A Death in China Page 4

  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.

  I was here Tuesday night when he got sick after dinner."

  Stratton stood up from the bed and introduced himself. "You were in the restaurant?"

  "No, but I was in our room downstairs when I heard the commotion. A cleaning boy found Dr. Wang and shouted for help. That's when I ran upstairs. I'm a retired physician. Had a general practice in Queens for thirty-one years. My wife and I are on a world tour. We met Dr. Wang on a walk through one of the municipal parks."

  Weinstock told Stratton that he had seen David Wang late Tuesday afternoon, shortly after his return from Xian.

  "He was tired, but he seemed in good health. We asked him to join us for dinner because we wanted to hear all about the reunion with his brother, but he declined. He promised to join us for breakfast on Wednesday morning."

  The clerk excused himself. Stratton closed the door and motioned Weinstock to sit on the bed.

  "Was David still alive when you got here?"

  "I'm not sure, Mr. Stratton. Let me tell you what happened, because it's been bothering me a great deal. After I heard the room boy shouting, I ran up the stairs. As you can see, I'm not a young man. But still, it couldn't have been more than two minutes.

  "Yet already there were two men in the room. They identified themselves as medics-at least that's what they told the hotel manager. I told them I was an American doctor, and I showed them my medical bag. But it was no use, Mr.

  Stratton, because they wouldn't let me in. One of the men stood there, at the door, blocking the way. The other was here at the bed, leaning over Dr. Wang.

  Now I saw some movement in the professor's legs, and I'm almost positive I heard him say something in Chinese."

  Stratton asked, "Was he in pain?"

  "Yes, it sounded that way. I begged to go in and help, but the hotel manager insisted that I go back to my room. The medics said everything was under control. After a few minutes, they came out with Dr. Wang on a stretcher. A blanket was pulled up to his neck. His eyeglasses were sort of propped on his forehead, and his eyes were closed. I think he was still breathing, but I couldn't be sure. His color was very poor. His face was gray. I followed the medics downstairs to the car," Weinstock said.

  "They had a car?" Stratton was surprised. Three-wheeled bicycles customarily served as delivery wagons and ambulances in the city.

  "Not just a car," Weinstock added, "a limousine. They put the litter in the back and roared off. And that was something else that bothered me. There's a clinic just three blocks down the street, near the Dong Dan market. It's a very modern facility by Chinese standards; it was included on our tour. I saw the cardiac unit myself-not great, but adequate for a heart attack. Yet the medics drove right past it, never even slowed down."

  "Maybe it was closed for the evening."

  "I don't think so, Mr. Stratton."

  "Strange, isn't it?" Stratton mused. "Do you know who David had dinner with?"

  "It was a small banquet in a corner of the dining room; all the people were Chinese."

  Together they walked down the stairs. The whole hotel smelled of turpentine and cheap new paint. On the second floor, Weinstock paused on the stairwell, as if making up his mind. "Mr. Stratton," he said. "I've got something in my room that you should see."

  Gerda Weinstock was caking her cheeks with makeup when the two men walked in; she let out a tiny shriek and fled into the bathroom.

  "She hates for anybody to see her until she gets her face on," Weinstock whispered. With bony knees rubbing on the wooden floor, he hunted under the bed.

  When Weinstock got to his feet, he was holding a black medical bag.

  "Once a doctor, always a doctor," Stratton said.

  Weinstock shook his head soberly. "No, this isn't mine. This is what the medics left behind in Dr. Wang's room. This is what I wanted to show you. I found it on the floor, near the bed. I opened it because I was curious. Professional curiosity."

  Inside, lying in a shining heap, were dozens of identical gadgets: a small tool, perhaps three inches long, with a small arm that swung out on a tiny hinge and flipped over to form a lever for the thumb. Pressing the lever made the sharp U-shaped jaws of the tool open and close silently.

  "Do you know what these are?" Weinstock asked incredulously.

  "Fingernail clippers," Stratton muttered.

  "Fifty-four sets," the American doctor reported. "Made in China."

  "I'll be damned," Stratton said.

  "Some medics," said Saul Weinstock. "Some goddamned medics, huh?"

  Stratton asked to keep the medical bag.

  "Sure, just don't tell them where you got it. Please," Weinstock implored. "My wife and I don't want to get kicked out of China before we get to see Tibet."

  "You're damn right!" came a voice from the bathroom.

  Steve Powell lifted the doctor's bag from his tidy government-issue desk and shook it. The nail clippers clattered metallically inside. "You've got to admit it sounds authentic," he said to Stratton. Then, with a dry laugh: "Welcome to China, my friend."

  Stratton ignored the consul's invitation to sit down. "I don't think this is funny," he said.

  "Understand something, Mr. Stratton. These 'medics' who attended to your friend at the hotel-of course they weren't real medics. Forget the bullshit you've heard about the phenomenal modernization of Chinese medicine. It's still backward as hell. And try to find a fucking veterinarian in this town! The embassy wives have to send their precious French poodles to Hong Kong for a lousy distemper shot.

  "These guys who took Wang to the hospital were, at the very most, first-year students. They could have been janitors just as easily. The doctor bag is a prop, as you no doubt figured out. They were lackeys. Their only job was to get the patient to a hospital."

  Stratton asked about the clinic three blocks from the hotel. "It's supposed to be very good," he said.

  "Maybe it is," Powell said, "but David Wang was the VIP brother of a deputy minister. The Chinese knew who he was, where he was and what he was doing. When he got sick, they took him to Capital Hospital, one of the most advanced hospitals in Peking, whatever 'advanced' means here."

  Stratton sat down. "Yesterday you we
ren't so sure."

  "Since then I've received a full report from Wang Bin's office."

  As proof, Powell displayed a file folder. "You're probably wondering what happened to Professor Wang's personal effects." Powell rose. "Come with me.

  We'll do our own inventory."

  The two men walked to a cordoned-off area of the embassy building. Powell flashed a plastic identification card at a Marine guard, who opened a gate to a stale vault. The consul used a tiny key to spring a metal drawer on a bottom row of locked cabinets. He removed three paper bags. Each had been marked in black ink: "D. Wang, Pittsville, Ohio."

  "The Chinese authorities collected these from Professor Wang's room. They may have overlooked a couple of things, but I think you'll find most of Dr. Wang's valuables are intact."

  Stratton dumped the contents on a small table in a dimly lit corner of the vault: underwear, shirts, pants, a white sun visor, an extra pair of eyeglasss, a Nikon 35-mm camera, a bottle of Excedrin, three tombstone etchings on rice paper, four books about China and Chinese dialects, three rolls of unused film and a shaving kit.

  "Wasn't there a suitcase?"

  "I suppose it was just too large for the drawer," Powell said. "Does everything else seem in order?"

  "No," said Stratton. "Where is David's journal? He always wrote in a thick diary with a leather binding."

  "His brother has it. Wang Bin asked us for permission to read through David's writings. We saw no reason to object. He has promised to return the journal before the body is sent to the States."

  Stratton said, "And David's passport?"

  Powell adjusted his glasses and pawed through the items on the table. The Marine stood stiffly at the door of the vault, his back toward the two men.

  "It's not here?" Powell asked lamely.

  "No." Stratton watched the consul's composure drain. The cool eyes fluttered.

  "It must be here," Powell said. "Something so important."

  "What are the regulations in a case like this?"

  "Our regulations, or theirs?" Powell grumbled as he fished in the empty pockets of David Wang's neatly folded trousers. "Jesus, this is unbelievable. Just what I need. You say you went through the room as well?"

  "Nothing much," Stratton said. "Socks, handkerchiefs. What happens if you can't find the passport?"

  Powell had given up. He stuffed the sad remnants of David Wang's life into the paper bags. "Well, if we can't find it, then I have to write a report. That's about it. I'll have a few forms to fill out." He eyed Stratton with annoyance.

  "What should happen? I mean, Christ, the man's dead, isn't he? He doesn't need a passport anymore. A corpse travels on a bill of lading."

  Back at the consul's office, Stratton waited while Powell checked another office for David Wang's passport. Stratton sat in a chair directly across from Powell's empty desk; there was a different file on top now. It was light blue. Stratton could see his own name on the tab. Instantly, he reached for it.

  "Sir?" A woman's voice, behind him. "Sir, please don't. That's confidential, for Mr. Powell only."

  Stratton faced a young woman who had emerged from an adjoining office. She had long auburn hair and brown eyes, and wore a dark blue dress with a round white collar. "You don't have to sneak a peek," she teased. "You know what's in there.

  Want some coffee?"

  "Please." When she came back-"Watch it now, the cup's very hot"-Stratton asked,

  "Where did that file come from?"

  "Washington. By telex. It's routine. It would please both governments to know that the person we're sending home with Dr. Wang's remains is not a smuggler or a thief or a fugitive of some sort. It's just a routine check."

  "That's a pretty thick file," Stratton noted, "for routine." The coffee was much too hot to drink, but it smelled glorious.

  "You're a war hero," she said. "The Pentagon writes books on its war heroes. In your case, they were happy to pass it along. Proud even. Langley, too."

  "Step right up and read all about it. Hurry, hurry."

  "Sometimes Steve prefers a little synopsis," she said, ignoring the sarcasm. "It saves time if I'm familiar with the material. Don't worry, I've got clearance on stuff like this."

  "You know my name, what's yours?" Stratton asked.

  "Linda," she answered. "Linda Greer. I'm vice-consul."

  Linda Greer. He looked at her for a moment and wondered. This hardly seemed the time, but… the only women he had talked with for days had been Alice and her gaggle, and little Miss Sun. Right now, he certainly could use some company.

  "Would you like to have dinner sometime?" he tried.

  "No, thank you, Mr. Stratton."

  "A movie?"

  "The embassy movie doesn't change for another two weeks, and I've already seen it four times. Besides, you're leaving for the States on Monday morning."

  Stratton sat back in the chair and tested the coffee again. Well, it was what he'd deserved. Linda disappeared. Powell walked in and crisply stationed himself at the desk.

  "I'll be looking into the passport matter. I hope to have some sort of explanation by the time you leave."

  "Monday morning," Stratton said.

  "Linda told you. Well, good. Did she tell you the itinerary? It's Hong Kong, San Francisco, Cleveland. The body stays on the plane in Hong Kong, but you'll have a customs layover in California. We're trying to get a diplomatic waiver from Washington on that now."

  Stratton did not react outwardly. Powell shifted.

  "Do you have a suit and tie?" the consul asked.

  Puzzled, Stratton said: "I have a tie and a blazer. I suppose it's good enough for Pan Am."

  "And for the deputy minister as well," Powell said. "He'd like to see you tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock. Any taxi at the hotel will take you. Here's the address."

  Powell walked Stratton to the door. Stratton got the impression that this was a vital part of his job, walking tourists to the door.

  "Linda says you were at Man-ling."

  "Yes," Stratton replied.

  Powell asked, "Was it as bad as they say?"

  "Worse," Stratton said as he walked out. "I'm sure it's all in the file."

  CHAPTER 5

  In the hotel courtyard, amid gleaming rows of Chinese-made automobiles that looked like boxy stegosaur-uses, off-duty waiters played uproarious catch with a red Frisbee. Stratton sat on the stone front steps, elbows on his knees, palms supporting his face, a brown study. He watched without seeing. David Wang was dead and he did not know how to mourn him. Wang had come late to Stratton's life, and yet for a time Stratton had felt closer to him than he had ever felt to his own father. Stratton had the feeling, without really knowing, that he had been but one of a number of private reclamation projects Wang must have quietly undertaken over the years at St. Edward's. In Stratton's case, it had worked.

  Wang had molded a scarred young officer-no, that was a euphemism; a cynical young killer-into the shape of a civilized man who could honestly savor poetry and the whisper of breeze on a pine branch. Who could sleep deeply and rise remorseless, without scrabbling for a cigarette and a gun. Who could even, more than a decade later, return to China, feeling legitimate, almost comfortable, as a genuine if unheralded and rough-hewn college professor.

  But Wang had worked too well, had he not? Stratton had slipped away from him, further every year. Two disparate clouds that had met improbably, intermingled and then sailed away to different horizons. Had he been back home teaching, word of David Wang's death might have provoked a few minutes of sharp but distanced regret, then hurried cancellation of classes and a trip to the funeral, complete, surely, with the trappings of a Catholicism that Wang knew and loved as much as the priests who would recite the final incantation. Here it was different. Was it cruel for Wang to have died in his native China? Or was it poetic? Regardless, Stratton felt grievously hurt by his death and fiercely protective of the body that lay somewhere in Peking, being prepared for a journey home. How banal, yet how true.
In their last gossamer encounter, David had seemed so well…

  An insistent horn snapped the reverie. Stratton levered up off the steps and strode into the parking lot. The passenger door of a tan Toyota opened invitingly. As he slid in, his gloom began to lift.

  "I'm glad you changed your mind," he said.

  Linda Greer smiled. She had changed into a beige shirtwaist dress, a fetching advertisement for her long, bronzed legs that scissored with a rustle of unseen silk as she expertly maneuvered the car into bike-laden streets.

  "Usually when I say 'no,' it's because I mean 'no.' When I say 'no' and mean 'yes,' I am not above confessing my mistake. One look at your face in there, and I could tell you needed someone to talk to. And I am sorry about your friend."

  He gave her a curious look, then settled back against the seat. She swung the car quickly around a yellow-and-red bus bursting with empty-faced workers on their way home, then pulled sharply behind a three-wheel motorbike spewing a noxious trail of black smoke.

  "Ugh," Linda said. "And the Chinese wonder why the air is so bad."

  They drove past the majestic Qianmen, once the front gate of a walled Peking.

  Linda turned to enter the gigantic square named after the gate. Stratton's guidebook said it was ninety-eight acres.

  "Postcards hardly do the place justice," Linda remarked. "You could land a plane in here."

  In the vastness of the square, a handful of Chinese on their haunches nursed kites through the light summer air. The handmade kites-frogs and princes, fat fish, and a clever troop of tiny sparrows suspended from the same string-danced against the backdrop of the Forbidden City, the network of palaces that had housed imperial dynasties for six hundred years. On the left stood the stark white mausoleum where the rubber-looking remains of Chairman Mao lay under glass. Beyond the mausoleum rose the Great Hall of the People, more massive than majestic.

  "The museums," Linda said, pointing. "History on the right, the Museum of the Revolution, appropriately, on the left."