Carl Hiaasen & William D. Montalbano

  A Death in China

  Carl Hiaasen

  Bill Montalbano

  A DEATH IN CHINA

  In 221 B.C., China came to be ruled by the formidable Emperor Qin Shi Huangdi, whose dynasty was China’s shortest, but arguably its most important. It was Qin who unified the feudal country. He built a road system, organized a central government, standardized Chinese language and coinage, and it was he who ordered construction of the Great Wall. Qin’s hope for China’s future was tied to a belief in his own immortality; to achieve that end, he was both ingenious and brutal, and when he finally died, he was interred in a giant tumulus near his capital of Changan, now the modern city of Xian. In the last decade, no archaeological dig has aroused more world interest than that involving the tomb of Qin Shi Huangdi, the Son of Heaven. …

  —From a lecture by Dr. David Wang

  St. Edward’s College, Ohio

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  CHANGAN, CHINA, 213 B.C.

  “WHERE IS CONFUCIUS?” the emperor demanded.

  Princes, nobles, councillors, generals, diplomats, servants and eunuch-ministers mimicked the emperor’s angry mien. Square-jawed, flint-eyed, they stared at the cluster of old men whose robes and formal bearing marked them as scholars. Silence wrapped the throne room. It was not a question to be answered. Everybody knew Confucius had been dead nearly three hundred years.

  “Is Confucius in heaven? Where is heaven? What do your books tell you? Is he a bush, or a river, or a bird that flies through the forest? Does he live still? Tell me, scholars.”

  The eldest scholar, gnarled as the cane he clutched with both hands, responded in a voice that held no fear.

  “Where the master is we cannot say. But his spirit is among us men.”

  “You know nothing!” the emperor snapped. “Am I then just a man, like any other?”

  “You are foremost among men, and more,” answered a councillor named Li Su in prayerlike incantation. “You are Qin Shi Huangdi, August Sovereign, the Son of Heaven. You are the Emperor of the Middle Kingdom.”

  “Have I lived as other men?”

  The ritual required a general to answer: Men Qian, the emperor’s best.

  “Your feats have surpassed all others.”

  The emperor allowed himself a smile and cocked an eye; a parody of surprise.

  “You have unified the Middle Kingdom,” the general continued. “You have given us a great wall, stretching many months’ journey, from the great ocean to the desert to protect us from the barbarians. So wide six horsemen may ride abreast. So tall and so strong that it will never be breached.”

  “So I am not just any man, am I? I am the Son of Heaven, ruler of the mightiest empire. Tell me, scholars, in your wisdom: Is that not right?”

  The old man ran a clawed hand through his wispy beard.

  “‘Let the prince be prince, minister be minister, father father and son son.’ So it is written,” he said.

  The royal fingers kneaded an elaborate bronze chalice, and a serving boy, unnoticed, carefully poured more wine.

  “They are all men. Men die. But I am different; the Son of Heaven. I shall not die. My body may stop, but I shall not die. I shall be immortal.”

  There were none to vouchsafe the emperor a response. The eldest scholar folded his hands around the cane and stared out over the exquisite royal city, where five palaces and fifty temples drowsed in the summer sun.

  “I have heard the criticism of the scholars,” the emperor said. “They ridicule my dealings with sorcerers and alchemists. They deny immortality because it is not written in their books.

  “Scholars! It is not enough for an empire to be strong and orderly. No, they insist as well that the emperor must also be a sage, must also follow the teachings of Confucius, who is not here.”

  The eldest scholar replied softly, as though rebuking a child. ‘“To govern is to set things right. If you begin by setting yourself right, who will dare to deviate from the right?’ That is what Confucius said.”

  “I am the Son of Heaven and I have set things right in this world as I will in the next. You have seen my preparations. They have taken more than thirty years.” The emperor cocked his head. “Did you not believe what you saw?”

  “I believe in the majesty of the work I saw,” the old man said evasively.

  “Majesty? Yes, my old friend.” The emperor nodded. “Majesty indeed. A mountain whose insides have been carved into the shape of the cosmos by hundreds of thousands of workers who have labored a lifetime. I have made a generation of peasants dig through subterranean streams and seal them off with bronze to create a burial chamber where I shall rule for eternity. Palaces, pavilions—with fine vessels, jewels, stones and rarities. With quicksilver I have created the waterways of the empire, the Yangtze and Yellow rivers, and even the great ocean itself, and made them flow mechanically. Perfect models. And above I have depicted the heavenly constellations, and below, the geography of the earth. All this you have seen?”

  “Yes,” the old scholar answered.

  “And the vaults?”

  “Yes.”

  “Majestic, would you say? Large vaults surrounding the mountain, filled with clay soldiers, thousands of them, infantry, archers, charioteers and generals. Each carrying a real weapon.” The emperor’s eyes flashed.

  “Your celestial army,” the scholar said.

  “It will protect my perpetual reign.” The emperor emptied his cup. “And having seen my tomb and my army, scholars, can you still deny my immortality?”

  There was a long pause then. Every eye was riveted on the small group of scholars before the throne. After the pause, the eldest replied.

  “Ideas, like Confucius, are immortal. Men die.”

  “Fools!” the emperor screamed.

  The next day, four hundred and sixty wise men, gathered from all corners of the empire to assay the emperor’s immortality, were made to watch as soldiers burned their books.

  Then they were led to a deep pit not far from the emperor’s celestial kingdom. From atop the steep sides of the pit jeering peasants shoveled clods of thick red earth. Most of the scholars kept their dignity. A few cursed and one or two of the younger ones cried. Before noon, they were all buried and dead. But then, three years later, so was the emperor, laid to rest under the perpetual vigilance of his fierce clay soldiers.

  Chapter 1

  PEKING, AUGUST 1983

  THE HIGH-CEILINGED LOBBY seemed carved in time, socialist testimony to yesterday’s barren promises. A wine-red carpet crawled like a stain toward the horizon. Improvident columns that were neither attractive nor altogether round highlighted bile-green walls. The furniture was of blond wood and indeterminate proportion. Waist-high counters cluttered every inch of wall space, each chock-ablock with white-coated workers. Some were accountants, some receptionists, some managers. Most were watcher
s.

  Tom Stratton threaded through a knot of noisy Americans. He skirted a gaggle of Japanese clustered around a guide waving a flag. He neatly sidestepped a functionary listlessly pursuing a fifty-pound vacuum cleaner. Reaching the stand where an empty-eyed girl protected trays of almost fresh fruit, Stratton bought two apples. She weighed them on a digital scale and made change of his one-yuan note with an abacus.

  “Ba lou,” Stratton told the elevator operator in phrase-book Mandarin. He was eventually deposited on the eighth floor.

  The room was a monstrous little brother to the lobby, but already, after a week, it seemed like home. Stratton kicked off his shoes and padded into the bathroom. The hot water tap snuffled and growled, barked and hissed. On past experience, the chances that the water would be hot when it finally appeared were exactly one in two.

  Stratton ate the apples and fingered leaves of tea into a thin-walled mug. Tenderly, he added water from a thermos on the night table, then threw back the red velvet drapes to let in the last rays of sunshine and sprawled on the bed. It was one hell of a place, Peking. Stratton had not decided whether to love or hate it. The city sprawled in all directions, a flat, dusty, one-story town punctuated by brick chimneys thrusting toward the smog like phallic exclamation marks. Graceless monuments of revolutionary architecture dwelt alongside exquisite, gold-roofed survivors of the city’s imperial past. Stratton scissored off the bed to watch the evening rush hour flow past a hundred feet below. He had just calculated the bicycle flow at nearly five hundred per minute when the room door flew open.

  “Comrade! The chairman wants to see you right away.”

  “Hello, Alice.” Stratton stifled a grin behind the tea mug. She had become a China groupie, a parody in blue cotton. The pants Chinese women wear with shapeless abandon strained across Alice’s ample rump. The jacket was buttoned to the neck and fashionably wrinkled. The flat-brimmed hat bulged in a frustrated attempt to contain a mass of bottle-blond hair. Clinging precariously to the cap was a sheet metal button, red on white. AAAH, it said.

  “You could pass for a native,” Stratton mocked. Alice Dempsey was not his favorite woman.

  “Bought it all at the Friendship Store. Why didn’t you come with us?”

  “I felt queasy.”

  “Baloney!” she snorted. “Every chance you get you slip away from us. What have you got against art historians anyway? I’ll bet you don’t even wear your badge, do you?” She rolled her eyes up toward her own AAAH. American Association of Art Historians.

  “It’s a fine group, very nice folks,” Stratton said with forced politeness. Alice Dempsey was ugly as sin and as annoying as a rash, but she did have wit and will enough to be a prized member of an excellent faculty in California.

  “Fact is, I’d rather walk around than ride on a bus.”

  “Well, it’s rude to our Chinese friends. The guide, little Miss Sun, is always asking about you: ‘Where is Professor Stratton?’ At least don’t forget about the acrobatic show tonight.”

  “Sure, Alice.”

  STRATTON’S HEART had not been with the tour since he had bumped into David Wang outside the Summer Palace, just as if they had been on Adams Street in Pittsville, Ohio, or at one of those ad hoc seminars Wang had loved to lead at St. Edward’s, stockinged feet curled to the fire in the old library.

  It was Stratton’s first time in Asia in more than a decade, and he had still not worked out to his own satisfaction why he had come. Asia was a dead letter. Had he come because a two-week package tour of the People’s Republic was cheap and exotic? Or because it would spare him dull hours of summer research at the small New England college where he taught? Not that, either. The research would have to be done, sooner or later, one way or the other; long nights followed by a slim volume only initiates would read. The job was waiting when he got back. Say he had come to escape the shards of a divorce that still hurt, a year later. Was that the real reason? Part of it, maybe, but only a lesser part, if Stratton was in the mood to be honest with himself. Carol was gone and he did not really miss her, although sometimes he ached to be with the boy.

  Boredom. That was closer to the truth, wasn’t it? His friends would know it intuitively. Stratton had worked hard to become a scholar. He was a legitimate historian, an able professor of emerging reputation. And … so what? Passing years that dulled the senses, blank-faced students in vacuous procession. What next, Stratton? Midlife crisis. Male menopause. Maybe there was no next.

  So he had come to China. To throttle the boredom. No, there was something deeper. He was also testing the scar tissue, the way an athlete will gingerly measure the recovery of an injured limb. Something else, too. Thomas Stratton, as he alone knew, had come to weigh the man he had become against the one he had once been.

  At Peking Airport, standing before the immigration officer in white jacket and red-starred cap, visions of yesterday had come flooding in with a gush he had battled to control. The man had fingered his passport without interest.

  “Is this your first time in China?” the inspector had asked in slow, careful English.

  “Yes,” Stratton had lied. “Yes, it is.”

  “You are perspiring. Are you ill?”

  “No. It is hot.”

  The man had stamped his passport and Stratton had sought the refuge of protective coloration in the gaggle of art historians.

  Stratton shook his head at the memory and sipped his tea.

  That night he skipped the acrobatic performance. Too bad about little Miss Sun. Once Stratton was sure his tour mates had left in the green-and-white Toyota minibus in which all tourists in China seemed to live, he went looking for dinner. On the way, he conducted prolonged negotiations with the white-jacketed floor attendants. If there was a telephone call for Professor Stratton, could they transfer it to the restaurant? It might work. Even if it didn’t, it was not crucial. If punctilious David Wang called once unsuccessfully, he would either leave his number or call again.

  The restaurant—foreigners only—was a purely functional place of round tables, soiled tablecloths, spotted silverware and spicy food in the inevitable blue-and-white crockery. The tour group ate three meals a day there, Western for breakfast and Chinese for the other two—a procession of savory dishes that appeared unordered.

  Stratton settled into a small table and began leafing through a purple-covered issue of the Peking Review. About two paragraphs into the cover story, a gob of wet white rice caromed off the red plastic sign that proclaimed his table 37. From two tables away, Stratton’s assailant grinned evilly, gap-toothed and green-eyed. He was about seven years old and his chopstick catapult was poised for another round. A second child carefully probed the innards of the sugar bowl with a spoon. There were two, no three, others in tenuous custody of a pretty woman in her thirties and a great bear of a man with a bushy red beard. Stratton intercepted the next gob with his menu.

  “Kevin!” the woman jerked the missile commander around to face his dinner.

  “I’m sorry,” she told Stratton. It was something she had said before.

  The bearded man looked up from a dam of napkins that encircled a lake of spilled soy sauce.

  “Somehow it was easier at McDonald’s. Sorry,” he said.

  “No problem. Actually, he’s a pretty good shot.”

  From the waitress, Stratton ordered Sichuan chicken with peanuts, noodles, vegetables and a beer.

  “Qingdao beer.”

  “Qingdao mei you.” She pronounced it “may-o.”

  “What kind do you have?”

  “Peking.”

  “Okay.”

  “Hey, baby, that’s a bad mistake,” the bearded man called from his chaos. “Peking beer tastes like it was passed through a horse. Tell her you want Wu Xing.” He wiggled a green bottle in front of him.

  “Wu Xing,” Stratton told the waitress.

  Stratton abandoned the last hope of a quiet meal when something began gnawing his leg. He carried it, squirming and squealing, back
to its tribe.

  “An escapee, I think,” Stratton said, handing it to the woman.

  “Oh, Tracey! Again, I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I’m used to kids. My sister has four.”

  “Spend a lot of time with them?” the bearded man asked.

  “Never go near the little bastards.”

  “Can’t imagine why. Why don’t you join us, since we’ve ruined your dinner anyway? I’m Jim McCarthy. This is my wife, Sheila. I’ve never seen the kids before.”

  McCarthy, it turned out, was one of about twenty American reporters resident in Peking, a correspondent for a big East Coast newspaper. He had an office in a hotel and an apartment in a compound on the eastern side of the city where foreigners lived in Western-style buildings behind high brick walls erected and patrolled by the Chinese government to keep Chinese out.

  “You here for long?” McCarthy asked.

  “Another couple of days.”

  McCarthy rolled his eyes.

  “Jim is not a great China fan,” his wife explained

  “Yeah, one day I’ll write a book. ‘Hold the May-o’ it’ll be called. It’s the national sport. If you want something, they haven’t got it—beer to interviews. Mei you.”

  After dinner, Stratton marveled at the texture of the city as he walked along a broad tree-lined avenue that ran past the Temple of Heaven. The dark summer streets bustled with life. Where puny street lamps cast wan patches of light, people gathered in loose, friendly groups to escape the heat. Almost all were men, in old-fashioned undershirts. They squatted to gossip or play cards. The few cars rode with parking lights only, wary of the swirling stream of hard-to-see bicyclists, who used no lights at all. A young couple conducted public courtship on the stone steps of a government office building. From one alleyway, Stratton heard the muffled click of mah-jongg tiles, and from a window, the beat of Western rock music from a cheap tape deck. Like headlights, mah-jongg and rock music were forbidden in Peking that summer; the headlights so that bicyclists would not be blinded, the ancient game and the music because they were decadent. It pleased Stratton to realize that people still pursued their own muses on summer nights, and to hell with the Party and its rules.