by James Grady
Almost a hundred yards separated the last of the farm buildings from the grove of trees. The girl motioned for Malcolm to be silent as they approached the trees.
At first Malcolm didn't see Chou, which puzzled him, for the Chinese's basically blue clothing should have stood out against the trees, the earth and even the horizon. Malcolm was startled when he discerned the shape which was the man standing at the edge of the grove. He blends in, thought Malcolm, somehow he has a protective camouflaging which allows him to blend into his surroundings like a chameleon waiting for the fly to buzz close: obvious, yet invisible. Chou let them approach within fifteen feet before he raised his right palm out from his side in an obvious command to halt. Chou's same arm slowly swung away from them, pointing to their right, the direction Chou faced. Moving just as slowly and silently, though he didn't know why, Malcolm faced the direction Chou pointed.
Forty yards from where Chou stood Malcolm saw a small mound of recently turned earth. At that distance he could barely discern differences between the mound and the surrounding dirt. He-stared at the mound because he saw nothing else in the indicated direction which could be the object of Chou's interest. Sheila stood slightly behind Malcolm. He couldn't see her, but he felt her presence, heard her breathing grow deeper, smelled the slight tanginess of her sweat.
"There!" said Chou suddenly, pointing once again to the mound. "Did you see him?1"
Malcolm shook his head slowly. All he saw was the dirt.
Chou's impatience came through his whispered exhortations. "Concentrate! Look at the mound, feel it with your eyes, touch it with your sight!"
Malcolm stared at the mound. Nothing, he thought, a pile of dirt, some pebbles, a little tuft of broken grass off to the left, the hole, and ... Malcolm blinked to clear his contacts and stared harder. Was that a twitch? A small movement? Then the gopher stood up in his hole, his head and neck just barely over the mound of dirt, and Malcolm was sure. "I see him," he whispered back, only to watch the gopher duck into his hole as he spoke.
"Good," Chou said slowly. He lowered his right arm to his side. "Now watch. the next time. Watch his bead."
Suddenly Malcolm knew what they waited for. He had occasionally hunted gophers during his adolescent summer visits to his aunt's ranch. He knew Chou planned to shoot the gopher, to kill him, and Malcolm also knew that was ridiculous. Chou carried no rifle. Malcolm was not an expert hunter, but his youthful experiences combined with his training from McGiffert told him that for a man to hit such a small, moving, almost indistinguishable target with a handgun at forty yards was absurd. Out of the comer of his eye Malcolm noted that Chou's hands hung empty and relaxed at his sides. For a man to draw a handgun, aim, fire and hit such a target was beyond absurd.
It came too quickly for Malcolm to distinguish separate events. He saw the slight motion as the gopher raised his head. To his left Chou's form blurred and a crack sliced the morning air. Malcolm blinked. What looked like a new, light tan dirt lump lay just behind the gopher hole. Chou stood to his left, right arm gracefully extended in the target shooter's stance. His hand held a blue-barreled automatic. Malcolm heard the girl behind him sigh deeply as if some pain or exertion had finally passed. Somewhere in the fields a meadowlark whistled.
Chou lowered his gun slowly, satisfied. He didn't turn to face Malcolm, but with a, smile on his face he said, "Go look. To be absolutely sure-although I know I really don't have to-hedge such things-I took a body shot instead of just the head. I mainly didn't want him to slide back down the hole, so I had to hit him squarely enough to knock him clear. That's why the chest shot. Go look."
Postmortem reflexes still twitched the small animal's hind feet when Malcolm arrived at the gopher's hole. The furry corpse lay on its back. Although healthily plump, it was a small animal, possibly frorn that winter's litter. The white incisor teeth shone clean, unmarred by extensive grubbing. The two tiny forepaws curled in, pointing down toward the animal's belly like a fat banker's hands draped over his Christmas-dinner-stuffed stomach. If a hole of corresponding size to the red-tinged gap in the gopher's chest would have appeared in a banker's chest, it would have been slightly larger than a softball. Judging by the blood freely flowing from under the animal, Malcolm guessed a corresponding exit on a man would have been larger than a basketball. Malcolm raised his eyes to look back to Chou.
"Leave him for the birds," yelled his host. "They need food to attract them back. Perhaps you're interested in my, gun," Chou commented as Malcolm rejoined the two Chinese. "It's rather light for our type of work, but that makes things so much more interesting and challenging. One can say many things about your country," Chou continued [Lecturing, not speaking, thought Malcolm], "most of them bad. But when it comes to making a wide variety of firearms, you are unexcelled. Amid the proliferation of handguns, only a few stand out as really excellent implements. Mine, for instance."
Chou's hand moved under his jacket and returned cradling a gun almost before Malcolm knew what Chou was doing. Malcolm had the distinct impression Chou deliberately moved slowly enough so that Malcolm would gain at least an impression of speed.
"The gun I use," Chou continued, "is a Browning .22 Challenger automatic with the four-and-one-half-inch barrel. That makes it almost ten inches long. Any longer and the difficulty I have in carrying it concealed would become an impossibility. I realize your weapon training is very limited, but I'm sure you will appreciate my selection.
"The .22 Challenger is, of course, basically a target weapon. Indeed I'm sure the good Browning people would be appalled if they knew I used it as a combat weapon. Apart from its being bad for their corporate image, they would probably think me a fool for not choosing something with a heavier caliber and a more concealable construction. Your .38, for example. Yes, we know all about it, even to its location in your motel room. Those drugs are a marvel.
"A .22 caliber has very little intrinsic stopping power. A man hit anywhere by a .45 or .44 magnum might as well be hit by a truck: A wound from such a heavy caliber guarantees he is out of commission. But a .22? 1 can hear your McGiffert clucking his tongue now. There are very few places you can hit a man with that low a caliber so that he is neutralized enough to ensure your safety. To employ a weapon of such a low caliber successfully is a fascinating challenge. When using such a bulky gun, drawing it from under a jacket, even with a special holster such as I have, your speed is cut down considerably. A man would have to be a fool to rely on such a weapon."
Malcolm smiled though he found nothing funny. He recognized his cue and he knew his lines. On with the show, he thought as he said, "Or very good."
Chou smiled. "Or very, very, good. With speed as well as accuracy. As you can see from my little practice session demonstration, I have both. Some men are born with a natural talent for dancing, writing or song. I was born with a natural genius for the pistol. It was my very good fortune to be in a social-political situation where my talent was discovered and cultivated instead of being wasted like your Beethovens rotting in Harlem. Through years of practice and possession of excellent equipment such as-Browning artisans provide, well, you have seen the result."
"Yes," replied Malcolm while Chou caught the breath be had lost in his excitement. Malcolm wanted to cut Chou down somehow, to spoil the moment for him, perhaps make Chou less confident and more anxious to prove himself to Malcolm. He said, "You're very good at killing gophers, placing your shots in a harmless, unarmed animal's chest. What about people?'
As soon as Malcolm said those words, Chou began to smile. Malcolm realized his ploy had failed.
"For people," Chou replied paternally, "I use a somewhat different system. Consider that a bullet shot directly to a man's skull might not kill him: It might miss the brain or bounce off the skull. A .22 bullet to the heart might not stop a man from squeezing off a dying shot. A round to the stomach will probably double up an adversary, but he might recover in time to fire. What if your opponent wears body armor? Limb shots with a low caliber
may be ineffectual. Do you see the challenge? It isn't there if your opponent isn't facing you. Any dolt, any moronic Oswald with a high-powered rifle can gun down an unsuspecting victim. What do you do, then, when you are armed like me and face a formidable opponent? Remember, in our business any opponent, until he is neutralized, is formidable."
Chou moved quite close to Malcolm, so close Malcolm could smell Chou's breakfast breath. "You do what I do," Chou said softly, "you shoot through the eye. The results are instantaneous and emphatic. Your opponent loses all contact with the outside world it microsecond before the soft lead bullet expands, rupturing his lower brainpan and killing him. The beauty of it, from an esthetic point of view, is that your opponent brings it unto himself, for he must look at you, he must present his eye as your target before you do him any harm. The irony of it is that in order to protect himself, your opponent must expose himself, for how can he harm you or defend himself if he cannot see you? If he does not look at you? If his eye does not swing around to meet the bullet? A marvelous, fascinating situation, don't you agree? Don't you see what I mean?"
Malcolm felt slightly cold, a little old and very nauseated. He swallowed before he said, "Yes, I see what you mean."
Chou smiled and stepped back. "I thought you would. Sheila," he said lightly, turning to the girl, "why don't you and Malcolm walk around the farm for a while? I want you both to have mild exercise and it will give you a chance to get to know each other better. I must check and see that our plan has received final approval and clean up one or two other little details."
Chou turned back to Malcolm. "I'm leaving now. I trust you and assume you are intelligent enough not to attack Sheila. For one thing, while she is nowhere near my proficiency, she is armed and she is far better than you, even if you were armed. I also doubt you could defeat her hand-to-hand. In any event, the nearest neighbor is miles away, wouldn't believe you and would blow your cover. I have removed the telephone's mouthpiece so you can't call out. Your vehicle is in the shed, but I will have both it and the pickup's distributor caps with me. You are practically stranded. I shall return in a few hours."
Chou took a few paces toward the building, then turned and, almost as a polite, habitual afterthought, said, "Have a nice day."
Malcolm and Sheila stood by the grove in silence while they watched Chou drive away. They moved together after his car disappeared, almost on cue. They walked across the open fields, headed nowhere in a direction vaguely away from the house. They walked in silence for several minutes, then Malcolm said, "He's crazy, sick. Absolutely crazy.11
Sheila turned to look at him. She smiled, then looked ahead once more. She seemed to watch the ground as they walked. "Do you think so?" she asked. Do you really think so?"
Malcolm looked at her. She had undone her thick hair. The top of her head came to his shoulder, and as she bent forward, the thick black strands obscured her face. He had already decided to be as honest as he could as often as he could with Sheila. For one thing, he knew she had questioned him while he was drugged more than Chou had. That meant she probably knew him fairly well. For another, she seemed the more vulnerable link in the Chinese team.
She is also, thought Malcolm, more human. He frowned as he asked, "Don't you?"
"No."
"I don't understand. You certainly don't call that little display, that lecture, his general 'every thing-is-fascinating-, shoot-it-through-the-eye-challenge' attitude and almost everything else he does as normal, healthy behavior, do you? Even by Chairman Mao's standards?"
Malcolm heard amusement in the girl's reply. "That little display was just that, a display designed to impress you with the futility of resisting or attacking him, us. For Chou it wasn't all that much. Remember his comment about the birds? If you've notice, there aren't many sparrows around here, even though with the garden there is a good deal of food to attract them. That's because Chou practices daily-and what - he likes to practice on are sparrows. He shoots them only when they're in full flight and at what he would consider a 'challenging' distance. He seldom misses-. If he does, it's only one or two missed rounds. Less than three seconds per bird.
"His lecture? I'm sure you've heard more ego-oriented lectures in American college classrooms and taken notes on them so you could self-righteously regurgitate them in an approved fashion. I hear such things at the college where I'm 'studying' for my 'citizenship.'
"As for his health, your thinking him sick, that's absurd. He can't be sick, he's successful. Only failures are insane. By definition Chou will never be 'sick,' 'crazy' or 'insane' until he fails. In our business failure brings death. At that point what is sanity?"
For a long time Malcolm found no reply. They walked in a silence broken only by dirt lumps crunching underfoot and the occasional swoosh of moving clothing. Finally Malcolm stopped, his action pulling the girl up short also. She turned questioningly to face him and he said, "But do you like him?"
"What relevance has that?" She turned and resumed walking.
By now they were over half a mile from the buildings. They stopped at the -edge of an irrigation ditch. Spring runoff wag slowly raising the waterline and increasing the stream flow. The stream carried more silt and water than when it had "permanently" thawed for the year three weeks before.
"Chou said we should get to know each other better," Malcolm finally said. "From what you and he have already told me, I gather you already know most of my life story." He left the invitation hanging in the wind.
Sheila smiled at him but said nothing.
"Well," he finally prompted in exasperation.
"Well," she replied half mockingly, "you know the name to call me. You know I'm Chinese, an intelligence agent, a communist. What more is there?"
Malcolm's frustration had been building since Chou's exhibition. His temper took over, and he shouted, "You're a goddamn shit, for one thing!"
Malcolm's exclamation startled the girl. She jerked, almost as if he had hit her, and for the first time that morning she looked at him intently and fully. For a long time they stared at each other, neither knowing what to say or what to expect. Then just as suddenly as Malcolm had shouted, the girl broke into laughter, loud, boisterous, raucous laughter. And after a moment's puzzlement Malcolm joined her.
"Well," Sheila said at last, her laughter subsiding into a broad smile, "I'm glad we have that settled. It's nice to know where one stands and what one is."
Malcolm started to apologize, to explain, but then be realized to do so was not only unnecessary but unwise. Instead he commented as lightly as he could, "Well, at least couldn't you-as we American bureaucrats say-'flesh that out a bit'? God, is that a disgusting metaphor."
"I'm somewhat older than you," Sheila replied, "about two years."
"That's a start. Now for the obvious question: What brought you into this business?"
The girl turned away from the ditch and headed back toward the buildings. Malcolm kept pace beside her. She still walked with her head bowed when thinking and listening. When she spoke, she looked straight ahead. "Chou's major talent is with firearms. Incidentally, he's just as good with a rifle or an automatic weapon. It's incredible. Like him, I have a very special talent. I have a, she paused to look at Malcolm and smile while she used her next word--proclivity for languages. I speak English, Chinese and several other languages I needn't tell you about with equal fluency. I can even shift dialects and accents, although my 'Boston' leaves a little to be desired. Such a talent is almost priceless in this business, as you can well imagine. I wonder how much better your employers would treat you if you could speak something besides your pidgin French and graduate-school deaf-mute Spanish."
Malcolm smiled. "I doubt I'll ever know. But that still doesn't really explain why you're why you do this kind of thing."
The girl stopped and faced Malcolm. During the several seconds she stared silently at him Malcolm grew increasingly nervous. Finally she, said, "So that's it. The old 'What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like
this?' I wondered if the question would come. What you really want to know," she said icily, "is why am I serving the totalitarian, evil communist Chinese government? Why aren't I dying to be on your side, the side of good and right and purity?"
"I didn't say that," rejoined Malcolm weakly, "I'm not that-"
That dumb?" interrupted Sheila, the volume of her voice building. "I hope not, Ronald 'Condoe Malcolm, I hope not. You ask why I'm here. I already told you. I'm Chinese. While your ancestors, ran through Europe in animal skins, my ancestors studied art. When the West finally pulled itself up using our gunpowder discovery, my China was one of the first places you came to wipe your feet and get your laundry done. For centuries you used us. Never again.
"My people aren't starving coolies anymore. We don't have to make the momentous decisions over which car model to buy; we're too busy being alive and staying alive. An American once told me the prevailing opinion when he was a young man was that China could never be a world power because the bulk of its people would always doom it to subservience. And you talk about us thinking of 'historic inevitability! Well, we're a world power now and we did it all behind the bamboo curtain you planted: We merely reaped a different harvest from what you thought possible.
"I've seen you look at me and I know what you think. That I don't look quite right for a Chinese. Remember my cover? Part Japanese, with Japanese relatives here. Part of that is true, I am part Japanese. My mother was raped as the last of the Japanese soldiers fled our country at the end of World WarTwo. Her reward for being Chinese. That was years ago, but not a lifetime. In less than a lifetime, in my mother's own lifetime, my country is made strong, strong enough to feed its people, strong enough so no more troops dare invade China to rape and rule."