A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [127]
Too late.
Wang Bin must have had the gun on his lap the whole time. There was no other way he could have leveled it so quickly.
It was a fat, black .45, the kind the United States government issues its agents. Linda Greer’s gun.
“Stratton, you have been maneuvering your hands as I spoke,” Wang Bin said quietly. “If you move again, I shall shoot. I can do it, believe me. I spent many more years in the army than you did.”
Stratton sagged, full of self-disgust.
“It’s hard for me to believe you could actually be David’s brother, or Kangmei’s father,” he said. “You have dishonored your country, your ancestors, your family, all in the name of greed.”
“Ah, Kangmei, my lovely daughter. She excited you, yes? You were not the first, I assure you. It was probably she who made possible your escape. I should have foreseen such a thing, but it is too late. China’s system will deal with her—for that, the system is efficient.”
“This country’s got a system, too,” Stratton said. “You’ll get caught, Bin. The spooks—Linda’s friends—will snatch you up and turn you inside out. You’ll tell them everything, too. You won’t be able to help it—drugs, sensory deprivation, shock. When they’re finished, you’ll be as dead and dusty as your goddamn clay soldiers.”
“I don’t think so, Professor.”
“Believe me.” Stratton fought to keep his voice steady. “I’ll make you a better offer than Linda Greer did. Go now. Run. Get out of here. I’ll give you twenty-four hours before I come looking, and then it’ll just be me. Alone. No police.”
Wang Bin’s response was icy, bemused. “I think not, Stratton. No one is looking for me now, and no one will. I drowned in Peking, you see. Drowned before I could see my ministry dishonored by two thieves—imperialist American running dogs who looted the treasures of the people of China. Harold Broom. And Linda Greer. When she is identified, and the emperor’s soldier is found in the car, her superiors will understand where her true loyalties lay: She was a thief. I was very careful, Stratton. I provided all the pieces to the puzzle: the soldier, the suicide note and the list.”
“What list?”
“The list of Mr. Broom’s buyers, of course. Wrapped up with the soldier, in the trunk of the car. You look surprised.”
“No,” Stratton said. But he was. Sgt. Gil Beckley hadn’t mentioned the list—he was an even better cop than Stratton had thought.
“I had no need for the customers anymore, Professor. The money is quite safe, and so am I. All clues point to Mr. Broom and Miss Greer. There will be no pursuit. But you must accept that on faith, Stratton. I have already anticipated your own quiet removal.”
“People will look for me …” But Stratton saw that it was useless.
Wang Bin had won.
Thomas Stratton would be the last sacrifice of an ancient funeral rite.
With the speed and deftness of a snake—a cobra—Wang Bin’s hand flicked the coil of rope from the desk. A noose settled over Stratton’s head.
Wang Bin hauled Stratton, wheezing, until he was suspended almost horizontally between the desk and the heavy chair which held his feet. He squirmed and grunted, lamely pawing at the rope on his neck.
“Something else I learned in the army,” Wang Bin said. “Careful, Stratton. The harder you struggle, the worse it will be.”
Stratton felt the rope slacken and instantly he was on the floor, heaving. His shirt was soaked with cold sweat.
“Your original question, Professor Stratton: Why am I here? It’s very simple. I am here to borrow some tools.” Wang Bin stood up. One hand held the gun. With the other hand he fitted a shapeless, faded hat—David’s gardening hat—onto his head. “There is a shovel out on the porch. You will carry it.”
Wang Bin wrapped Stratton’s tether around his right fist and pulled hard.
“Now we shall go for a walk, Mr. Stratton. There is something you must do for me before you die.”
Chapter 28
THE PUPPET DANGLED waist-deep in a grave.
His shovel bit through sodden red clay made heavy and unstable by rainwater that sluiced into the pit. The puppet dug by the dancing light of two hurricane lamps, abetted by stalks