A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [33]
“Yes, I’m looking forward to it,” Stratton replied.
“Yesterday you missed beautiful White Pagoda,” Miss Sun said. It was not a reprimand, but there was concern in her voice.
“I’m sorry,” Stratton said. “I had a personal matter.”
Miss Sun seemed embarrassed. “I did not mean to intrude in your business, Professor Stratton.”
“It’s quite all right. Your English is coming along very well, Miss Sun. You’ve been practicing,” he said warmly.
The tour guide smiled gratefully.
“Tom’s going to be a good boy, aren’t you, Professor?” Alice Dempsey had a way of inserting herself into conversations that made Stratton want to punch her. “I promised Miss Sun I’d keep an eye on you at Xian, Tom. If you’d read the tour book, you’d know about the travel restrictions outside of Peking. Can’t just go roaming the hills, digging for pottery and chatting with the townsfolk. You’ll get us all in hot water.”
Stratton scowled. “Don’t worry, Alice.”
“Mr. Stratton?” A thin man with thick glasses and a fresh-bought Mao cap called out across the lobby. It was a man Stratton knew only as Weatherby, an art history teacher from a small college in San Francisco. Weatherby was delicate, anemic-looking; he approached in tiny, diffident steps.
“Tom Stratton?”
“Yes.”
“There are two men out front who say they’ve come to pick you up,” Weatherby reported.
“Here we go again,” Alice Dempsey muttered.
“I do not understand,” Miss Sun said, her voice rising.
“Me neither,” Stratton said. “There must be a mistake.”
“They’ve got a car,” Weatherby said dramatically.
Stratton walked out of the lobby and down the steps. A jet-black Red Flag limousine was parked in front of the hotel. Two cadres in starched blue uniforms stood near the front bumper, talking in whispers. At the sight of Stratton, they turned and bowed slightly, from the neck, in unison. When the cadres looked up, they wore official smiles.
“Where is your luggage, Professor?”
“On its way to Xian.”
“Oh. Very bad.” The taller of the two wore thick eyeglasses set in heavy black frames. His teeth were crooked and yellow.
The other cadre, a plump young man with fat rubbery lips, said, “Mr. Stratton, we came to take you to airport.”
“But I’m going to Xian by train. With my group.”
The cadres conferred, brisk Mandarin whispers.
“We take you to airport,” repeated Crooked Teeth, unsmiling. “Plane leaves for America.”
In Chinese, Miss Sun asked, “Where are you?”—the equivalent of an American, “Who do you work for?”
“Ministry of Culture,” Fat Lips replied curtly, and then again in English for Tom Stratton’s benefit. “Deputy Minister Wang Bin sent us.” And then more, to the tour guide, in Mandarin.
“He says you are scheduled to fly back to America with the body of your friend,” Miss Sun said to Stratton. “I very sorry, Professor. I did not know of this tragedy. I did not know that the deputy minister had made this request of you.”
“Miss Sun—” Stratton began.
“Comrade says your plane leaves soon,” she said. “I’ll get your suitcase from the bus—”
“No!” Stratton said. “Miss Sun, please tell the comrades that I sent a message to Deputy Minister Wang this morning, informing him of my change in plans. The U.S. Embassy was notified at the same time. Everything is fine. I don’t wish to leave China today. I wish to stay with the group.”
Miss Sun translated. Fat Lips frowned and traded glances with his partner. They replied breathlessly, together: “This is a most urgent matter. The deputy minister is anxious. Mr. Stratton is expected at the airport soon; we know nothing of any messages to the embassy. Our task is to take the professor to the plane. There is no other choice.”
Miss Sun understood. “Wei,” she said neutrally, and walked away.
Stratton saw that the other Americans were filing into the Toyota bus for the ride to the train station. From a window seat in the first row, Alice Dempsey glowered out at him.
“We take you to airport,” Crooked Teeth announced with cheerfulness. “Come now.”
“No,” Tom Stratton insisted. The cadres were well trained in the Chinese art