Introduction

Iraq War vet Ellie McEnroe has a pretty good life in Beijing, representing the work of controversial dissident Chinese artist Zhang Jianli. Even though Zhang's mysterious disappearance of over a year ago has attracted the attention of the Chinese authorities. Even though her Born-Again mother has come for a visit and shows no signs of leaving.
 
But things really get complicated when Ellie's search for an Army buddy's missing brother entangles her in a conspiracy that may or may not involve a sinister biotech company, eco-terrorists, and art-obsessed Chinese billionaire, and lots of cats—a conspiracy that will take her on a wild chase through some of China's most beautiful and most surreal places.

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Excerpt

Chapter two

I tell myself not to panic.

I’m better about stuff than I was. My heart’s pounding, but it’s not so bad that I feel like I’m going to throw up. They could be here for all kinds of reasons. Checking to make sure I registered my mom at the local Public Security Bureau, maybe.

I stand up, wincing as my foot hits the floor, and hobble into the living room.

The two men stand in the doorway.

“I said they couldn’t come in till you checked their IDs,” my mom hisses. “Since I can’t tell what they say. I don’t think they speak very much English anyway.”

The two men are wearing dark blue uniforms with silver buttons, silver wings on their epaulets, and winged bars on their chests. One has his overcoat slung over his arm—the younger of the two men, tall and slender. The other is middle-aged and stocky, with a pockmarked face. He stands behind the first one, looking bored.

“Ellie McEnroe?” the younger one says, only the way he says it sounds more like “Mack-in-arr.”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come with us, please?”

“Why?”

“Just for a talk. To have some tea.”

I can see the patch on his shoulder. “Guo Nei Anquan Bao . . .” something something. My written Chinese sucks. But I’m pretty sure I know where these guys are from.

“We can talk here,” I say. “I have all kinds of tea. Your choice.”

He hesitates. Glances over his shoulder at his companion, who half raises an eyebrow and makes a tiny smirk. “I don’t think,” the younger one says, “this is convenient place. Because my English is not very good. So much better if we go talk with my . . . my laoban? My boss? So we can understand each other. Just a short talk.”

I think about refusing.

When they ask you to “drink tea,” it’s not exactly official. It’s not exactly optional either. It’s a way to try to gather information, to intimidate you. But you’re not getting arrested.

Yet.

Not that they’d probably arrest me. I’m not Chinese. They’ll just kick me out of the country, if it comes to that.

But I’d rather it didn’t come to that.

I shrug. “Okay. I need to use the bathroom first.”

Now they step inside. “No time for that,” the younger one says. The older one flanks him.

For a moment I think they’re actually going to drag me out of here. My heart’s pounding so hard I’m starting to shake. I hope they can’t see it.

I’m tired of being scared.

“Really?” I say in Chinese. “You want me to liberate myself in your car?”

At that the older one lifts both his eyebrows and makes a little snort.

I grab my canvas bag off the coffee table. Young cop starts to object. Old cop just shakes his head.

Yeah, I’m going to make a phone call, assholes. What do you expect?

Mom follows me toward the bathroom.

“You’re not going with them!” she says. “Are you? We should call the American embassy.”

“It’s just for a talk. Not a big deal.” “Who are they?”

“Domestic Security Department. They’re like the . . . the . . . kind of like the FBI.”

They’re in charge of tracking “subversives,” such as democracy activists, environmental crusaders, underground church members, pissed-off petitioners, miscellaneous malcontents— basically anyone with a point of view that isn’t in line with the “harmonious society.” They have plainclothes spies, a vast network of informants, I don’t know how many millions of them.

Not that my mom needs to know this level of detail.

“But why are they here? Why do they want to talk to you?” “I don’t know,” I say, though I have a pretty good idea. “It’s probably just . . . some of the people I know, some of the artists.

They do stuff that’s kind of controversial sometimes.”

I go into the bathroom, shut the door, and turn on the water in the sink. Get out my iPhone and touch a number.

It rings a few times and goes to voice mail. Fuck.

“Hey,” I say, in English, “I’m going for tea with the National Treasures. Thought you should know.”

I hit the red disconnect button. And then I pee. Because I actually need to go.

When I exit the bathroom, my mom is facing the two cops, hands on her hips, like she’s daring them to take a step closer.

I gather up my coat and a hat. “Remember that number I gave you?” I say. “The one I put on your cell?”

She nods.

“If you don’t hear from me in a couple of hours, call it and explain what’s going on. And if there’s no answer . . .”

I think about it.

“Yeah, call the embassy.”

W e ride in a squad car, heading southwest.

The older cop drives. The younger one sits next to me in the back and tries to make polite conversation. I wish he’d shut up. I need to think. To get my story straight, plan what I’m going to say, what’s safe to admit and what isn’t.

“Your Chinese is really good,” he says. “Really standard.” “Thanks.”

“Where did you learn it?” “Here.”

“How long have you been in China?” “Three years.”

He shakes his head. “We learn English in school. I study a long time. But I don’t speak it very well.”

“Helps to be in the country,” I say.

He sighs. “Yes. But I think I won’t have that opportunity. Very difficult in my position.” He hesitates. “I like American movies and TV shows very much,” he says in English. “To practice English. I watch . . . 24. The Sopranos. Sons of . . .” His brow wrinkles. “Ah-nah-key. I am not sure, how to say. They are bad men. Criminals. They drive those . . . those . . .”

“Motorcycles,” I supply.

“Yes!” He mimes twisting the handles. “Very dangerous!” His eyes light up, and he grins.

I keep thinking we’re going to stop. We pass the local police

station. Then monumental government buildings with the state seal attached to the concrete like a giant badge stuck on awkwardly with a pin.

But we don’t stop. We keep driving. West, then south.

After a while I have no fucking clue where we’re going. The traffic’s so bad that the cop takes sides streets, nothing I recognize.

Besides, no one goes to South Beijing unless they’re going to the new train station. This far south? I don’t even know what’s here.

The farther we go, the more it looks like we’re not in Beijing anymore, like we’ve suddenly been transported to a Podunk third-tier city in some interior province.

White-tiled storefronts. Cracked plastic signage. Discount malls plastered with billboard-size ads for products you’ve never heard of, European-looking models advertising watches and shoes, everything grayed by pollution. Vendors who look like peasants with stuff to sell spread out on blankets on the sidewalk: DVDs. Socks and underwear. Barrettes and hairbrushes. Random shit.

“Where are we going?” I finally ask.

“Not far. Just a place . . . that’s comfortable. To talk.”

And that’s when I really get scared. I think maybe they’re just going to make me disappear.

No, that doesn’t make sense, I tell myself. If they were going to do that, would they send guys in uniforms? Would they do it in front of my mom?

Wouldn’t they do it off the books?

I tell myself this stuff until I’m calm again. Calmer anyway.

We turn onto a busy street with the typical iron fence dividing it, so pedestrians can’t cross and drivers can’t make turns, and for some reason I think about what a pain in the ass

those iron fences can be, like they go out of their way to make simple things difficult. We pass trucks stacked with vegetables— potatoes, bundles of celery—that rumble down a narrow street toward some huge gray cement gate with a red badge and gold characters across the top, a guard box on either side.

Finally we get to the end of the block and turn left, into a walled, gated parking lot. In front of us is a large, blocky building, about ten stories high, the façade a combination of faux marble, metal sheets, and green Plexiglas. Red lanterns hang above the entrance.

The pinyin below the characters spells out hexie anxi jiudian.

Harmonious Rest Hotel.

We drive past the lobby, around to the back, through a metal gate, into a little service yard. There are rows of Dumpsters, a couple of battered electric scooters, a warped Ping-Pong table, and a clothesline with hotel uniforms hung up, inside out, to dry.

“So we aren’t checking in?” I snark.

The younger cop does one of those embarrassed semi- giggles. “Please wait a moment,” he says, and gets out of the car. He jogs over to a back entrance and goes inside.

The older cop sits in the front seat and drums on the steering wheel.

Shit, shit, shit, I think. Even if this ends up not being a big deal, what are the odds I’ll get my visa renewed if I’m getting hauled in to drink tea with the fucking DSD?

The young policeman comes trotting back and opens the car door. “Okay,” he says, as cheerful as a tour guide about to show me some special scenic spot, “we can go upstairs now.”

It’s a “business hotel, ” meaning stripped down, stained, and frayed around the edges but fairly clean. We enter

through the back door, past a curtained room that’s some kind of staff facility: I glimpse cleaning supplies, stacks of towels, one hotel worker, a rosy-cheeked girl who hardly looks old enough to be working here, sitting on a metal folding chair, sewing a button on a uniformsmock.

We go up three flights of worn carpeted stairs. The air smells like stale cigarettes, the smoke permeating the walls, the red industrial carpet; you’d have to tear down the whole place to get rid of it.

By the time we’re on the third flight, my leg is throbbing and I’m just really pissed off, because people keep fucking with me, because I can’t catch a break, because my leg really hurts, and I don’t even have a Percocet.

Okay, I tell myself, okay. You need to keep it together. Don’t lose your temper, and don’t panic. Just calm down, listen to what they say, and don’t give them any more than you have to.

I’ve been in worse situations than this, and I got through them.

This is nothing.

We walk down to the end of the hall, to a room like every other room. Room 3310. Young Cop has a key card, and I hear the insect whir as the door unlocks.

It’s your basic Chinese hotel room. A bit larger than some of the places I’ve stayed, in that there’s room for two club chairs and a little round table on a raised Formica-covered platform by the window.

A man sits in one of the chairs. No uniform, just a polo shirt and slacks. Middle-aged, a slight paunch hanging over his typically ugly belt with a square gold buckle, fake Gucci or Armani or something. Hair swept back in a Chinese bureaucrat pompadour.

“Qing zuo,” he says, gesturing to the other chair.

I sit.

He doesn’t say anything. Just sits there and smiles at me. I fidget. Maybe that’s the point of the silence.

“You asked me here for tea,” I finally say. “I don’t see any.” “Ah.” He nods. Motions to Young Cop, who quickly scoots

over to the desk, where the hot water kettle is, and fills it with a bottle of Nongfu Spring water that’s sitting next to it.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” he says. I shrug.

He leans back in his chair, twines his fingers together, rocking them up and down like he’s contemplating the universe or something. I stretch out my bad leg, which has started to cramp up and is hurting like hell.

Neither of us says anything. Young Cop busies himself with opening up the complimentary tea bags and putting them into two cups.

The kettle hisses steam, and there’s a loud click as it turns itself off. I flinch.

Young Cop pours water into the cups and carries them over. Sets them on the little round table with a rattle and retreats, smiling in that embarrassed way of his.

“You two can go,” the man says to the cops.

After that it’s just the two of us and more silence. The man sips his tea. So do I.

He’s better at this silence thing than I am.

“You want to talk to me,” I say. “I’m here. You want to ask me something? Or what?”

“I am just waiting. For my colleague. His English is better than mine.” He looks at his watch, a fake—or possibly real— Rolex. “Perhaps there’s bad traffic.”

So far he hasn’t spoken a word of English. Maybe he’s telling the truth.

I hear the whir of a key card unlocking the door.

“Ah. He’s arrived.” The man turns to me and smiles. “I think you know each other.”

The door opens.

That’s when I realize: I am so totally screwed. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. Ellie puts her life on the line investigating the big business of GMO farming practices in China. Does the risk outweigh the reward in this instance? At what point does science move from helpful to harmful?

2. Secondary to HOUR OF THE RAT is the concept of the surveillance state in which one's every move is potentially observed. What are the forms that surveillance can take? What effects might this have, positive or negative, on a civil society?

3. What is the role of art and artists in a society where political freedom is limited? What does art mean for "common" people who aren't formally trained to "get it?"

Weblinks

»	Author Lisa Brackmann's web site
»	Publisher's Book Info

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