A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [97]
“Sir?”
“The head spook, Sergeant. It’s an emergency.”
“Wait here, please, sir.”
Stratton sat down in a waiting room, paneled with fine honey-colored wood. The sound of typing chattered from behind a closed door. Stratton’s shirt clung to his back, and the cool breath of the air conditioner brought goose bumps. With one foot Stratton slid the suitcase across the waxed floor into an empty corner.
“Sir!” the Marine was back. “Mr. Darymple.”
Mr. Darymple was a young man with perfectly sculpted black hair that looked to Stratton like it had been parted with a laser beam. Stratton pegged him as an idle subordinate.
Darymple held out a slender hand and introduced himself as the assistant administrative officer.
Stratton said, “I need to see the CIA station chief.”
“I’m not really sure whom you mean.” Darymple smiled officiously. “Perhaps I could help.”
“Very doubtful,” Stratton said. “I’ve just spent the last week or so getting the shit kicked out of me in China.”
Darymple expressed concern. “You’d like to report an incident?”
Stratton sighed. “An incident, yes. Go get your boss and I’ll tell him about it.”
“Could I have your name?”
“Stratton, Thomas. Tell him I was classified Phoenix.”
Darymple stiffened. “Here?”
“No, Saigon. 1971. Go ahead and check, but hurry. Then go tell your boss I need a line out, right away.”
Darymple said. “He’ll want to see your passport.”
“It was taken from me in Xian.”
“Then how did you … excuse me, Mr. Stratton.” Darymple walked out of the office in long, hurried strides.
The trick was to give them enough to chew on so that they would help, but not too much. Stratton knew what it meant to get the agency involved; he also remembered the not-so-friendly competition between stations. The boys in Hong Kong would want to claim him as their own. Peking could tag along for the ride, of course. Hong Kong probably would want to make an actual case for the whole thing. This, Stratton knew, he could not afford, nor could David Wang. There was no time for tedious little filemakers like Mr. Darymple.
When Darymple returned, he was accompanied by a beet-faced man in his early forties. “This is our chief political officer.”
“Whatever you say.”
The beet-faced man turned to Darymple and said, “That’ll be all, Clay.”
When they were alone, the CIA man said, “Tell me what’s going on.”
“I need to speak with your counterparts in Peking,” Stratton said. “An American citizen is about to be murdered.”
LINDA GREER WAS clipping an article about rice production from the People’s Daily when the buzzer went off. She snatched a notebook from the top of her desk and hurried to the station chief’s private office. He was on the phone. He motioned her to a chair.
“She’s here now,” the station chief was saying. “I’m going to put you on the speaker box.”
“Linda?” Stratton’s voice cracked and fuzzed on the Hong Kong line. “Linda, can you hear me?”
“Tom!” She could not mask her elation or astonishment. When Stratton had vanished without explanation, Linda was certain he had been killed. She had blamed herself; after all, Wang Bin had been her target. The station chief had sent a curt note: No record to be kept of your contact with Stratton.
Yes, Linda had agreed, no record. But now Stratton had surfaced, and for the moment she didn’t give a damn bout her precious case file or all the cables to Langley.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Torn and frayed,” he said. “Nothing serious.”
“We had people out looking,” Linda Greer said. The station chief shook his head disapprovingly. The message was: Don’t say too much.
“Well, I appreciate the concern,” Stratton said drily, “but I imagine the trail got pretty cold at Xian. You’ve probably figured out this wasn’t a government operation.”
“What do you mean?” asked the station chief.
“It was Wang Bin’s personal project. No army, no Ke Ge Bo, just his own private goons. He did it that way for good reason, the same reason he wanted me out of the picture.”
“Tom, haven’t you heard—”
“Let him finish!” the station chief barked.