McCarthy ordered up another gin-and-tonic. Cursing the idiots—that’s what R-and-R is for. Get it out of your system, Jimbo.
The club was bustling and noisy with journalists hell-bent on a night of sloppy decadence—British, Australians, New Zealanders, a Frenchman, even two American network guys. Behind the huge padded bar, stone-faced Cantonese bartenders poured quickly and expertly. As the night wore on, McCarthy knew, the ratio of water to booze would escalate in proportion to the patron’s inability to tell the difference. McCarthy, who could hold his liquor and appear to when he couldn’t, kept a close eye on the Tanqueray bottle behind the counter. The instant the bartender made a secret move for an off brand, McCarthy would lunge for his throat.
At the big table in the center of the club, one of the American network guys was screaming at the French magazine free-lancer. Vietnam again, McCarthy thought. Every time he was in the place there was a fight about Nam. Almost everybody in the club had covered the war, some of them with a fanaticism otherwise reserved for the World Series or slot machines. Everybody had a story, everybody had a theory, everybody had a pain. The walls of the club had become a Nam shrine: headlines, photographs, tributes to fallen colleagues like Larry Burroughs and Sean Flynn. When Nam had been hot, Hong Kong had been the jump-off point for journalists. The club had been electric then, swirling with stories of war; the war had been the story, and even besotted Fleet Street could focus on it. Now the story was China, McCarthy reflected, huge, ungainly, enigmatic, unsexy China. There was only so much you could write, so many telescopic shots of the Great Wall, before the guys on the desk started hollering for more Rubik’s cubes.
McCarthy guided himself to the men’s room. Standing at a urinal, he observed that in the eight months since his last visit, there had been only one addition to the wall graffiti: a strikingly accurate likeness of Lady Diana, reclining languorously. The Aussies, McCarthy decided, it had to be. As he was admiring the steady hand of the artist, the door swung open and McCarthy was joined by another man.
“Remember me?”
McCarthy studied the face in the mirror. “Stratton, baby! Gimme a second here and I’ll be right with you.”
“Take your time,” Stratton said.
“Hey,” McCarthy said, zipping up, “you don’t suppose the princess is really double-jointed?”
“Not like that, Jim.”
To make room for Stratton at the bar, McCarthy gently shooed a buxom prostitute who had costumed herself like Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot. Stratton immediately claimed the barstool and ordered a Budweiser.
“Heresy!” McCarthy exclaimed. “Every time I see you you’re ordering the wrong beer. What brings you to this seedy place?”
“You do,” Stratton said. “I need your help.”
After leaving the consulate, he had walked for hours through Hong Kong, dazzled and disoriented, distracted from the city’s raucous vitality by his own despair. Stratton mourned for David, and for Kangmei. Once, in an alley market where old crones cooled their feet in vats of live shrimp, he had spotted her, swaying through the crush of people, an ebony trail of silken hair. He had run, hurdling racks and side-stepping vendors, until he had caught her, taken her by the elbows, turned her and seen a stranger’s face. The young woman had smiled shyly and backed away, but Stratton had been too sad to apologize.
He had taken a tram to the Peak, and from a windy platform imagined China unfolding beyond Kowloon. Somewhere, David’s body. Somewhere, Kangmei. As the sun set, the grand harbor had shimmered and then in darkness evaporated to a vast black hole. The famous floating restaurants sparkled like stars, bobbing on a windy night. For an hour Stratton had clung to the solitude of the Peak until ghosts had caught up with him, and he had gone looking for Jim McCarthy.
“I called the bureau in Peking. They said you’d be here for a couple of weeks.”
“Sheila and the kids fly in tomorrow,” McCarthy said. “I can’t wait to see ’em. Hell, another night or two alone in this town and a hard-drinking Irishman might buy himself some serious trouble. Like Peroxide Lucy over there. You ever see a Chinese with a wig like that? This club is a regular Mardi Gras, just what you need when you’re fresh out of China.”
“Your clerk had a pretty good idea you’d be here.”
“She’s a doll. I’d trust her with my life.” McCarthy suspiciously eyed the bartender, who was pouring another gin. “Tom, I was just thinking about you yesterday. Your friend, the old professor who died, wasn’t his name Wang? Well, his brother, the honcho deputy minister of whatever, died this week, too. Did you hear about it?”
“Yes. Supposedly drowned.”
“Dressed in full uniform, resplendent Mao gray, according to some of our embassy boys. Ironic, isn’t it? The old guy had a black mourning band pinned to his sleeve. The big whisper is suicide.”
Stratton started to say something, but reined himself. “Are you doing a story about it?” he asked McCarthy.
“Naw, I don’t think so.” McCarthy looked up from his drink. “You think it’s worth a story? I dunno, you might be right. The death of two brothers—one American, one Chinese. The ultimate reunion! The desk might go for it. They’re slobbering for human interest stuff.”
A screech came from the big table in the middle of the club. McCarthy and Stratton looked over just in time to see one of the American network correspondents punch the French free-lancer in the nose.
“Bravo, baby!” McCarthy called out. “Hoist the flag right up his ass!” He turned back to Stratton. “I’m not so sure about this Wang story after all … maybe I’m just not in the mood to write.” McCarthy sighed. “I’ll feel a hell of a lot better when Sheila’s here.”
They drank together for half an hour, eavesdropping on the slurred debates and laconic come-ons, watching the fog turn to cotton over the harbor. Finally McCarthy said, “What was it you needed from me?”
“A list.”
“Of what?”
“Remember the story you wrote on ‘Death by Duck’? You told me about it—about all the American tourists who die over here …”
“I did the story two years ago, Tom. You want a list of all of them?” McCarthy could not mask his curiosity.
“Not all of them. I want a list from the last four months, a list of every American who died in China. Can you get it?”
McCarthy shrugged. “No sweat. All it takes is a phone call.”
“What else is available?”
“Ages, hometowns, occupations. That’s about it.”
Stratton leaned forward. “Hometowns are all I need. How big a list are we talking about?”
McCarthy shifted on the barstool. He was not accustomed to being grilled. “A small list, Tom. A half-dozen names, at the most. I’m just guessing. I really haven’t been following the death-by-duck box score since I wrote that one story.”
“But you can get the list?”
“Sure, Tom.” McCarthy fingered his fiery beard. “But I’ve got to ask why. I’m not too drunk to listen.”
Stratton stood up. “I can’t tell you, not now.”
McCarthy smiled. “Someday?”
“Maybe,” Stratton said. “It’s possible.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
Stratton slapped a Bodine twenty-dollar bill on the counter and motioned to the flinty-eyed bartender. “Good God, don’t be a fool and leave the whole thing,” McCarthy hissed. “He’s been pissin’ in the drinks all night.”
Stratton laughed and shook the newsman’s hand. “I’m at the Hilton. My flight leaves at about noon tomorrow.”
“Hey, you’re talking to an ace foreign correspondent.” McCarthy roared. “You’ll have your list by ten sharp.”
Stratton walked back to the hotel room and stood under a steaming shower for twenty minutes. The melancholy and bitterness gradually receded to a remote corner of his mind; he began to feel galvanized, perversely exhilarated by what lay ahead. One race was finished, and he had lost. Another was
beginning. This time the track was his.
Chapter 22
STEVE POWELL CAUGHT UP with Linda Greer in the hall outside the embassy conference room.
“Did you win today?” she asked amiably.
His hair slick from an after-tennis shower, Powell nodded with an air that said no contest. “The dust was murder out there. Took some top spin off my serve.” He propped his briefcase on one knee and opened it. The yellow cable was on top of a stack of files.
“Here,” Powell said, handing it to Linda. “It arrived this morning from San Francisco.”
Linda read the cable twice and went cold.
“Whatever it means,” Powell said. “I don’t think I ought to mention it at the staff meeting.”
It means Tom Stratton was right, Linda thought.
Powell said, “Some guy with two Ming vases makes it past customs and immigration using David Wang’s passport. Strange. Didn’t the late, great deputy minister tell us that the passport was destroyed?” Powell snapped the briefcase shut. “The question now is, Who was this guy? And how the hell did he get the passport?”
The passport. No, Linda told herself, it can’t be true.
“Maybe the deputy minister swiped it, then turned around and sold it,” Powell theorized, “like he was selling everything else. There’s quite a few Chinese who’d give anything for a U.S. passport. Your old buddy Bin could have found himself a rich customer.”
Powell watched Linda’s expression carefully. She was ashen.
“I guess you’ll have to cable customs,” she said finally. “They’ll want some kind of report.”
“I’ve got to let them know the guy was illegal, and screw the damn vases.”
Linda lowered her voice. “Steve, can you wait on it? Two or three days, tops. I need a little time, a head start.”
“For what?”
Powell could never know, nor could anyone else at the embassy. It would remain her secret because it had been her mistake. Angrily she flashed back to that night at the foreigners’ morgue. She had not recognized the welder who had bent over David Wang’s coffin, nor had she protested when the odd Mr. Hu had declined to open it for the requisite inspection. I am required to see it first, she had said. You were late, he had replied.
Now she knew why Mr. Hu had sealed the coffin so swiftly: it must have been empty. David Wang had been alive. Then.
“Steve, I can’t say much. Maybe when the boss gets back from Singapore. All I can tell you is that this”—Linda waved the cable—“is very serious. Extremely serious. Can I count on you?”
Powell smiled. “‘Course you can. Took customs three days to get us a wire from Frisco … might just take another three days for them to get an answer. Fair is fair.”
Linda squeezed Powell’s arm and whispered a thank-you.
The staff meeting was soporific and Powell droned through the agenda—new guidelines for visa requests, an upcoming visit by an undersecretary of state, still more travel restrictions for American tourists leaving Peking. …
Linda drifted in a rough sea. Stratton was right: she had lost the deputy minister. Not merely lost him, but let him slip away like an eel. He was cunning, but was he the murderer that Stratton claimed? It added up, all right. The mystery coffin at the foreigners’ morgue, the “official” drowning at the Ming reservoir, the hasty Party cremation—and now San Francisco.
The sonofabitch had done it, bought his way out of China with the blood of his own brother.
Now Wang Bin was free. Stratton knew. And he would find out where to look. And when Stratton caught up with Wang Bin it would all explode. There was no avoiding it. My secret, Linda thought, my failure. “One case is all it takes, right?” Stratton had said at that long-ago dinner. Yes, one case was all it took for glory—or for demotion down to some backwater, shuffling papers for the rest of her life. All those years fighting those stupid patronizing male smiles just to get somewhere—and now this. There’d be nothing left to save.
“…and finally,” Powell was saying, “I got a call yesterday from one of our friends in the fourth estate. He wanted another update on our deaths-by-duck, so I presume we’ll be reading about it in the next week or so. I’m sure the travel agents back in the States will be thrilled to tears.”
“Excuse me, Steve, who—” Linda began.
“Jesus, what else can they write?” piped one of the preppy junior officers. “Didn’t the Chicago Tribune and the Boston Globe do big take-outs year before last?”
“Yeah. So did AP,” Powell grumbled. “But I had to give out the list; it’s a public record.”
“Steve!”
Powell was startled. “Yes, Linda.”
“Excuse me, I was just wondering who it was who called.” Her tongue was chalky; her heart pounded.
“McCarthy. Jim McCarthy from the Globe.”
“He’s the one who did the first story,” interjected one of the junior officers, hoping that someone would remark on his keen memory.
But it was Linda Greer’s memory that stabbed at her, jolted her back to the first day Tom Stratton had walked into the embassy. Jim McCarthy had been the one who had sent him; Stratton had said so.
She was sure it was no coincidence. McCarthy wouldn’t be updating his story, not so soon. Oh, he wanted information, all right, but not for a newspaper story. For a friend.
“Linda, is there a problem?” Powell asked. “We gave Jim a full list the first time around. Interviews, too. No one said there was a problem.”
Linda smiled. “Oh, no problem. I was just curious.” She thought her voice sounded tremulous.
Powell seemed not to notice. “It’s really nothing,” he said. “McCarthy just wanted to know how many Americans had died here over the last couple months. I gave him the names. No big deal.”
“Sure,” Linda said agreeably. No big deal. Jesus, if Powell only knew. “Is that all for today?”
In the hallway, she could scarcely keep from running toward her office. Now she knew everything. She knew that Stratton’s plan was already in motion, and it spelled disaster for her.
In a bleak way, it was funny, she reflected. It all came back to the goddamn morgue—her job, too. An awful little job—late at night. A simple detail, really. Or one would think. But Linda had botched that, too.
She would have to leave immediately for the United States. Sick leave, Linda would call it, or an illness in the family. There was no time to fight the bureaucracy.
Tom Stratton would have to be stopped.
Wang Bin would have to be caught.
She had to get to one of them before they got to each other. And she had to do it alone.
Wang Bin, Stratton—her responsibilities, both of them. That’s what you’re here for, the station chief had told her. That’s what you’re good at. Do what you have to, he had said—not warmly—but get them where we want them. Keep them there.
Gone was not where she wanted them.
Getting them back was the only thing that would save her career.
There was no time to worry about breaking a few laws.
A WARM BREEZE from Tampa Bay ruffled Stratton’s hair and stood him up as he walked across a broad, green lawn that seemed to ramble all the way to the water. Wheeling gulls bickered high above and a dour pelican plunged into a school of mullet. The splash startled the old man who had been pushing a lawn mower around the tombstones.
“Hello!” Stratton called.
The old man cocked his head. He glanced up to the sky, wondering if one of the noisy birds had actually shouted to him.
“Here! Hello!” Stratton yelled over the mower’s engine.
The old man spotted Stratton and muttered a grumpy acknowledgment. He turned off the mower and pulled a handkerchief from the belt of his trousers.
“I’m looking for the grave of Sarah Steinway,” Stratton said.
The old man noticed that Stratton carried a modest spray of flowers.
“Are you a relative?” he asked.
“Jesus H. Christ,” the old man said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He led Stratton along the water to a footpath that took them up a gentle man-made hill. On the other side was a stand of young pine trees that formed the boundary of the cemetery’s newest lot.
“If you’d have come tomorrow most of it would have been cleaned up,” the old caretaker said apologetically.
“What are you talking about?”
“Come on.”
Stratton followed him to the gravesite. Many of the plots were recently turned; others remained untouched, the gravestones bare—prepruchased, Florida-style.
They walked to the end of a long row before Stratton saw what the old man meant. The caretaker stopped and pointed up and down the column of graves. “Look what they did!”
“They” had gone amok, toppling the headstones, shredding the flowers, trampling and thrashing the soil. On one grave sat a mound of rotting garbage, with bright blue flies buzzing obscenely. Another was peppered with broken whiskey bottles. Still another grave had been defaced with bright crayons. Stratton bent over the granite slab and read:
There was an old geezer named Saul
Who dropped dead in the Hillsborough Mall
His wife called a cop
Then went back to the shop
So she wouldn’t miss the sale, after all.
“Cute,” Stratton muttered.
“It’s sick,” the old caretaker said. “Teenagers, that’s all.”
One double headstone read: “Eva and Bernard Melman.” Beneath the names, smeared in burgundy, was a Nazi swastika. In dripping letters at the base of the tombstone, someone had painted the words MORE DEAD JEWS.
Carl Hiaasen & William D. Montalbano Page 24
