The New Year had barely ended when He Zhengren saw the obituary announcing Professor Lu Yang’s passing. Lu Yang was a few years older than Rao Qinghui; the two had been close friends in their time, and word had it that in their youth they had even made a pact to one day become in-laws. After Rao Qinghui’s death, He Zhengren had visited Lu Yang on several occasions, yet never managed to draw a single word of substance from him.
He Ma drove He Zhengren to the memorial service, then sat in the car playing games while he waited — just like Li Haozhang, he almost never got out of the car or showed his face.
Most of Lu Yang’s students still in the country attended the ceremony. Some had become university professors; others had started their own companies. Those studying abroad sent calls and messages to express their condolences and grief. The scene felt oddly familiar to He Zhengren — it had been much the same when Rao Qinghui passed. As he pinned the white flower to his chest, he found himself wondering: when the day came that he left this world, would so many people make a special trip to see him off?
“Professor He…”
“Professor He, good to see you! You came too!”
“Professor He, it’s been so long! I’ll come by your place to visit in a few days!”
He Zhengren answered each of them in turn, warmly and affably inviting them to come by for a chat. Once the memorial address had been read, a few of Lu Yang’s children and grandchildren came over to express their gratitude. They said that Lu Yang had ultimately been unable to recover, had returned home to convalesce, and had passed away peacefully in his sleep.
“Professor Lu cultivated so many talented people for our country. The contributions of his lifetime cannot possibly be captured in a paragraph or two. Please accept my condolences.” He Zhengren sighed, placing a hand on the shoulder of Lu Yang’s eldest son, Lu Dingqian. “Professor Lu’s old friend, Professor Rao, left us far too soon — far too unexpectedly. I often think: if Professor Rao were still with us, the two of them working together on research and lectures, who knows what further heights they might have reached. What a pity. What a terrible pity.”
Lu Dingqian’s eyes reddened and he nodded repeatedly. “Professor Rao was my father’s dearest friend. His passing truly dealt my father a heavy blow. My father always wanted to complete the research Professor Rao left unfinished, but his health simply could not hold out. He could only place his hopes in the next generation.”
These words gave He Zhengren an opening — as a close friend, Lu Yang had clearly known the details of Rao Qinghui’s research project. He Zhengren feigned a moment of wistful reflection and said, “Professor Rao’s dying wish was something I worked toward right up until my own retirement. But we are all getting on in years, and that project of his was enormously demanding — requiring tremendous manpower and resources. There are times I truly wish I could turn back the clock twenty years.”
“Perhaps my father’s devotion to it was his way of fulfilling a wish on behalf of Professor Rao,” said Lu Dingqian. “On his sickbed, my father told us that Professor Rao had spent the latter half of his life conducting surveys and field inspections all across the country, hoping to find large-scale ore belts or single-mineral deposits. They had located several pegmatite veins in Sichuan and Yunnan — though I don’t really understand the technical terminology: something about the Yanshanian period, beryl, heliodor — with estimated grades below 0.01%, reserves too modest to be promising, and extraction costs too high. As for the research and surveys that followed, my father had no further knowledge of the progress. The next news he received was that they had been in a car accident…”
Sichuan and Yunnan. Pegmatite veins. The Yanshanian period. Beryl. Heliodor. To a layman, these terms might have sounded like gibberish — but to He Zhengren, a man deep in the field, they instantly resolved a mystery that had lingered in his mind for years: Rao Qinghui’s project had been about beryllium ore.
That China’s beryllium reserves were limited was common knowledge in the industry, and which regions held exploration prospects was no secret either — but pinpointing the location, distribution, and scale of specific deposits carried enormous and concrete strategic significance.
Beryllium ore. He Zhengren knew precisely how important this mineral was, and a golden flame surged unbidden in his chest. Perhaps the three photographs in Ba Yunye’s possession pointed to the survey team’s research findings! Was this not exactly what he had been craving most? He Zhengren was silent for a moment. “That mineral is so scarce, with reserves so limited — and given the vast territory of our country, with its diverse and complex mineral resources, even young researchers cannot produce results overnight. Professor Rao’s later surveys were fairly confidential, but given the nature of the ore belts involved, some degree of secrecy in the interest of national mineral security was only appropriate.”
Lu Dingqian was an outsider to the field and had no inkling of the trap. Coaxed along by He Zhengren’s few well-chosen words, he said, “Only those as close to Professor Rao as my father — or yourself — would know about this matter. And Professor Rao once telephoned my father to say that the research had made a major breakthrough, though he did not go into specifics.”
“Every generation produces its share of brilliant minds. I trust the younger generation will not disappoint their predecessors.” He Zhengren said gravely, adopting the same approach he had used with Diao Zhuo. “I wonder whether Professor Lu left any instructions regarding his research endeavors before he passed?”
Lu Dingqian was not a survivor of the accident and did not hold his guard up around He Zhengren the way Diao Zhuo had. Facing what he believed to be one of his father’s old colleagues, and still raw with grief, he spoke freely. “Indeed! I heard some time ago that Professor Rao’s grandson was not affected by the accident at all — he followed in his father’s footsteps, and is currently working on a manganese ore project in Xinjiang. Earlier this year, some police officers even came to our home specifically to consult my father on some technical questions. Father’s strength was limited and he couldn’t talk for long. After the officers left, he seemed to be in rather good spirits.”
He Zhengren frowned. “What use could police officers have asking those kinds of technical questions?”
“I didn’t catch much from outside the room — something that seemed to be related to Professor Rao.”
He Zhengren’s breath caught in his throat. His heart lurched with sudden fear, yet he forced himself to continue chatting amicably with Lu Yang’s children for a little while longer before taking his leave. He had gathered considerable information today, and an idea was already struggling to take shape in his mind. He had recently been considering leaving the country for the United States as soon as possible to retire in comfort — but the immense value of the beryllium ore data had his mind wandering restlessly. The temptation of wealth was the hardest of all to resist.
He settled into the back seat of the car. He Ma started the engine. “Little Li just called — Master Ba has another job. He wants to know whether you’re still in.”
“And the other one?”
“Diao Zhuo’s holiday isn’t over yet. He’s still in Yunnan for the time being.”
He Zhengren was slightly irritated and waved his hand dismissively. “He’s already exposed himself anyway. He may as well come back — but tell him not to show up near us yet. Before Diao Zhuo goes to Xinjiang, find somewhere for him to lay low for a while.”
He Ma nodded. The car slowly pulled away. Then He Zhengren was heard dialing someone’s number, saying: “I hear the police went to Professor Lu Yang’s place a few days ago to ask questions. Did you know about this? …If you knew, why didn’t you tell me? Ha… So you were never able to take over the accident investigation team, which means you’ve had no clear picture of the actual progress? …Of course it would be best not to reopen the investigation. Since a conclusion was already reached at the time, why overturn it now? Within the scope of your authority, do your best to prevent it. …Good. Goodbye.”
He Ma’s eyes darted about. He offered a compliment: “Mr. He, your connections really are something… I never imagined you had people on the police side too…”
“Drive the car and keep your mouth shut.”
“Hehe. I used to be on edge about all this, but now I feel a lot better.”
“With your kind of nerve, don’t even think about doing anything big.” He Zhengren gave a cold snort.
He Ma chuckled. “What’s the next step?”
He Zhengren pressed his fingers tiredly against the bridge of his nose. “Ah… Today I watched yet another old veteran pass away. It sits heavily with me. I’ve spent a lifetime in research, and even after retiring I’ve still had so much to worry about. I really am exhausted. …Take me to the institute for a while.”
Not long afterward, Li Haozhang received the order to “stand down” and quickly packed his things to return to Beijing. The moment he left, the innkeeper immediately phoned Long Ge — “A’Long, the people you mentioned have checked out. I called them a car to the airport. I’ll send you the plate number in a moment.”
Long Ge was at another inn he kept in Lijiang at the time. He hung up the phone, rounded up two men, and three vehicles set off to follow Li Haozhang.
Although Ge Mingliang’s report had described Li Haozhang as an unemployed drifter with no fixed occupation — someone who appeared to be nothing more than a hired thug — a hired thug who had come all the way from Beijing to Yunnan and Tibet to conduct surveillance, spending tens of thousands just on fuel and accommodation, simply did not look like an ordinary hired hand, no matter how one looked at it.
If others could conduct surveillance, he could conduct counter-surveillance — and especially after hearing that both Song Fan and Li Haozhang had successively hired thugs to harass the orphanage, Long Ge became all the more convinced that following Li Haozhang would turn something up.
He Zhengren made his way to the institute’s storage room, located Rao Qinghui’s old computer from years past, and slowly powered it on. A password-protected folder appeared on the screen — he had no idea how many times he had seen it — and every password he had tried before had failed. This time, though… “Beryllium ore…” he murmured to himself. “Those coordinates in the photographs the young Ba had… 40… 41… Could the password simply be beryllium’s CAS number, 7440-41-7?”
He entered it on a whim, and one second later, he was actually inside the encrypted folder. He drew in a sharp, startled breath of delight — though the dusty, musty air of the storage room sent him coughing — his heart was blooming with joy. He rapidly scanned the contents: scan after scan, compiled survey data, distribution maps. His body trembled slightly with excitement. Rao Qinghui had truly deserved his reputation as a titan of academia. This detailed dossier on beryllium ore covered data on virtually every beryllium deposit and associated mineral deposit across the country that met the conditions for extraction — precise data, precise coordinates, the product of Rao Qinghui and his project team’s labors over countless years. It was invaluable.
He Zhengren let out a low, suppressed laugh, laughing as he shook his head. “Old Rao… your password was simultaneously difficult and simple. As long as one knew what you were researching, it wasn’t hard to guess — the trouble was that you were always so secretive about it! If Lu Yang hadn’t rambled in his illness and let your secret slip to his son and the police, who would have cracked the password, and then a lifetime’s toil would have gone to waste! These things couldn’t be turned into money in your hands, but in mine they’re all money — all money!!”
With this, whether or not he found Ba Xiye’s old computer was no longer relevant. He Zhengren copied all the data onto a USB drive he had brought with him, then shamelessly formatted the computer clean, and walked out of the storage room as though nothing had happened.
A round trip along the Yunnan-Tibet Highway with clients took twenty-five days of driving. By the time Ba Yunye reached Lhasa, Diao Zhuo’s plane had already landed at Gongga Airport. The two spent a brief four days together in Lhasa before Ba Yunye loaded up a new group of clients for the return leg of the Yunnan-Tibet Highway toward Lijiang.
“Whenever you get tired of this constant separation, just say the word.” Ba Yunye wrapped her arms around Diao Zhuo’s waist from behind, pressing her forehead against his firm back muscles, half-teasing, half-sincere. “Don’t let me show up one day full of excitement only to find you’ve packed your bags and gone without leaving so much as a note.”
Diao Zhuo ignored the remark, loaded Ba Yunye’s luggage into the back of the car, then turned and said, “The road is thick with snow. Drive carefully. I’ll wait for you in Lijiang.”
“Don’t worry.” Ba Yunye agreed immediately. “Oh, by the way — I can never reach Long Ge lately. He’s nowhere to be found in Lhasa, the inns in Lijiang and Dali both say he hasn’t been by, and he hasn’t gone back to Chengdu either. He replies to my messages sometimes and ignores them other times, says he’s busy with something. …Could he have fallen in love? If you get to Lijiang ahead of me and run into him first, give him a proper interrogation on my behalf.”
He was dismissive. “Mind your own business.”
“I’m just worried he’ll get swindled by some wicked woman.”
Diao Zhuo looked her up and down. “Given that he single-handedly trained and shaped you into what you are, he’s not the kind of man who gets taken in by wicked women.”
Ba Yunye found this entirely sound reasoning and rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s… a wicked man?”
The straight-laced, matter-of-fact man felt absolutely nothing amusing about this kind of joke. He raised his hand and gestured for her to get in the car.
Shortly after the red Jeep Wrangler disappeared in a cloud of dust, Diao Zhuo’s phone rang. Several of his former classmates told him they had just attended Professor Lu Yang’s memorial service, conveyed his regards on his behalf, and mentioned they had seen He Zhengren there.
“According to Professor Lu’s family, after returning home to recuperate, he suffered considerably from illness. Later, a few police officers came to see him and raised the matter of your grandfather, Professor Rao. That day, Professor Lu seemed to improve somewhat, and he passed away peacefully a few days later.”
Diao Zhuo contacted the police officer Ran Jinxian, who told him that they had retrieved all the records from the accident and, while they had not formally re-launched an investigation, had begun gathering supplementary information on leads from the final testimony — which was why they had gone to Rao Qinghui’s close friend, Professor Lu, rather than approaching the survivors. At the same time, based on what Diao Zhuo had reported about Song Fan and Li Haozhang repeatedly harassing the orphanage after the accident, they were treating the matter with particular seriousness. While reviewing the records, the police had also noticed a person who had always been overlooked before —
A female passenger who had boarded with Song Fan under the guise of a tourist: Peng Chunni.
“If I recall correctly, she also died at the scene,” said Diao Zhuo.
Ran Jinxian said, “The two were of similar age. We are currently investigating whether she and Song Fan were acquainted or had some other connection. If the two were in a romantic relationship, Song Fan could easily have gone to harass the orphanage out of anger and grief. As for Li Haozhang — we have not yet found any direct connection between him and the accident. Perhaps they were acting for different purposes. We’ll say more once we’ve investigated further.”