A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [48]
As for the rest of the money, Wang Bin’s share: a bank draft to a numbered account in Zurich, and from there, a transfer to Hong Kong. There were a few creative ways to get it actually back into Peking, but Stratton figured that Hong Kong would have been close enough for the deputy minister.
A neat scheme, Stratton thought, until David Wang balked. Then there was only one thing his fearful brother could do.
Stratton stood up and stretched. Powell would never believe it. With Linda Greer, he had a better chance. By now, she would have learned of his escapade with the cadres in the Red Flag limousine. Her feelers would be out on the street; friends’ eyes would be looking for him. Stratton figured that Wang Bin was not the only person who now wanted him out of China.
He was not frightened for himself, but he worried for Kangmei. Because of who she was, she probably would not be killed. Still, her life could be ruined. There was no telling what her penance would be. In Kangmei’s case, Stratton reflected sadly, there would be no one to intervene.
Someone tapped on the door.
“More tea?”
“No, thank you,” Stratton said, surprised at the sound of hard-learned English. “Can you tell me when we’re leaving?”
The door opened. “Now,” said the man in the Mao cap. He pointed a Russian-made pistol at Stratton’s face. The American raised his arms. Liao followed Deng through the door.
The three men stood awkwardly together in the small compartment, Stratton awaiting directions. He could not believe they would shoot him on a crowded morning train.
“Where to?” he asked after a few moments.
“Off train,” Deng said, but he didn’t move.
“Nose broke,” Liao said with a perceptive sneer. He pointed at Stratton’s face.
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry about your pet snake,” Stratton muttered.
Deng lowered the pistol from Stratton’s head and held it at waist level, trained on the American’s midsection.
“I’ll go quietly, don’t worry,” Stratton said. The Chinese traded glances. “How long are we going to stand here?” Stratton asked.
“Go now,” said Deng, pulling the trigger.
The bullet lifted Tom Stratton and propelled him backward into the wall of the compartment. His head cracked against a steel bunk and he rag-dolled forward into a heap on the floor. Day became night. The Chinese demons screamed in Stratton’s ears until his mind went limp and cold in a terrible sleep.
Chapter 11
“WE’VE GOT A PAIR OF NASTY little problems on our hands don’t we?” The station chief drummed his pudgy gray finger on the desk. He let out a sigh of disgust. “Wang Bin and Stratton.”
Linda Greer was reading a file. She wore glasses, forcing herself to fix on the words. She fought off despair.
“Why did the deputy minister want your friend out of the country so badly? Think of it: We tell him quite politely that Mr. Stratton will not be accompanying his brother’s body back to the United States—and what does he do? He sends a couple of goons to the hotel. Why?” The station chief did not wait to hear any theories. “Because he knows. Linda, somehow Wang Bin got hold of Stratton’s service record. He knows about Man-ling.”
Linda shook her head slowly and set the file on the desk. “It’s more than that. It’s got to be.”
“Damn, the coffee’s cold already. Why does it have to be more than that?”
“Suppose Wang Bin knows about Stratton’s brief incursion back in 1971,” Linda began. “Wouldn’t it be easier, and more effective, to make a formal request: ‘This man is an undesirable and we would like him to leave China at once’? A sticky little deportation problem, nothing more. We’ve handled stuff like that in the past. Now this,” she said motioning toward the file, “is pretty clumsy, sir. Chasing Stratton all over the city with a goddamn Red Flag, then trying to run him over in the street … that’s not the style of this bureaucracy, sir. It’s too messy. Reckless. Something like that might happen in Moscow—”
“In a blue moon!” the station chief huffed.
“—but never in Peking. The police or