Chapter 15: The Failed Rendezvous and Gunfire

For two days, Li Wensheng acquainted himself with the roads, encountering patrols from Japanese soldiers and puppet troops along the way. If they frisked him upon arrival, he would slap them away; if they asked for proof of citizenship, he would simply present the household registration certificate of Fujiwara Yasumitsu.

On the morning of February 4th, at ten o’clock, Li Wensheng, wearing a felt hat, a long robe, a fake mustache pasted above his lips, and a complexion tinged with yellow, stepped into the Fenghua Restaurant. Ordinary people dared not go out these days, and since it was not meal time, the restaurant was completely empty.

“Sir—” The waiter approached, but before he could finish his sentence, Li Wensheng interjected, “Window seat upstairs, meal for one, two of your specialties.”

“Certainly, sir. Please, this way upstairs.” Led by the waiter, Li Wensheng took a seat by the window on the second floor.

“Please wait here, sir. I’ll arrange your order immediately.”

“Mm.” After the waiter left, Li Wensheng gazed through the window, observing the street outside.

Soon after, dishes began to arrive one by one, and Li Wensheng ate slowly, taking small bites.

By eleven, three more tables of guests arrived upstairs, groups of three or four, all together.

When the warm sun hung high in the sky, Li Wensheng glanced at his watch—already half past eleven.

Suddenly, his pupils contracted slightly. Without hesitation, he stood and descended the stairs.

After settling the bill at the counter, he hurried toward his hotel.

Upon returning to the hotel, changing his clothes, and checking out with his suitcase, more than ten plainclothes officers and dozens of military police surrounded the Fenghua Restaurant.

At the forefront of the plainclothes officers, a man with a hooked nose scanned the anxious guests, the manager, and the waiters, then rushed upstairs. He swept his gaze around, disappointment flickering in his eyes.

He descended and addressed the military police, “Take them all away.”

Though the guests couldn’t understand Japanese, they saw the hooked-nose man speak, and the military police began to lead people away—some upstairs, some downstairs. Realization dawned: they were about to be arrested.

“Sir, I’m a law-abiding citizen—I have proof!” “Sir, I’m a member of the Greater East Asia Economic Chamber—I have credentials!” And so on, desperate pleas echoing.

Ignoring their terror and protests, the military police dragged everyone outside.

As they led the manager to the door, the hooked-nose man gestured for the military police to stop.

“Was there anyone dining alone here?” he asked in fluent Mandarin.

The manager’s heart tightened; he quickly replied, “Yes, he left just a short while ago.”

The hooked-nose man’s eyes brightened. “What did he look like?”

“A long robe, a mustache. He didn’t seem old—about thirty. About this tall.” The manager gestured.

“Which way did he go?” the hooked-nose man pressed.

The manager shook his head, trembling. “I was inside—I didn’t see which direction he went.”

The hooked-nose man immediately turned to another plainclothes officer. “Take a team and search the area. Find out which way he went, as quickly as possible.”

That officer promptly led several plainclothes colleagues and a squad of military police out of the restaurant.

—

“Damn it, trouble as soon as I arrive.” Li Wensheng, dressed in a suit and glasses, walked down the street, muttering inwardly.

For a spy working behind enemy lines, getting into trouble was par for the course, but he hadn’t expected it to happen so soon after his arrival.

“The contact must have been arrested. The Japanese have probably learned the new operations team leader is here.

Next, they’ll likely scrutinize everyone who entered Nanjing recently.

People leave traces. It won’t be long before I come under their scrutiny.

If the manager and waiter are asked to identify me, they’ll certainly recognize me. I need to flee immediately,” Li Wensheng calculated.

As for the contact not being caught, just delayed by something—impossible.

Such an important rendezvous: unless the Japanese apprehended him, he would have come, and arrived early to reconnoiter. That’s the basic instinct of any trained operative.

If the contact resisted torture without revealing him—also highly unlikely. Few can withstand such torment.

The contact must have been arrested only recently; otherwise, the Japanese would have already set up surveillance at the Fenghua Restaurant.

As for disguises, thinking the manager and waiter wouldn’t recognize him—Li Wensheng wouldn’t be so naive. It was makeup, not a full transformation, and it hadn’t been days since they saw him; recognition was inevitable.

Having weighed his options, Li Wensheng headed straight for the city gate.

Before reaching it, he saw from a distance that Japanese soldiers were meticulously checking everyone entering and leaving.

After a brief observation, Li Wensheng immediately turned back.

A few days ago, when he arrived, the Japanese were also conducting strict inspections at the city gate.

But this time, the checks were different—they even required people to remove their hats. Something was amiss.

Previously, the focus was on luggage; now, it was on the individuals themselves. This meant the Japanese had already obtained his physical description from the manager and waiter.

After walking down another street, Li Wensheng slipped into a narrow alley.

He hadn’t gone far when suddenly, “Stop!”

The awkward Mandarin behind him made Li Wensheng halt and turn. He saw two plainclothes officers leading several military police toward him.

Upon seeing each other clearly, both Li Wensheng and one of the plainclothes women were momentarily stunned.

“Mr. Fujiwara, what a coincidence,” the woman said with a smile as she approached.

“Miss Naoko, indeed it is. Are you here for a posting in China?” Li Wensheng responded with a smile.

Back in Yamanashi Prefecture, he had met Naoko Koyanagi, a friend of Kyoko Yonezawa. She nodded, smiling, “Yes, I arrived in Nanjing three days ago.

Mr. Fujiwara, when did you come to Nanjing?”

“I arrived two days ago.”

Trained by the Tokko division, Naoko Koyanagi glanced at the suitcase in Li Wensheng’s hand, her wariness instantly heightened.

“Mr. Fujiwara, you’ve been here two days and haven’t found a place to stay?”

Li Wensheng’s guard went up as well, surprised by Naoko’s sharpness—she had sensed something odd from his casual remark.

“I had a place before, but the conditions were too poor, so I decided to find somewhere better.”

“I see. The inns run by Chinese are indeed subpar.

Mr. Fujiwara, I know a place—a hotel run by our countrymen, and the guests are all from our country. Why don’t I take you there?”

Looking at Naoko’s smiling face, Li Wensheng sighed inwardly, but returned the smile. “Miss Naoko, thank you for your trouble!”

“Not—” She barely uttered a word when her expression changed abruptly. Then, tat-tat-tat—the sound of gunfire, like a typist clattering away, erupted.

The gunfire lasted a dozen seconds before falling silent. By then, Naoko and her group lay dead in pools of blood.

Li Wensheng glanced over the bodies, then stowed his Thompson submachine gun—the so-called Chicago typewriter—into the system’s storage space. He crouched, picked up his suitcase, and strode quickly away.