No. 21 Shipopo Lane

Zhang Jiaju's face darkened. Liu Antai's gesture was a signal: a signal that Great Sage had failed to show up as scheduled. At the same time, Liu Antai was asking for instructions on what to do next. "Send the signal," Zhang Jiaju said after a moment's contemplation, turning to Cao Anmin. "Tell Liu Antai to return to No. 21 Shipopo Lane and try making contact again this afternoon." "Great Sage didn't come?" Cao Anmin asked reflexively. Then, catching sight of his team leader's dark expression and knowing Zhang Jiaju was in a foul mood, he beat a hasty retreat as if running for his life. Soon, on the street below Boyun Teahouse, a young man riding a bicycle accidentally knocked down a passerby, and a loud argument broke out between the two. In the private room on the second floor, Liu Antai witnessed the scene and let out an inexplicable sigh of relief, followed by another sigh, before quickly heading downstairs to leave. Watching Liu Antai leave the building, Zhang Jiaju kept his eyes fixed on his retreating figure for about a minute. Once he saw that his men had fallen in behind Liu Antai, he finally lowered the binoculars and casually passed them over. Cao Anmin hurried to take them with both hands. "I'm heading back to rest for a bit," Zhang Jiaju told Cao Anmin. "I'll be back this afternoon. Keep a sharp eye on things while I'm away." "Yes, sir," Cao Anmin said at once. "Rest assured, Team Leader." "Great Sage didn't appear this morning," Zhang Jiaju warned. "Still, don't let your guard down. As long as this Great Sage is still breathing, it means he will definitely show up this afternoon." "Understood." "What do you understand?" Zhang Jiaju cast a sidelong glance at him. "Eat and drink my fill at noon, build up my strength, and nab the bastard this afternoon," Cao Anmin chuckled. "Eat, eat, eat—eating is all you ever think about," Zhang Jiaju scoffed with a laugh. Crude as the words were, the reasoning was sound. He waved a hand and left. Cao Anmin watched Zhang Jiaju leave with a grin, a slight smirk playing on his lips. It was good to play dumb. Only fools lived long. He plopped down on a stool, pulled open a drawer, and took out some fried peanuts wrapped in greaseproof paper. Crossing his legs, he pinched a peanut and popped it into his mouth. Crisp with a snap, fragrant and savory. *** Fang Jibai wore a grim, downtrodden expression, looking for all the world like a man fretting over his livelihood. Unhurried and steady, he trailed behind his contact comrade. To avoid drawing attention, he maintained a distance of five or six meters. The bustling crowd on Anren Street provided excellent cover for his surveillance. He tracked him all the way, watching him cross Anren Street toward the south and turn into Shipopo Lane. Eventually, the man stopped at the entrance of No. 21 Shipopo Lane. Seeing the comrade take out a key to unlock the door, Fang Jibai was hesitating over whether to keep walking through Shipopo Lane or slip into an adjacent alley. Right at that moment, he caught sight of a cobbler's stand set up not far ahead. Without the slightest hesitation, Fang Jibai turned directly into the side alley. As a police officer at the Jiangjun Temple Police Station, Fang Jibai knew the streets and alleys of Nanjing inside and out. Near Shipopo Lane stood the Limin Inn; the south-facing rooms on its second floor commanded a clear view of Shipopo Lane. Without hesitation, Fang Jibai quickened his pace to the Limin Inn. Claiming a preference for peace and quiet, he asked for a corner room facing south on the second floor. *** The sunlight was blazing. Fang Jibai drew the heavy curtains, then quietly lifted a corner to keep watch in the direction of Shipopo Lane. He caught a whiff of danger. That danger emanated from the cobbler who had set up his stand in Shipopo Lane. It was simple: Shipopo Lane was not a main thoroughfare. Pedestrian traffic was thin, so a cobbler could hardly expect good business here. Cobblers usually picked busy street corners or spots near wet markets—such as just down the road from Boyun Teahouse, where he had had tea earlier. The location of this cobbler's stand made little sense. Fang Jibai frowned in thought. Suddenly, his expression changed. His first reaction was that his contact comrade might have been targeted by the enemy, and that the cobbler was a watcher planted by them. This comrade was in danger! Though this conclusion was drawn merely from his analysis of a single detail without concrete proof, and there was always a chance he was mistaken, Fang Jibai dared not take it lightly. Countless bloody lessons had taught him that any suspicious trace, no matter how small, demanded utmost vigilance. In underground work, one could never afford to rely on luck. *** Fang Jibai kept watching Shipopo Lane. No. 21 Shipopo Lane was a target of observation, and the cobbler, positioned some thirty meters away, was another. Just then, he caught sight of an adolescent boy trotting over with a food box in hand. A towel was draped over the boy's shoulder. Arriving at the entrance of No. 21 Shipopo Lane, he wiped away his sweat with the towel and knocked on the door. A middle-aged man opened the door—the very comrade he was supposed to meet. This time, Fang Jibai got a clearer look: the man wore a navy-blue checkered gown and spectacles, carrying an air of cultured refinement. The boy opened the food box and handed the catered meal to the middle-aged man. The middle-aged man smiled as he paid, even exchanging a few words with the delivery boy. Evidently having received a handsome tip, the boy departed with a grin that reached his eyes. Fang Jibai's eyes narrowed. He saw the middle-aged man carry the food inside and casually close the door behind him. Fang Jibai shifted his gaze back to the cobbler. The man still had no customers, yet showed not the slightest anxiety; he even pulled a sesame flatbread from inside his coat and began to eat. Perhaps biting into a grit of sand, the cobbler spat repeatedly in disgust and even threw away the remaining half of the flatbread. Fang Jibai stared for several moments, his expression growing graver still. He drew back his gaze, pulled the curtain shut, and sank into deep thought. *** Fang Jibai sat on a chair, his hands resting naturally on the table as his fingers twirled a dagger. The more he thought about it, the more wrong it felt. His expression grew increasingly solemn. First, he could now confirm that the middle-aged man at No. 21 Shipopo Lane was indeed the comrade sent by the underground organization to make contact. However, what he had observed in secret put him on high alert. Like scenes playing across a cinema screen, what he had just witnessed replayed again and again in his mind. The cobbler was suspicious—very suspicious. If the location of the cobbler's stand had aroused an inkling of suspicion, then his careless wasting of food magnified that suspicion even further. He was now seventy percent certain that the man was an enemy surveillance operative. The contact comrade might be in danger! The contact... comrade... Fang Jibai's brow suddenly furrowed. A jolt went through him, and he sat bolt upright. The delivery boy seemed quite familiar with the contact comrade, which meant this was not the first time the comrade had ordered catered meals. Furthermore, if his guess was correct, the comrade had paid extra as a tip for the boy's errand. That seemed off. The underground organization's funds were always desperately tight. Yet this comrade sent to make contact acted as though his pockets were bulging with cash. Fang Jibai could not help but grow suspicious.