A Map of Betrayal: A Novel

1971–1972

It was reported that Mao Zedong had been so impressed by Gary’s analyses of the U.S. motivation in publishing the news about the Soviets’ planned air strikes on China’s nuclear bases that the chairman told his comrades in the Politburo, “This man is worth four armored divisions.” Those words heralded an imminent rise in Gary’s spying stature.

The intelligence he had sent back helped Mao see the Americans’ motivations in a new light and make appropriate decisions in response to international events. For years the White House had been thinking about how to establish some relationship with Beijing, because the United States regarded the Soviet Union as the archenemy, more dangerous and destructive than China. The gulf between the two Communist countries was no longer news, but how could America exploit their animosity to reshape the world’s political structure to its own advantage? No one at the White House could give a definite answer. All they knew was that they should engage China, with whom they might even cultivate some trade in the course of time, considering its huge population and vast market. At the moment this policy of engagement was the rule they would follow.

Who could have imagined that the rotation of the globe of international politics suddenly accelerated by the spinning of a tiny Ping-Pong ball? In early April 1971, the U.S. national team went to Nagoya, Japan, to compete in the thirty-first World Table Tennis Championships. By chance, an American athlete, Glenn Cowan, boarded a bus transporting the Chinese team to a stadium. When he saw his mistake, the door had already closed. He had no choice but to take the ride, standing behind the driver and displaying “USA” on the back of his dark blue sweater to the Chinese athletes. During the ride nobody said a word to the young American, but as the bus was approaching the destination, Zhuang Zedong, the three-time world champion then, was bold enough to say a few welcoming words to Cowan and even presented an embroidered kerchief to him. Though overjoyed, the American man had nothing on him with which he could reciprocate. But he waylaid Zhuang the following day and gave him a T-shirt with a U.S. team button attached to it. Their meeting was photographed by many reporters, and pictures of the American and Chinese athletes exchanging presents appeared in some newspapers that very evening. The incident became international news.

Toward the end of the tournament, the Chinese, having won three gold medals, invited a few Ping-Pong teams, including the Mexicans and the Canadians, to visit China. The Americans, an underdog team in the sport, approached the Chinese to see if it might be possible to get invited as well, since their southern and northern neighbors both were heading to China. Immediately the Chinese reported the request to their Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which suggested turning the Americans down. Then the matter was forwarded to Premier Zhou Enlai, who also believed there was no justification for a hostile country’s Ping-Pong team to come for a visit. But when the Americans’ request was reported to Mao, the chairman was amazed and cried out his admiration for the leading Chinese athlete. “My uncle Zhuang, what a diplomat! Smarter than the professionals.” Mao gave instructions to invite the U.S. team without delay. But his aide, who was also his head nurse, wouldn’t pass on the order because there was a rule that after Mao took a sleeping pill, his words would not count. Seeing the woman still sitting there, the chairman demanded, “Why won’t you send out my order?” She answered, “You just took a sleeping pill and I can’t break the rule.” Mao burst out, “To hell with the rule! Go call the Foreign Ministry and tell them we invite the U.S. team right away. Go, go, I hope it’s not too late.”

Thus began the well-known Ping-Pong diplomacy, which paved the way for the official exchange between China and the United States. A perceptive politician, Mao seized an insignificant occurrence, the casual meeting of two athletes, and turned it into an opportunity to effect a historic breakthrough in international politics. By inviting the American athletes, he meant to signify to the White House that China was ready to open itself to the United States. Three months after the U.S. Ping-Pong team’s successful visit, National Security Adviser Henry Kissinger went to China secretly via Pakistan and mapped out the plan for President Nixon’s official trip to Beijing in February 1972, which led to normalizing the two countries’ relationship in 1979.

However, in the beginning, the Chinese leaders couldn’t help but question the wisdom of receiving the U.S. president in Beijing. They were uncertain about Nixon’s sincerity. The Americans were notorious for their deceptions and unscrupulousness, especially when their national interests were at stake. What if they went back on their word? What if Nixon got cold feet and at the last moment wouldn’t come? That would be an international embarrassment. Even if he came, what if he refused to sign a joint communiqué? What if he demanded more than was reasonable? The whole thing could turn out to be a trick to humiliate China in the eyes of the world.

Those kinds of misgivings fed the intense debate in the Politburo. Even Mao couldn’t make up his mind in spite of his eagerness to use the United States to offset the Soviet threat. Therefore, directly from the top came an order for Gary Shang: try your utmost to verify the U.S. intention in making overtures to China.

This proved easy for Gary. He’d been observing the Ping-Pong diplomacy intently, and the information flowing through his hands had convinced him that the United States was serious. He wrote a comprehensive report that argued for pushing forward to restore a normal relationship with the United States. He took photos of some key documents as evidence for his views. He delivered the intelligence through Father Murray, because he couldn’t go to Hong Kong in 1971. His wife, suffering from gallstones, had been housebound for months. Although urged by her doctor and her husband to have an operation, Nellie was terrified of the scalpel, and as a result, she had to bear more pain. If Gary had taken a vacation in the Far East under such circumstances, he might have aroused the suspicion of the CIA or the FBI.

Far away from his homeland, he was ecstatic to see the rapid progress in the two countries’ relationship. Apparently the Chinese leaders had made full use of his intelligence, which had reinforced their resolve to receive the Americans with open arms.

IN THE SUMMER OF 1972, five months after Nixon’s visit to Beijing, Nellie had recovered from an operation (she finally agreed to it because her pain had grown unbearable) and resumed working at Peggy’s Kitchen, and Gary went to Bangkok again. From there he flew to Hong Kong a week later. This time, besides Bingwen, Hao Ding, who was the new minister of national security and in charge of China’s intelligence work, received him. Gary knew of Ding, a squat man with a high forehead and fat ears, whose father had been a legendary figure in the Communists’ intelligence community, a founder of the system. A sumptuous banquet of Mandarin cuisine was held at Phoenix Garden on a backstreet in Causeway Bay in honor of Gary, who had earned praise from the top national leaders. Five strange men, all from the mainland, were also present. One of them had no eyebrows, was as bald as a honeydew, and was chugging down cola instead of tea. Two of them seemed to be high-ranking officials, similar to Ding. Probably they had all taken this junket to Hong Kong on the pretext of honoring Gary. It was at this dinner that Gary heard about Mao’s remark about him being “worth four armored divisions.”

After two cups of Maotai, Ding gave a brief speech. He spoke solemnly in a subdued voice, saying that Gary’s invaluable intelligence had enabled China to handle international politics and diplomacy with prescience and assuredness, so the country had awarded Gary a special merit citation. On behalf of the Politburo, Ding apprised Gary of a great promotion — now his rank was the eighth and he was appointed a vice minister of national security. In addition, twenty thousand dollars had just been deposited into his bank account. Ding ended by saying to Gary, “Now you and I are equal in rank. Congratulations, my comrade!”

Bingwen, overwhelmed by the announcement as if Gary’s honors were his own, said with his mouth slightly awry, “Brother, you’re a big man now. I’m so happy for you!”

Gary was stunned by the promotion and touched by his friend’s words. He told them, “Whatever I did was out of my deep love for our motherland. A spy’s life can be miserable and lonely”—his voice caught—“but when I think that hundreds of millions of people might benefit from my service and that our country might be safer because of the intelligence I have gathered, I feel that my personal pain and privation are no longer worth fretting about. Please let our national leaders know I am grateful and will serve our country more diligently.” He had to stop, his throat constricting while tears filled his eyes.

All the men nodded approval. Ding, chain-smoking cigarettes out of an ivory holder, told Gary that they would love to see him retire safe and sound back in China someday so he could spend his remaining years happily with his family. That also meant their country would take care of him for life. The banquet continued for two more hours, until Ding got tipsy and began making smutty remarks about Hong Kong women.

On the double-decker tram back to Central, Bingwen was still excited and exuberant. He said to Gary, “You know, in terms of rank, you’re a major general now. I’m so glad you made it.”

Lounging on the hardwood seat the two were sharing, Gary replied, “Well, I was surprised when Hao Ding told me about the promotion. But come to think of it, it really doesn’t mean much to me — it might not affect my life one bit there. I’m just a translator at the CIA, like a lowly clerk.”

“But you are our hero!” Bingwen persisted. “Your feats will go down in our Party’s intelligence history. You’re a dagger plunged in the enemy’s heart.”

Gary twitched as his insides tightened. Through the window, a cinema flitted by, flaunting a garish ad for the Bruce Lee movie Fist of Fury. In the north a lone light kept flashing on the murky water as if it were signaling a message. Gary was a heartbeat from saying he’d trade any heroic name for a normal life, but he closed his eyes as if he were about to drift off to sleep. He stifled the urge to cry.

A moment later he managed to say, “Please make sure Yufeng and our kids will receive all the privileges that a vice minister’s family is entitled to.”

“Of course we’ll do that,” Bingwen said.

TWO MONTHS LATER, in a conference room at CIA headquarters, more than two hundred of Gary’s colleagues were seated. George Thomas, now the chief of the East Asia Division, was presiding over the meeting, at which three employees were to receive a medal for distinguished service. He talked about the uniqueness of this year’s awards, every one of them approved by Director Helms personally. Over the past decade Thomas’s demeanor had grown somewhat senatorial, especially after he’d earned his PhD, and his tongue was more limber now — he could speak to an audience about any topic at length. One of the honorees was a woman of Cuban descent, an expert on Indochina; another was a Japan hand, a hulking man in his early sixties who had served as a captain in the U.S. Navy, had a Japanese wife, and would on a fine day canoe across the Potomac to work at the CIA; and the third was Gary Shang, recognized for his invaluable analyses and acumen, which had helped the United States find ways to engage China. Gary wore a blue double-breasted blazer, a red paisley tie, and tassel loafers, smiling while listening to Thomas praise the recipients for their work and dedication.

The moment Thomas read out the citation for the Indochina expert, the woman went over to accept her medal, contained in a small maroon box. She was somewhat rotund but wore wedges, teetering a little as she walked. Yet like a soldier, she turned to face her colleagues, clicked her heels together, and raised her hand to her temple in a salute. That evoked laughter from the room. Next went the Japan hand, wearing a brown corduroy jacket with leather elbow patches. His stooped back gave him a hump and also the nickname Dromedary, which nobody dared to use in front of him. He took the medal from their chief, wheeled around to the audience, kissed the box, and called out, “Thank you. Love you all!”

Thomas got emotional and long-winded when it was Gary’s turn. After reading out the citation, the chief added a personal note, saying, “Gary Shang is a longtime colleague of ours and doesn’t need an introduction. You all know he’s one of the most accomplished translators and an expert in our profession. I’m proud of having known him for twenty-three years — that is to say, since he was a young man. In fact, I recruited him in Shanghai in 1949, after I interviewed dozens of people. He was the only one we took on. Gosh, how handsome and youthful the chap was. Every one of us at the cultural agency was impressed because Gary stood out in many ways. Smart, quick, prudent, and knowledgeable. Since then he and I have been working together, first in south China, next in Okinawa, then in the DC area. I’m not good at judging people, but one of the best things I did in my professional life was to hire Gary. He’s a model of devotion, diligence, and loyalty. I count him not only as an outstanding colleague but also as a dear friend. Now, welcome Gary Shang.”

Gary walked to the front with a slight spring in his step, his legs shaking a little, which was unusual for a man of his experience. It was George Thomas’s heartfelt words that had unnerved him, but he forced a smile and hugged Thomas. They held each other tightly for a few seconds while applause broke out. Gary was moved, his eyes wet. He turned to speak to the audience. “I’m greatly honored by this award and touched by what George just said. Twenty-three years is a long time in a person’s life, and for me, it has also been a transformative period, during which I first became a refugee, then an immigrant, and then a U.S. citizen. This country took me in and gave me a family and a home. I pride myself on serving this nation and on doing my part to make it a safer, better place for ourselves and for our children. I hope I will be able to work for another twenty-three years, so I take this award as an encouragement and reassurance. Thank you, George. Thank you all.” He veered and hurried off the platform, his legs shaking violently now, and the faces before him were swimming. Somehow he was touched by his own little speech, which had come from deep within and caught him by surprise. His head was reeling with emotion. Indeed, after living in America for seventeen years, he’d begun to view it as his second country.

A reception followed on the seventh floor. Though this was just a work event, there were cocktails and wine at a bar, and also cheese and hors d’oeuvres carried around by six waitresses. People were trading pleasantries and making small talk, the whole lounge buzzing and humming. Gary reminded himself not to drink too much, because he’d have to pick up his daughter at the train station that evening. The girl was coming home from her prep school to have a molar pulled. Gary held a flute of champagne but only sipped it. Now and then he picked up a meatball or a giant olive stuffed with sun-dried tomato from the salvers floating around. He chatted at length with David Shuman about the Red model drama currently in vogue in China. David particularly liked the play called Taking the Tiger Mountain by Strategies, not for the lyrics or the subject matter but for the music and the scenery. He had watched the films of many contemporary Chinese plays and was becoming an expert on the revolutionary drama, even able to sing snatches of Beijing opera. He often chanted in Gary’s presence: “Before going to the torture chamber / Let me drink a bowl of wine poured by you, my mother / To make me bold and unbreakable.” Or: “Ah, this little rascal / Who has no manners whatsoever.” It was too bad that David couldn’t visit China (his name had appeared on Beijing’s blacklist). Swirling his wine, he again brought up the topic of the Chinese government’s recent objection to him as a member of an unofficial cultural delegation. Gary consoled him, saying, “Who knows, you might become a big diplomat someday. Life is unpredictable. Just follow your own interests and hang in there. I’m sure good opportunities will present themselves.”

“Thanks,” David said. “Besides, I enjoy what I’ve been doing and I’m paid to specialize in Chinese affairs. You can’t beat that.”

By now Gary’s life was peaceful and materially comfortable. The previous fall his daughter had gone to prep school, and she was doing well there and should have no difficulty getting into a good college. Whenever he went to Boston on business, he’d rent a car and drive forty miles to Groton so he could spend a bit of time with Lilian. He loved her and would spare no cost for her education. If someday he returned to China, he hoped she would often visit him there. She was his deepest attachment to this land.

Before Christmas in 1972, Gary was informed by the CIA that he’d been given a thirteen-hundred-dollar raise. In the previous years his salary had been increased by three or four hundred dollars annually, just enough to keep up with inflation. This time the big raise delighted both him and Nellie. When she asked him why they were so generous to him, he merely said, “I worked hard and deserve it.”

She smiled, rolling her eyes while stroking his hairless wrist. “You’re such an arrogant man,” she told him.

I still often heard from my niece Juli after her reunion with her parents in Fushan. She had just opened an electronics shop selling DVDs, video games, cell phones. She had attempted to order some iPads, but at the moment they were in short supply because too many young people were crazy about this new Apple product. There were some pirated iPads available, but they were almost as expensive as the genuine thing. Juli sent me a photo of her store, which was a few doors down the street from her mother’s seamstress shop. Her parents were happy to have her home and tried every way to make her stay. The family had just bought a car, a red low-end Chery, which looked like a mini-compact sedan and cost over fifty thousand yuan, about eight thousand dollars. (I wondered if that was how she had spent the settlement money from Wuping.) Juli was the only one in the family who could drive, so she made deliveries for her mother’s shop as well. She seemed to have calmed down and confided to me that she’d been giving two middle schoolers music lessons and was going to form a small band so they could perform in the evenings. She would just play the guitar because there were others who had better voices. “If the locals only could have more opportunities,” Juli wrote. “Some of them are more talented than those people in my band in Guangzhou.”

I was glad to see that she hadn’t lost her passion for music. On behalf of her parents, Juli invited me to visit them the next summer. “Maybe my brother will come home too,” she said. “We will have a big reunion.” The family was pleased to know Ben was in America, near me. Without a second thought I accepted their invitation and was amazed by my prompt response, since in general I wasn’t fond of travel. But I felt close to these relatives in China, even closer than to Aunt Marsha’s family. Perhaps my presence would help improve the family’s standing in the county town, because they could be known to have overseas relations, who are often viewed as opportunities. Unlike decades ago, nowadays officials try to cultivate foreign connections. Many of the rich send their children abroad for college, and people with enough means plan to emigrate because they feel insecure with their newfound wealth. In Beijing and Shanghai and Guangzhou it’s fashionable to greet rich friends by saying, “Done with the emigration paperwork yet?”

I’d been working on a syllabus for a new course in the fall and had also been reading the books I would assign my class. I enjoyed the summer’s peace and quiet, which was nourishing both mentally and physically, so I spent most of the daytime in my study while Henry was busy with the maintenance work. In late August he bought another five Intel chips for Ben. These were smaller than the previous batch but more expensive, costing nearly four thousand dollars total. The prospect of a bigger profit had Henry floating on air. He often whistled a tune while vacuuming the corridors of our building or wiping the windows in the lobby with a squeegee or hauling the wheeled trash cans between the backyard and the front street. But I was ill at ease about his little sideline, knowing Ben’s business was shady. I wondered if I should talk Henry out of it but decided not to. In his whole life seldom had he been able to make money so easily, and I wouldn’t spoil his mood. Let him be happy if he enjoyed helping Ben.

ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON BEFORE LABOR DAY, Ben called and asked if I’d heard from Sonya. “No,” I said. “What happened to her?”

“She’s gone. I looked for her everywhere and can’t figure out where she might be. I emailed her, but she won’t respond.”

“Did you two have a fight?”

“Sort of.”

“Is there a third party involved?”

“No, what made you say that?”

“Sonya said you gabbed too much with some women on your Weibo.”

“That’s because I’m supposed to set up a website. I have to find the people who can help me.”

“Help you with what?”

“The website.”

“What kind of website is that?”

“Mainly on weaponry and space technology. My company wants me to edit a magazine as well, using the information available online.”

“So you and Sonya fell out over something else?”

“She’s too headstrong. I asked her to give me a couple of weeks so I could make up my mind.”

“About what?”

“Her pregnancy, what else?”

“Didn’t I tell you to leave it to her?”

“I can’t. A baby means a lifetime commitment. I can’t let her bring a child into the world without the love and care of both parents. My mother and uncle had a terrible childhood growing up without a father, so I don’t want that to happen to my children.”

His words startled me as I realized that my assumptions about his hesitation had been simplistic. “Then what do you plan to do?” I asked.

“I must find her. I’m worried sick. You know I love her.”

“If you do, propose to her. That might solve the trouble.”

“It’s not that simple. My life is still insecure. I must fix a few things before I can propose to her.”

I didn’t press him for more details and promised to look for Sonya as well. After I hung up, I wrote her an email and asked her to contact me without delay. I said Ben was worried, calling around looking for her. “Please don’t run away like this,” I pleaded. “If you want to keep the baby, you’re obligated to give it a loving father. You mustn’t leave Ben out of this, because the child has already bound you two together.”

Late that night Sonya called and said she was staying with a cousin in Toronto. Her parents had asked her to return to Ukraine, but she would not and had to figure out where to live if Ben jilted her.

“For Christ’s sake, he won’t do that,” I said.

“You never know, Lilian. He can be very cold, cold like an animal. I simply don’t know what to make of him. Maybe he had a traumatized childhood.”

“He just told me that to have a child means a lifetime commitment. If he were heartless, he wouldn’t have said that, would he? If he had no feelings for you, he wouldn’t be worried sick looking for you. Sonya, try to use your head. To my mind, he does love you. It looks to me as if, if he lets you have the child, he might propose to you. That’s what makes him hesitate.”

“You sure that’s what he’s thinking?”

“Pretty sure. If he wanted to wash his hands of you, he could use this opportunity to fire you. For whatever doubts you might have about him, he’s a decent man at heart. I’m positive about that.”

My words seemed to be soaking in, though she didn’t say what she was going to do. I thought of calling Ben but decided not to. Probably Sonya would contact him soon, so I’d better let them sort things out by themselves.

As I’d expected, Ben called me the next evening, saying Sonya was with a relative of hers, a thirty-something studying sculpture in Canada. Ben had to attend to an urgent business matter and couldn’t go to Toronto, but Sonya had promised to return within a few days and not to do anything drastic. I was glad to hear that but was still somewhat mystified by Ben, so I asked him why it was so hard for him to propose to Sonya. He paused, tiny bursts of static crackling. Then he said, “Because I must first figure out what happened to my grandfather. Only after that can I decide whether to settle down in America.”

Surprised, I asked, “Why do you have to know more about him? Those articles I sent you give a pretty accurate picture of his life and activities here.”

“There might be more than that. I must understand him thoroughly.” Ben gave a nervous giggle. “Like Comrade Vladimir Lenin said, ‘To forget the past amounts to betrayal.’ I’m not a forgetful man.”

I wondered why he didn’t ask me for more articles on his grandfather or for Gary’s diary. I offered, “I can FedEx you the book on my father, The Chinese Spook. It gives a good amount of information, but don’t buy everything it says.”

“That would be great. Please send it along. I’ll read it carefully and make my own judgment.”

I emailed Sonya, saying she should give Ben some time so he could decide whether to live in the States permanently. I added, “Keep in mind that he is working for a Chinese company and might be called back anytime.”

She returned: “What’s the big deal? I will be happy to live with him in China if he has to go back.”

Seeing those words, I smiled and my eyes misted over. I hadn’t thought she loved him so much that she was willing to settle down with him even in China, where life could be hard for Westerners.