A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [29]
“Almost like home,” the newsman said. “Now where did you want me to take you?”
Stratton said, “The Foreign Languages Institute.”
“And what,” McCarthy said, “do you plan to do there? Stare at the walls? Pose for pictures with a few soldiers outside the gate? It’s a restricted area, baby. No Yanks allowed. It’s definitely not on the tour, yours or anybody else’s.”
Stratton told McCarthy about David Wang.
“Death by duck, right? That’s what Powell said, I bet.”
“Yes,” Stratton replied. “How did you know?”
“Because the bastard ripped the lead off one of my stories to steal that phrase. Fucking cretins at State, no imagination. Suppose I should be flattered.”
“So there really is such a thing?”
“Sure.” McCarthy pried open the Coke on a desk drawer handle and guzzled half. “Just your basic tourist burnout, really. The Peking roast duck dinner gives it a nice twist, though. I wrote the story two years ago and the stats have held up. Quite a few elderly Americans die every year in the great China adventure, but it’s not a trend that gets much publicity. I remember one old geezer who arrived lugging a heavy suitcase and went home inside it.”
“Huh?”
“His wife had him cremated and continued the tour—said he would have wanted it that way.”
Stratton blanched.
“Hey, Stratton, I don’t mean to sound like a total prick about it. I’m sorry about your friend, really I am. But what’s it got to do with the Foreign Languages school?”
“David’s niece is a student there.”
McCarthy whistled. “It’s a tough school to get into.”
“Her father is Wang Bin, a deputy minister. David’s younger brother.”
“Right, I remember now.”
“The girl saw David shortly before he left for Xian to meet Bin. I want to talk to her, just to make sure everything was all right.” Stratton decided not to mention the journal or the passport.
McCarthy said, “I’m not exactly a low-profile character in this town. More like the Jolly Red Giant. With me at your side, you don’t stand a fucking prayer of getting in.
“But I tell you what. Go with my driver. He’ll take you to the gate and haggle on your behalf. He speaks some English and he’s worked miracles for me, but don’t get your hopes up. You might have to settle for leaving a note—and then it could be another four weeks before you get an answer. I’m not kidding. Watching this government in action is like watching a bad ballet performed in molasses.”
STRATTON SAT in the backseat trying to look important while McCarthy’s driver argued with a guard at the Foreign Languages Institute. After several minutes, the driver, Xiu, shuffled to the car with a furrowed brow.
“It is not possible, Mr. Stratton.”
“Why not?”
“He says it is a study hour. The students are in their dormitories and cannot be disturbed.”
Stratton sighed. “Tell him I am a friend of the family. I have come to offer my condolences at the death of her uncle. I will be most insulted if I am not permitted just a few minutes.”
Xiu nodded somberly and tracked once more toward the gatehouse. He came back smiling. “A few minutes, Mr. Stratton. Can you wait?”
Soon, a young woman appeared. The guard motioned toward the car and spoke rapidly. Then he waved stiffly at Stratton.
David Wang had not embellished his journal; his niece, Kangmei, was indeed a beautiful woman. Her jet-black hair, daringly long by Peking standards, fell past her shoulders. Her eyes were bright, and her features were elegant, almost regal.
“I was a good friend of your uncle,” he began.
“Yes. Stratton,” she said. Her eyes worked on him.
“David was a good man, a great scholar,” Stratton said. “I felt I needed to—”
The guard shifted his feet and peered up into Stratton’s face.
“You wish to talk?” Kangmei asked.
“If it’s possible.”
“It is.”
“At my hotel?”
“Not a good choice, Mr. Stratton.” Her English was excellent and self-assured. “Meet me in an hour at the Tiananmen Gate. Don’t tell anyone. Have the driver take you back to the hotel, then walk.”
Stratton eyed the guard anxiously.
Kangmei almost smiled. “Don’t worry, they don’t speak a word of English.” Then she was