Volume One, Chapter Nine: The Informant

The filthy shepherd drove his flock down the mountain, arriving at the edge of a village surrounded by bamboo groves. Squinting his nearsighted eyes, he swept his gaze over the still-sleepy Tai village, cracked his whip, and the tip—over four meters long—landed on the plump rump of the lead sheep. Startled, the flock dashed into the forest in a flurry.

From beneath the grimy clothes in his woven bag, the shepherd retrieved a pair of black plastic square-framed glasses and put them on. The worn woven bag held the clothes he intended to change into—prepared before he left Beijing, rescued from the Santana before it sank into the lake. There were other items as well, things that might arouse a soldier’s suspicion, including the glasses. But he didn’t consider what he’d just done a risk; before approaching the checkpoint, he’d already discerned the sentry’s judgment. People are often deceived by their own eyes—soldiers and officers alike saw nothing more than a harmless, foul-smelling shepherd, someone to avoid at all costs.

A small truck was parked by the riverside at the village entrance. The shepherd glanced around, tugged at the cab door handle—it wasn’t locked. This was still an era when people didn’t steal and left their doors unbarred at night. Usually, only the township government possessed such vehicles, used by officials visiting subordinate villages, with designated drivers.

He slipped into the driver’s seat and, with rough hands, pried off the panel outside the steering wheel lock. Exposed was a bundle of six wires, paired by color—three pairs representing the battery, ignition, and kill switch positions. He found the red battery wire and the brown ignition wire, wrapped his right hand in a rag to shield against the electric current’s sting, and shorted the battery wires, lighting up the dashboard. He then scraped the two ignition wires together, sparks briefly flying, and the engine purred to life.

The truck rumbled onto the muddy road leading up the last mountain on Muang City’s eastern edge. Five minutes later, Muskrat pulled over on a slope by the roadside, where a small stream flowed down from the mountainside, exuding a lush, refreshing fragrance. He stripped off the shepherd’s stinking rags, reeking of years of filth. Sitting inside, he quickly changed into a nearly-new tracksuit from the woven bag, then pulled out a plastic bag, stuffed the filthy clothes and “chaarwa” inside—he couldn’t risk disposing of them here.

He picked up the foul-smelling rubber shoes and dumped a handful of coarse sand from the left shoe—sand he’d used to give his limp a more convincing gait. The sneakers he’d worn before had already been tossed next to the bound Ciwu. He approached the mountain stream, washing the grime and yellow clay from his face and hands, and rinsed the stench from his shoes. Finally, he put the damp shoes back on, dabbed water on his hands, and smoothed it over his hair, which he’d dyed an ashen gray.

Driving the truck with alternating speed, he kept a wary eye on both mirrors, checking for any tailing vehicles. Few cars traveled this road, but there were plenty of motorcycles. At one point, a motorcycle trailed him for a while at a steady pace. He simply pulled over at a roadside rice noodle stall, leaned against the truck, and lit a cigarette.

The motorcycle didn’t pause, speeding past him without hesitation. Satisfied it wasn’t a tail, he sat down on a bench at a small table and ordered a large bowl of rice noodles, adding chili and digging in. After driving all night, he was ravenous, but couldn’t quite enjoy the spicy fare so beloved in the southwest; sweat poured from his brow, and though his stomach wasn’t full, he dared not eat more. He asked the nimble Tai woman preparing the noodles for two more glasses of iced lime juice.

Next to the stall was a small shop. A middle-aged man in a white vest yawned as he rolled up the metal shutter. A lean man sped up on a motorcycle, executed a sharp stop at the shop entrance, and splattered mud onto Muskrat. The one he’d been waiting for had arrived—they’d agreed beforehand that the shop’s opening would be their rendezvous signal. The newcomer had probably been observing from afar for some time, unwilling to risk approaching unless Muskrat appeared.

He wore the region’s most common attire—a blue shirt printed with brown palm trees. Seeing that Muskrat was alone at the stall, he nodded in tacit understanding. While he parked, Muskrat wiped the mud from his face, waiting as the man came straight over and sat down.

This man was one of Yan Nuo’s people, and also a contact for Lone Wolf. They called such people “Needles.” Muskrat already recognized him—they had seen each other before.

Muskrat studied the informant. He looked much as Muskrat had heard: haggard, brooding, with a hint of malice; his thoughts ran deep, and his every gesture was restrained—perfectly fitting the role.

Muskrat walked into the shop, asked the owner for three bottles of Lancang River beer, and returned to the table, placing one before the informant. Parched, the man bit off the cap with practiced ease and gulped down half the bottle in one go.

Staring into the informant’s eyes, Muskrat said, “We never spoke when we met before.”

The informant returned his gaze. “I’m Lone Wolf’s man. Meeting you already breaks the rules.”

Both seemed intent on reading from the other’s eyes what they wanted to know.

“Yan Nuo doesn’t know what I look like, does he?” Muskrat asked.

The informant broke eye contact, took another swig, then replied, “He didn’t before, but now he has your sketch.” He glanced at Muskrat, hoping to catch a flicker of shock, but was disappointed. Shifting his gaze again, he asked, “Do you know who gave it to him?”

Muskrat stopped watching the man’s eyes and took a relaxed sip of beer. “It doesn’t matter—there are no safe secrets. I’m already in the city; even if he has my photo, what good does it do?” Then, changing tack, he asked, “Where’s the map I asked for?”

“I thought you’d scout the place yourself.” The informant drew a folded sheet of paper from his T-shirt pocket and spread it open—a large, finely detailed floor plan. The scale was precise, with only a few unmarked dimensions.

“A place like that? To get in and out alive is a miracle in itself. Who would dare make a dry run?” Muskrat estimated the drawing’s margin of error, then carefully examined the sprawling compound, measuring sections with his hand.

The informant ignored him, turning to look back down the road. “The courtyard is enclosed by stone walls—covers nearly a hundred acres. Three side gates and a ten-meter-wide main entrance. The walls are five meters high. Guards work in three shifts, sixteen per shift.”

At this, Muskrat interrupted, pointing to four small circles at the corners of the wall. “Are these towers?”

The informant shook his head. “Strictly speaking, they’re blockhouses.” He pulled a broken pencil from his pocket and, using the edge of a cigarette pack, sketched as he spoke: “One-point-six meters in diameter, twenty meters tall, pocked with gun ports on all sides. Each blockhouse has two armed guards. Nothing escapes their eyes. At the first sign of trouble, they both open fire simultaneously. Remember—there are no warnings.”

Muskrat gave a cold laugh. “Boss Yan is a remarkable man indeed.”

He immediately abandoned any thought of going over the wall.