A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [95]
“That’s very nice. I could use some company, too.” Stratton caught her glance after he said it. “What time?”
“We’ll meet you here at about seven, okay?”
“How about if I meet you at the restaurant? I’m waiting for a telex. Besides, it’ll take me a while to clean up.”
“Fine, we’ll see you there about seven-thirty.” Pam stood up and said brightly. “Maybe the rain’ll stop by then.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Stratton, hating himself.
HE SNUCK INTO the People’s Republic’s only hotel sauna and baked for ninety minutes. The heat was luxurious, soporific; wisps of steam curled off the tiles. The grit and dust of Man-ling washed away. Stratton closed his eyes; as exhausted as he was, he could not even doze. Training—that’s where the feeling came from. Pack your gun and put your conscience in a drawer.
And love? Where do you put that? No training needed. It just happened. It can even happen when you are fighting for your life.
The ache in Stratton’s belly was more than simply hunger.
In the unsprung jeep, they had embraced clumsily, kissing, chattering toward calm after the dispensary confrontation.
“But why, Thom-as? Why? If the young man knew who you were, why did he not say so?”
“I’ll never ask him, but I can guess.”
“Tell me.”
“I’d rather kiss you. I think you are wonderful.”
“No more kisses until you tell me.”
“Let’s say the rag boy—now the young teacher—has given a lot of careful consideration to what happened that night, like I have, and the policeman. I think he came to realize over the years that he was a dead man who had been reprieved by one of the evil invaders he had denounced.”
“So he lied.”
“I think he was trying to apologize.”
“And the fat old policeman. He—”
Stratton stopped her with a kiss.
“Kangmei, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I want to talk about you, and about me. About us. I love you. Please come with me.”
She ran cat’s paw fingertips across his jaw.
“I must try to do what I believe is right, my brave Thom-as. Would you respect me if I did not?”
“Respect! I’m talking about love. I want you with me. I need you.”
“And I you. But I must try. And I must think. Perhaps one day I will see that you are right; that, as you say, harmony between a man and a woman is really what is most important.”
“And then?”
She smiled.
“And then I will confess to you what I feel now, but must resist: that I, too, am empty without you.”
“If that happens, will you tell me, please?”
“Yes, I will tell you. I promise.”
“I will come back to get you.”
“No, Thom-as.”
“Why not, damn it?”
“Because.” She squeezed him tight enough to hurt and bit playfully at his ear. “Because,” she murmured, “I do not wish to witness a war between our two countries.”
The train was waiting. At the station, like a schoolboy fighting a curfew, he had scribbled his address on the back of a yellowed old timetable.
“Write to me, please.”
“I love you, Thom-as.”
A smiling conductor who spoke only with a warning finger at his lips led Stratton to a darkened soft-class compartment and locked the door.
All the way to Canton the rails whispered her name.
STRATTON LAY ASIDE his reverie and the sauna precisely at seven thirty-five. Dressed again in the strange-fitting commune clothes, he took the elevator to the seventh floor and padded the carpeted hallway until he found 718. He knocked sharply. No one answered.
Stratton found one of the floor attendants sorting cakes of soap.
“Excuse me, but I seem to have locked myself out of our suite. Seven-one-eight. The name is Bodine. My wife is down at the hairdresser.”
“I help,” the attendant said. The master key hung from a chain on his cloth belt. The attendant unlocked the door to the darkened suite and Stratton went to work.
He shed his clothes and concealed them beneath a mattress on one of the beds. From Danny Bodine’s closet he selected a navy blue necktie, a pin-striped business shirt and a pair of dark trousers. The clothes fit almost perfectly; Stratton had guessed as much when he had first