"It was a homecoming for Professor Wang, and apparently was a very moving reunion with his brother. In this file I have a note from the deputy minister himself-a rare communication, believe me-and it describes Professor Wang's visit to Xian, and his return to Peking with his brother. That night, unfortunately, he suffered his fatal heart attack."
"The deputy minister was notified before the U.S. Embassy was?"
"He was Professor Wang's brother, after all. And in his position, Wang Bin certainly would be entitled to all the information regarding his brother's death. Once that information was delivered to the deputy minister, we were officially notified. Please don't make more of this than is warranted." Powell sighed. He took off his glasses and put them on the desk. "I was up half the night trying to reach David Wang's relatives back in Ohio."
"There are none," Stratton said emptily.
"So I learned. No wife, no kids, just a roomful of books and paintings."
"And a garden."
Powell glanced at his wristwatch. "I asked you to come this morning because Wang Bin requested it. Apparently the professor told his brother of your friendship and of your mutual interest in Chinese art and culture. For obvious reasons, Wang Bin will not be able to attend his brother's funeral in Pittsville. But he would like someone to accompany the body back to the United States."
Stratton rubbed his temples with both hands.
"In his note here," Powell said, "Wang Bin suggests that you would be the perfect escort. Let me read you this one part: 'It would mean a great honor for the memory of my brother if Mr. Thomas Stratton could accompany David's body to his homeland for burial in the manner so requested by my brother. I realize that this would be an inconvenience and a hardship, but it would advance the friendship between our great peoples. Please convey this humble request to Mr.
Stratton, and please assure him that he will be able to complete his visit to China at any other suitable time, as a welcomed guest.' "The deputy minister wrote that himself, in English," Powell said.
Stratton stood to leave. "Tell the deputy minister I'll be happy to accompany David's casket to the United States."
"Excellent!" Powell was pleased with himself.
Stratton asked about the body.
"It won't be ready for transport for a few days."
"Where is it?" Stratton asked.
"One of the city hospitals. Capital Hospital, I believe."
"You're not sure?"
"I can find out." Powell was defensive again. "I'll leave word at your hotel.
But, as I said, I'm fairly sure it's at Capital. That's where it was sent for the autopsy."
Stratton motioned toward Powell's file. "The autopsy results?"
"Oh no. The stuff on the heart attack I got by phone this morning. Through official channels… Anyway, the body will be taken to the Peking Airport Monday morning."
"Fine," Stratton said. At the door, he turned again to Powell. "I'm curious, though. Is Wang Bin certain that his brother wished to be buried in the United States? Perhaps, after all these years, he wanted to be buried here, in China."
Powell was a little perturbed. "I really couldn't say. I assume his brother would know. And besides, nobody is buried in China anymore. Nearly everyone is cremated. It's a helluva thing, Mr. Stratton, but it's true. Apparently there's no more room for any bodies-especially in Peking."
The important man rode in the back seat of the black limousine. At each side sat a trusted comrade whose function, simply put, was to do as he was told.
"The train is late," said the limousine driver, who wore thick eyeglasses and gripped the wheel tightly with bony hands.
"As long as everything is safe, I don't mind," said the important man.
"I talked to the workers in Xian this morning," volunteered the man at his left side. "They assure me that, as before, the crate was placed in a separate boxcar."
"With a guard?"
"Several guards, Comrade."
The driver steered the limousine along the special lanes used on Peking streets by privileged travelers. The bicyclists gave wide berth to the long black car.
"You have done well."
"Thank you, Comrade."
Then, in a voice so low the driver could not hear, the man said, "Has anyone asked questions?"
"No," replied one of the escorts, whispering. "No one."
"Excellent." The important man gazed out the window of the speeding car and thought how fortunate he was, in these times, to have someone he could trust.
CHAPTER 4
Alice Dempsey knocked on the door at eight sharp the next morning. At eight thirty, she knocked again. Stratton grunted.
"Surely, you're not still in bed!" she said through the door. "We leave for the Great Hall of the People in ten minutes."
Stratton groped for his watch. "I'll catch up," he mumbled.
He dressed and went downstairs to claim a cup of tepid American coffee in the hotel restaurant. Then he set off on foot for the Heping Hotel.
It had occurred to Stratton that David Wang's belongings would have to be gathered for the sad trip home-clothes, cameras, textbooks, souvenirs, and the ever-present journal. Wang was not a mellifluous writer, nor was he poetic, but he wrote down all he saw. His journals were meticulous, sponge-like and even a bit silly; once he had visited Disney World in Florida and returned, sheepishly, with fifty-seven pages of diary. Tom Stratton felt a duty to recover his old friend's things.
Everything about Stratton attracted the eyes of the Chinese-his height, his blond hair, his thick reddish mustache. In Vietnam it had been much the same. He remembered the clutter and chaos of Saigon, the heady taste and thrill of war, the horror, the ultimate revulsion: bitter, black fear. Stratton waded like a bushy mutant among hundreds of Chinese in the broad streets, a pale stalk shooting up from blue fields. He thought back to the flippant, soft-life description of academia he had foisted on Jim McCarthy. A self-justification.
"I am an obscure college professor because that is as far as I could get from guns and killing," Stratton should have said. "I haven't got the balls to do anything else. I lost my pride, and something more, one terrible night a long time ago."
At David Wang's hotel Stratton was greeted by a polite young clerk who spoke poor but passable English.
"I am a friend of the gentleman who got sick here the other night," Stratton began. "I came for his things."
Stratton expected a discussion, but the clerk merely smiled and led him upstairs. The door to David Wang's room was not locked. "No one sleep here for three nights, I think," the clerk said.
The room was small, the walls white and recently repainted. Chinese tourist hotels are not luxurious by European standards, but they are functional. A blue woolen blanket was smoothed across a single bed, and a chest of drawers had been carefully dusted. Two fresh hand towels hung on a hook near a chipped water basin.
The room was ready for a new guest. There was no sign that David Wang had ever slept there.
"Do you remember Professor Wang, the man who stayed here?" Stratton asked the timid clerk. The man nodded vigorously. "I came for his things. Where are they?"
The clerk shook his head.
"His clothes, his books… "
"Men came and took things. Comrades clean the room, that's all."
Stratton checked the closet and found three wire coat hangers on a dowel.
Stratton went through the bureau. In one drawer he found two handkerchiefs and a pair of blue cotton socks. One of the handkerchiefs was monogrammed with the initials D.W.
"The men left with suitcase," the clerk volunteered.
"When?"
"The day after Mr. Wang got sick."
Somebody tapped on the open door.
A small-shouldered American in khaki walking shorts stood in the hallway. He was gray-haired and pink in the face; around his neck hung a pair of small Nikon binoculars.
"Are you a friend of Dr. Wang's?" he asked Stratton. "My name is Saul Weinstock.