Chapter 11

They'd promised me that I'd have some answers soon. It didn't take me long to discover that "soon" was a relative term.

Following my meeting at the consulate with Rick Yeung, I'd been whisked away to the airport. A serious and uncommunicative officer then accompanied me on a two-and-a-half-hour flight from Chengdu to Beijing. It was a regular commercial flight on a major airline. It sure looked like I was getting a free trip home, which seemed to give credence to the notion that some very important people had a stake in my safe return.

The U.S. Embassy in Beijing is a huge complex, far bigger than the consulate in Chengdu. It was there that I spent the rest of that day, as well as the ensuing night. Despite persistent questioning on my part, I was given very little information by those I spoke with. I was also not permitted to make any phone calls. Nonetheless, they were unfailingly pleasant, and aimed to meet my every need. Eventually, someone assured me that I'd be given the full story immediately upon my arrival in Miami. The waiting was killing me.

In the meantime, I was provided with palatable food, although it would never be considered gourmet quality. I asked for, and was granted, the opportunity to shower, as well as some fresh clothes to change into. I was handed another set of clothes as well, just in case. I stuffed them into my backpack, the same one I'd been carrying to work every day for the past two years. It was the only item (other than the clothes I'd just changed out of) that remained in my possession. Talk about traveling light!

Actually, there was one additional item of concern on my person, and that was the microchip that had been planted inside me. I mentioned that little matter to one of the officers I spoke with. "You had one of those chips put inside you?" queried the officer.

"Yes, I did. It sounds like you've seen them before."

"We encounter them every now and then," he replied vaguely. "We'll have to take yours out before you leave the complex."

"Take it out?" I said a little anxiously. I recalled that when the damn thing was installed, I'd been put to sleep.

"Yep," verified the officer. "Don't sweat it. It's a minor procedure." He then escorted me to a small clinic, leaving me inside a treatment room of some kind.

Soon, a technician entered and took some X-rays of my upper torso. She left the room, and moments later, a doctor entered.

"Let's get that chip out," he declared.

"Will you need to put me to sleep?" I wondered. "And exactly where did they plant the thing?"

"To answer your first question ... no, you won't be put to sleep. The chip is located right under the skin in your upper back, between the bottom of your right shoulder blade and your right armpit. They put it there because it's impossible for you to see any trace of the incision – which is very small, anyway – unless you use a mirror of some kind."

"Very interesting," I commented. "You know, they knocked me out when they put it in."

"They didn't want you to know where they put it," explained the doctor. He produced a syringe, from which he injected a local anesthetic into the area in question. Minutes later, he showed me a tiny disk-shaped object, only a few millimeters in diameter, in the grip of a pair of forceps.

"That's it?" I said incredulously.

"That's it," he confirmed. "Obviously, we'll want to hang on to it. But you're all stitched up and ready to go."

I spent the night in an exceedingly spartan private room, which contained nothing but a cot to sleep on. They woke me up bright and early, and it was off to the airport once again. On the way, I received another major surprise. The gentleman accompanying me handed me a passport. I opened it up, and was dumbstruck upon realizing that it was the same passport I'd had way back when. Somehow, it had been retrieved and transported from Florida to Beijing. Thankfully, it still had a couple of years to go before it expired. Upon reflection, it occurred to me that the last time I'd seen that passport, it had been in a desk drawer back home – the home I'd shared with Erin. Had she sent it over to China on my behalf? And would she be waiting for me at the end of this journey with open arms?

My inquiries were once again met with mild admonishments of, "Be patient, Jake. We'll tell you everything in time."

I decided to drop it.

The passport enabled things to proceed much more smoothly at the airport than they would have otherwise. Even so, one of the gentleman accompanied me through security right up to the departure gate, where he watched me board the aircraft. The flight left on time. I sat numbly in my chair as the landing gear separated from the runway, and I left Chinese soil for the first time in over two years.

The flight from Beijing to New York is obviously a very long one – more than thirteen hours. The flight path goes straight over the North Pole. I didn't sleep much; for the first time since the start of this stunning and unexpected turn of events, I was able to start to process what was going on. As the hours slipped by, I felt order returning to my thoughts, and an unsettling realization came over me. There, thirty-one thousand feet over the top of the world, I faced the fact that I was of two minds.

I'd been dreaming of this day ever since I'd arrived in China. To be sure, I didn't know what was waiting for me at the end of my trip. But it sure appeared that I was free of the triad; free to live my life as I chose. And, I repeated for the thousandth time, I was going home. Home! What kind of home was waiting for me? And what about Erin? I didn't yet know the answers to those questions, but I would before too long.

I wanted to look forward, and I was. But try as I might, I found a substantial portion of myself pulled in the opposite direction – actually looking back. I felt like a wishbone, each side gripped between thumb and index finger, wondering which opposing force would claim the bigger piece of me.

I hadn't had a chance to say goodbye to Wendy. I was feeling a deep pang of regret about that unavoidable omission. I missed her already; she'd been more than just a friend or a roommate. What would happen to her now? Had she been cut loose from the triad's ruthless tentacles as well? Or would she remain under their control, their grip tighter than ever following my release? Answers to those questions might be forthcoming ... or maybe not.

Then, there was Sandra. Would I ever find out what had happened to her?

My mind was muddled; the conflict raging within my head was intense. However, as my return to American soil grew nearer, the ambivalence began to wane. The two-plus years in China began its transition to a thing of the past, and I grew both excited and apprehensive with regard to what lay ahead.

As soon as the plane docked with the gate at JFK Airport, a man wearing formal attire came on board to escort me off the aircraft. This was yet another reminder that I was receiving exceptional treatment. This officer accompanied me through immigration, answering questions posed by the officials and explaining the situation. I had to wait over two hours for my connecting flight to Miami. By now, I was half exhausted, half climbing the walls. The delay was driving me crazy; but finally, the last leg of my trip home got under way. Two and a half hours later, I gazed out the aircraft window with nervous elation as we descended over very familiar ground. After touching down at Miami International, I was met once again at the gate by yet another official; this time it was a young man in his twenties, who directed me wordlessly to accompany him. We walked back out through security, and then headed for an elevator. I found myself in a part of the airport I'd never seen; a disconcertingly empty hallway with a few doors on each side. The gentleman opened one of the doors and directed me inside. My latest escort then seemed to vanish into thin air.

I found myself inside a small conference room. A clean-cut, middle-aged Caucasian man greeted me with a firm handshake, before closing the door behind me. He was wearing a coat and tie; his expression was serious but not unfriendly. "Hello, Jake," he said amiably. "My name is Fred Barton. I'm a foreign service officer with the U.S. Department of State. I'm based in Hong Kong, and I've been in charge of your case ever since it first came up. I flew in to meet up with you upon your arrival here in Miami. Let me be the first to tell you ... welcome home." He then sat down behind the lone desk in the room, and motioned for me to take a seat in a chair opposite him.

"Thanks, Mr. Barton," I replied, sounding decidedly ill at ease. "As you can imagine, I have about a million questions."

"Call me Fred. I apologize for the way you were kept in the dark during your long trip, but there was no other way. We had to get you out of China as quickly as possible, with nothing in the way of fanfare. Here's what I'll do. I'll tell you everything I know about your situation. I imagine I'll answer many of your questions in the process. At the end, you can ask me about anything I didn't cover, and I'll give you my best answer."

I nodded, a wave of relief sweeping over me as I realized that enlightenment was in the offing. "Fair enough," I told him, listening intently as he began to speak.

"We know virtually everything that happened to you over the past two years. We know that you were abducted by an organized human trafficking outfit, and forced to work under sweatshop conditions. We know that you were given another identity, and were actually coerced to enter into a fraudulent marriage by the man assigned to keep you under control."

I whistled softly. They'd uncovered everything!

"First of all," continued Fred, "let me fill you in on Roger Benson, whose identity you were given, and explain the reasoning behind why you had his identity forced upon you. Mr. Benson was an English teacher who had been bouncing from contract assignment to contract assignment in Sichuan province for the past several years. He was from Oklahoma, but had been out of touch with family members and friends in the States for quite a while. He developed a friendship with a local woman which, as best we can tell, was platonic on the surface. This woman had ties to the triad, and it was here that Mr. Benson found himself in over his head.