Chapter 569: Carving Up the Spoils (Part 2)

December 24, Heihe, Heilongjiang, China.

The river had already frozen over.

Across the wide Heilongjiang River, one could faintly make out the drab, gray buildings of Blagoveshchensk on the opposite bank, along with several figures bundled up like bears moving along the docks.

Inside a makeshift warehouse by the riverbank, a tin stove glowed bright red. Zhao Guoqiang stood before a wooden workbench, bargaining with a Russian merchant as each clutched a calculator.

Stacked at their feet were several large corrugated cardboard boxes filled with suede shoes, winter hooded parkas, and red tin thermoses printed with magpies perching on plum blossoms. Two large bundles of plastic basins and soap bars were piled in the corner.

The samples brought by the Russian across from him lay on a bench: two cross-sections of Korean pine logs with bark, several pieces of rough-rolled angle steel, and two boxes of lathe drill bits soaked in anti-rust grease paper.

“Hey, brother, your math is way too dishonest.”

Zhao Guoqiang picked up a leather shoe and rapped his knuckles firmly against the rock-hard rubber sole, producing a muffled “thump-thump.”

“That batch of timber you brought last time was full of knots that left holes when poked. I held my nose and took it anyway.”

“And look at this time. The trucks haven’t even crossed the river yet, and you’ve already shorted me by two cubic meters. Brother, who does business like this?”

The Russian didn’t understand full sentences, but he did catch the word “short.” Wiping sweat from his forehead in agitation, he tapped furiously on an old Casio calculator with oversized keys, babbling and gesturing wildly.

The young translator beside them listened with his neck hunched for a long while before leaning toward Zhao Guoqiang’s ear:

“Brother Zhao, he says the loading fees for timber on the other side doubled compared to last month. The railway also introduced new dispatch rules, and without greasing some palms, they can’t get any empty freight cars at all. Shipping costs have gone up across the board.”

“Well, he can’t just fleece me alone!”

Zhao Guoqiang glared and scoffed coldly.

“If their railway can’t move cars, am I supposed to foot the bill?”

Reaching into a cardboard box, he unpacked a brand-new thermos, stripped away the shock-absorbing straw paper, and thumped the shiny red-lacquered tin body onto the wooden bench:

“Give it to him straight: The shoes stay at the original price, not a penny less. But as for these thermoses, I’ll personally throw in another twenty for free!”

“Just one condition—the timber volume must be strictly as agreed. If it’s short by even a single log, no deal!”

The translator relayed the words with animated gestures.

The Russian merchant stared at the red thermos gleaming under the lamplight, his eyes lighting up.

In a winter with intermittent heating across the river, such solidly insulated Chinese thermoses could fetch plenty of valuable goods on the black market.

After pondering for a moment, he gritted his teeth, grabbed a ballpoint pen, scribbled a number on the back of a crumpled envelope, and shoved it right before Zhao Guoqiang’s eyes.

Zhao Guoqiang glanced at it, and the corners of his mouth immediately curled up.

“See? Now that’s the way to do it!”

The two sides finally settled the quantities. The Russian quickly pulled a crumpled slip of paper from his coat pocket and handed it to the translator to verify the freight yard numbers.

Zhao Guoqiang folded the receipt, tucked it into his ledger, and called into the back room at the top of his lungs, urging the clerk to check tomorrow’s ice-crossing cargo manifest.

Over the past two years, cross-border trade had grown increasingly bustling.

The clothes, shoes, and daily necessities urgently needed across the river were being produced around the clock by countless domestic factories; meanwhile, the timber, steel, and fertilizers needed in China were piled high as hills in warehouses on the other side.

As long as transportation, customs clearance, and settlements were smoothed out, a single round trip by truck over the ice brought in a solid, reliable profit.

In his earlier years, Zhao Guoqiang had served as a supply and marketing section chief at the county supply and marketing cooperative before taking unpaid leave to strike out on his own.

In the past, bartering with official Soviet channels required layer upon layer of stamps from the Ministry of Foreign Trade, taking over half a year of hassle without even guaranteeing a single boxcar’s deal. Now, factory directors and dispatchers from across the border walked right over the ice carrying samples, eager to sign contracts right there in the warehouse and haul away padded coats that very day.

The young clerk carried a stack of invoices in from outside, casually laying a mimeographed newspaper on the desk.

“Brother Zhao, look at today’s fresh paper… They met in Almaty, saying the Soviet Union is completely gone.”

Zhao Guoqiang picked up the paper and glanced over the bold headline.

“Then… Brother Zhao, who are we going to do business with from now on?”

The clerk scratched the back of his head, looking bewildered.

“The country’s gone. Won’t they close the border?”

“Who else? The folks across the river.”

Without blinking an eye, Zhao Guoqiang folded the paper into a strip and slipped it under his thick ledger.

“A country’s name can change, but the river isn’t going to vanish with it, is it? As long as people on the other side need to stay warm in the winter and drink hot water, this trade isn’t going anywhere.”

The clerk paused, finding no flaw in that reasoning, then grinned and hurried outside with the manifests.

The room grew quiet once more, save for the whistling draft of the coal stove.

Zhao Guoqiang pulled over his calculator and lowered his head to balance tomorrow’s income and expenses.

If those two railcars of Korean pine and angle steel were hauled across the river smoothly, the net profit before the New Year—after deducting freight and greasing palms—would be enough to build a decent Western-style house back home and hand out fat red envelopes to his workers.

As for whether the red flag thousands of kilometers away in Moscow was coming down, he might ponder it for a moment while skimming the paper.

But what mattered more to him right now was whether those heavy trucks from across the river could take advantage of the solid ice early tomorrow morning and deliver the timber to the freight yard on time.

…

That same day, Saint Petersburg.

Hiroyuki Saeki picked up the final name list from beside the fax machine and let it dry on the desk for a few seconds.

From the conclusion of the meeting at the State Optical Institute on December 9 until now, the operation had finally entered the execution phase.

Belov had ultimately signed the original cooperation document, and the American delegation had ceased interfering with personnel arrangements; however, for those genuinely preparing to resign, every identity document, family count, and destination had to be checked one by one.

Some had wives still hospitalized; some had children lacking exit permits from the Ministry of Internal Affairs; and several chief designers who had participated in special projects still had un-declassified Level 2 security clearance seals on their personnel files.

Even more troublesome was that the people on the list did not all hail from the State Optical Institute.

The Second Branch of the State Bureau of Applied Chemistry Design, the Seventh Special Engineering Office of the Red Pennant Shipyard, and several privately negotiated research institutions were scattered across different corners of the city.

If they were merely picking up a few bachelors, dispatching two vehicles would be enough to haul them away; but factoring in families in tow, mountainous piles of luggage, heating at their lodgings, and security en route made it an entirely different matter.

Two light knocks came from the door.

“Come in.”

It was Grigory who entered.

Taking off his hat, he shook off the fallen snow by the door, hung it casually on the coat rack, and pulled a folded city map from his leather bag.

“Morozov’s side is settled. He picked six men to handle the first batch.”

“Only six?”

“You asked for people who are absolutely reliable. Six is plenty.”

Grigory pulled out a chair, sat down, and spread the map, which had several addresses marked in pencil.

“Six retired military officers with clean backgrounds. Their families were all moved into the port district dormitories last night.”

“The vehicles are ready too: two enclosed box trucks and a passenger bus. Vehicle conditions have been checked, and the tanks are filled with anti-freeze diesel. Our Japanese drivers will escort them.”

Saeki looked at the map.

“What about road transit passes?”

“Logistics approval permits will work fine for standard routes, and we’ve already notified the port district. But if we run into temporary checkpoints set up by the Internal Troops halfway through, Morozov and his men will still need to step up, flash their officer IDs, and argue it out.”

Grigory pointed to three circles on the map.

“These spots can move tonight. Everyone is willing to leave, and their workplace resignation certificates are in order. Two others will have to wait a bit longer so as not to stir up trouble in plain sight.”

“Especially those three from the Optical Institute?”

“Right.”

Grigory’s tone grew serious.

“The Americans agreed not to intervene on the condition that their movements remain accounted for. Washington is still cross-checking the list. If we shove them onto a plane right now, it’ll only cause trouble for Tokyo.”

Saeki nodded and marked those three names into a separate column in his notebook.

“Follow Tokyo’s instructions. Keep those whose paperwork isn’t complete here for now. Their US dollar allowances will be paid as usual. No rush.”

Grigory flipped the map over.

“The rooms prepared in the port district are sufficient. But you’ll need to send a few more logistics personnel over. There are children and elderly people; simply arranging beds won’t be enough.”

“Medical care, food, and interpreters have all been arranged. Before the first batch arrives, the heating and hot water will be inspected one more time.”

“Good.”

Just as Grigory was about to fold the map, he paused.

“One more thing. Morozov asked me to ask if he could spare some time to visit the Fifteenth Hospital after finishing tomorrow’s convoy handover.”

Saeki looked up.

“His child is already admitted to the Fifteenth Hospital?”

“Admitted last night. The doctor said recovery is going well, but he still needs to be observed for a few days.”

“Of course he can.”

As Saeki spoke, he handed over an intake schedule.

“Not just tomorrow. He doesn’t have to choose between looking after his child and carrying out missions. Let him settle family matters before returning to duty; there’s plenty of slack in the schedule.”

Grigory’s hand paused for half a second as he took the documents, giving him an odd look.

“Mr. Saeki, you’re more human than I thought.”

“This is the unified arrangement from the Tokyo headquarters.”

Saeki replied matter-of-factly.

“Researchers need to care for their families, and so do soldiers. Otherwise, why would they believe we’ll honor our promises?”

Grigory teased no further. Carefully tucking the pass into his inner pocket, he buttoned his overcoat tight:

“See you tomorrow then.”

“Take care.”

The door closed, and the gust of cold air brought inside soon dissipated into the room’s warmth.

Saeki pulled the desk lamp closer and scrutinized the personnel roster once again.

Beside over twenty Russian names, notes in red and blue ballpoint ink filled the margins: who needed an extra truck for luggage, whose family was still waiting on long-distance buses from out of town, whose paperwork still lacked an official seal…

For the sake of this flimsy sheet of paper, Tokyo had spent an entire year laying the groundwork across Finland’s ports, Moscow’s ministerial corridors, and Washington’s political dining tables.

Now budget, residence permits, heated apartments, and convoys were all locked into gear; all that remained was to transplant these names, one by one, from paper into reality.

Outside the window, Saint Petersburg’s blizzard silently swept across the mouth of the Neva River.

Saeki gathered the name list, locked it into the safe, and casually turned off the desk lamp.

Tomorrow would be Christmas.

And the final day of this country was drawing near as well.