Chapter 9: The Little Arsenal (Please add to your favorites! Please vote for recommendations!)

In a split second, Lucy darted inside, and Zhou Sen had no choice but to follow her into the secret chamber. The wall behind them automatically closed and sealed shut, leaving no trace at all.

If one could enter, one could certainly leave. Otherwise, what purpose would Father Anthony have for building a secret room in his own home?

Feeling along the wall, Zhou Sen found the light switch. When he flipped it on, the chamber was instantly illuminated. He took a moment to survey his surroundings.

The space was not large—by his estimate, perhaps three or four square meters at most. Inside stood a workbench equipped with a vise, a grinding wheel, and other tools.

The walls had been soundproofed and made fire-resistant; someone could work here without anyone outside hearing a thing.

As he gazed at the workbench, a sudden rush of memory surged through Zhou Sen’s mind. Yes, he remembered this place—he’d been here before, after all, this was his family home.

When Zhou Sen was younger, he’d once hidden in the storage room to play. After tiring himself out, he’d fallen asleep in a box, only to awaken and stumble upon Father Anthony’s secret. After the ensuing beating, he’d never returned.

In his memory, the cabinet in the secret room had always been locked, but now, he saw it was not.

Curiosity compelled him. Zhou Sen walked over and pulled open the cabinet. The sight within left him thunderstruck. It was crammed full of firearms of all kinds, ammunition, grenades, and other military gear.

This was nothing less than a miniature armory.

Though he was a policeman and hardly unfamiliar with weapons, the pistol issued to him at the station was rarely used except for annual target practice and qualification tests. Real opportunities to fire in the line of duty were exceedingly rare.

Whenever they were to apprehend a dangerous criminal or launch a risky operation, he always found ways to avoid or sidestep it—his predecessor had indeed been quite afraid of death.

It wasn’t as if he’d deliberately spoken nonsense in front of Lin Dakuan. But how could an ordinary businessman have amassed so many guns and so much ammunition? If it were merely for self-defense, one or two pistols would have sufficed.

There was no reason to have an MP-18—such a powerful submachine gun—or grenades with such destructive power.

The Japanese maintained draconian control over firearms. What, then, was Father Anthony planning?

A quick estimate told Zhou Sen that the weapons and ammo in this cabinet could arm a reinforced platoon of elite infantry.

Even if all the officers at Nangang Station pooled their firepower, it would still be slightly inferior to this cache.

As an enthusiast of military history, he had studied the models and performance of standard-issue weapons from various countries in World War II. He couldn’t claim expertise, but he knew far more than the average person.

He spotted a Tokarev 1926 pistol, chambered for the 6.35mm round, designed specifically for the Red Army’s senior officers and members of the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs.

The People’s Commissariat was the Soviet state security apparatus. Anyone using such a pistol could only have one identity: a Soviet intelligence agent.

How did Father Anthony come to possess a TK-1926 pistol? If the Japanese Special Agency discovered this, his identity would be immediately suspect.

All these guns were in excellent condition and well-maintained—clearly, Father Anthony had always taken great care of them.

After the initial shock, Zhou Sen gradually regained his composure.

These things absolutely could not be discovered by outsiders. Otherwise, even if he had nothing to do with it, he would likely be implicated—perhaps even lose his life.

It was thanks to Lucy today that he’d stumbled upon this secret. Otherwise, he might never have remembered that his own home concealed such a chamber.

But what to do with all these weapons and ammunition? Was hiding them here truly safe?

Zhou Sen fell into deep thought. He needed to find a way to safeguard this secret—at least until Father Anthony returned, nothing could go wrong.

He exited the secret chamber and returned upstairs.

...

The next morning, Zhou Sen awoke to find that Lucy, who had slept at his feet, was already off somewhere, her boundless energy far exceeding that of most cats. After washing up, he went downstairs.

Irina had already prepared breakfast—bread, milk, fried eggs, and red sausage—a meal both nutritious and hearty.

His predecessor had enjoyed these Western breakfasts, but Zhou Sen himself preferred Chinese fare: big meat buns, soy milk, fried dough sticks, and wontons...

After a few bites, he’d lost his appetite, so he changed clothes and stepped out.

On the corner, the cries of street vendors caught his ear.

“Fresh meat buns! Steaming hot meat buns...”

“What’s in your meat buns?” Zhou Sen, lured by the savory aroma, approached and pointed to the steaming baskets.

“Pork and scallion! Try one—one bite and the juices flow!” The vendor, wearing a fur hat, beamed at him.

“Alright, give me two. If they’re good, I’ll come every day!” Zhou Sen said.

“Coming right up!”

Two steaming buns were placed on wax paper and handed over. Zhou Sen pulled out his money, but the vendor pushed it back. “Officer Zhou, it’s our family’s good fortune that you eat our buns. How could we possibly accept your money?”

“That won’t do. I’m eating your buns—I have to pay.” Zhou Sen insisted. He knew that, in this frozen city, it was common for police to eat for free, taking bribes and squeezing the people—ordinary shopkeepers dared not protest.

For two buns it was nothing, as long as the officers didn’t cause trouble. But Zhou Sen was a man of principle—wherever he ate, he always paid.

Perhaps this was why his predecessor avoided these street stalls: he was unwilling to go along with such corruption. After all, the common people already struggled to get by; if they were bled and bullied further, life would only be harder.

Maybe he shouldn’t judge his predecessor by appearances—what lay in his heart might not show in memories.

Zhou Sen first went to Nangang Police Station to check in.

“Zhou Sen.”

“Secretary Kim, is something the matter?” Zhou Sen frowned slightly. When Kim Soo-young had first arrived at the station, his predecessor had been utterly smitten with her, catering to her every whim. The whole station knew of his unrequited affection—he was nothing more than a “sucker” to her.

But Zhou Sen had no intention of playing that role any longer.

“Mr. Akiyama asked me to check if there’s any progress on the murder case of the Songjiang Daily editor.” Kim Soo-young sashayed over, her brows arching provocatively.

At Nangang Station, Zhou Sen was the only man Kim Soo-young found acceptable—handsome, from a good family, and most importantly, obedient to her every word. If she were to marry, Zhou Sen would be the ideal choice.

“Still under investigation,” he replied.

“This case is a high priority. It must be solved within a limited time.” Her tone was admonishing. “Mr. Akiyama has high hopes for you—don’t squander this opportunity.”

“Thank you for Mr. Akiyama’s trust. I will do my utmost to handle the case.” Zhou Sen nodded slightly.

With a tight-lipped smile, Kim Soo-young raised her head and swept past him.

“Zhou Sen...”

Someone else called to him. Even with his good temper, Zhou Sen was beginning to lose patience, but he restrained himself.

He dared not offend the owner of this voice: Bai Shoutian, head of the Special Affairs Division, ranking police inspector.

“Chief Bai,” Zhou Sen turned, forcing a smile.

“Congratulations, Zhou Sen. It wasn’t easy getting this far, was it?” Bai Shoutian chuckled.

“Thank you, Chief Bai.”

“I heard Mr. Akiyama assigned the Songjiang Daily case to you?” Bai Shoutian’s smile was tinged with malice.

“It’s all thanks to Mr. Akiyama’s trust.”

“Indeed. With his trust, you must do your best. If you need the Special Affairs Division’s help, just ask,” Bai said, his expression unreadable.

Zhou Sen understood: Bai Shoutian was jealous that Akiyama had given the Sheerkin murder case to a lowly officer from the Security Division, stealing his chance for merit.

He’d come to warn him.

“Thank you, Chief Bai. If I need anything, I’ll be sure to ask your advice.” Zhou Sen responded with neither deference nor defiance.

Truth be told, he would have gladly handed Bai the case—if only Akiyama would allow it.

...

After checking in, Zhou Sen left the station and ran into Ye San, who was just arriving on his bicycle.

“Brother, wait a sec—I need to sign in.” Ye San parked his bike and called out.

While waiting, Zhou Sen lit a cigarette.

“Brother, Liu’s already gone to the warehouse—he said he has something to report.” Ye San hurried out.

“Alright, let’s go.” Zhou Sen sighed. The days of sitting in an office were clearly over for now. In this brutal winter, with temperatures at minus twenty even in daylight, running errands outdoors was pure misery.

At the warehouse entrance, Zhou Sen brushed the snow from his coat collar. The sky was gray and heavy, lending the world an oppressive air. It was snowing again.

“Boss is here,” Old Liu opened the door and welcomed Zhou Sen and Ye San inside.

“Where’s Wu’en?”

“Out patrolling.” Old Liu brewed a cup of hot tea and handed it over. “Boss, have some hot water to warm up.”

“Thank you,” Zhou Sen replied, reaching for the cup.

Surprise flickered briefly across Old Liu’s face but quickly vanished. He knew Zhou Sen as a man outwardly cold but inwardly kind, rarely given to saying “thank you.”

“Is there something on my face?” Zhou Sen asked.

“Oh, no, not at all. I was just thinking about how to bring this up.” Old Liu quickly explained.

“Just say it. I may be your superior at the station, but outside of work, we’re all brothers—no need for formality,” Zhou Sen said.

“Yes, yes. I’ve learned something: Sheerkin had been seeing a Russian girl named Susanna. After his murder, she went missing.”

“Susanna—what’s her background?”

“She worked at a Russian bank—Dalbank.” Old Liu pulled a photo from his pocket and handed it over. “It took some effort to get this picture of Susanna.”

Zhou Sen glanced at the photograph. The girl had delicate features—not exactly stunning, but quietly attractive. She looked just over twenty. The photo was slightly yellowed, so it hadn’t been taken recently.

“Did her family report her missing?”

“They did—our station took the case. Her uncle filed the report,” Old Liu replied.

“No immediate family in this city?” Zhou Sen frowned.

“None. I checked—her parents were targeted back home. They had a chance to escape but ended up staying. Our puppet state signed an agreement with the Soviets: as long as you had relatives here, you could apply to come over. It was an opening for some people,” Old Liu explained, worried Zhou Sen might not know the details.

In truth, not everyone could come—one needed a sponsor here, release from the Soviet side, and approval from the puppet state. The Japanese held the real power.

This was also a route for the Soviets to infiltrate intelligence agents into the city. Of course, it was a mix of truth and lies; not everyone who came this way was a spy, but one or two out of a hundred wouldn’t be surprising.

Both sides tacitly acknowledged the game.

After all, the Japanese wanted to send agents into the Soviet Union too. If you barred their people from entering, they would certainly bar yours.

If all the doors were closed, there would be no opportunities. Besides, business still had to be done, and the Japanese coveted Siberia’s resources.