But Wang Bin chose the gun instead. He fired reflexively, and missed by a hair’s breadth.
The bullet scored the top of Stratton’s shoulder and exploded in the grave behind them. When Stratton hit Wang Bin, the almond eyes were riveted in horror—not at his assailant, but at the coffins.
Then they fought along the rim of the pit. They fought like the maniacs they were, with hands and feet and teeth: Stratton younger, heavier, but exhausted; Wang Bin possessed of unquenchable fury.
Stratton finally saw it—a slow-motion frame—as they teetered on the lip, Wang Bin’s hands like talons on his neck.
The bullet meant for Stratton had found another target: the emperor’s skull. After twenty-two centuries his warriors had failed him. A traitor’s gunshot had reduced the legend to an anonymous pile of powdered bone.
Not for that.
I will not die for that.
With power he had never known, Tom Stratton ripped free of Wang Bin’s clinch. With the heel of his right hand he delivered a killing blow beneath the old man’s chin, a blow that would paralyze the nervous system in the microsecond before it broke the neck.
Stratton hurled Wang Bin into the grave and fell back in the mud.
IT WAS THE RAIN that roused him—fresh rain, thunder and the wind that scoured his wounds, pierced his lethargy. Stratton was sick again. Then, as recognition returned, he cautiously crawled to the edge of the grave.
Wang Bin had joined his emperor forever.
He had crashed on his back into the coffin, smashing beneath him the delicate, lacework-gold bier. The impact had jarred the coffin off the rock and sent it sliding down the slope back into the muddy tomb.
With a grunt, Stratton reached down and slammed the lid of David’s casket, sealing the two sleepers. Then, determinedly, ignoring throbbing limbs and a bloody shoulder, Stratton set to work.
He had been digging for ten minutes when he heard the sounds. Stratton wiped the water from his eyes and paused to listen: branches chattering in the wind. What else could it be?
Stratton had covered the entire coffin with a foot of wet red earth when he heard it again.
Faint raps. Then a clawing, a muffled disturbance: the scuttle of rats in a barn.
It came from the grave.
Wang Bin was alive.
His body quivering, the rain cascading off his back, Stratton bent for a long and horrible movement over the shovel.
Rap. Rap.
“No!” Stratton screamed.
“No! No, you!”
He shoveled relentlessly then, with black fear and desolate conviction. Dig. Lift. Throw. Dig. But don’t think. Lift. Never think. Throw.
Stratton had no memory of finishing. There was but an hour until dawn when he levered the headstone back into its silent place, tucked a shapeless old gardening hat in his back pocket, and left the rain to wash away his traces:
†
DAVID WANG
1915—1983
TEACHER AND FRIEND
REST IN PEACE
Epilogue
IN LATE SEPTEMBER, Thomas Stratton took his students to the Boston Museum to see a traveling exhibition of terracotta soldiers from the Qin Dynasty. They were impressed.
In October, he read a story in the Boston Globe that amused him:
CHINA WON’T DISTURB TOMB OF FIRST EMPEROR
By James X. McCarthy
Special to the Globe
PEKING—Chinese officials have a message for the Emperor Qin Shi Huangdi, dead these 2,200 years.
Rest in Peace, Emperor.
The emperor is remembered by history as the man who first unified China. In his spare time he built the Great Wall and buried alive Confucian scholars who dared to suggest that he might be mortal.
Since his death (natural causes) in 210 B.C., the emperor has lain under a gigantic man-made mountain near the central Chinese city of Xian. The area around the tomb has become one of the world’s great archaeological digs, yielding more than 7,000 life-sized, priceless terracotta soldiers and horses who guarded the tomb as an imperial guard of honor.
Scholars had hoped that the Chinese, who are anxious to capitalize on the find as a tourist attraction, would soon begin excavations of the tomb itself.
Sorry, it won’t happen any time this century, says scientist Gao Yibo.
“We are reluctant to open the tomb itself,” he said in an interview. “To dig faster does not mean to dig better. We must work slowly to evaluate what we already have, and to preserve a legacy for archaeologists of the future.”
Painstaking evaluation and reconstruction of the existing finds, which lie in three giant pits about two-thirds of a mile from the emperor’s tomb itself, will take at least until the end of this century, said Gao.
“We leave the emperor himself to our children. He will be safe in the ground until we are ready for him,” said Gao, who this month became the new deputy minister in charge of all China’s archaeological discoveries and the museums that display them.
Continued on page 16
In November, Stratton won permission from a bemused college administration, which had regarded him as a popular under-achiever, to teach a course in Asian history, literature, and philosophy. Stratton’s detailed prospectus outlined what he called the Wang Syllabus.
In December, two visitors came. Stratton was expecting them.
“I’m Tony Medici, this is Jerry Flanagan. We’re from the Smithsonian,” said the dark one, a rangy man with sharp, veteran’s eyes who wore a button-down shirt. The young one had red hair and a scowl he probably practiced in the mirror.
“I’m Mother Goose. Sit down.”
“That’ll save a lot of pointless bullshit.” Medici grinned.
“We understand you have some information about Chinese artifacts …”
“Three big ones, to be exact,” said Flanagan.
“That’s what I said in my letter.”
“Yeah, I saw it. We’d like those items back.”
“How badly do you want them?”
“Hey, if you even know we want them you’re in deep trouble. National security. We can put your ass away for a long time.”
Stratton ignored the redhead. Medici was the pro.
“How bad?” he asked again.
“Well, it is a matter of some concern. We’ve searched, of course. Even got a hint that maybe one of our … uh, that a government employee might have been mixed up in it. You might even know the lady.”
Stratton gave him nothing.
“How bad?”
“All the way up to the White House, since you ask. You got ’em?”
“I know where they are.”
“How much?” Flanagan snapped.
“They’re not for sale.”
“What then?”
“A swap.”
“For what?”
Stratton told him.
Medici blew air between his teeth. “I don’t know if we want the merchandise that much.”
“It’s up to you.”
“I mean, that kind of thing … it’s out of style, isn’t it, Stratton? These days we don’t just sneak in …”
“You do it or I do it.”
“I don’t believe this,” said Flanagan.
“Shut up, Jerry.” Then to Stratton: “I’ll have to check.”
“There’s a pay phone down the hall.”
Stratton went back to marking papers. The redhead fidgeted.
“You an art teacher?”
“Something like that.”
“Never did much for me in college.”
“I know.”
“When Tony comes back we’ll probably drag you out of here in handcuffs. I’d like that, Professor.”
Medici was back in twenty minutes.
“You’ve got a deal,” he said without preface, measuring Stratton with curiosity.
“What!”
“Shut up, Jerry. There are some conditions, though.”
Medici consulted a notebook. �
�First, we get our friends’ merchandise back. Then we go lookin’ for yours. It will take some time.”
“I know.”
“There’s something else.” Medici read slowly from the notebook. “You must promise not to undertake, organize or direct any incursion into the People’s Republic of China, or attempt in any way to enter the People’s Republic under your own or any assumed identity, for any purpose.”
“Tony, who is this guy?” Flanagan whined. “What’s going on?”
“Anything else?” Stratton asked.
Medici mumbled. Stratton barely caught the words.
“They said to say please.”
Flanagan coughed.
Stratton said, “Tell them I agree.”
He handed the agents two sheets of paper. The name of Sgt. Gil Beckley was written on the first.
“Who’s this?” Flanagan said, frowning.
“A cop in West Virginia. Be nice to him. A piece of your merchandise is locked up in his property room. He’s also got a list that you’ll find very interesting.”
Broom’s roster of stolen warriors and their buyers. It had been found in the trunk of the car with the last Chinese soldier, exactly as Wang Bin had planned. Stratton had phoned Gil Beckley to make sure; the next day, Stratton had written his letter to Washington.
“What kind of list?” Flanagan demanded.
“The best kind. Short and simple. It’ll help you find what you’re looking for.” Not just the imperial artifacts, Stratton thought, but Linda Greer, too. She deserved much more than a pauper’s grave.
The second paper Stratton handed to the agents was as good as a map. Medici studied it briefly.
“Okay, brother, you got it. We’ll be in touch.”
Stratton walked them to the door. Flanagan left, shaking his head. Medici paused.
“I was in Nam,” he said. “Fourth Division Lurps. We heard stories … well, I’m proud to know you.”
Stratton said good-bye. He walked back to his desk and opened the middle drawer. The envelope was stained, dog-eared. It carried a Hong Kong stamp.
He did not open it. He did not need to. He knew what was inside. Six words that spelled two lifetimes.
“Thom-as, I cannot live without you.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1984 by Carl Hiaasen and Bill Montalbano
cover design by Karen Horton
ISBN: 978-1-4532-1071-0
This edition published in 2010 by Open Road Integrated Media
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Carl Hiaasen & William D. Montalbano Page 31
