by Carl Hiaasen
As the other car approached, it slowed. Its headlights flashed, bathing the station wagon from behind. McCarthy reacted.
The station wagon surged from the curb with a peel of rubber, dumping McCarthy's passenger awkwardly between seat and door. McCarthy turned right. The other car followed. For ten tense and silent minutes, he played hide-and-seek until at last he found the main road that tourists took to the Great Wall. His foot went to the floor. The following car, Chinese-made, more for touring than sprinting, dwindled and finally disappeared. McCarthy relaxed.
"It's nice to see you, Little Joe. How're things?"
The passenger smiled, dangling a child's sandal from its strap. In the dashboard half-light, it looked like a dead white hamster.
"I found this in the blanket."
"Shit, I've been looking for that for two weeks. Thanks." McCarthy passed over the pack of cigarettes. "Sorry for the bumpy start, but we had friends."
The passenger dragged deeply, opening the window to let the smoke escape.
"It is no surprise."
He was a slender youth in his twenties with a tousled thatch of black hair and sharp cheek bones. He wore a cheap open-necked white shirt and baggy olive-green trousers. A schoolboy's satchel sat primly on his knees. Over the past year, since a casual meeting at an art exhibition arranged by the American Embassy, the shy youth had become McCarthy's best Chinese source.
"Shall we go to my place for a few drinks and some music? The kids are all asleep, Little Joe." It was a name the boy had assigned himself. McCarthy didn't know his real name, or where he lived. He knew only about the young man's dreams and that his information was good.
"Tonight is bad, Lao Jim. The army, the police, the watchers all have instructions to be particularly alert about contacts with foreigners."
Among foreigners who knew any Chinese willing to risk it, the procedure for getting a guest into the walled diplomatic compound was almost routine: bundle them down in the back and drive smiling through the gate. The PLA soldiers seldom did more than wave; in the winter, they simply peered out from their hut and wrote down the special license numbers reserved for weiguoren. Except for taxis with passengers, normally registered vehicles were forbidden to enter the compound.
At first, Little Joe had been reluctant, and then thrilled, at the prospect of cheating the security system. In recent months, he had become more cautious, resorting finally to hurried phone calls to arrange meetings at "the usual place"-the hotel parking lot.
"How are things, Little Joe? Are we hearing the same rumors?" McCarthy coaxed.
The youth lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the old.
"Special security units are being assigned to the embassies-uniformed and plainclothes-beginning two days from now. I think they expect some attempts to defect."
"Why?"
"The old Maoists are winning control. They will purge several hundred officials in Peking in the next week. Did you hear that rumor?" Little Joe not only spoke good English, but also had a subtle sense of humor, rare in a Chinese. He was a friend to be treasured.
"Among others," McCarthy lied.
"Well, I have seen the list, and it is true."
"Any names I would recognize?"
"Possibly." He named two or three. "Most of them, though, are second- or third-rank people, administrators and-how do you call it?-technocrats."
"What have they done?"
"Just like the others who have already been purged. They are skilled at what they do and have great experience in dealing with foreigners. The Party thinks they are more loyal to their own jobs, or to their ministries, or to their foreign friends, than to the Party itself. The Party allows no other lovers, as you know, Lao Jim."
"Is it true? About their loyalties?"
Little Joe laughed. "What do you think?"
"I'd say yes. A lot of people dislike the dull old men."
"You are right. It is not their loyalty to China that is the problem, but their reliance on the Party. The people I am talking about run factories that are profitable or bureaus that are too modern. They make decisions without asking the Party each day if it is permitted to eat rice for lunch."
"I know the kind of people you mean."
Little Joe nodded. "Yes, they are the best of China and the young people who work for them are fantastically loyal-these men are seen as the true future of the New China."
"To purge them will have a great effect on morale, won't it?"
"Will you never understand China, Lao Jim?" The Chinese laughed at his own question. "They will be purged not because they are efficient, but because they are corrupt. That is what the accusations will say, and that is what many people will believe. That Manager Hu used his position to enrich himself; that he stole money, or the factory's car; that he accepted gifts or bribes from foreigners; that he had a foreign bank account; that he smuggled goods from China under false documents. The list of charges is endless. The Party can say anything it likes. No guilt is necessary. The accusation is enough-for the Party."
McCarthy saw what was coming.
"No good news for you, huh?"
"I have been denied permission to travel-no families of leading cadres may go abroad to study any longer. That is the ruling."
"I'm sorry."
Little Joe had worked three years to pass the exams and polish his English. When McCarthy had first met him, the young man had boasted of a scholarship offer from an American university. "I am going to study language and literature,"
Little Joe had said. "Can you lend me some books to read before I go?"
It had been a year of yes-maybe-come-back-tomorrows. And then the bureaucracy had reneged.
"I have been assigned to work in the Number Five Locomotive Factory. I am to be a cook."
"Jesus, that's awful." They were on the tree-shaded street where Little Joe usually got out. McCarthy stopped the car and reached around for a package on the back seat. "It's easy for me to say, but try not to be discouraged, Little Joe. Keep reading and studying. Here, take a look."
McCarthy flipped on the dome light and the Chinese quickly riffled through his gifts-back copies of The Economist, Time and Newsweek and some paperback books.
"I couldn't find Twelfth Night, but I got Merchant of Venice. And here's one by Graham Greene, Monsignor Quixote. It's great."
"Quixote… Cervantes, right?"
McCarthy nodded.
"Well, he wrote in prison. I guess I can read in prison." Little Joe gestured.
He meant everything around him.
"Zaijian," said Little Joe, and vanished into the night.
Pensively, McCarthy drove home. Poor bastard, he thought, another one of the good young ones being devoured. But a damned good source. Apprentice cook he might be, but Little Joe was still the son of a general.
"I trust the accommodations are satisfactory," Wang Bin said from the doorway.
"I would be offended if such a distinguished guest were not comfortable."
Stratton stared dully at him from a pile of dirty straw at the far corner of the room.
Bathed in sweat, he rolled clumsily to a sitting position.
Wang Bin sneered. "Your leg is all bloody. You should be more careful, Professor."
"Fuck you."
"Stand up."
"I can't."
On mincing steps, as though afraid of dirtying his highly polished shoes, Wang Bin advanced into the room until he stood over Stratton. His foot lashed out, striking Stratton's shin. Stratton bit back a moan.
"That is just the beginning, Professor." He spat as he spoke, hitting Stratton between the eyes. "I regret only that I shall not be present for the end. It was planned for Xian, but you were lucky. A train station is too public, and a bullet is too merciful for a man who rapes my daughter."
Stratton felt the spittle course down his face. He tensed for a spring. Movement caught Stratton's eye. Framed in the doorway stood one of the jailers, a pistol leveled at Stratton. With an explosion of
breath, he allowed his body's tension to dissipate. Revenge alone was not enough. There must also be escape. There would be another time.
"I will tell you where you are, since you will never leave," Wang Bin said. "It is a museum on the outskirts of the city of Nanning. It is a backward place, Manning, but it has some lovely Ming Dynasty pottery."
"You know where you can put your pottery."
"Oh no, Professor Stratton, there are better uses for it. For you, there is no use at all. Except as an example of revolutionary justice. Has anyone listed your crimes for you? No? An oversight, I'm sure."
Wang Bin rocked with his hands behind him, a student reciting his lessons.
"You are accused of theft: of the personal effects of my distinguished brother.
You are accused of murder: of one of my trusted drivers in Peking, and of assault against another, who may still die."
Wang Bin's voice was rising in pitch, like a factory whistle.
"You are accused of kidnapping my daughter." He spat at Stratton again. "And of rape of my daughter.
"You are guilty of all charges, Professor." Wang Bin's face was flushed. "The sentence is death. There is no appeal. People's justice. Do you know how executions are carried out in revolutionary China, Professor?" Wang Bin's mouth twitched. "The condemned man is forced to kneel, with his hands tied behind his back. His executioner stands behind him. At the signal, the executioner advances one step, brings up his gun and in one motion, delivers a killing shot to the back of the head. Sometimes a pistol is used, but in your case, I think a rifle is more appropriate. A rifle leaves no room for mistakes."
"It will never happen," Stratton said slowly.
"You think not?"
"I know it. You are bluffing. This isn't a real jail, and you have no authority.
This is your operation, Deputy Minister, and yours alone. The Chinese government has nothing against me-but a great deal against you."
"I am a servant of the Revolution," Wang Bin said, self-mockingly.
"You serve only yourself. You are a thief and a murderer."
"Stratton, you are like so many of your countrymen, much noise but no wisdom.
You know nothing."
"I know that you have been stealing artifacts from the dig at Xian. I know that you asked your brother to help you smuggle something out. He refused. You argued, and later you killed him in Peking. Poison, I would say. There will be evidence, you know. Poison stays in the bones; any pathologist can find it. It remains only to exhume the body."
Wang Bin laughed.
"Fool! You understand nothing. My brother was of great assistance to me, yes, although he did not know it. I did not need him to smuggle contraband, Professor, but to bring me something. Something perfectly legitimate. He did it willingly."
"I'll bet."
"There is one other thing you should know, fool: My brother is not dead." Wang Bin hurled the words with ferocity.
"He's dead and you killed him. You can lie to me, but I doubt if your own government will be impressed. I have written a letter-everything I know about David's death, including the fact that you killed him. It is somewhere safe. If something happens to me, then it will be opened and forwarded to the Chinese government."
Wang Bin paused to consider.
"A letter, perhaps, with one of the members of your tour group, given to him before leaving Xian."
Stratton said nothing. That is what he might have done-if the document really existed.
Then Wang Bin smiled and Stratton knew his desperate ploy had failed.
"I think the letter is your invention, but if it exists, it cannot trouble me.
For me, the time is ready. And your time is finished, Captain."
Stratton looked at the arrogant Chinese without expression.
"Does it surprise you to hear your old rank? It should not. We are thorough people, we Chinese, patient people with long memories. We have files for everything. There is a fat security file in Peking with your name on it, and a black ribbon across it. The ribbon is a special distinction. It means kill on sight. So, in addition to all your other crimes, you are a spy. It will be a great pleasure to kill you, a service to the Revolution-my last gesture."
"How?" Stratton was too nonplussed to invent a denial.
"How did we ever know the name of the dashing captain of intelligence in Saigon who always undertook the most dangerous infiltration missions? The hero of many medals who led raids into North Vietnam and, once, even into China?
"How simple Americans are! Heroes are never truly anonymous, Captain, and soldiers can never be trusted with secrets. Can they? Think back to Saigon. Many Americans knew the true identity of the secret 'Captain Black.' Can you believe they never talked? To their girls, to friends when they were drunk. It took some time, the file says as much. But within a few months, North Vietnamese intelligence knew you were Captain Black. After your raid into China, they shared their information-we were allies then, remember. The Vietnamese wanted you very badly, and after your slaughter of innocent peasants, so did we. Too bad you left Saigon before the assassination teams could find you."
"You got the wrong guy," Stratton said without conviction.
"I think not. Your death, at least, is something for which the Revolution will thank me. Goodbye, Captain. I hope you will find hell even less hospitable than China."
Wang Bin stormed from the makeshift cell. Stratton heard the heavy wooden bar fall against the door. He lay for a long time on the fetid ground, thinking, listening.
Then, painfully but surely, he pulled himself to his feet. He hurt, but not as badly as he had led Wang Bin to believe. Teeth clenched, moving with the jerky uncertainty of an old man, Stratton began a series of painful limbering exercises. As he bent and swayed, Stratton replayed the conversation with Wang Bin. If the mind is too occupied to register pain, then there is no pain.
The man was angry, and he would be merciless. That was the bottom line. Yet there had been bits of information within the conversation that Stratton might use. He began to gnaw at them.
He was in the south of China. What he had seen of the vegetation Wang Bin had confirmed. Guangxi Province. Stratton tried to superimpose the train ride on a map of China. South for three days. He couldn't be far from the coast. If he could get to the sea and steal a boat…
There had been puzzling things, too. David's unwitting role had been to bring something, Wang Bin had said. That was an obvious lie. The brothers had argued in Xian only after David had learned that Wang Bin wanted him to smuggle.
"My brother is not dead," he had said. A second lie, even more senseless than the first. Of course David was dead-he had been murdered.
There was a third riddle. Stratton's death was to be "my last gesture" to the Revolution. What could account for that strange phrase?
Gingerly, he began a series of knee bends. Down-two-three-four. His leg howled in protest. Why tell lies to a condemned man? Senseless. Unless…
"Oh, Jesus."
Stratton spoke aloud to the emptiness of his cell, the words forced from him by sudden realization. What if Wang Bin had been telling the truth?
Stratton saw it then. Not entirely clear, but in terrifying outline. Solid, diabolical, imminent.
On one point, Wang Bin had been right.
Stratton was a fool.
In frustration, he hammered at the walls of the cell. Then he snapped a leg from the wooden chair and with its point began to scrape at the crude mortar between the bricks. It was irrational, and he knew it. Still, it was not a time for reason. It was a time for fury. Stratton scraped like a man demented.
Wang Bin sat with his legs crossed in an overstuffed armchair, waiting for his tea to cool. On the table before him sat four vases, each exquisite, each more than five hundred years old.
An aide in bottle-bottom glasses came silently into the room. He sprang forward to light the deputy minister's cigarette.
"Will we be needing our guest any longer, Comrade?" the aide as
ked quietly.
"One more day, I'm afraid, Lao Zhou." Wang Bin was perturbed. "I wish it could have been done on the train. If only his embassy had not started asking questions. I must know what he told his people, if he told them anything. One more day… then he must vanish completely, do you understand? No trace."
"It will be done. He is a dangerous enemy of the state." The frail-looking young translator with weak eyes was the most sadistic killer Wang Bin had ever encountered.
"You will tell me everything he says. It is vital… to the Revolution," Wang Bin said. "I would like to be there myself, but I must return immediately to Peking.
Go make the arrangements."
When the aide had gone, Wang Bin extracted a green and white envelope from the breast pocket of his Mao jacket. The telegram had arrived with breakfast and he knew its contents by heart.
YOU ARE REQUIRED TO APPEAR BEFORE THE DISCIPLINARY COMMISSION OF THE PARTY.
It gave a time and a date: tomorrow.
He had been expecting it. And it might have come sooner. Once again, it seemed, those idiots in Peking were determined to wrestle long-suffering China back into the Middle Ages. A few months before, such a summons would have paralyzed Wang Bin with terror-as it was intended to do. But he had foreseen it this time, and he was ready. Now there was just fleeting irritation at the dreadful cost to the nation and his own comfort. Let them writhe, he thought. Let them devour their own entrails if they wish. Comrade Deputy Minister Wang Bin would never again collect night soil.
This new peace of mind had its price, of course: an odious alliance with the American art dealer Harold Broom. His name had come to Wang Bin from an underground buyer in Hong Kong. Broom had been highly recommended, not for his taste-he had none-but for his resourcefulness. It was a trait that Wang Bin had come to appreciate, though he could not help but despise Broom for his crude arrogance.
Their short relationship had been curt, clandestine and efficient. So far. A visa problem smoothed over. A travel permit expedited. Quiet favors.
Yet there were watchers everywhere, Wang Bin well knew. He doubted that the Disciplinary Commission had learned the truth about Harold Broom, but such news would not shock him. He was ready for anything.
