Leaning forward, he rested his fists on the desk, letting his eyes roam the white pieces of paper. Every sheet pertained to Peng Zhu’s disappearance, the captured Americans, and the three men who they presumed escaped to America. “Three,” he repeated softly.
He began sorting through the papers carefully, picking up one at a time, looking for dates and names. Most of the papers were copies of transmissions from Beijing. Some had been hand-carried by couriers.
As he was looking, his mind drifted to the “orders” that sent Zhu to Shanghai. Clever Americans, he thought. He lifted the forged paper, turned it over, then held it up to the light. It was accurate right down to the smallest details: type of paper used, the style of writing, the specific wording, the signature.
The intelligence people had yet to decipher or uncover any coded message. It has to be here, he thought, bringing the paper closer to his eyes. Frustrated, he tossed it on the desk. But reading this specific paper again, realizing how accurate it was, made Chiu more sure than ever. There was a CIA operative. And he was somewhere in Shanghai.
“Faan!” he shouted.
Bursting into the office, Faan snapped to rigid attention. “Yes, Comrade!”
“I want extra personnel brought in to monitor all transmissions — all transmissions! I want interpreters! I want patrols ready to act on a moment’s notice! I want… ” Chiu went silent, then suddenly rushed back to the desk.
He started pushing papers aside, looking for one in particular. He slapped his palm on a paper and jerked it toward him. The communicated message, delivered by courier, warned of a traitor who stole two canisters of plutonium from the Huludao Shipyard.
“Comrade, is there anything else you want me to do?” Faan asked, still standing at attention.
Chiu looked up slowly, staring at Faan, as his words finally registered. “No. Take care of everything… and immediately.” Faan had just started opening the door, when Chiu ordered, “Bring me any transmissions as soon as they come in.”
“Yes, Comrade. I will.” Faan left.
Chiu again turned his attention to the message. There wasn’t anything he remembered or saw that drew him to this particular one. He was reacting on pure instinct. Something was telling him the dead man — the one who had been stabbed at Bridge House — was this man, the one who stole the plutonium.
But where were those canisters? Could they be in the hands of the Americans? That seemed to be a very strong possibility. With the confidential papers stolen by Zhu and the actual plutonium, the Americans would learn how far along his country’s nuclear submarine program had progressed.
He started mentally reviewing what he saw in Bridge House. The officers and guards were killed by martial arts experts. And yet the man in the basement was bloodied, killed with a knife. “His jacket,” Chiu said to himself. “His jacket was unbuttoned, yet both sides were drawn slightly together.” Could someone have tried to help him? The longer he thought, the more questions he had.
A knock at his door. “Comrade Chiu!”
Chiu turned toward the door. “Yes!”
Faan entered, handing him a piece of paper. “We have intercepted a message!”
Chiu snatched the paper from Faan, glanced at it, then threw it back at the officer. “It hasn’t been decoded!”
Faan caught the paper in mid-air then responded, “Our men are working on it, Comrade, but… ” He rushed over to one of three wall maps. “We were able to triangulate the exact location.” He leaned closer to a map of Shanghai, tracing a route along Chifeng Road, before he jabbed his finger on a location. “Here! This is where the transmission came from! We are less than two kilometers from there, Comrade!”
That’s the old ghetto, Chiu thought, before barking his order to Faan. “Have ten men ready immediately!”
Faan gave a quick, sharp salute then hurried from the office.
Chiu drew his Norinco pistol from its leather holster, ejected the eight-round clip, then rammed it back in. He grabbed his hat off the desk.
As he rushed outside, he hoped this was the break he needed. He was confident if this were the CIA operative, he would lead them to whoever had the plutonium, and whoever may have killed Lieutenant Ji and his men.
A truck with canvas stretched over the top of its bed carried ten men as it traveled closely behind a “Beijing Jeep.” Military green in color, it was a diesel-powered, light-duty, off road utility vehicle.
Sitting in the Jeep’s front passenger seat, Colonel Chiu had binoculars hanging around his neck. With one hand on the safety bar attached to the front of the dash, he balanced himself as Faan drove in and out traffic, traversing the streets of the Hongkou District, finding his way through the fog.
During World War II, when Shanghai was occupied by the Japanese, Jewish refugees from Nazi-occupied Europe lived in a notoriously overcrowded, square-mile section. Apartments and hastily built houses became home to multiple families. The district became known to the West as the “Shanghai ghetto.”
Once they were on the east side of the district, Faan turned off a main road, and headed to an area just behind a row of rundown apartments. Where streets and sidewalks left the downtown area cold and sterile, this section that bordered the ghetto had grass and trees. If there were any houses, they were dilapidated, most were vacant, some were slowly becoming piles of rubbish.
Faan slowed the Jeep, and finally stopped. Shifting into neutral, he kept a foot on the brake. He pointed to a small house, just over fifty yards away, blurred by the fog. It was constructed entirely of wood, and in poor condition. One small window was to the left of a wood door that showed patches of original blue paint. The only greenery was unkempt grass, but mostly weeds.
“The triangulation indicated this one, Comrade.”
Chiu leaned forward, squinting, trying to get a better view of the house. “Do you know who lives here?”
“No, Comrade. Most are shared by more than one family. Some are vacated quite frequently, then new families immediately move in.”
Chiu looked at the house, then let his eyes roam around the entire property. An old dump truck was parked on the grass, close to the house. He leaned his head out the window, and put the binoculars to his eyes.
“That truck’s engine is running.” Puffs of smoke escaped from the exhaust pipe. “Burlap sacks are loaded in the back. It must be used as a delivery vehicle.”
Keeping the binoculars focused on the house and vehicle, he said to Faan, “Have the men prepare to search the property.”
Faan got out, then walked toward the truck. “Everybody! Out!”
Men jumped out of the back and hurried close to Faan. Lining up side by side, with straps of their AKs slung over their shoulders, they stood at rigid attention waiting for their orders.
Faan returned to the Jeep. “The men are ready, Comrade.”
“Send five men around back,” Chiu said. Faan carried out the order. The men started forward then split up, going along both sides of the property.
Chiu lowered the binoculars, letting them hang from his neck. He got out, then drew his pistol. Waving his weapon in a forward motion, the remaining five men understood the signal to advance. Continuing to search the area with his eyes, he followed behind the line of men.
The truck on the property sputtered and backfired, then went silent. But still, no one came from the house.
The five men, along with Chiu and Faan, were within fifteen feet of the truck, when he ordered them to stop. First, he confirmed the other five were safely around both sides. Then, he signaled Faan and the remaining men to approach the front door, while he stayed a safe distance back, continuing to scan the property.