A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [15]
“You’re damn right!” came a voice from the bathroom.
STEVE POWELL lifted the doctor’s bag from his tidy government-issue desk and shook it. The nail clippers clattered metallically inside. “You’ve got to admit it sounds authentic,” he said to Stratton. Then, with a dry laugh: “Welcome to China, my friend.”
Stratton ignored the consul’s invitation to sit down. “I don’t think this is funny,” he said.
“Understand something, Mr. Stratton. These ‘medics’ who attended to your friend at the hotel—of course they weren’t real medics. Forget the bullshit you’ve heard about the phenomenal modernization of Chinese medicine. It’s still backward as hell. And try to find a fucking veterinarian in this town! The embassy wives have to send their precious French poodles to Hong Kong for a lousy distemper shot.
“These guys who took Wang to the hospital were, at the very most, first-year students. They could have been janitors just as easily. The doctor bag is a prop, as you no doubt figured out. They were lackeys. Their only job was to get the patient to a hospital.”
Stratton asked about the clinic three blocks from the hotel. “It’s supposed to be very good,” he said.
“Maybe it is,” Powell said, “but David Wang was the VIP brother of a deputy minister. The Chinese knew who he was, where he was and what he was doing. When he got sick, they took him to Capital Hospital, one of the most advanced hospitals in Peking, whatever ‘advanced’ means here.”
Stratton sat down. “Yesterday you weren’t so sure.”
“Since then I’ve received a full report from Wang Bin’s office.”
As proof, Powell displayed a file folder. “You’re probably wondering what happened to Professor Wang’s personal effects.” Powell rose. “Come with me. We’ll do our own inventory.”
The two men walked to a cordoned-off area of the embassy building. Powell flashed a plastic identification card at a Marine guard, who opened a gate to a stale vault. The consul used a tiny key to spring a metal drawer on a bottom row of locked cabinets. He removed three paper bags. Each had been marked in black ink: “D. Wang, Pittsville, Ohio.”
“The Chinese authorities collected these from Professor Wang’s room. They may have overlooked a couple of things, but I think you’ll find most of Dr. Wang’s valuables are intact.”
Stratton dumped the contents on a small table in a dimly lit corner of the vault: underwear, shirts, pants, a white sun visor, an extra pair of eyeglasses, a Nikon 35-mm camera, a bottle of Excedrin, three tombstone etchings on rice paper, four books about China and Chinese dialects, three rolls of unused film and a shaving kit.
“Wasn’t there a suitcase?”
“I suppose it was just too large for the drawer,” Powell said. “Does everything else seem in order?”
“No,” said Stratton. “Where is David’s journal? He always wrote in a thick diary with a leather binding.”
“His brother has it. Wang Bin asked us for permission to read through David’s writings. We saw no reason to object. He has promised to return the journal before the body is sent to the States.”
Stratton said, “And David’s passport?”
Powell adjusted his glasses and pawed through the items on the table. The Marine stood stiffly at the door of the vault, his back toward the two men.
“It’s not here?” Powell asked lamely.
“No.” Stratton watched the consul’s composure drain. The cool eyes fluttered.
“It must be here,” Powell said. “Something so important.”
“What are the regulations in a case like this?”
“Our regulations, or theirs?” Powell grumbled as he fished in the empty pockets of David Wang’s neatly folded trousers. “Jesus, this is unbelievable. Just what I need. You say you went through the room as well?”
“Nothing much,” Stratton said. “Socks, handkerchiefs. What happens if you can’t find the passport?”
Powell had given up. He stuffed the sad remnants of David Wang’s life into the paper bags. “Well, if we can’t find it, then I have to write a report. That’s about it. I’ll have a few forms to fill out.” He eyed Stratton with annoyance. “What should happen? I mean,