Chapter 99: Cross-Dressing

Neon lights flickered, and melodious music filtered through the thick glass, filling the air. Every night at the Madiel Hotel was like this—filled with song and dance, indulgence and luxury, irresistibly enchanting and bustling with life.

“Thank you, miss.”

A magnificent carriage pulled up to the grand entrance. The elderly White Russian coachman reined in the horses, jumped down, and opened the door.

A slender, graceful young White Russian woman descended from the carriage. After paying the fare and leaving a generous tip, her features revealed a blend of Eastern and Russian lineage—clearly a mixed heritage.

This mixed blood had inherited the finest traits of both Russian and Eastern peoples: chestnut waves cascading over her shoulders, a playful pumpkin hat perched atop, knee-high leather boots accentuating her long legs, and a delicate face as ethereal as an elf’s.

She was utterly captivating.

“Good evening, miss,” the alluring woman smiled faintly at the bellboy. The young man felt as if struck by lightning, his heart melting, momentarily dazed by how beautiful her smile was.

At the hotel reception desk:

“Miss, how may I assist you?” the clerk inquired politely.

“Please book a room for me,” she answered in flawless, melodious Russian.

“Certainly. May I have your name, and do you have any preferences for the room?”

“Natalia. I’d like a suite facing south, preferably overlooking the street,” she said, producing a pack of Marlboro cigarettes from her bag, lighting one with a delicate pinky raised, and inhaling elegantly.

“Understood. Please wait a moment.”

“Room 203. Someone will escort you shortly. If you need anything, just tell the person who accompanies you.”

“Thank you,” Natalia replied politely.

Taking the key with the room number, she was soon approached by a White Russian male attendant who carried her small leather suitcase and led her upstairs.

Her swaying figure drew many admiring glances from the men around.

“Miss Natalia, should you require anything, please call the hotel operator or come see me at the service desk on the second floor.”

“Got it, thank you.” Natalia politely dismissed the attendant, closed the door behind her, and exhaled deeply.

She pulled off her head covering and shed her woman's attire.

Zhou Sen exhaled in relief, swiftly reverting to his true male form. So, this Natalia was his disguise—he had been masquerading as a woman.

He knew the Madiel Hotel well; it was one of the most luxurious establishments in Ice City. Crucially, the room’s telephone extension could dial outside lines directly.

He needed a secure place to make this call, and of course, he wouldn’t use his own room.

That would be foolish—the hotel was now run by the Japanese, who undoubtedly had informants everywhere.

Quickly changing into a Madiel Hotel attendant’s uniform, he tested the door, stepped outside, knocked—no answer. He donned his head covering again, produced a hairpin, and deftly picked the lock, a skill well practiced.

Inside, it was pitch dark—clearly unoccupied.

Zhou Sen pulled out a flashlight and moved further in. Confirming no one was present, he approached the bedside telephone and lifted the receiver.

He dialed swiftly, using a number he had discovered from the underground monitoring station at the Chunming Photo Studio.

The number belonged to the office of Arman, Deputy Consul of the Soviet Russian Consulate in Ice City.

“Hello?”

At this hour, Arman was almost always in his office, as Zhou Sen knew from prior wiretaps conducted by Shuichiro Hirakawa and his team.

Even though Zhou Sen had only briefly observed the consulate, he had memorized many critical details—highly valuable information.

“My dear, I’ve booked a room at the Madiel Hotel. Please come quickly,” Zhou Sen said in an exquisitely coquettish female voice, speaking Russian, then hung up immediately.

Arman was stunned by the call, utterly bewildered. When had he acquired a lover booking a room for him at the Madiel Hotel?

It had to be a prank.

He hung up, but soon sensed something was off. His office phone number was not publicly listed; normally, no one would know it by heart. The consulate had separate contact numbers for external affairs.

If anyone could just call his private office, how could he work without being constantly interrupted?

This was no prank.

The call likely came from “that person,” but why was it a woman, and why from the Madiel Hotel?

It was clearly an attempt to conceal identity.

Someone was requesting a secret meeting, yet lacked proper channels of contact. Realizing this, Arman paced his office, torn between going or staying.

Not going meant all efforts leading up to this contact would be wasted, and no further attempts would be made.

Going meant the consulate phone could be bugged—the Japanese would surely be listening.

Even if they caught him once, they would try again and again, never playing fair. Eventually, a scapegoat would be found.

After a moment, Arman made up his mind. As the Soviet Deputy Consul in Ice City, even if caught red-handed by the Japanese, at worst he’d be deported—not risking his life.

Still, his mission here would fail, and many plans would have to be redone.

Since the caller used a “secret affair” ruse, they anticipated the possibility of phone surveillance.

He would adapt as needed.

Before becoming deputy consul, Arman had worked in the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs for many years—his technical skills remained sharp.

…

In the underground monitoring station at Chunming Photo Studio, Hirakawa intercepted the call and immediately had it translated by a Russian speaker.

Upon learning that Arman’s “old flame” was waiting at the Madiel Hotel, Hirakawa sensed something was amiss.

He had monitored Arman for a long time and never heard mention of any lover—this was definitely a signal for a clandestine meeting.

Excited, Hirakawa realized they might catch a big fish. For Arman to personally meet someone, that person must be a high-level Soviet spy.

He immediately called Saburo Shibuya directly.

Saburo was unavailable; his secretary Ono answered.

Recognizing the gravity, Ono promptly contacted Saburo via military hotline.

Saburo snapped to attention and quickly alerted the Tokko Police Department, deploying personnel to arrest the suspect in the act. He also reported the situation to Major General Qin Yanzaburo, chief of the Ice City intelligence agency.

Since Arman was a diplomat with immunity, they could not move without solid evidence of espionage—otherwise, it would trigger a diplomatic incident and international conflict, a responsibility no one wanted.

Qin instructed Saburo to proceed cautiously, to verify whether it was truly a secret rendezvous or merely a lover’s tryst. A mistake would bring disgrace on the international stage.

Saburo calmed his excitement. Qin’s concerns were valid—what if it was a trap set by the Soviets to frame them?

Orders were given: confirm Arman’s espionage activities at the Madiel Hotel before acting.

No action without proof.

…

Back at the Madiel Hotel, Zhou Sen had returned to room 203, ordered a bottle of red wine, and sat by the window, gazing at the neon lights and the dazzling street scene of Central Avenue.

Minutes later, hurried footsteps approached the door, seemingly heading toward the room where Zhou Sen had just placed the call.

The Japanese were fast to respond.

They had agents inside the Madiel Hotel; otherwise, they couldn’t have acted so quickly.

Clearly, tonight’s meeting was impossible—but Zhou Sen had anticipated this. Now, he must improvise.

Knock, knock.

“Who is it? I’m in the bath…” Zhou Sen called out.

After several minutes, wrapped in a strapless bathrobe, he opened the door.

Standing there was the attendant who had escorted him earlier, followed by a man in a suit—likely the manager.

“Apologies, Miss Natalia, may we see your identification? We need to verify it,” the manager asked.

“What are you looking at? Didn’t you check my ID at the front desk?” Zhou Sen’s eyes caught the Japanese man peeking at his exposed neckline. He quickly pulled the robe higher, scolding sharply.

“Sorry, we are searching for a dangerous individual. Please cooperate.”

“Wait a moment,” Zhou Sen snorted coldly and fetched his ID.

The manager examined the document carefully three times but dared not scrutinize further. He returned it, saying, “Sorry for disturbing your rest, Miss Natalia. Enjoy your stay at the Madiel Hotel.”

Zhou Sen glared at him, pocketed the ID, and slammed the door.

He had rehearsed this scene many times in his mind. Luckily, he had performed well, leaving no cracks in his act.

As for the ID, most people wouldn’t detect the forgery—especially since it was a genuine document altered with skill. The difficulty lay only in Zhou Sen’s unwillingness to fake it more.

Judging by the situation, Arman was likely en route to the Madiel Hotel.

He must not meet him—not even a brief encounter. The Japanese were waiting to catch them red-handed.

But now he was in danger.

If Arman didn’t come or came and left without contact, then anyone checking into the Madiel Hotel tonight, especially women, would become suspects.

Of course, Zhou Sen had anticipated this scenario.

Tonight, he could not leave. He must stay at the Madiel Hotel for the night.

This was a risk he had to take.

Now it was up to Arman to find a way to contact him.

The ball was in Arman’s court.

Zhou Sen urgently needed an assistant. Working alone was too difficult; many tasks demanded more than he could handle.

This was the root of his current dilemma.

If he had an assistant, he could have sent word to Arman en route, allowing a brief meeting before retreating.

But for now, he was on his own.