A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [31]
“The first time we spoke, he was very excited.”
Stratton took her elbow. “The first time? You saw David more than once?”
“Yes,” Kangmei replied. “Once before Xian, and the night of his return.”
“The night of his heart attack?”
“The night he died, yes,” she said.
“And how did he seem?” Stratton pressed.
“Upset. I guess the reunion was a disappointment. He and my father argued. There were bitter words. The tour of Xian was cut short by a day and the two of them returned to Peking.”
“What did they argue about?”
“I’m not certain.” They were alone in the Hall. It was too dark for pictures so the Americans had moved on, a fidgeting, pink-faced horde.
Kangmei said, “Do you listen to music at home?”
“A little,” Stratton answered, off balance again.
“The Rolling Stones. Do you listen to the Rolling Stones? A friend of mine, another student at the Languages Institute, got an album smuggled to her from Hong Kong. It’s a Rolling Stones album; during xiu-xi, our daily nap breaks, we sometimes sneak down to the music room and play it on the phonograph. The name of the album is ‘Goat’s Head Soup.’ Does that have special meaning in America?”
Stratton laughed. “No, not at all. Do you like the music?”
“Very much. It’s good dancing music. My friend and I dance together when we play the record. We have to be careful, though. We could be expelled over something like that.” Kangmei’s voice dropped. “I would love to have some records.”
They walked down marble steps and faced another pavilion. “As an art expert, you will appreciate the exhibit in this hall,” Kangmei said. “Bronze chariots and their warriors, taken from the Han tombs.”
“No, thank you,” Stratton said. “It’s time for me to go.”
They retraced their steps toward Tiananmen. Kangmei kept her eyes on the pavement.
“Mr. Stratton, David and my father argued about the artifacts at Xian,” she said. “David did not go into detail. But he said that my father was doing something wrong. Immoral was the word my uncle used. He was horrified his brother would attempt such a thing.”
“He told you this—”
“After dinner last Tuesday night. He had left a message for me at the dormitory. I rode to the hotel after my father and his group had left. I met Uncle David in the lobby.”
“He seemed in good health?” Stratton asked.
“Fine. Just angry. As we walked down Changan Avenue, he stopped to curse at the cadres who were following us. My father’s little watchdogs. Uncle David walked right up to them and called them something nasty in Chinese,” she said, blushing. “I admired his courage. The cadres said nothing. They just disappeared into the crowd.”
“Some pages were missing from David’s journal. And his passport is gone,” Stratton said.
“Oh,” Kangmei said.
“Something’s wrong with all this. Do you believe your uncle died of a heart attack?”
“I have not thought about the how, Mr. Stratton. His life is over, and I’m sad. I wish I had known him better and longer. I’m very sorry that he and my father quarreled.”
After they left the steps of the Forbidden City, Kangmei walked briskly to the lot where her bicycle was parked.
“Thank you for meeting me,” Stratton said.
Kangmei nodded as she lithely swung onto the bike. “I’m glad that you are going with Uncle David’s body. It’s a long trip back to America and it is only right that he should be with someone who cares.”
I cannot bury my friend so easily, Stratton thought, and not under a cloud of riddles.
“I’m sorry, Kangmei, but I won’t be going after all,” he said. “My tour group leaves for Xian tomorrow, and I’ve decided to join them.”
Her expression never changed. It didn’t have to.
“Tourists always take the early train,” she said, and rode away.
Chapter 8
STEVE POWELL OFFERED HOT TEA all around. Linda Greer shook her head politely. The station chief said yes to a small cup. The Marine who served them closed the door carefully as he left.
“What do you make of it?” Powell said.
Linda scanned the note once more, then passed it across the table to the station chief. It was the handwriting of a man