Chapter 1: Cheng Qianfan

Chapter 1: Cheng Qianfan

1936, Shanghai, early spring.

The lingering chill of spring remained biting.

Cheng Qianfan opened the window and glanced outside. The sky was so overcast it seemed as though water might drip from it.

From the corner of his eye, he observed the entrance to the lane. People came and went, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

He could hear Liu Ada, the wonton seller, arguing with Granny Ma again.

Granny Ma was accustomed to taking advantage of others. Every time, she came up with a different excuse: the wonton filling was too small, the flavour too bland, the wrapper too thin, the wrapper too thick.

Liu Ada invariably had no choice but to give her an extra bowl of wonton broth. Granny Ma would then leave in high spirits, not forgetting to add, “Too few dried shrimp.”

And every time, Liu Ada would say he would never sell to her again.

Cheng Qianfan took off his police patrol uniform and began changing clothes.

A deep V-neck chunky knit sweater stretched the lines of his upper body.

Over it, he layered a knitted cardigan, instantly giving his outfit greater depth.

It was a very common style among intellectuals, lending Cheng Qianfan a scholarly air. He looked like a university student, or perhaps a young teacher at an academy.

Today was the day of his routine rendezvous with Old Liao.

Whenever this time came around, Cheng Qianfan felt warm and excited through and through.

He believed every underground worker felt this way when making contact with a comrade.

An underground worker was lonely. Their working environment was complicated and fraught with danger.

They had to remain vigilant at all times, matching wits with the enemy and with their surroundings. There was no room for even the slightest mistake.

The happiest moments were meeting comrades, chatting, discussing work, and imagining the beautiful future of the motherland that everyone carried in their hearts.

Even if there would be no physical contact during the rendezvous, even if they could not speak, a single glance was the greatest encouragement they could give each other.

We are not fighting alone. We have comrades.

Cheng Qianfan remembered a conversation he once had with Old Liao. Gesturing animatedly, Old Liao had said that what he longed for most was for the year to end, for him to sit in the sun in the courtyard of his ancestral home, smoke a pipe, and call out, while his grandsons and granddaughters gathered around him, clamouring for Grandpa and Granddad. That would truly be bliss.

Cheng Qianfan had fallen silent and said nothing.

Old Liao was from Northeast China.

His entire family had joined the Anti-Japanese United Army.

He had a wife, three sons, and two daughters.

All of them had died.

Now the old man was completely alone.

There was bitterness in his heart, and hatred as well.

Hatred born of national humiliation and personal tragedy.

Half an hour later.

Cheng Qianfan was waiting for a tram on Avenue Joffre.

In his hand, he carried a bottle of sorghum liquor.

French Electric Tram Route 2 ran from Shiliupu to Xujiahui, passing through busy districts such as Avenue Joffre and Route Père Robert. It was the most important transportation line in the French Concession.

Cheng Qianfan intended to get off at Avenue Joffre.

Old Liao would be waiting at the stop.

When Cheng Qianfan got off, Old Liao would pretend to board the tram. At that moment, the two would make contact, discreetly and quickly passing intelligence or items.

The trams were crowded, and there were many passengers waiting. Generally speaking, the elderly and infirm found it difficult to squeeze aboard.

Shanghai newspapers once used an exaggerated headline to describe the difficulty of riding trams:

“[Storming the Battlefield to Board a Tram]”

“[Brave passengers leap into the carriage through windows, the front, or the rear before the iron gates have even opened.]”

“[By the time you enter through the door, the carriage is already packed shoulder to shoulder, as cramped as sardines in a tin.]”

“[A group of elderly and weak stragglers is left behind at the station, pinning their hopes on the next tram.]”

“[The impatient can only pay high prices for a rickshaw or pedicab, or wear out the soles of their own shoes.]”

Therefore, because Old Liao was elderly, he would pretend he could not squeeze onto the tram.

That was entirely reasonable.

Plausibility was the first thing an underground worker had to consider. This was something Comrade Zhulin had repeatedly reminded him of, and Cheng Qianfan always kept it firmly in mind.

Then, if Old Liao chose to remain where he was and wait for the next tram, it meant everything was normal. The higher-ups had issued no urgent instructions, and everything would proceed as usual.

If Old Liao appeared too impatient to wait and instead chose to leave on foot, it meant the situation was urgent and the two of them needed to find an opportunity to meet immediately.

Unless either Old Liao or Cheng Qianfan had been exposed and someone was watching them continuously, this method of contact would not attract attention.

The tram was merely a medium, an excellent tool for concealment.

Cheng Qianfan finally managed to squeeze aboard.

The first person he saw was Li Hao.

Li Hao was a conductor on French Electric Tram Route 2. He wore a yellow twill uniform, with a white cloth bag for fares slung across his shoulder.

He gripped his ticket punch tightly and watched passengers boarding and disembarking with piercing eyes, shouting, “Tickets, passengers getting on, buy your tickets!”

Cheng Qianfan said nothing. His gaze met Li Hao’s for a moment before he took out money to buy a ticket.

Li Hao gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, meaning that no one was following him.

As a tram conductor, he occupied an excellent position. He had developed exceptionally sharp powers of observation and could remember every man, woman, child, and elder who boarded.

While using the corner of his eye to observe whether there was anything unusual behind Cheng Qianfan as he moved deeper into the carriage, he raised his voice and shouted at a long-faced passenger, “You bought a four-cent ticket, you can only ride as far as Route Père Robert!”

Old Liao wore a worn, thin padded jacket. Instead of squeezing into the crowd, he stood off to one side in a corner, carrying a bottle of yellow rice wine.

The position was excellent. The field of view was broad, making observation convenient.

Old Liao glanced at the bottle of wine and sighed.

Today was the death anniversary of his wife and youngest son. Those little rascals had all loved their drink, and his two daughters could drink a little as well.

Especially his youngest son, who had loved the family’s homemade sorghum liquor.

He had not been able to buy sorghum liquor. He wondered whether the boy would be upset about it.

Old Liao’s nose stung.

It was as if he could see his youngest son pulling the pin on a grenade and perishing together with a Japanese search party combing the mountains.

That had been the child he loved most dearly.

And just like that, he was gone, off to join his brothers and sisters.

Several dozen metres away, on the second floor of a residential house by the street.

“Team Leader, I’m going downstairs to buy cigarettes,” Ding Naifei requested. Several cigarette butts lay at his feet. He had run out of cigarettes and his craving had struck.

Wang Kangnian waved a hand.

“This old man seems distracted.” Wang Kangnian lowered his binoculars and pondered for a moment. “What is he thinking about?”

Wang Kangnian was the leader of Action Team Three of the Shanghai Special District of the Central Party Affairs Investigation Department.

This man particularly enjoyed studying small details. Wang Kangnian believed that emotions and expressions revealed unintentionally could sometimes subconsciously expose important information.

Ding Naifei returned after going downstairs to buy cigarettes.

“Old Ding, take a look.”

As he spoke, he handed the binoculars to his deputy, Ding Naifei.

Ding Naifei opened the cigarette pack, put one between his own lips, and offered another to his team leader.

At the same time, he took the binoculars and casually glanced through them. Speaking around the cigarette, he said, “Team Leader, I’m only good for rough work. If you want me to put a bullet through this old man, that’s my specialty. But thinking? That’s not my strength.”

“You, ah, need to learn to use your brain. Fighting and killing alone won’t get you anywhere important,” Wang Kangnian said with a laugh and a curse.

“I’ll just follow behind the Team Leader.” Ding Naifei was not offended. Lighting his cigarette, he took a satisfied drag.

“Does this old man drink?” Wang Kangnian picked up the binoculars and looked carefully. Seeing the old man repeatedly lower his head to look at the wine bottle he was carrying, he suddenly asked. This detail had attracted both his attention and his interest.