We pull out onto Connecticut Avenue and then cross over Dupont Circle to Massachusetts Avenue. It occurs to me that they could be driving me to some deserted location so they can put me out of my misery.
But then we take a roundabout and turn right onto Q Street. That’s when I figure out where we’re going. They’re not taking me to an undisclosed location.
They’re taking me to the Chinese embassy.
Chapter 29
A couple of years ago I attended a ceremony in the Grand Hall of the Chinese embassy, an immaculate limestone building in the northwest section of the capital. The room I’m escorted to now, though, is anything but grand. The walls are gray and red. The room is cramped and poorly lit and cold. The two men who take me from the limo underground are about the same size as the other goons, but not sparkling conversationalists like Frick and Frack. They don’t put their hands on me until we’re in the room, at which time they each take one of my shoulders and force me into the lone chair in the center of the room.
A door that I didn’t even know was a door opens, and two Chinese men enter. They are in suits and ties. One has a tight haircut and the other is bald. The bald guy looks like he’s spent some time in a gym. The one with the tight haircut looks softer, like a diplomat.
“Mr. Casper,” says Bald Guy.
“That’s me.”
“What is this you are saying about Jonathan Liu? You told the receptionist that he is responsible for the death of a government worker?”
I look from one of them to the other. “It was a conversation I intended to have with Jonathan Liu.”
“Mr. Liu is not here.” There is a trace of his native accent but his English is perfect.
“And you are…?” I ask.
“I am…the one asking you questions.”
“I meant, what’s your name?”
“I know what you meant. Tell me of these accusations you make against Jonathan Liu.”
I don’t know if this guy is on my side or against me. I could take a wild guess. “I’ve written an article that explains how Jonathan Liu murdered the White House liaison for CIA deputy director Craig Carney.”
Bald Guy is impassive. “And your proof is?”
“Read the article.” There is no article. Not yet. I’m nowhere in the vicinity of proving what I believe. The truth is, I’m fishing.
“There is no article,” says Bald Guy.
What is this guy, a mind reader? “Have it your way,” I say. It reminds me of those Burger King commercials from the ’70s. Great, now that stupid Hold-the-pickles-hold-the-lettuce song is in my head. But it beats the hell out of their later commercials, the ones with that freaky king character. That guy could haunt my dreams.
“Relations between our country and the United States are rather…tenuous, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Casper?”
“If you’re a fan of human rights, then yes, I’d agree.”
“Human rights.” He allows himself a small chuckle. “Mr. Liu does not represent the People’s Republic. Yet we are aware that he is a man of considerable influence. What is accused of Mr. Liu will be accused of the People’s Republic. Bombastic, ridiculous accusations will not do.”
I lean forward and one of the goons behind me takes my shoulder. “I’m an American journalist in the United States. I will print what I want. In America, we have something called a free press. You should look it up.”
Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, freedom of the press upsets us…
Bald Guy moves closer toward me. “You may be an American journalist,” he says, “but you’re not in America. Not at the moment.”
“Because you kidnapped me.”
“We did nothing of the kind. We have you signed in at the front entrance. You asked to speak with me and I’m granting you that audience.”
I let out a nervous sigh. I’m trying to play cool but I’m feeling anything but. “Listen, Reverend Moon—”
“Ah, a slur. That’s to be expected of an American. All us slant-eyed Asians are the same, yes? That’s fine, Mr. Casper. Keep thinking of yourself as morally superior while our country runs circles around yours economically. The People’s Republic is flourishing while the United States of America is sinking deeper and deeper into a hole.”
Bald Guy walks within a foot of me and leans forward, staring at me eye-to-eye. “Now, sir, before I become impatient. Tell me what you know of Jonathan Liu.”
“Diana Hotchkiss,” I say.
He nods slowly. “A tragedy.”
“He had her killed.”
“And why did he do that?”
“Read the article.”