Carl Hiaasen - A Death in China

Kangmei said, "Do you listen to music at home?"

"A little," Stratton answered, off balance again.

"The Rolling Stones. Do you listen to the Rolling Stones? A friend of mine, another student at the Languages Institute, got an album smuggled to her from Hong Kong. It's a Rolling Stones album; during xiu-xi, our daily nap breaks, we sometimes sneak down to the music room and play it on the phonograph. The name of the album is 'Goat's Head Soup.' Does that have special meaning in America?"

Stratton laughed. "No, not at all. Do you like the music?"

"Very much. It's good dancing music. My friend and I dance together when we play the record. We have to.be careful, though. We could be expelled over something like that." Kangmei's voice dropped. "I would love to have more records."

They walked down marble steps and faced another pavilion. "As an art expert, you will appreciate the exhibit in this hall," Kangmei said. "Bronze chariots and their warriors, taken from the Han tombs."

"No, thank you," Stratton said. "It's time for me to go."

They retraced their steps toward Tiananmen. Kangmei kept her eyes on the pavement.

"Mr. Stratton, David and my father argued about the artifacts at Xian," she said. "David did not go into detail. But he said that my father was doing something wrong. Immoral was the word my uncle used. He was horrified his brother would attempt such a thing."

"He told you this-"

"After dinner last Tuesday night. He had left a message for me at the dormitory.

I rode to the hotel after my father and his group had left. I met Uncle David in the lobby."

"He seemed in good health?" Stratton asked.

"Fine. Just angry. As we walked down Changan Avenue, he stopped to curse at the cadres who were following us. My father's little watchdogs. Uncle David walked right up to them and called them something nasty in Chinese," she said, blushing. "I admired his courage. The cadres said nothing. They just disappeared into the crowd."

"Some pages were missing from David's journal. And his passport is gone,"

Stratton said.

"Oh," Kangemi said.

"Something's wrong with all this. Do you believe your uncle died of a heart attack?"

"I have not thought about the how, Mr. Stratton. His life is over, and I'm sad.

I wish I had known him better and longer. I'm very sorry that he and my father quarreled."

After they left the steps of the Forbidden City, Kangmei walked briskly to the lot where her bicycle was parked.

"Thank you for meeting me," Stratton said.

Kangmei nodded as she lithely swung onto the bike. "I'm glad that you are going with Uncle David's body. It's a long trip back to America and it is only right that he should be with someone who cares."

I cannot bury my friend so easily, Stratton thought, and not under a cloud of riddles.

"I'm sorry, Kangmei, but I won't be going after all," he said. "My tour group leaves for Xian tomorrow, and I've decided to join them."

Her expression never changed. It didn't have to.

"Tourists always take the early train," she said, and rode away.

Steve Powell offered hot tea all around. Linda Greer shook her head politely.

The station chief said yes to a small cup. The Marine who served them closed the door carefully as he left.

"What do you make of it?" Powell said.

Linda scanned the note once more, then passed it across the table to the station chief. It was the handwriting of a man who was trying hard to be neat, but obviously would have been more comfortable with an academic's scribble:

"Dear Mr. Powell,

"Please Inform Deputy Minister Wang Bin that I have changed my plans and, therefore, will not be able to accompany David's body back to the United States.

I regret the inconvenience this might cause, but such a journey would be too emotional for me at this time. When I return to the United States, I will pay the proper respects to my dear friend at his gravesite in Ohio. In the meantime, I've decided to join my tour group on the trip to Xian this morning. David Wang would understand and I would hope his brother does, too.

"Sincerely, Thomas Stratton."

The station chief tossed the note on the table and shrugged. "Linda?"

"He's bummed out. Just doesn't want to make the long flight with his buddy's corpse," she said. "Can you blame him?"

"That's the way I read it, too," Powell said. His tone suggested that the meeting should be over. The station chief didn't budge.

"Shit, if it's such a big deal, we can send a Marine back with the body, can't we?" Powell asked.

"Finding an escort is not the problem," the station chief said impatiently. "The problem is Stratton. He's not the kind of guy we want running all over China without a tether. He'll get in trouble. He'll get us in trouble."

"He'll be all right," Linda said. She glanced at Powell, who was obviously in some distress.

"I can call him now," the consul offered. "Lay on the guilt. Tell him it will be an international insult if he doesn't go home with the professor's body. He'll understand. He knows the system; I saw his file. He used to be a pro."

"He used to be a killer," the station chief muttered. "Now I wish you hadn't hit on him about Wang Bin."

"It was your goddamn idea," Linda Greer snapped. "I told you he wouldn't go for it. All it did was get his antennae up."

The station chief, a gray-skinned man with baggy eyes and thin dark hair, nodded tiredly. "It was a risk," he conceded. "And I take the responsibility."

Powell was getting frantic. "I don't understand."

"It's not important now," the station chief said. "What is important is that Wang Bin is going to be pissed off at a time when we don't want him pissed. He's going to suggest that Mr. Stratton has offended the People's Republic and is not so welcome here anymore. He's going to want to know more about Mr. Stratton and we cannot afford to let him find out anything. Is that clear, Powell?"

"Man-ling was a long time ago," the consul remarked.

"To the Chinese, it might as well have happened last night," the station chief said sharply. He leaned back, waiting for another remark from the consul.

"Steve, it's a matter of lousy timing, that's all," Linda Greer intervened.

"Stratton could have helped us with Wang Bin, but he didn't want to. Now he's headed off to the countryside, upset about his friend's death, suspicious when there's no reason to be-"

"It was a goddamn heart attack!" Powell said in exasperation. "I told him, death by duck."

"I know," Linda said.

The station chief stood up. "Powell, see if you can smooth Wang Bin's feathers.

Apologize on behalf of the embassy. Tell him Stratton meant no offense. Offer a fucking dress guard of Marine escorts if you have to. And remember, we want the old guy to like us. Just in case.

"Linda, you think your dinner friend will really stick with that tour group?"

"I think so," she answered coldly, trying not to blush. The Company kept track of everything, didn't it?

"Any other reason he'd go to Xian?" the station chief asked.

"History," Linda Greer replied. "That's all."

The Americans piled their luggage on the steps of the Minzu Hotel. Stratton offered polite good-mornings to Alice Dempsey, Walter Thomas, and the other art historians who milled and paced and tested their cameras on passing Chinese.

Naturally the gaggle of brightly dressed foreigners attracted a crowd outside the hotel, and Stratton was mildly embarrassed. He melted back into the lobby to wait for the bus.

"Are you coming to Xian?" It was Miss Sun, the pert, ceaselessly cheerful tour guide.

"Yes, I'm looking forward to it," Stratton replied.

"Yesterday you missed beautiful White Pagoda," Miss Sun said. It was not a reprimand, but there was concern in her voice.