Chapter 683 - Exposed
A murmur of discussion arose in the meeting room. Many voiced agreement with Dongmen Chuiyu's opinion—let the spy from the modern world taste modern electric torture.
"Comrades," Wu Mu spoke up, "let's sort through the clues. What we want to know is, first: who exactly is this Wei Landuo? Since he's not from this timeline, how did he cross over? And second: what is Wei Landuo trying to accomplish by coming to Lingao?"
"Arrest him and those two clerics and interrogate them—then we'll know everything," someone replied. "How about wiring them up and cranking the telephone?"
"It's not that simple. Since he came as Jesuit personnel, what exactly is his relationship with the Jesuits and Geranzani? What forces stand behind this transmigrator? We know nothing. Interrogating the other missionaries is useless; they know nothing about him either. Most importantly—is Wei Landuo the only one?"
"What do you mean by that?" Ran Yao asked.
"Why did this Wei Landuo come to Hainan? We can make a bold hypothesis. On D-Day, the temporal storm accidentally dragged in a ship carrying the Ming Lang family. Could Vessel A's appearance also have resulted from the same cause? Wei Landuo and his missing companions may have crossed over at the same time we did. His coming to Hainan Island might be precisely to search for his other companions. Those companions might even be hiding in or near Lingao, right under our noses."
This conclusion was so shocking that the room fell silent. Wu Mu continued: "Therefore, the clues to finding other unknown transmigrators lie with this person calling himself Wei Landuo. We must give him freedom of movement and place him under comprehensive surveillance. Arresting him prematurely would be completely counterproductive. Cut the vine and we'll never find the melons."
"Can the Political Security Bureau ensure comprehensive surveillance of him? We can't let this big fish slip away."
This time it was Zhao Manxiong who spoke, smiling as he assured everyone that every outsider entering Lingao was under the Political Security Bureau's effective surveillance. Ran Yao, representing the police, supported Wu Mu's opinion. Currently all of Lingao was in a state of emergency, making any investigation, surveillance, and arrest operation quite convenient. And this white man in Lingao would be as conspicuous as a peacock thrown among chickens. He had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
The whistling echoed again through the cell, over and over. Father Trigault had already lain down on his straw mat but was kept completely awake by this irritating sound.
"Padre," he heard Cecilio whisper in his ear and immediately sat up on his bunk. The young brother's lips were trembling even whiter. "Padre, has that man gone mad?"
Father Trigault shook his head. That man was either mad or possessed by the devil. But he didn't dare say it aloud—because the one possessed by the devil was whistling while smiling at him, occasionally flashing teeth that gleamed with dazzling whiteness.
Weiss paid no attention to the two Jesuits' whispering. In this prison-like place, the only ways to learn about the outside and gauge his situation were his ears and the limited view through the window. These past days he had been hearing drill commands and battle cries from not far from the harbor—not from those skeletal people wearing cloth sacks, but more spirited, powerful shouts. From time to time came volleys of coordinated gunfire, occasionally mixed with the deep rumble of artillery. Such frequent live-fire training—were the Chinese of Lingao planning to expand the war? Very possibly. After all, the largest government army here had been destroyed. They could harvest the fruits at any time.
In this concentration camp, Rando rarely spoke—or rather, never spoke. His strange Italian had too many flaws. And in Lingao there might be other modern Westerners. What Weiss could be certain of was that once, faint singing had drifted from far away. He couldn't make out who was singing or in what language, but the tune was La Marseillaise.
He had only heard this indistinct Marseillaise once. What he heard more often was another song—Lingao's soldiers always sang it during drill assembly and dismissal. He vaguely felt the melody was familiar. After whistling it many times, Weiss finally remembered where the familiarity came from. He had been lying in a small hotel room in Rome, pondering where his next contract would be, while absent-mindedly watching a Chinese girl on television sing this song—the very song now being sung by soldiers with sky-high spirit—in a hymn-like measured tempo.
Alright, Australians, now I know where you come from. Weiss smiled smugly, even laughing aloud. Father Trigault involuntarily shrank a few more centimeters into the shadows of the corner.
Footsteps came down the corridor from afar. Weiss paid no attention—perhaps the concentration camp guards bringing food again. The twice-daily rice gruel mixed with fish scraps and vegetable leaves always left Weiss dizzy with hunger. These Chinese calling themselves Australians seemed to intend starving their prisoners into weakness so they couldn't escape.
The door clanged open. A gust of fresh air rushed into the room that stank of carbolic acid, sweat, and urine. The concentration camp guard stood at the door, holding a bamboo stick instead of a gruel bucket.
"You! Get up! Gather your things!" Though he tried to make his tone fierce, the group only stared at him with expressions of fear mixed with confusion. No one moved.
"Prepare to leave! Out!" The guard continued waving his arms, pointing at the door. Now they understood. Weiss stood without hesitation. He was sick of this place. Even hell would be better than being locked in this hot, stuffy cell.
He patted himself down—actually quite clean. The straw mat had none of the various parasites he had grown accustomed to and sick of in this timeline. Behind the guard stood three young men, not tall but solidly built, all with dark Eastern faces. They wore the most common, rustic gray uniforms here, with leg wrappings.
But Rando quickly noticed they wore blue collar tabs—a type he had never seen before, including on all the various people who had inspected and questioned them at Customs.
These three young men said nothing. On their weapon belts hung cloth holsters showing black revolver grips. With Rando's experience, he could tell these were definitely not revolvers from any factory. They more resembled the handmade pistols from Pakistani and Afghan workshops.
After quite a while, Trigault and the others followed. The guard led the way; the three young men silently followed five or six paces behind. Cecilio kept glancing back at them. Seeing the black gun grips showing on their belts, the young brother could barely walk—he could hardly stand.
The small door at the corridor's end opened. Lingao's summer sunlight flooded the hallway. The tense atmosphere instantly dissipated—they could see clearly. Outside was an open space with no wire fencing, no watchtowers, no soldiers with bayoneted rifles. A handsome four-wheeled carriage waited outside the Quarantine Camp gate. Father Trigault murmured "Praise the Lord," because Father Rodrigues stood before the carriage, smiling at the group.
Leaving the Quarantine Camp's terrifying atmosphere made him so happy he didn't bother observing his surroundings. Only Weiss noticed another carriage with its canopy raised, parked not far behind, looking rather strange in the empty square before the Quarantine Camp's rear gate.
The three mysterious young men boarded the rear carriage. Rodrigues explained these were "security personnel" dispatched by the Australian government. After all, Lingao was still at war. According to the Australians' "relevant departments," the unpleasant treatment the Jesuit personnel had received was a wartime security measure, for which he personally expressed regret.
"The Australians achieved a great victory on the battlefield, defeating a hundred thousand Ming troops. They've gained permanent advantage in South China. This is the Lord's will." Rodrigues crossed himself.
Jin Lige murmured something congratulatory. He was extremely curious about everything in the Lingao church and eager to learn many things. But Rodrigues's excitement seemed not to have subsided—he was expounding at length on the church's expansion opportunities following this military victory.
"We'll soon be establishing churches in Danzhou and Chengmai!" Perhaps having experienced too many failures evangelizing in China, Rodrigues was filled with joy at Hainan's "excellent situation" of rapid progress. Several times he shed tears of emotion while speaking.
Jin Lige didn't share his excitement. Before departing Macao, he had felt a nameless worry: the Australians were so powerful, and most of the Australian transmigrators were not lambs of the Lord—so why did they have such great interest in spreading the Gospel? What were their goals?
Weiss Rando affected an attitude of going with the flow, closing his eyes and saying nothing. Only the young brother timidly asked: "Padre, where will we be going?"
"First to eat," Rodrigues said. "You look starved, child."
Hearing there would be food, everyone's eyes lit with fire. These days of eating nothing but seafood gruel had become unbearable.
Clergy's fondness for good cuisine was famous throughout the medieval period. The Jesuits were relatively less particular about food compared to older orders, but the Society of Jesus was not, after all, an ascetic order.
"We're going to East Gate Market now."