In the distance, on the Mekong River, a cargo ship disguised as a fishing vessel is sailing through the night. Beneath the deck, inside containers labeled "Medical Supplies," sample tubes of Black Death bacteria sway gently with the bumpy ride, like bombs waiting to be detonated.
The meeting ended.
When Zhang Quan pushed open the wooden door of the bamboo house, the kerosene lamp flickered under the eaves, and the evening wind, carrying the damp scent of opium fields, cast shadows on the muddy walls.
His wife, Axiu, was squatting in front of the stove, flipping roasted fish in the iron pot. Oil splattered on her indigo cloth apron, and the scent of fish sauce wafted through the rising smoke.
