.”

Then she turned, got into the car, placed her son’s hand on her lap, and signaled the driver to depart, carrying them away from the gradually disintegrating military family quarters.

After leaving Zhonglanli, Ren Shaobai did not head straight home but instead went to a tobacco and liquor shop by the Qinhuai River nearby.

This shop had a certain reputation among a particular crowd, and Ren Shaobai had only recently learned of it. Its fame did not stem from selling high-end brands but rather from operating in a gray area—while Nanjing and Shanghai markets imposed price controls and purchase limits on tobacco and alcohol, the shop’s owner dealt in black-market goods, selling excess stock at inflated prices to customers with special needs.

Ren Shaobai had come to buy his sleeping aid for the next few days.

The sleeping pills prescribed by the hospital were gradually losing their effect on him. Occasionally, he couldn’t help but worry—if, in the near future, even the numbing effects of alcohol failed him, how would he endure the involuntary sleepless nights until dawn?

As he waited for the shopkeeper to pack his bottle of American Black & White whiskey into a brown paper bag, another person stepped into the shop. Ren Shaobai instinctively turned to look and froze on the spot.

Lan Youyin was equally startled to see him, but before either could speak, the shopkeeper turned around and greeted her like a regular: “You’re here. The usual Red Label?”

“Mm,” Lan Youyin replied, then glanced at Ren Shaobai and paused before asking, “You… here for soda water?”

—She was retaliating for his accusation of her drinking problem during their encounter at dusk not long ago. Ren Shaobai realized this immediately.

Of course, compared to the fact that he had held a gun to her head just days before, this hardly counted as retaliation. Still, he remembered noticing during his visit to her home that the liquor on her living room cabinet had barely been touched.

“No,” Ren Shaobai answered with unexpected honesty. He met Lan Youyin’s gaze, wanting to tell her that he understood the despair she felt in the darkness.