When my uncle came, my father took him there. My friend was there to help; it is covered with reeds and cloth most of the time. My father and my uncle went down into the hole on a ladder, into a long tunnel. They were gone a long time. When they came out again, they began to argue. My father tried to grab my uncle's camera. 'No, no!' my uncle kept saying. My father grew very angry. They shouted.
Then my father ordered the hole covered and they drove away."
Stratton was thinking furiously. If the chamber with the common soldiers was an international sensation, then Wang Bin's private dig could be a literal gold mine. Stratton had a vision of gold swords encrusted with jewels, of bronze and gold helmets, chests of gems: an emperor's legacy.
"My father wanted my uncle to help him steal something, Thom-as, didn't he?" It was the voice of a little girl.
"It's possible," Stratton said. He turned, a full teacup in each hand.
Kangmei lay naked on the bed. The light from a single dim-watted bulb painted her the color of brushed ivory. She wriggled, and the shadowed V between her legs became a beckoning S. She reached for him, arching her back.
"Kangmei, we can't… "
"Thom-as," she whispered. "Do you know what Kangmei means in Chinese?"
"Mmm?"
"It means 'Resist America,' Thom-as. My father was very patriotic before he become a thieving old man. Shall I resist America, Thom-as?"
Her little-girl laugh broke the spell.
"Kangmei," Stratton said more sternly than he felt, "you are David's niece, and I'm nearly old enough-"
"To what?"
"To know better," he said. She was a spectacular woman, and certainly older than some of the students with whom he had dallied in his early years as a teacher.
"You are very beautiful, and I want to," Stratton said lamely, "but it would be wrong. Do you understand why?"
Kangmei seemed to wilt. Stratton, feeling a fool with a teacup in each hand, watched as tears sparked in her eyes. She clawed for the sheet and drew it up to her chin.
"Oh, Thom-as, I meant nothing wrong, but you… there is so little time, and I am very excited. Also a little frightened."
"So am I," Stratton said, and kissed her lightly on the forehead.
She took the tea, and he sat primly by her on the bed, stroking her hair as an uncle might, or a lover-to-be. When at last Kangmei fell asleep, Stratton curled stiffly in a hard-bottomed chair, wondering if he yet knew enough to lay murder charges against her father.
CHAPTER 10
The men named Liao and Deng moved away from the streetlight and into the shadows. Their discussion was brief, disturbed.
"You are sure it was her?" Teng asked. He was the older of the two; brawny, leather-faced, he wore his Mao cap pulled tight on his head, the brim snug on his eyebrows.
"I am certain," Liao replied. "This changes everything." He lit a cheap cigarette and glanced across the street at the hotel. His eyes moved up the wall to an open window. A faint bulb gave a burnished light to the inside of the room; no shadows moved. Liao was hatless; his black hair was cropped extremely short. In a robe, he could have passed for a Buddhist monk. His round face was youthful, but humorless.
"When she leaves… " he said.
"And if she doesn't?" Deng asked. "Perhaps we should contact Peking."
"I don't think we should wake the deputy minister." Liao shook his head.
Deng scowled. "This foreigner is important."
"That's why we're here."
"But so is the daughter important. It is a grave matter," Deng insisted. The brim of his cap bobbed as his brow furrowed. "We can't wait all night. I say we grab the girl. As for the American, we have our instructions."
Liao sighed. He had an intuition about complications, and this assignment troubled him. "We'll have to report this to her dan-wei."
Deng said, "Why? Let Lao Wang handle it. He is her father." And then he thought for a moment and said, "You are right. We must report it. Even if the deputy minister tells us not to." Deng and Liao had heard the same rumors. Today the old man was a power broker, but he could just as easily be shoveling cowshit in Hunan tomorrow.
"We do as we're told," Liao said finally, "and a little more. The deputy minister does not have to know whom we talk to. China comes first."
Stratton drowsed, half-sleeping, in the hard chair. When he heard the doorknob jiggle, he figured it was one of the floor attendants. They all had passkeys, and no compunction about barging in on the slightest pretext.
It would not be wise to be found in the same room with a Chinese woman. Stratton padded barefoot across the floor and reached for the door. Two men stood there in the darkness. One held a sack of some kind in his right hand, away from his body.
"Yes?" Stratton said, stiffening.
The young man bowed, then rammed the heel of his hand into the tip of Stratton's nose. The American fell in a heap, gurgling blood.
From the bed, Kangmei yelped and sat up. The men stared silently at her naked figure before they closed the door behind them.
Stratton awoke in darkness, heaving for air. His nostrils were clogged with blood, and his face was clammy and wet. Two strips of industrial tape had been pasted across his mouth, forming an X that nearly blocked his desperate breathing.
He was in a closet. He smelled clothing-his own-and the canvas from his duffel.
Through throbbing eyes, he noticed a weak sliver of light at the base of the door, near his feet.
Stratton tried to move. His hands were free, but his legs were bound tightly at the ankles. Voices, male and female, seeped through the door. The conversation was singsongy Mandarin, and Stratton understood none of it. The male voices were cold and conspiratorial and the female voice was full of fear. Kangmei.
He struggled to his knees, grunting, using his hands to feel in the blackness.
If these thugs were so efficient, he wondered, why hadn't they tied his hands as well? Why leave him free to explore the darkness for a way out- And then one of Stratton's hands found what it was supposed to. It was as big around as a baseball bat, yet taut and rippling. It was smooth to the touch, not oily, and it made a hushing sound as it glided across the floor of the dark closet.
Stratton froze, and the amplified beat of his heart filled his ears. The creature had stopped moving; it was not bothered at all by the darkness.
Stratton cowered. He felt that the thing could actually sense his pulse, and feel the heat of his terror.
"You are stupid men. Leave me alone!" Kangmei clutched the cotton sheet to her neck. Her knees were drawn protectively to her chest.
"Your father sent us," Deng said from under his brim. "Not for you, Kangmei, but for your American friend. He is a dangerous man, an enemy of the state. He is trying to use you to obtain information that would harm the deputy minister."
"Lies!"
"We did not know you were with him," Liao said in a nervous whisper. "And you can be sure that we will not make a public matter of this… incident."
Kangmei's eyes flashed toward the closet, and the knot of hemp rope that secured the door.
"You know what would happen if this episode became known," Liao continued. "You would lose your place at the language school. There might even be punishment at a labor camp for rehabilitation."
"What do you want?"
Deng nodded toward the closet. "The foreigner is our only interest. If you need to know more, ask your father. We are here to do a job. I am sorry that you had to become involved in this, Comrade."
"Think of the shame and embarrassment for the deputy minister," Liao said.
"Thom-as was a friend of my uncle. He is an art teacher on tour," Kangmei said.
"That is all."
"We see what we see, Comrade," Liao said.
Kangmei flushed.
"Put on your clothes. You will come with us and say nothing of what happened here," Liao said.