Chapter 457: Hidden Currents of the World

Beijing's wind in the twelfth month, like a brush dusted with ice shards, swept over Houhai's frozen lake surface, slipped into the narrow Alley, whistling sharply between the cracks of the blue‑brick walls.

Lin Xueqing tightened the wool scarf around her neck, and the white breath she exhaled was instantly blown away by the wind.

She held a hard‑cover notebook in her hand, followed Sister Liu of the street office, stepping unevenly on the uneven brick road of Ruyi Alley.

Underfoot lay the hard‑frozen remnants of snow and coal‑ash stains everywhere.

On both sides were low, tangled courtyards, the wall plaster mottled, chimneys jutting out spewing thick or thin blue smoke, and the air was filled with the choking smell of low‑grade coal balls burning.

"Just the one ahead, No. 7 courtyard," Liu Da Jie said, pointing at a particularly dilapidated gate, lowering her voice, "Old man Han Dashan's house. The situation… sigh, you'll see once you look."

Pushing open the half‑closed gate, the scene was even more cramped than expected.

The courtyard was so tiny you couldn't turn around, piled with scavenged wastepaper shells and broken planks.

The north room was low, and the plastic sheet covering the windows flapped loudly in the wind.

A gray‑haired, stooped old man sat on a small wooden horse saddle by the threshold, under the dim light leaking from the house, laboriously mending an old iron dustpan.

One of his legs was straight out, the pant leg cut off, revealing a rough wooden prosthetic bound inside.

Hearing the movement, the old man lifted his head; deep furrows marked his face, his eyes were a bit clouded, but his back instinctively straightened a little.

"Officer Liu has arrived?" his voice was hoarse, with a thick Hebei accent.

"Old Han, didn't I tell you, don't keep sitting in the wind!"

Liu Da Jie hurried forward, her tone familiar yet concerned, "This is Comrade Lin from Shenzhen, here especially to visit an old meritorious veteran like you."

Han Dashan — the very grandfather of the boy who picked up the sheep‑bone that night.

He tried to stand a bit awkwardly, and Lin Xueqing quickly stepped forward to support him.

"Old Han, please stay seated, don't be polite. We are from the Iron Blood Glory Foundation; we heard you're an old hero, and came especially to see if there's anything we can help with."

Lin Xueqing's tone was gentle, but her eyes quickly scanned the courtyard and the interior of the small house.

The house, barren of furniture, was the most immediate impression.

Inside, aside from an old kang table and a peeled‑paint wooden cabinet, there was hardly any decent furniture.

The wall also bore a faded award certificate and an enamel jar stamped with "Resist America, Aid Korea, Defend the Motherland."

But unlike Zhao Laoshuan's house in Liushugou, here a faded "Five Good Family" award and several childish crayon drawings were also posted.

"Nothing… nothing to help with," Han Dashan waved his hand, habitually refusing, "The Government is good, they remember us every holiday. It's far better than those brothers who perished in Korea…"

As he spoke, his gaze unintentionally drifted toward the inner room.

From inside came a suppressed cough.

Liu Da Jie whispered to Lin Xueqing, "The old man's son works at the Textile Factory, the business is poor and wages often aren't paid. His daughter‑in‑law has weak lungs, takes medicine year after year, can't do heavy work. The grandson just started primary school. They rely on the old man's disability subsidy and the son's unstable wages… it's hard."

Lin Xueqing felt a weight in her heart.

Urban hardships are often more invisible and more complex.

It's not solely barren land, but a web woven of disease, unemployment, education, prices… an intangible net.

She crouched, her gaze level with the seated Han Dashan.

"Old Han, don't misunderstand. Our foundation doesn't just hand out a bit of rice, flour, oil and leave. We want to see how we can give your family a more stable source of income, let the child study peacefully, and let the patient afford treatment."

She took out her notebook and pen.

"What kind of work does your son do at the Textile Factory? Could he learn another skill? What did the doctor say about your daughter‑in‑law's illness? If she needs a better hospital, roughly how much would it cost? And the grandson, besides tuition, what other expenses are there?"

The questions were specific and detailed.

Han Dashan was stunned for a moment, apparently not expecting such straightforward questions.

He glanced at Liu Da Jie, who nodded at him.

Only then did the old man slowly begin to speak.

The heavy pressures of life, like cold stones, spread across the winter‑cold courtyard as he spoke hoarsely.

Meanwhile.

In the study of the Houhai Siheyuan, however, the scene was entirely different.

The stove fire burned brightly, dispelling the harsh cold outside.

Li Ping'an did not turn on a harsh incandescent lamp; he lit an old desk lamp with a green shade, its soft glow enveloping the rose‑wood desk.

He held the latest internal briefing in his hand, but his gaze passed beyond the paper toward the massive world map on the wall.

On the map, the vast Soviet territory was deliberately outlined in red ink.

His finger slowly tapped several key spots: Nikolayev on the Black Sea coast, Kharkiv, Kyiv…

The telephone rang abruptly, sounding especially crisp in the silent study.

Li Ping'an picked up the receiver.

"It's me," Political Commissar Zhou Zhengwei's voice came, still steady, but on close listening it seemed a bit less relaxed, with a hint of gravity.

"Commissar." Li Ping'an replied.

"The preliminary plan for Liushugou, I've reviewed. The thinking is correct; the steps could be more solid."

Political Commissar Zhou first affirmed the foundation's work, then shifted tone, "The points you raised last time about the 'big brother' up north… Some recent signs seem… increasingly clear."

Li Ping'an understood implicitly.

He walked to the map, his finger again traced over the Ukraine region.

"The great building will collapse, not in a day. Yet the cracks are already clear, especially in frontier ethnic areas and heavy‑industry zones with unbalanced economic structures."

His voice was low yet clear, "For us, crises hide unprecedented opportunities. Some things, once dismantled, are hard to reassemble. And some talents and technologies, once dispersed, are too costly to reconvene."

On the other end, the phone was silent for a few seconds.

Only the faint hiss of electricity.

"Your sense of smell is always a few steps ahead of others."

Political Commissar Zhou said slowly, "Higher‑ups have similar assessments. But the situation is complex and sensitive; actions can't be big, and we mustn't hand over the reins. 'Civil' and 'commercial' channels might be more flexible, and also… safer."

This is tacit approval, and also sets the boundary.

"I understand," Li Ping'an said in a low voice, "so we must speed up. It is already 1988, and the window left for us will not be long."

He paused, then voiced the plan he had long contemplated.

"Talent and technology acquisition must be accelerated. The focus is on Ukraine. There the Soviet Union's finest shipbuilding industry is concentrated; the Nikolayev shipyard can build aircraft carriers. Also the Kharkiv aircraft design bureau, where the Tu‑160 strategic bomber and the An‑124, An‑225 giant transport aircraft are designed and produced, are located there."

"These technologies and teams are truly the nation's heavy assets. Once the alliance loosens, these places will inevitably be the first hit, falling into chaos and trouble. We must, before others react, establish contacts and lay channels in advance under the guise of commercial cooperation, technical consulting, or even 'talent exchange'."

Political Commissar Zhou did not respond immediately, evidently weighing the matter.

This move is large and risky.

"Funding and concrete operations…"

"Funding can be mobilized by the group. It can be sent through Hong Kong and London financial channels in the form of investment or procurement prepayments, relatively covert."

Li Ping'an had a prior plan, "For concrete operations, I have contacts in the Soviet side. Chen Jianghe's trade route has always been stable; he can support reliable local agents to handle contact and preliminary screening. Ivanovich, the former KGB colonel who previously helped recruit security personnel, is well versed in gray‑zone networks and operations; he can accelerate actions, targeting senior engineers, designers, and technical workers who may face unemployment or be dissatisfied with the status quo."

"On the financial side, Zhou Wenbin is finishing the integration of Matthew Bank in London; he can switch immediately, using the newly acquired bank channels and seats to study how to conduct asset swaps and talent incentive payments more safely and efficiently amid potential turmoil. For example, using hard currency or overseas accounts to pay 'consultation fees' and 'project bonuses'."

Li Ping'an's speech was not fast, but extremely orderly, as if a detailed battle map were slowly unfolding before his eyes.

Every link, every node, took into account commercial logic, risk avoidance, and timing.

This is not a spur‑of‑the‑moment impulse, but a long‑brewed strategic layout.

On the other end of the Telephone, Political Commissar Zhou fell silent again for a longer stretch.

Finally, he spoke, his voice carrying a complex sigh.

"Ping'an, you're not doing business; you're … preemptively acquiring. Preemptively acquiring those finest, most likely to be knocked down by the storm before it fully arrives."

"Political Commissar, I'm just a merchant."

Li Ping'an's tone was calm, "Merchants pursue profit and also avoid risk. I believe investing in these technologies and know‑how, which represent the pinnacle of human industrial civilization, is the safest and highest‑returning 'deal' in the long run. As for where these 'seeds' will sprout in the future… I trust they will find the most suitable soil."

The words were implicit, yet both understood.

"There are three principles," Political Commissar Zhou's voice grew solemn, "First, absolute voluntariness—no coercion, no deception. Second, technical exchange and cooperation must be legal and compliant; at least the paperwork must be thorough. Third, all actions must go through the purely commercial channels you and Chen Jianghe control, keeping an absolute distance from any of our official institutions. If problems arise, you are engaged in pure commercial activity."

"Understood," Li Ping'an replied solemnly. This was the "firewall" he needed.

"I will coordinate some retired senior experts in technical fields, under personal names, to form an informal 'consultant group' that can, when necessary, preliminarily assess the value of the technologies and talent you encounter. But remember, they will not appear publicly, will not sign documents, and will only provide background references."

"Excellent, thank you, Political Commissar!" Li Ping'an felt a surge inside. With a professional 'gem‑appraisal' eye, he could avoid blind spots and pitfalls.

"Make good use of the time," Political Commissar Zhou finally reminded, "The mountain rain is about to come, the wind direction has already shifted. Pay attention to safety, and also to… propriety."

The Telephone was hung up.

The study fell back into silence, with only the stove fire occasionally crackling softly.

Li Ping'an set down the handset and walked back to the map.

His gaze became razor‑sharp, as if piercing the map, seeing the massive shipyards on the Black Sea coast, the mountain‑high piles of blueprints in the design bureau, and the top minds bewildered by the collapse of Faith and lack of livelihood.

1988.

Time is truly running short.

He must fight on two fronts, even on multiple fronts.

Lin Xueqing, deep in the Alley, lit one warm little lamp after another, guarding the past glory and righteousness.

And he, must lay his pieces in the undercurrents of an international order about to undergo dramatic change, aiming directly at the future pillars of strength—those technologies and talents capable of reshaping an industry or even an era.

Outside the window, fine snowflakes had begun to drift, time unknown.

They fell silently on the Siheyuan's blue tiles and on the frozen lake of Houhai.

The capital in its year's dusk, wind and snow night returns.

And a cross‑border, smoke‑free 'preemptive acquisition' campaign has, at this moment, quietly pressed the acceleration button.