"You are most fortunate, Tang, most of the wounds are superficial," he said, "particularly the ones in the cephalic region. There are abrasions extending from the left auricular region down, across the parotid-masseteric area, and forward into the oral region. There are also some minor contusions in the parietal locality where the hair has been abraded." He paused for a moment, then added, "And there is a slight tear in the left lateral canthus where the folds of the eye meet. Fortunately, all will heal in good time."
Impatient, Tang Ro Ji glanced at his watch and wondered if the schedule was still intact.
"You will hurry?" he urged. "My only concern is, are any of Comrade Schubatis's injuries serious? Any fool can see that he has a few minor scrapes and scratches. That is to be expected. My concern is that there may be damage to the respiratory system caused by the cyanide."
Lo Chi Lyn studied the foreboding-looking young man with the long black hair and deep, brooding brown-black eyes. He wondered where Colonel Quan found men like Tang. Tang Ro Ji certainly did not look like the young men he had seen in the square in Beijing. "If that is your concern, I can assure you I see no evidence of damage to the larnyx, the trachea, the bronchi, or the lungs. I have examined him closely."
Tang Ro Ji did not look relieved. He continued to glower.
"You are uneasy because you were not instructed to use the cyanide mixture. Correct?"
"Be quiet, old man. It is not your concern. I receive my instructions from Colonel Quan. I was told to intercept the Russian and see that he was safely in our custody. Beyond the matter of his health, he is not your affair."
Lo Chi Lyn stepped back from the examining table and lit another cigarette. For a fleeting moment his features were shrouded in a bluegray haze. The smoke was the same color as the rare and infrequent strands of hair that still graced his aging scalp. Looking at him, Tang Ro Ji decided, as he had many times before, that he did not like old people.
Despite Tang's obvious hostility, Lo continued to assess the condition of the man who had been brought to him. He used a knife to split the seam of the man's pant leg and examined the discolored eruption in the skin. "There appears to be a compound fracture where the head of the femur connects with the coxal bone, although without further probing I cannot determine whether or not it involves a separation of the head of the femur from the greater trochanter."
The young woman continued recording Lo's observations in Chinese characters, and as the time passed, Ro Ji became more and more agitated. "What is she writing?" he demanded.
"She is simply making note of my assessment of our Russian friend's condition. That is all. The doctors in Danjia will want to know."
Tang Ro Ji snatched the tablet away from the nurse and studied the string of columnar symbols. He generally disliked reading. Ro Ji would never have revealed as much, but as an orphan growing up on the streets of Haikou, he had managed to avoid school. He was self-taught, and his whole orientation toward the land of his birth came from the fevered writings of Quan Jo Shu, the Eminent and Revered, not to mention the money he was paid by His Eminence's grandson, Colonel Quan… money he was paid to be a mercenary for the Fifth Academy.
Tang Ro Ji handed the tablet back to the girl. "Hurry up," he ordered.
Lo Chi Lyn pulled a sheet over Schubatis and looked at Tang again. "I have neither the tools nor the strength to repair the Russian's leg," he said. "But I can tell you that he must be kept immobile to avoid any further damage to his leg and hip. When the sedative I have given him starts to wear off, he will be in a great deal of pain. Which, of course, raises other questions. How do you propose to get him to Danjia in this condition?"
"You will sedate him to the point that he feels nothing," Tang insisted, "and it must be strong enough to get him out of the country and into Hong Kong."
"If you are still planning on shipping him back to Hong Kong as the deceased member of an influential family, there is the matter of making certain the proper paperwork is completed and the coffin is appropriately decorated and prepared."
"I do not anticipate any difficulties getting him past the American authorities. They are lax" Tang Ro Ji smirked" and we have… how shall I phrase it, certain advantages when we arrive in Hong Kong."
Lo Chi Lyn knew that Tang simply meant that some custom officials in Hong Kong would, for the right price, avoid asking, or in the case of Schubatis, avoid looking too far into the matter.
Lo, although he did not show it, was equally concerned about the time. He glanced at the clock and stepped away from the table. ''I am finished," he said. Then he urged Tang Ro Ji to make his preparations.
While Lattimere Spitz waited for the phone call, he laid the three photographs side by side. He agreed with Packer: The first appeared to have been lifted or copied from Schubatis's Party card. The second was the one taken at the official Party function. The third, taken by the hospital, showed the difference. "It shouldn't take long for Palmer to check it out," he said.
Before either Packer or Bogner could reply, the phone rang and Spitz snapped it up. "What did you find out?" he asked. As he did, he switched on the speakerphone.
Thomas Palmer was new to the department. Packer had dispatched him to the hospital morgue as soon as Bogner had raised the question.
"The hair is definitely parted on the right side," he began.
Spitz looked at the first photo and nodded to Bogner. "You were right about the hair, Toby." Then he turned back to the telephone. "What about the rest of it?"
"They measured him. The Schubatis we've got down here is a good three inches taller. And this is the clincher: The coroner says there is evidence of some pretty sloppy skin grafting around the hairline and the back of the scalp. He said it looks like it was a hurry-up job and that it was done fairly recently. The skin grafts aren't holding."
"What about the facial features?" Spitz pressed.
"Like Bogner said, there isn't much to go on."
"Did you check personal effects?"
"The passport photo is of the guy we've got down here," Palmer said. "They were careful about some things, careless about others."
Packer leaned forward with his hands on the desk. "The question, then, is which one is which? Did Aprihinen send us a bogus Schubatis because he was afraid to let the real one attend the conference?"
Palmer hesitated. "Miller gave me copies of everything in the dossier before I came down here, and about the only thing I can say with any degree of certainty is that it's two different people. The one thing that doesn't add up is the comment one of the surgeons made when I started asking questions. He said that he was surprised at the level of rigor mortis considering the time of death."
"Meaning?" Spitz said.
"Actually, nothing conclusive. From what the doctor tells me, it varies from individual to individual. But the Schubatis we've got down here was already showing surprising signs of muscle stiffening. To me that supports the switch theory."
Spitz made several more inquiries about passports, personal effects, and papers, ending by instructing Palmer to grab everything he could. Then he hung up and made a second call. Within minutes, a White House staffer had arrived with a stack of folders. Spitz took them from the man and closed the door.
"Better get comfortable, gentlemen; it's going to be a long night," he said with a sigh.
Gurin Posmanovich was a recent graduate of American Institute, and the only son of parents who had fled from Kiev when they were mere youths. A student of social structure, and particularly communism, he thumbed idly through the final pages of a laborious dissertation on collectives during the Stalin years, and wished he had something better to read.