A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [47]
Now, alone on the train and seemingly safe, Stratton had time to think. David—dead at the hands of his own brother. Kangmei—arrested, maybe worse. Then there was the deputy minister, Wang Bin—frightened enough to order the murder of an American tourist. But why?
At the dig, Kangmei’s friend had observed Wang Bin struggling for David’s camera. This puzzled Stratton, for the site had been photographed extensively, and the pictures had been published throughout the world. Evidently David had found something extraordinary—something forbidden.
The inventory of his belongings provided by the American Embassy listed three unexposed rolls of film. To Stratton, the explanation was simple: Wang Bin had confiscated all the film his brother had shot during his homecoming.
A shrill chorus of military music exploded from a scratchy speaker in Stratton’s compartment. He groped for the dial and tried to turn it off; the marching song faded, but it would not die. He glanced at his wristwatch and noticed that the train was already ten minutes late for departure.
Stratton was uneasy. Next time, he knew, Wang Bin’s methods would be less diabolical, but more dependable than a killer snake. Once back in Peking, Stratton would make a beeline for the embassy and enlist Linda’s help.
A waiter knocked lightly on the door of the compartment. He brought Stratton a hand towel and a small lumpy pillow. Stratton thanked him and said, “Are we leaving soon?”
“Soon,” the waiter answered politely. He stared at Stratton’s swollen nose as he backed out.
“Is there some kind of mechanical problem?”
“Soon,” the waiter repeated, disappearing.
Through the window Stratton scanned the empty station ramp. The train was loaded. Any minute now … he sighed, and stretched his legs on the long seat.
Stratton toyed with his newfound scenario. Wang Bin had invited his brother to China, hoping to recruit David into a smuggling scheme. As a courier, perhaps, for ancient artifacts. Or maybe Wang Bin simply needed a trusted person to act as a broker for the priceless contraband back in the States.
Together they visited the Qin tombs. Wang Bin gave David the grand tour—maybe more. David took some pictures. Wang Bin made his pitch, but David rebuffed him. The deputy minister was enraged, panic-stricken. Stratton could easily imagine Wang Bin’s reaction if David had threatened—as he probably did—to report his greedy brother to the authorities in Peking.
Stratton recalled Kangmei’s conversation with her uncle on the night of his death: He said that Wang Bin was doing something very wrong. … He was horrified that his brother would attempt such a thing. Yes, that old professor’s indignation would have been volcanic. And what if, Stratton wondered, David had learned something so scandalous that it could have sent the deputy minister to prison?
Wouldn’t that be enough to make one brother murder another?
Stratton finished his tea and set the empty cup on the table. The train still had not moved, but in his ruminations Stratton had forgotten his impatience.
He was sure now. He had figured it out.
To Wang Bin, it must have seemed a simple scheme, wonderfully pragmatic. Faithful brother David returns home from his China trip, a sword or vase or delicate clay mask packed in his personal luggage. The proper-looking receipts would be provided, of course—and where would one even encounter a customs officer expert enough, or bold enough, to challenge such artifacts?
Once safely in the United States, any large museum would pay magnificently and ask precious few questions. David would be delighted with his