Wall of Night

42

It was six p.m. local time when Tanner’s plane touched down at Beijing’s Capital Airport.

Once off the jetway, he found himself on a narrow concourse bordered by iron barricades. Painted on the floor were two stripes, one red and one green, each leading to Customs gates.

Overhead, a speaker crackled to life. A singsong voice recited something first in Chinese, then French, German, and finally English: “Welcome to Beijing. Travelers with declarations, to the red area; travelers without declarations, to the green area. Have all documents ready for inspection.”

Tanner chose the red line, waited his turn, then set his duffle bag on the counter.

“Bu dui!” the customs agent barked. “Bu dui!” No, not good!

“Shanme?” Tanner replied, deliberately mutating “what” into the word for “moldy noodles.”

“Not time for bag,” the agent said in English. “Put on floor until ask. Papers please.”

Along with his passport, Tanner handed over the plethora of forms he’d filled out on the plane: entry registration, health card, luggage declaration, temporary visitor (business) entry visa, letter of invitation, photographic equipment permit request, and an emergency contact sheet.

The agent scanned the documents. “What is your name?”

“Ben Colson.”

“Your letter of invitation is three months old.”

“This is the earliest I could be here.”

“Who is this? Who gave invitation?”

“He’s a deputy minister in Sichuan Province,” Tanner replied.

In truth, the man didn’t exist, but the gamble was a safe one given the number of ministers, deputy ministers, and associate deputy ministers in China. More importantly, the letter was printed on the correct stationery and covered with half a dozen “chops,” or bureaucratic routing stamps.

“He oversees a cultural exchange program,” Tanner said. “When he heard about my book—”

The agent waved his hand, bored. “Book? What book?”

“It’s called Glorious Zhongguo.”

“You are declaring a camera. Where is it?”

Tanner produced the camera, a top-of-the-line digital Nikon.

“Photographing of restricted areas is forbidden: Police stations, government buildings, military bases — all forbidden. You must have camera when leave. If not, you will be fined.”

“I understand.”

“Now bag.”

Tanner set his duffle on the counter. The agent unzipped it, rummaged inside for a moment, then withdrew a copy of U.S. News and World Report. “What is this? Why did you bring this?”

“I wanted something to read.”

The agent flipped through it, frowning and shaking his head. “This is not allowed.”

“Why?”

“Political. It is political.”

Tanner had half-expected this, but it still surprised him. The fact that he could probably buy the very same magazine in one of the airport’s shops told him the magazine itself wasn’t the issue, but rather that he, an arrogant waiguoren, or “far country person,” had dared bring it into the country.

The agent rifled through the rest of his bag, studying his razor, tapping his comb against the counter, unfolding his map and holding it up to the light, unrolling his socks … The process continued until Tanner felt the first flutter of fear in his belly. It doesn’t mean anything. You‘re American and you‘ve rubbed him the wrong way, nothing more.

The agent finished with his bag, then stuffed the contents back inside and shoved it across the counter. He stamped each of Tanner’s documents and handed them back. “Welcome to China.”

He hadn’t walked fifty feet when two charcoal-suited Chinese men stepped in front of him and flashed their IDs. They were plainclothes PSB inspectors.

“Good evening,” the taller one said in English. “Your passport and entry documents, please.”

Tanner handed them over. “Have I done something wrong, Officer?”

The inspector gave the paperwork a cursory glance, then handed them to his partner. “You will please come with us, Mr. Colson.”

“Am I under arrest? Have I done something wrong? Perhaps I made a mistake on my—”

The inspector stepped forward and cupped Tanner’s elbow. “Please come with us.”

They led him through a locked door and down two flights of stairs to a small, windowless room with a table and three chairs. Sitting in the corner was the suitcase he’d checked aboard the plane.

Bad sign, Briggs thought. They’d seized his bag before they had approached him, which meant this wasn’t a random stop. Though not yet ready to push the panic button, he felt himself tensing.

He scanned the room for cameras or peepholes; there were none. It was just him and these two inspectors. If the time came, he’d have to disable both of them quickly.

He rehearsed it in his mind: Search them for anything pertaining to him, take the documents and luggage, hail a cab, get into the city, find the cache drop and pray Mason’s embassy people have already stocked it, then go to ground … With any luck, an hour after leaving the airport he would be lost in Beijing’s ten million-plus population.

He prayed it didn’t come to that. His job was going to be hard enough by itself; doing so while being hunted as a fugitive would make it nearly impossible.

“Please sit,” the lead inspector said.

Tanner did so. The inspectors remained standing, the tall one at the table, his partner beside the door. Smart boy, Briggs thought. Have to reach him before he can get out the door …

“Where are you staying, Mr. Colson?”

“The Bamboo Garden Hotel on Jiugulou Street.”

“You list your occupation as photographer. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Tell us about your book.”

“It’s not my book, actually. I was hired by the house—”

“The what?”

“The publisher — Random House in New York.”

“Please continue.”

“It’s a portrait on China called Glorious Zhongguo.”

“You used the traditional name for our country — why?”

“It’s what you call your country; it seemed appropriate.”

“Quite so. The word China is a Western invention. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“You are an employee of this publisher?”

“No, I’m freelance — I work for myself.”

“You are an entrepreneur?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“We have entrepreneurs now, you know.”

“I’ve heard that.” He’s fishing, Tanner thought. Was this waiguoren an advocate for the spread of the disease known as capitalism, or did he recognize the sanctity of Chinese culture and tradition?

“What’s your opinion of China’s entrepreneurial system?” the inspector pressed.

“I don’t really have one. I just take pictures. I let the politicians worry about that other stuff.”

The inspector stared at him for a moment. “Spoken like a true artist, Mr. Colson.” He reached down, picked up Tanner’s duffle, and placed it on the table. “May I?”

“Help yourself.”

The inspector unzipped the duffle and pulled out the Nikon. “Very nice. How much memory?”

“Eight megs,” Tanner replied.

“You can take many photographs with this?”

“A couple hundred on the normal setting.”

“Technology is wonderful, isn’t it?”

Another lure. “It can be; it also has its downside. There’s a lot to be said for the simple, uncomplicated life.”

The inspector returned the camera to Tanner’s duffle and returned it to the floor. He then reached into his lapel pocket and withdrew a sheet of paper, which he placed on the table before Tanner. “This is a statement that you will not, under any circumstances, take photographs of police stations, government buildings, military facilities, or any other similarly restricted areas. If you do so, you may be subject to arrest and imprisonment. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Then please sign.” Tanner did so. “Furthermore, you will be prepared at all times to present upon request, your camera, film, and permit to any local official. Do you understand this also?”

“Yes.”

“Then please initial here.”

Tanner did so.

“Thank you,” the man said, then gestured to his partner, who stepped forward and handed Tanner his documents and passport. “You are free to go. Enjoy your stay in Beijing.”

Tanner gathered his luggage, climbed the stairs to the main concourse, and stepped outside.

The sidewalk teemed with milling passengers. Taxis honked back and forth. Many in the crowd — Beijing natives, Tanner guessed — were wearing white surgical masks. Except for rare days when the wind was blowing right, Beijing lived under an near-constant smog warning. Tanner looked to the southwest, toward the city proper, and saw a grayish brown cloud hanging over the skyscrapers. Already he could feel his throat stinging.

He made his way to the curb and spotted a free taxi across of the lane.

“Wanshang hao!” the driver called through the side window. Good day. “Taxi, sir?”

“Yes.”

Tanner climbed in the back. “Where go?” the driver asked.

“Tingsonglou Hotel.”

“Mei wenti!” No problem. “Huang tou tai gao le.”

It took Tanner a moment to piece together the words. Huang tou tai gao le … The literal translation was “Blond hair too tall.” Evidently, the driver considered him something of a freak.

With a blare of his horn and a shout out the window, the driver swerved into traffic. Within minutes they were away from the airport and heading toward the city.

In the back, Tanner stared out the window. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking.

Welcome to China, Briggs.