A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [63]
“He is mistaken, Comrade Zhou. I am merely a friend of his brother.”
“You are a liar,” Zhou replied.
“Liar!” screamed the jailer. It was the only English word he knew.
“Liar!” Zhou yelled.
“No.”
“Now is the time to confess,” Zhou said. He left the cell, and returned shortly with a written Chinese document. “Please sign this now.”
“What does it say? Could you read it to me?” Stratton said, stalling.
“Of course.” Zhou motioned at the jailer, who slogged out of the cell. He and another jailer returned, carrying three wooden chairs. One was placed directly in front of Stratton, and that is where Zhou sat. The first jailer took the second chair, to Zhou’s left, but equidistant from the kneeling American. A third chair was placed on Zhou’s right. It was empty.
“You have been found guilty of numerous crimes against the state,” Zhou began. “This is the list. It is lengthy.
“To begin with, you lied on your visa application. You said you had never been to China before, Stratton. Therefore you are charged with presenting false information to immigration officials.
“Secondly, you are charged with the theft of personal articles belonging to Mr. David Wang. These items were stolen from Mr. Wang’s hotel room in Peking nearly one week ago.”
Stratton stared at the earthen floor and shook his head.
“You are charged with the murder of Huang Gong, a limousine driver in Peking who was killed while serving the state. Additionally, you are charged with the attempted murder of another comrade, Ni Zanfu, who was seriously injured in the same tragic episode.”
“They tried to run me down,” Stratton protested.
“Liar!” screamed the interrogators in unison.
“There are two more crimes, which are the most serious,” Zhou went on. “One of them is the abduction of Wang Kangmei, the daughter of the deputy minister. We will discuss that in a moment. But I first should like to ask you about the crime of espionage against the People’s Republic. On March 18, 1971 …” and Zhou began to read the document: “‘Thomas Stratton, then a captain with the Special Forces Intelligence section of the United States Army, illegally entered the Chinese town of Man-ling with a squad of armed soldiers and assassinated thirty-eight innocent peasants.’”
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