Chapter 5: The Dead Undercover (1)
"There's a warlord named Duan Po who recently spread word in Northern Myanmar that he was looking for a crazy woman. He was actually looking for you, wasn't he?"
This was the third interrogation of the day. In a cramped interview room, my hands, feet, and waist were strapped to a wheelchair. I could only lean back slightly, forced to keep looking at the strangers across the table.
Strictly speaking, they weren't strangers anymore—over the past few days, I'd undergone several rounds of their questioning.
A Director Lin, a Captain Zhang—leaders from the provincial public security intelligence division—plus various support personnel sent down from higher authorities.
They took turns, repeatedly asking about Northern Myanmar, the Charlie Group, and the D-Zone. I told them about Shane, Ahab, Meng Shan, Sylvie, Boss Yu, Wu Xiaochuan, Duan Po—everything I could say, I said. The information I'd gathered, the secrets I'd glimpsed during more than half a year, I told them all of it.
But they kept asking, with an undertone of something like suspicion and hostility.
I twisted my head in agitation, the drill-bit headache starting up again. I lowered my eyes and bore it.
A smack—Director Lin slammed his folder onto the desk.
"Elyse, are you very close with Duan Po?"
I weathered the pain, exhaled, and looked at this short-tempered leader again, saying for what felt like the hundredth time:
"I don't know why Duan Po was looking for me."
"Actually, I only met him once. No—twice. He gave me an orange and a handful of candy."
From the people seated along the wall taking notes, someone let out a quiet scoff.
My whole body was going numb from the restraints. I couldn't help but ask:
"Can you untie me?"
I tried to look toward the door, wanting to call the doctor to remove the straps—they'd been on too long, it was truly unbearable, plus the air in this room was stuffy, and I felt nauseous.
No one acknowledged my request. They moved on to another question:
"Do you know Winter Lee?"
Who? I didn't know that name.
I struggled against the straps, but the wide, tough bands didn't budge. I leaned my head back against the wheelchair and stared at the ceiling—an incandescent lamp, brilliant and harsh, illuminating everything below.
Director Lin's gaze was like an arrowhead hidden behind his glasses. His gold-frame lenses occasionally caught the blinding light, making it seem as if he had two white voids for eyes.
"Winter Lee is Sylvie's real name."
If gazes had weight, his would have slammed into me now. I waited for his next words.
"You once said that Sylvie asked you to deliver a message to her father at 009 Huiyang Clinic, Qingyang Street, Xinancheng District, Baishan City—to tell him she'd married and moved to Singapore. Correct?"
I nodded.
Director Lin stared at me without blinking. "Elyse, there is no clinic at 009 Huiyang Clinic, Qingyang Street, Xinancheng District, Baishan City. That address belongs to the provincial public security department."
"Winter Lee doesn't have a father, either. She only had an aunt, who passed away five years ago."
Director Lin rapped the desk heavily. He looked angry but deliberately slowed his voice:
"Elyse, Winter Lee was one of our intelligence operatives, our longest-serving undercover in Northern Myanmar. In the code we established, 'Singapore' means—killed in action."
My brain exploded. The explosion left me speechless.
Director Lin pressed on:
"Winter Lee is already dead. You clearly knew this—why didn't you say so?"
His voice turned sharply severe:
"She operated undercover for over three years without a hitch. Why did everything go wrong the moment she crossed paths with you?!"
"Elyse—I'm starting to doubt whether you're truly innocent."
I sat frozen under their stares, unable to produce a single word.
For a long time.
Only the faint sounds of people passing outside, their footsteps kept deliberately soft.
I stared without blinking, the blazing light making my eyes almost water. In my peripheral vision, rose-red butterfly wings fluttered, and I let out a groan of anguish alongside her.
"Elyse, did you know that Sylvie was a police officer?"
I answered dully: "I didn't know Sylvie was a police officer."
No—I was lying. I did know Sylvie was a police officer. But—
"I didn't get her killed."
That was the truth.
"I also don't know why Duan Po was looking for me."
That was also true.
"I don't know how Sylvie died."
I looked at the grim-faced men with a dead expression and decided to finish my statement: "When I saw her, she was already dead. I just took her phone. That's all."
Captain Zhang, who hadn't said much, smiled—seemingly mocking my clumsy lie. He had a benevolent face and looked mild-tempered as he asked:
"Then why did you conceal her death?"
I looked at him and answered earnestly: "Because it was trouble. Sylvie was one of the head supervisors at Little Golden Port. Her death would cause trouble for me."
I lowered my head again and said softly: "And I didn't conceal her death. I just never specifically brought it up."
Director Lin knocked on the table again—
"Elyse! According to your own account, Winter Lee saved you twice. Without her secret help, you wouldn't have survived this long!"
Is that so.
I suddenly didn't want to argue with them anymore. This damned restraint belt was making me so uncomfortable I could go insane. Let me go, let me...
"What does that have to do with me?"
I said coldly:
"Who asked her to save me? In a place like Northern Myanmar, pretending to be a good person—good people die fast. That was her own choice."
A smash—Captain Zhang suddenly slammed his teacup. Shards of porcelain nearly flew into my eyes, but I kept staring at them without moving and finished the cruel words lodged in my throat:
"Too stupid—didn't she deserve to die?"
2.
A white bird plunges into an ink pool to bathe. When it climbs out and flies back to its flock, would anyone still believe it's a white bird?
The answer could be no, or yes—neither would be wrong.
Or perhaps there's a third answer—
Nobody cares whether it's a white bird or a black bird.
It never should have flown out of that pool.
Right. It never should have flown out. With its feathers soaked through by filthy black water, could it still dream of freedom?
It shouldn't have flown out.
After a long time, a nurse wheeled me back to the ward. After getting off the wheelchair, she gave me ten minutes to use the bathroom.
Then I'd have to be strapped to the bed again, she informed me.
I dragged my stiff body to the sink. Water rushed from the faucet. The backlit mirror showed a haggard face with devastating clarity.
I raised my right hand and touched my own cheek.
This was the first time in nearly a year that I'd properly looked at myself.
Gaunt, every feature stamped with suffering.
I stared. The person in the mirror stared back. Equally hideous.
I suddenly drove my fist into that pathetic face. Once! Twice! Three times!
Shattered glass clattered across the sink counter, shards embedding in my flesh—a mess, painful and exhilarating!
Right, exactly right. Who cares if you're a white bird or a black bird? You never should have flown out of that ink pool.
The nurse was pounding on the door, screaming. Footsteps rushed toward the ward. I grabbed a bright shard.
I smiled at the butterfly in my peripheral vision.
Then I pressed the shard to my throat and pulled.
The door burst open. Someone caught me as I pitched forward, a hand pressing hard over the gushing wound.
I stared, eyes open, watching the world spin, watching the distorted figures pulled by momentum, overhead lights flashing past like a streaking sea of brilliance through a dark tunnel.
Winter Lee's face was clear. She leaned close to my nose and mocked me:
"See—who's the stupid one now?"
I smiled, and fell into darkness.
I'm the stupid one. Me.
I couldn't beat them. I'm sorry.
...
I didn't know Sylvie was a police officer—at least, I truly didn't know before she died.
That day, after she made me take her phone, she'd mentioned the message again. Beyond the part about getting married, she actually left one more sentence that made no sense.
With her last few breaths—broken, intermittent—her revived eyes so bright they startled me, she stared at me, dead-on, and said:
"There's a ghost from Black Moses inside our house."
At first I didn't understand.
It wasn't until I was using her phone to check the map that, out of caution, I browsed through the contents of her memory, and I found a hidden file.
It was an intelligence route map concerning a drug trafficking transaction.
It should have been encrypted and sent out, but Sylvie likely hadn't managed to delete the original file—she'd been attacked that same night.
The file hadn't been successfully transmitted either. I found a message with coded language from Sylvie's handler in an anonymous email account.
Urging her to deliver the intelligence quickly.
Only then did I figure out Sylvie's true identity.