A Death in China (12 page)

He was led to a small courtyard whose boundaries were marked by tangled hedges. Red bougainvillea plants radiantly climbed the walls of the otherwise drab buildings that formed the complex. The place reminded Stratton of a monastery.

The men stopped in the middle of the courtyard. Stratton faced them. He was naked from the waist down, and filthy. His mustache was flecked with clay, and it smelled.

“Could I have a pair of trousers?” Stratton asked.

His escorts glanced at each other. They spoke no English. The one with the rifle suddenly raised it to his shoulder and aimed at Stratton’s dangling genitals.

“Pah! Pah!” he barked, pretending to pull the trigger. “Pah! Pah! Pah!”

His comrades sniggered. The rifleman lowered the gun and his face grew stoic once again.

Stratton lifted his arms from his sides. “You missed,” he said, pointing. “See?”

Self-consciously, the escorts averted their eyes. From across the plaza came the sound of many voices. Stratton realized that the workers at the compound had been summoned to witness a public humiliation—his own.

As the Chinese filed through the courtyard, they bunched into a confused knot at the side of the half-naked American, standing at attention in the day’s final shadows. A few jeered. Others laughed and pointed. Then, some of the women became upset and began to leave. The men also soon wearied of the spectacle.

Stratton was too exhausted to be embarrassed, but the three guards wore satisfied smiles.

After the workers had gone, the men took Stratton outside the compound to an alley. One of them twisted the handle on a water faucet, and a stream of cold water shot out. The man with the bayonet pointed at the swelling puddle.

Stratton obligingly stripped out of his shirt and removed the bandage from his thigh. He squatted beneath the faucet and closed his eyes. The frigid water was invigorating, but his injured leg stiffened in protest. While his feet and his buttocks rested in the murky puddle, Stratton was careful to keep the wound clean. He pressed his scalp to the mouth of the faucet, and let the hard water rinse the grime from his hair.

“Gow!” commanded one of the watchers. Enough.

Stratton stood up and smoothed his hair back. Then he slipped into his shirt.

One of the escorts held out the rag that had served as his bandage.

“But it’s too dirty,” Stratton objected.

The man with the gun stared back blankly. Stratton wrapped the fetid gauze around his upper leg and tied it with a small knot.

With a sharp shove to the small of his back, Stratton was directed to his cell. One of the jailers followed him inside just long enough to ladle two scoops of rice into the food dish, and to replace a rusty tin can full of water on the earthen floor.

The door closed heavily, and night swallowed Stratton’s room with a humid gulp. Outside, in the tropical orchards, birds whistled. The hills were dotted sparsely with yellow lights from distant communes.

Stratton waved the flies off the bowl of rice, and put a cold lumpy handful in his mouth.

He decided that the march to the water faucet had been a good sign. Certainly the bath had not been meant for his benefit, so it could mean only one thing. Soon he would have a visitor.

Probably an important visitor.

Jim McCarthy parked in a dark corner of the crowded lot at the Peking Hotel. His station wagon was fire-engine red—the journalist’s mobile protest against the drab sameness of Peking. Every now and then, when China weighed too heavily, McCarthy would roll down the windows, plug in a Willie Nelson tape as loud as he could stand it and—gawkers be damned—cruise at high speed into the ancient hills around the city.

McCarthy made sure the driver’s door was unlocked. He trudged up the circular driveway and through the automatic doors that admit foreigners only to Peking’s best hotel. To the left of the lobby lay a broad marble passageway that had been converted with plastic tables and chairs into a brightly lit lounge. The Via Veneto, denizens called it sarcastically. The cafe, a grudging Chinese concession to the influx of foreigners that had accompanied the late ‘70s opening to the West, had, perforce, become the center of social life for transient foreigners in Peking. Sooner or later, everyone wound up drinking instant coffee at the ersatz cafe. McCarthy had interviewed a movie star there, an ice skater and a famous novelist, each one of them self-impressed and self-righteous—doing China.

That night there was only a middling crowd. McCarthy nodded to a pair of African diplomats. He chatted briefly with some members of a British lawyers’ tour and watched in amusement while well-heeled businessmen of three nationalities sniffed around a lady banker from New York. She had lived in the hotel for two years and would die there on full expenses, if the Chinese allowed it, having long since discovered one of the secrets of revolutionary Peking: It is nirvana for ugly Western women. In New York, the lady banker would have trouble getting a tumble in the raunchiest singles bar. In puritan Peking, without local competition, she never slept alone. McCarthy ordered a cognac at the bar and watched the circus.

After about ten minutes, he walked back to the car and drove toward the poorly lit northern quarter of the city. On an empty side street, he pulled to the curb.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he called.

From the backseat, a passenger untangled himself from the folds of a car blanket and climbed into the front seat.

McCarthy lit a cigarette, watching in the rearview mirror as the side lights of another car appeared. Things they never teach you in journalism school, he reflected sourly.

As the other car approached, it slowed. Its headlights flashed, bathing the station wagon from behind. McCarthy reacted.

The station wagon surged from the curb with a peel of rubber, dumping McCarthy’s passenger awkwardly between seat and door. McCarthy turned right. The other car followed. For ten tense and silent minutes, he played hide-and-seek until at last he found the main road that tourists took to the Great Wall. His foot went to the floor. The following car, Chinese-made, more for touring than sprinting, dwindled and finally disappeared. McCarthy relaxed.

“It’s nice to see you, Little Joe. How’re things?”

The passenger smiled, dangling a child’s sandal from its strap. In the dashboard half-light, it looked like a dead white hamster.

“I found this in the blanket.”

“Shit, I’ve been looking for that for two weeks. Thanks.” McCarthy passed over the pack of cigarettes. “Sorry for the bumpy start, but we had friends.”

The passenger dragged deeply, opening the window to let the smoke escape.

“It is no surprise.”

He was a slender youth in his twenties with a tousled thatch of black hair and sharp cheek bones. He wore a cheap open-necked white shirt and baggy olive-green trousers. A schoolboy’s satchel sat primly on his knees. Over the past year, since a casual meeting at an art exhibition arranged by the American Embassy, the shy youth had become McCarthy’s best Chinese source.

“Shall we go to my place for a few drinks and some music? The kids are all asleep, Little Joe.” It was a name the boy had assigned himself. McCarthy didn’t know his real name, or where he lived. He knew only about the young man’s dreams and that his information was good.

“Tonight is bad, Lao Jim. The army, the police, the watchers all have instructions to be particularly alert about contacts with foreigners.”

Among foreigners who knew any Chinese willing to risk it, the procedure for getting a guest into the walled diplomatic compound was almost routine: bundle them down in the back and drive smiling through the gate. The PLA soldiers seldom did more than wave; in the winter, they simply peered out from their hut and wrote down the special license numbers reserved for weiguoren. Except for taxis with passengers, normally registered vehicles were forbidden to enter the compound.

At first, Little Joe had been reluctant, and then thrilled, at the prospect of cheating the security system. In recent months, he had become more cautious, resorting finally to hurried phone calls to arrange meetings at “the usual place”—the hotel parking lot.

“How are things, Little Joe? Are we hearing the same rumors?” McCarthy coaxed.

The youth lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the old.

“Special security units are being assigned to the embassies—uniformed and plainclothes—beginning two days from now. I think they expect some attempts to defect.”

“Why?”

“The old Maoists are winning control. They will purge several hundred officials in Peking in the next week. Did you hear that rumor?” Little Joe not only spoke good English, but also had a subtle sense of humor, rare in a Chinese. He was a friend to be treasured.

“Among others,” McCarthy lied.

“Well, I have seen the list, and it is true.”

“Any names I would recognize?”

“Possibly.” He named two or three. “Most of them, though, are second-or third-rank people, administrators and—how do you call it?—technocrats.”

“What have they done?”

“Just like the others who have already been purged. They are skilled at what they do and have great experience in dealing with foreigners. The Party thinks they are more loyal to their own jobs, or to their ministries, or to their foreign friends, than to the Party itself. The Party allows no other lovers, as you know, Lao Jim.”

“Is it true? About their loyalties?”

Little Joe laughed. “What do you think?”

“I’d say yes. A lot of people dislike the dull old men.”

“You are right. It is not their loyalty to China that is the problem, but their reliance on the Party. The people I am talking about run factories that are profitable or bureaus that are too modern. They make decisions without asking the Party each day if it is permitted to eat rice for lunch.”

“I know the kind of people you mean.”

Little Joe nodded. “Yes, they are the best of China and the young people who work for them are fantastically loyal—these men are seen as the true future of the New China.”

“To purge them will have a great effect on morale, won’t it?”

“Will you never understand China, Lao Jim?” The Chinese laughed at his own question. “They will be purged not because they are efficient, but because they are corrupt. That is what the accusations will say, and that is what many people will believe. That Manager Hu used his position to enrich himself; that he stole money, or the factory’s car; that he accepted gifts or bribes from foreigners; that he had a foreign bank account; that he smuggled goods from China under false documents. The list of charges is endless. The Party can say anything it likes. No guilt is necessary. The accusation is enough—for the Party.”

McCarthy saw what was coming.

“No good news for you, huh?”

“I have been denied permission to travel—no families of leading cadres may go abroad to study any longer. That is the ruling.”

“I’m sorry.”

Little Joe had worked three years to pass the exams and polish his English. When McCarthy had first met him, the young man had boasted of a scholarship offer from an American university. “I am going to study language and literature,” Little Joe had said. “Can you lend me some books to read before I go?”

It had been a year of yes-maybe-come-back-tomorrows. And then the bureaucracy had reneged.

“I have been assigned to work in the Number Five Locomotive Factory. I am to be a cook.”

“Jesus, that’s awful.” They were on the tree-shaded street where Little Joe usually got out. McCarthy stopped the car and reached around for a package on the back seat. “It’s easy for me to say, but try not to be discouraged, Little Joe. Keep reading and studying. Here, take a look.”

McCarthy flipped on the dome light and the Chinese quickly riffled through his gifts—back copies of The Economist, Time and Newsweek and some paperback books.

“I couldn’t find Twelfth Night, but I got Merchant of Venice. And here’s one by Graham Greene, Monsignor Quixote. It’s great.”

“Quixote … Cervantes, right?”

McCarthy nodded.

“Well, he wrote in prison. I guess I can read in prison.” Little Joe gestured. He meant everything around him.

“Zaijian,” said Little Joe, and vanished into the night.

Pensively, McCarthy drove home. Poor bastard, he thought, another one of the good young ones being devoured. But a damned good source. Apprentice cook he might be, but Little Joe was still the son of a general.

“I trust the accommodations are satisfactory,” Wang Bin said from the doorway. “I would be offended if such a distinguished guest were not comfortable.”

Stratton stared dully at him from a pile of dirty straw at the far corner of the room.

Bathed in sweat, he rolled clumsily to a sitting position.

Wang Bin sneered. “Your leg is all bloody. You should be more careful, Professor.”

“Fuck you.”

“Stand up.”

“I can’t.”

On mincing steps, as though afraid of dirtying his highly polished shoes, Wang Bin advanced into the room until he stood over Stratton. His foot lashed out, striking Stratton’s shin. Stratton bit back a moan.

“That is just the beginning, Professor.” He spat as he spoke, hitting Stratton between the eyes. “I regret only that I shall not be present for the end. It was planned for Xian, but you were lucky. A train station is too public, and a bullet is too merciful for a man who rapes my daughter.”

Stratton felt the spittle course down his face. He tensed for a spring. Movement caught Stratton’s eye. Framed in the doorway stood one of the jailers, a pistol leveled at Stratton. With an explosion of breath, he allowed his body’s tension to dissipate. Revenge alone was not enough. There must also be escape. There would be another time.

“I will tell you where you are, since you will never leave,” Wang Bin said. “It is a museum on the outskirts of the city of Nanning. It is a backward place, Manning, but it has some lovely Ming Dynasty pottery.”

“You know where you can put your pottery.”

“Oh no, Professor Stratton, there are better uses for it. For you, there is no use at all. Except as an example of revolutionary justice. Has anyone listed your crimes for you? No? An oversight, I’m sure.”

Wang Bin rocked with his hands behind him, a student reciting his lessons.

“You are accused of theft: of the personal effects of my distinguished brother. You are accused of murder: of one of my trusted drivers in Peking, and of assault against another, who may still die.”

Wang Bin’s voice was rising in pitch, like a factory whistle.

“You are accused of kidnapping my daughter.” He spat at Stratton again. “And of rape of my daughter.

“You are guilty of all charges, Professor.” Wang Bin’s face was flushed. “The sentence is death. There is no appeal. People’s justice. Do you know how executions are carried out in revolutionary China, Professor?” Wang Bin’s mouth twitched. “The condemned man is forced to kneel, with his hands tied behind his back. His executioner stands behind him. At the signal, the executioner advances one step, brings up his gun and in one motion, delivers a killing shot to the back of the head. Sometimes a pistol is used, but in your case, I think a rifle is more appropriate. A rifle leaves no room for mistakes.”

“It will never happen,” Stratton said slowly.

“You think not?”

“I know it. You are bluffing. This isn’t a real jail, and you have no authority. This is your operation, Deputy Minister, and yours alone. The Chinese government has nothing against me—but a great deal against you.”

“I am a servant of the Revolution,” Wang Bin said, self-mockingly.

“You serve only yourself. You are a thief and a murderer.”

“Stratton, you are like so many of your countrymen, much noise but no wisdom. You know nothing.”

“I know that you have been stealing artifacts from the dig at Xian. I know that you asked your brother to help you smuggle something out. He refused. You argued, and later you killed him in Peking. Poison, I would say. There will be evidence, you know. Poison stays in the bones; any pathologist can find it. It remains only to exhume the body.”

Wang Bin laughed.

“Fool! You understand nothing. My brother was of great assistance to me, yes, although he did not know it. I did not need him to smuggle contraband, Professor, but to bring me something. Something perfectly legitimate. He did it willingly.”

“I’ll bet.”

“There is one other thing you should know, fool: My brother is not dead.” Wang Bin hurled the words with ferocity.

“He’s dead and you killed him. You can lie to me, but I doubt if your own government will be impressed. I have written a letter—everything I know about David’s death, including the fact that you killed him. It is somewhere safe. If something happens to me, then it will be opened and forwarded to the Chinese government.”

Wang Bin paused to consider.

“A letter, perhaps, with one of the members of your tour group, given to him before leaving Xian.”

Stratton said nothing. That is what he might have done—if the document really existed.

Then Wang Bin smiled and Stratton knew his desperate ploy had failed.

“I think the letter is your invention, but if it exists, it cannot trouble me. For me, the time is ready. And your time is finished, Captain.”

Stratton looked at the arrogant Chinese without expression.

“Does it surprise you to hear your old rank? It should not. We are thorough people, we Chinese, patient people with long memories. We have files for everything. There is a fat security file in Peking with your name on it, and a black ribbon across it. The ribbon is a special distinction. It means kill on sight. So, in addition to all your other crimes, you are a spy. It will be a great pleasure to kill you, a service to the Revolution—my last gesture.”