A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [19]
“And now he’s back on the track again.”
“Well, not exactly.” Linda Greer chose her words with care. “He is a powerful man. It looks as though his culture job is a kind of front for deeper Communist Party activities. He’s rumored to have his own little band of enforcers to patrol his domain. You’ve heard about the political struggle that’s going on around here, I’m sure.”
“A little.” McCarthy had given him a beginner’s lesson. Stratton wished he had paid more attention.
“Well, as far as we can figure out, all the guys Wang Bin has ridden with over the past thirty years are being systematically shot out of the saddle.”
“But not him,” Stratton anticipated.
“Not him, at least not yet. Maybe not ever, who knows? He should be struggling for his political life and, instead, while all sorts of political shit flies, he invites his long-lost brother to come from America—that certainly could be used against him—and spends all his time assembling an archaeological exhibit nobody but us cares much about.”
“An overture to old Uncle Sam, right?”
“Maybe. I wish I knew.”
Stratton emptied his glass, and refilled both of theirs.
“How long have you been a spook, Linda?”
Linda Greer blushed.
“I’m not. I’m a vice-consul.”
“Sure you are.”
“Not convinced, huh?” she tried again.
“Try that on some little old tourist lady who has lost her luggage.”
“About five years, if you must know. And I am not a spook. I am a case officer.”
“Then get off my case, officer.” He watched her hackles rise.
“What do you mean by that?”
He reached across and took her hand.
“Linda, it took me all of five minutes to figure out that you didn’t pick me up just because of my sad face, but I only just now realized exactly what it is you want. Linda, I was recruited and trained and conned and sent to the wolves by guys who were playing nasty games while you were still in Pampers. This is what I would call a transitory recruitment.”
“Okay, wiseass, how does it go?”
“Something like this. Could Mr. Stratton, who is known to us and thought, on the basis of previous service, to be reliable, interject into his conversation with Wang Bin tomorrow questions that might establish Comrade Wang’s view of the United States, such as: How does Comrade Wang foresee the development of relations between our two great countries in this time of great international stress? And, providing Comrade Wang seemed receptive to that particular conversation, perhaps expressing veiled admiration for the United States, a second approach might be made. And perhaps a third, and a fourth, each one a little deeper until one day somebody, say a beautiful, art-loving vice-consul, would hold her breath and try to recruit Comrade Wang.” Stratton stared out over the sleeping canal. “Actually, it’s not a bad gambit.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Stratton thought aloud. “Let’s see, if Wang will deal and he wins this current round of intrigue, you’re in clover—you’ve got a source at a high level. And if he loses, Wang might be persuaded to accept asylum in the United States—‘defect’ has a nasty ring to it, don’t you think? He would be a man with a grudge against the guys who forced him out. He would provide great inside intelligence up until the time he left, and knowledgeable guesses about how things might go from there.”
Linda Greer assayed a wan smile. “You could have been a great one, Stratton. It’s all there in your file.”
“And does the file also say that I left in such disgust that, if I had stayed, I probably would have blown my head off?”
“Or somebody else’s.”
“And no doubt the file also says I am now a straight-and-narrow, almost middle-aged college professor who hardly ever does anything more adventuresome than jaywalking?”
“That, too.”