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, fooclass="underline" 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."
"How?" Stratton was too nonplussed to invent a denial.
"How did we ever know the name of the dashing captain of intelligence in Saigon who always undertook the most dangerous infiltration missions? The hero of many medals who led raids into North Vietnam and, once, even into China?
"How simple Americans are! Heroes are never truly anonymous, Captain, and soldiers can never be trusted with secrets. Can they? Think back to Saigon. Many Americans knew the true identity of the secret 'Captain Black.' Can you believe they never talked? To their girls, to friends when they were drunk. It took some time, the file says as much. But within a few months, North Vietnamese intelligence knew you were Captain Black. After your raid into China, they shared their information-we were allies then, remember. The Vietnamese wanted you very badly, and after your slaughter of innocent peasants, so did we. Too bad you left Saigon before the assassination teams could find you."
"You got the wrong guy," Stratton said without conviction.
"I think not. Your death, at least, is something for which the Revolution will thank me. Goodbye, Captain. I hope you will find hell even less hospitable than China."
Wang Bin stormed from the makeshift cell. Stratton heard the heavy wooden bar fall against the door. He lay for a long time on the fetid ground, thinking, listening.