bookbashuk Chapter 67 Ironclad Evidence Burns Corruption, Hong Kong Government's Covert Struggle
Chapter 67 Ironclad Evidence Burns Corruption, Hong Kong Government's Covert Struggle
In the printing workshop of the Hong Kong Morning Post, the pungent smell of ink mixed with the acidic odor of cold sweat, making it sticky and suffocating under the dim yellow light. The editor-in-chief, Zhou Mingyuan, dug his knuckles deep into the photocopies of evidence, the edges of the paper curled up like hair. On the corner of the table, an anonymous letter containing a bloodstained bullet lay, the dark red stain on the copper casing like a scar, glaringly obvious.
Downstairs at the alley entrance, three figures in black suits were still loitering. Their gazes at the newspaper office entrance were colder than the chill of the early morning. Yesterday evening, when Editor Zhang was leaving get off work, he was blocked in the alley by these men. Something hard bumped against his lower back, and he heard them say, "Don't meddle in other people's business, or your family will suffer."
The office was so quiet that only the low hum of the printing press could be heard. Zhou Mingyuan pulled a photograph from his drawer—it was of his daughter in elementary school, with pigtails and a bright smile revealing two little tiger teeth. He ran his fingertips along the edge of the photograph, his Adam's apple bobbing, but he remained silent.
"We...we can't publish it, Zhou She." Old Zhang spoke first, his voice trembling, his hand unconsciously touching the blood pressure medication in his pocket—his wife had just undergone heart surgery last week and was still in the hospital, and his son was taking the college entrance exam next year, and they hadn't yet raised enough money for tuition. "Yesterday when they cornered me, they said, 'If you come any closer, we'll send a wreath to your family.' I'm not afraid of death, but if my wife finds out, her condition will definitely worsen, and my son...my son can't be without his father." As he spoke, he pulled a crumpled hospital bill from his pocket, the numbers on it glaringly red. "If the newspaper is gone, we can still find work, but if our family is gone, that's it."
Sister Wang, who was in charge of the newspaper's operations, nodded in agreement. She held a crumpled financial statement in her hand, with the loss figures highlighted in red. "Last week, the printing plant stopped taking our jobs, saying 'the higher-ups have spoken to us.' I only managed to borrow these three printing trucks through connections back home. If we publish this, the police will definitely find an excuse to shut us down. If the newspaper goes bankrupt, how will our dozens of employees survive? Some have to pay rent, some have elderly parents to support. We can't let everyone suffer with us, can we?" She paused, her gaze falling on the evidence on the table, her tone softening. "I know this evidence is important, but... but the reality is, we can't fight them."
Young reporter Xiao Lin gripped the cassette tape tightly, his knuckles turning white from the force. He'd only been on the job for six months, and just last month he'd accompanied Zhou Mingyuan to Mong Kok to interview Old Man Chen. The image of the old man crying and saying "I have no way to live" still lingered in his mind. "But if we don't publish it, who will?" Xiao Lin's voice trembled slightly, yet remained resolute. "Those children whose tuition fees were stolen, those shop owners whose stalls were overturned, those innocent people locked up in jail—they're still waiting for an explanation! If we suppress the evidence out of fear, how are we any different from those corrupt police officers and underground organizations?" He said, placing the small recorder on the table. "I'm young, unmarried, with no ties. If something happens, I'll take the blame alone! We can't let those people completely cover up the truth about Hong Kong!"
The office fell silent again, save for the low hum of the printing press. Zhou Mingyuan gently placed his daughter's photo on the table, his fingertips tracing the edge. Then he picked up the bloodstained anonymous letter, tore it to shreds with a ripping sound. When he looked up, the hesitation in his eyes had vanished, replaced by unwavering resolve: "Old Zhang, the newspaper will cover your wife's medical expenses first. If something really happens, I'll talk to the hospital and make sure your son's tuition isn't cut off. Sister Wang, if the newspaper goes bankrupt, I'll sell my own house and use the severance pay to ensure everyone has enough to eat." He paused, his gaze sweeping over everyone. "We're journalists, aren't we here to let the truth speak for us? If even we don't dare stand up, then ordinary people will truly have no way to survive."
He picked up the photocopies of the evidence and headed towards the printing workshop: "Print it! Even if we lose, we have to let all of Hong Kong know that there's a group of reporters who haven't forgotten the five words 'shouldering the responsibility of upholding justice'!" Old Zhang watched Zhou Mingyuan's retreating figure, then looked at the payment slip in his hand, suddenly stuffed the slip into his pocket, and followed Zhou Mingyuan's steps: "I'm going too! At worst, I'll tell my wife I'm going on a business trip out of town and will come back after this is over." Sister Wang gritted her teeth, crumpled the financial statements into a ball, and threw them into the trash can: "Damn it, let's fight! Even if the newspaper goes bankrupt, we can't be cowards!"
Just as everyone was busy feeding manuscripts into the printing press, the side door of the office was suddenly pushed open gently. A figure in a dark trench coat stood in the shadows, his hat pulled low, revealing only a section of his sharply defined jawline. He didn't move forward, but instead took out a metal plaque engraved with a dark pattern from his pocket, placed it on the corner of the table by the door, and said in a low voice, as deep as night dew: "President Zhou, after tonight, I'll guarantee the safety of everyone at the newspaper. Whether it's men in black suits or troublemakers from the police station, anyone who dares to come will pay the price."
Zhou Mingyuan whirled around, about to ask another question, but the figure had already turned and disappeared into the darkness outside the door, leaving only the metal plaque gleaming coldly in the lamplight. Old Zhang leaned closer to examine it; the patterns on the plaque were indistinct, yet they inexplicably gave him a sense of reassurance. Zhou Mingyuan gripped the metal plaque tightly, his gloom dissipating somewhat: "Let's keep going! With this friend's help, we can't back down!"
At four in the morning, three trucks carrying the newspaper drove out of the newspaper office's back door. Just as they turned onto Lai Chi Kok Road, seven or eight men in black, wielding iron bars and machetes, rushed out of an alley. The leader, with a scar on his face, slammed his fist on the window of the first truck: "Unload the stuff! Otherwise, you'll be walking around like mad today!" The driver, Old Li, was about to step on the gas when an iron bar smashed into the front of the truck, shards of glass flying all over his face. The two trucks behind were also surrounded by the men in black, stones flying everywhere from beside their wheels; it looked like the newspapers were about to be stolen.
Just then, two black sedans suddenly sped up from behind, their tires screeching against the pavement. The doors opened, and five or six men in black suits stepped out, their movements as swift as well-trained guards. The leader was the mysterious visitor from the newspaper office earlier. He carried no weapon, but walked straight up to Scarface and said coldly, "You dare touch anything on this street?" Scarface was about to swing his club when the man in the suit grabbed his wrist. With a snap, Scarface screamed in pain, and the iron club fell to the ground.
The other men in black tried to rush forward, but were quickly subdued by the men in suits and pinned against the wall, unable to move. The mysterious visitor walked to the truck, nodded to Old Li, and said, "Keep going. We'll handle the rest." Old Li hesitated for a moment, then quickly started the truck, and the two trucks behind followed. In the rearview mirror, he could only see the men in black being forced into the cars, which quickly disappeared into the night.
As dawn broke, the first newspaper bearing the headline "Police High-Ranking Officials Collude with Underground Organizations, Exposing the Flow of Millions in Illegal Funds" was placed on a newsstand on a street corner in Wan Chai. The elderly woman who ran the stand had barely unfolded it when Wang Qiang, a breakfast stall owner, snatched it away. Wang Qiang's finger jabbed the words "protection money" so hard it turned white: "It was them last month! They said my 'hygiene was substandard' and extorted 80 dollars in 'protection money'—I only make 200 dollars a month, and they took half of it! If I didn't pay, they'd overturn my stall!" He slammed the newspaper on the breakfast table, drawing a crowd of diners. Taxi driver Mr. Chen pointed at the transcript and cursed, "Detective Li from Yau Ma Tei! Last week, he stopped me while I was picking up passengers, saying I was 'illegally carrying passengers' and demanding a 50-dollar 'fine.' If I didn't pay, they'd confiscate my license! It's all corrupt dealings!"
（注：1958年香港製造业工人平均月薪约180-200港元，小商户如早餐铺、杂货店月利润多在200-300港元，80港元保护费占商户月利润30%-40%，50港元罚款相当于普通工人月薪的25%-30%。）
At 10 a.m., the Wan Chai wet market was the first to close. Vegetable vendor Mr. Chan held up a sign that read "Give me back my hard-earned 30 dollars a month," his voice hoarse: "I get my supplies at 3 a.m. every day, and I only earn 120 dollars a month. They forcibly charge me 30 dollars a month in protection money, and if I don't pay, they smash my vegetable baskets!" Vegetable vendors echoed his sentiment, stacking their baskets into a platform and marching towards the Central Police Station with their signs. The transport convoy in Sham Shui Po then shut down, and the drivers stuck notes on their vehicles that read "15 dollars toll charged per trip," honking their horns in protest that made the windows facing the street vibrate. Restaurants in Yau Ma Tei, grocery stores in Mong Kok, and even shoe repair stalls at alley entrances all hung up signs that read "Strike to Resist Corruption"—those small business owners who had been exploited for years were now united as one, and the crowd spread along the streets. Red signs, white newspapers, and hoarse slogans wove a wave of anger on the streets of Hong Kong.
"Purge corruption! Severely punish the scoundrels!"
"Give Hong Kong back its pristine beauty!"
As the marchers surged to the Central Police Station, some carried smashed vegetable baskets, the bamboo strips still bearing the marks of iron bars; others held their loved ones' judgments, the papers wrinkled from tears—Mong Kok's Mrs. Cheung cried out, "My husband was imprisoned for six months on charges of 'smuggling' just because he refused to pay HK$40 in protection money!" Others pasted photocopies of account books onto the police station's iron gate, circling the names "Zhang Wei" and "Li Wei" in red pen, the dense circles like indictments. Inside the police station, several officers peered out of the second-floor windows, their batons slipping unconsciously to the floor—the handcuffs usually used to intimidate the public were now locked in drawers, no one daring to take them out, much less open the door to face the surging public resentment.
Inside the Government House meeting room, the air was thick with tension. The newly appointed Governor, John Blake, sat at the head of the table, his fingertips lightly tapping the surface, his gaze sharp as a knife. Army Commander Harper was the first to slam his fist on the table, his voice urgent: "Immediately deploy the British troops stationed in Hong Kong to disperse the protesters! If this continues, what will become of the dignity of the British Empire?" His teacup trembled, spilling tea, his eyes filled with anxiety—if the situation spiraled out of control, London would be held primarily responsible.
"Disperse them? It's just some Chinese making a fuss; it'll all calm down in a few days." Financial Secretary Thompson toyed with his pen, his tone dismissive, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "What are we here in Hong Kong for? To fill our pockets with pounds, not to uphold 'justice' for the Chinese. As long as the police keep an eye on those 'businesses' for us, as long as our share of the profits isn't reduced, who cares if they're being exploited?" His words were barely out of his mouth when several colonial officials echoed his sentiments, some whispering, "Exactly! What do we care about the livelihoods of the Chinese? Maintaining the status quo is the only way to keep profits."
"Shut up!" Perry slammed his hand on the table, scattering documents everywhere. "I've only just taken office, and Hong Kong is already embroiled in such a scandal. If this isn't properly resolved, what will become of my record? What will London think of me as Governor of Hong Kong?" He pointed to the newspapers on the table, his voice cold and hard. "The evidence is irrefutable; public anger is burning right before our eyes! If we continue to cover it up, the fire will only burn brighter. Then it won't be resolved by simply suppressing it—it will shake the very foundations of our rule in Hong Kong!"
Colonial Secretary White adjusted his glasses and handed over a document at the opportune moment: "His Excellency the Governor is right. Mr. Thompson, you only see the immediate benefits, but you don't see that corruption has rotted the police force to its core. In my opinion, we should take this opportunity to establish an independent anti-corruption agency to thoroughly investigate corrupt police officers and underground organizations—this will not only quell public resentment but also rebuild the credibility of the Hong Kong government, and it will also contribute to your political achievements."
"Establish an anti-corruption agency?" Thompson scoffed, slamming his pen down on the table. "Wouldn't that mean investigating the people we personally promoted? Wouldn't that cut off our 'source of income'? Mr. Berkeley, you're new here; don't let these Chinese people's tantrums blind you!" Harper chimed in, "Exactly! Deploying troops to disperse them is the most direct, quick, and authoritative approach. Why create trouble for ourselves?"
Berkeley's face grew increasingly grim as he pointed at Thompson and Harper: "You only care about the pound, forgetting that you are officials of the British Empire! If you can't even maintain basic order, if you lose the public's trust, no amount of money can protect your positions in Hong Kong!" He picked up the "Independent Commission Against Corruption (ICAC) Preparation Plan" handed to him by White, his gaze sweeping over everyone. "My mind is made up. Start preparing the plan immediately—either proactively clean house, or wait to be devoured by public resentment. The choice is yours!"
A deathly silence fell over the meeting room, the faint sounds of protests from outside the window striking everyone like a hammer blow. Thompson's face was ashen, Harper clenched his fists, while White quietly breathed a sigh of relief. Looking at the proposal in his hand, a resolute glint flashed in his eyes—he wanted to use this "fire of corruption" to leave his mark of achievement in Hong Kong.
Meanwhile, on the top floor of the Lin Group building, Lin Er listened to his subordinates' report on the power struggle within the Governor's House, then looked out at the surging protesters. A glimmer of light finally appeared in his cold pupils. He whispered to the other end of the soul connection, "Master, the fire has been lit, and the Hong Kong government is in chaos. Now, let's see what new situation this fire will create."