That was the cue for the prosecutor. He jerked back to his feet.

"In view of the seriousness of the charges, I call for a full trial and a sentence of life imprisonment at hard labor."

It was a formality. Still, in the calculated silence that followed the prosecutor's demand, Wang Bin began to sweat.

"The commission agrees with the prosecutor's request," said the president.

Again, the old men allowed a cruel silence to build. Wang Bin braced for the sound of the door opening, the rush of air, the footsteps of the guards summoned by a buzzer beneath the table.

"However," the president began.

At last! Wang Bin felt a sudden release.

"In view of Comrade Wang's long service to the Party, this commission will waive a trial in exchange for Comrade Wang's admission of guilt, a self-criticism, his removal from all state and Party posts and his reeducation through labor in…

"-he consulted a printed list in front of him-"Jilin Province."

It was a sentence of slow death. Manchuria. Backward and cold, so bitterly cold and primitive he would not survive two years there.

"Jilin," said the second cadre.

That left the general.

"Hunan," said the general. "And as an office worker. He is an educated man."

Hunan was backward, too, but warmer. To work there as a bookkeeper on a commune would be dull, but not dangerous, almost like retiring. Such were the fruits of a fifty-year friendship between men who had once fought together.

The two hacks dithered for a while-Jilin was what their paper decreed-but the general proved implacable.

"Hunan." The president surrendered. "You have twenty-four hours, Comrade, in which to inform the commmission whether you wish a trial or will accept the Party's mercy."

Wang Bin squared his back and strode from the room.

Twenty-four hours. He had counted on that. It was time enough.

CHAPTER 14

Stratton's makeshift chisel splintered after only an hour. A cone-shaped pile of concrete dust and a faint groove in the mortar were all he had to show for his furious scraping. There was no way out of the cell. Stratton snapped another leg off the wooden chair and rubbed one end back and forth across the rough wall until a sharp point was formed. Then he buried the stick in a corner. Another corner was used for defecation. A third corner he reserved for sleeping.

He curled up, facing the wall, and shielded his eyes with one arm. That night, for the first time, the jailers had left the light bulb burning in the rafters; insects darted and danced around it. Stratton closed his eyes and thought of his parents. For thirty-one years his father had driven a UPS truck in Hartford, while his mother had reared five children. Now the Strattons were retired, living in a small apartment in Boca Raton, Florida, entertaining grandchildren and feeding the ducks in a man-made lake behind the high rise. Tom Stratton had visited his parents only twice in their new home. He telephoned once a month from wherever he was. He had promised them postcards from Peking, but of course he had forgotten. They wouldn't be worried, not Dale and Ann Stratton. They knew their youngest son. The restless sort, his mother used to say. Pity the poor gal he marries, and pitied she had.

The flat horn of a truck jolted Stratton into daylight. He unfolded, stretched his arms, and watched through the window as the first morning visitors arrived at the small museum. It had been more than a day now since his keepers had brought fresh rice or water. Stratton was famished. He considered pounding on the door on the remote chance that he had been forgotten, but rejected the idea.

He knew he was a VIP. Whatever awaited him had been carefully planned by Wang Bin.

The day passed slowly, and Stratton napped intermittently, using sleep as a substitute for food. Finally, late in the afternoon, he heard footsteps in the hall outside the cell. He sat up, and shrank into the shadow of the cleanest corner, his sleeping corner.

Two men entered the cell. Stratton recognized one of them as a jailer, one of the men who had paraded him to his public bath.

The other was a wan, slightly built Chinese who wore bottle-bottom eyeglasses.

He squinted at Stratton until he became accustomed to the light.

Each man carried a large tin bucket.

"Stand," ordered the man with the eyeglasses.

Stratton obeyed. The two men heaved the liquid contents of the buckets on the floor in a large puddle at Stratton's feet. The odor assaulted him and he tried hard not to gag.

"Pig manure," said the same man, again in clear English. "Kneel."

"Why?"

"You will not argue. You will not ask questions. You will do as I say. You are unfit to speak in this room. You are unfit to stand. So you will kneel, and you will be completely silent."

Stratton did not move. The man with the bottle-bottom glasses circled him disdainfully, eyeing the American as if he were a roach.

"You have broken this chair!"

"No, it fell apart."

"Liar!"

"Liar!" shouted the jailer, chiming in.

"An accident," Stratton repeated.

"My name is Comrade Zhou," said the man in the glasses. "We have met before."

"Oh, yes. You were Wang Bin's interpreter in Peking," Stratton said.

Zhou lifted the mangled two-legged chair as if examining it. Then he swung it over his head and brought it crashing down on Tom Stratton's shoulders. Stratton pitched forward, face down into the warm pig dung. A small hand seized his neck, and another clutched his hair. Roughly, he was jerked off the floor, and propped on his knees like a mannequin.

"I will repeat this one more time," Zhou said. Now he was squatting in front of Stratton, glaring into the American's dripping face. "You are unworthy to stand in the presence of any Chinese citizen, do you understand? You are worse than the shit on this floor. You are a murderer, a thief, a destroyer of Chinese property, a corrupter of young women, a spy… and, I think you should know, Stratton, that you have no secrets here. We know everything about you!"

Stratton made no response. He breathed through his mouth only. He closed his eyes. He fought to neutralize all his senses, one by one.

"We have come here to give you the opportunity to confess your crimes, Comrade Stratton. Do not be afraid, and do not be foolish. Many thousands of Chinese have profited from such expurgation. They lived to tell about it, however. I cannot promise the same for you."

"What is this, a struggle session? You're sick," Stratton said.

Zhou nodded. "Ah, you've heard of this. You have read about it, I suppose, in some perverted imperialist book. China is the subject of many books in your country. China is a popular subject among American scholars. You came here posing as a scholar, did you not?"

"I am a tourist."

"Liar!" It was the jailer again. He knew the script.

"Do not continue with these lies," Zhou said. "I know your country very well, Stratton. I know the American people. I even know the language. I studied for two years at Yale University." Zhou laughed. "It's amusing, in a way. In the many years since my return to China, I have never once had the opportunity to interview an American criminal. You are my first. I am grateful to Comrade Wang Bin for the chance to serve China in this way. He tells me you are a treacherous spy."

"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 it is time to confess," Zhou said. He left the cell, and returned shortly with a handwritten Chinese document. "Please sign this now."