by Carl Hiaasen
"Why?"
"You will not argue. You will not ask questions. You will do as I say. You are unfit to speak in this room. You are unfit to stand. So you will kneel, and you will be completely silent."
Stratton did not move. The man with the bottle-bottom glasses circled him disdainfully, eyeing the American as if he were a roach.
"You have broken this chair!"
"No, it fell apart."
"Liar!"
"Liar!" shouted the jailer, chiming in.
"An accident," Stratton repeated.
"My name is Comrade Zhou," said the man in the glasses. "We have met before."
"Oh, yes. You were Wang Bin's interpreter in Peking," Stratton said.
Zhou lifted the mangled two-legged chair as if examining it. Then he swung it over his head and brought it crashing down on Tom Stratton's shoulders. Stratton pitched forward, face down into the warm pig dung. A small hand seized his neck, and another clutched his hair. Roughly, he was jerked off the floor, and propped on his knees like a mannequin.
"I will repeat this one more time," Zhou said. Now he was squatting in front of Stratton, glaring into the American's dripping face. "You are unworthy to stand in the presence of any Chinese citizen, do you understand? You are worse than the shit on this floor. You are a murderer, a thief, a destroyer of Chinese property, a corrupter of young women, a spy… and, I think you should know, Stratton, that you have no secrets here. We know everything about you!"
Stratton made no response. He breathed through his mouth only. He closed his eyes. He fought to neutralize all his senses, one by one.
"We have come here to give you the opportunity to confess your crimes, Comrade Stratton. Do not be afraid, and do not be foolish. Many thousands of Chinese have profited from such expurgation. They lived to tell about it, however. I cannot promise the same for you."
"What is this, a struggle session? You're sick," Stratton said.
Zhou nodded. "Ah, you've heard of this. You have read about it, I suppose, in some perverted imperialist book. China is the subject of many books in your country. China is a popular subject among American scholars. You came here posing as a scholar, did you not?"
"I am a tourist."
"Liar!" It was the jailer again. He knew the script.
"Do not continue with these lies," Zhou said. "I know your country very well, Stratton. I know the American people. I even know the language. I studied for two years at Yale University." Zhou laughed. "It's amusing, in a way. In the many years since my return to China, I have never once had the opportunity to interview an American criminal. You are my first. I am grateful to Comrade Wang Bin for the chance to serve China in this way. He tells me you are a treacherous spy."
"He is mistaken, Comrade Zhou. I am merely a friend of his brother."
"You are a liar," Zhou replied.
"Liar!" screamed the jailer. It was the only English word he knew.
"Liar!" Zhou yelled.
"No."
"Now it is time to confess," Zhou said. He left the cell, and returned shortly with a handwritten Chinese document. "Please sign this now."
"What does it say? Could you read it to me?" Stratton said, stalling.
"Of course." Zhou motioned at the jailer, who slogged out of the cell. He and another jailer returned carrying three wooden chairs. One was placed directly in front of Stratton, and that is where Zhou sat. The first jailer took the second chair, to Zhou's left, but equidistant from the kneeling American. A third chair was placed on Zhou's right. It was empty.
"You have been found guilty of numerous crimes against the state," Zhou began.
"This is the list. It is lengthy.
"To begin with, you lied on your visa application. You said you had never been to China before, Stratton. Therefore you are charged with presenting false information to immigration officials.
"Secondly, you are charged with the theft of personal articles belonging to Mr.
David Wang. These items were stolen from Mr. Wang's hotel room in Peking nearly one week ago."
Stratton stared at the earthen floor and shook his head.
"You are charged with the murder of Huang Gong, a limousine driver in Peking who was killed while serving the state. Additionally, you are charged with the attempted murder of another comrade, Ni Zanfu, who was seriously injured in the same tragic episode."
"They tried to run me down," Stratton protested.
"Liar!" screamed the interrogators in unison.
"There are two more crimes which are the most serious," Zhou went on. "One of them is the abduction of Wang Kangmei, the daughter of the deputy minister. We will discuss that in a moment. But I first should like to ask you about the crime of espionage against the People's Republic. On March 18, 1971… " and Zhou began to read the document: " Thomas Stratton, then a captain with the Special Forces Intelligence section of the United States Army, illegally entered the Chinese town of Man-ling with a squad of armed soldiers and assassinated thirty-eight innocent peasants.' "
Zhou paused and glanced up from the paper. "You came back to China this year for the purpose of continuing your terrorism and trying to recruit Chinese citizens for your criminal espionage. You are a dangerous agent of the United States government, and you must be punished according to the laws of the Chinese state.
Now… are you willing to confess to your crimes, Mr. Stratton?"
"I cannot, Comrade Zhou." Stratton stared at the frog-eyed face. Zhou's thick eyeglasses looked like a cheap prop for some stand-up comic, but there was nothing funny in the Chinese eyes. He waved the document contemptuously.
"Perhaps we should review each charge separately-"
"My answer would remain the same. Not guilty. I am not guilty of anything."
Zhou nodded at the jailer. The jailer's leg shot out, and his boot caught Stratton flush in the Adam's apple. He toppled backwards into the slop, moaning, choking, gulping air. He grabbed impotently at his throat with both hands.
After a few moments, the jailer yanked Stratton to his knees.
"Have you caught your breath?" Zhou asked.
Stratton's mouth moved, but only a dry rattle came out.
"It is a question of honor, then?" Zhou pressed. "You will not confess because your pride rebels. We know something of honor in our country, too, Mr. Stratton.
I cannot tell you how many men and women have knelt before me and resisted the truth because of honor and pride-no matter what the evidence, no matter what kind of punishment awaited them. I have seen many men-some of them weaker than you-resist for days. Three, four days, even longer. It was remarkable. No food, no water. They knelt there, wetting themselves and soiling themselves and suffering… yet, they insisted, no matter what, that they, too, were innocent. I have to admit that I came to admire some of those comrades even after I executed them, Mr. Stratton.
"The choice is yours. Would you prefer to be admired for your valor? Or would you instead care for some warm food, and cold water. And perhaps some medical treatment for your leg? Clean clothes? A bath?"
Zhou did not smile. The jailer waited for another signal.
"One man lasted six days with me," Zhou said. "His was a political crime, truly insignificant compared to yours. I was prepared to send him to one of the far provinces for two years. Farm labor on a rural commune. It would have been a fair sentence, had he confessed. But he, too, spoke of honor. Even after three days, when we boarded the windows. It was summer, very hot and still. He was old and sick. We took away all the food, of course. By the fifth day, he was drinking his own urine. On the sixth day, I threw a live river rat into the cell and he ate it raw, tail and all. So much for honor, Mr. Stratton."
Stratton could not think for the pain; each idea seemed to sting the inside of his brain. Cowering on his knees, never had he been so helpless. His captors did not have a gun, nor did they need one. Stratton was the weakest man in the cell, and all three of them knew it. All he could do was drag it out, and hope for the pain to pass.
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"Do you see why you are unworthy to stand? After hearing the list of your crimes, do you now understand?"
"What if I were to confess to some of the charges?" Stratton asked in a raspy voice.
"No!" Zhou barked. "Not good enough. The crimes are related. One leads to another. It is impossible to be innocent of some and guilty of others. It is either day or night. Justice must be distinct, and clear, and indisputable.
Otherwise there would be no respect for laws. So if you confess, you will confess to all of it. You will be truthful."
"How long have you worked for Wang Bin?"
"Shut up!"
"Are you paid well?" Stratton's tone was soft, boylike.
"I work for the state."
"Then where is your uniform?"
"Quiet!" Zhou snapped. The jailer did not understand the words, but he listened tautly, in expectation.
"Have I been convicted by the state?"
"Yes. The deputy minister pronounced-"
"No, I said by the state." Stratton was breathing easier, although his throat felt bruised and swollen. "If this is a state prison, then where is the PLA?"
Zhou smiled darkly. "You would feel more at home with soldiers? It would bring back old memories for you, I'm sure. That is too bad. There are no PLA here. And this is not a trial, Stratton. The trial is over. All that remains is for you to accept your conviction and acknowledge your crimes. We expect no more from you than we would from a Chinese criminal. The truth is, the deputy minister has more patience with you than I."
Zhou stood up. He spoke to the jailer, who left the cell immediately. "The smell in here is very bad. I am not certain if it is the pigs or you, Mr. Stratton. I am going outdoors for a few minutes for some fresh air, and perhaps a cold beer.
In the meantime, the other comrade will give you something to think about. Then we will resume."
Zhou hitched his trousers and walked out. Stratton sagged back on his heels. He glanced longingly at the corner where he had concealed his makeshift weapon, but within seconds the jailer had returned, flinging the door open. He spoke sharply in Chinese to someone else in the corridor. Stratton rose to his knees and looked up. There, in the doorway, stood Kangmei.
Not for the first time, the old professor wondered at the futility of man. He had dedicated his life to the proposition that all mankind's creations should be appraised not just for their beauty or ingenuity, but for what they revealed about the mystery of the human mind. And now, so late in his life, to face the mystery of true evil. No Chinese artist could ever express such a horror-the betrayal of history, of art itself, of one's own brother.
It was a secret David Wang had never asked to know, but knowing, he could not let it die with him.
He was not a man of action, but he had ruminated long enough. He was certain that escape was possible. He had studied the primitive lock on the door of the Peking attic that served as his warm prison. He had even secreted a spoon that his slovenly jailers had missed, and he had bent it so that it could be prised between the door and the rusty jamb to lift the latch. David Wang was both exhilarated and frightened by the possibilities.
It had taken two days-a drugged two days-before he had come to his senses. He remembered a big dinner of roast duck, then sipping tea alone in his hotel room afterward. And then nothing-until he awoke as a captive.
For six days, David Wang had analyzed the routine of his keepers until he had identified the flaw. After his supper was delivered each day, the jailers all ate together, loudly, in a large kitchen at the end of the hallway. They never returned for the tray in less than an hour, on one occasion, they had not come again until the next morning.
An hour was plenty of time, David Wang figured, to break out, slip away from his brother's museum and lose himself in the streets of Peking. The guards had dressed him in an old-fashioned undershirt, more gray than white, baggy blue trousers and cotton shoes. In the darkness of the street, he would be indistinguishable from millions of other Pekingese.
He would walk to the American Embassy if he could. Failing that, David Wang decided, he would approach the first policeman he saw and ask for help. The policeman would not believe his story, of course, but he would take him in, just the same.
David Wang would find someone to tell: My brother is committing a terrible crime against China, against humanity. I have seen it in Xian. He must be stopped.
David had reached this conclusion with sadness. His important brother was a criminal. For days he had expected Wang Bin to appear at the attic to explain, to apologize, to disavow any knowledge of David's imprisonment. Then he had prayed that Wang Bin would come in repentance, denouncing his own crazed scheme, begging forgiveness. David would have given it, willingly, and returned to the United States without saying a word.
On the third day, David Wang had shouted at his jailers, demanding an audience with Wang Bin. The jailers had laughed at the old man.
By the fifth day, a new thought had occurred to David, and he came to fear that Wang Bin would appear. Death itself did not frighten him, but he did not want it like this, in Peking, at the hands of his own brother.
David convinced himself that the only perilous part of the escape would be finding his way out of the museum. In dim lighting, his weak vision suffered from a loss of depth and distance. He would have to move slowly, maybe too slowly.
After the jailers brought the dinner tray that night, David meticulously counted one hundred and twenty nervous seconds before he slipped the latch on the door.
The corridor was poorly lit. At one end, light seeped from a room where the jailers dined raucously. Peering intently, David Wang could make out a doorway that appeared to lead to a flight of stairs. His confidence rising, he tiptoed along the hall until he reached the door and his feet found the first flight.
Cautiously, he began to descend.
The stairwell was dark. David felt his way like a blind man-one hand groped the grimy wall, the other clung to a cold metal handrail. Would it be four flights, or five? He tried to remember the size of the building from the day he had first visited the museum as his brother's honored guest.
After two flights, David Wang stopped to rest. A reassuring stillness wrapped the museum; the only sounds he heard were his own shuffling, tentative footsteps. At the third landing, David's questing hand encountered something tall and wooden. At the same instant, his foot kicked something bulky and metallic. David dropped to all fours and used his hands to identify the objects: a ladder and a chest of tools. He found the handle of the tool chest and lifted it. Not too heavy. He would take it with him as protective coloration. It might be just the thing to get him out the back door and into the street.
Suddenly the lights in the stairwell snapped on. From above came agitated shouts, and the rumble of feet on the stairs.
For a few precious seconds David Wang was paralyzed, rooted and tremulous as the din escalated. Only when the first young cadre appeared at the top of the stairs did he act.
With a desperate jerk, David toppled the ladder. It fell in front of his pursuer. As David lunged for the door on the landing, the cadre hurdled the ladder easily. A hand clamped David by the shoulder. He spun around and breathlessly shoved-nearly threw-the tool chest into the cadre's gut. The young man staggered backwards and doubled up. When his heels hit the ladder he tumbled down the stairs in a groaning somersault.
David Wang did not wait to see his enemy stop rolling. He was already anxiously exploring the second floor of the museum. It was a large room, dominated by rows of display cases, dimly perceived, their contents a mystery. If only there were someplace to hide, and if only he could see it. Across the gallery was another doorway. David Wang did not particularly care where it would take him. He ran for it. His gait was the huffing half-waddle of an old man, no match for the athletic cadres who streamed behind him.
David was but halfway to the door when he realized that he would not make it. He meant to stop, to gather himself and surrender with dig
nity. Instead, he lost his balance and skidded into a glass display case housing a collection of seventh century bronzes. David Wang and the exhibit went down together with an ear-splitting crash.
When his wits returned, a circle of young men was standing over him. He expected that they would scream at him, perhaps jeer, or even beat him. But they did not.
Rather, the cadres simply led David back to his attic cell with the impatience of peasants who have frustrated the ungainly escape of a commune mule.
Later, the keepers even brought the old scholar tea and dumplings to replace the dinner he had fled. This time the spoon was plastic.
In another cell, hundreds of miles away, Tom Stratton shakily faced a contrived tribunal. The jailer returned to the chair on Zhou's left. Zhou himself sat down next, his back straight, his face unreadable. Kangmei wordlessly took the chair on Zhou's right. Her long hair had been braided in pigtails, and her Western clothes had been replaced with standard Mao blue. Stratton searched her eyes for a clue, but Kangmei looked away.
"Nice room, huh?" Stratton said. "This is what I get for taking the American plan."
"You are to remain silent," Zhou warned, "until these accusations are read. Then you will be permitted to state your confession and sign it. Then sentence will be declared. Wang Kangmei?"
"Yes, Comrade Zhou."
"Do you see the man named Thomas Stratton in this room?"
"Yes, Comrade."
"Describe him," Zhou commanded.
Kangmei studied the half-naked Stratton for several moments, up and down, and this time it was he who looked away.
"He is an American. He is tall and light-haired. With a mustache."
"And what is he doing now?"
"Kneeling, Comrade Zhou."
"And what is he wearing, Wang Kangmei?"
"A shirt, a torn shirt."
"Filthy? Unclean?"
"Yes, Comrade."
"And what else? What else is he wearing?"
"A bandage. A filthy bandage." Kangmei glared scornfully down at Stratton. "And that is all, Comrade Zhou. He has no other clothes on."
"And do you find him… attractive?"
