Making Contact

Fang Jibai frowned slightly. He noticed that the customer at the shoe repair stall kept glancing toward the female tenant. Subtle as those glances were, they did not escape Fang Jibai's watchful eyes. He then shifted his gaze to the cobbler, scrutinizing him closely. About a dozen minutes later, the woman came outside again, the stylish handbag still slung over her arm, carrying an attractive small leather suitcase. Right at that moment, the cobbler handed the mended cloth shoes back to his customer. The customer put on his shoes and took a few steps, flexing his feet with apparent satisfaction. Suddenly, the man lunged forward at the woman, snatched the purse right out of her hand, and bolted at full speed. "Stop, thief! Stop, thief!" the woman cried in terror. "Someone help, I've been robbed!" "You little crook!" The cobbler jumped up, feigning pursuit, but instead suddenly tore the leather suitcase from the woman's grip, took to his heels, and sprinted away. He vanished in an instant, leaving behind only the dumbstruck woman and the untidy clutter of his roadside shoe stall. ... From his hiding place, Fang Jibai monitored the commotion in Shipopo Lane. The police soon arrived. Weeping and sniffling, the woman recounted how she had been robbed. After taking her statement, the police conducted a cursory inspection of the scene and ended up taking the victim with them as well. Reluctant though she seemed, she had no choice but to comply when faced with their stern attitude. Shipopo Lane returned to its former tranquility. Fang Jibai drew the curtains closed, lit a cigarette, and took a gentle puff. He sank into deep thought. Could his judgment have been mistaken? Was the cobbler not an enemy lookout after all? Were the cobbler and his partner merely petty thieves who had cased the alley, targeting the female tenant of No. 19 Shipopo Lane in advance to carry out a robbery? Fang Jibai turned the events over and over in his mind, replaying every moment. Neither the reaction of the tenant whose purse and suitcase had been snatched nor the conduct of the cobbler and his accomplice appeared out of the ordinary. As a policeman at the Jiangjun Temple Police Station, he had arrested plenty of petty thieves and street snatchers; he was all too familiar with scenes like this. Though his doubts and suspicions were not completely dispelled, he felt considerably more at ease. This new development brought him a degree of relief. He pondered in silence, beginning to assess his next move. ... "Team Leader, it's done," Cao Anmin reported to Zhang Jiaju. "Mm." Zhang Jiaju gave a slight nod. "Pass the word down: no one is permitted to show his face in Shipopo Lane. Tell the men stationed in other streets to maintain strict concealment. We must not spook Great Sage again." "Do you believe Great Sage is still around, Team Leader?" Cao Anmin asked. "Perhaps," Zhang Jiaju replied flatly, his brow furrowed. His intuition told him that Great Sage was no ordinary operative; he might well be up against a formidable adversary. A faint smile touched Zhang Jiaju's lips. Remarkable was good. The more remarkable he was, the more it proved Great Sage's worth. This was a big fish. ... Night fell, dark as spilled ink. The silver moonlight poured down in peaceful serenity, draping the earth in a sheer, shimmering veil. Fang Jibai lifted the edge of the curtain, his gaze sweeping the street outside with vigilant care. The alley was deserted, wrapped in absolute silence. Still, he dared not let his guard down. As far as his eyes could see, there was no sign of anything unusual—no pinpricks of glowing ember. Men pulling surveillance through the night were almost always heavy smokers, and the flicker of a cigarette tip in the dark was the easiest tell of an ambush. Having confirmed that the coast was clear, Fang Jibai, now clad in black, slipped out through the window. He had chosen this southernmost room on the second floor not only because it offered an excellent view of Shipopo Lane, but also because its window opened onto an adjoining roof that met the outer wall, beside which grew a locust tree—providing an ideal route for slipping in and out under cover of night. Nimble as a cat, he scaled the rooftop and pressed himself flat against the tiles. Instead of rushing down, he lay prone, peering out with only half his head exposed, surveying the surroundings from above to make certain once more that nothing was amiss. After a dozen minutes, Fang Jibai quietly shimmied down the locust tree and swiftly melted into the darkness. He had planned his route long beforehand. The back wall of No. 21 Shipopo Lane bordered a narrow side alley. Rather than entering through the front gate, he intended to scale the rear wall, minimizing any risk of exposure. ... The narrow alley was dead silent in the deep of the night. Dressed in black, Fang Jibai materialized like a phantom. With a short running start, he vaulted lightly atop the wall with feline agility. After a quick scan to ensure there was no danger, he dropped softly to the ground. No. 21 Shipopo Lane was laid out with a modest courtyard in the front and two rooms in the back. Rather than knocking immediately, Fang Jibai crouched in a corner of the wall. His dark clothes blended seamlessly into the gloom, and he remained hunkered down there for roughly ten minutes. Everything was still. Only then did Fang Jibai rise. He gently stretched his limbs to work out the numbness in his legs from crouching so long. Then, treading softly, he stepped forward and tapped lightly on the door. Inside, Liu Antai had not slept. He could not sleep. It was not just the lingering agony of his injuries from interrogation that tormented him; his mind was churning with profound dread. He knew all too well the price of betraying the revolution. If the organization discovered his treason, they would never let him live. Back then, the ruthless, ironhanded cruelty of the Special Branch's Dog-Beating Squad toward traitors was something he knew intimately. Although the Special Branch had been shattered and no longer existed, the organization's stance toward traitors had never changed. His only hope now rested on the assurances Zhang Jiaju had made him. He was a Nationalist man now, and under the overarching framework of the Nationalist-Communist cooperation, even if the Red Party hated him to the bone, they would not dare harm him for fear of compromising the greater cause of the joint war of resistance. Of course, life over the past few days had brought Liu Antai no small comfort. He ate whatever he pleased, never imagining a day would come when he would grow tired of rich feasts of fish and meat. In the darkness, his eyes drifted toward the desk drawer. Inside that locked drawer lay five large gold bars and a thick stack of fabi banknotes, giving him something to look forward to and a sense of reassurance. Right at that moment, a soft knocking sounded at the door. Faint though the rap was, it fell sharp and clear upon his ears. ... Liu Antai started in terror. Leaping to his feet, he snatched the pistol from beneath his pillow, disengaged the safety, and tiptoed behind the door. "Who is it?" Liu Antai whispered. "Uncle San, it's me, Si Mao," Fang Jibai answered softly. Great Sage! Liu Antai's heart seized in shock, instantly followed by overwhelming joy. Great Sage, who had failed to show during the day, was finally here! Great Sage was indeed alive! Heaven had not forsaken him—he, Liu Antai, was destined to strike it rich. "Are you Si Mao from Second Sister Yingchun's family?" he asked, suppressing the excitement trembling in his voice. "Uncle San's memory is slipping. My mother's name is Panchun," Fang Jibai said. The countersign matched. Drawing a deep breath, Liu Antai pulled back the door latch and looked eagerly toward the doorway.