A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [16]
Back at the consul’s office, Stratton waited while Powell checked another office for David Wang’s passport. Stratton sat in a chair directly across from Powell’s empty desk; there was a different file on top now. It was light blue. Stratton could see his own name on the tab. Instantly, he reached for it.
“Sir?” A woman’s voice, behind him. “Sir, please don’t. That’s confidential, for Mr. Powell only.”
Stratton faced a young woman who had emerged from an adjoining office. She had long auburn hair and brown eyes, and wore a dark blue dress with a round white collar. “You don’t have to sneak a peek,” she teased. “You know what’s in there. Want some coffee?”
“Please.” When she came back—“Watch it now, the cup’s very hot”—Stratton asked, “Where did that file come from?”
“Washington. By telex. It’s routine. It would please both governments to know that the person we’re sending home with Dr. Wang’s remains is not a smuggler or a thief or a fugitive of some sort. It’s just a routine check.”
“That’s a pretty thick file,” Stratton noted, “for routine.” The coffee was much too hot to drink, but it smelled glorious.
“You’re a war hero,” she said. “The Pentagon writes books on its war heroes. In your case, they were happy to pass it along. Proud even. Langley, too.”
“Step right up and read all about it. Hurry, hurry.”
“Sometimes Steve prefers a little synopsis,” she said, ignoring the sarcasm. “It saves time if I’m familiar with the material. Don’t worry, I’ve got clearance on stuff like this.”
“You know my name, what’s yours?” Stratton asked.
“Linda,” she answered. “Linda Greer. I’m vice-consul.”
Linda Greer. He looked at her for a moment and wondered. This hardly seemed the time, but … the only women he had talked with for days had been Alice and her gaggle, and little Miss Sun. Right now, he certainly could use some company.
“Would you like to have dinner sometime?” he tried.
“No, thank you, Mr. Stratton.”
“A movie?”
“The embassy movie doesn’t change for another two weeks, and I’ve already seen it four times. Besides, you’re leaving for the States on Monday morning.”
Stratton sat back in the chair and tested the coffee again. Well, it was what he’d deserved. Linda disappeared. Powell walked in and crisply stationed himself at the desk.
“I’ll be looking into the passport matter. I hope to have some sort of explanation by the time you leave.”
“Monday morning,” Stratton said.
“Linda told you. Well, good. Did she tell you the itinerary? It’s Hong Kong, San Francisco, Cleveland. The body stays on the plane in Hong Kong, but you’ll have a customs layover in California. We’re trying to get a diplomatic waiver from Washington on that now.”
Stratton did not react outwardly. Powell shifted.
“Do you have a suit and tie?” the consul asked.
Puzzled, Stratton said: “I have a tie and a blazer. I suppose it’s good enough for Pan Am.”
“And for the deputy minister as well,” Powell said. “He’d like to see you tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock. Any taxi at the hotel will take you. Here’s the address.”
Powell walked Stratton to the door. Stratton got the impression that this was a vital part of his job, walking tourists to the door.
“Linda says you were at Man-ling.”
“Yes,” Stratton replied.
Powell asked, “Was it as bad as they say?”
“Worse,” Stratton said as he walked out. “I’m sure it’s all in the file.”
Chapter 5
IN THE HOTEL COURTYARD, amid gleaming rows of Chinese-made automobiles that looked like boxy stegosauruses, off-duty waiters played uproarious catch with a red Frisbee. Stratton sat on the stone front steps, elbows on his knees, palms supporting his face, a brown study. He watched without seeing. David Wang was dead and he did not know how to mourn him. Wang had come late to Stratton’s life, and yet for a time Stratton had felt closer to him than he had ever felt to his own father. Stratton had the feeling, without really knowing, that he had been but one of a number of private reclamation projects