A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [44]
Liao sighed. He had an intuition about complications, and this assignment troubled him. “We’ll have to report this to her dan-wei.”
Deng said, “Why? Let Lao Wang handle it. He is her father.” And then he thought for a moment and said, “You are right. We must report it. Even if the deputy minister tells us not to.” Deng and Liao had heard the same rumors. Today the old man was a power broker, but he could just as easily be shoveling cowshit in Hunan tomorrow.
“We do as we’re told,” Liao said finally, “and a little more. The deputy minister does not have to know whom we talk to. China comes first.”
STRATTON DROWSED, half-sleeping, in the hard chair. When he heard the doorknob jiggling, he figured it was one of the floor attendants. They all had passkeys, and no compunction about barging in on the slightest pretext.
It would not be wise to be found in the same room with a Chinese woman. Stratton padded barefoot across the floor and reached for the door. Two men stood there in the darkness. One held a sack of some kind in his right hand, away from his body.
“Yes?” Stratton said, stiffening.
The young man bowed, then rammed the heel of his hand into the tip of Stratton’s nose. The American fell in a heap, gurgling blood.
From the bed, Kangmei yelped and sat up. The men stared silently at her naked figure before they closed the door behind them.
Stratton awoke in darkness, heaving for air. His nostrils were clogged with blood, and his face was clammy and wet. Two strips of industrial tape had been pasted across his mouth, forming an X that nearly blocked his desperate breathing.
He was in a closet. He smelled clothing—his own—and the canvas from his duffel. Through throbbing eyes, he noticed a weak sliver of light at the base of the door, near his feet.
Stratton tried to move. His hands were free, but his legs were bound tightly at the ankles. Voices, male and female, seeped through the door. The conversation was singsongy Mandarin, and Stratton understood none of it. The male voices were cold and conspiratorial and the female voice was full of fear. Kangmei.
He struggled to his knees, grunting, using his hands to feel in the blackness. If these thugs were so efficient, he wondered, why hadn’t they tied his hands as well? Why leave him free to explore the darkness for a way out—
And then one of Stratton’s hands found what it was supposed to.
It was as big as a baseball bat, yet taut and rippling. It was smooth to the touch, not oily, and it made a hushing sound as it glided across the floor of the dark closet.
Stratton froze, and the amplified beat of his heart filled his ears. The creature had stopped moving; it was not bothered at all by the darkness.
Stratton cowered. He felt that the thing could actually sense his pulse, and feel the heat of his terror.
“YOU ARE STUPID men. Leave us alone!” Kangmei clutched the cotton sheet to her neck. Her knees were drawn protectively to her chest.
“Your father sent us,” Deng said from under his brim. “Not for you, Kangmei, but for your American friend. He is a dangerous man, an enemy of the state. He is trying to use you to obtain information that would harm the deputy minister.”
“Lies!”
“We did not know you were with him,” Liao said in a nervous whisper. “And you can be sure that we will not make a public matter of this … incident.”
Kangmei’s eyes flashed toward the closet, and the knot of hemp rope that secured the door.
“You know what would happen if this episode became known,” Liao continued. “You would lose your place at the language school. There might even be punishment at a labor camp for rehabilitation.”
“What do you want?”
Deng nodded toward the closet. “The foreigner is our only interest. If you need to know more, ask your father. We are here to do a job. I am sorry that you had to become involved in this, Comrade.”
“Think of the shame and embarrassment for the deputy minister,