Chapter 95: Who Is It?

Arman instructed Zissolov to summon Popov.

As the head of the Documentation Department, as well as the deputy chief and technical expert of the intelligence station, Popov arrived and carefully examined the faint writing on the note.

He then brought the paper close to his nose and sniffed. “The scent of hydrogen peroxide. This is ink treated with a special solution—after a certain amount of time, the writing disappears.”

“Where’s the paper from?” Arman asked.

“Just ordinary stationery. You could buy it at any toy store downtown,” Popov replied, shaking his head. The implication was clear: don’t bother tracing the source of the paper to find out who wrote the note.

“We’ve had the ‘Chunming’ photo studio across the street under surveillance for some time. The reason we haven’t touched it is that it hasn’t harmed us; we’ve maintained a peaceful coexistence. But now, it seems someone has blown this secret right in our faces. What do you think we should do?” Arman asked.

“First, we need to identify who this person is and their motive. Are they warning us, or is this some Japanese scheme?” Popov analyzed.

“Zissolov, what’s your take?”

“There were many guests tonight, hundreds of servants in the banquet hall. I honestly don’t remember who slipped this note into my pocket. I didn’t even notice it going in,” Zissolov said.

This was a man of great skill and agility.

One must remember, Zissolov was trained by the Cheka. Everyone assigned to Ice City, even if not from the Cheka, had to undergo intelligence training.

For Zissolov to be the chief secretary, he was undoubtedly elite within the Cheka. For someone to slip a note into his pocket unnoticed was no small feat.

“Could it be someone from the Chinese Communist Party?” Popov asked.

“If we had intelligence from that side, we’d just relay it through the messenger. Why resort to such a method?” Arman shook his head.

“Then perhaps it’s a spontaneous patriotic act from someone opposing Manchu rule and Japanese aggression?”

Arman shook his head again.

“Ordinary people couldn’t possibly know such classified information. This must be an insider, someone familiar with the details. And since the note explicitly names the photo studio, it must be from within their ranks,” Popov pondered carefully.

“Tonight, besides the police department officials present here, there were also patrol officers responsible for security outside. That’s a huge circle of people,” Zissolov remarked.

“Comrade Zissolov, can you estimate when the note was slipped into your pocket?” Popov asked.

“It was probably after Miss Su and Mr. Feng Hua entered the banquet hall...” Zissolov had an exceptional memory, recounting most of the evening’s scenes and the people he had seen in detail.

But one cannot have eyes in the back of their head. Zhou Sen had passed behind him, carefully choosing a path and treading lightly. At that moment, Zissolov was busy clinking glasses and talking with others, his attention divided...

So, Zhou Sen was not among those Zissolov recalled.

This discovery troubled Arman and Popov greatly; Zissolov had named over thirty people.

Finding the one who slipped the note among them would be no easy task—and these were not ordinary individuals. Any suspicious move could alert the other party and tip off the Japanese.

“Mr. Arman, could this be a test? Someone is gauging our reaction,” Popov suggested.

“You mean, they provide intelligence, and if we act, they might give us even more crucial information?” Arman quickly grasped the idea. In intelligence work, a sharp mind is essential.

The three exchanged a glance. It was indeed possible.

But none of them had encountered such a situation before, so it was difficult to decide how to respond.

“No matter what, only the three of us know about this. Do not inform a fourth person. Otherwise, this informant’s life will be in danger,” Arman warned solemnly.

“Understood.”

“Comrade Zissolov, you’ve done well. Go get some rest.”

“All right.” Zissolov agreed and left, leaving only Arman and Popov in the office.

Some secrets are best kept among as few people as possible.

“Could it be him?”

“I don’t know. His situation is precarious. Although we’ve started intervening, there’s little we can do for now,” Arman said bitterly.

“Now I understand why you asked for the Communists’ help. We really can’t get close to him,” Popov said.

“Has the messenger revealed their identity?”

“No. Some secrets cannot be disclosed to her; it would endanger her,” Popov replied.

“If it is really him, then this must be his way of contacting us. We have to respond,” Arman said seriously.

“I’ll notify Bear...”

“No, not Bear this time. Has the Old Gun arrived?” Arman asked.

“Arriving tomorrow at Ice City Station.”

“Yuan Wenfu has been slacking off lately. Let’s start with him,” Arman decisively ordered.

“If we act, the Japanese will surely be alarmed. What about our situation then?”

“Could it be worse than it is now?” Arman smiled. “Go quietly, leave no traces. It will show our resolve.”

“Understood.”

...

“I’ll see you home,” Zhou Sen said to Bai Yulan inside the carriage.

“Zhou Sen, I’m a bit hungry,” Bai Yulan suddenly said.

“I know a hot pot place with authentic lamb. I’m not sure if it’s still open, but let’s go try,” Zhou Sen chuckled, finally seeing his efforts pay off.

“I didn’t bring money,” she said.

“Don’t worry. If you’re eating with me, you won’t have to pay,” Zhou Sen laughed, tapping the window and calling to the driver, Uen. “Uen, take us to our usual hot pot place.”

“Got it!” Uen perked up at the mention of food, cracked the whip, and the carriage sped up.

The carriage stopped steadily in front of the hot pot restaurant. The door was ajar, and lights were still on inside—so they hadn’t closed yet.

“Careful now,” Zhou Sen helped Bai Yulan down, followed closely by A Xiang and Uen.

“Boss, please prepare a private room for us. Order the usual dishes,” Zhou Sen instructed as they entered.

“Ah, alright, Officer Zhou,” the owner said upon seeing Zhou Sen, immediately sending a waiter to the kitchen and leading them to a private room.

“Officer Zhou, this must be Mrs. Zhou, right? Please come in,” the owner said. Though he had lived in Ice City for many years, he hadn’t recognized Bai Yulan.

Zhou Sen didn’t bother correcting him—better to be mistaken than cause awkwardness. Bai Yulan didn’t deny it either; she wished to avoid unnecessary trouble.

Soon, the copper hot pot stove was brought in, along with several small dishes to accompany drinks, followed by an array of ingredients: lamb slices, pork belly, tripe...

The table was soon filled.

“That’s a lot. Can we really eat all this?” Bai Yulan looked at the spread, wide-eyed.

“Don’t worry, nothing will go to waste,” Zhou Sen chuckled. No matter how much was left, someone would always finish it.

“Boss, bring a pot of yellow wine,” Zhou Sen ordered.

“Drinking again?”

“Eating without wine? Where’s the fun in that?” Zhou Sen laughed. “Just one pot; when it’s done, that’s it.”

Bai Yulan said no more, and the four began to eat.

After a cup of yellow wine, a rosy flush appeared on Bai Yulan’s fair cheeks. Though the wine wasn’t strong, it was easy to get tipsy.

Seeing Zhou Sen, her heart fluttered—a feeling as if the wine was not what intoxicated her, but the man himself.

“What are you staring at?” Bai Yulan snapped, her blush deepening. “I’ve already had quite a bit tonight; I can’t drink anymore.”

Zhou Sen nodded repeatedly, not intending to pressure her further or take advantage.

Full and satisfied, Zhou Sen paid the bill. Bai Yulan’s gaze was dreamy and unfocused, evidently tipsy. He quickly caught her by the waist and lifted her into the carriage.

Along the way, Bai Yulan leaned entirely against Zhou Sen.

“Lan Jie rarely drinks yellow wine. She always gets drunk easily,” A Xiang whispered to Zhou Sen in the carriage.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Zhou Sen scolded.

“Lan Jie told me not to say anything,” A Xiang replied.

“This secret mustn’t get out. If bad people find out, it would be disastrous,” Zhou Sen said.

“I know, but Brother Sen isn’t an outsider!” A Xiang stuck out her tongue.

By the time they returned to Ningxiang Pavilion, Bai Yulan was completely unconscious from intoxication. Zhou Sen carried her all the way up the stairs.

“A Xiang, take care of Yulan. I’ll go make some sobering soup,” Zhou Sen said.

As soon as he left, Bai Yulan’s eyes slowly opened a slit. It was clear she had been pretending the whole way.

“Lan Jie, is it right to deceive Brother Sen like this?” A Xiang whispered.

“How else can we be sure he’s the one we can trust?” Bai Yulan replied. “I don’t want to be hurt again.”

“If Brother Sen knew, would he be angry?”

“I don’t know. But if he understands me, he won’t be,” Bai Yulan said thoughtfully.

Zhou Sen was unaware of the secret plans between mistress and servant. Tonight had been a good night for him—at least Bai Yulan no longer opposed his closeness.

The long journey had passed the halfway mark. With a little more effort, crossing snowy mountains and grasslands would be just a matter of time.

Humming a little tune, he earnestly began preparing the sobering soup.

...