TUESDAY, April 10, 2007

Jake recognizes his target as soon as he walks into to hotel lobby. The hair, parted on the side and perfectly styled with a slightly wet finish, gives him away. Republicans are nothing if not immaculately groomed. The representative’s top aide, a legislative director, wears a navy blue suit with a red paisley tie fastened with a clip against his white oxford shirt. Simultaneously amused and nauseated, Jake needs a moment to digest the symbolism as he wonders how such ideological dickheads take themselves seriously.

Jake is wearing a forest green corduroy blazer with brown suede patches on the elbows. Purchased from Banana Republic sometime in the late 90s, it’s one size too large. Underneath, he has on a light blue oxford shirt, without a tie. It’s evening, after all, but Jake wonders if he should run back to his room to put one on.

Ross Andrews, the legislative director, is clicking away on his Blackberry keyboard. As the top aide to a Representative of the House Committee on Foreign Affairs who’s just landed in enemy territory, Andrews probably has dozens of emails to answer. Jake looks over at the bar. He’ll need a drink.

Jake is in Tianjin to cover two days of trade talks meant to address U.S. grievances over the yuan’s exchange rate and complaints from Beijing about congressional reviews of proposed takeovers of U.S. companies by Chinese state-owned firms. Both issues, each side charges, are politically motivated acts that impede market rationality. In recent months, they’ve boiled over into threats of retaliatory measures. Punitive tariffs are in the works, U.S. congressional committees say. Cooperation with the U.S. on many international issues will be difficult, China’s Foreign Ministry spokesman says. And so it’s been since Jake began covering the trade relationship, an issue that sparks diplomatic rhetoric so repetitive the biggest challenge in writing about it lies in finding alternate words to explain the same boiling points. The only difference being the names of the latest U.S. politicians looking to score political points by piling on.

While Jake’s in Tianjin to cover recycled arguments about trade deficits, he has a much more urgent personal agenda. To fortify himself for the mission, he orders a gin and tonic. He’s learned to avoid the red wine served in fully state-owned hotels. It will taste like vinegar.

As he approaches the aide, Jake wonders whether to call him Ross or Mr. Andrews. He appears to be the same age as Jake. Someone of a similar rank in China must be addressed by putting his title together with the family name —director, chairman or some such manager. At the very least, an honorific. Separated from the U.S. for so long, Jake’s not sure about protocol in this case.

“Mr. Andrews, right?” he says, playing it safe.

Andrews looks up. “You must be Jake Bradley,” Andrews says before turning back to his device to finish his response.

“Yes, thanks for taking the time to meet with me. How are the preparations for the meeting going?”

Andrews offers Jake his hand and they shake. “Your associate in Washington, what’s her name again?”

“Kendra.”

“Yes, Kendra. She said you wouldn’t be asking me about the talks until after they wrap up.”

“Sorry. Just a habit. I’m here now to let you know about the filmmaker who’s disappeared.”

“Right. Kendra gave me the details and we’re interested in following this.”

Of course you are, Jake thinks. McKee needs an issue to make the public forget what he’s known for. Re-elected by the skin of his teeth in the mid-terms, he nearly lost to a Democrat in a Republican stronghold state. McKee had also been one of the most fervent supporters of the war in Iraq, which he’s silent about now. Jake has followed McKee’s ups and downs because the congressman has been one of the most outspoken critics of same-sex civil unions. He’s compared gay sex to bestiality, something Jake was used to hearing from drunken uncles and cousins in Kentucky.

Jake pulls copies that Diane prepared for him from his backpack, the same ones she submitted to the PSB.

“So, you know he has a Haas MBA with a green card and has lived in the U.S. for almost a decade?”

“Yes. Haas,” Andrews says. “That’s Berkeley, right?”

Yes, asshole. The left coast to you, Jake thinks.

“Yes, that’s Berkeley. Look, his sister doesn’t have a copy of his green card but I’m assuming your staff can get that information. And…” Jake pulls out a manila envelope. “inside is a letter from his sister Diane to the Secretary of State, asking her to bring the matter up with the Chinese Foreign Minister.”

Jake hesitates. This whole mission suddenly seems naïve. Think like an American, he tells himself. Make this a negotiation. Make Qiang’s predicament an asset to be traded.

“Mr. Andrews, I don’t mean to be mistrustful but can you let me know if Mr. McKee will take this issue up? I need to know whether I should be spreading this around to other congressmen.”

“I can’t guarantee anything but you know Mr. McKee’s position on China. He doesn’t take kindly to the illegal detention of people the U.S. has deemed worthy of a green card. Let’s put it this way, I’m pretty sure he’ll take this up. If not, I’ll let your friend Kendra know.”

Jake hands over the documents. He wonders if it makes sense to point out how much an issue like this could help his boss. How much it would deflect attention from positions that have weakened McKee’s standing among the good people of North Carolina. This is an even exchange of favours. McKee gets to own a unique issue; Jake gets Qiang back. But then again, they’ve thought of this already. Otherwise, Jake wouldn’t be having this conversation. He doesn’t want to overplay his hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Andrews, I appreciate it. And I’m sure your constituents will find the story interesting.”

Andrews looks at the documents.

“So, how do you know this guy, um, Kee-ang?”

There it is, Jake thinks. Andrews wants as much information as possible to compile the dossier he’ll deliver to McKee. He’s fishing for some details. He can’t know much about Jake beyond the basic facts: Originally from a reliably Republican, red neck jurisdiction; went to university in a liberal, Democratic stronghold; works for a news service that can’t be pegged as either; stories with his byline wouldn’t give any indication.

“Chee-ang. The Q is pronounced kind of like C-H.”

“Well, that’s silly. If they’re using English letters, why don’t they just use C-H instead of a Q?”

“The C-H is used to make the same sound it does in English. Q is for a more clipped version of the C-H sound.”

Andrews shakes his head.

“Crazy, just like their policies, right?” he says with a laugh.

Jake sees nothing crazy about it. Two sounds. Two different Romanizations. But he smiles anyway to keep the deal on track and to squelch the anger he feels towards this foot soldier in the war on decency and common sense.

“How do I know Qiang?” Jake says. “Well, we’re friends.”

THURSDAY, April 12, 2007

Sitting in a makeshift press room, Jake gives his story a final edit. He’s been running between this room and scrums with Chinese trade officials for 13 hours. At this point, the story makes complete sense and none at all. Hopefully the editors in Washington will iron out the rough spots. He sits next to Regine, who’s on the phone with her editors in London, clarifying a few final points. The reporters for Dow Jones, AP and Kyodo have left. Outside of the room, in the hotel’s lower concourse, a maze of function rooms where deep pile carpet deadens the sound and light from baroque lamps and wall sconces barely reaches the furthest corners, it could be any time of the day in any month in any year in any city.

“Are they letting you go now?” Jake asks Regine as she hangs up.

“Yes, and I’m knackered.”

“Nightcap somewhere?”

“I wish I had the energy, darling. I need to go to my room, call my boyfriend and collapse into the deepest sleep imaginable.”

“Sure, go ahead and abandon me.”

Jake curls his lower lip down into an exaggerated pout.

“Oh please. You need to check out the bars while you’re here and I’d be a liability.”

Regine closes her laptop and slides it into a shoulder bag. She gives Jake a pat on the shoulder. “You heading back to the Jing tomorrow morning or later in the day?”

“Depends on how late I’m out tonight.”

Jake pauses and looks around the room. The few remaining reporters are out of earshot.

“Hey Regine, remember you were asking me about my friend, Qiang?

“Yes.” Regine pulls out the seat next to Jake and sits.

“He’s still detained,” Jake says.

“Okay. What more can you tell me about this? Are you going to report what’s going on?”

“You know Toeler News. We’re all about business.”

“So, Jake, can you give me the details so I can get them out?”

Regine asks the question like a police officer trying to convince a criminal to hand over his gun and Jake pauses to think, to remember the strategy he’s worked out with Diane and Ben.

“No. We’re playing it safe for now.”

“Ok, so….”

“So, here’s a story that I think will make the authorities here squirm,” Jake says as he hands Regine the thumbnail drive. “It has nothing to do with Qiang, for now at least.”

“So, how does it…”

Jake puts his hand up and then leans toward Regine.

“Let’s make a deal. Don’t ask me questions about what’s going on with Qiang or the strategy we’re taking to resolve this and I promise to let you know about any new developments before anyone else.”

It’s close to 10:00 p.m. at one of a few discreet gay bars popping up around downtown Tianjin. After throwing back a double gin and tonic, Jake finds his target. A Chinese man in his early thirties sitting by himself at the bar, tapping out a text message. His shiny hair is trimmed short on the sides and left spiky up top. He wears glasses with dark maroon frames that match his striped maroon and orange shirt that he has tucked into a pair of jeans. Jake moves closer. The shoes look like Kenneth Cole or Ben Sherman. These brands aren’t in Beijing yet, let alone Tianjin, but Jake is sure the guy is from the Mainland. Guys from Tokyo or Seoul or Hong Kong in a gay bar on a Thursday night would be in t-shirts and running shoes. So the guy travels.

“Ni de yanjing hen shuai,” Jake says, leaning into the bar. Your glasses are very cool.

The guy looks up from his Nokia phone. “Thanks.”

As he smiles, Jake clenches his teeth to flex his jaw muscles, making his face look more chiseled. He’s aiming for maximum impact to get the conversation going. The faster this transaction goes, the easier it is to keep second-guesses away.

“Wo jiao Jie-ke,” Jake says, holding out his hand.

“I’m George,” the guy says as they shake. He over-enunciates the R to a degree that confirms him as China born and bred.

“Hen gaoxing renshi ni, George. Ni zhongwen mingzi jiao shenme?” Pleased to meet you, George. What’s your Chinese name?

“Cao Zhi, but it’s fine to just call me George.”

“Jiao ni Cao Zhi shi mei you wenti de,” Jake says, making sure to play up the Beijing accent. It’s no problem to call you Cao Zhi

“Your Mandarin is pretty good. Where did you study?” George says in English.

Jake relents. It’s more important to keep the conversation flowing. He delivers the standard, self-deprecating introductory blather. He’s said it a thousand times. “I’ve been in China too long to speak Mandarin as badly as I do. Anyway, I studied in Beijing and Anhui,” Jake says in English.

George says something about a relative who’s from Anhui’s provincial capital, Hefei.

“Really?” Jake replies. “I spent two nights in Hefei visiting the family of my favourite teacher. They fed me so well, I probably gained five pounds that day.”

None of this is true but Jake knows that stories like this play well. It makes him more of a zhongguo tong – a relative of China, an endearing term that can help speed up the ceremonial positioning but which still keeps the outsider at a certain distance. Better than laowai.

George laughs. “I can tell you really understand Chinese culture.”

“Oh, just the surface really,” Jake replies. “There’s still so little I understand here. Nimen de wenhua zhen fuza.” Your culture is so complex.

“Ni tai qianxu,” George says. You’re too modest.

By turning the conversation back to Mandarin, Jake wins the opening round and now wants to see how far he can push.

“Xiang bu xiang gen wo yi qi hui qu wo de fangzi?” Want to go back to my room?

“Wow, that was fast,” George laughs. “Maybe, sometime.”

This might take more than an hour, Jake thinks, but no one else in the bar turns him on as much as George. So he sticks with it.

“Hmmm, sometime. I don’t know if you’re shooting me down or just playing with me.”

“If I said no, would you try your luck elsewhere?”

“No, because you’re the hottest guy in this bar. I can’t take my eyes off of you so I’m going to double down, as we say in English.”

George smiles and nods.

“So,” Jake continues. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“How about I buy you a drink, Jake?”

“Sure.”

“You probably do pretty well in gay bars all over Asia,” George says. “Blond hair and blues eyes go a long way in this part of the world.”

“Is that a compliment or a reproach?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be. I’m just not attracted to white guys.”

Sticky rice. There’s more of it around these days. Jake looks around the bar again and tells himself in consolation that there’s no other white guy around who could close this transaction.

“Right. I appreciate the honesty,” Jake says. “Do I still get a drink as a concession?”

“You get a drink and that’s all.”

“I’ve had worse disappointments in my life,” Jake says in his best attempt to appear unscathed. “Ones that don’t come with a gin and tonic as a concession.”

Gulping the remainder of his third drink and reaching for his jacket, Jake watches George chat with another guy at the end of the bar. Karmic retribution. How does the hook-up expedition square with the effort to free someone he cares about so deeply?

As he heads towards the door, Jake sees a white guy wearing a baseball cap and a hooded sweatshirt enter the bar. He looks like he’s mistaken the establishment for a sports bar. The guy also wears a pair of glasses with thick, black frames. As the new arrival scans the bar, Jake recognizes the slightly flattened nose and slight underbite. Another moment and Jake realizes the guy is Ross Andrews, McKee’s legislative director, and freezes. This should be an opportunity but something tells him to hold back. That something, he knows, is the unspoken understanding among gay men to maintain a discreet distance unless the social context assumes recognition is okay. The reflection on Andrews’ glasses obscures the direction of his focus but Jake can feel the eye contact the way dogs sense fear. Andrews casually turns towards the bar and pulls out his Blackberry as he settles onto a stool in front of it.

Jake decides to break the unwritten rules and kill two birds. He can use this as an opportunity for more leverage. If he plays this well, Jake will also get to fuck a war-mongering, hypocritical, self-loathing gay man. There’s something so perverse about swapping spit with the ideological enemy that Jake can’t acknowledge the risk he’s about to take.

“Howdy partner,” Jake says as he takes the stool next to Andrews who drops his head and lets out a quick chuckle.

“Hello, Jake Bradley. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Indeed. I’m guessing you didn’t wander in here by mistake.”

“I doubt you’re dumb enough to believe that. As you can imagine, I’m not out.” His tone once again serious, Andrew looks at his device.

“Guess what? I’m not either. My career would be over if anyone knew. It would be tough to build sources here.”

Not entirely true, but Jake needs to exaggerate his own vulnerability as part of the plan. In the distorted world Andrews inhabits, it’s probably believable that being gay would end a career.

“So we’re not here to socialize, are we Ross? We’re here on the prowl, right?”

“Yep,” Ross says, now finally looking directly at Jake.

“So let’s get out of here.”

In the dim light of the hotel room, Andrews is on his back. Jake slides his briefs down, letting Andrews’ dick spring out and smack against his lower abdomen with the strength of a sucker punch. Jake slides one foot between his guest’s legs to work the underwear completely off and then pushes the briefs onto the floor. He spits into his hand, begins stroking the shaft and rolls the palm of his hand around the head, making Andrews arch his back and moan. Jake crouches down like a cat and licks his Adam’s apple, then makes his way around to Andrews’ ear.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he whispers into it. “Hungry?”

“Oh, yesssssss.” Andrews breathes the words and then puts his forearm over his mouth.

As Jake wraps his mouth around Andrews’ dick, a flash lights up the room. At first, he thinks the light is some optical effect caused by the excitement. He remembers when he discovered masturbation in his early teens, his vision would sometimes white out and he’d get a sharp pain in his head at the moment of climax. At the time, he fretted that it was an indication of a brain tumour or some sort of hormonal imbalance. The problem dissipated after a couple of months and he forgot about it. Until now. This must be the same kind of phenomenon.

But Andrews jerks himself upright. He’s seen the flash also.

“What the fuck was that?”

Jake looks up and another flash lights up the room. This time, Jake sees that it’s come from a mirror that’s hung on the wall like a painting. As he looks toward the source, several more flashes burst from behind the mirror.

Shock sets in as Jake figures out what’s happening. The implications freeze him and he can’t move until Andrews kicks himself off the bed and scrambles for the briefs that Jake had sent to the floor a few minutes earlier.

“Holy fuck,” Jake says, still looking toward a mirror that continues squeezing off shots. “They’re getting photos of me to use as blackmail,” Jake says in a stunned whisper as though Andrews is no longer in the room.

Without thinking to put his briefs on, he picks up the room’s desk chair and walks toward the mirror. By the time he gets there, though, he realizes how dangerous it would be to escalate the situation with a vandalism charge. In any case, the images are already on some server far away from this hotel room. He drops the chair.

Andrews looks anxiously back and forth between Jake and the mirror.

“This is about your friend Kee-ang, right?” he says. “Or is this some kind of set up? Are you trying to bring me down with this? Are you trying to bring McKee down with this, you twisted fuck?”

Too stunned as he realizes how these photos, this chaos, may have undermined the effort to get Qiang released, Jake doesn’t answer.

“Hey!” Andrews shouts. “Answer me!

“My only motive, my whole life at this point, is about getting Qiang released,” Jake says, his voice trailing off as a sob wells up unexpectedly.

Jake swallows and shakes his head to push his emotions back down into the bile of his stomach, to dissolve them. This is not the time to appear weak. “My friend is gone, Ross. Why would I make this shit up? The letters. The documents. Think about it.”

Andrews is silent for a moment and Jake can see him thinking about all of the elements, putting them together and undermining the logic of his suspicion.

“Well, whatever’s happening here, now I’m wrapped up in it,” Andrews says, standing against the wall, next to the mirror. “Do you fucking understand?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Ross,” Jake says as he slides his boxer shorts up and then steps into his jeans. “But don’t you see, this is what we’re up against.”

Andrews hastily pulls his coat on while he steps into his shoes.

“So what do you suggest I do about this?” he says to Jake in a hushed but angry tone as though he’s trying to stay below the audio threshold of whatever recording device is monitoring the room. His brow is contorted into an angry stare. “You want my help and you get me into this shit?”

“What, do you think I planned this?” Jake spits back loudly, not caring who hears what.

Andrews just stares, mouth open and shaking his head, as though he’s about to lob more accusations but can’t get his thoughts together. “I don’t know what to think. I just gotta get the fuck out of here. Out of this room. Out of this city. Out of this fucking, fucked up country.”

He leaves without tying his shoes. The door slams, leaving Jake in half light and dead quiet, except for the sound of his breathing.