A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [125]
“The imperial times! The dynasties! That was when China was great. That is when I should have lived.” Wang Bin spoke with a trace of sadness. “In the times of the emperor.”
“You’d fit right in,” Stratton said. “A greedy old man who murdered his brother for profit.”
“My brother. My brother.”
The thumb and forefinger of Stratton’s left hand were mobile now, and with them he feverishly worried the knots.
“‘Dear elder brother,’” Wang Bin recited in mockery. “‘I think of you often after all these years, so many miles away. I should like to see you before I die. It would be wonderful if you could come to China. … ’
“And so he came, with his cameras and his loud synthetic clothes. ‘You must help me, brother,’ I said. ‘I must leave China for reasons that you would not understand, and I must take with me what is my due.’ I showed him my treasures in Xian. He stood beside me and looked at them.”
“Clay soldiers, that’s all.”
Wang Bin stared at Stratton scornfully. Through the heavy drapes a gust of wind rattled the windows and Stratton heard the sudden assault of rain on the glass. He used the sound to mask his movements, tilting the chair just a fraction to give his feet greater purchase against the ropes.
Wang Bin said, “The soldiers are toys for children, a pittance. In Xian I showed my brother the real treasure. Even he was left speechless by its majesty.
“‘You must help me,’ I said to him. ‘With the soldiers we will have enough money to live in splendor wherever we choose. I ask but two things of you: That you allow me to hide you here in China so that I may leave the country on your passport. After two weeks you have only to go to your embassy to say that you lost your passport, and they will give you a new one. Then, once we are together in the United States, you can help me recover the soldiers and sell them. Is that too much to ask of a brother, after all these years? Help me, please. I have lived more than once as a peasant. I cannot live like that again. I will not.’”
“You should have known what his answer would be,” Stratton said.
Wang Bin nodded. “He said, ‘It is wrong what you are doing, it is a crime. I cannot help you.’” The deputy minister shrugged.
“So you killed him.” Stratton’s thumb was abraded and hurt painfully. He wished he had longer fingernails. Keep him talking. Above all, keep him talking.
“I did not plan to murder him,” Wang Bin said. “I had his room searched, and I had him followed because I was afraid he would rush to his embassy like an old woman. In the end I did kill him, but because I had no choice. In his death was the only means of accomplishing my escape and saving my treasure.”
Stratton said, “You’re a weak old man, Comrade. Even in death your brother intimidates you. Listen to yourself—the lies, the jealousy, the way you pervert his memory.”
One of the knots came loose. The pressure on Stratton’s right wrist eased; he twisted it back and forth within the growing circle of rope.
“But that’s your stock in trade, isn’t it, Comrade Deputy Minister? The perversion of history. That’s why we’re here.”
“Ah, yes.” Wang Bin smiled a winter’s smile. “My artifacts.”
“And your coffins!”
“They make excellent shipping crates.” Wang Bin folded his hands but looked impatient. “Don’t tell me you mourn the tourists, Professor. I did not kill them all. The first, a fat capitalist, died quite naturally. Death by duck, your embassy called it. A clever name for a common occurrence, I learned. And it gave me the idea. His was the first coffin.”
The rope rubbed raw against Stratton’s wrist. Feeling flooded back into his fingers. Another minute …
“You couldn’t have done it all alone.”
“Certainly not. I had many trusted associates—a doctor for the lethal poisons, welders for the caskets, diggers, of course. Fortunately they understood that I was directing a secret project for the Party. That lie was necessary, you see, to assure their complete loyalty and their perpetual silence.”
“And your buddy,