Carl Hiaasen & William D. Montalbano Page 3

  “They were hardly normal times, were they?”

  “No. Civil war between the Communists and the Nationalists. Invasion by Japan. Then the knockdown years until the Communists finally won in forty-nine. I would guess that David’s father told him not to come back until it was all over. And then, of course, the wrong people had won—if you were a Shanghai millionaire. David bounced around, quietly accumulating degrees; money was never a problem, I gather, and at the end of it all, there was nothing to come back to—the Wang empire was just one more victim of revolution. Whether he was cut off from his family or broke with them I don’t know, but he never mentioned them. He settled in at St. Edward’s and never left. I suppose he—”

  “Excuse me. That’ll be my boys.” Powell caught the phone on the second ring. Stratton stared out the window at weeping willows in the overgrown courtyard.

  When the consul returned, Stratton sensed there was no news.

  “We’ve got Dr. Wang listed at the Heping Hotel. The culture officers had invited him to call or come by when he got back from Xian, but so far no one’s heard from him. Maybe he just decided to spend an extra day or two at the digs.”

  “Maybe so,” Stratton said, unconvinced.

  “Our fellas are a little disappointed, too. They’re looking forward to meeting your Dr. Wang. You know about his brother?”

  “David told me he was a vice minister or something.”

  “A deputy minister, Mr. Stratton. Deputy minister of art and culture. A big gun. His name is Wang Bin. He’s in charge of new archaeological digs and the big museum here.”

  Stratton said, “Maybe I’ll just drop by David’s hotel to see if there’s a message for me. What was the name again?”

  “Heping,” Powell said. “It means ‘peace.’ It’s a nice place, off the usual Peking trails. I can draw you a map …”

  “No, thanks. David would be pleased if an old student proved intrepid enough to track him down. In the meantime, if you hear anything, could you call me? I’m at the Minzu.”

  “Sure,” Powell said. “Good tracking.”

  Stratton nearly missed the hotel. It was tucked away in a lane barely wide enough for one car. Stratton left the bicycle in a parking lot near Wan Fu Jing, Peking’s main shopping street. An old woman with a can affixed a wooden marker with a number on the handlebars, handed him a paper receipt, and took a fee from among the aluminum coins Stratton displayed in an open palm.

  It was a smaller hotel than the one he was in, and more graceful. Stratton did a full circle in the lobby looking for the front desk. There was the usual assortment of work spaces, but none of them identifiable. Finally, he chose one at random.

  “Excuse me, could you tell me the room number for a guest named David Wang. He’s American.”

  Three desks later a hunchback with a gray Mao jacket and some English took Stratton’s request into an inner office. Through the open door Stratton could see him staring farsightedly at what was obviously a handwritten guest register. Just as Stratton was succumbing to the sinking feeling that Wang had registered in his Chinese name—which he didn’t know—the hunchback emerged. He had obviously found something.

  “You wait,” the man ordered.

  Stratton watched curiously while the man trundled into a second office. There he spoke animatedly with another man whose face Stratton could not see.

  It seemed to Stratton they were arguing.

  Finally, the second man appeared alone. He had a hook nose and an obvious habit of command.

  “The Wang man is not here,” the Chinese said in labored English.

  “Couldn’t you check again? I’m a friend of his.”

  “Not here.” The man turned away, walked back into his office and closed the door.

  Perplexed, Stratton cycled slowly back to his own hotel. He had been lied to. Of that he was certain. Hook Nose had known something about “the Wang man” that he had chosen not to tell. Why would a hotel in Peking deny the presence of a guest?

  Stratton was still thinking about it when he got back to his room.

  The phone was ringing as he walked in.

  “David?”

  It was not David.

  “Mr. Stratton, this is Steve Powell, at the consulate.”

  “Oh, hello. I went to the hotel and they claimed never to have heard of any David Wang—”

  Powell interrupted brusquely.

  “Mr. Stratton, I am sorry to have to tell you this. David Wang is dead.”

  Chapter 3

  TOM STRATTON COULD SMELL the smoke. He could taste the cordite. He could see the gray shape, feel its struggle, hear its scream. He could sense the impatient clatter of the helicopter, hovering, waiting, anxious to be gone. Fire. Run. Run to the chopper, its rope ladder slowly dangling, the only lifeline he would ever get. Drop. Fire. Run from a black night and a devil-scorched patch of earth, all memory and no meaning.

  Run, captain. Rope swaying. Lungs burning. Side burning as the black medic cut away the cloth and applied a salve. Eyes burning, exhaustion and shame, in the cramped cabin of a blacked-out aircraft carrier.

  “You’re sure there were no prisoners!” A man, a colonel, trying to be professional, sounding only disheartened.

  “No POWs.” A dirt-poor commune with a PLA company stationed on its fringes.

  “Intelligence was so damn sure about the prisoners. They said there were American prisoners.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “How did they get on to you?”

  “We made a mistake.”

  “Your team?”

  “Gone, all gone.”

  “How long did they have you?”

  “Not long.”

  “Bad?”

  “Real bad.”

  “So what’d you tell ’em?”

  “Said I was an East German, training with their Viet friends.”

  The colonel laughed at the idea.

  “How’d you get away?”

  “I got away.”

  “It was supposed to be a quiet recon.”

  “It wasn’t quiet.”

  “Shit, you’re telling me. Their radio is already screaming to high heaven. They say thirty-eight ‘innocent peasants’ are dead.”

  “Most of them were soldiers.”

  “They blame us; probably they’ll get one of their pious friends to raise hell at the UN.”

  “Why shouldn’t they blame us? We did it, didn’t we?”

  STRATTON WRENCHED himself from a tangle of sodden sheets. His watch said 5:47. It was still dark in Peking. His eyes felt gummy, his mouth wooden. He glanced at the bottle of whiskey he had bought the night before in the hotel lobby. Less than half full, and still open.

  He had not drunk like that for a long time. And he had not hurt like that for a long time. David Wang’s death had triggered reactions and dreaded memories he thought he had buried for good.

  From the street below came the muted whir of cyclists, harbingers of the morning rush hour. Stratton rejected his body’s urging for sleep. His mind would not sleep. Naked, he lurched to the bathroom and turned on the hand shower, hardly noticing that the water was stone cold.

  A WRINKLED WOMAN with blue-rinse hair and stiff new Hong Kong sandals sat across from Stratton in an anteroom at the U.S. Embassy. Sitting next to her, but obviously on a separate mission, was a slender middle-aged man with a leathery face, a smoker’s face. He carried a suede valise

  “How is your tour?” the old woman said to Stratton.

  “Not too good,” he said hoarsely. News of David Wang’s death had left him numb. Sadness itself was slow in coming. Another old friend dead and—as in Vietnam—Tom Stratton was a long way from tears. Instead he fought a deep, dull melancholy.

  “We have a lovely guide,” the wrinkled woman said. “Her name is Su Yee. Her great-grandfather helped to build the Great Wall.”

  Stratton managed a polite smile.

  “Where are you from?”

  “New York,” volunteered the smoke
r. “I’m an art dealer.”

  “I’m from Tucson, retired there from Chicago,” the woman reported. “My husband used to be a stockbroker.”

  Together they awaited Stratton’s contribution. “I’m a teacher,” he said finally. “I teach art.”

  “Asian art?” asked the man with the leathery face.

  Stratton did not reply.

  The art dealer hunched forward, and Stratton shifted uncomfortably. There was something felonious about the man. He was dressed well enough, but the fine clothes didn’t match the tiny brown rodent eyes that scoured Stratton from head to toe in quick appraisal.

  “Do you know much about Sung Dynasty sculpture?” the art dealer asked. His voice dropped to a clubby whisper. “I’m trying to cut a deal with some government types down in the Sichuan Province. They’ve got a little gold mine of a museum down there, but I can’t persuade them to part with any of their artifacts.”

  “This is our first trip to China,” the old woman interjected.

  “Mine, too,” Stratton said, glancing at the door to the consular office. Surely it would not be much longer.

  “Where’s your hotel?” the art dealer pressed. “Maybe we can get together for a duck dinner.” He laughed a Rotary Club laugh. “Look, I’ve done a lot of work in Western Europe, the Mideast, even Russia. But this is new territory, and I don’t know whose back needs scratching. Maybe we could help each other out.”

  “I don’t see how,” Stratton said.

  The man held out his hand. “My name’s Harold Broom.”

  Stratton guessed that Broom was the sort of man who carried business cards in his top shirt pocket, and he was right.

  “I’m always looking for experts. Especially free-lancers,” Broom said. “The more I know, the more I can take home.” The smile was as thin and hollow as the voice. “And the more I take home, the more I spread around.”

  “No thanks,” Stratton said. “I’m here on pleasure, not business.”

  “Too bad.”

  “I have a passport problem,” said the old woman with blue-rinse hair. “I can’t find my passport. I may have left it at the opera. My husband said there should be no problem, but I told him this isn’t Europe. A passport is probably more important here. This is a Communist country.”

  “Yes,” Stratton said. He was miserable.

  The door opened and an American secretary beckoned. Steve Powell sat at a small desk in a tall room with one narrow window.

  A gray file cabinet stood in one corner. On a table, in front of a cracked leather sofa, was a stack of American magazines.

  “I’m sorry for making you wait,” Powell said. “I’ve spent the last two hours wrestling with the Chinese bureaucracy. It is intractable on the most routine matters. You can imagine the problems we face with something like this.”

  “Can’t be much worse than ours,” Stratton said.

  “Oh, but it is,” Powell said cheerily. “Infinitely worse. I could tell you some incredible stories …”

  “What happened to David?” Stratton asked. “When I went to his hotel all the manager would say is, ‘Mr. Wang not here.”’

  Powell nodded. “When you ask a question of a Chinese, expect a very literal answer. The man was telling you as much of the truth as you requested. Professor Wang became ill Tuesday night and was taken from the hotel.”

  “But David told me he wouldn’t even be back in Peking until Wednesday evening.”

  Powell shrugged. He slipped on a pair of tortoiseshell glasses and opened a file. Stratton noticed that it was the only item on the desk. Powell was a neat young man.

  “Tell me what happened to David,” Stratton said impatiently.

  “Death by duck.”

  Stratton’s face twisted.

  “Sounds funny, I know,” Powell went on, “but that’s what we call it. It’s a new China syndrome: Aging, out-of-shape American tourist comes to Peking, hikes and strolls through the Forbidden City and climbs the Great Wall until he’s blue in the face. Then he gorges himself on—what else?—rich Peking duck, gulps liters of Lao Shan mineral water and promptly drops dead of a myocardial infarction.”

  “A heart attack, that’s all,” Stratton said

  “Sure,” Powell said. “Death by duck. We’ve had dozens of cases. It has nothing to do with the duck, I assure you. Just too much food, too much exertion. Might as well be Coney Island franks.”

  “Just like that.” Stratton’s voice was tired and low.

  “After dinner, Dr. Wang apparently felt sick to his stomach. Several guests apparently saw him go up to his room. Two hours later one of the cleaning boys went in and found him there in bed, unconscious but still alive. Two medical students came and took him to a clinic nearby. The doctors apparently worked very hard but it was too late.”

  “It’s all apparently this and apparently that. Aren’t you sure?”

  “Of course. I use the word as a reflex,” Powell said uneasily. “This information comes from the Chinese government. I can’t vouch for it a hundred percent, but on a matter like this, I see no reason to challenge the facts. It is, as I said before, fairly routine. Tragic, to be sure, but still routine.”

  “This is a maddening place,” Stratton said. “The people at the hotel might at least have told me which hospital he went to.”

  “They probably didn’t know,” Powell responded. “It took me five phone calls to find out. It was a small but very modern clinic on Wan Fu Jing Street. It has everything most hospitals in Peking don’t have—the machines, I mean. I’m sorry for the confusion, but if you’ve spent much time in Asia, you come to expect it.”

  Stratton nodded. He knew something of Asian confusion.

  “Why,” he asked, “was there such a delay in reporting the death to the embassy? Is that routine, too?”

  The delay, Powell explained, was another matter. He opened a desk drawer and withdrew a new file; he put the first file away. Professor Wang’s death was not treated as those of other American visitors, the consul continued, because of Wang’s relation to a high-ranking Chinese official.

  “It was a homecoming for Professor Wang, and apparently was a very moving reunion with his brother. In this file I have a note from the deputy minister himself—a rare communication, believe me—and it describes Professor Wang’s visit to Xian, and his return to Peking with his brother. That night, unfortunately, he suffered his fatal heart attack.”

  “The deputy minister was notified before the U.S. Embassy was?”

  “He was Professor Wang’s brother, after all. And in his position, Wang Bin certainly would be entitled to all the information regarding his brother’s death. Once that information was delivered to the deputy minister, we were officially notified. Please don’t make more of this than is warranted.” Powell sighed. He took off his glasses and put them on the desk “I was up half the night trying to reach David Wang’s relatives back in Ohio.”

  “There are none,” Stratton said emptily.

  “So I learned. No wife, no kids, just a roomful of books and paintings.”

  “And a garden.”

  Powell glanced at his wristwatch. “I asked you to come this morning because Wang Bin requested it. Apparently the professor told his brother of your friendship and of your mutual interest in Chinese art and culture. For obvious reasons, Wang Bin will not be able to attend his brother’s funeral in Pittsville. But he would like someone to accompany the body back to the United States.”

  Stratton rubbed his temples with both hands.

  “In his note here,” Powell said, “Wang Bin suggests that you would be the perfect escort. Let me read you this one part: ‘It would mean a great honor for the memory of my brother if Mr. Thomas Stratton could accompany David’s body to his homeland for burial in the manner so requested by my brother. I realize that this would be an inconvenience and a hardship, but it would advance the friendship between our great peoples. Please convey this humble request to Mr. Stratton, and please assure him that he will b
e able to complete his visit to China at any other suitable time, as a welcomed guest.’

  “The deputy minister wrote that himself, in English,” Powell said.

  Stratton stood to leave. “Tell the deputy minister I’ll be happy to accompany David’s casket to the United States.”

  “Excellent!” Powell was pleased with himself.

  Stratton asked about the body.

  “It won’t be ready for transport for a few days.”

  “Where is it?” Stratton asked.

  “One of the city hospitals. Capital Hospital, I believe.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “I can find out.” Powell was defensive again. “I’ll leave word at your hotel. But, as I said, I’m fairly sure it’s at Capital. That’s where it was sent for the autopsy.”

  Stratton motioned toward Powell’s file, “The autopsy results?”

  “Oh no. The stuff on the heart attack I got by phone this morning. Through official channels … Anyway, the body will be taken to the Peking Airport Monday morning.”

  “Fine,” Stratton said. At the door, he turned again to Powell. “I’m curious, though. Is Wang Bin certain that his brother wished to be buried in the United States? Perhaps, after all these years, he wanted to be buried here, in China.”

  Powell was a little perturbed. “I really couldn’t say. I assume his brother would know. And besides, nobody is buried in China anymore. Nearly everyone is cremated. It’s a helluva thing, Mr. Stratton, but it’s true. Apparently there’s no more room for any bodies—especially in Peking.”

  THE IMPORTANT man rode in the backseat of the black limousine. At each side sat a trusted comrade whose function, simply put, was to do as he was told.

  “The train is late,” said the limousine driver, who wore thick eyeglasses and gripped the wheel tightly with bony hands.