Volume 1, Chapter 65: You Have No Evidence

The lights in the Security Department office remained blazing throughout the night.

After hanging up Du Yuze’s call, Pang Qingquan did not hesitate for a fraction of a second, issuing a direct order to the assistant beside him.

"Investigate the 'Xinhui Materials Company'. I want everything from its registration to the present day—all financial flows, personnel structures, the entire picture."

Assistant Xiao Zhang immediately began clacking away at the keyboard.

"Chief, this company has problems. The legal representative is Wang Wei, who has seventeen shell companies registered under his name. The registered address is in an industrial park in the suburbs that has already been demolished. This is a phantom company."

"I don't care what kind of company it is," Pang Qingquan paced the office. "Check its bank accounts. Trace the sources and destinations of its funds. Money doesn't lie."

Half an hour later, Xiao Zhang made a new discovery.

"Found it. Xinhui's largest startup capital came from an overseas trust fund, but several subsequent key transactions were transferred through a personal account. The account holder is Zhou Min."

"Who is Zhou Min?"

"Zhao Zhipeng's wife." Xiao Zhang pulled up a personnel file on the screen. "Zhao Zhipeng, former senior engineer at the Seventh Technical Branch, responsible for powder metallurgy. Resigned three years ago."

Pang Qingquan stopped pacing.

"Reason for resignation."

"The file says family reasons, no details specified." Xiao Zhang continued flipping down through the pages. "However, I checked his family members' entry and exit records. His son, Zhao Wen, nine years old, was diagnosed with stage four neuroblastoma three years ago. A month after his resignation, his wife Zhou Min took him to the United States for treatment."

The only sound left in the office was the hum of the computer host.

"The medical expenses in the US, check them."

"Checked. It's a clinical trial program at St. Jude Children's Research Hospital. The cost is astronomical, at least two million dollars a year, and it is not covered by any medical insurance."

Pang Qingquan looked at Zhao Zhipeng's photo on the screen—a man wearing glasses with an ordinary face. He strung all the clues together in his mind: a top-tier materials engineer, a terminally ill son, an unaffordable medical bill, and a company that materialized out of thin air.

"Where would he keep the evidence?" Pang Qingquan muttered to himself.

"The company is a shell, and his home won't have it either. Material like this, he would only carry it on himself, or hide it in a place only he knows," Xiao Zhang analyzed.

"Right." Pang Qingquan picked up a blank envelope from the desk. "So we need to make him deliver the goods himself."

He looked at Xiao Zhang.

"Find someone completely reliable, and contact Zhao Zhipeng posing as an overseas buyer."

"Buy what?"

"Specialty lubricant, model TG-41. Military grade, not available on the open market. Tell him we have a batch of precision equipment urgently needing maintenance, the price is negotiable, cash transaction, needed tonight."

"Will he believe it? This is too urgent."

"He will." Pang Qingquan handed the envelope to Xiao Zhang. "A man who would sell anything to save his son won't let go of any chance to make money. Tell him the trade location is at East Port Wharf, Pier Three."

"Why there?"

"The surveillance has a blind spot there, which makes it convenient for him to make a move, and convenient for us to make our move."

Night fell.

At Berth Three of the East Port Wharf, the sea breeze carried a salty, fishy tang. Massive shipping containers were stacked into small mountains of steel, casting distorted shadows on the ground under dim lights.

Inside a black sedan, Pang Qingquan observed the wharf entrance through night-vision binoculars.

"Target has appeared. A gray Honda, license plate verified correct," Xiao Zhang's voice came through the earpiece.

Pang Qingquan watched as the car stopped in front of the agreed-upon clearing. The door opened, and a man stepped out—it was Zhao Zhipeng. He was much thinner than in his photo, wearing an ill-fitting jacket and carrying a silver metal briefcase in his hand. He looked around vigilantly, every swaying shadow of a light making his body tense up.

"The fish has taken the bait," Pang Qingquan lowered the binoculars. "Proceed according to plan."

A man in work clothes emerged from the shadows of the containers; he was the buyer arranged by Pang Qingquan.

"Did you bring the goods?" the buyer asked.

Zhao Zhipeng did not answer, merely pointing his chin toward the area behind the buyer.

"Where's the money?"

The buyer opened the case he had brought, revealing bundles of cash inside.

Zhao Zhipeng's breathing noticeably quickened. He placed his own briefcase on the ground and reached out to take the money.

"Now," Pang Qingquan ordered into the communicator.

Several high-intensity flashlights flared to life simultaneously, illuminating the center of the clearing from all directions. Multiple security personnel in black tactical gear emerged from behind the containers, their weapons training on Zhao Zhipeng.

Zhao Zhipeng's reaction was extremely fast. He did not go for the money, nor did he attempt to resist; instead, he snatched the metal case off the ground and bolted toward the railing at the edge of the wharf, intending to throw the case into the sea.

But he only managed two steps.

An operative lunged fiercely from the side, taking him down with a textbook tackle. Zhao Zhipeng crashed heavily onto the concrete pavement, the metal briefcase slipping from his grip and spinning across the ground with a harsh metallic screech.

He was pinned hard to the floor, his wrists wrenched behind his back and secured in handcuffs.

The interrogation room was dead silent.

White walls, a metal table, two chairs.

Zhao Zhipeng sat in a chair, head lowered, uttering not a single word. The handcuffs had been removed from his hands, but red marks still lingered on his wrists. The silver briefcase sat right on the table in front of him.

Pang Qingquan pushed the door open and sat down opposite him.

"Zhao Zhipeng. Forty-two years old. Former senior engineer at the Seventh Technical Branch, member of the TC4 titanium alloy strengthening project team," Pang Qingquan stated the facts calmly.

Zhao Zhipeng showed no reaction.

"Three years ago, you resigned citing family reasons. A month later, your son Zhao Wen went to the United States for medical treatment."

Zhao Zhipeng's shoulders twitched slightly.

"Xinhui Materials Company. Quite a nice name. Too bad it's just a shell. The real business is the direct connection between you and certain individuals."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Zhao Zhipeng finally spoke, his voice hoarse.

Pang Qingquan ignored his denial. He opened the briefcase. Inside was not specialty lubricant at all, but a ruggedized laptop and several hard drives.

"We examined the blade debris. Nanoscale spherical cavities sealed with argon gas. A very clever technique; routine testing wouldn't detect it at all. This kind of technology is not something you could accomplish on your own."

Zhao Zhipeng's body began to tremble, but he still clenched his teeth.

"You have no evidence."

"Evidence?" Pang Qingquan smiled. "Chief Engineer Ma Xiangdong is still in the intensive care unit. The entire JXX project is stalled. Do you think I need to sit here and debate evidence with you?"

He paused, leaning slightly forward.

"I'm not curious about how you did it. I just want to know who made you do it."

Zhao Zhipeng closed his eyes, adopting a posture of total refusal to communicate.

Pang Qingquan leaned back into his chair and changed the subject.

"Dr. Carlson at St. Jude Hospital is an authority in the field of neuroblastoma. The CAR-T cell therapy clinical trial he leads is Zhao Wen's only hope."

Zhao Zhipeng's eyelids twitched violently.

"This program charges no treatment fees, but it requires a guarantee deposit. The guarantee deposit for the first year is two million dollars. When you resigned, your total savings added up to less than three hundred thousand RMB. Tell me, where did the money come from?"

The interrogation room grew so quiet that the crackle of electrical current could be heard.

Zhao Zhipeng's defenses were crumbling piece by piece. He covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking convulsively.

"They said... they said they could cure my son," his voice squeezed out from between his fingers, brimming with despair. "They said as long as I cooperated, money was no object. They would arrange the best doctors and use the best medicine."

"Who are they?" Pang Qingquan pressed.

"I don't know... I really don't know," Zhao Zhipeng raised his head, his face streaked with tears. "I only communicated through encrypted emails. They never showed their faces."

"There's always a codename."

Zhao Zhipeng's body stiffened.

"Spit it out."

He looked at Pang Qingquan, his lips moving a few times before finally uttering a single word.

"Vulture."