A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [42]
“Explain about my friend and his brother, Xiao-Xia, but this time don’t ask if they were here. Say that my friend told me he would always remember the hospitality he received here.”
At the translation, Ku’s face lit. He reached into his breast pocket and extracted a silver ballpoint pen.
“The director says he remembers your friend very well. He calls him the ‘gentle professor’ and shows you the pen he was honored to receive as a gift,” said Mr. Xia.
Bingo. But now what?
“Ask the comrade director if it would be possible for me to see the special excavation that my friend and his brother visited. Be sure and use Kangmei’s father’s name.”
That provoked a quick exchange in Mandarin before Mr. Xia finally said: “He asks if you have permission.”
A direct hit. “Tell him yes.”
Mr. Xia looked quizzically at Stratton.
“Do you really have permission?”
“Of course.”
Stratton barely concealed his impatience at the Mandarin that followed. If he could see what David had seen, he might understand why the brothers had quarreled. Ku, who obviously took no pains to hide his own distaste for Peking, might even tell him. For him, Peking probably meant Wang Bin.
“The director regrets that the excavation is only opened when Peking advises him that an important visitor is coming. He regrets that the responsible officials in Peking did not inform him you were coming, but, he says, perhaps in a day or two it will be possible.”
Damn. What that meant was that the director would check with Peking.
“I would be grateful,” Stratton said. “Ask him if my friend—”
“The director also apologizes, but explains that he now must supervise the closing and meet with the technicians to discuss tomorrow’s work schedule.” Mr. Xia interjected.
“Shit,” said Stratton. It escaped. Mr. Xia looked perplexed. Stratton flushed. “Say we are sorry for interrupting his work. Thank him for his hospitality and say we will return to look at the special excavation when the details have been arranged.”
Darkness was falling and large numbers of workers had already left the site on a wheezy bus by the time Kangmei returned to the car.
“It happened here, Thom-as,” she erupted. “My father and my uncle had an angry discussion, shouting. A young worker told me; he is a cousin of a friend of mine who also studied languages.”
“What was it about? Why did they argue?”
“I do not know. My friend could not speak long. But later I will see him. He will tell me then.”
“Kangmei, that’s terrific.”
Kangmei bubbled excitedly as the car returned to the old imperial city. After darkness had fallen, and she was sure Mr. Xia would not see from the front seat, she grasped Stratton’s hand and clasped it tightly.
Stratton ate alone in the restaurant of the sprawling hotel complex, careful to time his arrival and departure to miss the art historians. To his astonishment, the food was awful. He retired to his room with wizened tangerines and a bottle of mineral water. He was half asleep, near ten o’clock, when the phone rang.
“Thom-as,” she said without introduction. “In two minutes, you must walk to the end of the corridor with the vacuum bottle in your room and ask the floor attendant for more hot water.”
Stratton understood; he was to be a decoy. “Are you sure that’s wise?”
“Please.”
Stratton obeyed, remembering to empty the thermos. The attendant, drowsing over the color pictures in a back copy of Time that a tourist must have left, smiled and obligingly padded into a kitchen with the bottle, leaving the hall unwatched.
When Stratton returned to the room, Kangmei was waiting. She embraced him. Her tongue played a sparrow’s tattoo against his teeth. It was Stratton who broke the embrace.
“Kangmei …” he said uncertainly.
“It is so exciting,” she said. “My friend told me everything, Thom-as, everything.” She sat on the narrow