Chapter 221: You’re Not Cut Out For Business
The sky over Shanghai was like it had been repeatedly splashed with a basin of dirty water, gray-white and heavy, with continuous fine rain carrying a biting chill, thread by thread, seeping everywhere.
The salty, fishy dampness of the wharf mixed with the faint smell of gunpowder in the air, weaving an invisible and oppressive net.
Wan Tianmu was wrapped in a half-worn dark gray cotton robe, his hat brim pulled very low, almost covering half his face.
The moment he stepped off the gangway, the sole of his leather shoes stepped on the rain-soaked, oil-stained wharf planks, making a slight, sticky sound.
Behind him followed two youths silent as stone, their eyes sharp, shoulders taut, closely following his steps, openly scanning any suspicious shadows around!
The man in the shadows of the station with flickering eyes staring at the ticket prices, the tall, thin figure in the rickshaw pile with his hat brim covering most of his face.
“Shanghai’s smell is still so complex.” Wan Tianmu’s voice was not loud, almost inaudible amid the wharf’s clamor and the sound of rain.
He seemed to be speaking to himself, or sighing over this isolated island soaked in a mixture of despair and opportunism.
Half a month ago, the mission to assassinate a Central Executive Committee member in Nanjing failed, leading to him being reprimanded by headquarters.
Immediately after, the incident occurred where Zheng Huan, the nephew of Zheng Zhiyao, was killed.
This was no ordinary youth; Boss Dai immediately issued an order for Wan Tianmu to investigate to the end and give Zheng Zhiyao an explanation.
Wan Tianmu took a desperate risk, retrieved Zheng Huan’s body, and found a list wrapped in thin film inside his stomach, not yet digested by stomach acid.
This was a list of Military Statistics Bureau agents undercover in Nanjing.
It clearly recorded detailed information on nearly thirty agents, and the only ones who could possess such detailed information were Xiong Jiandong of the action team or Director Li Tao of the intelligence department.
After analysis, Wan Tianmu still felt Li Tao’s suspicion was great, but just as he prepared to take action personally, headquarters suddenly issued an emergency transfer order, sending him to Shanghai to take over Zhao Lijun’s position.
The reason was simple: Zhao Lijun had completely failed in the assassination of Chen Mingchu and Huang Xiangu.
Losing over a dozen agents, headquarters strictly ordered him to return to Chongqing immediately for questioning.
The position of Shanghai Station Chief was temporarily handed to Wan Tianmu.
After receiving the order, Wan Tianmu brought only two trusted subordinates and boarded the passenger ship to Shanghai.
At the ship wharf, the words “Manager of Wanfu Business Firm” on the documents he handed over were clearly visible.
The Japanese military police at the checkpoint glanced casually, their gaze lingering for a second on Wan Tianmu’s calm, unrippled face—this face was so ordinary it had almost no distinguishing features, except for those eyes filled with killing intent, hiding a disturbing stillness.
Wan Tianmu nodded slightly, showing a merchant’s caution and humility.
After checking, the military police impatiently waved him through.
Shanghai, a modest tea and snack shop on Avenue Joffre, in the back room.
Under the dim light bulb, the caretaker “accountant” Wu Ming handed Wan Tianmu a thin file.
“Station Chief, headquarters’ new counterattack order has just come down—the target is this person.”
Wan Tianmu took the file, opened it, and on the first page, in bold black font: Chen Lu, Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Nanjing Restoration Government.
“Him?” Wan Tianmu’s fingertip tapped on that name.
Wu Ming pushed up his reading glasses slipped to the tip of his nose: “Yes, an absolute big fish, the New Government’s newly appointed Minister of Foreign Affairs in Nanjing.”
“Three days ago, to celebrate the so-called ‘new chapter of Sino-Japanese friendship,’ this old thief rode in an open-top car festooned with puppet flags, parading ostentatiously along Nanjing Road to curry favor with the Japanese and gild his own face.”
Wan Tianmu said slowly: “Headquarters plans to make an example of him?”
Wu Ming nodded: “Yes, we’ve mapped out most of his action routes and guard strength.”
Wan Tianmu’s gaze moved slowly over the information, his voice heavy like the dusk outside the window: “Only most—not enough. We need to ensure it’s foolproof.”
“Station Chief,” Wu Ming said somewhat troubled: “Shanghai Station has suffered heavy losses, the intelligence department is short-handed.”
“I know.” Wan Tianmu closed the file, his voice not loud, yet carrying a metallic coldness and determination.
“Because we’ve failed once, we cannot fail a second time.”
“Old Liu, you’re in charge of this. Team Leader Wu, you assist Old Liu.”
“The blood debt at Paramount Ballroom starts being settled with Chen Lu.”
The Old Liu in Wan Tianmu’s mouth was named Liu Geqing, from Yunlin County, Taiwan, originating from Fujian Province.
He graduated from National Jìnnán University in 1935, then attended police work training, and joined Nanjing Station of the Military Statistics Bureau in 1938.
At police school, he studied reconnaissance, a versatile talent proficient in both reconnaissance and action work.
He was also one of Wan Tianmu’s most valued subordinates.
This time, coming from Nanjing to take over Zhao Lijun’s position, Wan Tianmu brought two people: one was Liu Geqing, the other Xiong Jiandong.
“Station Chief, why not let me handle this job.” Xiong Jiandong stepped forward: “I have experience in action matters.”
Wan Tianmu looked at Xiong Jiandong and said gravely: “Team Leader Xiong, we have another mission.”
“Old Liu, any problems?”
Liu Geqing stood at attention and saluted: “Station Chief, rest assured, mission guaranteed.”
Shanghai, Yuyuan Road, time compressed into the ticking clock hands.
The rain, growing more rampant since dusk, pelted bean-sized drops densely onto the tin roof of the temporary hideout, making deafening drumbeats.
In this room on the attic of an old civilian house at 666 Yuyuan Road, the windows were covered in thick dust and grime, leaving only a slit to observe outside.
In the cramped space crowded Liu Geqing and his three-man action team: Wu Ming from Shanghai Station’s intelligence department and his team member Fang Ze; the atmosphere in the room was taut like a fully drawn bowstring.
On the table was an unfolded map of Yuyuan Road, marked with clear lines in red pencil.
Several key points circled repeatedly: shops lining both sides of Chen Lu’s old residence, left side the French Concession police station, right side the Japanese police office, plus the guard post specially set by the Nanjing Special Affairs Committee.
To protect this newly appointed Minister of Foreign Affairs, the Nanjing Special Affairs Committee had set up a guard post at the gatehouse, manned 24 hours.
Liu Geqing’s gaze peered out through the slit, staring at the drenched Yuyuan Road below.
Rainwater rushed through the uneven potholed road, forming turbid, swift flows.
Shop signs on both sides of the street swayed in the wind and rain, “Rongchang Silk Shop,” “Wangji Clock Shop”…
Under the old Chinese parasol tree at the street corner, a few figures with umbrellas appeared vaguely, seeming like ordinary pedestrians.
“Team Leader Liu, the mission difficulty is very high.” Wu Ming put down the binoculars and said leisurely: “Left is the police office, right is the police station, and the Nanjing Special Affairs Committee even arranged a guard post for him.”
“A close-range assassination opportunity is close to zero.”
Liu Geqing said nothing, just quietly watching the gate of Chen Mansion at 668 Yuyuan Road.
Suddenly, Liu Geqing’s gaze sharpened slightly; not sure if it was an illusion, a familiar figure emerged from the side door of Chen Mansion.
Liu Geqing snatched the binoculars from Wu Ming’s hand and looked closely at that figure.
“Sure enough, it’s him.”
“Team Leader Wu, this matter is yours now; there might be a turning point in this mission.”
With those words, Liu Geqing turned and left the surveillance point.
Dusk, rain tapering off, setting sun to the west, in the bone-chilling early spring twilight, fine water droplets condensed along the edges of the newsstand’s wooden rack.
Liu Geqing wrapped his patch-covered cotton jacket tightly, hunched on the rickshaw shaft, his gaze under the felt hat like a frozen scalpel, inching over the carved cast iron gate of Chen Lu’s mansion.
The black wool overcoat bodyguards rotated positions every half hour, leather shoes crushing the halo of streetlights, gun holsters faintly visible under their ribs.
At exactly five o’clock, half a face suddenly emerged from the shadows of the pillar to the right of the iron door.
When the gas streetlight swept across the side of the cheek, Liu Geqing’s gaze instantly burned hot.
Sure enough, it was him.
The man was unusually burly, a centipede-like deep brown scar coiled below his right ear.
And that scar was left from saving him.
Liu Geqing’s thoughts were pulled far back with the man’s appearance—to that time still in Nanjing on a mission, when crisis struck, a heavy body suddenly tackled him into the snowbank.
“Geqing, get down!”
Bullets grazed past the man’s face; the scar that should have been on the left cheek was prominently branded on his lifesaver’s right face.
“Sir, need a rickshaw?” Liu Geqing took a breath, pulling the rickshaw to block the man.
Liu Haishan didn’t pay attention to the rickshaw puller in front of him; in Shanghai, a brick thrown could kill at least seven or eight such rickshaw pullers.
“No, no.” Liu Haishan waved rejection, but instantly, his body stiffened as if struck by lightning, frozen in place.
“Brother Haishan.” Liu Geqing called softly. “Come with me.”
Liu Haishan’s body trembled slightly, and he immediately got into the other’s rickshaw.
Liu Geqing pulled hard, and the rickshaw sped quickly toward Foch Road.
Foch Road, roadside noodle stall.
Foch Road was one of the main thoroughfares of the Shanghai French Concession, extremely bustling here; stained glass of French-style buildings shone out champagne-colored light and shadows, waiters in black vests shuttled with silver trays.
By the noodle stall, Zhou Xuan’s《 When Will You Come Again》 faintly drifted.
The rickshaw’s rubber wheels ground over bluestone slab cracks blocking the way; Liu Geqing set down the handles, hat brim not lifted, said to the noodle stall boss in a hoarse voice wrapped in the evening breeze: “Boss, two bowls of eel noodles, extra spicy oil.”
“Sit.” The wooden stool scraped noisily as Liu Geqing dragged it: “Brother Haishan, spicy or the usual?”
“Mm.” Liu Haishan responded softly.
After that sound, the two fell silently in unison; the boss skillfully boiled noodles, stir-fried toppings, hot oil popping sparks, a savory aroma wafting.
Soon, noodles were served before them; Liu Haishan unceremoniously scooped a big spoonful of spicy oil and ate heartily, the centipede scar below his right cheek twitching slightly with chewing.
Liu Geqing gazed at this weathered face before him—barely over thirty, yet no longer the man who once commanded the commander’s guard.
“Looking for me? Something?” Liu Haishan pulled out a cigarette case and lit one.
“Not a big deal,” Liu Geqing said while eating noodles in small bites: “Heard about the Paramount Ballroom incident a few days ago.”
“Over a dozen of our brothers died.”
“Know, it was in the newspapers, said to be the Nanjing Special Affairs Committee’s doing.”
Liu Haishan took a deep drag, exhaling a cloud of white smoke: “You want to move against Chen Lu?”
Liu Geqing wiped his mouth: “With national crisis at hand, some fantasize trading national interests for their own.”
“At times like this, someone has to step up and do what needs doing.”
Liu Haishan was silent for a moment, pulled out the tin foil from his cigarette case, and sketched a mansion floor plan on the back: “Bodyguard team of twelve, six in the east wing duty room, firearms in bedside iron cabinets.”
His fingernail slowly moved to the left side of Chen Mansion: “This is Chen Mansion’s Buddhist hall; burns incense at midnight on the first and fifteenth of every lunar month, all servants avoid to the front courtyard.”
“Chen Lu will worship with Eldest Young Master Chen Youtao, for half an hour.”
Liu Geqing looked at the route map Liu Haishan sketched: “Bury explosives under the Buddhist hall incense table, fuse hidden behind the prayer flags…”
“Too slow!” Liu Haishan tapped the table: “Lantern Festival night, two bodyguards off duty; twelve wall lamps from stairwell to Buddhist hall.”
“Ten seconds with the power cut—enough for you to sprint the 21-meter corridor?”
“Should be.” Liu Geqing nodded affirmatively.
“Then that’s the plan. One more thing to ask of you.”
“Take Tiger’s wife and kid to Hong Kong Island,” he crumbled the photo and scattered it into the darkness, “Qingming, check for me if the willows at Xuanwu Lake have budded.”
Liu Geqing was stunned; perhaps this was the true tacit understanding between men.
From the moment Liu Haishan saw Liu Geqing, he knew what Liu Geqing planned to do.
And he knew what he himself should do.
No words exchanged, not even basic questions.
“Brother Haishan, thank you.” Liu Geqing was silent for a long time, finally saying only thanks.
French Concession, corner of a street-side coffee shop.
Afternoon sunlight through the glass window cast dappled light and shadows on the small round table covered with lace tablecloth.
Soft jazz music played in the coffee shop, few guests, a perfect place for hushed secret talks.
Shen Qingyao wore a plain qipao with a knitted cardigan over it, looking like an ordinary office worker.
She sat at a window seat, ordered a coffee, her gaze occasionally sweeping the door with a trace of imperceptible vigilance.
Moments later, a black Austin Sedan stopped at the coffee shop door.
Chen Yang got out, looked up at the shop sign above, then walked in casually.
“Mr. Chen, here…” Shen Qingyao waved toward Chen Yang at the door.
“Miss Shen, kept you waiting.” Chen Yang’s voice was even, betraying little emotion.
He recognized Shen Qingyao and knew well she represented more than just herself.
“Director Chen is very punctual.” Shen Qingyao smiled slightly, pushing the menu over, “What would you like?”
“Just a cup of clear tea.” Chen Yang said to the approaching waiter.
“Miss Shen asking me out isn’t just for coffee, is it?”
Shen Qingyao restrained her smile, leaned forward slightly, voice even lower: “Director Chen is a smart man, so I’ll be direct.”
“We have a batch of tungsten sand ore, top quality. Heard Director Chen has been seeking stable sources for some… ‘special’ factory channels?”
Chen Yang’s mouth corner lifted slightly; finally, the moment had come.
He believed the Communist Party had done plenty of homework to cooperate smoothly with him.
From Lin Xueli’s departure to Shen Qingyao’s visit, nearly a month had passed.
In that month, they must have investigated him thoroughly.
“How much goods? What price?” Chen Yang asked directly, tone like ordinary business negotiation.
“First batch can supply fifty tons. If happy cooperation, can provide steadily thereafter.” Shen Qingyao quoted a number, then watched Chen Yang’s reaction carefully, “As for price, these days mining is hard, transporting to Shanghai even harder… sixty silver dollars per hundred jin.”
Tungsten sand ore was a key industrial raw material, especially for military industry, with high demand but supply often interrupted by war and blockades.
The land transport section he oversaw and its back networks were indeed doing this “business,” openly maintaining “normal” commerce and industry.
Of course, at this time, those most needing this tungsten sand ore were not the Japanese.
But the Germans about to make war on Europe.
Ironic, really.
Germany initially had very good cooperative relations with China.
The little mustache not only sent instructors to help the government train soldiers but spared no effort supporting Chongqing with various weapons.
Until last March, when the Japanese signed an alliance contract with the Germans.
The Japanese demanded Germany stop weapons exports to China.
Chongqing simultaneously halted exports of tungsten sand ore, pig bristles, tung oil, and a series of rare earths to Germany.
At first, the little mustache didn’t care; only when they lacked ore and turned to buying from Americans did they realize something was wrong.
The Americans quoted them three times China’s price.
And the quality was inferior to China’s.
This made the little mustache extremely dissatisfied, snapping several pencils.
If this ore business could draw closer ties with the Germans.
Chen Yang lifted the freshly served tea, blew on the steam, didn’t answer immediately.
He knew full well this price was below black market rates, far below what the Japanese would pay for “channels.”
“Sixty dollars…” Chen Yang mused, setting down the teacup, “Miss Shen, this price sounds very ‘fair.'”
“But you seem to have one thing wrong: transportation is no worry for you.”
“As long as you get the ore to any city with railway freight, I can transport it out smoothly.”
“So, this price shouldn’t be sixty dollars, fifty.”
“Fifty is reasonable.”
At this, Shen Qingyao was silent a moment, fingers tapping lightly on the table.
Superiors had prepared scenarios before she came; they knew Chen Yang wouldn’t easily accept this price.
Though tungsten sand ore was indeed hot commodity, transportation was a major issue.
Getting it from base areas to Shanghai for silver was extremely difficult.
After discussion, superiors said if the other side was interested, maximum forty-eight silver dollars per hundred jin.
Shen Qingyao instinctively glanced at Chen Yang; his eyes clear and firm, as if certain she’d agree.
“From sixty to fifty, Director Chen’s appetite is too big; we don’t have it easy either.”
Shen Qingyao thought: “How about this, we each give a step, fifty-five per hundred jin; I’ll arrange shipment immediately.”
Chen Yang shook his head, smiling at Shen Qingyao: “Miss Shen, you seem not to have learned your father Shen Xing Shan’s business tricks.”
“You should know, you don’t have much capital to bargain with me now.”
“I say again, fifty dollars.”
“Silver dollars on spot settlement. First transaction, fifty tons. Cash on delivery; if all smooth, can cooperate long-term at this price.”
He haggled not just for profit, but as a probe and to establish dominance.
Shen Qingyao feigned hesitation, as if calculating gains and losses inwardly, nodded moments later: “Deal.”
So straightforward—did that mean the price was still high? Well, consider it a contribution to the country.
“However…” Next moment Shen Qingyao said softly: “For the fifty tons, I want equivalent materials delivered to northern Anhui.”
Chen Yang pondered a moment, “What materials do you want?”
Shen Qingyao took out the pre-prepared materials list, handed it to Chen Yang: “Procure per the list above; once ready, I’ll inspect.”
Chen Yang took the slip, glanced: lots of items, but no particularly restricted embargo goods: “Good, this is on me.”
“Director Chen is indeed straightforward. Hope for happy cooperation.” With that, Shen Qingyao stood and extended her hand to Chen Yang.
Chen Yang looked at Shen Qingyao’s outstretched hand, hesitated slightly, then reached and shook lightly.
The woman’s hand was cool and firm, like holding a piece of cool ice.
But Shen Qingyao felt utterly different—Chen Yang’s hand like charcoal fire, incredibly warm.
“Cooperation details, I’ll send someone to notify separately.” Chen Yang put on his hat, stood, “Miss Shen, be careful on the way back; if any problems, notify me soon.”
“Thanks for the reminder, Director Chen.” Shen Qingyao nodded understandingly.
