Chapter 350: The Yaozi of the Teahouse

Beixin Bridge, "Listening to Rain" teahouse.

It is a two‑story old‑style wooden structure with upturned eaves, looking somewhat forlorn among the gradually rising Western buildings nearby.

The patrons are mostly nearby elders or laborers taking a break; a pot of high‑grade tea and a plate of sunflower seeds can while away half an hour.

At 5:30 p. m., there was still half an hour before the coded rendezvous at six. Inside and outside the teahouse, everything seemed normal.

Diagonally opposite, across from a tailor shop's second floor, a curtain was drawn back, leaving a thin slit.

Li Ping'an and Group Leader Sun stood side by side, their gazes piercing the slit, firmly locking onto the teahouse entrance and that particular second‑floor window.

Inside the teahouse, two unfamiliar servers appeared, their movements a bit stiff; on the lower floor, a few seemingly idle patrons kept glancing toward the stairwell; and in the back kitchen, a plain‑clothes guard watched the rear door leading to the alley.

An invisible net has already enveloped the "Listening to Rain" teahouse tightly.

"All in position," Group Leader Sun whispered, idly turning two smooth walnuts in his hand—a habit when he's nervous, "Now we wait for the 'Yaozi' to enter the cage."

Li Ping'an nodded; his Divine Perception had already spread silently, covering the teahouse and the surrounding hundred‑meter area.

The clamor of voices, the servers' calls, the boiling tea, the patrons' coughs and murmurs… merged into a chaotic background sound.

He patiently awaited the "note" that stood out from the background.

Time ticked by second by second. At 5:40 p. m., a middle‑aged man in a gray Zhongshan suit, carrying an old briefcase and looking like an official, went up to the second floor, sat at the third seat by the window, ordered a pot of tea and took out a newspaper to read.

The surveillance personnel perked up, but soon realized the man was merely an ordinary clerk from the nearby street office, a regular here.

At 5:50 p. m., a bespectacled young man in student attire went upstairs, seemed to aim for a window seat, but upon seeing someone there hesitated and took the adjacent table.

"Not him," Group Leader Sun whispered over the Intercom, "Continue observation."

At 5:55 p. m., the teahouse's lighting grew dim as dusk fell; the servers lit a few electric lamps. The stairs sounded again with footsteps, unhurried.

The one who came up was a woman.

She was about thirty‑something, wearing a faded Lenin suit, her short hair neatly cut to the ears, her face ordinary and even a bit haggard, carrying a half‑worn cloth bag as if she'd just passed by after work.

She scanned the second floor with a calm gaze, walked straight to the third window seat—where the street clerk was still seated reading the newspaper.

The surveillance team's tension rose. The woman approached the table, politely nodded to the reading clerk, and whispered something.

The clerk looked up, seemed momentarily stunned, then smiled, shook his head, lifted his teacup and newspaper, and voluntarily moved to the empty table beside him.

The woman calmly sat at the third window seat, placed the cloth bag on the table, and told the server, "One pot of jasmine tea, one plate of sprouted beans."

Her voice was low, with a hint of a southern accent, yet clear and articulate.

"Yaozi has appeared," Group Leader Sun's voice carried a tense excitement, "She's a woman. All teams, note that without my order you may not act; keep a close watch on anyone she meets!"

Li Ping'an's Divine Perception focused on this woman.

Her breath was steady, heart rate normal, even slightly slower than average, lacking the deliberate restraint or keenness typical of agents; she truly seemed like an ordinary bureau female employee.

Yet the more ordinary she seemed, the more anomalous it became. Her choosing this time, this place, and this manner of appearance itself indicated a problem.

The woman quietly sipped tea, occasionally picking a sprouted bean to chew slowly, her gaze drifting to the dimming street scene outside, as if waiting for someone or merely resting. That composure was far from ordinary.

At six o'clock sharp. No new guests ascended the stairs.

At 6:05 p. m., the woman glanced at the cheap Shanghai watch on her wrist, her brows flickered imperceptibly, then she quickly regained composure.

At 6:10 p. m., she finished the tea, waved the server to settle the bill, then lifted the cloth bag, stood up, and went downstairs.

"Is she leaving?" someone whispered from the monitoring post.

"Follow! Alternate tailing! See where she goes, who she meets!" Group Leader Sun ordered decisively, "Maintain surveillance inside and outside the teahouse; perhaps there's more than one Yaozi, or the handoff method has changed!"

The woman exited the teahouse, walking south along the street at an unhurried pace.

Two plain‑clothes teams instantly followed silently. Li Ping'an and Group Leader Sun also hurried downstairs, boarded the jeep parked in the alley, and drove off at a distance.

The woman's route was ordinary, crossing two streets and entering a modest‑sized grocery store.

The tailors pretended to be customers and followed inside. She bought half a jin of salt and a pack of matches at the counter, carefully kept the change, then carried the items out and turned into the adjacent residential alley.

The alley was narrow and densely populated. The woman reached a ordinary courtyard door midway, took out a key, opened it, entered, and closed the door behind her.

"Is this her home?" the tailors immediately located an observation point nearby while also questioning the neighbors.

Information quickly compiled: the woman's name is Su Xiulan, she works at the district library, is single, has lived here for several years, keeps a low profile, and neighbors describe her as "honest, quiet, a bit reclusive."

"Yaozi is Su Xiulan? Did she really go to the teahouse today to wait for someone, or was it merely a method of confirming safety or transmitting a signal?"

Group Leader Sun analyzed in the vehicle, "No handoff occurred inside the teahouse. Could it be… the item is already on her, or at her home? Or perhaps the rendezvous failed and the other party never arrived?"

Li Ping'an had said little all along; his Divine Perception could no longer penetrate effectively after Su Xiulan entered the courtyard, yet he kept sensing something amiss.

It was too clean, too much like an ordinary 'finish work, have tea, go home.' Yet the timing and seat matched the code perfectly.

"Apply for a search warrant to conduct a covert search of Su Xiulan's home and her workplace at the library."

Group Leader Sun decided, "Also, place her under continuous twenty‑four‑hour surveillance. If she truly is Yaozi, she'll move eventually."

Just as the Project Team was preoccupied with Yaozi's elusive movements, in the steel rolling mill, Xu Damao felt his 'east wind' gaining strength!

Deputy Factory Director Li Huaide, at a plant‑expansion meeting, "by the way" highlighted the importance of strengthening logistics material management to prevent loopholes; although he didn't name Xu Damao's proposal directly, the direction was unmistakable.

After the meeting, Xu Damao felt his resolve stiffen, brandishing a chicken feather like a command flag, and began his 'research.'

He no longer provoked Sha Zhu's powder keg in the canteen; instead he set his sights on the logistics department's secondary warehouses, tool rooms, and labor‑protection supply points—the 'capillaries.'

Hands behind his back, notebook in hand, he adopted the demeanor of a Special Envoy of the Supervision Team, checking ledgers here, inquiring about procedures there, occasionally flagging a few 'non‑standard' or 'needs improvement' items, making the responsible foremen and storekeepers uneasy yet unwilling to offend the 'Li,' the Factory Director's current favorite.

"Old Zhang, in your labor‑protection glove issuance log, why is there only the recipient's signature and no verifier's? That doesn't follow procedure and invites errors!" Xu Damao said, pointing at the ledger in the tool room, his face solemn.

Old Zhang, a simple‑hearted veteran worker in the tool room, was taken aback: "Xu… Officer Xu, we just take the gloves and use them; everyone's busy, we've always recorded it this way…"

"Always? Is always right?" Xu Damao cut him off, earnestly, "Comrade, our thinking can't stay stuck in the old almanac! What's the current situation? We must practice scientific, meticulous management! See, add a column here, stamp there, and the paperwork is complete! This also protects your work!"

He spoke pompously, as if truly there to help improve operations.

Old Zhang was fooled, nodding repeatedly: "Yes, yes, Officer Xu is right; we'll change it, right away."

Xu Damao satisfied himself with a note in his book, feeling he had advanced a 'management improvement.'

He seemed to see that, through these minute 'standards,' he was gradually seeping his influence into the very fabric of logistics management.

When his 'Material Supervision Inspection Team' is formally established, those 'non‑standard' spots will become his leverage to assert authority and manipulate others.

He had even already decided to start with which "disobedient" team leader to "set an example".

What about the people over at Yang Changzhang's side? As long as they are caught on a "management loophole" small thread, with Li's support, they can still be hammered.

Xu Damao was immersed in the wonderful illusion of power, walking with the wind.

He did not know that his seemingly clever operation, to a truly discerning person, was nothing more than a child swinging a dangerous and uncontrolled knife.

And the Project Team's secret search of Su Xiulan's family yielded an unexpected discovery.

The search was carried out while Su Xiulan was at work during the day. The home's furnishings were so simple as to be almost shabby, with no valuables, and no radio station, code book or other suspicious items were found.

However, the technical expert found, under the bedroom's bedboard, a slightly loose brick; prying it open revealed a small oil‑paper packet.

Inside the oil‑paper packet was not intelligence, not weapons, but a small bundle of yellowed photographs and a few letters.

The photographs showed the same person—a young officer in Nationalist army uniform, whose appearance bore some resemblance to Su Xiulan.

The letters were family letters, signed "Brother Su Wenh an", dated from 1948 to early 1949, mostly containing everyday greetings and worries about the situation, but the last letter, dated April 1949, mentioned "Brother will soon depart with the unit to Taiwan, sister must cherish yourself, live peacefully, do not think of me. This journey over mountains and rivers, fear we may never meet again…", the handwriting was slightly messy.

Su Xiulan's brother was a Nationalist army officer who had retreated to the opposite shore.

And she, the younger sister, stayed on the mainland, working in a library, leading a seemingly tranquil life.

"This 'hawk'… might not be an active spy, but a 'person of interest' long controlled and used? Or perhaps she herself is a sleeping 'nail'?"

Sun looked at those photographs and letters, brow furrowed, "The tea house rendezvous may not be about passing physical intelligence, but a signal to activate or confirm her status? The other side didn't appear—did they discover danger, or was there another arrangement?"

Li Ping'an looked at the young officer's unfamiliar face in the photos, then at Su Xiulan's plain, haggard face in the records.

The torrent of the era swept the siblings apart; a shallow strait not only separated blood ties but perhaps also buried an unforeseeable hidden mine.

Su Xiulan calmly went to the tea house, calmly returned home; was her heart as calm as her exterior? Was she waiting for a distant echo, or fearing an inevitable summons?

The identity of the "hawk" seemed clearer, yet the whole mystery grew deeper.

And in the Steel Rolling Mill, Xu Damao's abacus beads clicked loudly, thinking he had borrowed the east wind, unaware that this wind rose from the tip of a green duckweed, and ultimately where it would blow, what dust it would stir up.