A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [98]
“Start with what happened to you at Xian,” he instructed Stratton.
“Forget what happened to me,” Stratton said impatiently. “You need to get to Wang Bin as soon as possible. Call the ministry and leave a message. Tell him I’m alive. Tell him I know about David—”
“What about David?” the station chief asked.
“If you folks have any decent sources at all, you probably know what’s been happening at the Qin tombs in Xian. During the past few months several large artifacts have been stolen.”
“What kind of artifacts?” Linda said.
“Soldiers.”
“The soldiers?”
“The emperor’s death army,” Stratton said. “Didn’t you know?”
The pause on the Peking end gave Stratton his answer.
“How many did you say, Tom?”
“I didn’t say how many. I said several.”
“The ministry mentioned pilfering,” the station chief said. “Pottery, jewelry, trinkets—small stuff. Didn’t say anything about the soldiers. How would you do it, Stratton? And what in the world would you do with them?”
Stratton laughed harshly. “You guys ought to try to get out of Peking once in a while. It’d open your eyes.”
Linda Greer was thinking ahead of her boss. “For money,” she said. “Wang Bin was getting out.”
“Exactly,” Stratton said excitedly. “He’s a smart man, like his brother, and the future was plain: all his old comrades dropping like ducks in a shooting gallery. Wang Bin knew it wouldn’t be long before they took away his limousine and made him the number-three tractor mechanic at some commune in the sticks. That’s a long fall from deputy minister, and Bin didn’t want to take it. Linda, he’s your pet project. It fits, doesn’t it?”
“There were rumors,” she acknowledged, “rumors that he was in trouble.”
“But were there rumors of defection?” the station chief asked.
“I’m not talking about defection,” Stratton snapped. “I’m talking about disappearance. Remember that Wang Bin is a wealthy man from his smuggling enterprise. The clay soldiers are worth … who knows? A fortune, certainly. The best market is the United States, and I’ll bet that’s where the bank accounts are—a fabulous nest egg. But how does Bin get to it? How does such a well-known official escape from China? By boat, or plane … or scaling the fence at Kowloon? No. All too risky. And think of all the noise and hoopla if the spooks this side of the border get hold of him.” Stratton winked amiably at the beet-faced man across the rosewood table.
“No, Wang Bin would want to go quietly. Wouldn’t you, if you had a couple hundred thousand U.S. dollars squirreled away?”
“Getting out would be nearly impossible,” Linda Greed said.
“Suppose he had a passport,” Stratton ventured. “A legitimate U.S. passport—with a photograph that seemed to match.”
“How?” the station chief demanded.
“Oh, God,” Linda sighed. “His own brother.”
“I’ve heard enough,” the station chief said. “Stratton, you’re out of your mind.”
“Tom, go on,” Linda said.
“Check your files. I had Steve Powell try to run down David’s passport a few days after he supposedly died. Oddly enough, no one could find it—but it was Wang Bin who provided the explanation, remember? He said David’s passport was destroyed accidentally at the hospital.”
Linda Greer recalled Powell’s memo about the incident, a two-paragraph brush-off.
Stratton said, “What happened to David’s belongings, the stuff in the vault at the embassy?”
“I assumed it went home with the body,” Linda replied.
“Who picked it up?”
“A driver. From the Ministry of Art and Culture.”
“Don’t you see?” Stratton exclaimed.
“It was simple protocol, Tom. Wang Bin was David’s brother and he wanted to handle things. We could hardly argue, especially after you welched out of the funeral flight. We aren’t in the business of insulting foreign governments.”
“I understand, Linda, but think … think! Instant wardrobe, instant identity, a ticket to the States—it adds up. Picture the deputy minister in David’s eyeglasses—could you tell them apart? Would immigration ever question the passport photo?