The Last Mandarin

by Stephen Becker

  He looked gratefully upon his girl and forgot Sea Hammer. A bullet in your arm and two hoods after you, and she is driving to endanger, and what shall I do about Feng, and here is a Japanese war criminal goggling at the countryside, and I am about to betray my mission and in a way my country, and I am happy as a tick on a beagle because this smallish creature is beside me and I can gaze my fill at her face. A grown man. I am supposed to be doing important things like working and voting, and instead I sit here composing valentines.

  Burnham knew that he should make some effort to organize the rest of this unusual day. Here was the familiar stretch of road where he had seen the Peking cart pulled by a pony. Soon he would see the teahouse, and then the airport. The same road crew would be be tamping the same earth.

  Hao-lan’s face, that very face, was haggard. Hell of a courtship. “Cheer up,” he said again. “They can’t shoot down an airplane.”

  “I’ll cheer up when I bloody well want to.”

  “That’s the trouble with China. The women wear the pants.” His arm throbbed and streaks of pain shot up into his shoulder. Hai was dead and the top of Burnham’s head was floating away. Plenty of time for fits and vapors when we’re in the air. Much to be said for marrying a doctor; a man can have fits and vapors whenever he bloody well wants to.

  Defile it, Hai, I’m sorry, but I’d have cut your throat myself for this woman.

  He saw Hai, scornful, crabbed and full of spleen, heard him snort.

  “Kanamori,” he said, “tell us what-all under heaven has befallen you these last dozen years.”

  And Kanamori recited, at first halting and apologetic, then running and jumping. In the end the picture was clear, a sordid but not extraordinary portrait of degradation and inhumanity, and Kanamori’s face was grim but his voice only calm and weary.

  All along the way knots of people were gathered at the roadside, and men made speeches, and bands of demonstrators carried banners, and one shop burned unattended. Soldiers marched and trotted, and convoys passed, transporting sullen troops into the city. The outskirts were furling inward; the old rulers were retreating, leaving a vacuum of power into which the new rulers would rush.

  There was no sign of the black sedan.

  The airport was in disorder. Senile pursuit planes huddled, some guarded by frightened sentries: P-40s, P-47s, two Zeroes. Crowds swirled about the sheds and godowns, prospecting and shoplifting. A line of frantic travelers besieged a DC-4, and Burnham saw crates, trunks, sacks, baggage in mounds, Chinese pilots shouting instructions.

  Hao-lan steered them through the chaos. Twice they were slowed by hostile groups; twice Burnham made the foreign presence known; twice they were waved on. “There. Just past that hangar. The one with two engines.”

  The DC-3 was idling with the door down, strictly against regulations. From the pilot’s window a man shook a fist, then waved for haste, and Burnham recognized Captain Moran. Hao-lan pulled up and they piled out. Burnham waved a salute. Moran seemed to be cursing him, but the voice was lost in the engine noise. Burnham turned to Feng and Kanamori. A decent farewell. His arm ached and his brain swam, but a sense of safety, of arrival, of leisure, warmed and eased him.

  Ming cut a man down to reach the aircraft. He sped into the airport from the Hai-tien road and shot straight across baggage areas and runways, toward the American—or by now perhaps ex-American—operations shed. He saw Yen’s car, and when a boisterous band of looters, or just shouters, surged up to block his way he swerved very little, blasting through, and caught one on his right fender, hurling him high and away. He saw the four travelers standing in casual conversation, saw an American hanging out the pilot’s window and gesticulating. “Liao. That pilot. Ground them first.”

  Liao ran down the window and steadied his pistol on the frame. The pistol jolted and clattered. He raised it and aimed free. Better. He waited. He knew pistols and their limitations. In time he fired.

  The pilot flopped forward, his arm swinging like a pendulum.

  Ming shot past the plane, stood on the brake pedal and skidded into a turn and stop. He and Liao scrambled out on the far side.

  Burnham saw the sedan fly past and shoved Hao-lan to the ladder. “In! Keep down! Feng! Kanamori! Run!” He turned to signal Moran and saw the inert body, the red hair, the arm dangling. He leaped up the ladder. “Hao-lan! The pilot!” He tugged at the door’s cables, and was dizzied; his hand slipped and he fell to his knees. He groped for his pistol, fumbled it, picked it up. “He’s dead!” Hao-lan called, and came running.

  “Co-pilot?”

  “There is no co-pilot.”

  “Keep down. Christ, I’m going to pass out.”

  “Lie down. Head down. Oh, God.”

  He took a deep breath of cold air and was grateful for winter. The smell of oil and metal was familiar. Pain tore at him, but it was pain for Hao-lan. “Damn you,” he said, “I never used to be afraid before I fell in love.”

  At the Hsi Chih Men Police Barracks, Inspector Yen thanked his bus driver, commended his fellow passengers for their patience and patriotism, and left the bus to a chorus of imaginative Chinese razzing: “The turtle squad.” “Go annoy a criminal now.” “Go redeem your uniform from the pawnbroker.” He trotted into the barracks and explained quickly to the duty sergeant. “Explained” was perhaps inaccurate; how could this be explained? He rapped out a splendid fabrication: Communist agitators, foreigners, a bank robbed. The sergeant had already called for his captain. Yen showed identification and they set out at a brisk walk for the barracks motor pool, which was, this being Peking, three blocks away and consisted, this being Peking, of an antique Fiat, a prehistoric Daimler and a monstrous American hybrid. All were equipped with sirens and floodlights, and were therefore police cars.

  Within a commendably short time two armed men manned each car, and the cars were on the move. From Yen’s vehicle, the hybrid, several pieces of metal dropped clanking to the road, but the car persisted in its forward motion, and Yen nodded gratitude. After a moment he activated the siren. Grudgingly the populace made way. It was a small satisfaction.

  “We must rush them,” Ming said.

  “We should wait. Cover the door and wait.”

  “For what? These mobs? Soldiers? Other interested parties? There were four. Four! One of those two Chinese was Kanamori.”

  “Kanamori is Japanese.”

  “Fool! Now listen: you will dash out at some distance, directly opposite the door. Dash out beyond Yen’s car. I will slip beneath the tail. You will fire and keep them busy. I will slip along the fuselage and take them at close quarters. You understand?”

  “The risk is great.”

  “When the reward is sufficient, risk is not a factor. You understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Then go!”

  Liao moved out.

  Burnham saw the uniformed policeman—Liao was his name, according to Hao-lan—and recognized him vaguely: once in Sung Yun’s courtyard, a glimpse when they took Hao-lan. The man scuttled toward Yen’s car and Burnham tried not to hurry his shot. He braced his left arm against the doorjamb. Now, Hai, grant me a double measure of your spirit, and a Sea Hammer’s eye.

  Liao went down hard, skidding some distance on his face before he came to rest. His weapon skipped and clattered.

  “Thank you, old friend,” Burnham breathed just as Ming wrenched the pistol from his hand.

  “Step down,” Ming said. “Have no fear. I shall not kill you. I want only Kanamori. Both of you—down.”

  “Leave her alone,” Burnham said, descending the ladder.

  “Both of you,” Ming said pleasantly.

  Hao-lan stepped to the tarmac and took Burnham’s good hand. “Not your average honeymoon.”

  Ming jeered. “Honeymoon! Where is Kanamori?”

  Ming stood aft of them and so could not see the tail assembly. Burnham could, but did not believe his eyes. Hao-lan’s hand clenched on his wrist. “Kanamori is dead,” Burnham
said.

  Ming showed impatience. “Do you want me to hurt her? I could shoot out her kneecap, for example. Would you talk then?”

  “Kanamori’s right behind you,” Burnham said.

  On the tail assembly Kanamori heard his name and smiled.

  “Wise guy,” Ming said, “Where is he?”

  “Leaning on the rudder,” Burnham said. And when Ming turns, then what? Rush him, with one arm? He’ll empty the magazine and kill Hao-lan.

  Ming edged away, three or four mincing steps, keeping Burnham and Hao-lan well in sight, and turned to glance up.

  Kanamori vaulted lightly from the tail assembly, floating, landing in a crouch before an amazed Ming, and raised an imaginary sword. He lunged and feinted left, lunged and feinted right as Ming stood hypnotized.

  Kanamori shouted “Ima!” He tightened both hands on the imaginary hilt—his knuckles whitened—and raised the sword high. His face was young and eager, his brown eyes were lustrous and joyful.

  As Ming raised the pistol, Feng darted out from nowhere and grasped Ming from behind, left forearm beneath the chin. Kanamori leaped to clutch at the pistol, and one wild shot ricocheted whining as Feng cut Ming’s throat.

  “My tenth Japanese,” Feng claimed. “More Japanese in spirit than my Chinese friend Kanamori.” Kanamori acknowledged the dubious compliment with a wry bob of the head.

  Hao-lan returned briskly, slightly dazed in manner but still professional: “Both are dead. Now let me bandage our innocent bystander here.” Burnham was seated on the ladder. The bleeding had freshened, but his house physician now assured him that he would survive. “Whether I survive is something else again,” she complained. “This is not what I am accustomed to.”

  “A rare half-hour,” Burnham said.

  Hao-lan spoke for both: “Feng and Kanamori, we owe you more thanks than can be uttered.”

  Feng was overcome by embarrassment; his eyes seemed unable to focus. Kanamori stared at the ground.

  Burnham asked, “Feng, why should you not come with us?”

  Feng made owl’s eyes: “Come with the gentleman? But I am a Pekinger.”

  “We can take you to Korea or Japan, and then to Shanghai or Taiwan.”

  “Japan! Japan is an island! And so is Taiwan, and they eat undersea creatures that cling to rocks. Come with you!” Feng clapped hands twice in wonder. “Only think, I have sported about an aircraft, and almost been beheaded by its propellers, and have slain my last Japanese, and been invited abroad! The world is indeed a place of marvels.”

  Feng looked back at the city. Not much could be seen from here because of Yen’s car, various aircraft in the way and clusters of excited citizens droning in the distance like swarms of bees, but some suburban houses and shops were visible, roads and vehicles, a few billows and plumes of black smoke rising and thinning—and the city was a presence. The mere certainty that Peking stood—Burnham felt it too. “No, good sir, I will not come,” Feng said. “I am a man of Peking and a san-luerh driver, and the streets and alleys are my old friends.”

  “They are mine too,” Kanamori said, “and I will miss them.”

  “But you have not been invited,” Burnham said.

  Kanamori screwed up his face and strained to understand. “I must be punished.”

  “I do not believe they ever wanted you,” Burnham said. “Moreover, Kanamori is dead. Even the mute woman called Mother is dead; I heard it this morning by the Eastern Handy Gate. So I am not sure who you are, but you have saved my life and the life of this unfortunate, deluded woman shortly to become my relative. I owe you thanks, now and forever, and to hang you would be bad manners. Besides, I am on my honeymoon.”

  Hao-lan’s work was finished. “There. Try not to move that arm.”

  Burnham inspected the job. “What’s this sling?”

  “Moran’s scarf.”

  “Dig my money out of my pocket, will you?” He rose.

  “No charge,” she said. “I’m not licensed to practice here.” She extracted the sheaf of bills.

  “Peel off a hundred for us, and present the rest to Master Feng and Citizen Kanamori.”

  Feng backed off in alarm.

  “You fool,” Burnham said, and embraced him awkwardly. Feng stiffened and said “Yü!” and Burnham squeezed his shoulder. “I owe you more than this. It is no one’s money, and now it is yours and Kanamori’s.”

  “It is riches!” Feng said, and grasped the wad. “A year’s money and more!” He and Kanamori both seemed somewhat addled now, and passed the bills back and forth.

  Burnham himself was experiencing a certain vacancy of mind. He disliked lecturing friends, but felt he should say more. “Use this money slowly and do not show it about—and remember, now is no time to become a capitalist. Money can be trouble. Narrow heart.”

  “Money cannot be trouble,” Feng said. “It is we who owe the thanks, now and forever.”

  “To think that all this was ordained,” Kanamori said, “and now it has come to pass.”

  “About the bunker,” Burnham said.

  Kanamori understood. “We are custodians only.”

  “When the time comes, go to the highest-ranking army officer you can reach,” Burnham said. “The army is sure to rule for a year or so, and while they may execute you they will not cheat you. About politicians only the gods can say, but their army is not corrupt, nor afraid to offer thanks where thanks are due.” Out on my feet and preaching about a world that is not mine. “And now we must leave you. More brigands may follow after, and I do not propose to linger. Go now. Go to the hospital, and drink tea.”

  “The hospital is not a bad place,” Feng said.

  They all touched hands and shared inadequate glances, and suddenly Burnham was heartsore. This should not happen. When a man made friends in far places he should be permitted to attend their weddings, bless their children, share needs and sorrows and drunken laughter.

  Feng found a word, and made happy teeth: “We shall take a san-luerh into Peking. A commodious double.”

  Kanamori said, “We have a car, if I can remember how to drive one.”

  “You have not!” Burnham warned. “Only disappear, do you understand?”

  “I understand.” Kanamori raised a hand in benediction. Feng started to imitate the gesture but clapped the hand to his head instead, dashed to Yen’s car, came running back with Hao-lan’s valise and Burnham’s duffel bag, and raced up the ladder with a mischievous grin. The others cheered. Feng leaped to the tarmac and shouted, “I have flown!” He joined Kanamori then, and they waved farewell and walked off holding hands in the manner of Chinese men who are friends.

  39

  “And how do you propose to leave?” Hao-lan asked. “I think we should go to your legation and proceed more legally.”

  “Proceeding legally is the Burnham tradition, but we begin badly. We have just committed two murders.”

  “Bad form and embarrassing.”

  “Furthermore, there may be a dead cop somewhere in Peking, and guess who drove his car to the airport.”

  “Our own Robin Hood and Maid Marian.”

  “Furthermore again, Sung Yun lives. Suppose he is at the legation right now playing gin rummy with somebody from army intelligence? They knew about that hoard, and they never heard it from Kanamori.”

  “Then make a suggestion.”

  “All aboard.”

  “All aboard?”

  Two interesting events then scared the life out of Burnham. He heard a distant siren, and the engines of the DC-3, which had been idling all this while, erupted in thunder. “What the hell!” he hollered. He took the ladder in two steps and ran forward. The aircraft shuddered and rattled; the thunder swelled. Moran’s body had slumped sideways; beneath his head the throttles were wide open. Burnham yanked him away and throttled down, then dragged the body free and out of the cabin. “That takes care of run-up,” he said. “Jesus!” He checked the brakes, scooted back to the door, hopped to the tarmac, yanked the c
hocks free and hustled Hao-lan aboard.

  “You’re crazy! The pilot’s dead!”

  “One experienced man can fly a DC-3 alone. Help me with the door now. Set your feet. Pull on that cable. Hard!”

  “I’m pulling! How much experience?”

  The door slammed shut. “Well, a couple of hours, twice. But I paid attention. Bear down on the lock. Put your back into it. Good. Follow me, lady.”

  He slipped into the pilot’s seat. “Sit down there, fasten your seat belt and do what I tell you. I helped you drive that car you stole; the least you can do is help me drive this truck.”

  “I’m hungry,” she said.

  “God damn it, woman, no jokes! By your right hand. Two round dials. The one on the right: what does it say?”

  “Eight hundred fifty.”

  “Good. Up there, fourth and fifth switches from the left, bottom row: off. Jesus, they never made any two of these planes the same.”

  “My God,” she said. “Off.”

  “I’ve only got one arm, and it’s the wrong arm. Battery switch, I got it here. That indicator on your side of the box—no, not that one, yes, there, what does it read?”

  “Right main.”

  “Good. Those two red levers on top. Set them on auto rich.”

  “Auto rich.”

  “Ammeter’s okay. Flaps half. Radio, who cares, altimeter, who cares, clock, who cares, gyros set and uncaged, controls seem to move all right, tail wheel unlocked—hell, this thing ought to fly all right. I want you to put your fingertips on each of those two black knobs marked T—and you need a surgeon’s touch here, all right? Now push them both forward the least bit.” She did; he eased up on the brakes.

  “We’re moving!”

  “Hell,” he said, “this is the hard part. Any child can fly it, but only a pilot can taxi it.”

  Inspector Yen flipped the siren on, let it shriek, led his clowns’ squadron of antique cars through the maze of happy pickpockets, airport vehicles, retired aircraft and ordinary potholes, and arrived at the American operations lot in time to see the DC-3 trundling across a ramp toward the head of the runway. He also saw two bodies, and recognized Ming and the strange uniformed policeman. The sight was gratifying and a favorable omen. “Quickly,” he urged the chubby captain at his side, “down this taxiway! They can be stopped!”