Carl Hiaasen & William D. Montalbano Page 15

  “The commission has evidence that Wang Kangmei, daughter of Comrade Wang Bin, left her unit without permission, that she traveled without permission to the city of Xian, and there she engaged in sexual relations with a foreigner.”

  “She was abducted,” Wang Bin blurted, and instantly regretted it.

  “This commission is forwarding the relevant testimony to the Public Security Bureau for action,” the cadre intoned without expression.

  That was the cue for the prosecutor. He jerked back to his feet.

  “In view of the seriousness of the charges, I call for a full trial and a sentence of life imprisonment at hard labor.”

  It was a formality. Still, in the calculated silence that followed the prosecutor’s demand, Wang Bin began to sweat.

  “The commission agrees with the prosecutor’s request,” said the president.

  Again, the old men allowed a cruel silence to build. Wang Bin braced for the sound of the door opening, the rush of air, the footsteps of the guards summoned by a buzzer beneath the table.

  “However,” the president began.

  At last! Wang Bin felt a sudden release.

  “In view of Comrade Wang’s long service to the Party, this commission will waive a trial in exchange for Comrade Wang’s admission of guilt, a self-criticism, his removal from all state and Party posts and his reeducation through labor in …”—he consulted a printed list in front of him—“Jilin Province.”

  It was a sentence of slow death. Manchuria. Backward and cold, so bitterly cold and primitive he would not survive two years there.

  “Jilin,” said the second cadre.

  That left the general.

  “Hunan,” said the general. “And as an office worker. He is an educated man.”

  Hunan was backward, too, but warmer. To work there as a bookkeeper on a commune would be dull, but not dangerous, almost like retiring. Such were the fruits of a fifty-year friendship between men who had once fought together.

  The two hacks dithered for a while—Jilin was what their paper decreed—but the general proved implacable.

  “Hunan.” The president surrendered. “You have twenty-four hours, Comrade, in which to inform the commission whether you wish a trial or will accept the Party’s mercy.”

  Wang Bin squared his back and strode from the room.

  Twenty-four hours. He had counted on that. It was time enough.

  Chapter 14

  STRATTON’S MAKESHIFT CHISEL splintered after only an hour. A cone-shaped pile of concrete dust and a faint groove in the mortar were all he had to show for his furious scraping. There was no way out of the cell. Stratton snapped another leg off the wooden chair and rubbed one end back and forth across the rough wall until a sharp point was formed. Then he buried the stick in a corner. Another corner was used for defecation. A third corner he reserved for sleeping.

  He curled up, facing the wall, and shielded his eyes with one arm. That night, for the first time, the jailers had left the light bulb burning in the rafters; insects darted and danced around it. Stratton closed his eyes and thought of his parents. For thirty-one years his father had driven a UPS truck in Hartford, while his mother had reared five children. Now the Strattons were retired, living in a small apartment in Boca Raton, Florida, entertaining grandchildren and feeding the ducks in a man-made lake behind the high rise. Tom Stratton had visited his parents only twice in their new home. He telephoned once a month from wherever he was. He had promised them postcards from Peking, but of course he had forgotten. They wouldn’t be worried, not Dale and Ann Stratton. They knew their youngest son. The restless sort, his mother used to say. Pity the poor gal he marries, and pitied she had.

  The flat horn of a truck jolted Stratton into daylight. He unfolded, stretched his arms, and watched through the window as the first morning visitors arrived at the small museum. It had been more than a day now since his keepers had brought fresh rice or water. Stratton was famished. He considered pounding on the door on the remote chance that he had been forgotten, but rejected the idea. He knew he was a VIP. Whatever awaited him had been carefully planned by Wang Bin.

  The day passed slowly, and Stratton napped intermittently, using sleep as a substitute for food. Finally, late in the afternoon, he heard footsteps in the hall outside the cell. He sat up, and shrank into the shadow of the cleanest corner, his sleeping corner.

  Two men entered the cell. Stratton recognized one of them as a jailer, one of the men who had paraded him to his public bath.

  The other was a wan, slightly built Chinese who wore bottle-bottom eyeglasses. He squinted at Stratton until he became accustomed to the light.

  Each man carried a large tin bucket.

  “Stand,” ordered the man with the eyeglasses.

  Stratton obeyed. The two men heaved the liquid contents of the buckets on the floor in a large puddle at Stratton’s feet. The odor assaulted him and he tried hard not to gag.

  “Pig manure,” said the man, again in clear English. “Kneel.”

  “Why?”

  “You will not argue. You will not ask questions. You will do as I say. You are unfit to speak in this room. You are unfit to stand. So you will kneel, and you will be completely silent.”

  Stratton did not move. The man with the bottle-bottom glasses circled him disdainfully, eyeing the American as if he were a roach.

  “You have broken this chair!”

  “No, it fell apart.”

  “Liar!”

  “Liar!” shouted the jailer, chiming in.

  “An accident,” Stratton repeated.

  “My name is Comrade Zhou,” said the man in the glasses. “We have met before.”

  “Oh, yes. You were Wang Bin’s interpreter in Peking,” Stratton said.

  Zhou lifted the mangled two-legged chair as if examining it. Then he swung it over his head and brought it crashing down on Tom Stratton’s shoulder. Stratton pitched forward, face down into the warm pig dung. A small hand seized his neck, and another clutched his hair. Roughly, he was jerked off the floor, and propped on his knees like a mannequin.

  “I will repeat this one more time,” Zhou said. Now he was squatting in front of Stratton, glaring into the American’s dripping face. “You are unworthy to stand in the presence of any Chinese citizen, do you understand? You are worse than the shit on this floor. You are a murderer and a thief, a destroyer of Chinese property, a corrupter of young women, a spy … and, I think you should know, Stratton, that you have no secrets here. We know everything about you!”

  Stratton made no response. He breathed through his mouth only. He closed his eyes. He fought to neutralize all his senses, one by one.

  “We have come here to give you the opportunity to confess your crimes, Comrade Stratton. Do not be afraid, and do not be foolish. Many thousands of Chinese have profited from such expurgation. They lived to tell about it, however. I cannot promise the same for you.”

  “What is this, a struggle session? You’re sick,” Stratton said.

  Zhou nodded. “Ah, you’ve heard of this. You have read about it, I suppose, in some perverted imperialist book. China is the subject of many books in your country. China is a popular subject among American scholars. You came here posing as a scholar, did you not?”

  “I am a tourist.”

  “Liar!” It was the jailer again. He knew the script.

  “Do not continue with these lies,” Zhou said. “I know your country very well, Stratton. I know the American people, I even know the language. I studied for two years at Yale University.” Zhou laughed. “It’s amusing, in a way. In the many years since my return to China I have never once had the opportunity to interview an American criminal. You are my first. I am grateful to Comrade Wang Bin for the chance to serve China in this way. He tells me you are a treacherous spy.”

  “He is mistaken, Comrade Zhou. I am merely a friend of his brother.”

  “You are a liar,” Zhou replied.

  “Liar!” screamed the jailer. It was t
he only English word he knew.

  “Liar!” Zhou yelled.

  “No.”

  “Now is the time to confess,” Zhou said. He left the cell, and returned shortly with a written Chinese document. “Please sign this now.”

  “What does it say? Could you read it to me?” Stratton said, stalling.

  “Of course.” Zhou motioned at the jailer, who slogged out of the cell. He and another jailer returned, carrying three wooden chairs. One was placed directly in front of Stratton, and that is where Zhou sat. The first jailer took the second chair, to Zhou’s left, but equidistant from the kneeling American. A third chair was placed on Zhou’s right. It was empty.

  “You have been found guilty of numerous crimes against the state,” Zhou began. “This is the list. It is lengthy.

  “To begin with, you lied on your visa application. You said you had never been to China before, Stratton. Therefore you are charged with presenting false information to immigration officials.

  “Secondly, you are charged with the theft of personal articles belonging to Mr. David Wang. These items were stolen from Mr. Wang’s hotel room in Peking nearly one week ago.”

  Stratton stared at the earthen floor and shook his head.

  “You are charged with the murder of Huang Gong, a limousine driver in Peking who was killed while serving the state. Additionally, you are charged with the attempted murder of another comrade, Ni Zanfu, who was seriously injured in the same tragic episode.”

  “They tried to run me down,” Stratton protested.

  “Liar!” screamed the interrogators in unison.

  “There are two more crimes, which are the most serious,” Zhou went on. “One of them is the abduction of Wang Kangmei, the daughter of the deputy minister. We will discuss that in a moment. But I first should like to ask you about the crime of espionage against the People’s Republic. On March 18, 1971 …” and Zhou began to read the document: “‘Thomas Stratton, then a captain with the Special Forces Intelligence section of the United States Army, illegally entered the Chinese town of Man-ling with a squad of armed soldiers and assassinated thirty-eight innocent peasants.’”

  Zhou paused and glanced up from the paper. “You came back to China this year for the purpose of continuing your terrorism and trying to recruit Chinese citizens for your criminal espionage. You are a dangerous agent of the United States government, and you must be punished according to the laws of the Chinese state. Now … are you willing to confess to your crimes, Mr. Stratton?”

  “I cannot, Comrade Zhou.” Stratton stared at the frog-eyed face. Zhou’s thick eyeglasses looked like a cheap prop for some stand-up comic, but there was nothing funny in the Chinese eyes. He waved the document contemptuously.

  “Perhaps we should review each charge separately—”

  “My answer would remain the same. Not guilty. I am not guilty of anything.”

  Zhou nodded at the jailer. The jailer’s leg shot out, and his boot caught Stratton flush in the Adam’s apple. He toppled backwards into the slop, moaning, choking, gulping air. He grabbed impotently at his throat with both hands.

  After a few moments, the jailer yanked Stratton to his knees.

  “Have you caught your breath?” Zhou asked.

  Stratton’s mouth moved, but only a dry rattle came out.

  “It is a question of honor, then?” Zhou pressed. “You will not confess because your pride rebels. We know something of honor in our country, too, Mr. Stratton. I cannot tell you how many men and women have knelt before me and resisted the truth because of honor and pride—no matter what the evidence, no matter what kind of punishment awaited them. I have seen many men—some of them weaker than you—resist for days. Three, four days, even longer. It was remarkable. No food, no water. They knelt there, wetting themselves and soiling themselves and suffering … yet, they insisted, no matter what, that they, too, were innocent. I have to admit that I came to admire some of those comrades even after I executed them, Mr. Stratton.

  “The choice is yours. Would you prefer to be admired for your valor? Or would you instead care for some warm food, and cold water? And perhaps some medical treatment for your leg? Clean clothes? A bath?”

  Zhou did not smile. The jailer waited for another signal.

  “One man lasted six days with me,” Zhou said. “His was a political crime, truly insignificant compared to yours. I was prepared to send him to one of the far provinces for two years. Farm labor on a rural commune. It would have been a fair sentence, had he confessed. But he, too, spoke of honor. Even after three days, when we boarded the windows. It was summer, very hot and still. He was old and sick. We took away all the food, of course. By the fifth day, he was drinking his own urine. On the sixth day, I threw a live river rat into the cell and he ate it raw, tail and all. So much for honor, Mr. Stratton.”

  Stratton could not think for the pain; each idea seemed to sting the inside of his brain. Cowering on his knees, never had he been so helpless. His captors did not have a gun, nor did they need one. Stratton was the weakest man in the cell, and all three of them knew it. All he could do was drag it out, and hope for the pain to pass.

  “Do you see why you are unworthy to stand? After hearing the list of your crimes, do you now understand?”

  “What if I were to confess to some of the charges?” Stratton asked in a raspy voice.

  “No!” Zhou barked. “Not good enough. The crimes are related. One leads to another. It is impossible to be innocent of some and guilty of others. It is either day or night. Justice must be distinct, and clear, and indisputable. Otherwise there would be no respect for laws. So if you confess, you will confess to all of it. You will be truthful.”

  “How long have you worked for Wang Bin?”

  “Shut up!”

  “Are you paid well?” Stratton’s tone was soft, boylike.

  “I work for the state.”

  “Then where is your uniform?”

  “Quiet!” Zhou snapped. The jailer did not understand the words, but he listened tautly, in expectation.

  “Have I been convicted by the state?”

  “Yes. The deputy minister pronounced—”

  “No, I said by the state.” Stratton was breathing easier, although his throat felt bruised and swollen. “If this is a state prison, then where is the PLA?”

  Zhou smiled darkly. “You would feel more at home with soldiers? It would bring back old memories for you, I’m sure. That is too bad. There are no PLA here. And this is not a trial, Stratton. The trial is over. All that remains is for you to accept your conviction and acknowledge your crimes. We expect no more from you than we would from a Chinese criminal. The truth is, the deputy minister has more patience with you than I.”

  Zhou stood up. He spoke to the jailer, who left the cell immediately. “The smell in here is very bad. I am not certain if it is the pigs or you, Mr. Stratton. I am going outdoors for a few minutes for some fresh air, and perhaps a cold beer. In the meantime, the other comrade will give you something to think about. Then we will resume.”

  Zhou hitched his trousers and walked out. Stratton sagged back on his heels. He glanced longingly at the corner where he had concealed his makeshift weapon, but within seconds the jailer had returned, flinging the door open. He spoke sharply in Chinese to someone else in the corridor. Stratton rose to his knees and looked up. There, in the doorway, stood Kangmei.

  NOT FOR THE first time, the old professor wondered at the futility of man. He had dedicated his life to the proposition that all mankind’s creations should be appraised not just for their beauty or ingenuity, but for what they revealed about the mystery of the human mind. And now, so late in his life, to face the mystery of true evil. No Chinese artist could ever express such a horror—the betrayal of history, of art itself, of one’s own brother.

  It was a secret David Wang had never asked to know, but knowing, he could not let it die with him.

  He was not a man of action, but he had ruminated long enough. He was cer
tain that escape was possible He had studied the primitive lock on the door of the Peking attic that served as his warm prison. He had even secreted a spoon that his slovenly jailers had missed, and he had bent it so that it could be prised between the door and the rusty jamb to lift the latch. David Wang was both exhilarated and frightened by the possibilities.

  It had taken two days—a drugged two days—before he had come to his senses. He remembered a big dinner of roast duck, then sipping tea alone in his hotel room afterward. And then nothing—until he awoke as a captive.

  For six days, David Wang had analyzed the routine of his keepers until he had identified the flaw. After his supper was delivered each day, the jailers all ate together, loudly, in a large kitchen at the end of the hallway. They never returned for the tray in less than an hour, on one occasion, they had not come again until the next morning.

  An hour was plenty of time, David Wang figured, to break out, slip away from his brother’s museum and lose himself in the streets of Peking. The guards had dressed him in an old-fashioned undershirt, more gray than white, baggy blue trousers and cotton shoes. In the darkness of the street, he would be indistinguishable from millions of other Pekingese.

  He would walk to the American Embassy if he could. Failing that, David Wang decided, he would approach the first policeman he saw and ask for help. The policeman would not believe his story, of course, but he would take him in, just the same.

  David Wang would find someone to tell: My brother is committing a terrible crime against China, against humanity. I have seen it in Xian. He must be stopped.

  David had reached this conclusion with sadness. His important brother was a criminal. For days he had expected Wang Bin to appear at the attic to explain, to apologize, to disavow any knowledge of David’s imprisonment. Then he had prayed that Wang Bin would come in repentance, denouncing his own crazed scheme, begging forgiveness. David would have given it, willingly, and returned to the United States without saying a word.