A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [57]
There had been puzzling things, too. David’s unwitting role had been to bring something, Wang Bin had said. That was an obvious lie. The brothers had argued in Xian only after David had learned that Wang Bin wanted him to smuggle.
“My brother is not dead,” he had said. A second lie, even more senseless than the first. Of course David was dead—he had been murdered.
There was a third riddle. Stratton’s death was to be “my last gesture” to the Revolution. What could account for that strange phrase?
Gingerly, he began a series of knee bends. Down-two-three-four. His leg howled in protest. Why tell lies to a condemned man? Senseless. Unless …
“Oh, Jesus.”
Stratton spoke aloud to the emptiness of his cell, the words forced from him by sudden realization. What if Wang Bin had been telling the truth?
Stratton saw it then. Not entirely clear, but in terrifying outline. Solid, diabolical, imminent.
On one point, Wang Bin had been right.
Stratton was a fool.
In frustration, he hammered at the walls of the cell. Then he snapped a leg from the wooden chair and with its point began to scrape at the crude mortar between the bricks. It was irrational, and he knew it. Still, it was not a time for reason. It was a time for fury. Stratton scraped like a man demented.
WANG BIN SAT with his legs crossed in an overstuffed armchair, waiting for his tea to cool. On the table before him sat four vases, each exquisite, each more than five hundred years old.
An aide in bottle-bottom glasses came silently into the room. He sprang forward to light the deputy minister’s cigarette.
“Will we be needing our guest any longer, Comrade?” the aide asked quietly.
“One more day, I’m afraid, Lao Zhou.” Wang Bin was perturbed. “I wish it could have been done on the train. If only his embassy had not started asking questions. I must know what he told his people, if he told them anything. One more day … then he must vanish completely, do you understand? No trace.”
“It will be done. He is a dangerous enemy of the state.” The frail-looking young translator with weak eyes was the most sadistic killer Wang Bin had ever encountered.
“You will tell me everything he says. It is vital … to the Revolution,” Wang Bin said. “I would like to be there myself, but I must return immediately to Peking. Go make the arrangements.”
When the aide had gone, Wang Bin extracted a green and white envelope from the breast pocket of his Mao jacket. The telegram had arrived with breakfast and he knew its contents by heart.
YOU ARE REQUIRED TO APPEAR BEFORE THE DISCIPLINARY COMMISSION OF THE PARTY.
It gave a time and a date: tomorrow.
He had been expecting it. And it might have come sooner. Once again, it seemed, those idiots in Peking were determined to wrestle long-suffering China back into the Middle Ages. A few months before, such a summons would have paralyzed Wang Bin with terror—as it was intended to do. But he had foreseen it this time, and he was ready. Now there was just fleeting irritation at the dreadful cost to the nation and his own comfort. Let them writhe, he thought. Let them devour their own entrails if they wish. Comrade Deputy Minister Wang Bin would never again collect night soil.
This new peace of mind had its price, of course: an odious alliance with the American art dealer Harold Broom. His name had come to Wang Bin from an underground buyer in Hong Kong. Broom had been highly recommended, not for his taste—he had none—but for his resourcefulness. It was a trait that Wang Bin had come to appreciate, though he could not help but despise Broom for his crude arrogance.
Their short relationship had been curt, clandestine and efficient. So far. A visa problem smoothed over. A travel permit expedited. Quiet favors.
Yet there were watchers everywhere, Wang Bin well knew. He doubted that the Disciplinary Commission had learned the truth about Harold Broom, but such news would not shock him. He was ready for anything.
By the time the aide returned to confirm the travel arrangements, Wang Bin had already decided.