The Nanchang Connection

By Lin Sartori

China has emerged as a world power and economic force reluctantly opening its doors to foreign trade, global communication, and spies. Sent to report on the dynamic changes occurring in China, two American correspondents arrive in Beijing with their ten year old son, Jonathan. When the couple is killed in an airplane crash on their way to a meeting stateside, Jonathan is put in a position to explore a culture that has captured his imagination.

The young boy is invited to join the household of a family friend in Nanchang and adopts the personal of Qin Qiao Xiang. A few years later, Jonathan is living in a nearly idyllic world, until, in adolescence, his innocence ends, and he finds himself struggling to use his acquired skills and connections.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 19, 2010
• ISBN: 9781449067465

Lin Sartori

Lin Sartori taught English at high schools in New England and is a former banker. Her first novel, The Nanchang Connection, drew audiences who wanted to talk about their experiences in China, as tourists, businessmen, and teachers of English. Her youngest daughter's Peace Corps assignment to The People's Republic of China finally convinced the author to make the trip. Share her stories as she travels through China as a tourist and then a guest at a Peace Corps sight. Lin Sartori resides with her husband on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, where there is a flourishing art and political scene. Instead of retiring to Florida in the winter, she, her husband and daughter share half of a Victorian, commune style, in Boston, with cats.

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

Acknowledgements:

To Michael, Christina, and Alicia whose generosity and support inspired me to finally finish this project.

To all my former students who kept my imagination alive, I think of you still.

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When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.

Lao Tzu, Chinese philosopher

Chapter 1

Sitting stiffly on the grey metal chair in the sterile room, he resisted responding to the casual conversation they attempted. When the actual interrogation began, the atmosphere tightened. He didn’t know how to answer their questions, and fearing the consequences of saying the wrong thing, he said nothing. His forged papers hadn’t stood up to close scrutiny, and as a result, he had been sent to this facility. Although he had been prepared for this possibility, the attack at the airport had come as a complete surprise. Now, his imprisonment made him a person without guanxi, or connections, and he feared that it would be difficult to negotiate a release without putting others, here or in China, in harm’s way.

The prisoner pondered his situation. Being unfamiliar with the facility, and concerned that no one knew where he was, made the possibility of escape seem hopeless. He was alive and getting better due to the excellent medical care, but it gave him no comfort. Soon, if he didn’t give them something, his improved health would allow them to use harsher interrogation. He needed to remain calm and clear, as his laoshi, or teacher, Song Shen, would have instructed him to do.

Still, he couldn’t help but compare his brief encounter, more of a nightmare, in the Qingshan Street Police Station in Nanchang, seven years ago, with his current situation. He had been ten years old, orphaned after the death of his parents. The memories of the screaming prisoners those nights and days at the local Chinese station haunted him as he thought of what lay ahead in this American jail. He had heard and read of covert American jails and of prisoners who were tortured and whose families never saw them again. If the stories were true, he was in such a place. He tried to ignore the negative thoughts, but couldn’t. These men in their neatly tailored dark suits and crisp white shirts were no more than dressed up security police. His own experience taught him that when the security police arrested someone, they gave no explanations, and then people disappeared. So far, the men that detained him didn’t seem any different.

Between the airport and his current cell, he had recuperated in a hospital where he had been held incommunicado. At one point, they had reduced his sedatives in order to question him. Still, he felt disoriented. As the fog gradually lifted, it was replaced with the aching from his wounds. He willed the pain into submission so that he could examine his surroundings. Opaque white curtains blocked the view outside, but not enough to obscure vertical bars set into the window. The room which was slowly emerging was simply furnished with a metal sideboard and a couple of straight back chairs. There were three individuals, one standing by his side, the other two indiscernible figures standing back in the shadows. He maintained a discreet observation of these specters.

The bed was warm and somehow comforting. The white pillow case and sheets were stiff to the touch and smelled antiseptically clean. He felt himself drifting. As he attempted to clear his eyesight, vague images, this time from his mind, flashed in disconnected segments. Slowly, pieces of the attack appeared and he started to feel a queasy sensation in the pit of his stomach. Overcome with instinctual fear, he knew that danger was near. He tried to force himself to stay awake, but his condition and the realization of his imprisonment, led him gratefully into unconsciousness.

They were patient. The next time he woke up, a man and a woman were standing above him on the right side of the bed. One spoke to him in a low and measured voice, in English, with a definite American accent. The sight of these Caucasians seemed surreal. Was he still dreaming? Where was he? Who were these people and what did they want? With detached interest, he looked in the direction of the man who was doing all the talking. The boy couldn’t seem to move and felt the haze taking over again. As he went to rub his eyes, he realized his arms, chest, and legs were restrained. This jolted him to fuller consciousness. The nausea returned to the pit of his stomach. His eyes darted around the room frantically. He was too weak to fight his bonds. The man who seemed to be in charge was looking down on him, and laid his hand gently on his chest.

Sorry about the restraints; but, that was quite a show you and your friends put on at customs and we’re not sure which side you’re on yet.

The fact that the boy was Caucasian, but spoke Mandarin and carried forged documentation, made him a person of special interest, enough so that they had segregated him immediately, without access to a lawyer. His attackers had fled, leaving him behind to become the main target of their investigation.

The boy remembered the scene at the airport, and realizing where he was, gazed up at the calm control in the foreign face, and mimicked his demeanor. There would be a new set of rules to follow, with observation, and eventually negotiation, key to his survival. He lay in this bed with them staring at him, a helpless prisoner. Although he was frightened, he began to rationalize that the fact that his condition was critical, and they wanted answers, would keep him safe for the time being.

The male officer paused to see if his new charge would respond. The boy cautiously withheld reaction to the polite comment, even though he understood it. The officer looked down at the pale teenager and tried to reconcile him with the zealous combatant he had observed at the airport. As far as he was concerned, this was just an assessment to see how open the line of communication would be. But, the boy looked into the intense round eyes of the strangers and instinctively withdrew into himself. The man turned to the woman standing next to him and motioned for her to take over. Even though he spoke Mandarin well himself, he had brought in an interpreter, Lee Xiaoming, who would continue the questioning while he observed, more closely, the boy’s response.

The woman began. You were carrying a forged passport, and on the way to the hospital you spoke only Mandarin. We’d like to know who you are and what you know about the shooting at the airport. The boy listened intently to what the woman was saying and continued to be unresponsive. Lee tried again, this time feigning kindness.

Son, you’re facing some serious charges and it would be in your best interest to talk with us before this goes any further.

They waited patiently, still nothing. A voice from the corner of the room suggested they take another tack.

Let’s go with Plan B.

The next time the boy woke, he was alone in a cell, in an empty cell block. Unknown to him, he was in a facility built for special guests of the United States government. It was originally built in the 1980’s for the Comtrec Corporation, a major global entity that specialized in high tech satellites, a discreet pharmaceutical development and research division, and it went on from there as it bought out other compatible companies, the complete list unavailable for public scrutiny. The facility still used the Comtrec name and was tucked away within several hundred acres of undeveloped property in suburban Virginia off a secondary highway, its major building complete with a low key exterior and a camouflaged helicopter pad. Trucks and cars delivering materials and personnel came and went unnoticed. One of the myriad intelligence agencies, the Administration, or a powerful CEO of an international corporate conglomerate with political connections, had to be pretty interested in an individual for them to be invited for questioning.

The boy took inventory. The cell was more Spartan than the hospital room and much smaller. He saw no one else besides the guards and his interrogators. His amenities included a cot-sized metal shelf with a bare mattress, a toilet and sink. It was antiseptic and high tech, no peeling paint here, nor were there any discernible odors. The lights, which were on all day and night, were a blessing as they kept the ghosts at bay. The sophisticated security system which at first made him feel self-conscious with its invasive monitoring, recorded each movement and sound, sleeping and awake. After awhile, he ceased to notice and began to create a routine to overcome the agonizing boredom. There were no reading materials, no windows, and no contact from the outside world. Yet, he refused to give in to the isolation.

His current situation paled in comparison to his brief stay in the Qingshan Street jail. Unlike the Chinese counterpart, the temperature here was a civilized 68 degrees, the cell was clean, the food seemed healthy, if distasteful, and there were no screaming prisoners. Still, it was prison, and the feelings he had were the same. He was in their custody and he was terrified thinking about what might come next.

Making the best of the time, and doing what he had to do to maintain his sanity, was all he could do. The ritual of being transported from his cell to the interrogation room became a respite from the tedium of his daily routine. In his cell, he kept himself busy with a self-directed exercise program designed to rehabilitate his body and meditation to lift his soul. He grabbed conversation between the guards and interrogators as they passed to and from his cell block. From a distance, some nights, when they crossed in and out of their station leaving the door ajar, he could hear the uncensored programs from their television. When a particular guard was on duty, he enjoyed hearing American rock music. He wanted to get to know them, to understand how they thought. Past experience had taught him how to survive under adverse conditions. It kept him from doing anything impulsive; instead, he waited and respectfully complied with their orders to stand or sit, eat or sleep. Through the hopelessness of the situation, he tried to maintain his sense of humor. When it became too boring in his cell and his regular routine wasn’t working, he would rely on his imagination to keep his mind busy.

In his eagerness to get home, the boy had accepted Zhang’s explanation that he needed to use an assumed identity in order to protect him from his enemies. He was told that the obscure entrance would allow him to disappear into a community. Later, Zhang would help him re-establish his identity and life. There were, however, certain complications of which he was unaware. Even so, the shooting spree at the airport brought an end to the fantasy that he could enter the States without being noticed.

The attack brought him unwanted attention and now the U.S. authorities were questioning him over and over again. They wanted to know about the attack, but he didn’t know what it meant. That was part of his insecurity. What if Zhang Jin decided to release himself of the burden of his foreign ward? The Americans had fingerprinted him, taken his photograph and DNA. Eventually when he wanted to reestablish himself, this information would be in the hands of the American security police. He would have to convince them of his innocence, prove to be of some use, or offer them something in trade for his freedom. If abandoned by Zhang, he would have to find a way to survive on his own.

The boy started to formulate a plan. He wasn’t going anywhere and he needed to prepare himself for the inevitable. He had no gun at customs, so a story about a returning citizen abandoned to his own wits in a foreign country as a child, might just work. During this interrogation, he would make it seem that he was reluctantly giving the officers his name and a clue to the identity of his parents. He would let them figure out what happened to them and why he wasn’t returned to the States sooner. Any information he had of any importance would be held until the right moment and used as a negotiating tool. In the meantime, he would stall his interrogators with stories, some true, some made up. The boy was tired and physically uncomfortable. With his morale boosted by purpose, he summoned the strength he would need in the upcoming session.

The prisoner stared into the two-way mirror in the interrogation room with moderate interest at his own image. It revealed a need for grooming and sustenance. His lean features reflected the trauma to his body, and most recently, the reaction to the foreign food that made his stomach queasy. At times, among the Chinese, his looks had made him feel self-conscious. His gaze focused on his eyes. Still outstanding as a feature, they seemed to be unaffected by the strain that was starting to show in the rest of his face. They weren’t the rich natural brown of the warm fertile earth, granted to the Han people; instead, his eyes reflected the blue of the cold distant sky. Whenever he had gone out, he would disguise them with sunglasses or contacts. There wasn’t much he could do with the rest. The nose was too big by Han standards, the skin too pale, and the hair had begun to turn light brown, soft in texture, and undisciplined. In the hospital, it had been hastily cut, had grown out unevenly and could use a washing. He returned from his reverie and remained passively still.

To this session, they brought in McNamera, a CIA Ops officer currently on an indefinite administrative assignment at Langley. Mac, as he was called, was in his mid forties, tall, with dark brown hair, offset by grey at the temples. The hair was slightly longer than his fellow employees. Like the rest, he was athletically lean with white, straight American teeth. He wore the same basic uniform of the others, a conservatively cut, dark colored suit with a nondescript silk tie and a plain white shirt. It was the intensity in the eyes that set him apart. As others watched the enigmatic man, he stood for a while observing the rigid and expressionless boy that he had met at the hospital, before entering the room.

What the interrogator saw was a gaunt and disheveled youth, age approximately 16 or 17. To him, the face exhibited an inexplicable innocence of demeanor which was in sharp contrast to his expectations. Physical characteristics: Caucasian, European or possibly North American. He glanced down at the summaries to date and read something interesting: Demonstrates strong will and self-discipline while under observation and during questioning. In his cell, subject keeps a light, but daily, exercise regimen, including meditation. McNamera wondered what he thought during his moments of introspection. As he leafed through the case notes, he consciously disregarded any discomfort his prisoner might be experiencing as he took his time beginning the session.

Who is this kid? Mac heard himself say out loud to no one in particular. I reviewed the tape, nothing there. Has he been eating?

The senior guard, Manny Rodriguez, who had been standing nearby responded. Yeah, we haven’t been screwing around with him, if that’s what you’re asking. He came in like that. Doesn’t eat much.

You’re sure the exercise routine’s not too strenuous, considering his condition? McNamera asked, not in concern over the prisoner’s well-being, but to ensure that he would not harm himself before being thoroughly interrogated.

The doc came in, checked it out, and said everything looked all right. His sleep patterns are as normal as can be expected.

Do you think he’s ready?

Yes.

Good. See if you can adjust his meals. Ask Lee Xiaoming for some suggestions on food. While you’re at it, get him some books and magazines, in English. Let’s see what he does.

McNamera looked intently into the window of the interrogation room again, his eyes narrowing. He liked this part of his job, playing mind games with prisoners and observing behavior, waiting for them to give up that one little piece of information that would unravel the elaborate defense in which they surrounded themselves. Ironically, while he was assigned to this case, the FBI was watching him as they did all CIA field agents with close ties in foreign lands and loose connections at home. Mac hated the scrutiny of headquarters and the mindset of bureaucrats. The only reason he continued to play their agency games was the hope that he could return to covert operations. Showing some concern about office politics was a healthy survival skill, and Mac could be dangerously oblivious.

His assignment at Langley was a time out that came at the insistence of the Director of National Intelligence (DNI). Billy Burke was an old buddy with whom he had shared sensitive missions in the past. As long as it was politically beneficial, and Billy could see results, Mac could count on his support. In the meantime, Mac was getting impatient, tired of being in professional malaise. If this interrogation failed, it would all be turned over to the fresh faced officers whose gullibility and unquestioning allegiance concerned him. He recognized that at that point, he could be forced into early retirement and not even connections with the new DNI would secure his future employment at the Agency. Although he had brought his malaise here at Langley on himself, he now could no longer accept the idea of spending the rest of his career trapped in an office. Being assigned to this case had renewed him and it might just be the way back to field work.

From the beginning, something about this boy rankled Mac. He was a kid for Christ’s sake, around the same age as his own son, and he was making subconscious comparisons. He wondered how his son would have reacted to being held in a cell, interrogated by Chinese counterparts. He frowned involuntarily as his thoughts returned to the boy behind the glass. There were plenty of Europeans and Americans in China, who traveled back and forth for various reasons, some sinister, some innocent - some business, others personal. Certain groups and individuals were more closely monitored than others. What worried American intelligence agencies was that this boy and others like him entered the country with student visas and disappeared into the general population. Illegal immigration had become a philosophical, social, and economic maelstrom and there were plenty of support systems for malevolent foreign travelers who wanted to stay.

Mac felt frustrated thinking about the number of high profile targets. These buildings represented U.S. values and they were conspicuous. The citizenry were right to feel vulnerable and less confident in their government’s ability to protect them. The enemy was a moving, ever evolving and creative entity and it was a long learning curve for U.S. policy makers being challenged by governments or groups from other cultures, with other values.

As Mac stood there observing the boy, he processed his strategy. This first meeting with the boy would build trust. There would be some casual conversation, a few questions, and then Mac had some catching up to do. With his new found clout as lead interrogator, he had the confidence to ease this one along. Mac focused on what he had to do, took a deep breath, and motioned to the guard. Mac went through the door, and the guard stayed outside.

The boy did not acknowledge the arrival of the latest interrogator, but he did notice that he came in alone and sat next to him instead of taking the seat across, as all the others had. As the boy sat there, he was conscious of others behind the mirrored wall. The fact that they were alone signified to the boy that this man was someone special and this interrogation would be different. The boy watched him with interest. Without turning his head he could see his reflection and the man’s movements. He suddenly had a startling recollection. This man had caught the boy’s attention before, somewhere, but he couldn’t quite place him. As he observed him, he became viscerally aware of mixed signals. This man was behaving casually, but his control was obvious to the boy. It made him wary. He concluded that he must be their behavior specialist.

The prisoner played his role with confidence. He didn’t see any advantage in waiting for someone on the outside to come and rescue him; it had been too long. The contacts that were to have met him at the airport terminal were likely scared away by the melee of terrified travelers, and he had no way of knowing whether Zhang even knew where he was being held. He would tell this man about his years in Nanchang, leaving it up to him to fill in the blanks. He’d been good at playing games, especially in later years when Zhang brought in his life-long friend, General Pham, who was a stiff, no nonsense military man, to replace his aging tutor, Song. The General hated all Westerners, and had made his life a living hell. Yet, Zhang had trusted this man to deliver him to the States safely. The boy now wondered if the General was complicit in the attack, or just negligent in his duty. In any event, the boy would do now what he had done before to stay alive. Patience and time are the secrets to a successful campaign, were the words he would repeat in his mind when his restless nature wanted to take over.

At the beginning of the session, the new interrogator had rummaged through his briefcase and emptied on the table the contents of a brown paper bag containing a bottle of water, sandwiches, and some fruit. He laid them among the files and notebooks he had taken out of his briefcase. The boy was curious. The others didn’t eat or smoke in the room. There was a built-in system recording the tedious sessions which consisted of them interchangeably asking him questions he was incapable or unwilling to answer, or yelling at him. They were probably as bored as he had become, but continued to probe him to the point of irritation, asking him the same questions over and over again. Still, he said nothing. He practiced the lessons Song had taught him, until calmer thoughts controlled his actions. He would click into this mode under extreme conditions, physical and emotional.

The young prisoner cocked his head slightly and looked sideways at his interrogator whose head was bowed over his notebook. Then he leaned back in his chair fidgeting with the handcuffs. These movements, not intended to be subtle, did not go unnoticed. They had never seen him physically relax in their presence. He seemed to have dropped the mask; his facial expression softened. They could all feel it - like a sudden change from black and white to color. Mac looked up and responded with false nonchalance to the opening he was being given.

You look a lot better than the last time I saw you, at the hospital. I’m Agent McNamera. I don’t know if you remember me. He said this with a look of practiced warmth and sincerity. But when we met briefly at the airport you accidentally saved my life in all that commotion. Are you all right? How are you feeling?

The boy searched his memory again and finally placed him. He remembered him from the airport, but not the hospital. As the others behind the mirror watched, they were impressed by the observable connection between the new interrogator and his prisoner.

I feel much better. Thank you for taking care of me, the boy said in perfect English, barely audible. McNamera, you said, CIA? FBI? NSA?

CIA

As he spoke, the prisoner leaned in slightly toward Mac, purposely making eye contact with him and smiling ever so slightly.

Suddenly, I am not feeling that well.

McNamera did not smile back.

The boy shrugged his shoulders slightly, grimaced, and settled back in his chair.

The son-of-a-bitch speaks English better than me, snarled the former lead interrogator, now relegated to the position of observer.

This was the first time the boy had opened up to them. The observers were witnessing the moment where both interrogator and prisoner engaged to play the game. Agents, new and seasoned, watched the two intently.

Before the attack at the airport, McNamera had been working closely with local FBI agents on several cases regarding illegal Chinese immigration. Both Toronto and New York City had their own version of a Chinatown and passing from one city to another was an underground railroad for illegal aliens from mainland China. They had been at the terminal watching the international arrivals gate for a group that had been booked by Dae Won Travel. A fresh crop of foreign students was coming in on an Air Canada flight. The travel agency had questionable clientele and had been placed on a watch list by Homeland Security. It was more of a routine surveillance promoting cooperation between agencies. They hadn’t been expecting what followed.

Mac stood near the gate watching as the targeted students came through security. The FBI was in charge of the operation and had invited him to join the case as an observer because of his Chinese expertise. As he had been relegated to an administrative position, he was not in the habit of carrying a weapon. Suddenly, McNamera was caught in a barrage of gun fire directed at the new arrivals. A calm, male teenager emerged from the stampeding crowd, grabbing his attention. The boy who was now standing quite near to him had bare handedly dropped two of the attackers and had begun to spin and twist to avoid being shot by the others. In a split second decision, while each looked the other in the eye, the boy had shoved Mac out of his way. This misguided maneuver exposed the boy to the line of fire. It was fortuitous for Mac and those surrounding the intended target that the spray of gunfire ceased when the boy was struck down.

The assassins had been determined to connect with their prey even though they had been surrounded by airport security and were under the watchful eye of well-placed cameras. The shooters, who appeared to be Chinese, managed to disappear into the terrified crowd, taking along their two injured comrades. In their wake they left the carnage of two students from the boy’s group who were the first to be shot, four airport police, one stewardess trapped in the crossfire, and several family members who had run toward the gunfire out of concern for their loved ones, all dead. Half a dozen more spectators lay on the ground, wounded, while screams of terror could be heard in the background. The spared CIA agent, along with the FBI agents that he had accompanied, had been useless in protecting the boy or the innocent bystanders due to the panicked crowd of travelers. The students, who the FBI had been monitoring, had proper documentation and were allowed to be on their way. When they had processed the bodies and completed interviewing the survivors, only one individual had been placed into custody, this boy now sitting next to him.

The case should have been under FBI jurisdiction, but following 9/11, the rules had changed. Administrations used the fear of terrorism to tighten up domestic surveillance and security. The lines that had been drawn so clearly between domestic and foreign agencies was blurring as global terrorism knew no boundaries. The new mantra was cooperation and communication among all law enforcement agencies. The DNI gave Mac lead in the case. As a concession to cries about domestic territorial rights from the FBI, they had agreed to include on their team a couple of veteran FBI special agents and call it a joint effort. They were Elijah Wong, who Mac had run into a few times over the years and respected professionally, and Arty Baxter, who he didn’t know at all. Rumor had it that he had some connection to the Deputy Director of the CIA, not a great recommendation in Mac’s opinion. Selected by the DNI to run liaison between the agencies was Geoffrey Barton Hathaway, a wunderkind, originally an executive of Blue Bays Tech Corp, and currently a senior analyst in the Directorate of Intelligence. Mac had met Geoffrey Hathaway at the Agency’s war college and was impressed. Geoffrey had briefed the DNI on intelligence