A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [99]
Yes, perfect, thought Linda Greer, except for one thing. She spoke soothingly. “It’s a good theory, Tom.”
Stratton was in a fury. She was patronizing him.
The station chief said, “I think it’s a crazy goddamn theory and it’s time to cut the shit. Whatever Wang Bin was up to, it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Listen to me,” Stratton insisted. “David Wang is alive! His brother intends to murder him any day, any second.”
“No, Tom,” Linda said, shooting a glance at the station chief. “Maybe the deputy minister was planning something big … but it doesn’t really matter anymore—”
“You keep saying that…”
“—because Wang Bin is dead.”
From Hong Kong came only static. Linda Greer glanced anxiously at her boss. She leaned closer to the phone speaker.
“Tom? Did you hear what I said?”
Stratton battled waves of nausea. His head sagged to the rosewood table; sweat beaded on the back of his neck. He raged silently, the private agony of a terrible failure. Now he knew; it was too late.
“Tom?”
“How?” came a hoarse voice from Hong Kong.
“Drowned,” the station chief reported. “An old fisherman snagged the body in the Ming reservoir. The Public Security Bureau found a capsized rowboat near the shore. We got wind of it yesterday afternoon. Today the government newspapers say it was an accident. We hear differently.”
“Oh.” Head bowed, Stratton mumbled through clenched hands.
“We hear it was a suicide.”
Stratton laughed sadly. “What?”
“Suicide,” the station chief repeated, with emphasis. “Wang Bin was due to appear before the Disciplinary Commission earlier this week. Obviously his number was up, and he knew it. So he cashed all his chips. No fancy stuff—phony passports, secret Swiss accounts, all that Hollywood bullshit—just good old-fashioned Chinese honor. In this country, anything beats total disgrace, and that’s what Wang Bin was facing. So he chose to die an honorable man. That way, at least, all the brass show up at your funeral.”
“Will there be a state service?” Stratton wondered.
“Yeah, and you’re not invited. Party types only, mid-level flag wavers, we’re told. Courtesy, but no fanfare. And, Stratton, no flowers.”
“Have you seen the body?” Stratton demanded.
“The coffin is closed. For God’s sake, he’d been in the water a couple of days. Do I have to spell it out to you, Stratton? The man looked like a bloated carp.”
“Please, that’s enough,” Linda Greer implored. “Tom, are you all right? I know you’ve been through hell—maybe I ought to fly down.”
“No, thanks, I’m fine. If the nice folks here will just get me a new passport, I’ll be on my way.” The beet-faced man at the oblong table nodded helpfully; it would be a relief to book this yo-yo on the next Pan Am. “Phoenix” indeed.
Sitting in Peking with the station chief, talking into a squawk box to an unseen face across the continent, Linda Greer could say none of the things she wanted to say, and none of the things that mattered now. Stratton was safe, somehow returned from the files of the dead, and for that she could be happy. But there was something else, something troubling about his theory …
“It’s over now, Tom,” she said softly. “Whatever happened between your friend and his brother is finished. I’m sorry about everything.”
It was only after Stratton hung up that Linda Greer realized what the loose end was: the soldiers. Stratton had never explained about the clay soldiers. He’d never told her how Deputy Minister Wang Bin had done it.
AS NIGHT SHROUDED Victoria Peak, a galaxy of bare-bulb lights sprinkled the hillsides of Hong Kong. Jim McCarthy sat in the Foreign Correspondents’ Club, sipping gin, imagining a shanty-porch view of the ravenous blast furnace of a city. The poor looking up on the rich; the rich too busy to look down. Once McCarthy had written a feature story about three Hong Kong families who shared a tiny attic in the heart of the city—ten adults, six children, no running water, not even a ceiling fan to stir the air. After he filed the piece, an editor called to ask how many Hong Kong