Volume One, Chapter Twenty-Two: Safehouse

Flying Squirrel knew that because he had acted on impulse, he could no longer leave Mang City as planned. He hadn’t waited for the vehicle his informant was supposed to deliver, and he had exposed himself. He didn’t know if Yan Nuo was dead or alive; he would have to await word. In this line of work, failure meant bearing all consequences alone.

He ran his fingers through his hair, drained the bottle of liquor in one gulp, and strode directly into the dark, open doorway of the Tai family’s courtyard across the street. The locals, after a day’s labor in the sweltering heat, had little evening entertainment—most households lacked a television and went to bed early, extinguishing their lights.

All Tai courtyards were arranged in the same way. Flying Squirrel slipped silently into the right-hand bungalow, the place where meals were cooked. In the pitch black, he fumbled around the stove and found a kitchen knife. Armed now, confidence surged in him; he was like an old, solitary wolf lost on the steppe, suddenly regaining its fangs.

Knife in hand, he ran toward the reservoir in Mang City.

Flying Squirrel’s “safe house” by the reservoir was a small wooden cabin built into the dense forest’s hillside, fashioned in the typical local Tai style: beams made from freshly cut wood still clad in bark, newly harvested bamboo forming the walls and roof, and coconut palm bark laid in a gabled, slanted top.

At the entrance stood a well, and beside it a makeshift chicken coop crafted from a bamboo fence, within which five hens dozed listlessly in the dawn light. This was the sort of temporary shelter any Tai forest watchman would build; from outside, the jungle hut sat perfectly atop its small plateau, not the least bit out of place.

In the dim glow before sunrise, Flying Squirrel returned to the cabin he hadn’t seen in three months.

The door wasn’t locked, but the wood had warped from sun and rain, wedged forcibly into the equally misshapen frame. He used his left elbow to knock it open.

The cabin was obviously the residence of a single local woman—tiny, but complete. A bamboo bed was covered with a half-worn mat, two hard wooden pillows polished smooth by years of use. Three bamboo stools, hammered together from whatever materials were at hand, stood on the packed earth floor; beside them lay two pairs of women’s sandals, a pair of women’s slippers, and a pair of men’s slippers.

On the other side, a low clay stove sat in the corner, and a blackened wok served for boiling water, cooking rice, and frying vegetables. A makeshift bamboo “cupboard” hung on the wall above the stove; two ceramic bowls and four enamel plates rested on its shelves. Two unopened bottles of rice wine stood conspicuously atop it, and beneath, three boxes of 2.8° “Lancang River” beer were stacked. In the corner, an untidy heap of liquor bottles—various brands—collected over time, all left by Flying Squirrel.

A battered old table, carried back from the village, stood in the cabin. Its carved legs hinted at some age; on it, close to the wall, sat a statue of Guanyin. Both were made of a precious black-and-yellow rosewood locally called “Mai Sedu,” which takes centuries to mature. The locals use it for bridge piers and beams, and it remains impervious to decay or insects for hundreds of years.

Amei’s father had once “said” these were family heirlooms. Flying Squirrel guessed their ancestors were once wealthy landowners. But that mute old man surely didn’t know—if these items were sold to a discerning buyer in Yunting, the proceeds would be enough to build a two-story bamboo house.

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On the table, aside from a battered plastic thermos and a radio with a telescopic antenna, were four digital alarm clocks, each showing a different time. Above, Amei had somehow acquired two wall calendars; one featured a film actress Flying Squirrel couldn’t name—thick eyebrows, large eyes, voluptuous figure, fitting current beauty standards. The other bore a photo of a luxury sports car, the kind never seen in the country.

In fact, every detail in this cabin had been carefully arranged by Flying Squirrel. If an unexpected visitor wandered in, they would see the image he wished to present, and form the impression he intended for the cabin’s owner.

It was the humble hut of a Tai peasant girl, whose Han lover would visit clandestinely from time to time—a local ne’er-do-well from nearby villages, fond of cigarettes and liquor. The cigarette butts and empty bottles strewn on the dirt floor revealed his meager income.

The cigarettes smoked—filtered—never cost more than two yuan a pack, and every 500-milliliter bottle of rice wine was just two yuan. The room was well-ventilated, free of unpleasant odors, with occasional wafts of fragrant wood.

Flying Squirrel himself had no particular taste for cigarettes or alcohol, but maintaining his cover meant smoking cheap cigarettes and drinking bargain liquor—a hardship he endured in silence.

Back in Beijing, or in Myanmar’s casinos under an assumed identity, he drank Martell Blue Ribbon; the price of one bottle could buy seven or eight hundred bottles of the local swill.

Flying Squirrel felt a cold coming on—either from running shirtless through the rain, or perhaps blood loss had weakened his resistance. Reaching this point, he believed it was fate, though he didn’t rule out that character determined destiny. He missed his wife and child far away; had he not lived this life of peril, they would have led an ordinary existence forever.

He knew he was no longer the tireless book-loving youth he once was. Time had changed him, tempered him; reality left no space for self-pity.

During his training, Flying Squirrel had a special course on identifying plants—especially those along the Sarlo border—that could serve as food or medicine; nearly two hundred species. If he ever ran short of supplies or needed medicinal herbs in the wild, he could improvise.

He chopped off a segment of cactus growing at the door with the kitchen knife, scraped a slice of rubber from the trunk of a rubber tree, and returned to the cabin. A large, salvaged mirror leaned against the wall, its edges circled by stubborn rust.

He kicked a bamboo chair in front of the mirror, sat with his back to it, and unbuttoned his bloodstained shirt. Fortunately, the wound wasn’t deep; the bleeding had stopped. Perhaps his reflexes had saved him—he’d jumped away and counterattacked as soon as he felt the prick of the knife.

Peeling the cactus, he took the towel draped over the chair, wrapped the cactus in it, and smashed it with the knife’s blunt edge. Finally, bracing himself, he wrapped the “herbal paste” in rubber, pressed it to the wound, and tied the towel around his waist.

Flying Squirrel pulled a black shirt from the bamboo basket under the bed, put it on, staggered out the door, and slung a woven bamboo basket over his arm, slowly climbing the hill behind the cabin.

On the slope, beside a rock, he found slender, drooping forsythia branches, snapped off the dry, bean-like pods, and tossed them in the basket. On a relatively flat patch, he found dandelions; their yellow blossoms were turning to white fluff.

Using the sharp, narrow-bladed knife, he loosened the soil around their roots, dug up as much as he could, shook off the dirt, and put them in the basket, returning to the hut.

The ginger and garlic he’d brought from the town market would last him a while yet.

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He split open the forsythia pods, rinsed the dandelions, and put them into the battered kettle over the wood stove. He poured freshly drawn well water from the bucket into the kettle, added fine kindling to the fire, and then sliced ginger into the pot with his knife.

Seated by the hearth, he opened an old book—one he’d left here for years: Walden by Thoreau. Sneezing as he read, he peeled garlic cloves.

When the water boiled, he filled a bowl, biting into spicy garlic cloves as he drank the ginger infusion. For years, whenever he felt a cold coming on, he’d used this simple remedy; in this profession, medicines were often scarce, and illness was unacceptable—fever or cold, neither could be allowed.

Physical weakness would sap his willpower, dull his judgment, and diminish his ability to act. He’d been injured many times; though none were serious, necessity forced him to treat himself.

Once, he’d taken a cut between his middle and ring fingers—not deep, but bleeding relentlessly—and sewn it up himself with five stitches. He’d done a poor job; the needle should have entered perpendicular to the wound’s edges, but the sewing needle he found was too long, the gap between his fingers too narrow, so he stitched it in an “X.” The scar left by removing the stitches pressed on a nerve, and to this day his middle finger is numb.

Another time, he was stabbed in the back near the scapula; he had no choice but to bite his lip and staple the wound shut, facing away from the mirror.

Now was not the time for reminiscence. Flying Squirrel shook his head, forcing reason to drive away unwelcome memories.

The current situation was slipping out of control; the mission had been to eliminate Yan Nuo, and now even Yu Wen’er was hurt.

Worse still, the informant hadn’t brought the vehicle to the bar yet; his impulsive intervention had thrown everything into chaos.

Now, escaping had become a major problem. Stealing a car might alert Yan Nuo’s men; he had no idea how to secure transport.

His thoughts remained muddled, and waves of hot sweat broke out.

Flying Squirrel knew the medicine was taking effect. To recover his strength as quickly as possible, he finally surrendered to the drowsiness that came with the remedy, climbed feebly onto the ash wood bed, pulled a quilt over himself to sweat it out.

Then he sank into a deep sleep.

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