by Ha Jin
While the others were expressing their opinions, Gary’s mind wandered. He was thinking about how to get hold of that internal report, which obviously contained vital intelligence that showed how the United States considered China’s role in Vietnam and what measures it might take against China. Apparently the Americans regarded his country as a major opponent in that region; they might launch attacks on the Chinese troops there, and might even bomb some cities beyond the Sino-Vietnamese border. At any cost Gary wanted to make a copy of the report. He had planned to meet with Father Murray soon and ought to pass some valuable intelligence to the man as his first delivery.
One of his colleagues seated next to Thomas picked up the report and began leafing through it. He kept tapping his forehead with his fingertips while he read. As he was coming to the last page, Gary said, “Can I have a look?”
The man handed it to him. Gary started skimming it while listening to the others. Then he placed the report next to his manila folder as if it were something he’d taken out of his own file. He joined the discussion and threw in his suggestions now and then. He said that the Chinese were expert in night fighting, so the American barracks in Vietnam should be equipped with searchlights and flares; that our troops should stay out of the firing range of Chinese artillery, which was quite accurate, agile, and powerful; that we should consider a naval blockade since a large quantity of weapons were shipped from the Soviet Union to North Vietnam by sea.
Then a bespectacled man seated across from Gary asked, “Can you pass that to me?” He was referring to the report, and Gary had no choice but to hand it over.
For the rest of the meeting he tried to think how to get it back, but to no avail. Eventually it returned to the head of the table. When the meeting was over, Thomas gathered his documents, including the report, and put them back in his portfolio. He left the conference room with it under his arm. Watching his boss pad down the hallway with his stiff legs, Gary knew he’d have to pilfer it.
The next day, carrying his manila folder, Gary went to Thomas’s office on the pretext that he needed his authorization for some travel expenses for which the treasurer’s office wouldn’t reimburse him. Recently he’d gone to San Francisco to interview potential recruits, and while he was there he’d rented a car for two days. It was this item that the accountant refused to accept. Gary told Thomas the truth, that he’d driven to Berkeley to use its Asian library and also to meet with Professor Swanson, a noted translator of ancient Chinese poetry, whose work both Thomas and he admired. “Sometimes Sharon can be a tightwad,” his boss said about the chief accountant. “But we need someone who can keep our budget under control.” Without further ado, he uncapped his fountain pen and began to look through the sheet of paper with Gary’s receipts attached.
At this point the phone rang and Thomas picked up. The call was from his wife, Alicia. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said to Gary and went into the inner room, where he could speak privately. Seizing the opportunity, Gary opened his boss’s chestnut portfolio, which was lying on the sofa, found the report, and slipped it into his own folder. He had planned to create a small mishap, upsetting an ashtray or coffee cup, so that Thomas might go to the bathroom for a paper towel and give him a moment alone in the office. If that didn’t work out, he would come again with a pair of birdlike tropical fish, since Thomas and his wife kept an aquarium at home. Now Alicia’s phone call had come at an opportune time. Somehow Gary had always had luck with Thomas—never had he failed to lift a document from him.
Thomas came back two minutes later and wrote a brief note to the chief accountant, stating that Gary had gone to Berkeley on behalf of the agency and should be reimbursed for his expenses there.
That night Gary photographed the report, eleven pages in all. But afterward he grew anxious, unsure if Thomas was aware that the document was missing. There was a remote possibility that his boss had purposely let it circulate at the meeting so that it might prompt Gary to commit the theft. Did this mean he was already a suspect? Had they begun to lay traps for him? That was unlikely. He managed to quell his misgivings, believing he couldn’t possibly become a target of the mole hunt being conducted by the CIA’s counterintelligence staff. In recent years that unit had concentrated on searching for Soviet penetrations at the CIA. Despite the secrecy of the operation, it was whispered that many officers in the Soviet Division, particularly those of Russian extraction, had severe cases of nerves. But Gary was merely a translator in the East Asia Division, far away from the scrutinizing eyes, and had always managed to stay under the radar.
It was too bad he’d left his fingerprints on the report. What should he do about that? Then he remembered that several people had touched the pages at the meeting, so he might not be singled out. Now he had to figure out how to return the report to Thomas. There was no hurry. As long as his boss was unaware of the loss, Gary would have plenty of time to put it back. He’d done that a couple of times before and knew it would be easier to return a document than to steal it.
He called Father Murray from a pay phone on his way home the next evening. This was the first time he’d spoken with the man, who sounded resonant in spite of his subdued voice. They agreed to meet at Baltimore’s Inner Harbor in disguise as anglers. Gary told Murray that he’d wear a gray polo shirt and jeans and carry an olive backpack.
Two days later, on Saturday afternoon, Gary arrived at the waterside. He saw a fortyish man of medium build leaning against a wrought-iron rail and holding a glinting fishing rod. But the fellow didn’t look Asian. That made Gary hesitate for a moment; then he remembered that Murray was only half Chinese. Indeed the man’s round eyes and pale skin suggested mixed blood. Still, Gary had to double-check. He went over and put down his backpack and his beige enamel pail, which contained earthworms covered in damp topsoil. After dropping his line into the water, he rested his elbow on the rail, next to the man.
“Nice spot,” Gary said. Then he spoke the code words in an undertone. “How did you get here?”
“I drove,” the man answered casually. He turned to Gary. A knowing smile wrinkled his face, which had high cheekbones and a smooth slender chin.
“What kind of car do you drive?”
“An old Dodge.”
“What year is it?”
“Nineteen fifty-two.”
“What color?”
“Chocolate brown.”
Gary held out his hand, which the man grabbed firmly. The priest’s grip was sinewy and forceful. He must exercise a lot, Gary thought.
Gary offered him a cigarette, which Murray declined, saying he didn’t smoke. But Gary pressed the half-used pack of Camels into his hand anyway, whispering that it contained a film. He began to speak Mandarin, while the priest answered in English, saying he understood the official Chinese but his pronunciation was terrible, incomprehensible, so Gary switched back to English. They went on talking about their future work. Murray said he was merely a sidekick whose task was to help Gary communicate with China. This modified Gary’s perception of their relationship somewhat. He’d thought that Murray was his superior in charge of China’s espionage operation in the DC area or on the East Coast.
“No.” Murray shook his round head. “My job is simple—I just serve you. You’re the boss.”
“How often should we meet?” Gary asked, not fully convinced because Murray would pass orders from above to him and was at least a liaison.
“It’s up to you.”
“Okay, I’ll call when I have something to deliver.”
“Sure. I’ll be at your service.”
Murray had only a rubber tadpole attached to his hook. When he reeled in the line, Gary said, “Here, use an earthworm.” He pointed at his enamel pail.
“No way. I won’t touch any live worm or insect. They’re too creepy.”
Gary laughed, picked up a thick earthworm, and fixed it to Murray’s hook. “Fish don’t like dead bait. If you use a fake creature, you’d better keep it moving in the water, to
make it appear alive.” He dangled the three-inch worm, which was wiggling a little. “This will fetch you a big shark.”
They went on fishing and chatting. In the distance, on a sprawling dock, the windows of a low-rise brick building flashed now and again. Beyond it, a tugboat crawled westward, dragging a plume of white smoke and an expanding triangular wake on the metal-blue water. “Gosh, I forgot to bring a bottle of soda,” Murray said, apparently thirsty. Gary took a fat tomato out of his bag and gave it to the priest, who started munching it ravenously. Behind them a truck sounded its horn like a guttural squawk, which spun Murray around. Gary realized that the man was jumpy, probably uncomfortable about this meeting spot.
The sun was broiling in spite of a fitful breeze, and perspiration stood out on both of their foreheads. Gary opened a new pack of cigarettes and lit another one. Suddenly the priest’s rod trembled and curved. Murray gave a yelp, pulling and reeling in the line. “I caught a fish, it’s a big one!” he cried out. His brown eyes sparkled like a young boy’s.
“Jesus, it’s just a baby bass.” Gary chuckled and shook his head. Indeed, the fish, writhing on the ground now, was less than half a foot long. “Man, you’d better throw it back or it’ll die.”
“Can … can you help me take it off the hook?” stammered Murray.
“You don’t know how to unhook a fish?”
“Never done it before.”
Gary picked up the striped bass and pulled the hook out of its mouth. “Here, hold it for a picture.” He thrust the fish toward the priest. “I have a new camera here.” His other hand pointed at his backpack.
Murray shook his head. “I don’t need such a keepsake.”
“All right then.” Gary dropped the bass into the water. After zigzagging a few yards, it vanished. “So you haven’t done much fishing before?” Gary asked Murray.
“Nope, this is my first time.”
“No wonder you have the brand-new gear.”
“I picked it up at Sears yesterday.”
“Probably we shouldn’t pretend to be anglers then.”
“I agree. The water’s so dirty that few people fish here. Besides, two Chinamen fishing together at the harbor can be too eye-catching.”
They decided to treat each other like buddies from now on and would not adopt any conventional method of spycraft—no code names and no secret drop. They both believed it would be safer just to keep everything simple and natural, misleadingly transparent. In front of others they should appear casual and relaxed to avoid drawing attention. Murray said he’d tell people at his church that Gary was his friend so that the two of them could meet at a moment’s notice.
My niece Juli wrote to me two or three times a week. She was still singing with the band, which had begun to get attention and often went to nearby towns and cities to perform. I once asked her if she’d like to come to the States. She replied: “Maybe for a visit. Honestly, I’m different from some of my friends who have the emigration bug in their heads. I feel too old to uproot myself. Besides, I can’t speak English.”
I wished she could come and stay with me for a few months. She was still carrying on with Wuping and perhaps kept dreaming that someday he’d leave his wife. I was worried and wanted to tell her that he might be an empty suit, not worth her love and devotion, but I refrained.
Then Juli informed me that two officers from the local National Security bureau had come to question her about me. Besides my “activities” in Guangzhou, they wanted to know what I’d told her about my father. To my amazement, I couldn’t recall telling her anything about Gary. My prudence turned out to have been prescient, because full knowledge of her grandfather might have confused her and prompted her to act rashly. The officers warned her about me, urging her to keep some distance from this American woman who was biased against China, even though they didn’t deny that I was her aunt. They also demanded that she notify them immediately if she heard anything unusual from me, such as an odd query or an unreasonable request. Juli had no option but to agree to do that. “Of course, I don’t believe a word of what they said about you,” she wrote me. “The instant I saw you, I could tell that you were my aunt. You and my mom really look like sisters, only you are in better shape and have light-colored hair. Family is family, right?”
She also revealed that the National Security people had questioned her parents about my visit to them. Her father urged her to be more cautious when communicating with me. “Lilian is American and might have another pot to boil,” he said to her on the phone. Father and daughter had a heated exchange—she was arguing that I was innocuous, while he insisted that she mustn’t tell me too much about China. He got impatient but conceded, “I won’t say Lilian is bad. I like her and believe she’s a good person, harmless. Just be careful and keep in mind that there’re other eyes to read what you write to her and other ears to catch what you say.”
I told Juli: “I don’t blame your dad. His concern is entirely justified. Do take precautions.”
But from then on I felt too self-conscious to speak freely when I emailed or phoned Juli. I was uncertain about to what extent the National Security people monitored our communications. I just told her to let her parents know I’d keep an eye on her brother and give him a hand whenever he needed it.
MY HUSBAND WAS FASCINATED by my nephew, so I invited Ben to visit us. There was another reason for my invitation—I needed his advice about how I could communicate with his family in China without compromising them. I didn’t want to ask him on the phone; his line might have been tapped by the FBI. Even his cell phone might not be safe. I suspected he was an agent of some kind, but perhaps involved only in some borderline espionage activities—at most a small-time spy.
I invited Ben to join us for Independence Day, but his girlfriend Sonya’s parents would be in Boston for a short visit that week. He arrived on July 8 instead, and we went to pick him up at the train station, driving my two-year-old Toyota Prius. This was his first trip to DC, and at the sight of me and Henry, Ben waved spiritedly. He hurried over, beaming, with a blue suitcase in tow. He hugged me, then my husband. The two of them had spoken on the phone.
Stepping out of the station, Henry asked him about the train ride, and Ben said, “Everything was splendid except for Baltimore.”
That made us laugh. On our drive home, Ben was impressed by how quietly and smoothly my Prius was running. He said that his Mustang, with 230,000 miles on it, was noisy and jerky whenever he accelerated, but he’d just found a used engine and would have his old one replaced soon. He’d never trade his Mustang for another car unless it was a Chinese model. Too bad China hadn’t produced safe, quality cars yet.
“How about a new Volvo?” I asked. “A Chinese company acquired Volvo from Ford last year.”
“Hope they won’t bungle the product,” Ben said. “But a Volvo is not for a bachelor like me. It’s more like a family car, isn’t it?”
“Why d’you say that?” Henry asked him.
“If I had kids I might consider a Volvo.”
“It’s expensive,” I put in.
“Sure, assuming I can afford it,” said Ben.
We ate at home that evening, mixed greens salad and boiled dumplings stuffed with shrimp, pork, and chives, which I’d bought ready-made at Maxim Super Market in Silver Spring. Ben liked red wine, so we uncorked a bottle of Merlot. As we were eating, all using chopsticks and mashed-garlic sauce mixed with balsamic vinegar, Henry asked Ben, “Don’t you miss home?”
“Sometimes I do,” Ben said, smiling with his top lip curled a little, as if the food were too hot. “But New England is quite similar to northeast China in climate and landscape. It could have been worse if they had sent me to Miami or Houston. I’m a northerner and not used to the hot humid weather. I lived in Alabama for half a year, and my first American summer down there was pretty miserable.”
“So you feel at home in Boston?” Henry pointed his chopsticks at his own plate as he spoke.
“Not really.
I must learn to be detached, because at any moment my company might call me back or transfer me elsewhere.”
“If you had your druthers,” I said, “would you like to settle down in the States?”
“Absolutely, I like America. Life’s good here.”
“What d’you like most about American life?” asked Henry.
“Believe it or not, I like the order and peace you can have as long as you’re law-abiding.”
“And can pay your bills,” I said.
“Of course. For that matter, I’ve found Americans work too hard, harder than the Chinese, perhaps because there’re too many bills to pay here. I have friends who are doing two or three jobs at the same time. That’s crazy. They all believe that only by working hard can they get rich. I don’t see how they can get out of money troubles by making ten or eleven dollars an hour. On the other hand, this shows another positive aspect of American life—hard work is always rewarded more or less.”
Henry and I chuckled, amused and impressed by his remarks. After dinner, we retired to the living room and resumed our conversation. Both Ben and Henry loved hockey, so, teacups in hand, they turned to watch a rerun of the final match between the Canucks and the Bruins, while I retreated to my study in the basement to revise a paper on the depiction of Asians in Hollywood Cold War movies. There was a hard deadline for the submission, so I’d have to complete the piece within three days.
BEN TOLD ME I ought to avoid talking about politics when I phoned Juli, because her line was definitely tapped by Chinese National Security. In addition, I should be careful about what I wrote to her. The Internet police there monitored the online traffic and could break into your email to gather evidence against you. Recently they had banned a good number of bloggers and shut down their accounts because those users had grown too outspoken, their voices gaining too many readers. Whoever could hold the attention of the multitude might be suppressed sooner or later. Ben was worried about his twin sister, who could easily get carried away.
