A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [116]
Stratton slipped away from the oak tree where Linda Greer slept, curled on a damp bed of leaves. He moved in a familiar half-crouch, using the trees and the dappled shadows to hide his advance. He stopped only to watch them, pace them, and anticipate their path up the hill to Section H.
Stratton got there first. He chose a spot slightly downhill, across the footpath from Mitchell’s grave, in an older section of the cemetery. Here a six-foot granite marker paid homage to a four-star general and one of his three wives, and it was here that Stratton easily concealed himself.
He had already decided against a confrontation among the tombstones. The park police would arrive swiftly, to be sure, but what would they have—a couple of prowlers? No, it was better to let Harold Broom and Wang Bin finish their task. The evidence would be obvious, and afterwards the ghouls would be pegged as criminals.
Part of Stratton’s decision owed to logic, and part to curiosity. He wanted to see if they would really try it.
Whispering, Broom and Wang Bin passed above him. The two men shuffled off the footpath and began probing grave markers in Section H. Stratton rose from his knees—dampened by the grass—and peered over the general’s headstone.
He heard a voice counting: “Four-fifty, four forty-eight…”
And another: “It is here.”
The flashlight threw a skittish beam from the ground to the trees to the crosses. Stratton crept out of the tombstones, sliding caterpillar-style along the earth until he reached the paved footpath. From there, braced on his elbows, he studied the grave robbers.
Wang Bin struggled out of the canvas shoulder bag and turned it upside down. The shovel and picks landed with a sharp clink against one of the white crosses.
“This is fucking insanity,” Broom muttered.
“Where are your Marines?” Wang Bin chided. “It appears we are alone. You dig first.”
“We’re going to wind up in Leavenworth!” Broom said.
“There is a fortune beneath your feet. Now dig.”
Grudgingly, Broom assembled the portable shovel. He removed his knit golf shirt and draped it across the arms of Kevin Mitchell’s cross. As Broom poised at the edge of the grave, Wang Bin took one step back and folded his hands at his waist.
“Keep your eyes open!” Broom instructed. He planted his shoe on the shovel and rammed it into the moist green sod.
The exhumation went on for two hours. Stratton watched the shadows trade places, and measured their progress by the muffled grunts and curses, some in Chinese, some in English. Otherwise Arlington was perfectly still, save for the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns.
Stratton felt himself dozing when the sound of muffled voices arose in Section H. The flashlight snapped on, and he was able to see both of them: Broom, shirtless, sweaty, up to his waist in the pit; and Wang Bin, toweling his own forehead, exhorting Broom from the edge of the grave.
Then the flashlight went black.
Stratton squinted, waiting for his eyes to readjust. When he focused again, the two shadows were moving with belabored haste, a blur of pick and shovel, flinging dirt back into the grave. Then Wang Bin himself dropped to his knees and pressed ragged squares of green sod back into place, like so much carpeting.
“Let’s get out of here,” Broom said.
Wang Bin took the feet of the ancient soldier while Broom cradled its head. They walked without light, an odd and halting procession made easier by the perfect geometry that ruled the Fields of the Dead.
Fascinated, Tom Stratton did not move at first, but merely watched them recede among the graves.
Then he was on his feet, padding quietly behind them at a distance of fifty meters. When they reached an iron fence, Stratton dropped to one knee and raised the field glasses. Broom went over first, ripping his golf shirt. Wang Bin followed, grimacing with the exertion. The soldier was brought over on a precarious makeshift pulley, fashioned from two long ropes. Through the binoculars, Stratton noticed that the artifact had been carefully wrapped in a canvas bag.
Stratton