Chapter 67: Startling News

On the bustling Central Avenue, stood a majestic building in typical European classical style. Its opulent façade, glimpsed through the revolving doors, revealed lavish interiors and elegantly dressed crowds inside. This was the famed Madiel Hotel, known as the "Oriental Versailles," once a gathering place for the city's elite.

Ordinary folk could hardly afford such luxury, but Zhou Sen had been a regular visitor. Not only could one savor exquisite cuisine here, but most balls hosted by successful members of high society took place within these walls. After the Japanese occupation, the hotel drew numerous Japanese officers and businessmen, leading to many Japanese-style decorations and alterations.

Madiel’s bread and cold treats—especially its ice pops—were specialties beloved by young couples courting. They offered a taste of luxury that was both affordable and practical.

Most of the waitstaff were Russian, Japanese, or Baekje; few Manchurians worked here, and those who did were relegated to cleaning or other menial tasks.

Stepping into the Madiel Hotel’s resplendent hall, Zhou Sen saw mirrors on all sides and crystal chandeliers overhead bathing the space in warm, golden light. Truly, it was one of the most luxurious hotels in Ice City.

“Sir, are you dining or staying?” The doorman, unfamiliar with Zhou Sen, failed to recognize him as a frequent guest.

“The Western restaurant, two seats.” Zhou Sen, hands in his pockets, nodded slightly and crossed the hall towards the north.

The Western restaurant lay beyond the reception lounge, requiring passage through an anteroom.

Madiel’s previous owner was a Jewish Russian, who later became a French citizen. The Japanese coveted his hotel and plotted to kidnap his son, ending with a grisly murder that caused a major scandal. Zhou Sen remembered this from his studies at the police academy, though the details were vague.

The murderer was acquitted, the Jewish owner fled Ice City, and the hotel fell into Japanese hands. Besides the Yamato Inn on Station Street, Madiel was the city’s greatest landmark.

Visitors to Ice City considered a stay at Madiel essential; otherwise, their trip was incomplete.

The restaurant specialized in French cuisine—the crown jewel of Western gastronomy—and also offered Russian specialties.

Zhou Sen used to frequent the place every few days, though the prices were steep. Daily visits were out of the question.

His expenses were mostly on food and clothing, nothing else. Now, he cared little for even those, especially after waking at Ningxiang Hall, and hadn’t returned since.

He had no fixed seat, but habit compelled him to choose carefully—a ritual ingrained in his bones.

“Mr. Vasim, this way please.” A young waitress led him to a table he often sat at, conveniently unoccupied.

“Thank you.”

“What would you like today?”

“Bring me a glass of warm water first. I’m expecting someone.” Zhou Sen replied calmly and picked up a magazine.

Madiel was one of Ice City’s few international hotels. Most foreign travelers or dignitaries stayed there. Its luxurious amenities and attentive service were world-renowned, making it the preferred choice.

Moreover, it offered items unavailable elsewhere: newspapers and literary journals from around the globe, collected and ordered by a dedicated staff, shipped from distant lands. These were for guests’ leisure, providing a discreet window to the outside world.

Madiel was also the most active hub for spies in Far Eastern Ice City, the so-called Spy Capital.

“Mr. Vasim, your warm water.” The waitress brought his drink. Zhou Sen nodded in thanks, checked his watch—it was nearly time for his appointment with Mikunov.

He sipped the water; the temperature was perfect.

At half past ten, a man with a Western face, dressed in a deep brown suit and butterfly tie, walked in with a swagger. The staff bowed slightly, clearly familiar with him.

His mustache curled upward—a style favored by White Russian officers in Tsarist times. Tight trousers, tall leather boots, the very image of a White Russian officer.

Westerners had a strong body odor, especially those who doused themselves in perfume. For Zhou Sen, whose nose was now hypersensitive, being near such people was torture. He no longer dared to use perfume himself.

This man looked as though he hadn’t bathed in weeks and had used copious perfume; the combination nearly made Zhou Sen gag. But there was no helping it—the man had come by appointment.

“Vasim?”

“Yes. Are you Mr. Rozayevsky?” Zhou Sen nodded politely. The Russian’s belly suggested he was older, but Zhou Sen didn’t know him.

“Didn’t Antony teach you to respect your elders?” Rozayevsky was clearly displeased by Zhou Sen’s indifference.

“Sorry, but I don’t know you, and Old Antony never mentioned you to me.” Zhou Sen sat upright and unmoved. Why should he show deference to a Russian traitor serving the Japanese?

“You—” Rozayevsky’s mustache bristled in anger, but he remembered he was here on an assignment, and failure would reflect poorly on him.

“Mr. Rozayevsky, if you have something to say, please be quick. I have a more important appointment soon.” Zhou Sen leaned back, looking him in the eye.

“Fine. Since you don’t know my connection to Antony, I won’t press the matter.” Rozayevsky sat down opposite him and crossed his legs. “You must know Antony is an important member of our organization. By the rules, as his adopted son, you are also a member. Do you understand?”

“I don’t.”

“It’s a rule. Whether you understand or not, you are now a member,” Rozayevsky said.

“Is joining your organization not subject to my own wishes? Is this forced membership?” Zhou Sen asked.

“Your name is already recorded in the roster. It’s a matter of record,” Rozayevsky replied.

“Very well. Anything else?” Zhou Sen sighed. It was surely Old Antony’s arrangement, though the memory was vague.

“You should know that Antony went off to carry out a top-secret mission?”

Zhou Sen nodded; he was curious about the nature of the mission but had asked Akiyama twice, and the man had refused to divulge anything.

“This action was planned by the Japanese military high command. I don’t know the specifics myself, but the mission was codenamed ‘Operation Bear’—and it has failed,” said Rozayevsky.

Zhou Sen’s heart lurched; his hands trembled uncontrollably, and he masked his shock by sipping water. “Operation Bear”! Anyone familiar with WWII history would know that the Japanese had plotted several times to assassinate Soviet leader Joseph, and the most famous operation was “Bear”.

Zhou Sen knew of “Operation Bear,” but not its exact timing or the participants, so he had never made the connection—especially not to Old Antony. The thought seemed absurd.

He wanted to curse, but didn’t dare.

Old Antony was born in Georgia, as was Comrade Joseph. In hindsight, it all made sense.

How could he have missed such a crucial “action”? If only he’d known earlier...

Damn it, how did Old Antony get involved in such a mission? It was as if a noose had been placed around his own neck. Even if he had nothing to do with it, if it ever came to light, he would inevitably be implicated. His future looked bleak.

“It failed. Are you saying my foster father, Old Antony, won’t be coming back?” Zhou Sen asked, stunned.

Rozayevsky assumed Zhou Sen’s reaction was one of sudden grief, not suspicion. “Yes. The Japanese have notified us that Antony was killed in action. His remains may not be recovered.”

“Thank you for telling me, Mr. Rozayevsky. In truth, I already knew Antony died on a mission, but I don’t know the details. They never told me what the mission was, how he died, or where...” Zhou Sen’s eyes reddened. After all, Antony had raised him; he couldn’t help but feel something.

“In fact, our cooperation with the Japanese is to overthrow the Soviet regime, liberate our compatriots from red terror and oppression, and establish a unified, powerful Russian Empire. I and your foster father Antony have long fought for this great cause. I hope you will join us!” Rozayevsky said fervently.

“But I am a Manchurian. I feel no affinity for Russia.” After his initial agitation, Zhou Sen cooled, replying with icy indifference.

Rozayevsky was speechless.

So Antony Robin’s decade of careful nurturing had gone to waste? Rozayevsky nearly burst into rage.

Zhou Sen was grateful to Old Antony, but no matter how deep his gratitude, knowingly walking into disaster was sheer folly. Why should he throw himself onto the pyre?

Suddenly, Zhou Sen recalled—this was the man who later wept, wrote letters of repentance and loyalty, only to be sentenced to the guillotine by a single judgment.

How many traitors to their country and people ever meet a good end?

Only a fool would follow them to certain death. Better to seize the first opportunity to sever ties—rather than wait to be purged together in the reckoning to come.