When she had finished, the old policeman began again, but the president of the commune silenced him. The president’s apparent perplexity mirrored expressions around the room. Whom to believe? What to do? The Zhuang, Stratton sensed, were with him. The Han cadres would probably side with the policeman. They were vastly outnumbered, but they had what counted most: authority.
The commune president ran a hand across his brow and seemed on the verge of speaking when a tall man appeared wiping his hands on a towel—the doctor who had bandaged Stratton. The doctor spoke quietly to one of the Zhuang near the door. The man’s face lit up, and he began chattering loudly. In an instant, the entire room was abuzz. Stratton watched the one-armed policeman say something to a slender young man who nodded and hurriedly left the room.
A new crop of smiles blossomed among the peasants, and fresh tears. One woman fainted. In the hubbub, Stratton had to yell to make himself heard.
“What is going on?”
Kangmei squeezed his hand. She was smiling and crying.
“It’s the little girl. They thought they had lost her, but now she is breathing well and seems to be out of danger.”
“Thank God.” For the nameless little girl, and for Thomas Stratton.
One of the peasants who had ridden on the truck with Stratton addressed the commune president.
“He says your goodwill and good intentions are plain for anyone to see and, while he does not dispute Comrade Ma’s word, he believes the comrade is mistaken. He says you should be allowed to return to Bright Star now with the thanks of the commune for your heroism.”
Kangmei finished her translation amid an assenting chorus from the Zhuang peasants. The commune president chose not—or dared not—to affront the majority. He nodded slowly and Stratton could almost see him thinking: to hold Stratton on the unsupported word of an overwrought old man would anger the peasants. To release him cost nothing. Tomorrow they could always bring him back in. Stratton sensed that the man was the kind of political bureaucrat who would most of all prefer to make no decision at all. If Stratton were to disappear from the face of the earth, so much the better.
Favoring his leg, Stratton used the wall as a crutch to gain his feet. Kangmei stood at his side.
“Say something graceful and let’s go.”
Before she could speak, the old policeman fired a fresh stacatto burst.
“He says he knows how people are tired of the memories and the obsessions of an old man who will not forget. But he begs for patience. There is another witness, he says, one who will say positively that you’re a murderer and a spy. The witness will come soon.”
The commune president sighed resignedly. He would humor a trusted old colleague.
The president spoke briefly and courteously to Kangmei.
“He asks if you would please remain for another few minutes, even though you are tired, so that this matter may be finally resolved without further affecting our friendship.”
Stratton shrugged. It was a sugar-coated command, but the worst was over. Mentally, he ticked off the witnesses who had seen his face that other night in Man-ling. Besides the policeman, only the commissar, the professor and the student. All dead. The policeman should have been, too. There had been no other witnesses.
They left Stratton and Kangmei alone then, side by side on wooden chairs in a corner of the room.
“The train will be leaving soon,” said Stratton.
“There is still a little time. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, please.”
She was back in a minute with gossip and two steaming mugs.
“The witness is a schoolteacher, a young man who is very bright, but is of poor family background.”
“What does that mean?”
“His father, or perhaps his grandfather, was a landlord or a capitalist. That means he cannot go to the university or join the army or belong to the Party. So he is a schoolteacher.”
A lovely system, Stratton mused. Convict a man for his ancestors’ crimes. For how many generations? He sipped his tea and watched shadows from an overhead lamp play across Kangmei’s lovely features.
And then Stratton knew who the witness would be. His cup fell, set free by stricken fingers.
“Thom-as, your tea!” Kangmei exclaimed in alarm. “You are shaking. What is wrong? Shall I get the doctor?”
“No, no,” he said. And thought for the second time that night of Bobby Ho.
The young man entered the room with quiet poise. The policeman limped over and spoke urgently with him, gesturing at Stratton, the hatred unmasked. The president said something to the young man and so did one of the peasants. Lobbying, Stratton supposed.
The young man dragged up a chair and sat directly in front of Stratton—mute reviewer of a one-man play. They stared at one another across three feet and eleven years.
The rag boy had added weight to the skin and bones, but not much. The face had filled, but still it spoke of suffering. The body had remained as insubstantial as it had looked the night Bobby Ho’s quixotic, absurd, fatal gesture had spared one life and cost many more. The inborn pride had not changed, or the cold, calculating intelligence in the masked obsidian eyes.
Stratton knew he was finished.
There was eloquence in the poker gaze of the grown-up rag boy. His identification was as certain as Stratton’s. He, too, like the tormented old policeman, like Stratton, still dwelt in the debris of horror.
Did he also weep, alone at night, for friends so brave? Did he dream terrible dreams of acrid tracers and bullet-stitched buildings that should have been white? Did he still gnaw at desolation? And what had he suffered for a peasant woman and her unborn child? He hadn’t felt the knife go through her neck.
Stratton waited for the denouement. Captain Black riffled methodically through escape scenarios. The dice roll, man. Nobody lives forever.
But at least make him work for it.
You bastard. Stratton stared at the rag boy. You chicken-shit son of a bitch. We let you go. I could have ended your pitiful knitting-needle existence with a nod, but instead I let you go. In return you killed my friends.
“It was the kid … Sorry, Tom … “
Stratton plumbed the Chinese, seeking the man behind the intelligent eyes. He found nothing. And then he made a decision. We both of us should have been dead these eleven years, son of a bitch. Call in the cards. It was a simple decision. It refreshed Stratton and gave him strength. The instant the rag boy raised his voice in accusation, Captain Black would kill him. One dead man kills another. Justice in Man-ling. To finish what had been neglected that night in the rain. I’m sorry, Bobby Ho.
Stratton was sizing the blow when he saw what he had not dared hope to see.
The Chinese eyes spoke plainly. I know you. I have you. You are mine.
And then, the final message:
A life for a life.
“Bushi,” the man spat in an unexpectedly deep voice.
He stalked from the room.
“Thom-as, he says it was not you,” Kangmei cried.
“Of course not.”
Babbling peasants erased the tension. Minutes later, Stratton and Kangmei were alone in the back of a jeep. Stratton had departed without pity for the old policeman, agape, blubbering alone in a corner of the room.
Rest in peace, Bobby Ho. You were right and I was wrong, all this time, all these years.
“Open your suitcase, please.”
“It’s locked.”
“Find the key and open it,” said U.S. Customs Inspector Lance P. Dooley, Jr. He strained to be polite. His boss was working the next aisle.
“But the key is in the suitcase,” whined the young man in Dooley’s line. “I packed it by accident. I’m sorry, officer.” The man had just debarked from Pan American Airways Flight 7, Peking-to-Tokyo-to-San Francisco. He wore blue jeans and a Van Halen concert T-shirt, with Day-Glo lettering. His black hair was long and straight, tied in a ponytail. Dooley studied the face. Malaysian, he decided. The passport confirmed it.
“Sir, I want to take a look in your suitcase. Either you find a way to open it, or I will. We have special tools,” Dooley said. “Hardly put a scratch on it, you watch.”
“But it’s a brand-new Samsonite,” the young man objected.
“So it is.”
Behind the young man a haggard procession of travelers stretched and sighed and muttered their annoyance at the delay. Second in line was a stocky, handsome Chinese man in his sixties. His hair was neatly combed, and he wore gold-rimmed eyeglasses that gave his features an intent, scholarly cast. His clothes fit somewhat loosely: beige slacks slightly wrinkled from the long flight, a knit canary-colored sports shirt buttoned all the way to the neck, and a dark brown sweater with a monogram on the left breast.
The Chinese man carried only one piece of luggage, a cumbersome old suitcase exhibiting thirty years’ worth of scuffs and dents. The man did not hoist the suitcase to the conveyor belt, but kept it at his feet, one hand firmly on the grip, as if it were a Doberman on a leash. He seemed transfixed by the argument in front of him.
“You can’t just break into my suitcase,” the young Malaysian insisted.
“Sir,” Dooley said, “if you decline to have your luggage searched here, we will escort you to a private inspection room where we will not only search the suitcase, we’ll ask you to take off your clothes—and we’ll search some more. Which do you prefer?”
Dooley’s supervisor glanced disapprovingly at the long line at Dooley’s aisle. Dooley got the message and tried to step it up.
“The key, sir?”
The young man fidgeted. Dooley nodded to a couple of other customs agents, who had been leaning against a square pillar. They stepped eagerly to the front of Dooley’s line.
“Okay, okay. I’m not hiding anything. Let me see if I can get this open.” The Malaysian played with the latches on the Samsonite and it popped open. “Go ahead, see for yourself. Just clothes and some junk I brought back from Singapore.”
“Do you live in Singapore?” Dooley asked as he picked through underwear, socks, snapshots, toothpaste, a packet of condoms.
“No, I live here in Frisco,” said the young man. “Lived here since I was ten. My father still lives in Singapore. I got two brothers there, too. I go back five or six times a year.”
This was the talking phase. Dooley smiled to himself. He took his time. It was here somewhere.
“I’m a chef,” the young man volunteered. His eyes were glued to Dooley’s hands, sifting and exploring. “It’s a Chinese joint off Market Street. Li-Siu’s. Have you been there? I make good money. And I send half of it home every month—”
“What’s this?”
“Film. Kodak film.”
Dooley studied the two yellow packages. The end flaps of one were creased, and off square from the carton.
“I bought those here, before I left.”
“Really?”
“I didn’t take as many pictures as I thought I would.” The Malaysian grinned nervously.
Dooley opened one of the film cartons and removed the black plastic containers. He snapped one of the caps and looked inside. The two agents behind him edged closer. The Chinese man, waiting in the customs line, craned his neck to get a glimpse.
Dooley showed the inside of the canister to the two agents. Gingerly he probed with his pinky finger; it came out covered with what looked like flour. Dooley tasted it with the tip of his tongue. Then he popped the top back on the container.
“Heroin,” he said.
“No!” exclaimed the young Malaysian. “You’re kidding.”
“High-speed film, all right,” one of the agents growled.
The Malaysian was led away, squirming. A third agent appeared and confiscated the Samsonite and the film packages.
“Sorry for the delay, folks,” Lance Dooley said to the rest of the passengers. “We’ll move right along now. Next?”
The Chinese man wrestled his huge suitcase to the conveyor belt. Quickly, almost frantically, he opened the latches.
Dooley looked at the passport. “You are returning from the People’s Republic of China. Is that right, Dr. Wang?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Says here you’ve got some scrolls and some pottery.” Dooley was reading from the customs declaration form.
“That’s right.”
“Worth about?”
“One hundred dollars. Approximately.”
Dooley opened the suitcase. The scrolls were on top—inexpensive but delicately painted wall hangings. You could find them all over the place on Fisherman’s Wharf.
The pottery had been carefully wrapped in several layers of Chinese newspaper. Each piece was packed for protection between stacks of clothing. Dooley unearthed two large parcels.
“Vases.”
“I’ll be careful with them, Dr. Wang.” Dooley peeled the newspaper away, making a lame effort not to rip it.
Cobalt dragons writhed on the body of each vase, beneath a crest of ornate blue scrolling, a field of peonies and, nesting there, a mallard. The vases were identical.
“Very nice,” remarked Lance Dooley.
“Imitations, I’m afraid, but lovely bookends. For my office at the university.”
“How much did these cost?” Dooley asked.
“Sixty-five dollars. A tourist shop in Peking.”
Dooley set the vases on the conveyor belt, next to the suitcase. “Dr. Wang, could I see the sales receipt for these?”
“Certainly, it should be right here.” He sorted through a billfold. “That’s odd. I can’t find it. See here—the receipt for the scrolls—”
Dooley gave it a cursory glance and handed it back.
“I keep all the receipts in the same place. It must be here … “
“Do you recall the name of the store?”
“No … no, I don’t. But it was printed on the receipt.”
Dooley’s boss shot him another glare from the next aisle. “Lance you got another one?”
“No, sir.” Dooley could take a hint. Quickly he rewrapped the vases in their paper cocoons and placed them back in the suitcase.
“Where is your final destination, Dr. Wang?”
“Ohio. Pittsville. My flight doesn’t leave until tomorrow. I can search for the receipts this evening … “
“That won’t be necessary,” Dooley said. “How long were you in China?”
“Three weeks, approximately. Eighteen days, I think.”
“Have a good trip home, Dr. Wang. Next, please.”
Later, on his lunch break, Dooley sat down at a video display terminal in a small gray office and typed the name and passport number of David Wang into a U.S. government computer. He also typed the port of entry, the date of entry and his own identification number. On the single line allotted for general remarks, Dooley typed: “Queried China pottery/ blue-and-white vases (2).”
Dooley pressed the “store” button, and turned his attention—and the remainder of his lunch hour—to the mountain of paperwork generated by the capture of the Malaysian scag mule.
Danny Bodine stuffed his hands in his pockets as he stood in the doorway of the Dong Fang Hotel. Outside a hard gray rain pelted the city of Canton. Things could be worse, he told himself. It was the typhoon season. Traffic crawled on the slick streets and bicycle riders pedaled at double speed, their heads wrapped in newspaper or crinkly plastic rain hats. Everywhere people clustered in doorways, waiting for a break in the downpour.
Maureen and Pam had scheduled an excursion to White Cloud Mountain. Danny had hired a cab for the trip—but there would be no sightseeing today.
A cargo ship docking on the Pearl River sounded its horn, piercing the shroud of rain. Danny was afraid his wife was about to suggest a trip to another museum.
“Let’s go to a teahouse,” he said, a preemptory strike.
“For lunch? I’m hungry, Danny.”
“Me, too.” It was Pam, Maureen’s sister, fresh from her morning makeup marathon. She looked pretty damn good, Danny had to admit.
From somewhere out in the rain, a bedraggled American came bounding up the steps of the Dong Fang. He excused himself as he passed Danny, Maureen and Pam in the doorway. Pam watched him in the lobby, his blond hair matted and dripping. He wore thin, ill-fitting cotton clothes.
“Wonder where he’s been,” she said.
“One of those swell tailor shops near the river,” Danny said.
“Be nice,” said Maureen. “Maybe he’s with a church group.”
As Danny had feared, the three of them wound up at the Guangdong Provincial Museum.
When they returned to the Dong Fang three hours later, the American stranger was still in the lobby. Danny and Maureen paid no attention and went up to the room, but Pam sat down next to him in a high-backed leather chair. “What are you reading?”
“Oh, just travel brochures,” said Tom Stratton, smiling. “It’s all I could find.”
“Are you a tourist, too?”
“Sort of.”
“We came from Denver—me, my sister and her husband. He works for an oil company that’s got an office in Hong Kong. He’ll be there a couple of months, I guess. Maureen and I are going back to the States day after tomorrow.”
“Oh? I am too,” Stratton said. “Are you at this hotel?”
Pam nodded. She liked his smile, but he looked—well, like he’d come off a three-day bender. In Denver she’d never approach a man who looked quite so worn out, but this wasn’t Denver.
“I’m on the eighth floor,” Stratton lied. “Eight twelve.”
“We’re in seven eighteen,” Pam said, then added, for clarification, “It’s quite a big suite.”
Stratton told her that he taught art history. Predictably, she had never heard of the college. “It’s a small place,” Stratton explained, “but very peaceful.”
“It sounds nice,” Pam said. She was thinking about the flight home; maybe they could sit together, she and her new friend, if Maureen wouldn’t mind.
“What oil company does your brother-in-law work for?”
“Rocky Mountain Energy Corporation,” Pam said. “Danny’s a vice-president. I don’t think he’s too crazy about Asia, though. He’s heavy into domestic shale.”
“Oh.”
“What are you doing for dinner?”
Stratton shrugged. “Nothing special.”
“Why don’t you join us, Tom? We’re all going to the Ban Xi. Have you ever tried quail eggs?”
Stratton shook his head.
“It’s supposed to be a beautiful restaurant. You can eat on a houseboat. Danny won’t mind if you come—he’d kill for some male company.”
“That’s very nice. I could use some company, too.” Stratton caught her glance after he said it. “What time?”
“We’ll meet you here at about seven, okay?”
“How about if I meet you at the restaurant? I’m waiting for a telex. Besides, it’ll take me a while to clean up.”
“Fine, we’ll see you there about seven thirty.” Pam stood up and said brightly, “Maybe the rain’ll stop by then.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Stratton, hating himself.
He snuck into the People’s Republic’s only hotel sauna and baked for ninety minutes. The heat was luxurious, soporific; wisps of steam curled off the tiles. The grit and dust of Man-ling washed away. Stratton closed his eyes; as exhausted as he was, he could not even doze. Training—that’s where the feeling came from. Pack your gun and put your conscience in a drawer.
And love? Where do you put that?No training needed. It just happened. It can even happen when you are fighting for your life.
The ache in Stratton’s belly was more than simply hunger.
In the unsprung jeep, they had embraced clumsily, kissing, chattering toward calm after the dispensary confrontation.
“But why, Thom-as? Why? If the young man knew who you were, why did he not say so?”
“I’llnever ask him, but I can guess.”
“Tell me.”
“I’d rather kiss you. I think you are wonderful.”
“No more kisses until you tell me.”
“Let’s say the rag boy—now the young teacher—has given a lot of careful consideration to what happened that night, like I have, and the policeman. I think he came to realize over the years that he was a dead man who had been reprieved by one of the evil invaders he had denounced.”
“So he lied.”
“I think he was trying to apologize.”
“And the fat old policeman. He—”
Stratton stopped her with a kiss.
“Kangmei, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I want to talk about you, and about me. About us. I love you. Please come with me.”
She ran cat’s-paw fingertips across his jaw.
“I must try to do what I believe is right, my brave Thom-as. Would you respect me if I did not?”
“Respect! I’m talking about love. I want you with me. I need you.”
“And I you. But I must try. And I must think. Perhaps one day I will see that you are right; that, as you say, harmony between a man and a woman is really what is most important.”
“And then?”
She smiled.
“And then I will confess to you what I feel now, but must resist: that I, too, am empty without you.”
“If that happens, will you tell me, please?”
“Yes, I will tell you. I promise.”
“I will come back to get you.”
“No, Thom-as.”
“Why not, damn it?”
“Because.” She squeezed him tight enough to hurt and bit playfully at his ear. “Because,” she murmured, “I do not wish to witness a war between our two countries.”
The train was waiting. At the station, like a schoolboy fighting a curfew, he had scribbled his address on the back of a yellowed old timetable.
“Write to me, please.”
“I love you, Thom-as.”
A smiling conductor who spoke only with a warning finger at his lips led Stratton to a darkened soft-class compartment and locked the door.
All the way to Canton the rails whispered her name.