Authors: Gerald Felix Warburg
Old songs floated through his head, haunting melodies about leaving home—Joan Baez, John Lennon. He
was
leaving, forever. The lyrics had made it real to him in the heart of that last night in China. He had awoken around four a.m with a sudden need. Photographs—he wanted some baby pictures, and went silently into the master bedroom in search of an album. Mei Mei was sleeping soundly. He lingered for several minutes, watching her, feeling guilty now for the first time, despite years of weathering her contempt.
He felt sorry—sorry for the failure of their long-ago dreams. He felt ashamed of his calculation, even as he stood at the threshold, preparing to spirit their two sons away. He could justify it all. He could justify fleeing with the boys to give them a more promising future. It was the best move for them, he had convinced himself, even as he questioned the enormity of the act.
How in God’s name do you just walk away from your life?
He gazed about the room, taking it all in once more. Then he slipped away.
He got the boys up early, had them dressed and out the door before Mei Mei awoke. They were off to the pancake breakfast at the American Embassy. After seeing their father off at the airport, the boys were ostensibly going to return to the apartment with a family friend from the Embassy staff. Mickey had reconfirmed everything the night before with Mr. Peck, his Embassy control officer, who was elated by his apparent success in re-enlisting Lee. It would be a coup, the man reassured him—a major breakthrough for U.S. intelligence. “Pull it off and you’re a hero, pal.”
Mickey wondered, though. In the flat light of the morning, he felt anything but heroic.
Saturday was still a workday in the city, and the streets were crowded as their taxi angled its way through traffic, his boys chattering away in the back seat. They wore matching blue pants, red and white shirts, and baseball caps. A normal Saturday it seemed, as Mickey tried desperately to calm himself. His every sense was alert. Street smells of diesel fuel and cooking oil seemed intense. Sharp sounds made him jumpy, even the tooting of traffic horns. He searched every face, sizing up passing drivers.
The Embassy gathering was desultory. The delegation members were exhausted after a week on the road. The Ambassador’s decision to low-key the affair, and the absence of most of the Chinese officialdom, drained all energy from the event. Rachel and a man from Protocol had gone ahead to the airport to clear passports and bags. The rest were left to chat listlessly, peering at their watches as they waited for departure hour to arrive. The boys played a game of catch with a tennis ball in the garden while Mickey sought out Mr. Peck for a few last words.
The man was staring grimly at Mickey as they milled about, motioning for him to follow. Mickey saw only his back as they strode into the residence and followed into a washroom. Peck walked forward and flushed the noisy toilet, then wheeled upon him.
“We’re fucked,” Peck whispered.
“What?” Mickey was stunned. “Where’s—”
“Wait.” Peck held up a hand as he motioned to the listening walls about them, then whipped out a small note pad and began to scrawl.
“No Lee,” he wrote.
“Where?” Mickey just mouthed the word, feeling helpless. Somehow, he had known the night before that Lee would not show.
“No sign of him.”
Mickey grabbed the pen. “What now?”
Peck’s eyes narrowed as he read.
“You GO,” he wrote. “GO with the boys.”
Mickey stared at the paper. He had tried to prepare himself for this eventuality. But now he was sagging, knees weak.
He watched as Peck added: “You get out. Today. Langley’s
orders
.” He even underlined it for Mickey, before adding “Lee’s on his own.”
It was Peck’s last note before he tore the paper in pieces and threw them in the toilet. He then urinated and flushed, before walking out, a touch of professional disgust in his brusqueness.
Now Mickey’s life shifted into slow motion. The droning voices of the Embassy party mixed with the pedantic conversations of the few Chinese diplomats present—so many words of so little interest. He craned his neck about, looking anxiously for Lee to join the rest of the Protocol guys who comprised the small Foreign Ministry escort. He took to patrolling the grounds, checking the driveway, peering beyond the Marine guards at the gated entrance, hoping against hope.
Where the hell was Lee
? Mickey tried to contact Lee on his cell phone, then made inquiries, struggling to mask his concern. But neither the Americans nor the Chinese had word of him. Mickey wanted to call. He wanted to send Peck’s people again to Lee’s residence and to his office.
Time was up, though. Mickey had to choose: to stay and try to help his friend, to stay and sleep in the messy bed he’d made of his life? Or to make a final all-or-nothing dash, to accept Branko’s offer and abandon Lee to his fate? As the entourage shuffled their way to the three mini-buses taking them out to the airport, Mickey had to decide all over again.
Lee was lost. Mickey was beyond caring for himself now, for his own life, for his own bleak future. It was only about the boys. They were American more than Chinese. Their future in China would forever be tainted, sons of an American barred as a spy. The boys would be scorned, raised by a cranky mother who’d openly voice the anger she felt toward their father. To his horror, it seemed quite clear. It was all about his children now—nothing more. Lee would agree. Mickey had to make a run for it.
He felt sick as they drove through the mid-morning traffic, his stomach in revolt. He slid open a window against the waves of nausea, muttering only a few words while his boys played with their Game-boys amid continued sirens. They were slowed by road construction. Then, at last, the airport complex was before them.
Mickey gripped his boys’ hands firmly as the group was escorted through the main terminal. The voices buzzing about him were disorienting. He heard German and Russian and Korean, guttural voices quarrelling about bags and tickets. Soldiers strutted by, seeming to eye them all with suspicion. The crackling of the loudspeakers began to penetrate his skull, and he grew dizzy. The harsh tones of Asian authoritarianism seemed to press in on him once more as the disembodied voices echoed off the great hall.
“
Come to Chamber Three now, Yankee dog
,” they could just as well have been taunting. “
Time for your noon beating
.”
He fought for composure as the delegation skirted the lines of international travelers. They were escorted by a Foreign Ministry man whom Mickey recognized from Lee’s department, past the smoked glass of Passport Control, past the armed soldiers through the VIP area, and into the small departure lounge. Mickey was cleared in. He had an exit visa to hitch a ride back to Washington with the delegation on the Air Force plane. The boys and the rest of the Embassy staff proceeded unchallenged, with the American ambassador and the Senate delegation. They had made it that far.
Rachel was there, and Mickey wanted to go to her, for strength, for comfort. She was deliberately ignoring him, though, as she fussed over little things, playing the staffer role again, fetching an
International Herald Tribune
for a senator and chatting with one of her clients, a Silicon Valley CEO. Before them was a tray of lemonade and Coke, a stack of newspapers, and pans full of hot hors d’oeuvres warmed by little Sterno cans underneath.
The twins buried themselves in the box scores, checking on baseball statistics, as their father had taught them. Mickey was at the window, nose pressed against the glass, gazing at the Air Force plane near the special VIP runway. He half expected to see Lee come sprinting across the tarmac, making an insane dash for freedom. Mickey still clung to the hope that he would appear, absurdly, suitcase in hand.
How can I leave him now
? Lee had been his bridge here—master and mentor in one, his first true Chinese friend. They had swung a dozen deals together. They had played the game, sharing secret hopes and fears.
The Chinese would kill Lee. When Mickey’s boys did not return, and Mei Mei’s father went into a rage—when Mickey’s actions sparked a security review—a witch-hunt would ensue. They would choose their time and place carefully. Then they would come for Lee and make an example of him.
A sharp commotion broke out at the door. An Interior Ministry policeman was arguing with a Foreign Ministry assistant about some paperwork. Branko’s colleague from the Embassy, Peck, loitered not far to the side. Mickey was transfixed. He strained to catch Mandarin words like “papers. . . delays. . . engine.” The argument grew heated as he leaned forward in an attempt to hear more.
Then Rachel was before him, interposing her body and blocking Mickey’s view of the unfolding scene. She gave him a casual morning kiss on the cheek as she whispered. “Lee couldn’t make it. Needed to be with his father. Now, get on the damn plane.” She smiled brightly at him as she patted his cheek for emphasis, then moved on to greet Smithson before Mickey could respond.
So many eyes were watching. So little he could say now, halfway across a field of mines, lights on, snipers firing. He tried to concentrate on Michael and Henry, on bringing them home to America.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” an American voice called out after a time—it was Branko’s guy—“I have a brief announcement. We’ve got clearance for take-off. But there appears to be a brief delay. Captain Browner has powered up and found a couple of maintenance items to tend to in the cockpit. Doesn’t look serious. While he attends to this little glitch, the captain invites you all to come on board and have some ice cream in celebration of Independence Day.”
The senators and spouses went first, followed by the business travelers. Rachel was directly behind as they stood and walked toward the jet-way, a firm hand on Mickey’s back.
“Here. It’s from Lee,” she whispered again, pressing into his hand an old silver medallion, a vintage Saint Christopher, patron saint of voyagers. “Booth’s father gave it to him the day Lee flew home from Stanford.” Then she was smiling at the guy behind her as she chatted up some computer company executive. Mickey rubbed the silver furiously between his thumb and forefinger as his boys began to walk casually down the jet-way.
Shouting erupted from behind them. Mickey could see an Interior Ministry official berating the man from Lee’s department. Something about papers and access to the secure area. His troops had pea green uniforms, crisp with black pistols tightly holstered. Now he was glaring toward Mickey and the boys, a pointed finger stabbing the sheet of paper before him. His eyes were dark and challenging. The soldiers began to push forward.
A command came from behind them, and the soldiers halted just as quickly. A path parted. Another group of grim-faced officials appeared, led by a haggard looking man calmly calling the Interior Ministry official’s name. And there was Lee.
Had he come to join them?
Impossible; it was too late, too overt.
Was his appearance to provide some last minute insurance for the success of the plan?
Mickey fought the impulse to call out to him, to plead with him again, to pull him across the line that seemed to divide the Americans from the Chinese at the plane’s threshold.
Lee’s distant eyes told him “no,” however. They were puffy and defeated—as if Lee’s heart was long gone, fighting some other war already. It was best for Mickey to let go of hope for his friend.
Focus.
Gently, he nudged his boys forward, a hand on each of their shoulders. They walked ahead, cheerful and innocent, oblivious to the determined contest of wills underway.
Just keep walking.
Branko’s people had been very clear. He and the kids continued unchallenged across the threshold and down the aisles of the plane, the angry voices beginning to dissipate behind them.
There was animated conversation now among the American delegation even as some began to store their carry-on bags in the overhead bins and find their seats. Mickey grabbed a bowl of ice cream from the galley in the plane’s rear. He began to spoon-feed his boys like infants as they sat in the last row, reaching across as if trying to shield them with his body from the fracas beyond.
He started to pray in silence, afraid to look back up the aisles or out the windows into the lounge. The chatter about them seemed very slowly to settle in upon itself, like waves in the sea softening after sunset. Few noticed as the ambassador and other Beijing-based staff stepped off the plane and drifted back into the waiting area. The oxygen flowing into the cabin shot out more forcefully as the captain again powered up the engines for a test.
Then the call of frightened voices came surging down through the jet-way from back in the lounge area, American and Chinese voices shouting past each other. White smoke was billowing up from the center of the VIP lounge. People were rushing about.
Mickey witnessed it all, viewing the bizarre spectacle through the windows of the plane as it sat in its spot on the tarmac just yards away. Flames erupted quickly in the departure lounge, bits of newspaper sailing about and the Sterno stoves overturned. Automatic sprinklers shot water from the ceiling. A soldier wrestled with a fire extinguisher as more men rushed into the lounge and alarms rang. From the cockpit, Captain Browner barked orders to seal the plane. Almost immediately, they began to roll away toward safety.
Out his window, Mickey could see a fire crew race into the secure area, spraying the buffet table and couches with foam. Through the smoke, Mickey could just make out the stoic face of Lee standing by, stamping calmly on the ashes. Lee peered up one final time to watch them pull away, looking for all the world like Zhivago’s brother, the aging revolutionary from Pasternak’s last scene, gazing wistfully at a future that had just passed him by.
There was animated chatter onboard the swiftly rolling plane now as it sped away from the fire danger, dozens of voices talking all at once. Over the intercom, the “Star Spangled Banner” was blaring. The aircraft raced forward down its dedicated runway, then was airborne to the music. In minutes, the Air Force plane was out over the East Pacific, safely into international airspace. The boys were giggling with excitement. Mickey was shaking as he tried to cover himself with nervous laughter.