Volume One, Chapter Thirty-Five: The Spy Mole

After listening to the physician’s report, the chief instructor lit a cigarette. As the smoke curled around him, he pondered for a moment and said, “Actually, there’s nothing wrong with the last one. Our enemies are all criminals—of every stripe and kind, men who are ruthless and unrepentant: drug traffickers, murderers, desperadoes. These people will stop at nothing to achieve their aims; violence, cruelty, and bloodlust are in their very nature. The only way to fight them is with violence of our own, to answer tooth for tooth.

“To tell the truth, anyone soft-hearted simply can’t do this job. As the old saying goes: Revolution is not a dinner party, not essay-writing, not painting or embroidery. It cannot be so refined, so leisurely and gentle, so courteous and restrained, so gracious and yielding.”

The chief instructor was born in the late 1950s and could summon such quotations with ease.

The physician did not agree with the instructor’s view. From a medical perspective, he said, “Based on past observations and research, his third personality—like the swordsman and the last one—will conflict and counteract each other, perhaps even to the point of mutual destruction. In ordinary people, so severe a split would be considered mental illness, requiring medical intervention.”

The chief instructor was skeptical and scoffed, “So a perfectly healthy person is a mental patient to you? You think medicine will help? Really?”

The physician ignored his derision and went on, “Modern medicine already regards mental illness as a physiological disease. The widely used method is to treat it with powerful medications. In order to cure a patient with multiple personalities, the doctor administers a special drug that forces all the personalities to appear simultaneously in some closed mental space. Each personality uses its particular traits to restrain and eliminate the others, until only the best personality remains to control the patient. In the case of the dormouse, it means letting the swordsman and the sadist battle until neither survives the other, as I mentioned—mutual destruction.”

The chief instructor hastily objected, “No, no, no, I said I want both—good people have their uses, and so do the bad.”

The physician, professional as ever, explained, “In fact, there is no such thing as innate good or evil. From birth, humans possess animal instincts. My own view is that what we call ‘evil’ on the moral level is simply the outgrowth of these instincts. Lions, tigers, wolves—these carnivores kill because it’s in their nature; deer, rabbits, and antelopes refrain from killing for the same reason. It is humans who label the former as ferocious and evil, while praising the gentleness of fawns and the cuteness of little rabbits. Even primates like gorillas and monkeys, though not carnivorous, fight and sometimes kill each other for mates or social status.

“What we call goodness is actually the product of social attributes—family, education, society—factors that shape a person into what we call ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ Good and evil are the two sides of the same coin, coexisting in everyone’s nature; it is society that awakens one side or the other.”

He continued, “I must remind you, due to the special nature of this profession, the enormous pressures in the future are very likely to spawn more personalities in him. These personalities are not subject to his conscious will or bodily control, and whether they are good or evil, no one can say. As his combat skills and experience grow, the organization must carefully consider how controllable he really is. If necessary, more drastic measures may be needed.”

The instructor grinned, “Not just for him—every member is subject to strict precautionary measures.” Then, impatiently, he asked, “You said there was one more thing?”

The physician flipped to the last page of the file and placed it before the instructor. “His IQ is 158.”

The instructor was momentarily stunned. “Did you tell him?”

“Of course,” the physician replied. “It’s a criterion in the assessment. He’s quite proud—said several times, ‘No wonder I’m smarter than everyone else at whatever I do.’”

The instructor gave a satisfied smile. “Then you ought to congratulate him.”

The physician asked, puzzled, “Congratulate him for what?”

The instructor’s satisfied smile was matched by a sly glint in his eye. “Congratulate him on dealing with the most evil criminals.”

When not in training, Chang Ke often thought of the outrageous thing he had done before being expelled from school: his girlfriend had borne him a son. He had already confessed this to his superiors, hoping to settle his personal affairs before starting formal work.

Thus, every month, Chang Ke was allowed four days’ leave to return to Bincheng and enjoy the warmth of family life for what little time remained. To conceal his identity, the organization arranged for him to stay at the Seamen’s Club, where he was unexpectedly assigned an apartment.

But the Seamen’s Club felt little warmth toward this unofficial member.

He lived on the seventh floor of a building without an elevator. His son was still small; each time he carried the child home up the stairs, he would stomp hard on the floor so the sound-sensitive hallway light would flicker on. Then, holding his son, he would crouch at each landing and play scare games with his girlfriend.

His son would always laugh gleefully, kicking his chubby legs, eager to be carried to the next floor for more.

The apartment was tiny, just over twenty square meters, and the bathroom and kitchen were shared with another family.

He had painted the doors and walls himself. Whenever he returned, he liked to make soup in the communal kitchen. Once, while carrying a clay pot brimming with watercress and pork bone soup, the pot broke and hot soup spilled over his right leg. He immediately poured a whole bottle of soy sauce onto his thigh—soy sauce, he believed, could treat burns.

He knew these peaceful days would not last long.

One day, at the front desk of a hotel, while returning a page, he spotted a telephone directory. He couldn’t help but pick it up and flip through. The first section listed home telephone numbers. Turning to the “C” section, he saw “Chang” and then his own name, “Chang Ke.”

He was surprised—few families could afford a private line, which cost over three thousand yuan and usually required special connections. Those who could manage it were mostly businesspeople.

If this “Chang Ke” was indeed himself, he couldn’t understand why the family would have installed a phone under his name.

He dialed the number. After a few rings, he heard Chang Guangliang’s voice: “Who are you looking for?”

The voice was much older than he remembered. Chang Ke was silent for a moment. He could hear the phone being grabbed on the other end. Then his mother’s voice came through: “Chang Ke, is that you? Your father and I miss you so much.”

“Take care, Mom.” He hung up.

He walked out of the hotel, which faced Penghu Island across the sea. The tide crashed against the rocks, making the familiar sound of waves that he, a southerner, had known all his life.

From a shop along the street came the strains of “Grandma’s Bay,” a popular tune. Not far off, a clothing market blared sales pitches in Minnan dialect, thick with the accent of Shishi.

At nine months old, his son could already say “papa.” It was then that orders arrived—he had to go.

Chang Ke sat on the cheap cloth sofa in their little living room, holding his son tightly in his arms while an American film played on the VCR. He kept telling his girlfriend he was working in a northern port city.

He knew this was the last time in four years he would see his family. He hesitated over whether to tell his fiancée the truth about his work, but after much thought, he still couldn’t bring himself to say it.

Early the next morning, he and his fiancée went to the neighborhood office.

A plump auntie told them to go next door for a wedding photo.

The photographer, nearly retired, told them to come back in two days for the prints. Chang Ke handed over ten ten-yuan notes.

An hour later, the two of them returned to the office with the still-damp black-and-white photo.

Chang Ke would never forget that photograph.

The photographer had carefully dotted the negative with red medicine so the corresponding spot on the print wouldn’t develop. His face was as smooth as his beautiful bride’s, radiant with youthful vitality and a hint of shyness.

The square-framed glasses gave him an air of sunshine and scholarly gentleness.

“I’m a family man now!” The thought made Chang Ke tremble with excitement.