A Map of Betrayal: A Novel

by Ha Jin

  He was heartened by the Chinese leadership after Mao. In his diary he wrote about Deng Xiaoping, the new chairman: “That short man can become a Napoleonic figure and should be able to keep China on the right track. He may even outshine Mao eventually. At least he is more prudent and more practical and understands economics.”

  For Lilian’s education at Bryn Mawr, Gary had spent most of his savings. Now he was in his mid-fifties and in poor health, suffering from bursitis in one shoulder. Recently he’d been diagnosed with early-stage diabetes, and his doctor had urged him to watch out for starch and sugar in his diet—he had to avoid eating white bread and rice. At most he could have a slice of pumpernickel at a meal, or a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast; he ought to eat more vegetables and protein instead. So Gary had to quit munching all the fine pastries Nellie brought home. In fact, he suspected it was the sweet food that had made him ill. When shopping, at the sight of fresh coffee cakes, for only ninety-nine cents apiece, he’d be overtaken by such a rush of craving that both his mouth and eyes would water, and he’d have to drag himself away. Never had he been so full of self-pity, which he knew was ridiculous and might be a sign of feeblemindedness. During the daytime he often felt dizzy and thirsty, his limbs heavy. No matter what he ate or drank, there was always a bitter taste in his mouth. He noticed the change in his fingernails, flat and wider now, each a miniature spade. Even his eyesight was deteriorating—he saw more tadpoles and pearl drops swimming around whenever he opened a book or magazine. He got a pair of glasses, but he didn’t like to wear them; most times he pushed them up on his forehead.

  Gary’s poor health made him ruminate about the possibility of an early retirement. He had read some books on spies and knew that most of them had come to grief, unable to evacuate before getting caught. Perhaps his failing health was a signal for the necessity of a clean withdrawal. Yet he also believed that once he retired from the CIA, he might become worthless to China, so he had to take care not to jeopardize his standing in his superiors’ eyes. A useless man is less valuable than a pet, he would remind himself. Indeed, how frightening it would be to become a person no one wanted.

  Over the years he had gathered information on the privileges that high-ranking officials in China enjoyed, and he knew that if he lived there, as a vice minister he could have a chauffeur, a secretary, an orderly, a chef, a nurse, special medical care. True, a senior official in China didn’t pull in a handsome salary, only two or three hundred dollars a month, but his life was free from material worries—everything was provided by the state. In contrast, here he’d have to live an uncertain life, the prospect of which unnerved him. On his way to work he would pass a small nursing home, in front of which stood a tall pole flying a U.S. flag; just the sight of the place would remind him of the wretched final years of life that many Americans could not escape. Nellie’s mother had died in 1974, and soon afterward her father went to a local nursing home. Luckily for the old man, he had only his debt-ridden vegetable farm to lose to the state of Florida. Gary and Nellie once drove down to visit Matt at that place, and the old man wouldn’t stop blaming them for not bringing him a bottle of Jack Daniel’s or Wild Turkey. Matt, frail and addled, claimed that his boy often came to visit him with a six-pack of beer and barbecued wings, though Jimmy, his only son, had fallen three decades ago in the Battle of Savo Island. On their drive back to DC, Gary told Nellie that he’d kill himself before he ended up in such a place. A wheelchair might be acceptable, but he would never be fed and washed by strangers. These days he couldn’t help but be preoccupied with thoughts about his old age. If China didn’t call him home, he’d be stuck in the existence of a lowly CIA translator and then in that of the senile elderly, so he’d better do something before it was too late.

  THE PREVIOUS WINTER Peggy had slipped on her way to the bakery and sprained her ankle. She’d had a slight limp ever since and slowed down considerably. She often used a cane when walking. Lately she’d been saying she wanted to sell her business so she could move to New Orleans to join her daughter. One day Nellie asked her, “How much will you sell it for?”

  “One hundred and twenty grand,” Peggy said in a nasal, scratchy voice.

  “That’s a humongous amount for a bakery!”

  “But it’s worth it. We just updated most of the facilities last fall. We have a steady clientele and have been around for more than twenty years. This place is a small cash cow, you know.”

  “If I buy, will you sell it cheaper?”

  “Well, business is business, we shall see.” Peggy smiled, which seemed to imply this could be negotiable.

  “Can you wait until I figure out how to get the money?”

  “Okay, I can hold on to it for a while.”

  Since then, the two often talked about the price. They knew each other well enough to banter casually, so they haggled back and forth. Three weeks later Peggy agreed to sell Nellie the bakery for $105,000, her final offer.

  Nellie suggested taking out a home equity loan, but Gary disagreed. He said, “If we miss a few payments, we might lose the house. No, we mustn’t run such a risk. What if I die? You might become homeless.”

  “Oh, c’mon, don’t be so pessimistic. I’m more likely to croak before you.” That was what she believed, because she’d always had health problems.

  “Let me figure out a way, okay? For now, tell Peggy you’re going to buy her bakery. Just make sure she won’t sell it to others.”

  Gary had about forty thousand dollars in his Hong Kong bank account but would need another sixty-five grand. For days he’d been weighing his plan to get the money from China directly and thinking about the repercussions of such a demand. He calculated that such a move might tarnish his reputation in his superiors’ eyes but wouldn’t ruin him, because for better or worse he had made a considerable contribution to their motherland. There wouldn’t be enough reason for them to strip him of his rank when he returned to China. Above all, he felt entitled to make such a request. So he wrote to Bingwen and asked for seventy thousand dollars, saying he needed the cash immediately for some important work here. Within a month the amount was deposited into his account at Hang Seng Bank. Bingwen didn’t even ask how the money would be spent when he wrote back; he just informed Gary: “The goods were delivered.”

  Now came the more dangerous step: to transfer the cash to his bank account in the States. Gary knew that if he moved such a large sum all at once, the FBI would notice it, but he had to act now. He was the kind of man who could remain torpid, biding his time for decades, but the moment an opportunity came up, he’d spring to life and act with reckless resolve. There’d be some risk, he understood. But to his mind, this might be the last thing he did before clearing out of America, so he wouldn’t care about what might come afterward. Every three or four days he wrote a check to transfer six or seven thousand dollars from Hang Seng Bank to his Citibank account.

  The cash was ready six weeks later, and he gave Nellie a cashier’s check for the bakery. Surprised, his wife asked, “Where did you get so much money?”

  “I borrowed it from my cousin in Taiwan. An interest-free loan.”

  “Why don’t we sign the contract together? You’ve spent so much for the bakery.”

  “I don’t want to be any part of it.”

  “Why, Gary? You … you’re mad at me?” Nellie stammered, sucking in her breath.

  “No, I want you to have the business, so all the paperwork should be done under your name. It’s better that way.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Don’t ask so many questions. I’ve had it with pastries that already made me diabetic. I just don’t want to have anything to do with the bakery anymore.”

  Nellie looked in wonder at his pallid face, then burst into laughter. In spite of his gloominess, Gary did have a dry sense of humor, which would bubble up every now and then.

  So Nellie bought the business from Peggy and signed the paperwork alone. The week after the purchase, Peggy left for New Orlea
ns. Nellie kept the two staffers while considering whether to hire another hand, but she thought better of it. She changed the bakery’s name to Nellie’s Kitchen. She disliked the word “Kitchen” but dared not alter the original name too much for fear of ruining the luck. The business, small as it was, had been a good moneymaker.

  She had noticed some Dunkin’ Donuts products in supermarkets. From then on, her bakery began offering two Dunkin’ Donuts coffees: Original Blend and Dunkin’ Dark, besides three previous kinds. Determined to make Nellie’s Kitchen into a combination of bakery and coffee shop, she had a sign hung beside the front door that announced: “We have Dunkin’ coffee!” Unsure if that might get her in trouble, she talked to Gary about it. He assured her that it would be all right if the coffees were for sale in grocery stores.

  Now that Nellie’s life seemed secured for the future, Gary wrote a request to his Chinese superiors, asking to be called back. He said he was ill and exhausted and very likely to retire from the CIA before long, so it was about time to end his career, which had lasted three decades. During his years abroad he had served the Party and the country heart and soul. It was his sincere wish to return and join his family so he could spend his remaining years peacefully and die on his native soil. He even attached the latest report from his doctor, which stated that his fasting blood sugar count was 172, clearly a case of diabetes.

  He delivered the request to Father Murray and asked him to have it sent to their higher-ups without delay. He told the clergyman, “I’m more homesick as I’m getting older. I hope I can go back soon.”

  “You’re lucky to have a homeland to return to,” Murray said, his eyes glazed over. His whiskered face was so pale that he might pass for a white; even his nostrils were oval, and there was hair on the backs of his hands. “I don’t know where my home is,” he continued. “It used to be the little pastel blue bungalow surrounded by a stone wall in the alley where my mother lived. After she died, the house changed hands, and Manila doesn’t mean a thing to me anymore.”

  “How about your older sister?” Gary asked.

  “She lives in New Zealand now.”

  “But you belong to your church, don’t you? You’re a padre, different from us earthlings.” Gary had always admired the ease and equanimity with which the priest carried himself. Now he recognized another suffering man, another lonely soul.

  Murray said, “I wish I were a believer.”

  “I see.” Gary tried to fathom the depth of desolation that the priest must have suffered if he didn’t believe in the church he’d been serving. Gary confessed, “I’m afraid my heart won’t hold out for long and I might fall to pieces here.” Again the numbing pain stirred in his chest while he tried hard not to laugh. Of late when he laughed out loud, he’d often lost control and couldn’t stop his tears. He knew he had reached the point where the pressure might break him anytime.

  “You’ll be okay,” Murray said. “You’ve done a great service to your motherland. I’m sure they’ll welcome you home as an honored son. You deserve a grand return to your country.”

  “Which country is yours then?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been helping China only out of ancestral loyalty and out of my disgust at colonialism and imperialism, but I wouldn’t be able to live there.”

  “In a way, that’s not bad,” Gary said. “To have no home on earth. That can make you detached and more like a religious man.”

  “You know, for me, home’s not a fixed entity but an emotion, a longing.”

  “I admire that—I mean you can find home within yourself.”

  “I don’t know if I can, but I’ve been trying.”

  Gary managed a small laugh while Murray grinned.

  Following that meeting came Gary’s long wait for the official reply from Beijing.

  Henry and I were in the hallway of our apartment building hanging a large picture that I’d brought back from Beijing. It was an oil painting that showed clusters of blooming rainbow cacti. I’d just had it framed. Two tall men, one thirtyish and the other about fifty, came in through the front door, both in dark suits and sky-blue ties. One of them asked us where the Cohens’ was.

  “I’m Henry Cohen,” my husband said and came down the stepladder.

  The two men showed their FBI badges—one was named Simpson and the other Clifton. I glanced at their armpits and could tell they were bearing sidearms in shoulder holsters. The older one asked Henry, “Can you spare a minute? We have a few questions for you, Mr. Cohen.”

  “Okay, fire away.”

  “Can we talk somewhere else?” the man went on.

  “Sure, but what d’you want to know?”

  “About your recent purchases of some Intel chips.”

  Henry put his hand on my shoulder. “Can my wife come with me?”

  I said, “Hi, I’m Lilian.” I didn’t hold out my hand, uncertain about their intention.

  “Sure thing, she can join us,” the younger man told Henry in a voice that indicated that he was not a mere sidekick to his colleague.

  I felt a bit relieved as I realized this might not be an interrogation. They followed us down the hall to our apartment. Once we had sat down in the living room, Officer Clifton, the older one, said to Henry, “We would like to know how you have used the microchips you bought recently.”

  The younger officer, Simpson, added, “Or did you sell them to somebody?” He took out a pen and put a yellow legal pad on his lap.

  “Well, I bought them for a friend,” Henry said.

  “Is it illegal to acquire them?” I asked.

  “Not really,” Clifton answered. “But they’re items banned from export to certain countries.”

  “Henry bought them for my nephew, who had a computer company outside Boston.”

  “What’s his name?” asked Simpson.

  “Ben Liang,” Henry said.

  Clifton opened his briefcase and took out a manila folder. “Is this man your nephew?” He handed me a photo.

  The snapshot showed a younger Ben, whose sweaty face still had a shadow of baby fat and who was wearing shorts and an undershirt, holding a basketball under his arm. “Yes, that’s my nephew,” I replied, reflecting on the photo, probably taken before he had come to the States.

  “He’s a fine young man,” Henry said. “We’re friends.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that he might ship the chips to the People’s Republic of China?” Clifton continued, squinting his eyes and tilting his square chin.

  “I have no clue about their destinations at all,” Henry said. “Look, Ben has a computer business, so it’s natural for him to buy all sorts of parts. I never thought about the legality of the acquisitions because the chips were out there for sale. I just bought them on his behalf.”

  “Why wouldn’t he purchase them by himself?” Clifton asked.

  “He said his Chinese name, Liang, often incurred racial prejudice.”

  “Can you elaborate on that?” Simpson said and uncrossed his long legs.

  “Ben’s orders would arrive too late, and from time to time they simply didn’t come. That’s what he told me, and I believe it’s true.”

  “Officers,” I put in, “you ought to accept the fact that racism is still prevalent in America.”

  “That we don’t deny,” Clifton said. “But what we have here is something else, more like a crime.”

  “What’s so criminal about buying microchips?” Henry asked.

  Simpson answered in a snappy voice, “That depends on where the chips went. If they were exported to China, it’s a crime.”

  Silence followed. I was pretty sure that Ben had shipped them out of the States. Seeing Henry speechless, I managed to say, “We wish we could tell you something about their destinations, but we really don’t know.”

  The officers seemed satisfied with our answers and stood to leave. But before reaching the door, Clifton wheeled around and said to Henry, “One more question if you don’t mind. How much did Ben Liang pay
you each time?”

  “Two hundred percent of the amount I spent,” Henry told him.

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “If I spent one thousand bucks on the chips, he’d pay me two thousand.”

  “That’s a profit of one hundred percent—a hell of a deal, isn’t it?”

  “We’re friends and family, so Ben has been generous to me.”

  I was pleased by Henry’s answers, which, in spite of his initial nervousness, came out clear and firm. Nevertheless, the officers’ visit disturbed both of us. After they left, we went on talking about Ben. Knowing of my father’s role as a Chinese spy, Henry began to see the implications of the FBI’s investigation. He was worried about Ben, whom he couldn’t help but suspect of spying for China.

  “Do you think Ben is in the same line of work as your father?” Henry asked me, his face twisted a little.

  “Probably, but my dad was a vice minister, a big shot. Ben is at most a small-time agent.”

  “You mean he might steal technological intelligence?”

  “And also military stuff.”

  “What else might he have a hand in? Would he smuggle weapons?”

  “No way. You have to have powerful backing if you sell weapons on the international market. Only some Chinese princelings can do that. It’s an extremely lucrative business.”

  “Anyways, you shouldn’t have invited him over to begin with.”

  “Damn it, Henry! You wanted to make money and ignored my warning.”

  “All right, I got greedy, I’m to blame myself. But don’t you think we should try to stop Ben?”