A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [87]
The little boy whimpered as he swept past, a chick peeping. Got ya, you little bastard. Gotcha. He grabbed the boy by the collar of his shirt. His strength failing, the children clutched to his chest. Stratton pumped his legs ruthlessly, fighting off extinction for three flickering candles. It was dark now. And he was so tired. He must rest. Tomorrow he would finish. …
Talons that felt like a steel yanked Stratton’s hair. He cried out.
The stocky man had not thrown the rope. He had tied one end to the trunk of a dead tree and the other around his waist. Mercilessly, the stocky man pulled again at Stratton’s hair, gasping in Chinese.
“All right, all right,” Stratton protested. “You win, take one.”
Clumsily, a splashing pas de deux for the blind, they transferred one of the children from Stratton to the man on the rope. His arm free, a fiery, tremendous, unbearable weight suddenly lifted, Stratton grasped the man’s shirt. Willing hands reeled them in. Tom Stratton felt as if he were flying.
Chapter 19
HAROLD BROOM PUT ON his most expensive tailored suit—navy, with a fine ash-gray stripe—and plunged into the muggy Washington afternoon. He flagged a taxi at 14th Street. Six blocks was too damn far to walk on a hot day in your best suit.
The curator was waiting in a private office. It was a Monday, and the museum was closed to the public.
“Hello, Dr. Lambert.”
The curator nodded. “You have the photograph?”
Broom gave it to him.
“I asked for an infantryman,” Lambert remarked with a scowl.
“Not available,” Broom said curtly. He didn’t like Lambert at all; he didn’t like experts in general.
“When was it dusted?”
“Two, three months ago,” Broom answered. “I’m not sure.”
Lambert grunted.
Broom said, “If it’s the quality you’re worried about, don’t bother. It’s been stored in a dry place, safe from the elements.”
The curator unfolded a schematic of the Qin tombs. The drawing illustrated each of the eleven columns under excavation. The location of the archers, the chariots, the spearmen and the armored infantry was noted in pencil.
“Which vault did this one come from?”
“I have no idea,” Broom said. “That’s my partner’s end of things. And what the hell difference does it make? You know exactly what you’re getting, friend. There’s seven thousand of these buggers underground in China, but this is your only chance to get your hands on one.”
“It’s history,” Lambert said stiffly.
“History, my ass. It’s an investment.”
“You’re revolting,” the curator said in a hoarse voice.
“I’m also late for a plane. I want the down payment right now—that is, if you’re still interested.”
“Oh, I’m interested, Mr. Broom. But first: How many of these have you and your partner smuggled in?”
“This is the only one.”
Lambert’s eyes turned to ice. He stood up. “Good day, Mr. Broom. You’re welcome to come back when you’ve sobered up.”
Broom sighed. Lying to the crazy Texan was one thing; he should have known better with Lambert. He signaled the curator to sit down.
“There’s three of them,” Broom said, his voice low.
“And the other buyers?”
“Some junior oil tycoon in Texas who doesn’t know Qin Dynasty from Corningware.”
“Who else?”
“An Oriental restaurant guy down in Florida. I think he’s going to put the solider next to his salad bar.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, I swear.”
“I’ll find out if you’re lying,” Lambert promised. “How much?”
“Seven fifty.”
“Six hundred,” Lambert said. “Three hundred now, the rest on delivery. If it’s damaged when I open the crate, you won’t see another penny—so I suggest you wrap it in heavy quilts and pack it in stryofoam. So … we have a deal?”
“Shit.” Broom grimaced.
Lambert smiled. “Good. Now, when can I expect delivery?”
“A week, maybe more. You’re number three on my list.”
“But why?” Lambert cried.
“Because the others already paid us,” Broom said, rising, “and their checks cleared.”
LAO FU had lived more than eighty years amid the monuments to dead Ming emperors. As a boy, he had witnessed the fall of China’s dynasty. For Lao Fu, the