A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [12]
“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 be 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.
“As long as everything is safe, I don’t mind,” said the important man.
“I talked to the workers in Xian this morning,” volunteered the man at his left side. “They assure me that, as before, the crate was placed in a separate boxcar.”
“With a guard?”
“Several guards, Comrade.”
The driver steered the limousine along the special lanes used on Peking streets by privileged travelers. The bicyclists gave wide berth to the long black car.
“You have done well.”
“Thank you, Comrade.”
Then, in a voice so low the driver could not hear, the man said, “Has anyone asked questions?”
“No,” replied one of the escorts, whispering. “No one.”
“Excellent.” The important man gazed out the window of the speeding car and thought how fortunate