device. The Chinese factories would undercut even the most efficient competitors because they had been studying the plans and specifications, secretly provided by Zang, for months. The combination of industrial espionage and cheap labor was invincible.
Her covert task today wasn’t criminal as far as she knew. The assignment was so unusual she exasperated her superior by her reques t for clarification. The raspy Mandarin voice on the other end of the phone was impatient with the junior agent’s questions, and his tone relayed that clearly. After researching the mission thoroughly for the past three days, she was ready. Turning off the bathroom light, she headed to the door, scanning the flat one last time, verifying she wasn’t forgetting anything.
By Chinese standards, her San Jose apartment was actually quite lavish. The one bedroom efficiency had a dishwasher, microwave, and solid surface cooktop. In her native country, only the upper echelons of society, living in the major cities, enjoyed such luxury. Zang rejected the place when she first toured the complex, because her mandate dictated that she appear to mesh with average Americans of the same socioeconomic situation. Standing out or drawing attention to oneself was strictly forbidden. It had taken her a while to realize the apartment was normal by local standards. Still, always conservative with money and image, she had opted for a third story unit, amazed that its monthly rent included a discount because most folks in this country didn’t want to climb three flights of stairs. She leased modest furniture and purchased essential pots, pans, silverware, and linens at a nearby discount store. After a few months, her concerns faded with the comfort of routine.
Zang rummaged in her purse, locating her key chain. After locking the door behind her, she began her trek down the stairs to the parking lot.
Driving a car had almost been the death of her. Motor vehicles are still a rarity in China, with waiting lists of more than five years to acquire even a modest family sedan. As a college student, she rode a bike on campus. Upon graduation, Zang located a flat that was a comfortable walking distance to work. The idea of navigating through superhighways while steering around traffic snares was more than a little daunting. It wasn’t like she had toured the countryside with her family, buckled in the back seat of an SUV or completed a driver’s education course in secondary school. Zang had only ridden in an automobile twice in her life before arriving in the states. After acquiring legal status to work, the original plan had been for her to gain employment in the San Francisco area and use the mass transit available there. The chance job opening in San Jose had been a perfect fit for her background and qualifications, so it was decided that Zang would learn to drive.
The Chinese gent who operated the On Track Driving Academy chain-smoked cheap cigarettes with a stench that betrayed their Taiwanese origin. His late model, training sedan was fully equipped with passenger side brake pedal, extra-large beanbag ashtray and family size bottle of Tums. Normally, within four weeks, new drivers were competent enough to complete the class. Zang passed on the third time through the course. She was never sure if the instructor’s nerves couldn’t deal with her obvious anxiety anymore, or if she had obtained the necessary skills. Even then, she failed the official state driving test twice before being issued a State of California operator’s license on the third attempt.
Purchasing her first automobile was another revolutionary experience. The glistening showrooms, fast talking salesmen, and seemingly endless options amazed Zang. She was almost at complete cognitive overload when a co-worker rescued her, explaining the process, and visiting several dealerships with her in his spare time. More than once, Zang studied the San Jose bus routes and cost associated with taking a
Her covert task today wasn’t criminal as far as she knew. The assignment was so unusual she exasperated her superior by her reques t for clarification. The raspy Mandarin voice on the other end of the phone was impatient with the junior agent’s questions, and his tone relayed that clearly. After researching the mission thoroughly for the past three days, she was ready. Turning off the bathroom light, she headed to the door, scanning the flat one last time, verifying she wasn’t forgetting anything.
By Chinese standards, her San Jose apartment was actually quite lavish. The one bedroom efficiency had a dishwasher, microwave, and solid surface cooktop. In her native country, only the upper echelons of society, living in the major cities, enjoyed such luxury. Zang rejected the place when she first toured the complex, because her mandate dictated that she appear to mesh with average Americans of the same socioeconomic situation. Standing out or drawing attention to oneself was strictly forbidden. It had taken her a while to realize the apartment was normal by local standards. Still, always conservative with money and image, she had opted for a third story unit, amazed that its monthly rent included a discount because most folks in this country didn’t want to climb three flights of stairs. She leased modest furniture and purchased essential pots, pans, silverware, and linens at a nearby discount store. After a few months, her concerns faded with the comfort of routine.
Zang rummaged in her purse, locating her key chain. After locking the door behind her, she began her trek down the stairs to the parking lot.
Driving a car had almost been the death of her. Motor vehicles are still a rarity in China, with waiting lists of more than five years to acquire even a modest family sedan. As a college student, she rode a bike on campus. Upon graduation, Zang located a flat that was a comfortable walking distance to work. The idea of navigating through superhighways while steering around traffic snares was more than a little daunting. It wasn’t like she had toured the countryside with her family, buckled in the back seat of an SUV or completed a driver’s education course in secondary school. Zang had only ridden in an automobile twice in her life before arriving in the states. After acquiring legal status to work, the original plan had been for her to gain employment in the San Francisco area and use the mass transit available there. The chance job opening in San Jose had been a perfect fit for her background and qualifications, so it was decided that Zang would learn to drive.
The Chinese gent who operated the On Track Driving Academy chain-smoked cheap cigarettes with a stench that betrayed their Taiwanese origin. His late model, training sedan was fully equipped with passenger side brake pedal, extra-large beanbag ashtray and family size bottle of Tums. Normally, within four weeks, new drivers were competent enough to complete the class. Zang passed on the third time through the course. She was never sure if the instructor’s nerves couldn’t deal with her obvious anxiety anymore, or if she had obtained the necessary skills. Even then, she failed the official state driving test twice before being issued a State of California operator’s license on the third attempt.
Purchasing her first automobile was another revolutionary experience. The glistening showrooms, fast talking salesmen, and seemingly endless options amazed Zang. She was almost at complete cognitive overload when a co-worker rescued her, explaining the process, and visiting several dealerships with her in his spare time. More than once, Zang studied the San Jose bus routes and cost associated with taking a
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