Rock Paper Tiger

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

THE CAB DRIVER, my new best friend, gives me a lecture as we drive down the 4th Ring Road.

“You see, this is a problem with modern society. You meet strangers. You don’t know what kind of people they are. You shouldn’t be so trusting.”

“True,” I agree.

It would have been simpler if I’d kept my mouth shut, but I’m drunk. And maybe high on something else-who knows what else was in that vodka, and the Suits sure like their drugs. So I told the cab driver a story about how I was out at this club and I met these two guys and they put something in my drink. I didn’t say what happened after that, but the driver wants to take me to a hospital or, alternately, Public Security.

“That’s okay.”

“Maybe you’re right, Public Security is worthless. But I know some other people…”

He starts hinting about some cousins of his with Triad connections; at least, I think that’s what he’s getting at.

“I just want to go home,” I blurt out.

“Okay, okay. Nide jia zai nar?”

Where is your home?

I laugh to myself.

We’re at the northern end of Chaoyang District. 798 Factory is near here. So is the Capital Airport. I get that urge again, the one that says: go to the airport. Catch the next plane out. Just like when I went to the train station and took the train to Taiyuan.

Maybe that’s not the best way for me to think any more.

Mati Village, I think. That’s where my stuff is. I could go there, even though it’s kind of far.

Then I realize, I don’t even know if I have any money.

I check inside my backpack. Flick on the little flashlight I keep attached to the ring inside. Well, that’s still there.

So is everything else. Here’s my iPhone. My wallet, with 2,000-plus yuan still inside. My passport, in the hidden pocket.

Here’s Beanie squid. With the Taoist fortune and Lao Zhang’s letter tied around its neck.

That’s just weird.

For a moment, I think: Treasure Chicken Village, John getting beat up, the little cement room-maybe none of that really happened. But I know it did. I guess I just somehow hope that really wishing it hadn’t might make it so.

My head pounds, and I think I might throw up again.

All I want to do is lie down.

If you find yourself in town, and you need somewhere to stay, feel free to use this place. Just ring the bell.

Harrison told me that.

“Miss? Where do you want to go?”

I give him the address.

IT’S JUST LIKE Harrison said so long ago. It feels like years. How long ago was that? Two weeks?

It’s the middle of the night, and I don’t even know what day it is.

But I ring the bell, and the housekeeper answers.

Of course, Miss, Mr. Harrison is happy to have you as his guest. You should treat this like your home.

Harrison isn’t there. Didn’t he tell me that he hardly ever was?

“Please,” I ask, “can you tell me when Mr. Harrison is returning?”

“Mmm, not sure. But maybe on Tuesday.”

I’m too embarrassed to ask how far that is from now.

So here I am, in Harrison’s empty luxury penthouse. His gallery. The air conditioning whispers; the air is vaguely scented with cedar.

I wander around in my bare feet. Dangle my toes in the channeled fountain. Stare at the art.

Looking at the work here, I think Lao Zhang’s paintings really are good. They’re about something. I’m not sure what, but I can tell, they’re real. Substantial. No wonder Harrison wants some for his collection.

I’m going to do the right thing, I vow. I’m going to make sure they’re protected. Appreciated.

Lao Zhang trusts me. I’m not going to fuck up.

I stagger into the bedroom I stayed in last time. No pajamas on the bed. I search the dresser drawers and find a stack of silk pajamas, still in their wrappers.

Funny, I think. I wonder who else stays here. How many women? Or how many men? I’m really not sure, in Harrison’s case.

I pick a pair I think will fit and change in the bathroom. Brush my teeth. Stare at my face in the mirror. Yeah, I look like shit. There’s a bruise spread across my cheek. How did that happen?

Oh, yeah. When I landed on the concrete floor.

The swollen lip… Right. I remember that too. When he hit me.

I fall into the large soft bed. Eventually the room stops spinning. And finally I sleep. Or pass out. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

The next morning, the coffee is already brewing when I wander into the kitchen. “For breakfast, what would you like?” the housekeeper asks.

“Anything is fine.”

I sit at the dining table. Here’s a laptop, with an open browser.

I click on to Yahoo. It’s Friday, April 23. 10:12 A.M.

I try to think. I lost… I lost… two days? Three?

I can’t remember.

The housekeeper brings me coffee, a bowl of tofu with pickled vegetables, a croissant, and a bowl of fruit.

“Thanks,” I say vaguely. I surf the Net a while.

I think about checking my e-mail.

Why not? If the Suits can find me no matter where I go and no matter what I do, what difference does it make?

Something stops me. Something about not wanting to involve Harrison, even if I already have, just by being here.

Or something about how he might be one of them.

I really should leave.

But I don’t. Instead, I sit around in silk pajamas and watch TV. Nap. Eat the great meals and drink the tea and fine wine brought to me by the housekeeper, a woman from Fujian nicknamed Annie who treats me like I’m a convalescent. Which in a way I guess I am.

I don’t check my e-mail. I don’t try to log on to the Game.

Nobody bothers me. No one at all. If the Suits know where I am, they choose to leave me alone.

After three days of this, when the bruise on my face has faded to a light green, I figure it’s time to go.

I thank Annie for her kindness and tell her to give Harrison my thanks for his hospitality.

Then I go out into the world.

It’s blistering hot. First thing, I go to the nearest mall and buy myself a couple of T-shirts and some shorts. I used to hate wearing shorts because of the scars on my leg; but now I think: fuck it. It’s hot.

I ride the escalators up and down. Have a bite to eat at the food court in the basement. Stop in at Starbucks and order a latte. Listen to the Afro-pop they’re playing today.

Then I find a Net bar.

The clerk here asks for my passport. I hand it over. I don’t much care any more. She enters it into a computer. Damn, I think, that’s actually efficient. But then this is a classy-looking Net bar. No gaming posters on the wall. An espresso-and-tea station along with the usual cold drinks. Comfortable chairs.

I log in to my e-mail.

My inbox is loaded.

I answer Lucy Wu first: “Hi, Lucy, I’m back in town now. Let me know when you’d like to have lunch. I might have some ideas on that exhibit you’re interested in.”

Read an e-mail from one of my buddies, that dog Turner: “Hey, Baby Doc, hope this finds you doing okay. Guess where I am? Ha ha, that’s right, redeployed to the sandbox. Ain’t life a bitch? But I’m in KBR-land, near the Pizza Hut, so I guess I won’t complain too bad. Attached is a recent pic of me and the family. The new addition is baby Nicole, she’s seven months.

“Take care of yourself, Doc.”

KBR-land is a section of Joint Base Balad. It’s like Little America, they tell me. Most of the guys never leave the base. Same thing with the other three bases they built, bases with air-conditioned Conexes wired with the Internet, football fields, Pizza Huts, and, yeah, Grande Mochachinos.

But still.

Another buddy in the kill zone, in the war without end.

I write him back. Give him some shit and tell him I’m fine and say what a good-looking family he has.

There are a bunch of e-mails from my mom.

“Well, it looks like I’m taking the Sunrise job,” she says in one of them. “Things will be a little tight but I feel that this is what God wants for me and with His help, everything will work out fine. Hope you’re okay sweetie. Write me, would you? It makes me nervous when I don’t hear from you for a while.”

I blink a few times and stare at the screen.

“Hi Mom,” I finally type. “Sorry I haven’t written sooner. I got kind of sick while I was traveling. Nothing serious but I slept a lot and couldn’t get to an Internet bar for a few days. I’m back in Beijing now. Everything’s fine.”

I hesitate. I just can’t decide what needs to be said right now.

Then I think of something.

“Remember that e-mail you sent me? The one about the kid playing piano, with the famous musician telling him to keep playing? That was good advice. Thanks for that.”

I hit send.

There’s nothing from Trey.

What did they tell him, I wonder? The Suits. What did they say? “Hey, no need to worry about your wife any more, ’cause we’re taking care of that problem for you. Enjoy life with your girlfriend, buddy!”

Why did they let me go?

I find Harrison’s card with his e-mail address and write a note thanking him for letting me stay in his apartment. I want to say something, to explain how fucked up I was, how much I needed some sort of refuge, some quiet place. But what can I say? How can I explain?

“Hope I didn’t take too much advantage of your offer,” I write. “But I really appreciate it. I wasn’t feeling too well and having somewhere to stay in town for a couple days really helped me out. Thanks again.”

I should send some flowers, I think. Something for Annie. I’ll do that, I decide. I have to learn how to do that kind of stuff. How to do it right.

Hey, if this thing with Lao Zhang’s art works out, I’ll cut Harrison a good deal.

I go through every e-mail. Even the stuff that looks like spam. Just to make sure that there isn’t some hidden message, some communication from the Great Community.

Nothing.

I log on to the Game, using a proxy. I figure I’d better not try using Chuckie’s anonymizer, not since the Suits got their hands on it.

Little Mountain Tiger is where I left her, sitting in front of the Yellow Mountain Monastery gate.

“Hail, the Great Community.”

No one answers. I sit for a while. Listen to the wind howl through the peaks of the Yellow Mountains.

By the time I log out, it’s about five o’clock.

Out on the street, it’s as hot as it was before, and the wind has kicked up, carrying with it a haze of yellow dust. I walk a ways. I don’t know where I’m going. Mati Village, I guess. Eventually.

Where I am now, it’s all apartment blocks, office buildings, broad streets, and traffic.

I’m tired. My chest aches from breathing dust. I see a Mexican restaurant, the Sombrero Café, on the first floor of a new tower, a squat space with a thick, tinted Plexiglas window. It looks like it’s being crushed by all that weight above it.

In spite of that, I go inside. I’m thinking maybe I’ll try their fajitas.

But I’m not really hungry. I sit at the bar and order a beer.

It’s dark and cool in here, at least. Embroidered sombreros and piñatas dangle from the ceiling. The chips are passable, the salsa oddly spiced, and the bar is fake walnut.

I drink the beer down and order a second. I’m thinking about, I don’t know, cement rooms and lying on that hard mattress next to Creepy John.

I’m pretty spaced out. Disassociating again.

Which is why I sit there like an idiot when Suit #2-the older, meaner one-slides onto the stool next to me.

“Calm down, Doc,” he says immediately. “I’m just here for a drink.”

He lifts his hand. “Tequila. Reserva de la Familia. Two.”

I unfreeze. “What the fuck do you want?”

“Like I said.”

The bartender, a guy who actually looks Mexican, comes over with two shots of tequila.

Suit #2-Carter-pounds his down. “Keep it coming,” he says. He turns to me. “Come on, aren’t you gonna join me? All that time you spent in Arizona, I figure you must like tequila. And this is the good stuff.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Shit. Considering I liberated your ass, the least you could do is have a drink with me.”

I should leave. I know I should. “What do you mean?” I ask.

“Listen, if it were up to Macias, you’d still be a PUC.”

Person under control.

I sip the tequila. It really is good.

“Fucking cowboy,” Suit #2 says, tossing back his second shot. “Guys like that, they just make everything harder.”

“I don’t get it,” I say. “Why did you help me?”

“We don’t do that kind of shit to our fellow Americans.” Then he snorts with laughter. “Much.”

The bartender comes over and refills our glasses.

“You threatened me,” I say. “You told me there’d be consequences.”

“Yeah, well, I was trying to scare you, sweetie. See, that’s the thing. Most of the time, you let people know what they’re up against, they fold.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Well…” Suit #2 contemplates his shot glass. “Well, that all depends on what’s at stake.” He turns to me and smiles. “Hey, we’re the good guys, remember? Macias was just fucking with you. He probably would’ve let you go eventually.”

I drink more tequila. I’m feeling this energy. It might be rage.

“I don’t get it,” I say.

“We can’t have people fucking with us,” Suit #2 explains patiently. “We’re operating in a tough neighborhood. That means you gotta show you’re strong. Someone like you, maybe you think you can yank my chain and get away with it. But those aren’t the rules any more, okay? You fuck with us, we fuck you back, and it’s asymmetrical warfare, honey. The guns are on our side.”

It’s not like I don’t know this. It’s not like I didn’t see it, before. Except I was on the other side back then.

A gun doesn’t care what it shoots.

“So why’d you help me?” I ask again. “If you really did.”

“Fucking Macias, he never knows where the line is,” Suit #2 says, disgusted. “You fuck with an American citizen, that’s a whole clusterfuck, right? But Macias, he’s impatient. He’s gotta get what he wants right away.”

Suit #2 stares off at some point in the middle distance. There’s no way I want to know what he’s seeing.

“If you hadn’t called, I would’ve brought you in,” he finally says. “But not like that. That was over the top.”

I almost laugh. “So… what? You felt sorry for me?”

He shrugs. “Big fucking drama for no reason. I got us what we needed my way.”

I don’t want to ask. But I have to. “Lao Zhang?”

“Nah. He’s the Chinese government’s problem. Too bad. He’d be better off with us.” He signals the bartender. “Just bring us the bottle, okay?”

There were two things they wanted. Lao Zhang was one. “The Uighur?”

“Mmm-hmmm.” Suit #2 tops off our shot glasses. “Thanks to you.”

“Me? But… I didn’t know anything.”

“’Course you didn’t. But I got a tip. From somebody who did know something. You know, it’s horse-trading.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. But I already do, at least part of it. Before he even says it.

“I want something; my new buddy wants something. So, Macias grabbing you, that wasn’t totally wasted. He gave me something to trade. Something that was worth more to my new buddy than that poor pathetic son-of-a-bitch Uighur.” He lifts up his glass in a mock toast. “Here’s to you, sweetie. The superior horse.”

The tequila I’ve had burns in my empty gut like acid.

“Is this someone I know?” I ask shakily.

“You think I’m gonna tell you that?”

“What about the Uighur?”

“What about him?”

“What happened to him?”

“You really wanna know?”

I think about this. I stare at the shot glass. Fuck him, I think, and his stupid macho drinking contest. I take a sip. “Yeah. I do.”

“Traded him to Uzbekistan,” Suit #2 replies, almost merrily. “Poor ol’ Hashim’s an Uzbek national. Regime wanted him for subversion. Of course, it doesn’t take much to be a subversive in Uzbekistan. Nasty motherfuckers. You know they like to boil dissidents alive?”

“I didn’t know they had Uighurs in Uzbekistan,” I say stupidly.

“Yeah. Lots of them.”

I just sit there. What am I supposed to say to this?

Finally, I come up with: “Why?”

“Natural gas. Oil. Bases. You heard of the Shanghai Cooperative Organization?”

I shake my head.

“Joint security and development group. China, Russia, and a bunch of the ’Stans: Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, couple others I can’t remember. Lovely bunch of dictators and assholes, doing their best to cut us off from Central Asian energy markets. So, we run a counteroffensive, okay? Do these guys some favors. Cut them some deals. You want a quesadilla?”

I don’t get to answer this question, because Suit #2 has already signaled the bartender and ordered two quesadillas, along with a side of guacamole, before I can even open my mouth.

“Couple of years ago, some of the liberals at State got their panties in a wad about Uzbekistan’s human rights violations,” he continues. “Made a big public boo-hoo about it. We lost our military base there. We want it back. Thus, the Uighur. See, he’s their superior horse. We give them the Uighur as a gesture of good faith. They see we can deliver. They give us something back. Simple, right?”

“You’re fucking sick.”

He laughs. “Like your hands are clean. C’mon, honey. You think I don’t know what you and your hubby did in the war?”

If you’re going to get gut-punched, it might as well be while holding a shot of tequila. I drink.

“I didn’t do anything,” I say. I sound like a sullen kid.

“Oh, that’s right. You just helped.”

“I treated detainees. That’s it.”

“A regular Suzy Nightingale.”

I let that go. “I was a medic. What was I supposed to do?”

“You could’ve blown the whistle. You could’ve told someone.”

“I got blown up, remember?”

Suit #2 shrugs. “You wanna tell yourself that, go right ahead.”

I think about what he’s said. But it’s not like I haven’t thought about it before.

“I had a few weeks,” I finally say. “Maybe a month between when I figured out what was going on and when I got hurt. I was confused. But I didn’t hurt anyone. I treated a few detainees. I did my job.”

Suit #2 laughs and pours us both more tequila. “You signed off on it, sweetie. You signed their reports. You gave them cover. ‘Injured during extraction.’ Or maybe you didn’t do paper on a few of them at all. Right?”

I don’t say anything. I can’t.

“All you had to do was tell the truth,” he says, like it was no big deal, like we’re talking about copping to a traffic ticket, “if you really gave a shit. Maybe you could have stopped it. Ever think about that?”

Like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Fuck you,” I whisper. “I was nineteen years old.”

“Sorry,” he says, without an ounce of sympathy. “You don’t get a pass for that.”

I feel like I’m shrinking into myself again. Like I want to hide forever. Like I’ve felt for almost seven years.

I can’t feel this way any more.

“Yeah, okay,” I say. “I was young and stupid. But I’ve learned. So what’s your excuse?”

He grins. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Our food arrives. Believe it or not, I eat some. I figure I’d better.

“What happened to John?” I think to ask.

“John?” he says, between bites of guacamole-covered quesadilla.

“Zhou Zheng’an. The guy I was with when your pals grabbed me. He got beat up really bad.”

“Oh, that guy?” He takes the salsa bowl and dumps a puddle on his quesadilla. “Shipped him off to Kabul.”

Then Suit #2 gives me that shit-eating grin and tops off my tequila. “Just kidding. They dropped him at some rathole hospital out in the boonies. He was alive when we left him there. Hopefully they didn’t kill him.”

After that, I don’t have much appetite. Suit #2 does, though. He finishes off his quesadilla, using the last wedge to wipe up the remains of the guacamole.

Then he slaps a stack of hundred-yuan notes on the bar. “Well, I’m outta here. I’ll try to keep Macias off your back. But you better be smart. You start acting stupid, there’s not much I can do.”

I nod. What can I say?

Then I think of something. “How’d you guys keep finding me?”

“Trade secret,” he says with a snort.

“Give me a hint.”

He considers. “Well, we don’t depend on any one thing. Redundancy, right? So, we have our HUMINT, and we have our SIGINT-the high-tech stuff.” He leans toward me, like he’s about to share a particularly juicy piece of gossip. “Take your passport. It’s got an RFID chip embedded in it. That chip’s got all kinds of personal information.”

I’ve actually heard of this. RFID chips are in a lot of stuff these days-passports, ID badges, keycards, cars, consumer goods. They track goods and people from one point to another.

“But that only works at short range,” I say. “The chip has to be within a couple of feet of a scanner.”

“Unless it’s active, with its own power source. We can pick those up from satellites. How’s about that for Big Brother?”

He grins again and pats me on the shoulder. “Hey, I’m just giving you shit. Your passport doesn’t have one of those.” He tops off my shot glass one last time. “Tequila’s on me. Enjoy.”