A Map of Betrayal: A Novel

by Ha Jin

  “Like what? Can you tell me?”

  “I must be dedicated to my country. That’s a bigger cause than my personal well-being.”

  “Bullcrap! Don’t ever let China stand in the way of your personal fulfillment or lighten your personal responsibilities. You’ve been using your country as an excuse, as a big divisor to break your guilt into small negligible pieces so you can avoid facing it.”

  He didn’t seem to fully understand me and remained silent, so I shifted the topic a bit. “Does Sonya demand you marry her?”

  “No, she never said anything like that.”

  Ben seemed confused. I told him not to suggest anything to Sonya again. He first had to find out how she felt about their relationship and what she planned do with the baby if she kept it. Would she raise it by herself? Would she farm it out to her parents back in Ukraine if he wouldn’t marry her?

  Ben feared he might not be able to get Sonya to see reason, so that evening I spoke with her on the phone. She didn’t deny that she had lied to Ben and stopped taking the pill on the sly.

  “I just want to have a baby with him,” she said in a guileless voice. “I’m almost twenty-six and shouldn’t wait any longer.”

  “But you shouldn’t have kept Ben in the dark to begin with.”

  “I won’t become a burden to him.”

  “But a child will mean a lot of responsibilities to him as well.”

  “Well, I don’t see it that way. I can raise the baby by myself. Besides, even though I’m not a regular churchgoer, I believe life begins with conception and nothing’s more sacred than life.”

  “Sonya, let’s be rational about this. I also love babies and so does Ben. Tell me, would you be happy if you two got married?”

  “Of course, I’d be the happiest girl on the East Coast!”

  “So you used the baby to keep your hold on him?”

  She let out a small sigh. “Lilian, you’re a smart woman and can see right through me. Let me say this: I can’t stand to see him blabbing with those bitches on his blog all the time, and I will be jealous as hell if he ends up with another woman. I know he’s just keeping me around as a girlfriend, but still I would do anything for him.”

  It was clear she loved him. But did he really love her as he claimed? I wasn’t sure. How should I advise Ben then? In a way I was amazed to hear Sonya speak about her feelings like a young girl. Obviously she was not as sophisticated as her age and face might suggest. I liked her more for her innocence and bullheadedness.

  I talked with Henry about Ben’s trouble. He said, “What’s the big deal? Get married. If the marriage doesn’t work, get a divorce.”

  I wouldn’t suggest that, because a divorce can be a big block in a young man’s life, psychologically and professionally, a setback that can cripple his confidence. Perhaps it was unwise for Ben to attempt a solution right away. There are problems that are not supposed to be fixed once and for all but to be lived with. Sometimes a solution can give rise to a new problem—in other words, there might be no ultimate solution at all. We Americans tend to be self-proclaimed problem fixers of the world, and such a mentality is one of the causes of our tragedy—there are many problems we can’t possibly fix.

  I called Ben the next day and asked him not to impose his will on Sonya. He needn’t rush. He had another two months to work with her for a solution. Once the pregnancy reached the fifth month, it would be too risky to abort the fetus. Then they might have to let the baby come into the world and figure out how to raise it.

  “In fact, you should always take a child as a blessing,” I told Ben.

  “Okay, I’ll try to think that way,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

  “You should also do some soul-searching.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “To answer the question of whether you’ll be happy if you spend the rest of your life with Sonya.”

  “About that I have no doubt.”

  He sounded a little blithe, but I didn’t press him to say more.

  1971–1972

  It was reported that Mao Zedong had been so impressed by Gary’s analyses of the U.S. motivation in publishing the news about the Soviets’ planned air strikes on China’s nuclear bases that the chairman told his comrades in the Politburo, “This man is worth four armored divisions.” Those words heralded an imminent rise in Gary’s spying stature.

  The intelligence he had sent back helped Mao see the Americans’ motivations in a new light and make appropriate decisions in response to international events. For years the White House had been thinking about how to establish some relationship with Beijing, because the United States regarded the Soviet Union as the archenemy, more dangerous and destructive than China. The gulf between the two Communist countries was no longer news, but how could America exploit their animosity to reshape the world’s political structure to its own advantage? No one at the White House could give a definite answer. All they knew was that they should engage China, with whom they might even cultivate some trade in the course of time, considering its huge population and vast market. At the moment this policy of engagement was the rule they would follow.

  Who could have imagined that the rotation of the globe of international politics suddenly accelerated by the spinning of a tiny Ping-Pong ball? In early April 1971, the U.S. national team went to Nagoya, Japan, to compete in the thirty-first World Table Tennis Championships. By chance, an American athlete, Glenn Cowan, boarded a bus transporting the Chinese team to a stadium. When he saw his mistake, the door had already closed. He had no choice but to take the ride, standing behind the driver and displaying “USA” on the back of his dark blue sweater to the Chinese athletes. During the ride nobody said a word to the young American, but as the bus was approaching the destination, Zhuang Zedong, the three-time world champion then, was bold enough to say a few welcoming words to Cowan and even presented an embroidered kerchief to him. Though overjoyed, the American man had nothing on him with which he could reciprocate. But he waylaid Zhuang the following day and gave him a T-shirt with a U.S. team button attached to it. Their meeting was photographed by many reporters, and pictures of the American and Chinese athletes exchanging presents appeared in some newspapers that very evening. The incident became international news.

  Toward the end of the tournament, the Chinese, having won three gold medals, invited a few Ping-Pong teams, including the Mexicans and the Canadians, to visit China. The Americans, an underdog team in the sport, approached the Chinese to see if it might be possible to get invited as well, since their southern and northern neighbors both were heading to China. Immediately the Chinese reported the request to their Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which suggested turning the Americans down. Then the matter was forwarded to Premier Zhou Enlai, who also believed there was no justification for a hostile country’s Ping-Pong team to come for a visit. But when the Americans’ request was reported to Mao, the chairman was amazed and cried out his admiration for the leading Chinese athlete. “My uncle Zhuang, what a diplomat! Smarter than the professionals.” Mao gave instructions to invite the U.S. team without delay. But his aide, who was also his head nurse, wouldn’t pass on the order because there was a rule that after Mao took a sleeping pill, his words would not count. Seeing the woman still sitting there, the chairman demanded, “Why won’t you send out my order?” She answered, “You just took a sleeping pill and I can’t break the rule.” Mao burst out, “To hell with the rule! Go call the Foreign Ministry and tell them we invite the U.S. team right away. Go, go, I hope it’s not too late.”

  Thus began the well-known Ping-Pong diplomacy, which paved the way for the official exchange between China and the United States. A perceptive politician, Mao seized an insignificant occurrence, the casual meeting of two athletes, and turned it into an opportunity to effect a historic breakthrough in international politics. By inviting the American athletes, he meant to signify to the White House that China was ready to open itself to the United States. Three mon
ths after the U.S. Ping-Pong team’s successful visit, National Security Adviser Henry Kissinger went to China secretly via Pakistan and mapped out the plan for President Nixon’s official trip to Beijing in February 1972, which led to normalizing the two countries’ relationship in 1979.

  However, in the beginning, the Chinese leaders couldn’t help but question the wisdom of receiving the U.S. president in Beijing. They were uncertain about Nixon’s sincerity. The Americans were notorious for their deceptions and unscrupulousness, especially when their national interests were at stake. What if they went back on their word? What if Nixon got cold feet and at the last moment wouldn’t come? That would be an international embarrassment. Even if he came, what if he refused to sign a joint communiqué? What if he demanded more than was reasonable? The whole thing could turn out to be a trick to humiliate China in the eyes of the world.

  Those kinds of misgivings fed the intense debate in the Politburo. Even Mao couldn’t make up his mind in spite of his eagerness to use the United States to offset the Soviet threat. Therefore, directly from the top came an order for Gary Shang: try your utmost to verify the U.S. intention in making overtures to China.

  This proved easy for Gary. He’d been observing the Ping-Pong diplomacy intently, and the information flowing through his hands had convinced him that the United States was serious. He wrote a comprehensive report that argued for pushing forward to restore a normal relationship with the United States. He took photos of some key documents as evidence for his views. He delivered the intelligence through Father Murray, because he couldn’t go to Hong Kong in 1971. His wife, suffering from gallstones, had been housebound for months. Although urged by her doctor and her husband to have an operation, Nellie was terrified of the scalpel, and as a result, she had to bear more pain. If Gary had taken a vacation in the Far East under such circumstances, he might have aroused the suspicion of the CIA or the FBI.

  Far away from his homeland, he was ecstatic to see the rapid progress in the two countries’ relationship. Apparently the Chinese leaders had made full use of his intelligence, which had reinforced their resolve to receive the Americans with open arms.

  IN THE SUMMER OF 1972, five months after Nixon’s visit to Beijing, Nellie had recovered from an operation (she finally agreed to it because her pain had grown unbearable) and resumed working at Peggy’s Kitchen, and Gary went to Bangkok again. From there he flew to Hong Kong a week later. This time, besides Bingwen, Hao Ding, who was the new minister of national security and in charge of China’s intelligence work, received him. Gary knew of Ding, a squat man with a high forehead and fat ears, whose father had been a legendary figure in the Communists’ intelligence community, a founder of the system. A sumptuous banquet of Mandarin cuisine was held at Phoenix Garden on a backstreet in Causeway Bay in honor of Gary, who had earned praise from the top national leaders. Five strange men, all from the mainland, were also present. One of them had no eyebrows, was as bald as a honeydew, and was chugging down cola instead of tea. Two of them seemed to be high-ranking officials, similar to Ding. Probably they had all taken this junket to Hong Kong on the pretext of honoring Gary. It was at this dinner that Gary heard about Mao’s remark about him being “worth four armored divisions.”

  After two cups of Maotai, Ding gave a brief speech. He spoke solemnly in a subdued voice, saying that Gary’s invaluable intelligence had enabled China to handle international politics and diplomacy with prescience and assuredness, so the country had awarded Gary a special merit citation. On behalf of the Politburo, Ding apprised Gary of a great promotion—now his rank was the eighth and he was appointed a vice minister of national security. In addition, twenty thousand dollars had just been deposited into his bank account. Ding ended by saying to Gary, “Now you and I are equal in rank. Congratulations, my comrade!”

  Bingwen, overwhelmed by the announcement as if Gary’s honors were his own, said with his mouth slightly awry, “Brother, you’re a big man now. I’m so happy for you!”

  Gary was stunned by the promotion and touched by his friend’s words. He told them, “Whatever I did was out of my deep love for our motherland. A spy’s life can be miserable and lonely”—his voice caught—“but when I think that hundreds of millions of people might benefit from my service and that our country might be safer because of the intelligence I have gathered, I feel that my personal pain and privation are no longer worth fretting about. Please let our national leaders know I am grateful and will serve our country more diligently.” He had to stop, his throat constricting while tears filled his eyes.

  All the men nodded approval. Ding, chain-smoking cigarettes out of an ivory holder, told Gary that they would love to see him retire safe and sound back in China someday so he could spend his remaining years happily with his family. That also meant their country would take care of him for life. The banquet continued for two more hours, until Ding got tipsy and began making smutty remarks about Hong Kong women.

  On the double-decker tram back to Central, Bingwen was still excited and exuberant. He said to Gary, “You know, in terms of rank, you’re a major general now. I’m so glad you made it.”

  Lounging on the hardwood seat the two were sharing, Gary replied, “Well, I was surprised when Hao Ding told me about the promotion. But come to think of it, it really doesn’t mean much to me—it might not affect my life one bit there. I’m just a translator at the CIA, like a lowly clerk.”

  “But you are our hero!” Bingwen persisted. “Your feats will go down in our Party’s intelligence history. You’re a dagger plunged in the enemy’s heart.”

  Gary twitched as his insides tightened. Through the window, a cinema flitted by, flaunting a garish ad for the Bruce Lee movie Fist of Fury. In the north a lone light kept flashing on the murky water as if it were signaling a message. Gary was a heartbeat from saying he’d trade any heroic name for a normal life, but he closed his eyes as if he were about to drift off to sleep. He stifled the urge to cry.

  A moment later he managed to say, “Please make sure Yufeng and our kids will receive all the privileges that a vice minister’s family is entitled to.”

  “Of course we’ll do that,” Bingwen said.

  TWO MONTHS LATER, in a conference room at CIA headquarters, more than two hundred of Gary’s colleagues were seated. George Thomas, now the chief of the East Asia Division, was presiding over the meeting, at which three employees were to receive a medal for distinguished service. He talked about the uniqueness of this year’s awards, every one of them approved by Director Helms personally. Over the past decade Thomas’s demeanor had grown somewhat senatorial, especially after he’d earned his PhD, and his tongue was more limber now—he could speak to an audience about any topic at length. One of the honorees was a woman of Cuban descent, an expert on Indochina; another was a Japan hand, a hulking man in his early sixties who had served as a captain in the U.S. Navy, had a Japanese wife, and would on a fine day canoe across the Potomac to work at the CIA; and the third was Gary Shang, recognized for his invaluable analyses and acumen, which had helped the United States find ways to engage China. Gary wore a blue double-breasted blazer, a red paisley tie, and tassel loafers, smiling while listening to Thomas praise the recipients for their work and dedication.

  The moment Thomas read out the citation for the Indochina expert, the woman went over to accept her medal, contained in a small maroon box. She was somewhat rotund but wore wedges, teetering a little as she walked. Yet like a soldier, she turned to face her colleagues, clicked her heels together, and raised her hand to her temple in a salute. That evoked laughter from the room. Next went the Japan hand, wearing a brown corduroy jacket with leather elbow patches. His stooped back gave him a hump and also the nickname Dromedary, which nobody dared to use in front of him. He took the medal from their chief, wheeled around to the audience, kissed the box, and called out, “Thank you. Love you all!”

  Thomas got emotional and long-winded when it was Gary’s turn. After reading out the citation, the chi
ef added a personal note, saying, “Gary Shang is a longtime colleague of ours and doesn’t need an introduction. You all know he’s one of the most accomplished translators and an expert in our profession. I’m proud of having known him for twenty-three years—that is to say, since he was a young man. In fact, I recruited him in Shanghai in 1949, after I interviewed dozens of people. He was the only one we took on. Gosh, how handsome and youthful the chap was. Every one of us at the cultural agency was impressed because Gary stood out in many ways. Smart, quick, prudent, and knowledgeable. Since then he and I have been working together, first in south China, next in Okinawa, then in the DC area. I’m not good at judging people, but one of the best things I did in my professional life was to hire Gary. He’s a model of devotion, diligence, and loyalty. I count him not only as an outstanding colleague but also as a dear friend. Now, welcome Gary Shang.”

  Gary walked to the front with a slight spring in his step, his legs shaking a little, which was unusual for a man of his experience. It was George Thomas’s heartfelt words that had unnerved him, but he forced a smile and hugged Thomas. They held each other tightly for a few seconds while applause broke out. Gary was moved, his eyes wet. He turned to speak to the audience. “I’m greatly honored by this award and touched by what George just said. Twenty-three years is a long time in a person’s life, and for me, it has also been a transformative period, during which I first became a refugee, then an immigrant, and then a U.S. citizen. This country took me in and gave me a family and a home. I pride myself on serving this nation and on doing my part to make it a safer, better place for ourselves and for our children. I hope I will be able to work for another twenty-three years, so I take this award as an encouragement and reassurance. Thank you, George. Thank you all.” He veered and hurried off the platform, his legs shaking violently now, and the faces before him were swimming. Somehow he was touched by his own little speech, which had come from deep within and caught him by surprise. His head was reeling with emotion. Indeed, after living in America for seventeen years, he’d begun to view it as his second country.