Chapter 139: Exposure
A murmur of discussion arose in the conference room. Many echoed Dongmen Chuiyu’s opinion—let the spy from the modern world have a taste of modern electric shocks.
“Comrades,” Wu Mu began, “let’s sort through the clues. What we want to know now is: first, who exactly is this Wei Landuo? Since he’s not from this time-space, how did he cross over? Second, what is Wei Landuo’s purpose in coming to Lingao?”
“Just arrest him and those two religious fanatics and interrogate them. We’ll know everything,” someone responded from the side. “How about we hook them up and give them a little phone call?”
“It’s not that simple. Since he came as a Jesuit appointee, what is his relationship with the Jesuits and Geronimo? What kind of power is 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 assumption. On D-Day, a temporal storm accidentally swept up the boat carrying the Ming Lang family. Could the appearance of Ship A be for the same reason? It’s possible that Wei Landuo and his missing companions transmigrated at the same time as us. His arrival on Hainan Island might be precisely to find his other companions. It’s even possible that his companions are hiding in Lingao or nearby, right under our noses.”
This assertion was so shocking that the conference room fell silent. Wu Mu continued, “Therefore, the clue to finding other unknown transmigrators lies with this man who calls himself Wei Landuo. We must give him freedom of movement and place him under our complete surveillance. Arresting him early would be a complete loss. If we cut the vine, we won’t be able to find the melon.”
“Can the Political Security department ensure complete surveillance of him? We can’t let this big fish slip through our fingers.”
This time, it was Zhao Manxiong who spoke. He smiled and assured everyone that every outsider entering Lingao was under the effective surveillance of the Political Security General Bureau. Ran Yao, representing the police department, supported Wu Mu’s opinion. The entire Lingao was currently in a state of emergency, which made any investigation, surveillance, and arrest operations quite convenient. And this white man in Lingao was as conspicuous as a peacock in a flock of chickens. He had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
The whistling echoed through the cell again, over and over. Father Trigault, who had already lain down on his straw mat, was so agitated by the annoying sound that he couldn’t sleep.
“Padre,” he heard Cecilio whisper in his ear. He immediately sat up. The young friar’s lips were trembling and even paler. “Padre, is that man mad?”
Father Trigault shook his head. The man was not mad; he was possessed by the devil. But he didn’t dare say it out loud. Because the possessed man was whistling, smiling at him, and occasionally flashing a dazzlingly white set of teeth.
Weiss paid no attention to the whispers of the two Jesuits. In this prison-like place, the only way to learn about the outside world and guess his own situation was through his ears and the limited view from the window. For the past few days, he had been able to hear the commands and battle cries of army training from not far from the port—not the thin, bony people in sackcloth, but more spirited and powerful shouts. From time to time, he heard the neat volleys of rifle fire, interspersed with the low rumble of cannons. Such frequent live-fire training—were the Chinese of Lingao planning to expand the war? It was very possible! After all, the largest government army here had been wiped out. They could pick the fruit at any time.
In this concentration camp, Lando rarely spoke, or rather, never spoke. His strange Italian was full of flaws, and there might be other modern Westerners in Lingao. Weiss was certain of one thing: a faint song had drifted in from a distant place once. He couldn’t make out who was singing or in what language, but the tune was “La Marseillaise.”
He had only heard this faint “La Marseillaise” once. He heard another song more often, one that the Lingao soldiers always sang during morning and evening drills. He vaguely felt the melody was familiar. After whistling it many times, Weiss finally remembered the source of this familiarity. He had been lying in a small hotel room in Rome, wondering about his next contract, while absentmindedly watching a little Chinese girl on TV sing this song, which was now sung with such heroic spirit by the soldiers, in a hymn-like, gentle rhythm.
Alright, Australians, I think I know where you’re from. Weiss smiled smugly, even laughing out loud. Father Trigault involuntarily shrank a few more centimeters into the shadows of the corner.
Footsteps approached from down the corridor. Weiss paid no mind—perhaps it was the camp guards bringing food again. The two daily meals of rice porridge mixed with shredded fish and vegetable leaves always left Weiss dizzy with hunger. It seemed these self-proclaimed Australian Chinese intended to starve their prisoners until they were too weak to escape.
The door clanged open, and a rush of fresh air flooded the room, which reeked of carbolic acid, sweat, and urine. The camp guard stood at the door, holding a bamboo cane instead of a porridge bucket.
“You, get up! Get your things!” Although he tried to make his tone fierce, the men just looked at him with a mixture of fear and confusion. No one moved.
“Get ready to go out, out!” the guard continued, waving his arm and pointing at the door. Now they all understood. Weiss stood up 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—he was actually quite clean. The straw mat was free of the various parasites he had become accustomed to and had had enough of in this time-space. Behind the guard stood three short but sturdy young men, all with dark, Eastern faces. They wore the common, rustic gray uniforms and leggings.
But Lando soon noticed they were wearing blue collar tabs, a kind he had never seen before—not even on the various people who had inspected and questioned them at customs.
The three young men were silent. Their military belts held cloth holsters, revealing the black grips of revolvers. From Lando’s experience, he could tell these were definitely not factory-made revolvers, but more like the handmade pistols from the workshops of Pakistan and Afghanistan.
After a while, Trigault and the others followed. The guard led the way, and the three young men followed silently, less than five or six paces behind. Cecilio kept looking back at them, and at the sight of the black gun grips on their belts, the young friar could barely walk, his legs trembling.
The small door at the end of the corridor opened, and the summer sun of Lingao flooded the hallway. The tense atmosphere immediately dissipated. They could see clearly that outside was an open space, with no barbed wire, no watchtowers, and no soldiers with fixed bayonets. A beautiful four-wheeled carriage was waiting outside the quarantine camp gate. Father Trigault muttered, “Praise be to God,” as Father Lu Ruohua stood before the carriage, smiling at the group.
He was so happy to be out of the terrifying atmosphere of the quarantine camp that he paid no attention to his surroundings. Only Weiss noticed another carriage with its canopy raised, parked not far behind, looking rather odd in the empty square in front of the quarantine camp’s back gate.
The three mysterious young men got into the rear carriage. Lu Ruohua explained that they were “security personnel” sent by the Australian officials. After all, the entire Lingao was still in a state of war. According to the Australian “relevant departments,” the unpleasant treatment the Jesuit appointees had received was also a security measure for this extraordinary period. He personally expressed his regret.
“The Australians have achieved a great victory on the battlefield, defeating a hundred thousand Ming troops and gaining a permanent advantage in southern China. This is the will of God,” Lu Ruohua said, making the sign of the cross.
Jin Lige mumbled a few words of congratulation. He was very curious about everything in the Lingao church and eager to know many things. But Lu Ruohua’s excitement seemed to have not yet subsided—he was talking at length about the opportunities for the expansion of the Lingao church following this military victory.
“We will soon establish churches in Danzhou and Chengmai!” Perhaps because he had experienced too many failures in his missionary work in China, Lu Ruohua was filled with joy at the “great situation” that was developing at a rapid pace in Hainan. Several times, he was so moved that tears of excitement flowed down his cheeks.
Jin Lige did not share his excitement. He had had a vague sense of unease since leaving Macao. The Australians were so powerful, and the majority of the Australian Transmigrators were not lambs of the Lord. Why were they so interested in spreading the gospel? What was their purpose?
Weiss Lando put on an air of taking things as they come, closing his eyes and saying nothing. Only the young friar timidly asked, “Padre, where are we going?”
“First, to eat,” Lu Ruohua said. “You look starved, my child.”
At the mention of food, a spark lit up in everyone’s eyes. They had grown tired of eating seafood porridge every day.
The clergy’s fussiness about food was well-known throughout the Middle Ages. The Jesuits were relatively less particular about food and drink than the older religious orders, but the Jesuits were not a mendicant order either.
“We’re going to Dongmen Market now.”