A Death in China

CHAPTER 8

Steve Powell offered hot tea all around. Linda Greer shook her head politely.

The station chief said yes to a small cup. The Marine who served them closed the door carefully as he left.

"What do you make of it?" Powell said.

Linda scanned the note once more, then passed it across the table to the station chief. It was the handwriting of a man who was trying hard to be neat, but obviously would have been more comfortable with an academic's scribble:

"Dear Mr. Powell,

"Please Inform Deputy Minister Wang Bin that I have changed my plans and, therefore, will not be able to accompany David's body back to the United States.

I regret the inconvenience this might cause, but such a journey would be too emotional for me at this time. When I return to the United States, I will pay the proper respects to my dear friend at his gravesite in Ohio. In the meantime, I've decided to join my tour group on the trip to Xian this morning. David Wang would understand and I would hope his brother does, too.

"Sincerely, Thomas Stratton."

The station chief tossed the note on the table and shrugged. "Linda?"

"He's bummed out. Just doesn't want to make the long flight with his buddy's corpse," she said. "Can you blame him?"

"That's the way I read it, too," Powell said. His tone suggested that the meeting should be over. The station chief didn't budge.

"Shit, if it's such a big deal, we can send a Marine back with the body, can't we?" Powell asked.

"Finding an escort is not the problem," the station chief said impatiently. "The problem is Stratton. He's not the kind of guy we want running all over China without a tether. He'll get in trouble. He'll get us in trouble."

"He'll be all right," Linda said. She glanced at Powell, who was obviously in some distress.

"I can call him now," the consul offered. "Lay on the guilt. Tell him it will be an international insult if he doesn't go home with the professor's body. He'll understand. He knows the system; I saw his file. He used to be a pro."

"He used to be a killer," the station chief muttered. "Now I wish you hadn't hit on him about Wang Bin."

"It was your goddamn idea," Linda Greer snapped. "I told you he wouldn't go for it. All it did was get his antennae up."

The station chief, a gray-skinned man with baggy eyes and thin dark hair, nodded tiredly. "It was a risk," he conceded. "And I take the responsibility."

Powell was getting frantic. "I don't understand."

"It's not important now," the station chief said. "What is important is that Wang Bin is going to be pissed off at a time when we don't want him pissed. He's going to suggest that Mr. Stratton has offended the People's Republic and is not so welcome here anymore. He's going to want to know more about Mr. Stratton and we cannot afford to let him find out anything. Is that clear, Powell?"

"Man-ling was a long time ago," the consul remarked.

"To the Chinese, it might as well have happened last night," the station chief said sharply. He leaned back, waiting for another remark from the consul.

"Steve, it's a matter of lousy timing, that's all," Linda Greer intervened.

"Stratton could have helped us with Wang Bin, but he didn't want to. Now he's headed off to the countryside, upset about his friend's death, suspicious when there's no reason to be-"

"It was a goddamn heart attack!" Powell said in exasperation. "I told him, death by duck."

"I know," Linda said.

The station chief stood up. "Powell, see if you can smooth Wang Bin's feathers.

Apologize on behalf of the embassy. Tell him Stratton meant no offense. Offer a fucking dress guard of Marine escorts if you have to. And remember, we want the old guy to like us. Just in case.

"Linda, you think your dinner friend will really stick with that tour group?"

"I think so," she answered coldly, trying not to blush. The Company kept track of everything, didn't it?

"Any other reason he'd go to Xian?" the station chief asked.

"History," Linda Greer replied. "That's all."

The Americans piled their luggage on the steps of the Minzu Hotel. Stratton offered polite good-mornings to Alice Dempsey, Walter Thomas, and the other art historians who milled and paced and tested their cameras on passing Chinese.

Naturally the gaggle of brightly dressed foreigners attracted a crowd outside the hotel, and Stratton was mildly embarrassed. He melted back into the lobby to wait for the bus.

"Are you coming to Xian?" It was Miss Sun, the pert, ceaselessly cheerful tour guide.

"Yes, I'm looking forward to it," Stratton replied.

"Yesterday you missed beautiful White Pagoda," Miss Sun said. It was not a reprimand, but there was concern in her voice.

"I'm sorry," Stratton said. "I had a personal matter."

Miss Sun seemed embarrassed. "I did not mean to intrude in your business, Professor Stratton."

"It's quite all right. Your English is coming along very well, Miss Sun. You've been practicing," he said warmly.

The tour guide smiled gratefully.

"Tom's going to be a good boy, aren't you, Professor?" Alice Dempsey had a way of inserting herself into conversations that made Stratton want to punch her. "I promised Miss Sun I'd keep an eye on you at Xian, Tom. If you'd read the tour book, you'd know about the travel restrictions outside of Peking. Can't just go roaming the hills, digging for pottery and chatting with the townsfolk. You'll get us all in hot water."

Stratton scowled. "Don't worry, Alice."

"Mr. Stratton?" A thin man with thick glasses and a fresh-bought Mao cap called out across the lobby. It was a man Stratton knew only as Weatherby, an art history teacher from a small college in San Francisco. Weatherby was delicate, anemic-looking; he approached in tiny, diffident steps.

"Tom Stratton?"

"Yes."

"There are two men out front who say they've come to pick you up," Weatherby reported.

"Here we go again," Alice Dempsey muttered.

"I do not understand," Miss Sun said, her voice rising.

"Me neither," Stratton said. "There must be a mistake."

"They've got a car," Weatherby said dramatically.

Stratton walked out of the lobby and down the steps. A jet-black Red Flag limousine was parked in front of the hotel. Two cadres in starched blue uniforms stood near the front bumper, talking in whispers. At the sight of Stratton, they turned and bowed slightly, from the neck, in unison. When the cadres looked up, they wore official smiles.

"Where is your luggage, Professor?"

"On its way to Xian."

"Oh. Very bad." The taller of the two wore thick eyeglasses set in heavy black frames. His teeth were crooked and yellow.

The other cadre, a plump young man with fat rubbery lips, said, "Mr. Stratton, we came to take you to airport."

"But I'm going to Xian by train. With my group."

The cadres conferred, brisk Mandarin whispers.

"We take you to airport," repeated Crooked Teeth, unsmiling. "Plane leaves for America."

In Chinese, Miss Sun asked, "Where are you?"-the equivalent of an American, "Who do you work for?"

"Ministry of Culture," Fat Lips replied curtly, and then again in English for Tom Stratton's benefit. "Deputy Minister Wang Bin sent us." And then more, to the tour guide, in Mandarin.

"He says you are scheduled to fly back to America with the body of your friend,"

Miss Sun said to Stratton. "I very sorry, Professor. I did not know of this tragedy. I did not know that the deputy minister had made this request of you."

"Miss Sun-" Stratton began.

"Comrade says your plane leaves soon," she said. "I'll get your suitcase from the bus-"

"No!" Stratton said. "Miss Sun, please tell the comrades that I sent a message to Deputy Minister Wang this morning, informing him of my change in plans. The U.S. Embassy was notified at the same time. Everything is fine. I don't wish to leave China today. I wish to stay with the group."

Miss Sun translated. Fat Lips frowned and traded glances with his partner. They replied breathlessly, together: This is a most urgent matter. The deputy minister is anxious. Mr. Stratton is expected at the airport soon; we know nothing of any messages to the embassy. Our task is to take the professor to the plane. There is no other choice.

Miss Sun understood. "Wei," she said neutrally, and walked away.

Stratton saw that the other Americans were filing into the Toyota bus for the ride to the train station. From a window seat in the first row, Alice Dempsey glowered out at him.

"We take you to airport," Crooked Teeth announced with cheerfulnesss. "Come now."

"No," Tom Stratton insisted. The cadres were well trained in the Chinese art of stubbornness. The next stratagem, he knew, would be guilt. Americans were suckers when it came to guilt.

"We must go," Fat Lips said worriedly. "It would be bad not to go, Professor."

"Arrangements are ready for you," the other cadre added. "The deputy minister-"

"It's impossible, comrades. Thanks just the same, but my bus is about to leave."

Stratton turned away and hurried along the sidewalk. The green minibus was idling. The driver tapped on the horn three times.

"Coming!" Stratton shouted, breaking into a trot.

Then he felt an arm on his sleeve. Angrily, he whirled to face Crooked Teeth.

The other cadre jogged a few steps behind, puffing.

"Come now," Crooked Teeth said. This time is was a command, and there was nothing polite about it.

"What is this?" Stratton demanded.

Inside the tour bus, the Americans watched the confrontation with shock.

Stratton towered over the cadres, shouting down into their impassive faces.

"Fuck off!" is what he said.

"My God," sighed Alice Dempsey.

"He's nothing but a troublemaker," mumbled Walter Thomas. "He's going to spoil this for all of us."

"He's a little upset, that's all," Weatherby said. "He's just upset about his friend."

The other Americans craned for a glimpse of their colleague haggling with the government cadres. Miss Sun quickly moved to the front of the bus and whispered to the driver: "Go now."

As the tour departed for the railway station, Alice Dempsey saw Stratton being guided down the sidewalk toward the limousine, a resolute Chinese at each elbow.

"I missed the fucking bus," Stratton was growling. "Get your hands off me, comrades."

"All is arranged," Crooked Teeth said as they walked.

Stratton sneaked a backward glance over his right shoulder as the minibus turned down Dongdan Street and disappeared. Fat Lips slipped away from Stratton's side long enough to open the door to the cavernous Red Flag.

"Okay," said Fat Lips, with a shove.

"No okay," said Stratton, uncorking a nasty left jab that snapped flush in the cadre's face. Fat Lips fell backward like a domino. His head cracked on the rear fender.

Instantly, Stratton stumbled forward, gasping. His right side cramped from a kidney punch; he caught himself with both hands on the Red Flag and spun around.

Crooked Teeth coiled in a crouch, snarling. His cap was on the pavement. Other Chinese pressed in a growing circle, yammering excitedly. The fight did not last long.

Crooked Teeth feinted a punch, then spun forward on one leg, aiming a powerful kick at Stratton's neck. It was a prosaic maneuver, and Stratton deflected it from memory. Deftly, he seized the cadre's ankle in midair, and seemed to hold him there-flustered and grunting-before delivering a decisive punch to the poor man's testicles. Crooked Teeth fell in a blue heap, bug-eyed, semiconscious.

Instinct warned Stratton to run, but he could hardly move. The bystanders formed a wall-hundreds of them, packed shoulder to shoulder in front of the hotel. Soon the police would arrive.

Sideways, Stratton edged through the heaving crowd with deliberate slowness.

Stratton resolved to keep calm, to stop the fear from reaching his eyes, where people could see it. Obviously, the Chinese in the street were confused; some hastily moved out of the tall American's path, while others stood firm, scolding. The worst thing would be to run, Stratton knew, so he held himself to a purposeful walk; a man with someplace to go.

After three blocks, Stratton appropriated an unlocked bicycle and aimed himself on a wobbly course toward Tienanmen Square. He had no map and very little time.

The Square was the heart of Peking, a central magnet, lousy with tourists.

Somebody there surely would be able to tell him the quickest way to the trains.

Inexorably, Stratton was drawn into a broad, slow-moving stream of bicycles. He had hoped that the clanging blue mass would swallow him and offer concealment-but his stature and blond hair betrayed him. Among the Chinese he shone like a beacon.

From somewhere a car honked, and the cycling throng parted grudgingly. Stratton dutifully guided the bike to the right side of the blacktop road. He heard the automobile approach and he slowed, expecting it to pass. Instead it lingered, coasting behind the two-wheeled caravan.

Puzzled, Stratton turned to look. It was the Red Flag limousine, so close he could feel the ripple of heat from its engine. Crooked Teeth was at the wheel, fingers taut on the rim; his battered eyeglasses were propped comically on his nose. He looked like Jerry Lewis.

Next to him sat Fat Lips, gingerly daubing a scarf to a gash on his forehead.

Neither of the cadres showed any anger, only eyes hardened in determination.

Stratton pedaled like a madman. He weaved and darted from street to sidewalk, stiff-arming cyclists who dawdled and elbowing himself a narrow, navigable track through the horde. The tin bells on a hundred sets of handlebars chirped furiously in protest as Stratton plowed through a lush pile of fresh cabbages.

In a racer's crouch, he doubled his speed, his chin to the bar. He gained precious yardage while the Red Flag braked and swerved, dodging Chinese pedestrians who had raced into the street to retrieve mangled vegetables.

Finally, Stratton broke free of the mob and barreled into the cobbled vastness of Tienanmen Square. Behind him the limousine came to a jerky stop on the perimeter road. The cadres got out and stood together, smaller and smaller as Stratton pedaled on.

Then came small voices. Dozens of them crying; "Buzhen! Buzhen!" Stop. And then Stratton remembered: Bicycling is strictly forbidden inside the great square.

Quickly he dismounted. He found himself in a sea of schoolchildren, dressed in blue and white uniforms with brilliant red scarves. They walked in formation, bright-eyed, singing, toward Mao's tomb, stealing secret glances at the tall foreigner with the Chinese bicycle. The youngsters had stopped shouting the moment Stratton dismounted. He smiled apologetically and set a course for the ornate main gate at the far end of the square. Looking back, he no longer could see the limousine. Perhaps his escorts finally had given up.

"You, mister!" A young Chinese waved at Stratton. A plastic badge identified him as a guide from the China International Travel Service.

"Please no ride bicycle in the Square," he said firmly.

"I'm very sorry," Stratton said. "I am late for a train. Can you tell me which way to the railway station?"

The young guide pointed east. "Left at the Tienanmen. About five blocks."

"Thank you."

"Where is your suitcase?" the guide asked.

"At the train. I overslept," Stratton said.

The guide eyed him curiously. "You need a ticket to enter the station."

"It's in my luggage." Stratton waved, moving off. "Thanks again."

"Is that your bicycle?" the guide called.

Stratton waved again and kept walking. His eyes fanned the crowds for a sign of the two cadres. The square was immense. Still, Stratton knew, he could hardly be invisible.

In the center of Tienanmen, at the Monument to the People's Heroes, a class of teenaged boys listened to a political speech. Someone had placed a wreath of red and gold paper flowers at the base of the statue. The speaker paused briefly while Stratton passed, then resumed an ardent, high-pitched denunciation.

Finally, Stratton reached the tree-lined avenue bordering the end of Tienanmen.

It had taken twenty minutes to cross the great square. He mounted the bicycle, praying that the train would be late in departing.

Pedaling quietly, he was absorbed quickly into the flow of traffic. The bright sun gave life to the brown buildings, and the trees shimmered green. Stratton's heart beat cold when the big car roared up behind him. He was incredulous; the resourceful cadres wore their familiar expressions.

Recklessly, Stratton broke from the pack and veered south down a side street.

With the limousine close behind, he raced through the Old Legation Quarter, gracious Colonial-styled embassies long since converted to warehouses, clinics, banks-buildings to serve the workers. And, between them, drab and monotonous apartment buildings, sterile and new, lifeless in the shadow of the Forbidden City.

He tucked the bike down an alley so narrow that his knuckles scraped against the flaking walls. The cadres merely circled the block and waited at the other end.

Crooked Teeth tried to position the limousine to block Stratton's path, but the American managed to skitter by, jumping a curb so violently that the basket snapped off the bicycle and clattered to the pavement.

"Stop!" Fat Lips cried in English.

But Stratton heard a train. He was back in the safety of traffic. Ahead, a busload of tourists turned south. Stratton followed. The railway station was but two blocks away. Another whistle blew.

This time it was the cadres who found a propitious side street. The railway-bound minibus passed, with Stratton not far behind. Crooked Teeth punched the accelerator.

By the time Stratton spotted the long black car, it was too late. The Red Flag clipped the bicycle's rear tire. Stratton spun clockwise. He hit the pavement to the sound of glass tinkling around him. A headlight. Through half-open eyes he watched the twisted bicycle skid away, kicking up sparks as it bounced.

Stratton forced himself to his feet. He had landed brutally hard on his right shoulder. The sleeve was in shreds, and his arm was bloody. His left hand felt for broken bones.

"Now!" said a triumphant voice behind him. "Time for airport."

Stratton lurched into a run.

"No, no!" Fat Lips scuttled back to the limousine. "Stop!" he yelled as Crooked Teeth started the car.

And Stratton did stop-when he got to the bicycle. The chain had been torn from the sprockets and hung from the hub of the rear wheel. He picked it up.

The limousine pursued with a needless screech of the tires.

Stratton stood motionless, his arms at his side. This time the cadres showed no sign of slowing down.

Stratton's left arm shot up and windmilled above his head. The steel bicycle chain hit the Red Flag like a shot, and pebbled the glass in the cadres' faces.

The car weaved erratically through the cyclists, hopped the curb and parked itself violently around the trunk of a Chinese elm. The radiator spit a hot geyser into the branches.

Stratton trudged the last leg to the train station in a stinging fog.

"You're darn lucky the train's late. What happened to your arm? What was all that fuss back at the hotel?"

"Nice to see you, Alice," Stratton muttered.

The group was gathered fitfully outside the entrance. There had been the usual delays. Miss Sun had gone inside to make the necessary inquiries. The Americans were outnumbered by large groups of Chinese travelers who waited patiently with cardboard suitcases. A crate of two hundred live chickens perfumed the air.

It was Weatherby who came up with a first-aid kit. Stratton was grateful for the disinfectant and bandages.

"What happened?" Alice repeated.

"I had a little bike accident."

"You're lucky it's just a scrape," Weatherby said.

"You don't know the half of it," said Stratton.

Miss Sun bounced down the steps. "Okay, we go now," she said brightly.

Then she saw Stratton. "But you went to the airport."

"No. I straightened everything out."

"You come to Xian?"

"Yes," Stratton replied. He knew it wasn't what little Miss Sun had wanted to hear. She had pegged him as a troublemaker back at the hotel. "You have my ticket?"

"Yes, Professor," she said, scanning the promenade for some sign of the diligent cadres.

"Then let's go," Stratton said.

Miss Sun led the way. Once inside the railway station, the art historians filed up a long escalator toward the trains. Stratton made it a point to be first.

The train to Xian was half full. As the Americans walked along the platform toward the soft-class cars, Stratton glanced up at the faces of the Chinese who were already aboard.

An old man with an elegant gray beard, squinting at the tourists. A plump matron with a baby on her shoulder and a toddler in her lap. A dour soldier.

And a stunning young woman with long black hair, tapping gently on the dingy window. Stratton smiled.

Kangmei.

From his private office in the national museum, Deputy Minister Wang Bin could gaze at the Forbidden City, a grand horizon, serrated by the gold-tiled rooftops of a dozen ancient temples.

His thoughts were sour. History taunted him. The architecture was inspired, ripe with passion. The city was full of such masterpieces.

But where did they come from? The ages, Wang Bin reflected sadly. The dynasties.

Where could one find such imagination now? And, worse, how could it nourish?

The thin man in the stuffed chair waited until the deputy minister turned from the window. "I'm deeply sorry we were not successful," he said in Chinese. "The cadres were clumsy, and their actions were dangerous. I would punish them but…

" He clasped his hands together.

"Both dead?" Wang Bin asked.

"One, yes. The other is badly injured."

Wang Bin asked, "Did Stratton leave on the train?"

"Yes," the thin man said. With nervous hands, he lit a cigarette.

"Liao and Deng are on their way to Xian?"

"The plane leaves in an hour," the thin man reported. "Their documents are in order. No questions were raised. Officially, they are joining the inventory team at the tombs."

Wang Bin rigidly walked to the sparse desk and sat down. His voice tightened.

"This is very delicate, you understand, Comrade Xi? Stratton has put us in a fragile posture. He is no ordinary tourist, I assure you."

Xi was soothing. "Deng is a trustworthy man. Have you ever known him to fail? In two days the threat will be gone, I am certain."

"I hope so," Wang Bin said, rising. "Now send in my visitor."

"The embassy has sent Miss Greer. She wants to apologize formally for Mr.

Stratton's inconsiderate change of heart. They have even offered to send an American soldier back with the casket." Xi grinned. "It's ironic, isn't it?"

"A thoughtful gesture," Bin said sarcastically.

The deputy minister was halfway to the door when Xi reminded him: "Comrade, your mourning band. Don't forget."