A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [50]
Eventually, he squirmed into a sitting position, propped up against a sack of what smelled like potatoes.
It was a small moral victory. Sitting up, Stratton felt a little less helpless. He wondered why they hadn’t just killed him. No esoteric stuff—cobras and the like—just a good old-fashioned bullet in the brain. He felt slightly nauseous but resolved not to throw up in the sack. As the hours passed and his body cried for water, Stratton began to pray that they would not leave him there to die in a vegetable car with a horde of hungry goddamn rats.
THE PANEL DOOR of the boxcar clattered open and daylight exploded in Stratton’s face. He had managed to work himself out of the burlap, in the darkness, but could see nothing. Now the sudden brightness blinded him. Rough hands yanked him upright by the hair. A terse command in Mandarin, and then in English: “Drink!” Stratton gulped strange-tasting water from a wooden mug. Within minutes, he grew dizzy and passed out.
Deng and Liao were in a foul mood; neither had relished a trip to the south. Peking, with its fine restaurants and all its cadre privileges, was infinitely preferable to a muggy peasant farm village. Down here the lines of authority were less clearly drawn, Deng grumbled; respect seemed to diminish with each kilometer away from the Imperial City. At every stop there had been questions: Where are your papers? What are you doing here? Where is your dan-wei? In his agitation, Deng handled the sleeping form of Tom Stratton with something less than gentleness.
“I thought we would be finished with this in Xian,” Liao said as they heaved Stratton onto a flatbed truck. “The orders changed. I wonder why.”
“A good question for the deputy minister,” Deng said. “He will be here soon.”
WANG BIN LEANED back and blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling. “Tell me about the American.”
“I will not,” his daughter said hotly.
“You will! You are too old to spank, Wang Kangmei, but you are of an age where other punishment can be more terrible. You still have a future today, but there is no guarantee. Tomorrow, who knows? I would not be the first senior Party official to forsake an errant child.”
Kangmei folded her arms across her breasts and stared at the floor.
“Did you sleep with him?”
“He told me all about Uncle David. He wished to see the tombs at Xian, the dig you are so proud of. What harm was there in showing him?”
“He asked many questions, did he not?”
“Not as many as I asked him. Father, I was merely curious. About Xian, about my uncle. I was distraught because he died only days after we first met. Can you understand that?”
“Did you—”
“No! I did not sleep with Stratton.”
“Deng and Liao told me you were in his room.” Wang Bin’s eyes dropped. “Naked in his bed.”
“They are vicious liars, Father. They came to my room, and dragged me from my own bed. They took me to Stratton and began to interrogate us. They hit me, Father, and said terrible things. Stratton tried to stop them and they beat him up, and locked him in a closet—”
Wang Bin raised a hand. “You are a foolish girl, and a bad liar. For that, I suppose, I should be grateful. Your eyes confess everything, Kangmei. Now I ask you: What of the family honor? Whoring with a foreigner—such behavior aggrieves me, and insults the entire Wang family. I shall not mention what it would do to your mother.”
“I told you—”
“It probably will not be possible to keep this quiet for very long. Today the loyalties of Liao and Deng belong to me; tomorrow, who can say?” Wang Bin watched his daughter’s eyes grow moist. Her posture remained erect, and her face defiant. “Kangmei, this fascination you nurture for America has become a dangerous and disturbing thing. You are in serious trouble. This Thomas Stratton is no simple tourist. He is a cunning man, a former soldier. He