Spying

53 Farewell Letter

With Peng Yongcheng imprisoned in Tiger Bridge Prison, the shooting incident at Black Tortoise Lake seemed to be settled. Lu Peng wasn’t insistent on finding the gunman whose target was "Okamura Neiji," so handing over a scapegoat sufficed. The Ministry of National Defense needed someone to take responsibility for Wu Huawen’s defection, and the emergence of the "Silkworm Keeper" was perfectly timed. In such circumstances, the truth no longer mattered.

But for Ren Shaobai, he was once again left fighting alone. No one would cover for him, nor would anyone admonish him in a stern, brotherly tone: Ren Shaobai, what do you think you’re doing?

Every night, he struggled to fall asleep under the numbing haze of alcohol and tormenting pain, vaguely recalling another person who also struggled with alcohol and drug dependence. He even ran into Lan Youyin at more than one drinking establishment. Across the crowd, she would raise her glass to him in greeting. He couldn’t understand—she was teetering on the edge of collapse herself, so why did she seem so much more resilient than him?

Finally, one day, he couldn’t hold back his question. Fueled by alcohol and the clamor of the Army Club’s music, even if he raised his voice, only the person nearest to him could hear—

“Section Chief Lan, how long has it been since you first drank an entire bottle of whiskey?”

Lan Youyin’s lips parted slightly before she answered, “Seven years.”

Ren Shaobai’s thoughts froze for a moment, but before he could react, Lan Youyin suddenly leaned close to his ear and whispered, “You’ll last even longer than I did.” Compared to the pounding rhythm of the live band, her voice struck his eardrums and nerves with far greater force, word by word. “You’re a spy. You have to deceive everyone, and you’ve just lost the last person who knew who you really were. From now on, you’ll never be able to bare your true self to anyone again. But that’s not so bad—because without a true self, there’s naturally nothing to collapse.”

“And what about you?” Ren Shaobai’s pupils, hidden behind glass lenses, were already glazed with drunkenness. “You know who I am. In front of you, don’t I still get to be myself?”

Lan Youyin took a step back, putting distance between them. “Ren Shaobai, you’re drunk.”

Ren Shaobai shook his head with a laugh. “The drinks here are watered down. No one gets drunk on these.”

Lan Youyin studied him. Under the garish overhead lights, the shadows on his face were mottled, making it impossible to tell whether the unnatural flush came from alcohol. But the desolation in his expression was unmistakable.

“When is his execution date?”

“How is A Mang?”

They spoke simultaneously, then both paused in surprise.

Lan Youyin said, “Not well. He’s suffering from neurasthenia—can’t do anything for the time being.”

Ren Shaobai replied, “Next Tuesday, at Yuhuatai.”

After that, silence fell between them again.

After A Mang was released from the Confidentiality Bureau, though he bore no external injuries, he developed strange symptoms—hallucinations, auditory and visual, and constant headaches. Lan Youyin took him to a private clinic, where the doctor who had once diagnosed her with anxiety said A Mang was suffering from acute schizophrenia, a stress response to severe trauma.Peng Yongcheng was to be executed by firing squad, and it would take place at Yuhuatai, open to the public. The authorities' intention was clear—this was meant as a deterrent. If any of his accomplices were among the spectators, let them see what fate awaited those engaged in underground Communist activities.

Yet at the same time, the Nationalist government was preparing to celebrate Double Ten Day. After the military parade, the memorial ceremony at Sun Yat-sen's Mausoleum, and the fireworks display, Ren Shaobai and Lan Youyin found themselves the only two people in the crowd who truly understood each other's pain.

Of course, their pain occupied entirely different quadrants.

When Ren Shaobai drunkenly rambled to Lan Youyin—saying things like "You know who I am, before you I should be able to be myself"—all Lan Youyin saw in his eyes was wishful thinking.

Yet they were indeed connected by some possible function. After learning what evidence had been used to expose Lu Peng, Lan Youyin told him that apart from herself and A Mang, the only person who could have obtained that photo outside the bank was Peng Yongcheng himself. As for Peng Yongcheng's travel pass to Jinan, A Mang had told her during one of his rare sober moments that it had been forged by Peng Yongcheng secretly seeking his help the day before Mid-Autumn Festival.

It turned out the "Silkworm Keeper" had long prepared to sacrifice himself if the assassination failed and the group was pursued.

"You were right," Lan Youyin said. "The price that should have been mine was paid by him instead."

Ren Shaobai looked at her in surprise, having never expected her to say such words. He realized he still didn't understand Lan Youyin.

Of course he didn't. There were too many things about Lan Youyin that puzzled him—why was she so determined to kill Lu Peng? Why had she killed Yang Kaizhi? For whom had she originally stolen that box of five dumdum bullets?

"Lan Youyin." The square whiskey glass before Ren Shaobai was empty again, and once more he hid behind drunkenness to ask, "What exactly happened to make you who you are now?"

"That's amusing," Lan Youyin said, raising her fourth glass to her lips, its rim no longer cool from being rubbed repeatedly by her fingers. "As if you knew the old me."

"I did." Ren Shaobai's voice grew slightly slurred. "Not from that tram ride to Huaxiba two years ago you mentioned, but in Nanjing. Though you probably don't even remember the Chengdu incident, let alone earlier. Your school was performing Ibsen's A Doll's House, and you played Nora. You were so full of life—I thought then that if this Nora left home, even if she faced difficulties, she'd never regret it and would surely carve out her own path. That's how you struck me, you—"

Lan Youyin set her glass down with a soft "clink"—not loud, but enough to interrupt and shatter Ren Shaobai's sudden nostalgia and its inexplicable tenderness. When he looked up at her with startled eyes, she said somewhat stiffly, "Ren Shaobai, with your tolerance, you shouldn't be drinking like this."

Ren Shaobai paused, then shook his head with a self-deprecating smile. "Really? I thought it was most suitable..."The band took a break at that moment, and the surrounding decibel level dropped instantly, making the human clamor even more pronounced. Ren Shaobai, however, fell silent, as if waking from a dream and realizing what he had just said.

"Sorry, I..." He swallowed the rest of his words, paused for two seconds, but then it evaporated quickly, like high-proof alcohol exposed to the air.

Equally quick to evaporate was Lan Youyin's initial guilt toward him.

"Ren Shaobai, I'll forget you're One-Two-Zero-Seven. From now on, we go our separate ways, with no ties between us."

Ren Shaobai seemed not to grasp her meaning. The swaying ceiling lights reflected off his glasses, obscuring his eyes behind a glare. After a long while, he finally asked, "Are you saying you want to get off the boat first?"

—Had they ever been on the same boat to begin with?

"There is no boat," Lan Youyin said bluntly. "I know you won’t help me kill Lu Peng, nor will you report me to him. So, the leverage you hold has no value to me anymore. I have my own matters to attend to, and I can’t afford to be associated with a Communist spy under investigation by both the Intelligence Department and the Confidentiality Bureau."

Ren Shaobai found this unbelievable. He stared at her, recalling his earlier accusations against her.

Lan Youyin might have a conscience—but not much of one.

The next morning, Ren Shaobai was awakened by persistent knocking. It took him a few seconds to confirm he was at home in Huiyuan. The empty liquor bottle lying beside his head indicated he had managed another round of drinking before finally passing out the night before. As a result, a throbbing headache, worse than usual, pulsed at his temples—another step closer to the image of a dissipated wreck.

They say people are more sensitive to sound when hungover. Indeed, the knocking outside wasn’t particularly aggressive, yet each strike seemed to land right beside his ear, impossible to ignore. He endured it a little longer before forcing himself up from the couch and calling out hoarsely, "Who is it?"

"Young Master, it's me." The voice of a middle-aged woman came from outside, and Ren Shaobai instantly sobered up.

—He had completely forgotten. Aunt Qiao was supposed to deliver this month’s rent for Xijia Datang today.

Scrambling frantically, he shoved the trash around the coffee table under the sofa, ruffled his hair, and wiped his face roughly. Just as he reached the door, he noticed his unwashed shirt from yesterday was hopelessly wrinkled. He hastily grabbed a coat from the rack by the entrance and threw it on.

"Coming," he said, then took a deep breath and opened the door.

It was like back in high school when he’d just started smoking and had to find ways to air out the smell before returning home.

"Aunt Qiao," he forced a smile, putting on the act of a well-behaved young man living alone.

But just as she could always sniff out the lingering smoke on his collar years ago, now, the moment she stepped inside, her first words were, "Young Master, why are you drinking alone at home?"

Ren Shaobai scratched his head awkwardly. "It was a holiday yesterday, so I stayed out late for socializing."Aunt Qiao muttered under her breath, "What kind of holiday is this? The firecrackers are so loud, I thought the Communists had crossed the river..." She slipped off her shoes and entered the house, adding, "A few tenants are late with their rent. There's no helping it—they can't even afford vegetables. I couldn't bear to press them."

"Hmm." Ren Shaobai nodded and took the envelope filled with banknotes without counting them. Since the switch to Gold Yuan, the rent he received came in various currencies. Some landlords, fearing the Gold Yuan would soon become worthless, insisted on being paid in silver dollars. But Ren Shaobai didn't mind. Aunt Qiao had initially teased him for running a charity.

"Oh, by the way, young master." Aunt Qiao rummaged in her bag and handed him another letter. "This arrived yesterday, addressed to our lady. It's strange—why would it be sent here? Take a look."

"For my mother?" Ren Shaobai frowned and looked down. The envelope bore his mother's maiden name, "Xie Yuzhi," written neatly in the center, while the sender's field was blank. The postmark showed it had been sent from a suburban county near Nanjing. Just as he was puzzling over it, he noticed a faint pencil mark on the back of the envelope. His heart sank instantly, and he tore it open without hesitation.

"Young master, that's not—" Aunt Qiao began to protest, but she stopped when she saw the change in Ren Shaobai's expression.

Ren Shaobai unfolded the letter. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the content was ordinary and warm: "Dear Yuzhi, I hope this letter finds you well..." It was the kind of tone anyone might use when writing to a close friend.

If any government department were to randomly inspect citizens' correspondence, this letter would not arouse the slightest suspicion. The old friend began with the most commonplace greetings, mentioning her recent life, family, children, and daily routines, then reminisced about a trip she had taken with the recipient years ago.

"...Lately, I’ve been thinking about our journey to Mount Tai—what an unforgettable experience. I remember how strenuous the climb was, but the breathtaking view from the summit made it all worthwhile. Back then, we promised to visit Huangshan together someday. Though not one of the Five Great Mountains, Huangshan has been celebrated in countless poems and writings. Aren’t we both curious about its legendary pines and sea of clouds? So, what do you think? Regarding our plan to climb Huangshan, I hope you’ll consider it a top priority. It would mark the beginning of our travels further south and the journey I most wish to share with you..."

The signature at the end was simple: "Your friend, Shu Ying."

Ren Shaobai finished reading the letter quickly, but his fingers trembled with suppressed emotion. Beneath the seemingly trivial travelogue and invitation lay a coded message—one only he could decipher. It was the final message Peng Yongcheng had left for him.At almost the same time, Lan Youyin drove alone to Tangshui Town in the eastern part of Nanjing. On her passenger seat lay a letter—unsigned, yet her intuition told her she knew exactly who it was from. Whether out of curiosity or some other emotion, she found herself at an electrical supply store in Tangshui Town, as mentioned in the letter. She handed the order she had received along with the letter to the clerk, who said, "Just a moment," before disappearing into the storeroom. After a while, he returned carrying a leather case and said to Lan Youyin, "Check if everything is here."

Lan Youyin frowned, her heart pounding in her chest—Don’t open it, just leave! A voice that could be defined as "rational" warned her. Yet her hands seemed guided by another force, and she opened the case. Inside, neatly arranged, were various parts and materials—she knew all too well what they were.

These were all the components needed to assemble a wireless transmitter.