A Map of Betrayal: A Novel

by Ha Jin

  Like many of his colleagues in DC intelligence circles, Gary was convinced that the Soviet plan for the air strikes was by no means idle talk or a diplomatic gambit. He got agitated, wondering how China would respond. Bingwen was still absent from the scene, possibly no longer even alive, so Gary remained cut off from his homeland. He wondered if his comrades had given up on him. Why would nobody get in touch with him? Didn’t China need a reliable source in the CIA? Even Father Murray had no idea how to communicate with Beijing anymore, though they both believed that through various channels the news about the Soviets’ attempt must have reached China.

  Sure enough, two weeks later Mao issued the internal order that the whole country “dig caves and store away grain widely.” Gary did some research and found out that over the years the Chinese had actually been preparing for air raids, though they’d expected them to come from American bombers. Near every city caves and bunkers were dug and built, mostly in suburban hills and valleys. Then, right before October 1, 1969, the twentieth National Day, on which a large celebration was to be held in Tiananmen Square, China detonated two nuclear warheads in its western desert. One of them was a three-megaton hydrogen bomb. Gary interpreted these explosions as China’s signal to the Russians that it was capable of dropping warheads of multiple megatons on the Soviet Union with the intermediate-range missiles the Chinese already possessed. Though the nuclear tests also showed that China might have overreacted, Gary felt relieved and even began to see that Mao was an astute politician, having foreseen China’s need for nuclear weapons for self-defense.

  Meanwhile, Gary’s domestic life was quiet, even as his affair with Suzie continued. During the summer of 1969 Suzie had dated a Greek diplomat, a soft-voiced man with a handlebar mustache, but the relationship petered out after the man was called back to Greece, so she returned to Gary. Gary was pleased to have her back in his life, though he didn’t say so. At home he and Nellie seldom quarreled now. They slept in the same bed at night, though he was a restless sleeper and often woke her up, speaking both English and Chinese in his dreams. Whenever he argued with someone in his sleep, he would yell out curses and warnings in his mother tongue, of which Nellie couldn’t make out a word. But during the day he’d be quiet and gentle again, somewhat remote.

  Now that he had more free time, he often played Chinese chess with Lilian, who had just started middle school. He’d taught her all the moves, which were incomprehensible to Nellie, who couldn’t even tell a cannon from an elephant. One out of five games his daughter could beat him. Whenever this happened, he’d be elated, praising the girl for her “iron wit.” He often said he wanted her to attend a prep school so that she could go to a top college. Occasionally father and daughter would communicate in simple Mandarin words and phrases. That annoyed her mother, who would scowl at her because she couldn’t understand. She often muttered, “Like father, like daughter.” Yet in spite of his love for Lilian, Gary planned to send the girl away in the near future to prevent her from getting in his way—he wouldn’t have her enter his study when he wasn’t home.

  In the spring of 1970, Nellie went out to work at a bakery called Peggy’s Kitchen. She enjoyed making bread, cookies, pies, cakes. Working for Peggy Loschiavo, a stout woman of sixty-two with fluffy white hair and thick glasses, Nellie became more energetic, in spite of her menopause, which she believed was too early for a woman who had just turned forty-one. She attributed the cessation to the stress Gary had caused her. Every day she brought back fresh bread that both her husband and daughter loved. And Gary grew fond of focaccia, onion rolls, challah, sourdough bread, croissants. He enjoyed munching fresh-baked bread with sausage, especially linguica, together with raw garlic. Sometimes Nellie also got leftover pastries for free: apple turnovers, chocolate rugelach, strudels, various kinds of cookies. Gary had never eaten so much sweet food, every piece of which was shot through with sugar and butter, so quintessentially American. He loved pastries with flaky crusts and fruit fillings. By way of joking he told his wife, “I’ll put on twenty pounds by the end of this year.” In reality, he couldn’t get fat no matter how much he ate. He often said he wished he were a gourmet plus gourmand so that he could have enjoyed all the fine bread and pastries with gusto. A moderate eater, he was the type of person who was “born thin.”

  Nellie couldn’t gain weight either, despite her hearty appetite. Something remarkable had happened to her over the years, and even she could feel the change in herself. She was calmer and more articulate than the young bride of fourteen years before. Perhaps this was due to her reading of books, hundreds of them, mostly paperback romances and detective novels. When her daughter was a pupil, Nellie had read everything the girl worked on in school, and had often kept her company while she did homework. She continued to do that until Lilian left for a prep school in Groton, Massachusetts, where she developed a passion for history thanks to a wonderful young teacher. In secret the girl had a minor crush on that sweet man, whose fingers she often fantasized caressing her budding breasts at night. Unlike most of her schoolmates, she did not return home very often, knowing her parents were estranged. For all its peace and quiet, their house had an icy feel, which Lilian dreaded. She was glad that her mother had begun working outside their home.

  At the bakery, sometimes a cop or a lawyer on the way to the courthouse would stop by to shoot the breeze with Peggy. Some of the men would leer at Nellie and a few even attempted to tease her, but she had no clue how to flirt in spite of her looks, which had improved with age: a heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, glossy eyes, and a plump bottom lip. It was simply not in her nature. She always had a reserved manner that might come across as arrogant, as if she had a perfect family and a doting husband. She didn’t use lipstick because she had to sample bread and pastries, but she put on delicate makeup that added a fine touch to her features. She’d wear an avocado green cardigan, a red apron, and a white hat. Some people even mistook her, the only woman shop assistant, for a recent European immigrant who couldn’t speak English. She would smile at customers timidly and wordlessly. In the beginning Gary disliked her going out to work, saying they didn’t need the money, but she insisted she do something to make herself worth more. She referred to the fact that Gary had bought life insurance on himself whereas she couldn’t do that because she held no job. “My life is so worthless,” she used to mock herself with a tinge of bitterness. Probably she hoped that when she died, she could leave something to her daughter. She wasn’t going to worry about her husband, who could take care of himself anyhow.

  Ever since the newspaper’s report about the Soviets’ intention to attack China’s nuclear bases, Gary had been trying to piece together the sequence of events that had led to the disclosure. Though a mere translator at the CIA, he had by the summer of 1970 heard enough about it to convince him of its validity. Word had gotten around that Soviet Ambassador Anatoly Dobrynin had approached Henry Kissinger on August 20 the previous year and requested a meeting. When they met, what Dobrynin said amazed the secretary of state: the Soviet Union wanted the Americans to stay neutral if it launched air raids on China’s nuclear facilities. Before the Russians started the attacks, they’d like to know how the United States would respond. At first Kissinger was unsure how serious Dobrynin was, but the Soviet ambassador emphasized that the attacks would be surgical, only on military targets, and that there’d be no civilian casualties. The message finally sank in, but Kissinger still wouldn’t respond directly, saying he’d have to consult the president. Then a week later, instead of a direct answer from the White House to the Kremlin, The Washington Star reported the Soviets’ plan. Apparently the United States did not remain wholly neutral in this matter. Weak though China was, it still could help counterbalance the Soviet Union. Beijing got the message about the Russians’ threat and responded by detonating two warheads. Yet the Chinese leaders might not have seen the White House’s intention in leaking the news, which could be twofold: to widen the gulf between Beijing and Moscow, and to
extend a tiny olive branch to the Chinese.

  Gary knew the U.S. policy of neutrality in regard to the Sino-Soviet split—“let the two dogs eat each other”—but he felt that the United States seemed willing to lean toward China within the realm of neutrality. This was a window of opportunity the Chinese ought to seize. To Gary’s mind, Mao and the Politburo might need more details about this news leak to grasp its full significance. Above all, he wanted to see the two countries get closer and eventually become partners. Regardless of how others interpreted the news or rumor, he wanted to steer the Chinese leaders toward some reconciliation with the United States. For now this might be the only way China could avoid destruction at the hands of the Soviet Union.

  Gary had to present a strong argument to his superiors back home. Assuming they still could receive intelligence from him, he wrote a report and gave a succinct account of the meeting between Dobrynin and Kissinger. He made it clear that there was no way to verify the contents of their conversation, but there must be a kernel of truth in the hearsay. He stressed that the published news might be a well-intentioned gesture the United States was making to China, and that in the long run Washington might be willing to join hands with Beijing against the Soviet Union. Now could be an opportune time for the Chinese leaders to develop a productive relationship with the West as a way to counter the Russian Polar Bear.

  Gary wondered if he had painted too rosy a picture for his higher-ups. But he believed in his analyses, which he’d done as objectively as he could. By nature he was not an optimist, and there was no reason for him to lie to the national leaders about the U.S. goodwill. Yet it was possible that by now he had too much affection for this land, where life could be safe and comfortable and where few people died of hunger, and this positive feeling might have affected his judgment. Although he had always remained an outsider capable of stepping aside to observe life flowing by, he did love American movies and the NBA games—he was an ardent fan of Wilt Chamberlain of the Lakers. He was also fond of the American landscape—the mountains, waters, vast agricultural fields, highways. If he were a common immigrant, he might have felt at home in this place, adopting it as his homeland. He could see such a possibility. Yes, the U.S. Army had been mercilessly fighting the Communists and even slaughtering civilians in Vietnam, where the war actually gave the number one superpower a bloody nose, but there’d been protests and demonstrations against the war all over the country. Yes, racism was rife and prejudices everywhere, but racial segregation had been abolished and the country had been making social progress. This was a place where one could live with decency and some dignity. This was a country that protected its people, many of whom in return loved it. Gary tried to fight down all the digressive ruminations that might erode the spirit and integrity needed for fulfilling his secret mission. He went on to revise his report, trying to be as reasonable and objective as possible.

  At long last Father Murray notified him that Bingwen Chu had returned to his office. When the pomegranate tree in his backyard had dropped its last fruit in mid-November, Gary flew to Hong Kong directly, too eager to make a detour through Taiwan or Thailand. His handler, absent for more than four years, had finally been summoned back to Beijing. To Gary’s surprise, Bingwen had aged considerably: his hairline was higher, his eyes bleary, even his brows half gray, and dark lines meshed his face like a loosely drawn map. Worse still, he limped a little because one foot had been smashed by a cinder block at a construction site where he’d been made to labor. Hearing that Gary had flown to Hong Kong directly from America, his handler was disturbed and admonished him never to do that again. He even said that if Gary was caught by the Americans, their superiors would hold him, Bingwen, accountable. He’d be punished and might go to prison. Gary promised he’d be more cautious in the future.

  After a shot of Scotch, Bingwen got buoyant, saying he was happy to have left the countryside of Jilin province, and his health had improved some due to his work as an apprentice mason. He thanked Gary for just being alive and continuing to do some espionage work on his own, evidently motivated by his profound love for their motherland.

  Caught unawares by his friend’s effusive words, Gary couldn’t answer and only chuckled out of nerves. During the last few years he’d seldom thought of his love for their motherland but had done his duty routinely.

  “Now we’re a pair of mules harnessed to the same wagon. That’s why they called me back to work,” Bingwen said and lifted a spoonful of chocolate fondant to his mouth, shaking his head while chewing slowly. He also kept swilling rosé from his wineglass, its side stained with his finger marks. They’d chosen Café des Délices, a small restaurant in Tin Hau, because Bingwen missed a good French dinner, which Gary said he’d love to share with him. In fact, Gary no longer cared about food as most Chinese did, and he was conscious of this change in himself. Bingwen put down his spoon and went on, “You must take good care of yourself, brother. Your safety also means my safety. The higher-ups used me again only because you’re irreplaceable and I’m familiar with your work.”

  Gary’s intelligence, accumulated during the past four years, was rich and essential. Bingwen had reviewed it before dinner and been so impressed that he told Gary, “I don’t know how much they’ll pay you for this invaluable batch, but I’ll try my best to get you a decent price.”

  “Don’t bother about it,” Gary said in earnest. “I know our country is in bad shape and don’t expect to get paid. As long as my service is appreciated, I am rewarded and satisfied.”

  “I will report to our leaders what you just said. Who knows? Your words might bring you some high honor.”

  Contrary to Gary’s expectation, Bingwen got him four thousand dollars this time. Half the money was an equipment fund that he should have received long ago.

  My nephew paid Henry fifty-four hundred dollars for the five microchips he’d bought for him. Having pulled in a one hundred percent profit, Henry was rapturous and agreed to continue to purchase stuff for Ben. I had a lot of misgivings about that but said nothing. Henry kept saying that Ben would “make it big” one of these days. I asked, “How big?” He said, “A multimillionaire.” That might just have come from his dream of getting rich. Intelligent though he was, Henry was very bad at handling money. I had to manage his paltry retirement plan for him.

  One morning in mid-August, Ben called and thanked me for the articles I had mailed him. “What do you make of them?” I said.

  “I knew my grandfather had done some important work for China’s intelligence service, but I had no idea he had been that prominent. These days I’ve been thinking about him a lot. Truth to tell, I used to resent him for marrying a foreign woman and living a comfortable American life, which I assumed might have been part of the reason he abandoned my grandmother. After reading the articles you sent me, I felt his life here was very sad and complicated.”

  “I don’t think he loved my mother. He might have had more feelings for your grandmother. He often mentioned her in his diary. Imagine, he never saw her again after he’d left China in his mid-twenties. He dreamed of her from time to time. Once she hurt herself and was hospitalized in his dream, and that made him downcast for days. He was also amazed that she spoke English to him in his dreams.”

  “She couldn’t speak a word of English!”

  “I know. That shows how deep she was rooted in his consciousness.”

  A lull fell between us.

  Then Ben explained why he was calling: Sonya had been pregnant with his child for about two months. They’d found it out a week ago with a kit bought from a drugstore. For him the pregnancy posed two questions: whether they should keep the baby and what kind of relationship he should have with Sonya from now on. He and she couldn’t see eye to eye on giving birth to the child and had exchanged angry words. He blamed her for going off the pill secretly, while she accused him of just using her and flirting with Minmin and other Chinese women who had joined his Weibo. He suggested an abortion, which Sonya would not
consider.

  “That’s an awful suggestion,” I told him. “How could you do that?”

  “Don’t take me to be heartless. I’m fond of children too, but these days I can’t get my grandfather’s life off my mind. I don’t want to repeat his mistake.”

  “For God’s sake, what has your problem got to do with him?”

  “Well, if he hadn’t started a family here or raised you, a daughter he loved, his life could have been much less tangled. He wouldn’t have felt like a divided man, as he claimed in court, saying he loved both China and the U.S.”

  I was astounded, never having expected that the articles I’d sent Ben could set him thinking so deeply about Gary’s plight. “Look,” I said, “don’t ever use your grandfather as a negative reference. You have your own life to live and must do what suits you best.”

  “All right, any suggestions?”

  “Do you love Sonya?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you think you’ll be happy to sleep with her, only her, for the rest of your life?”

  “Goodness, you sound as if I’m a connoisseur of women. To tell the truth, I’ve slept with only three girls to date, Sonya included. How can I say I’ll be happy with her for the rest of my life?”

  “So doesn’t that mean you don’t love her enough to marry her even though she’s carrying your child?” Getting no answer from him, I continued, “I’m not blaming you. I just want to point out that you won’t be able to wash your hands of her if there’s a baby bonding the two of you.”

  “I don’t intend to break up with her. I just want her to have an abortion.”

  “To be honest, it doesn’t sound like you love her.”

  “I do love her, but I have more important responsibilities.”