On June 27, 2002, three pro-democracy Chinese dissidents, Yue Wu, Zhang Qi and Wang Bingzhang, were kidnapped in Vietnam and taken forcibly across the border into China. There they were held captive by the Chinese government for six months. Despite repeated inquiries by the US and French governments, China denied any knowledge of their whereabouts. Yue Wu was released in December, and Zhang Qi was finally freed on April 1st. Wang Bingzhang, who is known as the father of the overseas Chinese pro-democracy movement, was convicted by a Chinese court on "espionage" and "terrorism" charges, and sentenced to life in prison. At his one-day trial, he denied any wrongdoing. The US government has expressed serious concern about the lack of due process in the case of Mr. Wang.

What follows is their story.

As they wrestled the black plastic hood on my head at the steamy river's edge, I thought: We have been kidnapped by Chinese agents, not by robbers, not by the Vietnamese police. And now they are probably going to kill us and I will never see my wife and children again. I am about to disappear from the face of the earth.

Ten months later, feasting on a hot platter of white rice and Szechwan vegetables, and drinking a bottle of Japanese Kirin beer in a fine Chinese restaurant overlooking the antiquities of Paris, this is the moment I most remember about our first terrible day of captivity.

My name is Yue Wu and this is the story of my long day's journey into China's heart of darkness.

***

My name is Zhang Qi, a leader in the outlawed Qi Gong group, Zhong Gong. I am also Wang Bingzhang's fiancee, although it appears as though I may never marry him nor see him again. As I wander through the baroque halls of the US Capitol in search of any kind of assistance from Congressional members to help free Wang Bingzhang from a life sentence in a Chinese prison cell, I recall the first moment Yue Wu frantically called back as he and Bingzhang were dragged down to the river by a group of men, "Go call our friends! Run, Qi! Run!" But I did not run; I could not run. I could not leave them behind. And so I went with them in the boat across the river and into China. I had to share their fate. Isn't that what friends and lovers do? Nine months later, thinking back on that ugly afternoon, I know it was the right choice.

***

I met Wang Bingzhang and Zhang Qi at Taipei airport on June 14th last year. I had just flown in from Paris. They had arrived from New York City. That same day we flew onto Phnom Penh, where Wang and Zhang applied for Vietnamese visas. The Vietnamese Consulate in New York had turned Wang's earlier application down. There was no way he was not going to Vietnam.

For two months, Wang had been organizing a meeting with Chinese labor leaders in a little town named Mongcai, near Guangxi Province on the frontier of Vietnam, from his base in America. The purpose of the meeting was to develop a strategy for exploiting the rising tide of worker unrest in China, and to one day merge the body politic of the fledgling worker's movement with the head of the Chinese pro-democracy movement. It was Wang's dream, and I followed it with him. I had been a labor leader in the Tiananmen Square era.

This was not the first time I had been to Vietnam on such a mission of hope-or desperation. It is unlikely it will be my last, though my wife promises to form an opposition party against me, if I so much as think about going again. Which is understandable considering that for six months, she knew nothing about my whereabouts. In fact, she feared that I might be dead. At one point, reports had surfaced on the Chinese Internet that we had been murdered at the border. And the Chinese government denied any knowledge of us. But I knew exactly where I was. I was being detained in a tiny, windowless room in Beijing, which was guarded 24/7 by two, five-men teams of armed guards, who appeared, judging by their sheer volume, to be inordinately fearful. I was repeatedly questioned for the first month of my captivity:

What was I doing in Vietnam/China? What was my relationship with Taiwan? What was my relationship with Wang Bingzhang? What was my relationship to the Falun Gong? What was my role in the overseas democracy movement? What was my part in 1989 at Tiananmen Square?

I demanded my legal rights. They told me I could forget about them.

***

Though I was relatively new to the overseas Chinese pro-democracy movement, I knew I loved Wang Bingzhang, so its dangers meant nothing to me. I presumed that I had little to fear no matter where I went with Wang, because I knew Wang feared little. Twice jailed during the Cultural Revolution for so-called counter-revolutionary activities, he had turned his fear into a working asset. He loathed the Communist Party for having robbed him of his freedom and his country. But I did have something to fear. Fear would have been the better part of wisdom. If only we had turned back.

On June 16th, we were granted visas in Phnom Penh and we eagerly flew to Saigon, where we transited to Hanoi. It felt like being on holiday, though we were on a clandestine mission. Despite the fact that it was humid and hot, I sensed spring. It was good to be back in Asia, and to know that my country was near. I despise living in exile.

***

After two days in Hanoi, we traveled by train to the town of Tungdeng in west Vietnam. Wang was to meet with his contact from Guangxi Province, whom he had never met before, but had spoken with by phone. According to Wang, he had valuable information about the unemployed workers' movement in the province, Falun Gong resistance activities, and flagrant corruption cases of Guangxi communist party officials.

During our first two days in Tungdeng, Wang grew anxious. He sensed something was not right. He said he thought he had seen Chinese agents in the streets. He thought they might have recognized him. Was Wang being paranoid? I couldn't tell. But as his apprehension soared, mine grew, too. He asked me to go to the meeting without him. I agreed. This is why I had come to Vietnam.

We met in a small cafe on a narrow side street. The sun was hot, the air as thick as wet wool. Wang had never met his contact before, only knew him by name. Over tea, the man showed me his identity card. The name on the card and his name matched. But as we talked, I sensed something. I turned around. There was someone watching us. We left.

Another cafe. I asked Wang's questions; he answered. There was no workers' movement in Guangxi; there was no Falun Gong resistance; there was no corruption in the party; the situation in Guangxi was, in fact, very good. I felt other people watching us. I was nervous as hell. I found his answers highly suspect. I thought-- This man is a Chinese agent.

I abruptly ended the meeting, eager to get as far away from him as possible. I paid my own bill.

I told Wang about my suspicions: The Chinese police may be onto us. We should leave Vietnam immediately. He seemed to agree. We took the next train back to Hanoi. For the next two days, we took to the streets of Hanoi like tourists, intent on eating well. Tungdeng seemed like a long time ago.

***

It's difficult to say, "No," to Wang Bingzhang. By the morning of our third day, Wang had Yue and I back on the road, headed to Mongcai, a frontier town in the northernmost part of Vietnam. He needed to meet a long-time acquaintance. We hired a car and driver and left at dawn, arriving in Mongcai by late afternoon. I felt conspicuous. On edge. I couldn't say why.

We checked into a small motel by the bus station and went to a Chinese restaurant for dinner. It was near the Chinese border. We ate marinated fish and egg rolls. And drank lots of tea. Then we watched a soccer game on television in our private dining room late into the evening. I can't remember who won or lost. My mind wasn't on it. We walked back to our hotel room. Wang called the man we had come to meet. It was very late. We went to bed, but I couldn't sleep.

The next morning came in very hot and incredibly humid. It was June 27th. I will never forget it. Wang had arranged to meet his acquaintance in the same Chinese restaurant we had dined in the night before. Which seemed fine; but I was still nervous. Very nervous. I kept thinking: The border is so near. I put my foot down. I told Wang that Yue and I would meet his contact in advance of their meeting. That way-if all went well-- we would join him at a second nearby Chinese restaurant. For safety's sake. Just in case. It was half a plan, anyway.

I wondered: Why wasn't Wang nervous? I knew the answer: He had learned to turn fear into a working asset.

It was 10:00 am. I saw no one in the restaurant when I entered. So I turned and entered a small gift shop off the restaurant lobby. Moments later, Yue came up behind and whispered, "He's here." Then as quickly and quietly as he came, Yue seemed to evaporate, like a patch of fog on a sunny day.

I recognized the man. His face, his height, his clothing. Wang had described him perfectly. He looked like a businessman. In China, businessmen know about the labor movement and government corruption because it pays to know. I went up to him, feeling at ease, confident there would be no surprises. I introduced myself and asked him if his name was Xiao Li. He said yes. Then I asked him if he was waiting to meet Wang Bingzhang. He said yes. Then I said, "Come with me. I will take you to him."

Outside the air was a blanket of liquid heat. There was no way I was going to walk all that way to the restaurant. I suggested we hire motor scooter drivers to take us there. Xiao agreed. On the way, through the chewed up streets of Mongcai, Xiao suggested we stop by a casino. A casino? I thought. You crossed into Vietnam to go to a casino? I asked him why? "In case we're followed¡­" he answered. But he didn't seem nervous. Not like me. Now I was nervous.

But I agreed. I don't know why I agreed. I just did.

We stopped across the street from the casino. Next to us was a cafe. It was a hole-in-the-wall actually, with a couple of tables and chairs. I looked at the casino. It was brimming with people, even at 10:30 in the morning. I thought: We're all gamblers. Maybe me more than most. Instead of going into the casino, Xiao sat down at one of the cafe tables and bought a bottle of water and drank it. I could have drunk three. I bought one.

Five minutes later, we left. We hired two new motor scooters to take us to Wang. Xiao never stepped foot in the casino. I'll always wonder why we went there in the first place.

While Xiao went inside restaurant to meet with Wang, I remained outside. Then as suddenly as Yue had previously vanished at the other restaurant, I found him peering into the window of another sidewalk restaurant. We Chinese love to eat.

Together, we walked around in the heat. We kidded each other that we were Wang's security detail. It was too hot to be nervous. At around noon, we met up with Wang. We found him outside the Chinese restaurant. Xiao Li had already left. I was starving. It was time to eat. As I said, we Chinese love to eat.

***

Upstairs, in our private room, Zhang was the first to notice the men going by. They walked by the door, peering in through the oval window. First there was one, then two, then three. There were too many for comfort. Seconds later, the restaurant owner barged in and warned us there was a group of men looking for us. He recommended we leave immediately. We didn't have to be asked twice. We paid the bill, leaving all that delicious food on the table.

We made our way back toward the hotel on foot, passing through Mongcai's twisted streets. Strange men stood stationed at nearly every block. I looked back. Others were following us. They were the same men from the restaurant. I told Wang and Zhang to walk faster. They did. We all had a very bad feeling about this.

At the motel Wang and I went to pay the bill. The object was to get the hell out of there. Bill paid, we started to go back to our rooms to collect our luggage. It was too late. Seven or eight men in plainclothes suddenly materialized in the motel lobby. They were the same ones from the restaurant and they went straight for Wang. "We're Vietnamese police," the leader said. "We ask you to come to the police office with us." He spoke Mandarin with a Vietnamese accent.

Wang resisted. Zhang came up, asking to see their identification cards. They ignored her. They grabbed Wang again, trying to drag him out the motel door. He struggled. A scuffle broke out, but it was futile. These guys were professionals. Zhang tried to intervene. "We haven't done anything illegal!" she cried. They ignored her again. Resigned to the odds, I looked at Wang and said: "If you need him to go, we all go." So we all went.

We walked freely to the van parked across the street. These can't be Chinese agents, I thought. It's broad daylight. Almost noon. They must be Vietnamese police. They are going to take us to the station. We have done nothing wrong.

By the time we got to the van, more men had materialized around us. A curious crowd of people had gathered near the van. We were something of a spectacle. Improbably, the crowd actually made me feel safer. I sought to reassure myself again: This must be a misunderstanding.

The van door slammed. Wang, Zhang and I sat packed inside, surrounded by about ten men. They were young-- 25 years old or so. Except for the leader. He was older-and definitely in charge. We drove away, our baggage left behind in our motel rooms.

The tires whined; the traffic thinned. We sat silent as time went by. I cast a worried look to Wang. He stared grimly ahead. We seemed to be headed out of town. We hit a bump in the road. The van lurched forward; the frame creaked. Soon the countryside rose up around us. Now there was no question: We weren't going to any police station. Anxious, I asked the quiet leader, "Where's your office?" But he ignored my question, confirming my worst suspicion. My mouth was dry as toast; my stomach churned. The leader demanded to see our passports and travel documents. He told us he would hold onto them to show his boss. I was scared. Without my travel documents, I was naked, too. The heat inside the van was unbearable.

***

Our van skidded to a dusty stop at the river's edge. I had no idea where I was. The shoreline was covered with high, leafy trees; the river looked wide and brown and calm. This was the wild frontier. I looked at Wang for reassurance. He smiled a long smile. I touched his hand. He held mine... The dust outside began to settle. Out the window, I saw a long, uncovered, wooden boat docked at the riverbank. An oarsman stood by waiting-waiting for us. I thought to myself: If they had wanted to kill us, there wouldn't be a boat¡­ There wouldn't be a boat waiting for us.

The van door slid open. The men grabbed me, pulled me out. My hand fell away from Wang's. They cast me aside like a piece of garbage; they insisted Wang get out next. He refused. The men reached in and tried to seize him. Wang resisted. A fight ensued. They finally overpowered him, and dragged him out. Wang stumbled and collapsed. Sitting on the dusty ground, he resisted getting up. Implicitly, he understood that the worst thing he could do was to go any further with them now. They bloodied his face. They scratched his arms and neck. His clothes were filthy. He defied them like an ox its taskmaster. That was Wang. The personification of defiance. For better or for worse.

***

As I stepped out of the van if for no other reason than to try to help Wang, I heard the leader bark, "If you don't get up, you will be killed." There was a tone in his voice that was unmistakable: He meant it.

Weighing in, too little too late, I told Wang resistance was useless. There was no purpose in it. At last, he relented. His face was badly bloodied. They pushed Zhang away when she tried to aid him. Four men brought Wang to his feet and hauled him off toward the river. Four others took me away, too. They led me down to the Beilun River. I had seen this river before during previous trips to Vietnam with Wang. The river divided Vietnam from China.

As we walked the short distance to the boat, the van peeled away. I turned back. Zhang was left alone in a swirl of dust. She looked as fragile as a porcelain doll. Run, Qi, run, I thought to myself. Two of the men started to speak a local Chinese dialect from Guangxi province across the river. I had a difficult time understanding them. But there was one thing I understood completely: These men were not Vietnamese police. They were no sooner Vietnamese police than I was Jiang Zemin. They were Chinese agents and they had kidnapped us and were taking us back to China.

Now I was terrified.

As we neared the boat, I looked back again at Zhang. She still stood standing alone, as if paralyzed. A hot veil of dust settled about her. Vainly, I shouted to her, "Go call our friends! Run, Qi! Run!" My captors slowed, confused by what was happening behind them. Down by the river, the oarsman yelled out, "She can't come with us-LET'S GO!" He spoke in pure Mandarin.

Shoving me forward, they threw us in the boat as if they were baggage-handlers and we were just so much baggage. I fell in forward and when I looked up again, Zhang was there. She climbed in, unwilling to leave us. There were no friends to call. We were all alone. So together we made the journey across the river into China's heart of darkness.

***

As the oarsman poled, the river felt cool, the air lighter. I dipped my hand in the water. I wet it so that I could wipe the blood from Wang's bloodied face. Though obviously in pain, Wang was stoic. I feigned a smile to try to knife the tension. It did little good. Wang did not return it. I looked at the reflections of the riverbank trees in the water. They were nice. It made our ride seem to last forever. I was in no hurry to get to the other side.

The oarsman brought us to the shore. We got out and were made to sit down under a clump of trees. We were in the middle of nowhere. On the edge of the earth. The heat came back as if I had just opened an oven door. The air was barely breathable. The leader solemnly declared that we would all wait for his boss. The leader's boss. I wondered: Who was his boss?

The leader extracted an envelope from his pocket and opened it. He drew out a small, colored photo from it and showed it to us. He was almost gleeful. It was an old picture of Wang-- taken a few years ago. He was wearing a blue sweater. The leader asked Yue and me whether Wang was the same one in the photo. It was Wang all right. No question about that. Then he sat back against a tree and looked so happy. I sat back, too, exhausted by fear, but exhilarated to be alive. I closed my eyes, and listened to the idle chatter of my captors. Some spoke Vietnamese, a few Mandarin Chinese. Others remained silent, narcotized by the intense heat.

Soon the leader's cell phone rang. He answered it. After a few moments, he hung up. He smiled. It was such a smile¡­ I could tell: His workday was nearly done.

About thirty minutes later a carload of men drove up. They parked under a clump of trees near the water's edge. They were bigger and stronger than our original abductors, and they wore nicer clothing-more up-scale. And they all spoke Mandarin. Every last one...

A man, who looked like the new boss, or leader, marched over to Wang to study his face, as if it was on a Wanted Poster. He wore a suit, and was comically short. He looked like he had forgotten how to smile. At length he stood and said, "Take them all."

Our free fall continued.

As we walked away from the shore, they filmed us with a miniature hand-held camera. How bizarre, I thought, how perfectly obscene. A few yards down the way, they placed black plastic bags over our heads. The sky went dark. I wondered: Are they going to execute us? Sweat soon pooled across my forehead and then ran down my cheeks and neck. With only a couple of air holes cut into the hood through which to breathe, it was a horrible, horrible walk. I looked down. All I could see were my feet and the occasional slice of ground going by. Sometimes I saw the dirty shoes of the men who marched on either side. From time to time, a branch of a woody plant scratched at my leg. A low tree branch swiped at my face. Insects screeched in the tall grass. Were they mocking us? Yes they were mocking us.

We came to a country road. A big car sat parked beside the road, waiting for us. We were ordered in. We drove off. After a while we came to a stop while our driver rested. Then we drove off again. The next time we stopped, our kidnappers wrapped a sticky tape around the plastic hood, applying it like a bandage to a head wound. Then off we went again. The air grew cooler. It was getting to be night.

At length we came to our final stop. It was on the outskirts of a city, judging by the urban sounds. We were spirited inside a building, through a side entrance or a back door. I couldn't exactly tell. Then I was separated from Wang and Yue. They put me in a room by myself. Still hooded, still guarded. The first thing I insisted on was that they let me brush my teeth. Through a gap in my hood, I read an inscription on the toothbrush box they provided me. It read: Jinghai Coast Hotel.

That night my captors let me take off my hood, but they bound my feet with ropes. Two men watched me in four-hour shifts. All night long. I didn't sleep; I couldn't sleep. I was as tired as I had ever been. I would have paid a million dollars to take a long, cool shower.

***

The next morning the Chinese leader demanded a ransom. A $10 million ransom. I was incredulous. They wanted $10 million from an impoverished, exiled Chinese dissident living in Paris? I would have laughed except that he threatened to kill me if the money didn't appear in his bank account by noon tomorrow. I furnished him with my family contact information-- my Paris address, my wife's telephone number. I even offered to call her for him. He refused, claiming that would alert the police. I wondered: How was he ever going to get any ransom then? I accused them of being Chinese agent. "China claims to respect human rights," I said. "But what you are doing is wrong! It's kidnapping!" That didn't go over too well. After that, they gagged me. And when I tried to break free, they beat me. On and off for three days. They struck me with their shoes. They lashed me with their belts. Then they made me kneel down until my knees screamed in pain. In their zeal to inflict damage, they seemed to have forgotten all about the ransom money. It was only later that I learned that none of our families ever heard from the kidnappers.

***

On the third day, they herded Wang, Yue and me into a rickety old van and drove us to a second motel, threatening to kill us if we called out for help. They bound our hands again and covered our heads with hoods. At first, they left me in a room by myself. I tried to force the windows. They were nailed shut. I tried to look out, but rice paper, applied from without, covered the glass. I heard cars going by- and voices, too. We seemed to be in the suburbs. Another three days crawled by. I listened to the buzz of flies. One day my captors stole my necklace. My favorite silver necklace.

On the sixth day, my hands were bound again and a hood was placed over my head. This was getting to be humiliating. We were taken by car to yet another place-- a two-hour car ride away. We were forced to climb a set of stairs. They felt like wide planks of wood, not warped. Then we were hurried through what must have been a massive wooden door. I heard it creak, slowly opening. We were made to enter. I could feel the sheer volume of the room. The vast open space. It was strange how the absence of sight amplified my senses. Then, as if opening a present, my captors suddenly yanked off my hood. It was like stepping into a Garden of Delights. I stood awestruck-- in a beautiful Buddhist temple. The Buddha rose up before me. He was smiling.

We were ordered to sit down on the floor. Heads bowed. Watching us were three men. The boss and others. There were more stationed by the door. In all, maybe eight men. Mostly they were Chinese. A few spoke Vietnamese. They smoked and talked together-working buddies. One man interpreted to keep the conversation going. In about a half an hour, the interpreter sidled up to the boss and whispered in his ear. He may or may not have looked down at his watch. The little boss ordered his Chinese comrades out. They all slipped out another door and were gone. Only the two Vietnamese remained, smoking cigarettes and talking, almost ignoring us.

Then-after a moment-we heard cars drive up. One, two, three or four, I couldn't tell. Followed by the sounds of feet stampeding up the temple steps. The local Chinese police made their entrance, armed and in uniform. Without resistance, they took the two Vietnamese men into custody as Wang and Yue told the police about how we had been kidnapped across the border. We asked to be untied, but they refused. Then they escorted us down to awaiting cars and made to get inside, hands still tied. We were rescued by the police all right, and became prisoners for a third time in less than a week. We felt as though we had stepped into yet another Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole...

Later in the police station, we signed a statement, attesting to the fact that we had been kidnapped by robbers in Vietnam. Hoping to be freed and allowed to return to Vietnam, we weren't about to accuse our abductors of being Chinese agents. But they refused to release us. I asked one of the policemen during an interview: "Where were the two Vietnamese kidnappers they had caught?"

"Oh," he answered, "those guys were only temporarily employed by Zhang Wu, so they went back to Hanoi by train today." Zhang Wu? Chinese, I know. But who the hell was he? The day after our "rescue," we were transferred to Nanning, the capital of Guangxi Province. And there we stayed at a police academy for twelve days. On the way, I heard Yue Wu ask: "What happened to the kidnappers?"

No one answered him. The reason why was obvious.

Nine months later, I finally arrived in Washington, DC. I had been under house arrest for almost nine months. Meanwhile, Wang Bingzhang had been tried, convicted and sentenced to life in prison, for his so-called acts of "espionage" and "terrorism." His appeal was summarily denied. He denied all charges and claimed he was kidnapped. He was tried and convicted in a secret court in one day without even the remotest semblance of due process.

That same morning Wang's daughter flew into DC to see me. She had come to lobby with me for Wang's safe return. I threw my arms around her as she walked through the door into a dark and quiet second story apartment above a Chinese beauty shop in Chinatown. We stood there in that small space, and hugged, as if to stele ourselves against the enemy of the past. I cried.

Several days later at a press conference at the National Press Club, I told a part of my story. Later that day, an AP reporter telephoned the Chinese Embassy looking for comment. The embassy spokesperson, Xie Feng, dismissed any suggestion that the kidnappers were linked to the People's Republic of China. "It's a fabrication," he said. "The aim is to defame the Chinese government." Then he claimed, according to the report, that the police were still investigating the matter. "These kinds of kidnappers are very difficult to find," he concluded. "Osama bin Laden still hasn't been found."

When I heard that I thought: They might have had a better chance if they had only bothered to ask me what the kidnappers looked like.

***

It is late; the Parisian skyline's dark. Our meal is done and we are nearly finished sipping a third pot of tea. My wife calls; she tells me it's late. Come home. I say okay. There is nothing like the sound of her voice. Vietnam was a long time ago.

I look out the restaurant window and see my bespectacled reflection in the glass, the River Seine and the dark, moody skyline beyond. Momentarily, I think of Wang Bingzhang sitting in a stinking jail cell ten thousand miles away. I can see him there, because I myself have sat in just such a cell before. He stares at the walls. And I know what he is asking: Who will deliver me from China's heart of darkness?