Chen Shen sat with his legs crossed in the warm, spring-like MGM dance hall. He had no idea that, outside the dance hall, along the vast and chilly Tibet Road, an unexpected snow was silently falling from the endless black sky.
An hour earlier, he had met up with the Communist Party’s special agent, "The Prime Minister," but he hadn’t expected that the Prime Minister would turn out to be a woman. His gaze fell on the Prime Minister's black wool coat. It was a meticulously tailored piece, and Chen Shen thought, the stitching is so even and tight; the tailor must be from Ningbo.
He had always been observant. Through the swaying figures of men and women on the dance floor, he saw Li Xiaonan clinking glasses with a few men not far away. She was clearly a little tipsy, the glass she held in her hand seemed ready to slip to the floor at any moment. Her dress appeared uneven, with one side higher than the other. This woman, who claimed to be an actress from a movie company, always gave the impression of being rather careless. She was from Yancheng, a bold and boisterous girl, who often, after drinking too much, would loudly insist on playing drinking games with Chen Shen and even tease him about marrying her. Chen Shen always responded that he didn’t have the guts, and he thought of Li Xiaonan more as a brother. Brothers aren’t meant to be married.
But deep down, Chen Shen admitted to himself that the Prime Minister, sitting as quietly as a "Dripping Water Lotus," was indeed a beautiful woman. He had heard that, aside from her younger sister, all seven other members of the Prime Minister’s family had perished. The Prime Minister remained motionless, her gaze fixed on the dance floor, but she spoke to Chen Shen. "You don’t look like a revolutionary," she said.
"What does a revolutionary look like?" Chen Shen asked, humbly.
"Revolutionaries are willing to die. You’re not. I can tell you love living the high life."
"I’m not drinking alcohol, I’m drinking kvass. And I don’t have any flowers. I guess I’m probably getting old, no longer in the mood for that kind of thing," Chen Shen said sadly, spinning a small hairdressing scissor in his hand.
"Then why do you smoke Japanese Cherry cigarettes?"
Chen Shen looked at the three cigarette butts lying in the ashtray, as clean as a young girl. "Smoking Japanese cigarettes doesn’t make you a traitor."
"Smoke less."
"Okay, I’ll listen to you. Why did ‘Sparrow’ only appear after two years?"
"You’re not allowed to inquire about any information regarding ‘Sparrow’." After a moment of silence, the Prime Minister added, "Your dancing is improving."
"It’s part of the job. I love my job," Chen Shen said, putting the scissors into his pocket and lighting another Cherry cigarette. Through the thin smoke, Chen Shen suddenly felt an overwhelming sadness, as if he wanted to cry. He never understood why, after two years, it was as if the organization had forgotten him. Even a blade of grass gets remembered by the spring breeze every year. He couldn’t even be sure if he was still a Communist infiltrator or just a regular agent in the puppet regime’s secret service. But now, suddenly, a well-dressed woman had found him through ‘Sparrow,’ telling him that he had been reactivated. His new contact would be "The Doctor," who would issue orders via a wall covered in posters at the intersection of Oujia Road and Shajing Road. The intelligence he gathered was to be placed in an envelope and dropped into a mailbox on Doule Road.
Chen Shen clearly remembered that not far from the mailbox was a Christian church called "Hongdetang," where white doves always flew freely above its yellow rooftop.
"Won’t using the mailbox be unsafe?" Chen Shen asked.
“No! From now on, what you need to do is get hold of a copy of the puppet regime’s ‘Reset’ operational plan, which outlines a second, devastating wave of attacks on the New Fourth Army after the implementation of the ‘Qing Xiang’ campaign.” The Prime Minister’s words were brief and decisive. She stood up and wrapped a scarf around herself, clearly preparing to leave now that she had delivered her instructions.
Chen Shen knew that, since July, the Wang Jingwei government’s Qing Xiang campaign had been in full swing. The New Fourth Army in southern Jiangsu had suffered setbacks, with the main forces of one division ordered by military command to cross the Yangtze River to the north, where they had relocated to the Jiangdu, Gaoyou, and Baoying areas to establish a new anti-Japanese base. In Chen Shen’s mind, these areas, crisscrossed by plains and lakes, were perfect for wild fields of rapeseed to grow. Chen Shen lifted his gaze and saw Li Xiaonan playing drinking games with the men again. Amidst the music, he couldn’t hear her voice, but he could clearly see her exaggerated gestures.
Of course, Chen Shen had no idea that outside the dance hall, a heavy snow was falling over everything. Three hours earlier, his immediate superior, Bi Zhong Liang, had been personally interrogating An Liu San, a courier for the Communist Party’s Shanghai Transport Station, in the interrogation room at the Secret Service headquarters at 55 Jisifeier Road. An Liu San’s body was mangled, resembling a grotesque, blood-red cockscomb flower, his entire form reeking of blood and the burnt scent of scorched skin. An Liu San thought of the dandelions in the fields of his hometown, Shaoxing, and of his wife and two children waiting for him to come home. He figured that spending his life growing broad beans and wheat, paddling a boat to farm, might have been a good life after all. In the end, he finally spoke. He revealed that a woman called "The Prime Minister" would be meeting someone at the MGM dance hall. The time was now. After spilling everything, he let out a long breath, as if finally at ease, before slumping unconscious like a dying chicken.
Bi Zhong Liang paused for a moment. He had been sipping warmed Huadiao wine from a large enamel mug. He was mildly dependent on alcohol; if he didn’t drink for a day, his whole body would tremble like a sieve. Carefully, he drained the wine from his cup, then stretched his hands out to warm them over the stove, where branding irons were being heated. Bi Zhong Liang glanced at his subordinate, Bian Tou, and said, “Bring me Chen Shen.”
That day, three tarpaulin-covered trucks waited in the yard of the Secret Service’s Direct Action Team. Nine men stood beside each vehicle. Bi Zhong Liang, dressed in a coat, paced back and forth in the snow. Bian Tou rushed over and reported that they hadn’t been able to find Chen Shen. Bi Zhong Liang grew a little angry. Chen Shen was the captain of his squad, but also a troublesome brother. Thinking for a moment, he raised his head to watch the endless snow swirl and twist in the air like a waterfall blown apart by the wind. A flake of snow landed on Bi Zhong Liang’s neck, quickly melting and sending a chill through him. Shrugging his neck, Bi Zhong Liang muttered toward the sky, “MGM.”
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