Carl Hiaasen - A Death in China

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 certain 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.