Chapter 110: Sending You To The Underworld
Shanghai, Maoming Road, a civilian house along the street.
After leaving Pearl Park, Zhao Peng went straight home.
He spread the note out on the table, looked at the note, with the telephone placed on his left side.
At this moment, he did not know whether he should make this call.
As a veteran intelligence officer who had worked on the intelligence front for five years, he instinctively felt that today’s mission was somewhat unreasonable.
When he had just entered this line of work, his handler had explained that without emergency situations, lateral contact between groups was not allowed.
The situation in Shanghai was very complex; based on his many years of work experience, the Communist Party in Shanghai had at least six groups.
International Settlement, French Concession, Chinese Territory, Japanese residential area, even Shanghai Vicinity all had intelligence groups.
All of them together numbered at least fifty people or more,
But after working for so many years, besides Fang Guohua, with whom he had a personal friendship, and the Chauffeur his handler, he had almost no contact with other groups.
Contact with Shānmāo happened during the Battle of Shanghai last year, when the organization needed to transfer a batch of materials and a radio to the French Concession.
This contact was Shānmāo.
Today, however, the Chauffeur broke with precedent and asked him to assist Qing Hu in conducting a medicine transaction with the Special Commissioner.
This matter seemed somewhat unreasonable.
Zhao Peng first suspected whether he had been exposed, but this thought was quickly dismissed by him.
If exposed, the ones coming for him would not be the Chauffeur, but members of the dog-beating team.
The organization valued the safety of comrades highly; the Chauffeur’s willingness to contact him meant he still trusted him.
Then it was another possibility: because of the Shānmāo matter, Qing Hu now had no one available.
If this reason held, it meant they really needed his help now.
But why choose him?
Zhao Peng’s fingers lightly tapped the desktop, but no matter how much he thought, he could not come up with a reasonable explanation.
Ding ding ding, the Western Clock on the wall chimed exactly eight o’clock.
Zhao Peng shook his head, picked up the telephone and dialed the Special Higher Police Affairs number: “Section Chief Matsui, I have something I want to discuss with you in person.”
Ten o’clock at night, French Concession, Albert Road.
The air pressed down heavily, saturated with the daytime’s lingering heat and the fishy smell drifting from the Huangpu River.
The rain had not stopped, fine and cold, weaving an endless gray net that enveloped the wet streets and lanes.
Neon signboards cast bizarre reflections on the slick asphalt road, soon crushed by hurrying pedestrians.
At the entrance of Man Ting Fang theater, Chai Dao huddled under the faded rain tarp of “Wang Ji Rickshaw Service,” his gaze fixed straight on the theater doors.
He deliberately pulled his worn felt hat very low; passersby who did not look closely could not see his face at all.
Ten o’clock was when the theater let out; as the theater doors opened, a group of well-dressed rich merchants appeared in sight.
The rickshaw pullers around him did not move.
Because these people would not be their guests; the group after was.
The rich merchants clasped fists in farewell at the entrance, then got into their respective sedans and left the theater one after another.
Immediately following was a large crowd of ordinary audience members.
Seeing these people appear, the rickshaw pullers around him surged forward enthusiastically greeting: “Boss, need a rickshaw?”
In less than ten minutes, only four or five rickshaws remained at the theater entrance.
At this time, a figure walked out from inside the theater; the man wore a gray single garment with the collar turned up, almost covering half his face. He habitually glanced at the four or five remaining rickshaws at the theater entrance but did not approach.
Seeing this person appear, Chai Dao’s pupils contracted slightly; although the man tried hard to conceal his identity, Chai Dao still recognized him—this was Matsui Koji.
Several rickshaw pullers nearby were about to step forward to solicit business when a black Austin Sedan drove up from afar and stopped steadily in front of him.
Matsui Koji did not hesitate at all, opened the back door and got in.
Those rickshaw pullers, seeing this scene, dejectedly turned back.
“Looks like we won’t get any fares today, Old Zhang, let’s go grab some food.” One rickshaw puller called out to someone nearby.
The other sighed, pulled up his rickshaw, and the two soon disappeared into the rain curtain.
Soon after, another figure appeared at the theater entrance; the two remaining rickshaws nearby had not yet reacted when Chai Dao pulled up his rickshaw and went forward to meet him.
“Guest, such heavy rain, take my rickshaw, last one, I’ll charge you cheap.”
Zhao Peng sized up the rickshaw puller in front of him: fawning smile, sparse stubble—one look and he seemed like an honest man.
“Maoming Road,” Zhao Peng’s voice was somewhat lazy, carrying a strange sense of fatigue.
It seemed like the sense of powerlessness after a massive release of energy.
Hunching over, he climbed into the back seat of the rickshaw; Chai Dao thoughtfully pulled up the rain tarp.
“Sit tight, Mr.” Chai Dao instructed, gripped the shafts with both hands, and ran forward.
Albert Road, Foch Road, Love Road…
The wheels turned from the slick street into narrower lanes, flanked by tall stone storehouse doors, the monotonous drip of rainwater mixing with the sound of wheels crushing stone slabs.
The air was filled with the smell of sewers and burning low-quality coal balls.
Zhao Peng on the rickshaw closed his eyes, paying no attention to the rickshaw’s direction quietly shifting, speeding toward the Suzhou River.
Screech, the brake sounded; the rickshaw stopped steadily under the huge shadow of the warehouse.
A few steps ahead was the pitch-black Suzhou River embankment; the murky river water flowed silently in the darkness.
“Mr., we’re here.” Chai Dao’s voice slowly rose.
Zhao Peng opened his eyes; the unfamiliar scene before him instantly made his emotions somewhat out of control: “You bastard, I told you Maoming Road, are you deaf? Where the hell is this? You fucking took the wrong road, you know that!”
Chai Dao did not argue or apologize, just slowly turned around.
His waist and back straightened inch by inch during the turn; that servile fatigue washed away like makeup in the rain, instantly peeling off completely.
“No mistake, this is exactly where you’re going…” Chai Dao’s voice was like a blade quenched in ice, piercing the rain curtain and nailing straight onto Zhao Peng’s face, distorted and deformed with anger.
“Ah,” Zhao Peng shuddered all over, instantly realizing: could this rickshaw puller in front of him be…
“Spa-Spare me, I can give you money, lots of money.” Zhao Peng tremblingly pulled two small yellow croakers from his pocket.
These were given to him by Matsui Koji when they met.
Not even warmed up and now to be given to someone else.
But he had no time to dwell on it now; as long as he could survive, money was external.
“Shameless,” Chai Dao said coldly: “Not everyone is as shameless as you.”
“Take your money and hit the road…”
