Chapter 497: The Funeral on the Red Field

Moscow in 1983 was so cold that even bone marrow could freeze.

At Sheremetyevo Airport the runway snow was ankle‑deep, and the deep‑blue Xinghan‑liveried Boeing 747 had just come to a halt; its massive engines were still roaring, and the blast of heat instantly melted the surrounding snow into a puddle of black water.

Before the boarding stairs were even set up, a line of Soviet men in thick wool coats were already standing below. They weren't KGB, but generals from the Soviet Army's General Logistics Department, along with a few heads of the Aviation Industry Bureau.

They brought no flowers and no honor guard. Each of the bigwigs bearing the Golden Star on their shoulders now stared intently at the cargo door as it slowly opened.

Inside there were no diplomatic documents, only piles of frozen pork, canned luncheon meat, and whole crates upon crates of high‑proof Erguotou.

"Mr. Lu, you are our lifesaver."

The leading General Qieernuofu was a tall man with a red nose; when he saw Lu Qingshan step down, his usually stern face forced out a smile. He ignored diplomatic protocol, leapt to embrace, yet his eyes kept darting toward the cargo hold.

"General, you're overdoing it," Lu Qingshan sidestepped the vodka‑scented hug, tightening his black cashmere coat, "It's just business. Have the goods you want prepared?"

"Everything's in the warehouse, everything's in the warehouse," Qieernuofu rubbed his hands, his breath instantly frosting, "Once the supplies are offloaded, the train cars can be sent to Manzhouli right away."

Lu Qingshan nodded, waved to Lin Yueqiang behind him, "Unload. Let everyone taste Huaxia's pork stewed with vermicelli."

By the airport, several black Volga limousines were already running. Lu Qingshan wasn't in a hurry to go to a hotel; instead he told Qieernuofu, "I need to go somewhere first. Some private accounts have to be settled there."

Outside Moscow, Special Prison No. 14.

It used to be a top‑secret facility for political prisoners; now even the guard's padded cotton coats are patched up.

The iron gate creaked open.

Ivanov crouched in the corner, his crisp KGB uniform long since stained beyond recognition, his silver hair a tangled mess. Hearing footsteps, he lifted his head; his gray‑blue eyes were full of blood vessels.

The moment he saw Lu Qingshan, he lunged onto the railing, snarling like a mad dog, "Lu! You devil! It's you! You're the one who ruined everything!"

Lu Qingshan stood outside the iron railing, his expression as calm as if watching monkeys at a zoo.

"It wasn't me," Lu Qingshan took a chair from Lin Yueqiang's hand, sat down, "It's your greed, and that country of yours that has long been rotting."

"I'll kill you! As long as I get out…"

"You won't get out," Lu Qingshan cut him off, pulling a crudely made wooden nesting doll from his coat pocket.

It was the very one Ivanov had sent to Capital City.

Lu Qingshan set the nesting doll on the ground and kicked it into the railing.

"Open it and see. Consider it the last gift an old friend gave you."

Ivanov froze for a moment, his trembling hand picking up the doll. He unscrewed the first layer—empty. The second layer—still empty.

Until he unscrewed the final thumb‑sized layer.

No bullets, no poison.

Only a thin piece of paper.

Ivanov leaned toward the dim light and read the characters on it.

It was a one‑way ticket to the Vorkuta labor camp in Siberia. The departure time was tonight.

"No… no!" Ivanov collapsed as if his muscles were torn, "That place is a death trap! I won't go! I'm a distinguished operative! I have medals!"

"Your medals can't buy a single black loaf," Lu Qingshan stood, brushed the dust off his coat, "Your superior sold you. The price wasn't high—five tons of flour plus two crates of antibiotics."

"Because you blocked everyone's path to a meal."

Lu Qingshan turned and walked away, his leather shoes striking the cement with a crisp sound.

Behind him, Ivanov's desperate howl rose like a dying beast, but soon the heavy iron door cut the sound off into another world.

That night, in a luxurious private suite of a Moscow hotel, the heating blazed scorching hot.

A long table was laden with caviar, roast goose, and the Moutai Lu Qingshan had brought.

Several chief engineers of the Soviet Aviation Aerodynamics Design Bureau were flushed red from drinking. They stared at Lu Qingshan as if at a money‑spreading child.

"Lu, the Black Sea shipyard blueprints…" a bald old man belched, "They're top secret. If the Americans find out…"

"Comrade Waxili," Lu Qingshan poured him a full glass, "Can the Americans pay your wages? Heat your design bureau? Let your children drink milk?"

The old man fell silent.

"But I can," Lu Qingshan pushed a contract across, "This lists not US dollars but supplies—enough for everyone in your design bureau to live comfortably through three winters. Moreover, experts willing to go to Huaxia get double wages, paid in US dollars, a villa, and a dedicated car."

Waxili's hand trembled as he stared at the list.

"Sign!" the old man clenched his teeth, tears welling, "This damned world. Leaving the blueprints here will just rot them; better to trade them for food."

At that moment, the suite door was violently thrown open.

A suited American wearing gold‑rimmed glasses stormed in, followed by several nervous Soviet Foreign Ministry officials.

It was the US Ambassador to the Soviet Union, Weilianmu Si.

"Stop! Immediately stop!" Weilianmu Si pointed at the contract on the table, his face twisted with anger, "This is theft! This undermines the Balance Strategy! Mr. Lu, you've crossed the line! The Su‑27 engine technology, aircraft carrier designs… these must never flow eastward!"

The suite fell silent instantly.

Lu Qingshan sat at the head seat, glass still in hand, not even shifting his weight.

"Ambassador, didn't you knock before entering? Is this the courtesy of you Americans?"

"Don't give me that!" Weilianmu Si slapped the table, "I, representing the US Government, formally warn you: this deal must be cancelled! Otherwise, Xinghan Group will face total sanctions!"

Several Soviet experts, half‑drunk with fright, instinctively tried to hide the contract.

Lu Qingshan leisurely drained his glass, set it down, and produced a light "pop."

"Lin Yueqiang."

"Present."

"Bring the briefcase."

Lu Qingshan took the black briefcase, pulled out a photocopy, and tossed it before Weilianmu Si.

"The 'Dawn Agreement,' Clause 3, Article 4," Lu Qingshan pointed to the signature, "President Reagan's own handwriting. Xinghan Group's commercial activities in the Soviet Union are free from third‑party interference. So, Ambassador, you intend to make the President break the contract?"

Weilianmu Si's face hardened, "That concerns ordinary commerce, not arms!"

"To me, it's just scrap‑metal acquisition," Lu Qingshan rose, stepped in front of Weilianmu Si, towering half a head above him, exuding pressure.

"Besides, Mr. Ambassador, if you dare to spoil this deal…" Lu Qingshan leaned close to his ear, his voice low, "I'll discard the two hundred billion US dollars of government bonds in my hand. Moreover, I have many friends in Ukraine and Kazakhstan; if they start a ruckus, they might sell nuclear warheads as fireworks tomorrow."

Williams' pupils contracted sharply.

"That's extortion!"

"It's a deal." Lu Qingshan smiled, turned his head toward the Soviet Deputy Foreign Minister handling the reception, "Comrade Yige Naye Fu, this American friend seems unwilling to let you obtain those two hundred carloads of winter coal and grain. How about we put this contract on hold for now?"

Yige Naye Fu's eyes reddened the moment he heard the word "coal."

Moscow's heating‑plant coal depot has already been emptied; without coal, the whole city will freeze to death.

"Mr. Ambassador." Yige Naye Fu stepped forward, blocking Lu Qingshan, his tone stiff, "This is an internal affair of the Soviet Union. Please leave. You are not welcome here."

"You…" Williams looked at the Soviet men whose eyes had reddened over coal, trembling with anger, "You will regret this! This is a disaster!"

"That's our business. See him out!" Yige Naye Fu waved his hand, and two KGB guards immediately lifted Williams's arm, dragging him out half‑by‑half.

The private‑room door closed.

Lu Qingshan raised his glass: "Cheers, to friendship, to winter."

"Ura!"

Three days later.

One after another, green‑liveried special trains, puffing white smoke, departed Moscow railway station.

Through the train windows were faces full of bewilderment and anticipation. They were thousands of top engineers, scientists, and their families.

They carried blueprints, carried their minds, carried the afterglow of an empire, racing toward that distant East.

Lu Qingshan stood on the platform, watching the train disappear.

The snow fell heavier and heavier.

He turned around, looking at the red flag atop the Kremlin Palace in the distance. The flag hung limp in the wind and snow, appearing especially heavy.

"Brother‑in‑law, this time have we emptied the old Russian's assets?" Lin Yueqiang stood beside him, panting, asked.

"That's just the beginning," Lu Qingshan tightened his scarf, "This is only the first batch. From now on, this place will be our talent and technology reserve depot."

The phone in his pocket rang.

Lu Qingshan answered, and on the other end came Old Chen's familiar voice, laced with an unmistakable smile.

"Qing Shan…"

"Old Chen."

"Customs just reported that the first batch of blueprints has already crossed the border. Good fellow, several tons of data. A few senior academicians at the aviation bureau were so excited they each downed a bottle of fast‑acting heart‑saving pills," Old Chen's voice was a bit hoarse, "You kid, this has bought our country back twenty years of time."

"It's what we should do," Lu Qingshan said, looking at the swirling snow, "How's the family?"

"The family is fine. It's just that Xiao Xue, that girl, clutches the globe you bought every day, asking dad which point it's on," Old Chen paused, "Qing Shan, come back. The celebration banquet is ready, at your family's Fuqiang Hutong. The two of us grandfathers will have a drink together."

The cold hardness at the corner of Lu Qingshan's eye melted in that instant.

In this foreign icy world, he had just buried a powerful enemy, dismembered a massive empire, but at this moment, he was only a father longing to return home.

"Alright," Lu Qingshan said softly into the phone, "I'll be home at noon. For the New Year."

He hung up, and gave one last glance at the red palace wall.

Amid wind and snow, one era was drawing to a close. Another era was rising slowly in the East.

"Let's go home." Lu Qingshan slipped into the car, "Yueqiang, have the family wrap the dumplings; I want pork with scallion filling."