A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [55]
McCarthy flipped on the dome light and the Chinese quickly riffled through his gifts—back copies of The Economist, Time and Newsweek and some paperback books.
“I couldn’t find Twelfth Night, but I got Merchant of Venice. And here’s one by Graham Greene, Monsignor Quixote. It’s great.”
“Quixote … Cervantes, right?”
McCarthy nodded.
“Well, he wrote in prison. I guess I can read in prison.” Little Joe gestured. He meant everything around him.
“Zaijian,” said Little Joe, and vanished into the night.
Pensively, McCarthy drove home. Poor bastard, he thought, another one of the good young ones being devoured. But a damned good source. Apprentice cook he might be, but Little Joe was still the son of a general.
“I TRUST THE ACCOMMODATIONS are satisfactory,” Wang Bin said from the doorway. “I would be offended if such a distinguished guest were not comfortable.”
Stratton stared dully at him from a pile of dirty straw at the far corner of the room.
Bathed in sweat, he rolled clumsily to a sitting position.
Wang Bin sneered. “Your leg is bloody. You should be more careful, Professor.”
“Fuck you.”
“Stand up.”
“I can’t.”
On mincing steps, as though afraid of dirtying his highly polished shoes, Wang Bin advanced into the room until he stood over Stratton. His foot lashed out, striking Stratton’s shin. Stratton bit back a moan.
“This is just the beginning, Professor.” He spat as he spoke, hitting Stratton between the eyes. “I regret only that I shall not be present for the end. It was planned for Xian, but you were lucky. A train station is too public, and a bullet is too merciful for a man who rapes my daughter.”
Stratton felt the spittle course down his face. He tensed for a spring. Movement caught Stratton’s eye. Framed in the doorway stood one of the jailers, a pistol leveled at Stratton. With an explosion of breath, he allowed his body’s tension to dissipate. Revenge alone was not enough. There must also be escape. There would be another time.
“I will tell you where you are, since you will never leave,” Wang Bin said. “It is a museum on the outskirts of the city of Nanning. It is a backward place, Nanning, but it has some lovely Ming Dynasty pottery.”
“You know where you can put your pottery.”
“Oh no, Professor Stratton, there are better uses for it. For you, there is no use at all. Except as an example of revolutionary justice. Has anyone listed your crimes for you? No? An oversight, I’m sure.”
Wang Bin rocked with his hands behind him, a student reciting his lessons.
“You are accused of theft: of the personal effects of my distinguished brother. You are accused of murder: of one of my trusted drivers in Peking, and of assault against another, who may still die.”
Wang Bin’s voice was rising in pitch, like a factory whistle.
“You are accused of kidnapping my daughter.” He spat at Stratton again. “And of rape of my daughter.
“You are guilty of all charges, Professor.” Wang Bin’s face was flushed. “The sentence is death. There is no appeal. People’s justice. Do you know how executions are carried out in revolutionary China, Professor?” Wang Bin’s mouth twitched. “The condemned man is forced to kneel, with his hands tied behind his back. His executioner stands behind him. At the signal, the executioner advances one step, brings up his gun and in one motion, delivers a killing shot to the back of the head. Sometimes a pistol is used, but in your case, I think a rifle is more appropriate. A rifle leaves no room for mistakes.”
“It will never happen,” Stratton said slowly.
“You think not?”
“I know it. You are bluffing. This isn’t a real jail, and you have no authority. This is your operation, Deputy Minister, and yours alone. The Chinese government has nothing against me—but a great deal against you.”
“I am a servant of the Revolution,” Wang Bin said, self-mockingly.
“You serve only yourself. You are a thief and a murderer.”
“Stratton, you are like so many of your countrymen, much noise but no wisdom. You know nothing.”
“I know that you have been stealing artifacts from the dig at Xian. I know that