Now, alone on the train and seemingly safe, Stratton had time to think.
David-dead at the hands of his own brother. Kangmei-arrested, maybe worse. Then there was the deputy minister, Wang Bin-frightened enough to order the murder of an American tourist. But why?
At the dig, Kangmei's friend had observed Wang Bin struggling for David's camera. This puzzled Stratton, for the site had been photographed extensively, and the pictures had been published throughout the world. Evidently David had found something extraordinary-something forbidden.
The inventory of his belongings provided by the American Embassy listed three unexposed rolls of film. To Stratton, the explanation was simple: Wang Bin had confiscated all the film his brother had shot during his homecoming.
A shrill chorus of military music exploded from a scratchy speaker in Stratton's compartment. He groped for the dial and tried to turn it off; the marching song faded, but it would not die. He glanced at his wristwatch and noticed that the train was already ten minutes late for departure.
Stratton was uneasy. Next time, he knew, Wang Bin's methods would be less diabolical, but more dependable than a killer snake. Once back in Peking, Stratton would make a beeline for the embassy and enlist Linda's help.
A waiter knocked lightly on the door of the compartment. He brought Stratton a hand towel and a small lumpy pillow. Stratton thanked him and said, "Are we leaving soon?"
"Soon," the waiter answered politely. He stared at Stratton's swollen nose as he backed out.
"Is there some kind of mechanical problem?"
"Soon," the waiter repeated, disappearing.
Through the window Stratton scanned the empty station ramp. The train was loaded. Any minute now… he sighed, and stretched his legs on the long seat.
Stratton toyed with his newfound scenario. Wang Bin had invited his brother to China, hoping to recruit David into a smuggling scheme. As a courier, perhaps, for ancient artifacts. Or maybe Wang Bin simply needed a trusted person to act as a broker for the priceless contraband back in the States.
Together they visited the Qin tombs. Wang Bin gave David the grand tour-maybe more. David took some pictures. Wang Bin made his pitch, but David rebuffed him.
The deputy minister was enraged, panic-stricken. Stratton could easily imagine Wang Bin's reaction if David had threatened-as he probably did-to report his greedy brother to the authorities in Peking.
Stratton recalled Kangmei's conversation with her uncle on the night of his death: He said that Wang Bin was doing something very wrong… He was horrified that his brother would attempt such a thing. Yes, the old professor's indignation would have been volcanic. And what if, Stratton wondered, David had learned something so scandalous that it could have sent the deputy minister to prison?
Wouldn't that be enough to make one brother murder another?
Stratton finished his tea and set the empty cup on the table. The train still had not moved, but in his ruminations Stratton had forgotten his impatience.
He was sure now. He had figured it out.
To Wang Bin, it must have seemed a simple scheme, wonderfully pragmatic.
Faithful brother David returns home from his China trip, a sword or vase or delicate clay mask packed in his personal luggage. The proper-looking receipts would be provided, of course-and where would one ever encounter a customs officer expert enough, or bold enough, to challenge such artifacts?
Once safely in the United States, any large museum would pay magnificently and ask precious few questions. David would be delighted for his cut, however small.
After all, who can retire comfortably on a meager university pension?
As for the rest of the money, Wang Bin's share: a bank draft to a numbered account in Zurich, and from there, a transfer to Hong Kong. There were a few creative ways to get it actually back into Peking, but Stratton figured that Hong Kong would have been close enough for the deputy minister.
A neat scheme, Stratton thought, until David Wang balked. Then there was only one thing his fearful brother could do.
Stratton stood up and stretched. Powell would never believe it. With Linda Greer, he had a better chance. By now, she would have learned of his escapade with the cadres in the Red Flag limousine. Her feelers would be out on the street; friendly eyes would be looking for him. Stratton figured that Wang Bin was not the only person who now wanted him out of China.
He was not frightened for himself, but he worried for Kangmei. Because of who she was, she probably would not be killed. Still, her life could be ruined.
There was no telling what her penance would be. In Kangmei's case, Stratton reflected sadly, there would be no one to intervene.
Someone tapped on the door.
"More tea?"
"No, thank you," Stratton said, surprised at the sound of hard-learned English.
"Can you tell me when we're leaving?"
The door opened. "Now," said the man in the Mao cap. He pointed a Russian-made pistol at Stratton's face. The American raised his arms. Liao followed Deng through the door.
The three men stood awkwardly together in the small compartment, Stratton awaiting directions. He could not believe they would shoot him on a crowded morning train.
"Where to?" he asked after a few moments.
"Off train," Deng said, but he didn't move.
"Nose broke," Liao said with a perceptive sneer. He pointed at Stratton's face.
"Yeah, well, I'm sorry about your pet snake," Stratton muttered.
Deng lowered the pistol from Stratton's head and held it at waist level, trained on the American's midsection.
"I'll go quietly, don't worry," Stratton said. The Chinese traded glances. "How long are we going to stand here?" Stratton asked.
"Go now," said Deng, pulling the trigger.
The bullet lifted Tom Stratton and propelled him backward into the wall of the compartment. His head cracked against a steel bunk and he rag-dolled forward into a heap on the floor. Day became night. The Chinese demons screamed in Stratton's ears until his mind went limp and cold in a terrible sleep.
CHAPTER 11
"We've got a pair of nasty little problems on our hands, don't we?" The station chief drummed his pudgy gray fingers on the desk. He let out a sigh of disgust.
"Wang Bin and Stratton."
Linda Greer was reading a file. She wore glasses, forcing herself to fix on the words. She fought off despair.
"Why did the deputy minister want your friend out of the country so badly? Think of it: We tell him quite politely that Mr. Stratton will not be accompanying his brother's body back to the United States-and what does he do? He sends a couple of goons to the hotel. Why?" The station chief did not wait to hear any theories. "Because he knows. Linda, somehow Wang Bin got hold of Stratton's service record. He knows about Man-ling."
Linda shook her head slowly and set the file on the desk. "It's more than that.
It's got to be."
"Damn, the coffee's cold already. Why does it have to be more than that?"
"Suppose Wang Bin knows about Stratton's brief incursion back in 1971," Linda began. "Wouldn't it be easier, and more effective, to make a formal request: 'This man is an undesirable and we would like him to leave China at once'? A sticky little deportation problem, nothing more. We've handled stuff like that in the past. Now this," she said, motioning toward the file, "is pretty clumsy, sir. Chasing Stratton all over the city with a goddamn Red Flag, then trying to run him over in the street… that's not the style of this bureaucracy, sir. It's too messy. Reckless. Something like that might happen in Moscow-"