A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [117]
“Faster!” he heard Broom say. “We’re almost there.”
Ahead, parked on a curb, was a car. Stratton ducked into a grove of young trees. He did not move again until he heard the sound of the car doors.
Then Stratton stepped to the middle of the road, twenty meters from the car. The trunk was open. Beside it stood Harold Broom and the smaller figure of Wang Bin, their backs toward him. Stratton drew a .45-caliber pistol from his belt and took aim at the base of Wang Bin’s skull.
It was an easy shot. Even in the dark he’d never miss. David Wang’s murderer would die instantly—die without knowing who had claimed revenge.
Behind Stratton, something rustled in the trees.
Wang Bin whirled, his face a fright mask. At the sight of Stratton the fear vanished in a portrait of pure hate.
Another noise. Wang Bin slowly raised a finger, as if to point. Broom’s arms fell to his side.
Footsteps. Stratton’s pulse hammered. He held the gun steady. Someone was there, beside him. He turned to see.
The pain hit Stratton high in one leg. It seared like a snakebite, racing up his thighs, burning through his lungs until it choked him. The gun dropped from his hand. Stratton spun down like a top, clawing at his leg, his throat, mashing the heels of his hands into his eyes sockets.
Even as he lay there rasping, the galaxy exploding in his skull, he was aware of someone standing over him.
The last thing Stratton heard was the faraway voice of the deputy minister.
“Miss Greer, it is very good to see you again.”
Chapter 25
ALL THE NEXT MORNING, Dr. Neal Lambert waited.
Harold Broom phoned at eleven. “All set,” he had said. “Be ready at noon.”
But noon came and went and Lambert’s excitement soon dissolved into panic. He paced the halls of the museum. He told himself not to worry; people like Broom were always late. They were incapable of common courtesy.
At six the museum closed. Lambert sank into the chair behind his polished desk and ranted out loud. Every few minutes he would dial the number that Broom had given him, only to be reminded by a very bored answering service that, no, Mr. Broom had not called in. Would he care to leave a number?
Lambert grew despondent. Broom was a greasy twit, but would he dare sell the Chinese soldier out from under him? And was he resourceful enough to locate a new buyer on such short notice? Doubtful, Lambert assured himself.
He wrung his hands and stood at the window of his office, gazing down the mall toward the Washington Monument. Gravely he thought of his three-hundred-thousand-dollar down payment. Then he thought of something worse: someday, years from now, walking into another museum, maybe Renner’s in Atlanta or that bastard Scavello’s in New York, and discovering his own Chinese warrior on grand display in the main room.
No, not even Broom—his minimal reputation at stake—would stoop so low, Lambert concluded. Something else must have gone wrong. The possibilities were numbingly depressing. He picked up the telephone and tried again.
TOM STRATTON AWOKE in the back of a taxi. He was dizzy, queasy, babbling.
“Easy, bud,” the cabbie said. He led Stratton up the steps of the Hotel Washington and into the arms of a doorman.
“I took a twenty off you, okay?”
Stratton nodded foggily.
“What happened?” the doorman asked.
“Some broad called. Told us to go get this drunk out by the cemetery.” The cabbie glanced down at Stratton. “That’s where I found him, crawling around on all fours like a mutt.”
Stratton groaned.
“Better get him up to his room,” the cabbie advised, “before he urps on your nice carpet.”
Stratton lay alone, dreaming of coffins. Slowly the pain drained from his limbs, but cotton clung to his mind. He could hear the sound of a city outside his window. A police siren. Screeching tires. A jet roaring down the Potomac. The noise crashed over him, triple amplified. His ears rang. His head felt like plaster.
He had to get