Siheyuan (traditional courtyard house): Starting with the Korean War, returning home to take charge

The lights in the interrogation room were a stark, unbearable white.

When He Yuzhu pushed open the door, the smell of smoke almost made him jump out. The fluorescent light in the corner hummed, sending chills down one's spine. Scarface sat in a chair, the handcuffs creaking against the iron armrests.

Yang Xiaobing stood to the side, gripping the belt in his hand. He didn't move; he just stood there.

Old Sun sat opposite him, the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, some still smoking. He looked up, his eye bags drooping, his eyes bloodshot.

"He hasn't said anything yet."

He Yuzhu walked up to Scarface and squatted down.

The man looked up. The scar on his face gleamed dark red under the light, and the fierceness in his eyes was still there, but something was swaying beneath them.

He Yuzhu didn't say anything, just looked at him.

One second, two seconds, three seconds.

Scarface began to look away. He lowered his head and stared at the black cloth shoes on his feet.

He Yuzhu stood up, turned around and walked towards the door.

"Yang Xiaobing".

Yang Xiaobing walked over.

"Commander."

"It's up to you. Don't kill him."

He Yuzhu pushed open the door and went out.

A muffled thud came from behind. The sound of a belt striking flesh. Then a second, then a third.

He didn't turn around.

Two hours.

He Yuzhu stood in the corridor, leaning against the wall, smoking one cigarette after another. The window was open, and a cold wind blew in, dispersing the smoke, but not the smell.

Footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor. Yang Xiaobing walked over, his face expressionless, but his forehead was covered in a fine layer of sweat.

"I said so."

He Yuzhu stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill.

"Who?"

Yang Xiaobing lowered his voice.

"His surname is Sun. He's a deputy section chief in a certain ministry. He said the 'blacksmith' is this person."

He Yuzhu tightened his grip inside his sleeve.

"What's your name?"

Yang Xiaobing gave a name.

He Yuzhu mentally reviewed the name. He had no recollection of it.

Yang Xiaobing added.

"He said Sun Deming goes to Tianjin on the 15th of every month to meet with people there. He's been doing this for three years."

He Yuzhu didn't say anything.

The corridor was quiet. The sound of a dripping faucet could be heard in the distance, drip, drip.

The next morning, Old Sun slammed the list on the table.

Seven photos, seven resumes, spread out and covering half the table. He Yuzhu looked through them one by one. The first one, round face, smiling. The second one, thin, wearing glasses. The third, the fourth…

Old Sun spoke to them one by one from the side.

"The supplies manager checked it, and there's no problem."

"This guy works in statistics; he has a clean background."

"This one was transferred from the Northeast. He's a veteran cadre with impeccable revolutionary credentials."

He paused when he pointed to the fifth one.

He Yuzhu raised his head.

"What's wrong with this?"

Old Sun didn't say anything, but pushed the resume over.

He Yuzhu looked down.

Sun Deming, 45 years old, is from Jiangsu Province. He joined the revolution in 1949 and the Communist Party in 1952. His resume is neat and clean, with each step from clerk to deputy director clearly written down.

"It's too clean," He Yuzhu said.

Old Sun nodded.

"The period before 1949 is a blank."

He Yuzhu looked at the photo. His face was thin and long, expressionless, and his eyes were fixed on the camera; it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

He said he was a member of the underground Communist Party.

Old Sun lit a cigarette.

"We can't find any witnesses. Those people are either dead or scattered. No one can corroborate our story."

He Yuzhu remained silent for a while.

"Investigate him. Don't alert anyone."

Old Sun stood up and walked out. But when he reached the door, he turned back.

"What if it really is him? What are you going to do?"

He Yuzhu did not answer.

On the third day, Lao Sun's men went to Tianjin.

On the morning of the fourth day, news came back. For the past three years, Sun Deming had gone to Tianjin on the 15th of every month, stayed at the same hotel, and met with the same person each time. The person's identity was found—a general store owner surnamed Zhou, a former Kuomintang soldier.

He Yuzhu looked at the report.

"Should we arrest them?"

Old Sun shook his head.

"Wait a little longer. Let's see if he goes this month."

On the fourth night, the phone rang.

He Yuzhu was staring at the photograph on the wall. Sun Deming's face looked sallow under the light, his eyes still so empty. The phone rang urgently, and he answered it.

"Commander!" Yang Xiaobing's voice burst from the microphone, panting, "That guy surnamed Sun has escaped!"

He Yuzhu's hand tightened slightly.

"When?"

"This afternoon, he didn't go home after get off work, and no one was at his workplace either. We rushed into his house, and all his belongings were there, his clothes were untouched, and there was still half a cup of cold tea on the table. But he was gone."

He Yuzhu stood up and walked to the window.

"Did they check at the train station?"

"I checked, there are no tickets. I checked at the bus station too, they don't have any either."

"Where is his wife?"

"I asked. They said they went out in the morning the same as usual, wearing that gray Zhongshan suit and carrying that black leather bag, and that they would be back for dinner in the evening."

He Yuzhu held the microphone but didn't speak.

It was pitch black outside the window, with only a few lights in the distance. The streetlights cast a dim yellow glow on the alley entrance, and the shadows of the locust trees swayed in the wind.

He remembered the empty eyes in that photograph.

"Keep investigating. He can't have gone far."

The phone hangs up.

He Yuzhu stood by the window, looking at the darkness.

Sun Deming, 45 years old, has a resume as clean as a blank sheet of paper.

But what's underneath the paper?

A cool breeze was blowing in through the cracks in the window.

He suddenly remembered something Scarface had said.

"He told me to tell you that what happened last time isn't over."

What happened last time.

About the Yasukuni Shrine.

He Yuzhu lit a cigarette and took a puff.

That line hasn't broken yet.

The next morning, Old Sun rushed in.

"The letter has been found."

He slammed a piece of paper on the table.

He Yuzhu looked down.

Mailing address: Hong Kong, P.O. Box XX.

Sender: Blank.

He raised his head.

"Whose mailbox is this?"

Old Sun was silent for two seconds.

"It was deregistered three years ago."

Outside the window, it was dawn. Sunlight streamed in, making the paper appear white.

He Yuzhu stared at that line of text for a long time.

The mailbox was cancelled three years ago.

It was the fifth day since Sun Deming disappeared.

The person was still moving.