A Death in China

CHAPTER 15

"Idiots! My orders are to be followed. When I say that a man must be guarded, I speak for the state and for the Party. I must be obeyed. You listen to stupid rumors like old women, and you behave as donkeys. I am still the deputy minister, and I still command here."

Wang Bin burst into the attic cell. In a pregnant moment, much was said between the two brothers, but no words were spoken. David Wang looked up at his brother quizzically.

"It is not what it seems," Wang Bin said finally. "I will explain later… and apologize. Now we must go quickly. Here, put on these, there is a chill."

The deputy minister handed his brother a well-cut gray Mao suit with a mourner's band pinned to the sleeve of the jacket, and a pair of vigorously polished black shoes, one-half size too small.

"Please, hurry, David. We must go."

Befuddled, unspeaking, David Wang dressed and followed his younger brother into the night. Wang Bin walked briskly. He had but thirteen hours left.

"What do you mean you can't drive?"

"I was never permitted to learn… it was not my job," Kangmei stammered. "In this country, we have drivers-"

"Get in," Stratton said.

The truck was a bad Chinese imitation of a bad Russian flatbed, but it was the only vehicle in the museum's parking lot with keys in the ignition. Stratton's original plan had been to hide under some lumber in the truck and let Kangmei navigate the escape, but now he had no choice. Night was on his side, but not much else. Any half-blind idiot would see that the driver of this truck was not Chinese. Stratton turned the key and urged the transmission into first gear. The clutch yelped like a dog on fire.

"This is terrific," Stratton muttered as they trundled down the two-lane blacktop.

Kangmei gave him a puzzled stare. Stratton laughed and reached out for her hand.

"Never mind," he said. "Where to?"

"A very safe place," she answered, "but a long, long way, Thom-as. Eighty kilometers."

Stratton flicked the headlights on and tried to hunch down as low as he would go in the driver's seat. Kangmei found a dirty canvas cap under the seat, dusted it off and stuck it on Stratton's head.

"I'm worried about you," he said after a few minutes. "If we get stopped, I'm running. You tell them I kidnapped you and stole the truck. Tell them you never saw me before. I want you to promise."

"No," Kangmei said quietly. "I will not lie again. My father made me say those things at the struggle session. I am very sorry. He told me you were a spy."

"Did you believe him?"

"No." She looked at him pridefully. "It wouldn't matter if you were."

The sluggish truck picked up speed alarmingly on a long downhill stretch. A quarter-mile ahead, Stratton could make out a group of commune workers, trudging home down the middle of the road. He pressed on the horn and they parted slowly.

Their ox, however, was disinclined to yield the right of way. Stratton honked again and pumped the brakes slowly.

Incredibly, the barn-shouldered animal turned to face the noisy intruder.

"Oh, shit," Stratton said. As the truck bore down on the ox, Stratton leaned hard on the horn. At the last second, he cut the wheel and steered onto the shoulder, around the ox and its peasant entourage. In the rearview mirror, he saw several men shake their fists at the truck. Kangmei trembled next to him.

"Sorry," Stratton said sheepishly. "They acted like they own the road."

"They do," Kangmei said evenly.

The unlit road was newly paved in some sections, pocked and dangerous in others.

The hill countryside was lush with citrus stands, cane fields and banana groves.

Here and there the night was broken by a commune's lights or the pinprick headlights of a distant truck, but mostly Kangmei and Tom Stratton were alone.

Stratton recounted his confrontation with Wang Bin in the museum cell.

"But how could my uncle be alive?" Kangmei asked.

"Because your father is planning something, and he needs his brother-at least for a while," Stratton conjectured. "When he's done, I think Wang Bin will kill David. We don't have much time. Kangmei, it's important that we get out of China so I can contact the State Department. Hong Kong would be the best."

"An overnight train from where we are going," she said. "But you have no papers.

How will you leave China?"

"Can we go tomorrow?"

Kangmei did not answer right away.

"If I return to Peking, your father will have me arrested," Stratton said.

"There is nowhere I can go but out. There's nothing I can do here for David."

"The place I'm taking you is very safe, Thom-as."

"For me, maybe. Think of your uncle. If the U.S. Embassy only knew he was alive.

Kangmei, we could call them in the morning-"

She shook her head glumly. "Where we are going, there are no telephones."

"Do you believe what I'm telling you, that David is alive?"

Kangmei said, "I don't know. It is hard to accept." In the darkness, Stratton could not see the tension on her face, but he could sense it.

The boundaries of the mountain road became indistinct as it snaked through acres of tall pines. When the truck rattled past a plywood sign erected at the foot of a hill, Kangmei sat up and grabbed Stratton's elbow.

"Slow down, Thom-as. The sign says there is a police stop ahead. One half a kilometer."

Stratton quickly downshifted, pulled off the road and dimmed the lights. "We'll never slip through with me at the wheel," he said, turning to Kangmei. "How'd you like a driving lesson?"

Her eyes surveyed the simple dashboard instruments with trepidation. "I don't think so," she said.

"You've got to. Come here, sit closer and I'll show you." Stratton kept his foot on the clutch and ran through the gears one time. "Hell," he said, "my father drove one of these tanks for thirty years. How hard can it be?"

Kangmei practiced with the truck idling.

"That's good," Stratton encouraged. "Remember to watch the speedometer needle.

When it gets to here, shift into second. And here, third. When we get to the checkpoint, press the clutch pedal with your left foot, and put your right foot on the brake. You'll have to use most of your weight because the drums on this truck are nearly shot. The important thing is to slow down smoothly so we don't attract attention."

"There is no one else on the road at this time of night," Kangmei remarked. "The police certainly will ask questions."

"I'll be hiding in the back. There's a bundle of wood and some old vegetable crates back there-"

"Thom-as, I don't have my identification papers. They might arrest me."

Stratton got out of the cab. Kangmei moved into the driver's seat.

"Make up a story," Stratton said, scouting the foggy highway. In both directions it was quiet, deserted. "Tell them you're on the way to get medicine for the commune. The regular driver is sick."

Kangmei's hands explored the steering wheel. "What if they don't believe me?"

"How many policemen will there be?"

"One, perhaps two at the most. It is so late… "

Stratton was thinking. He removed the dusty driver's cap and placed it on Kangmei's head. Gently he tucked her silken pigtails underneath it. "There! You look like a teenaged boy."

She glanced down at her chest.

"Well, almost," Stratton said. He climbed into the flatbed and concealed himself in the rummage and lumber. "Okay," he called from the back. "Let's go."

The truck lunged forward, then coughed into a stall. Kangmei tried again with the same results. The third time the clutch engaged perfectly and the truck found the pavement. Stratton smiled to himself.

Kangmei drove slowly, eternally grateful that the stretch of road was straight so she could devote all concentration to mastering the transmission.

As the truck crested a small hill, Kangmei noticed a swatch of yellow light below. Half in panic, she mashed both feet on the clutch and let the truck coast. Gradually the details of the small police station became clear: a white booth, with a Chinese flag posted on the tin roof. Three bulbs hung from a slender wire; one lit the building and the other two a zebra-striped gate that blocked the road. Inside the booth stood a man in a blue-and-white uniform. He seemed not to notice how the truck stuttered downhill, Kangmei fighting for the brakes.

She brought it to a stop with a brief screech of the tires. The policeman, who had been dozing on his feet, glanced up sharply and peered out the window of the booth.

As he approached, Kangmei shook her hair out from under the cap.

"Ni nar?" the policeman demanded-the universal inquiry of Marxist China.

Kangmei gave the name of a commune not far from her own birthplace. She told the policeman she was a barefoot doctor there.

"Are you a driver too?" The policeman eyed her. He did not have a flashlight so he stood very close, sticking his head through the window of the cab. In the flatbed, Tom Stratton held his breath.

"No, Comrade, I am not a driver. This truck is assigned to the commune." Kangmei made up a common name. "Children are sick, and so is the regular driver," she went on. "We have run out of medicine and I am going to get some more at the clinic in Chungzho." She fumbled in her blues for an imaginary piece of paper.

The policeman shrugged and waved her on.

"Xie xie, ni," Kangmei called in the earnest tones of a heroic worker. She pressed the accelerator, lifted her foot off the clutch-and promptly stalled the truck. Heart pounding, she wrestled with the stick shift. First gear. She could not find first gear. Again she tried to move the truck and again the engine died. Don't flood it, Stratton prayed from beneath the lumber and crates.

The policeman laughed and ambled back to the truck. "I hope you are a better doctor than you are a driver," he said. "Let me try."

"No, Comrade, I can do this," Kangmei said defiantly. "I must do this myself-for my commune." She turned the key, and from under the hood came a dying whine.

"Too much fuel in the carburetor," the policeman diagnosed. "Wait a few minutes and it will be fine." He opened the door to the cab. "Would you care to come in for a drink of tea?"

Kangmei reached for the door and slammed it. "No," she said sternly. "I must hurry, Comrade. I told you, the children are very sick."

Stratton had no idea what was being said. The slamming of the truck door alarmed him. Through the slats of the crate above his head, Stratton could see nothing but stars and wispy clouds. Gradually he levered himself up, turning his head slightly to gain a view of Kangmei. Suddenly the woodpile shifted and one of the vegetable crates fell, banging on the steel flatbed.

The policeman jumped at the noise. "What!" he said. "What was that?" He walked to the back of the truck and peered into the rubble of cargo. "Are you alone, driver?"

Kangmei twisted the key and jerked on the stick shift with all her strength.

This time the engine responded, and the truck surged forward.

"There, I did it!" she exclaimed.

The flustered policeman dashed ahead of the truck to lift the zebra-striped gate before it could be demolished.

"Xie xie, ni," Kangmei sang out as she drove past.

Stratton waited several miles before sitting up in the flatbed. Then he tapped on the rear window of the cab and signalled for Kangmei to pull over. She surrendered the driver's seat with a sigh of relief.

"Your father must be a very skilled man, to drive a truck like this," she said.

"I am sure it is a most important job."

"Well, it doesn't exactly put you at the top of the social ladder in America,"

Stratton said. "I'm not sure what you told that cop, but you must be a wonderful actress. And your driving isn't bad for a beginnner. My old man would approve."

Kangmei shyly turned away. Stratton tenderly stroked the back of her neck; her skin was warm velvet.

"Are there more road checks?"

"I don't think so," she replied distractedly. "None that I remember."

"Are you tired?"

"Just a little, Thom-as. You are the one who needs to sleep."

Stratton cruised slowly through the hillsides until he found what he was looking for. He drove the truck off the asphalt and steered it down a washboard track until it was out of sight from the road. He parked and turned off the lights.

Tall trees swallowed them into shadows.

"We can nap here for an hour, but no more. We must not be on the road after the sun comes up."

"Yes, we must finish the journey tonight." Kangmei took Stratton's hand and led him through the trees until they found a clearing. They lay down together on a natural mat of pine needles, ivy and crisp cedar leaves. Stratton closed his eyes; his mind fell, spinning through the clouds toward sleep. He barely felt Kangmei's hands, gently pulling his shirt off. He heard her soft footsteps fade into the forest.

He quivered out of sleep when the cold water drenched his thigh.

"Ssshh. Lie still, Thom-as." She sponged his face with a rag and kissed him on the forehead.

"There is a brook nearby, with clean water." Kangmei washed the bullet wound in Stratton's leg. She had pulled his trousers off. In the grayness of deep night, he lay pale and limp.

"We will see a doctor tomorrow," she whispered. "He will treat the leg properly."

Stratton smiled and reached up to capture her hand. Tenderly he kissed it. She looked down at him for a long moment, a young woman of timeless wisdom.

"Yes," Stratton said at last. "Please."

In silence, Kangmei stripped. Suddenly she was astride him, a velvet presence.

She moved gently at first, back and forth, until she found his lips, and then his neck. Stratton closed his eyes and held her fiercely as she sank down on him again and again.

Later, when they were in the truck again, Kangmei revealed her secret. It was as if she had saved it for Stratton, saved it for the end.

"After they dragged me from your room in Xian, I was delivered to the police," she began. "They were told I had been caught pilfering at a market. I was thrown into a cell with three other women. Each had been accused of stealing items from the Qin burial vaults. They were not mere peasants, but trusted workers on the site. Petty thieves, my father called them. Their arrests were part of a new campaign-banners, leaflets, announcements on the loudspeakers-all arranged by my father to show the ministry that he was cracking down against pilfering. It was a charade, Thom-as."

"But I saw a big article in the People's Daily," Stratton broke in.

Kangmei said, "Certainly there is a problem with stealing, but only a minor problem. The artifacts are worth a fortune by Chinese standards. One of the women in my cell admitted that she had stolen a bridle from one of the bronze horses. The bridle was made only of stone beads, not gold or silver. Still, she was able to sell it to a street peddler for a hundred yuan. The peddler probably sold it to a tourist for three or four times as much. Such things do happen."

"In our country, too."

"But, Thom-as, something bigger is happening at Xian. If these prisoners were telling the truth, then I know why Uncle David quarreled with my father. I know what he had found out. During the past several months, the Qin site has suffered three major thefts-the crimes are so enormous that they would create a terrible scandal in Peking. There would be a large investigation by the Ke Ge Bo. People would go to jail, or worse."

"What was stolen, Kangmei?"

"Soldiers. Three soldiers, Thom-as, on three different occasions. A spear carrier, an archer and a charioteer. They are among the most priceless treasures in Chinese history, buried with the Emperor Qin-and now missing."

"My God." Stratton's mind juggled the pieces of the puzzle. "David found out!"

"I think so," Kangmei said sadly. "That is why I do not think he is still alive, Thom-as, no matter what my father told you."

"No, don't you see? Wang Bin needs David more than ever now. He needs him to get out. It's only a matter of time before Peking discovers this theft, and your father knows this. There is nothing left for him to do but run."

Stratton coaxed more speed from the recalcitrant truck. Once Wang Bin learned that Stratton had escaped, he would act quickly. Quickly enough, and there was a good chance he would never be caught.

"Kangmei, what could your father have done with the clay soldiers?"

"You assume that it was he who stole them."

"I am certain," Stratton said.

Kangmei swallowed to keep back the tears. "The women prisoners said the same thing. The rumor is that he smuggled them out of the country. To America."

"How?"

"I do not know," she said wearily. "Something so large and so delicate as a statue-it would be very difficult, Thom-as, even for Wang Bin. Every box or parcel destined for your country would be subject to automatic inspection, especially if it came from a government office. The Party has been watching my father closely. Some of the old men do not approve of the way he has handled the Qin project. I'm sure they are jealous of the publicity."

"Wang Bin would never ship the artifacts directly to the United States,"

Stratton agreed. "The risk would be too great. Boxes like that would never clear U.S. Customs without a search." Then it struck him. "Unless… "

"What?" Kangmei asked.

"Oh, God." Stratton could not bring himself to say it aloud, a theory so horrible with black irony, so devious that it could be the only explanation of how a Chinese deputy minister could actually steal the storied Celestial Army, one soldier at a time.