Carl Hiaasen & William D. Montalbano Page 16
On the third day, David Wang had shouted at his jailers, demanding an audience with Wang Bin. The jailers had laughed at the old man.
By the fifth day, a new thought had occurred to David, and he came to fear that Wang Bin would appear. Death itself did not frighten him, but he did not want it like this, in Peking, at the hands of his own brother.
David convinced himself that the only perilous part of the escape would be finding his way out of the museum. In dim lighting, his weak vision suffered from a loss of depth and distance. He would have to move slowly, maybe too slowly.
After the jailers brought the dinner tray that night, David meticulously counted one hundred and twenty nervous seconds before he slipped the latch on the door.
The corridor was poorly lit. At one end, light seeped from a room where the jailers dined raucously. Peering intently, David Wang could make out a doorway that appeared to lead to a flight of stairs. His confidence rising, he tiptoed along the hall until he reached the door and his feet found the first flight. Cautiously, he began to descend.
The stairwell was dark. David felt his way like a blind man—one hand groped the grimy wall, the other clung to a cold metal handrail. Would it be four flights, or five? He tried to remember the size of the building from the day he had first visited the museum as his brother’s honored guest.
After two flights, David Wang stopped to rest. A reassuring stillness wrapped the museum; the only sounds he heard were his own shuffling, tentative footsteps. At the third landing, David’s questing hand encountered something tall and wooden. At the same instant, his foot kicked something bulky and metallic. David dropped to all fours and used his hands to identify the tool chest and lifted it. Not too heavy. He would take it with him as protective coloration. It might be just the thing to get him out the back door and into the street.
Suddenly the lights in the stairwell snapped on. From above came agitated shouts, and the rumble of feet on the stairs.
For a few precious seconds David Wang was paralyzed, rooted and tremulous as the din escalated. Only when the first young cadre appeared at the top of the stairs did he act.
With a desperate jerk, David toppled the ladder. It fell in front of his pursuer. As David lunged for the door on the landing, the cadre hurdled the ladder easily. A hand clamped David by the shoulder. He spun around and breathlessly shoved—nearly threw—the tool chest into the cadre’s gut. The young man staggered backwards and doubled up. When his heels hit the ladder he tumbled down the stairs in a groaning somersault.
David Wang did not wait to see his enemy stop rolling. He was already anxiously exploring the second floor of the museum. It was a large room, dominated by rows of display cases, dimly perceived, their contents a mystery. If only there were someplace to hide, and if only he could see it. Across the gallery was another doorway. David Wang did not particularly care where it would take him. He ran for it. His gait was the huffing half-waddle of an old man, no match for the athletic cadres who streamed behind him.
David was but halfway to the door when he realized that he would not make it. He meant to stop, to gather himself and surrender with dignity. Instead, he lost his balance and skidded into a display case housing a collection of seventh century bronzes. David Wang and the exhibit went down together with an ear-splitting crash.
When his wits returned, a circle of young men was standing over him. He expected that they would scream at him, perhaps jeer, or even beat him. But they did not. Rather, the cadres simply led David back to his attic cell with the impatience of peasants who have frustrated the ungainly escape of a commune mule.
Later, the keepers even brought the old scholar tea and dumplings to replace the dinner he had fled. This time the spoon was plastic.
IN ANOTHER CELL, hundreds of miles away, Tom Stratton shakily faced a contrived tribunal. The jailer returned to the chair on Zhou’s left. Zhou himself sat down next, his back straight, his face unreadable. Kangmei wordlessly took the chair on Zhou’s right. Her long hair had been braided in pigtails, and her Western clothes had been replaced with standard Mao blue. Stratton searched her eyes for a clue, but Kangmei looked away.
“Nice room, huh?” Stratton said. “This is what I get for taking the American plan.”
“You are to remain silent,” Zhou warned, “until these accusations are read. Then you will be permitted to state your confession and sign it. Then sentence will be declared. Wang Kangmei?”
“Yes, Comrade Zhou.”
“Do you see the man named Thomas Stratton in this room?”
“Yes, Comrade.”
“Describe him,” Zhou commanded.
Kangmei studied the half-naked Stratton for several moments, up and down, and this time it was he who looked away.
“He is an American. He is tall and light-haired. With a mustache.”
“And what is he doing now?”
“Kneeling, Comrade Zhou.”
“And what is he wearing, Wang Kangmei?”
“A shirt, a torn shirt.”
“Filthy? Unclean?”
“Yes, Comrade.”
“And what else? What else is he wearing?”
“A bandage. A filthy bandage.” Kangmei glared scornfully down at Stratton. “And that is all, Comrade Zhou. He has no other clothes on.”
“And do you find him … attractive?”
“No! He is disgusting. He is a pig. A pig and a liar.”
“Liar!” shouted the jailer. He propped one of his shoes on Stratton’s bruised shoulder. “Liar! Liar!” Stratton pushed the foot away.
“Kangmei, what crimes did Mr. Stratton commit against you?”
“He asked me to come to his hotel room in Xian. He said he wanted to give me something that belonged to my uncle, David Wang, who had died in Peking. He said it was something of great sentimental value.”
Zhou said, “Did you believe the lying pig Thomas Stratton?”
“Yes, Comrade. I believed him.”
“What happened when you went to his hotel room in Xian?”
“He held me against my will. He abducted me. He beat me. He said my father, the deputy minister, represented all that was evil about the Communist Party, and that he must be destroyed.”
“So,” Zhou said, “he threatened to kill a Chinese deputy minister. What else did he say?”
“Thom-as Stratton admitted that he is an agent of the imperialist United States government, and that he was sent to China to encourage terrorism and disrupt the efforts of the loyal workers.”
To Stratton’s surprise, Kangmei did not recite her indictment in monotone. Rather, her tone was impassioned, the words seemingly spontaneous. Her eyes seemed to glisten, but whether in rage or sorrow Stratton could no longer be sure.
Zhou said, “What did you do when you heard Stratton denounce your father?”
“I argued with him, Comrade. I became very angry. I told him he was not worthy to visit our country, and that I was going to report him to the Public Security Bureau. When I tried to run out of his room, he grabbed me by the arms and threw me down on the floor. Then he kicked me between the legs …”
“No!” Stratton bellowed. “Kangmei, please, I know what’s happening, but—”
Zhou motioned to the jailer, who swiftly moved behind Stratton and dug a knee into the small of his back. Then he seized Stratton’s hair and yanked back so that Stratton was forced to stare up at the roof, his neck stretched tight. Zhou scooped a handful of rancid manure from the floor and dropped it into Stratton’s face. He retched.
“You will remain silent from now on,” Zhou said mildly.
Stratton stared back with dead eyes. His face was chalky.
Kangmei continued her story: “Stratton gagged me so I could not scream. Then he tied me to the bed in the room.”
“Then what?”
“He ripped my clothing off … and raped me.”
“Several times?”
“Yes, Comrade Zhou. Several times … and once in a terrible way.”
“Finally I was rescued when two comrades came to the hotel room. They must have heard me fighting back. Stratton escaped, but at least my ordeal was over.”
Stratton gazed sadly at Kangmei, and shook his head back and forth with determination. Her eyes never softened.
Zhou said, “Kangmei, do you now see the folly of your contact with foreigners, especially decadent Americans? They are a menace to the state, a threat to everything we are working for. They are not to be trusted, and never to be believed. Stratton is a model of this—a murderer …”
“Murderer!” Kangmei agreed.
“A thief, a corrupter …”
“A thief!” she yelled in a suddenly shrill voice that startled Stratton.
“A rapist,” Zhou concluded.
“Rapist!” Kangmei cried. “A murderer and rapist!”
“You were deceived,” Zhou said.
“Yes, Comrade, and I am truly sorry. He seemed sincere and I believed him. I was blind, like a man who suddenly loses his sight and becomes confused.”
Stratton wasn’t looking when she said it, but he heard Kangmei’s voice crack.
“Blind, Comrade Zhou,” she repeated. “Nearsighted. Clumsy. Foolish.”
Stratton stiffened. He tested the muscles in his arms and legs with invisible isometrics. He hurt everywhere, but he willed himself to be ready.
“Blind,” Kangmei said softly. “Blind, blind, blind!” And with that, she plucked the bottle-bottom glasses from Zhou’s eyes and tossed them across Stratton’s cell. They landed in the worst corner. Insects scattered.
Zhou was utterly bewildered. The jailer shouted a question in Mandarin. Stratton did not wait for the answer. He rammed a fist into the side of Zhou’s head, spilling the inquisitor off the chair into a writhing heap.
Stratton grunted to his feet and stood rubber-legged, facing the jailer. The man dove for Stratton’s waist and brought him down. They rolled together in the fetid slop; the jailer, clawing for Stratton’s throat and eyes; Stratton, weak and nauseous, using his long arms and his weight to entangle his wiry attacker. Kangmei stood to the side, crying nervously.
“In the corner,” Stratton yelled. “Dig! By the window.”
The jailer hung on Stratton’s back, arms clenched around his neck in a fierce choke-hold. Stratton held his breath and rolled over.
Kangmei dug feverishly. Her hands uncovered the crude three-foot spear Stratton had fashioned from the leg of the chair. In another corner, Comrade Zhou groped pathetically for his eyeglasses in the excrement.
In the middle of the small cell, only Thomas Stratton was breathing normally. The jailer, pinned beneath him, was slowly suffocating in the muck. Stratton reeled to his feet and snatched the weapon from Kangmei.
Somehow Zhou had found his precious glasses and now he was at the door, pounding loudly. His black hair was matted, his glasses stained and sodden.
“Comrade, Tongzhi!” he cried.
Stratton’s handmade bayonet tore through the inquisitor’s chest. He collapsed, making noises like a leaky bicycle tire, a death wheeze.
“Thom-as, I am sorry. I am so sorry.” She was sobbing. “He made me do it.”
Stratton put a finger to his lips. For several moments, he listened at the door. “We must hurry,” he whispered. Kangmei dabbed at her eyes. Self-consciously she turned away as Stratton slipped into Zhou’s trousers. When she turned back, Stratton held her by the shoulders and said, “Your uncle is alive.”
“Oh, Thom-as!”
Stratton tested the door of the cell. It was unlocked. The corridor was empty. Kangmei took his hand and together they ran.
Chapter 15
“IDIOTS! MY ORDERS ARE to be followed. When I say that a man must be guarded, I speak for the state and for the Party. I must be obeyed. You listen to stupid rumors like old women, and you behave as donkeys. I am still the deputy minister, and I still command here.”
Wang Bin burst into the attic cell. In a pregnant moment, much was said between the two brothers, but no words were spoken. David Wang looked up at his brother quizzically.
“It is not what it seems,” Wang Bin said finally. “I will explain later … and apologize. Now we must go quickly. Here, put on these; there is a chill.”
The deputy minister handed his brother a well-cut gray Mao suit with a mourner’s band pinned to the sleeve of the jacket, and a pair of vigorously polished black shoes, one-half size too small.
“Please, hurry, David. We must go.”
Befuddled, unspeaking, David Wang dressed and followed his younger brother into the night. Wang Bin walked briskly. He had but thirteen hours left.
“WHAT DO YOU mean you can’t drive?”
“I was never permitted to learn … it was not my job,” Kangmei stammered. “In this country, we have drivers—”
“Get in,” Stratton said.
The truck was a bad imitation of a bad Russian flatbed, but it was the only vehicle in the museum’s parking lot with keys in the ignition. Stratton’s original plan had been to hide under some lumber in the truck and let Kangmei navigate the escape, but now he had no choice. Night was on his side, but not much else. Any half-blind idiot would see that the driver of this truck was not Chinese. Stratton turned the key and urged the transmission into first gear. The clutch yelped like a dog on fire.
“This is terrific,” Stratton muttered as they trundled down the two-lane blacktop.
Kangmei gave him a puzzled stare. Stratton laughed and reached out for her hand. “Never mind,” he said. “Where to?”
“A very safe place,” she answered, “but a long, long way, Thom-as. Eighty kilometers.”
Stratton flicked the headlights on and tried to hunch down as low as he would go in the driver’s seat. Kangmei found a dirty canvas cap under the seat, dusted it off and stuck it on Stratton’s head.
“I’m worried about you,” he said after a few minutes. “If we get stopped, I’m running. You tell them I kidnapped you and stole the truck. Tell them you never saw me before. I want you to promise.”
“No,” Kangmei said quietly. “I will not lie again. My father made me say those things at the struggle session. I am very sorry. He told me you were a spy.”
“Did you believe him?”
“No.” She looked at him pridefully. “It wouldn’t matter if you were.”
The sluggish truck picked up speed alarmingly on a long downhill stretch. A quarter-mile ahead, Stratton could make out a group of commune workers, trudging home down the middle of the road. He pressed on the horn and they parted slowly. Their ox, however, was disinclined to yield the right of way. Stratton honked again and pumped the brakes slowly. Incredibly, the barn-shouldered animal turned to face the noisy intruder.
“Oh, shit,” Stratton said. As the truck bore down on the ox, Stratton leaned hard on the horn. At the last second, he cut the wheel and steered onto the shoulder, around the ox and its peasant entourage. In the rearview mirror, he saw several men shake their fists at the truck. Kangmei trembled next to him.
“Sorry,” Stratton said sheepishly. “They acted like they own the road.”
“They do,” Kangmei said evenly.
The unlit road was newly paved in some sections, pocked and dangerous in others. The hilly countryside was lush with citrus stands, cane fields and banana groves. Here and there the night was broken by a commune’s lights or the pinprick headlights of a distant truck, but mostly Kangmei and Tom Stratton were alone. Stratton recounted his confrontation with Wang Bin in the museum cell.
“But how could my uncle be alive?” Kangmei asked.
“Because your father is planning something, and he needs his brother—at least for a while,” Stratton conjectured. “When he’s done, I think Wang Bin will kill David. We don’t have much time. Kangmei, it’s important that we get out of
China so I can contact the State Department. Hong Kong would be the best.”
“An overnight train from where we are going,” she said. “But you have no papers. How will you leave China?”
“Can we go tomorrow?”
Kangmei did not answer right away.
“If I return to Peking, your father will have me arrested,” Stratton said. “There is nowhere I can go but out. There’s nothing I can do here for David.”
“The place I’m taking you is very safe, Thom-as.”
“For me, maybe. Think of your uncle. If the U.S. Embassy only knew he was alive. Kangmei, we could call them in the morning—”
She shook her head glumly. “Where we are going, there are no telephones.”
“Do you believe what I’m telling you, that David is alive?”
Kangmei said, “I don’t know. It is hard to accept.” In the darkness, Stratton could not see the tension on her face, but he could sense it.
The boundaries of the mountain road became indistinct as it snaked through acres of tall pines. When the truck rattled past a plywood sign erected at the foot of a hill, Kangmei sat up and grabbed Stratton’s elbow.
“Slow down, Thom-as. The sign says there is a police stop ahead. One half a kilometer.”
Stratton quickly downshifted, pulled off the road and dimmed the lights. “We’ll never slip through with me at the wheel,” he said, turning to Kangmei. “How’d you like a driving lesson?”
Her eyes surveyed the simple dashboard instruments with trepidation. “I don’t think so,” she said.
“You’ve got to. Come here, sit closer and I’ll show you.” Stratton kept his foot on the clutch and ran through the gears one time.
“Hell,” he said, “my father drove one of these tanks for thirty years. How hard can it be?”
Kangmei practiced, with the truck idling.
“That’s good,” Stratton encouraged. “Remember to watch the speedometer needle. When it gets to here, shift into second. And here, third. When we get to the checkpoint, press the clutch pedal with your left foot, and put your right foot on the brake. You’ll have to use most of your weight because the drums on this truck are nearly shot. The important thing is to slow down smoothly so we don’t attract attention.”