Carl Hiaasen - A Death in China

Their short relationship had been curt, clandestine and efficient. So far. A visa problem smoothed over. A travel permit expedited. Quiet favors.

Yet there were watchers everywhere, Wang Bin well knew. He doubted that the Disciplinary Commission had learned the truth about Harold Broom, but such news would not shock him. He was ready for anything.

By the time the aide returned to confirm the travel arrangements, Wang Bin had already decided.

"We will take the first one and the fourth one," he said, pointing to the smallest of the four vases.

"Yes, Comrade Deputy Minister. But the comrade director of the museum will be very upset. They are among the best pieces."

"Tell him they are for permanent display in a place of honor in Peking."

"Still, he will not like it."

"Tell him it is for the good of the people. The Revolution demands it."

"Very well, Comrade Deputy Minister. But he is a hard man. He will want a receipt."

A hard man who thinks a receipt will protect him.

"A receipt," said Wang Bin. "By all means. Have the director prepare a receipt and I will sign it."

Harold Broom arrived ten minutes early at the gleaming white mansion in the River Oaks section of Houston. He leaned against his rented Lincoln for five minutes, admiring the tall pillars and polished marble steps. At the door he was met by a Mexican houseboy in a stiff high-collared waiter's jacket, who motioned him inside. He led the art dealer up a spiral oaken staircase to a second-floor office where the customer waited.

"Well, hi there!" the Texan said. Even by Houston standards he was young for a millionaire. He wore a flannel shirt, pressed Levi's, lizardskin boots and the obligatory cowboy hat with a plume. When he shook Broom's hand, he gave a disconcerting little squeeze before he let go.

Broom sat down and said, "This is a helluva homestead."

The Texan grinned. "You like it?"

"Oh yeah." Broom noticed three king-sized television screens mounted on one wall, each flashing a different program. The corners of the office were occupied by stand-up stereo speakers. The Texan kept a video display terminal on his desk to watch the Dow Jones; behind his chair, Broom noticed, stood an arcade-sized Pac Man machine.

The Texan jerked a thumb at it. "Bored with it already," he said. "I've got an order in for an Astral Laser."

"Swell," Broom said. It was sickening: all this money and no brains. "Could I have a drink?"

"I don't see why not." The Texan poked an intercom button near the phone and shouted, "Paco! Two bourbons pronto."

"It's Pablo," a teenaged voice replied with unmasked annoyance.

The bourbon was excellent. Broom savored it, while the Texan sucked it down loudly. "Nectar," he said. "Pure nectar!"

Broom reached into the suede valise on his lap and extracted a glossy black-and-white photograph. He glanced at it before handing it across the desk to his host.

"There it is," Broom said with parental pride. "The real McCoy."

The Texan was radiant. "Broom, you've outdone yourself, I swear to God. I know better than to ask how you did it."

Broom took this as a compliment, and he forced a modest smile.

"If it arrives in this condition, it will be… awesome." The Texan clicked his teeth, as if leering at a centerfold.

Broom said, "The photograph was made moments before we packed it. I took the picture myself. That's the genuine item, and it's all yours. Guaranteed."

Pablo poured more bourbon. Broom drank up, basking in luxury and triumph. He was elated to be out of China.

"Harold," the Texan said, "I've gotta be sure. This is the only one?"

"Absolutely," Broom lied. If the Texan only knew.

"The price is-"

"Two hundred and fifty thousand now. Another two fifty on delivery. And don't worry. I'll be delivering it myself."

"You damn well better," the Texan growled, reaching for his checkbook. "For the kind of commission you're getting, Broom, you damn well ought to show up pulling a ricksha."

The xiu xi is China's most revered institution. Indeed, a worker's right to rest is enshrined in China's constitution. Nowhere does it say that all China shall sleep between noon and 2 p.m., but that is how it seems. If the Russians ever come, it will be at 1 p.m., when only the rawest Chinese recruits will be awake to oppose them. In Peking, office workers sleep on their desks. In the countryside, peasants sleep in the fields. If airplane crews find themselves on the ground at noon, they will not fly again until after lunch and a xiu xi. The more senior a cadre, the better-appointed and more private the place of his xiu xi, and the longer he sleeps.

The Disciplinary Commission had cited Wang Bin for 1 p.m. It was a calculated insult, and he knew it. At noon, Wang Bin lunched with senior aides in a private room of the staff restaurant at the Peking museum that was his headquarters.

Conversation was furtive. One or two of the men who had been with him the longest mentioned things that had occurred in the Deputy Minister's absence in the south: The Qin exhibition had been dispatched to the United States on schedule. From Xinjiang in China's desert west, the museum was to receive the mummified corpses of two soldiers perfectly preserved in the dry air these six hundred years; they would require a special room with stringent humidity controls.

Mostly, though, the aides avoided meeting Wang Bin's eyes. Their discomfort amused him. They knew. Deliberations of the Party are secrets closely held. But when the ax is about to fall, everybody knows. Peking becomes a village in those times. When the arrival of soup signaled the last course, Wang Bin pointedly looked around the table, studying his aides individually, making no secret of it. He was rewarded with the sight of six heads, bent uniformly, like acolytes, slurping their soup, seeing only the bowl. He wondered which of them had informed against him, and which would give testimony-if it came to that. The answer was obvious, and it saddened him: all of them. Poor China.

Rising, Wang Bin raised a tiny crystal glass of tnao tai.

"To long life and happiness," he proposed. "Ganbei."

"Ganbei," the aides responded, and each drained the fiery liquor in one swallow.

"Xiu xi," said Wang Bin. He found savage delight in the uncertainty that caused.

One of the aides even looked at his watch. It was precisely one o'clock. So they even knew the time. Spineless sons of a turtle.

Wang Bin slept deeply on a daybed next to his office for more than an hour. The train from the south had been crowded and slow, arriving in Peking just after dawn, and he had rested little. Again and again, he had replayed the climactic acts of the drama he had forged. It would work, as long as he could keep time on his side. He had not expected the Party's summons so soon. Another day or two might have made all the difference. Wang Bin sighed with finality and prepared to meet his inquisitors.

Precisely at 3 p.m., Wang Bin presented himself at a side entrance of the Great Hall of the People. To those who knew it existed, it was the most dreaded doorway in Peking.

"You are late," said a severe young receptionist without preamble.

"I was detained on the people's business. Please tell the comrades that I have arrived."

"You will wait," the young man instructed. "The comrade will show you where."

He gestured to an orderly who led Wang Bin to a high-ceilinged reception room big enough for fifty people. It was empty, except for one straight-backed wooden chair in the precise center of a beige carpet. Wang Bin nearly laughed aloud. It was so transparent.

"Bring tea," he snarled to the orderly.

No tea came, nor any summons for nearly two hours. By the time Wang Bin was led into a red plush room usually reserved for Central Committee meetings, the two-wheeled afternoon rush hour gripped Peking.