Then, painfully but surely, he pulled himself to his feet. He hurt, but not as badly as he had led Wang Bin to believe. Teeth clenched, moving with the jerky uncertainty of an old man, Stratton began a series of painful limbering exercises. As he bent and swayed, Stratton replayed the conversation with Wang Bin. If the mind is too occupied to register pain, then there is no pain.
The man was angry, and he would be merciless. That was the bottom line. Yet there had been bits of information within the conversation that Stratton might use. He began to gnaw at them.
He was in the south of China. What he had seen of the vegetation Wang Bin had confirmed. Guangxi Province. Stratton tried to superimpose the train ride on a map of China. South for three days. He couldn't be far from the coast. If he could get to the sea and steal a boat…
There had been puzzling things, too. David's unwitting role had been to bring something, Wang Bin had said. That was an obvious lie. The brothers had argued in Xian only after David had learned that Wang Bin wanted him to smuggle.
"My brother is not dead," he had said. A second lie, even more senseless than the first. Of course David was dead-he had been murdered.
There was a third riddle. Stratton's death was to be "my last gesture" to the Revolution. What could account for that strange phrase?
Gingerly, he began a series of knee bends. Down-two-three-four. His leg howled in protest. Why tell lies to a condemned man? Senseless. Unless…
"Oh, Jesus."
Stratton spoke aloud to the emptiness of his cell, the words forced from him by sudden realization. What if Wang Bin had been telling the truth?
Stratton saw it then. Not entirely clear, but in terrifying outline. Solid, diabolical, imminent.
On one point, Wang Bin had been right.
Stratton was a fool.
In frustration, he hammered at the walls of the cell. Then he snapped a leg from the wooden chair and with its point began to scrape at the crude mortar between the bricks. It was irrational, and he knew it. Still, it was not a time for reason. It was a time for fury. Stratton scraped like a man demented.
Wang Bin sat with his legs crossed in an overstuffed armchair, waiting for his tea to cool. On the table before him sat four vases, each exquisite, each more than five hundred years old.
An aide in bottle-bottom glasses came silently into the room. He sprang forward to light the deputy minister's cigarette.
"Will we be needing our guest any longer, Comrade?" the aide asked quietly.
"One more day, I'm afraid, Lao Zhou." Wang Bin was perturbed. "I wish it could have been done on the train. If only his embassy had not started asking questions. I must know what he told his people, if he told them anything. One more day… then he must vanish completely, do you understand? No trace."
"It will be done. He is a dangerous enemy of the state." The frail-looking young translator with weak eyes was the most sadistic killer Wang Bin had ever encountered.
"You will tell me everything he says. It is vital… to the Revolution," Wang Bin said. "I would like to be there myself, but I must return immediately to Peking.
Go make the arrangements."
When the aide had gone, Wang Bin extracted a green and white envelope from the breast pocket of his Mao jacket. The telegram had arrived with breakfast and he knew its contents by heart.
YOU ARE REQUIRED TO APPEAR BEFORE THE DISCIPLINARY COMMISSION OF THE PARTY.
It gave a time and a date: tomorrow.
He had been expecting it. And it might have come sooner. Once again, it seemed, those idiots in Peking were determined to wrestle long-suffering China back into the Middle Ages. A few months before, such a summons would have paralyzed Wang Bin with terror-as it was intended to do. But he had foreseen it this time, and he was ready. Now there was just fleeting irritation at the dreadful cost to the nation and his own comfort. Let them writhe, he thought. Let them devour their own entrails if they wish. Comrade Deputy Minister Wang Bin would never again collect night soil.
This new peace of mind had its price, of course: an odious alliance with the American art dealer Harold Broom. His name had come to Wang Bin from an underground buyer in Hong Kong. Broom had been highly recommended, not for his taste-he had none-but for his resourcefulness. It was a trait that Wang Bin had come to appreciate, though he could not help but despise Broom for his crude arrogance.
Their short relationship had been curt, clandestine and efficient. So far. A visa problem smoothed over. A travel permit expedited. Quiet favors.
Yet there were watchers everywhere, Wang Bin well knew. He doubted that the Disciplinary Commission had learned the truth about Harold Broom, but such news would not shock him. He was ready for anything.
By the time the aide returned to confirm the travel arrangements, Wang Bin had already decided.
"We will take the first one and the fourth one," he said, pointing to the smallest of the four vases.
"Yes, Comrade Deputy Minister. But the comrade director of the museum will be very upset. They are among the best pieces."
"Tell him they are for permanent display in a place of honor in Peking."
"Still, he will not like it."
"Tell him it is for the good of the people. The Revolution demands it."
"Very well, Comrade Deputy Minister. But he is a hard man. He will want a receipt."
A hard man who thinks a receipt will protect him.
"A receipt," said Wang Bin. "By all means. Have the director prepare a receipt and I will sign it."
CHAPTER 13
Harold Broom arrived ten minutes early at the gleaming white mansion in the River Oaks section of Houston. He leaned against his rented Lincoln for five minutes, admiring the tall pillars and polished marble steps. At the door he was met by a Mexican houseboy in a stiff high-collared waiter's jacket, who motioned him inside. He led the art dealer up a spiral oaken staircase to a second-floor office where the customer waited.
"Well, hi there!" the Texan said. Even by Houston standards he was young for a millionaire. He wore a flannel shirt, pressed Levi's, lizardskin boots and the obligatory cowboy hat with a plume. When he shook Broom's hand, he gave a disconcerting little squeeze before he let go.
Broom sat down and said, "This is a helluva homestead."
The Texan grinned. "You like it?"
"Oh yeah." Broom noticed three king-sized television screens mounted on one wall, each flashing a different program. The corners of the office were occupied by stand-up stereo speakers. The Texan kept a video display terminal on his desk to watch the Dow Jones; behind his chair, Broom noticed, stood an arcade-sized Pac Man machine.
The Texan jerked a thumb at it. "Bored with it already," he said. "I've got an order in for an Astral Laser."
"Swell," Broom said. It was sickening: all this money and no brains. "Could I have a drink?"
"I don't see why not." The Texan poked an intercom button near the phone and shouted, "Paco! Two bourbons pronto."
"It's Pablo," a teenaged voice replied with unmasked annoyance.
The bourbon was excellent. Broom savored it, while the Texan sucked it down loudly. "Nectar," he said. "Pure nectar!"
Broom reached into the suede valise on his lap and extracted a glossy black-and-white photograph. He glanced at it before handing it across the desk to his host.
"There it is," Broom said with parental pride. "The real McCoy."
The Texan was radiant. "Broom, you've outdone yourself, I swear to God. I know better than to ask how you did it."
Broom took this as a compliment, and he forced a modest smile.
"If it arrives in this condition, it will be… awesome." The Texan clicked his teeth, as if leering at a centerfold.
Broom said, "The photograph was made moments before we packed it. I took the picture myself. That's the genuine item, and it's all yours. Guaranteed."