Freedom TM

documents.”
    “My travel documents?”
    The man nodded.
    “I don’t see how that’s possible, but …” Ross removed his billfold from his jacket. “May I take care of it here?”
    “Attempting to bribe a government official is a serious crime in China.”
    “
Attempting
, perhaps. What about
succeeding
?”
    “This is no laughing matter, Mr. Morozov.” He switched suddenly to English. “Or should I say, Mr. Ross?”
    Ross remained calm. He placed money on the table to pay his check and put away his billfold. He switched to English as well. “Your English and Russian are both excellent.”
    “Thank you. Please mention that to my commander when you see him. Now, if you would please come with us …”
    “May I ask to see your credentials?”
    The man opened his coat to reveal a pistol in a shoulder holster.
    “That’s the one that counts, isn’t it?”
    The man gestured for Ross to follow them.
    Ross sighed then grabbed his handheld and laptop case and complied.
    They brought him outside to a waiting car. It was an unmarked Jeep Cherokee knockoff—what some of the expat Americans had taken to calling “Cheeps.” They opened the door for him, and Ross got in. He noticed that there were no door handles on the inside, and a wire mesh stood between him and the front seat. He was now their prisoner.
    The officers got in front and drove off in dense traffic without a word either to each other or to Ross. They drove for only a few minutes before pulling to the curb on a highly fashionable restaurant block. The place was bustling with shoppers and young professionals.
    The men got out and opened the door for Ross, who stepped onto the sidewalk and met the gaze of his captor. “I’m confused. Am I bribing you or not?”
    The man just grabbed Ross’s arm and along with his partner they moved toward an upscale martini bar done in clean Scandinavian glass and hardwoods with a minimalist logo that was so hip it would be indecipherable to Chinese and Scandinavians alike. The place was packed with cigarette smoke and young, mostly Chinese white-collar professionals who quickly parted to let the grim-faced plainclothes policemen through.
    Soon they approached a booth in the rear of the bar—the only quiet corner. The tables all around it were conspicuously empty. There, a young Chinese man in a well-cut suit waited with a frosted martini glass in front of him. He smiled as he saw Ross approaching.
    Ross couldn’t help but return the smile. It was Shen Liang. Shen was an old friend from Ross’s dot-com days in Portland—back in the late nineties. Before everything went to hell. Shen had been a kid just out of Stanford back then—barely familiar with America and Western culture. He was a brilliant young mind who’d taken in everything the Chinese universities had to offer at the time and was hungry for more.
    Ross and Shen had worked together at a start-up Web company named Stiletto Design—“Cutting through the noise” was their motto. It was the quintessential Web commerce shop with high ceilings, exposed brick, Aeron chairs, ping-pong tables, and soon-to-be-worthless stock options. They were expanding like mad in those days, designing merchant solutions for banks, insurance companies, and half-assed Web start-ups. Young men and women working long hours and late nights—it was a great place to be a young single person. The memory was just a haze of work, alcohol, and sex.
    As Ross sat down, Shen extended his hand and spoke in perfect American English. “Jon Ames. Or I guess it’s
Jon Ross
, nowadays. What’d you get married or something?”
    “It’s complicated, Liang. You look like you’re doing well.”
    Shen motioned to the nearby plainclothesmen and said something in Mandarin.
    The lead officer nodded, and both men departed.
    Ross watched them go, then turned back to Shen, who was nodding. “I am doing well. I wish I could say the same for you.”
    Ross gave him a quizzical look.
    “Jon, you’re in a lot of trouble.”
    “Then this isn’t a social call?”
    Shen grimaced and motioned to a beautiful young woman in a miniskirt. She came to the table immediately, and he pointed her to Ross.
    “I’ll have a Stoli, straight up with a twist, please.”
    “Of course, sir.” She hurried off.
    “Russian vodka. How telling.” He focused an appraising look at Ross as he lit a tiny cigar. “So …” He put his gold lighter away. “After all these years I find out that your name isn’t