A Death in China by Carl Hiaasen, William D Montalbano Page A

a mistake.”
    “They’ve got a car,” Weatherby said dramatically.
    Stratton walked out of the lobby and down the steps. A jet-black Red Flag limousine was parked in front of the hotel. Two cadres in starched blue uniforms stood near the front bumper, talking in whispers. At the sight of Stratton, they turned and bowed slightly, from the neck, in unison. When the cadres looked up, they wore official smiles.
    “Where is your luggage, Professor?”
    “On its way to Xian.”
    “Oh. Very bad.” The taller of the two wore thick eyeglasses set in heavy black frames. His teeth were crooked and yellow.
    The other cadre, a plump young man with fat rubbery lips, said, “Mr. Stratton, we came to take you to airport.”
    “But I’m going to Xian by train. With my group.”
    The cadres conferred, brisk Mandarin whispers.
    “We take you to airport,” repeated Crooked Teeth, unsmiling. “Plane leaves for America.”
    In Chinese, Miss Sun asked, “Where are you?”—the equivalent of an American, “Who do you work for?”
    “Ministry of Culture,” Fat Lips replied curtly, and then again in English for Tom Stratton’s benefit. “Deputy Minister Wang Bin sent us.” And then more, to the tour guide, in Mandarin.
    “He says you are scheduled to fly back to America with the body of your friend,” Miss Sun said to Stratton. “I very sorry, Professor. I did not know of this tragedy. I did not know that the deputy minister had made this request of you.”
    “Miss Sun—” Stratton began.
    “Comrade says your plane leaves soon,” she said. “I’ll get your suitcase from the bus—”
    “No!” Stratton said. “Miss Sun, please tell the comrades that I sent a message to Deputy Minister Wang this morning, informing him of my change in plans. The U.S. Embassy was notified at the same time. Everything is fine. I don’t wish to leave China today. I wish to stay with the group.”
    Miss Sun translated. Fat Lips frowned and traded glances with his partner. They replied breathlessly, together: This is a most urgent matter. The deputy minister is anxious. Mr. Stratton is expected at the airport soon; we know nothing of any messages to the embassy. Our task is to take the professor to the plane. There is no other choice.
    Miss Sun understood. “Wei,” she said neutrally, and walked away.
    Stratton saw that the other Americans were filing into the Toyota bus for the ride to the train station. From a window seat in the first row, Alice Dempsey glowered out at him.
    “We take you to airport,” Crooked Teeth announced with cheerfulnesss. “Come now.”
    “No,” Tom Stratton insisted. The cadres were well trained in the Chinese art of stubbornness. The next stratagem, he knew, would be guilt. Americans were suckers when it came to guilt.
    “We must go,” Fat Lips said worriedly. “It would be bad not to go, Professor.”
    “Arrangements are ready for you,” the other cadre added. “The deputy minister—”
    “It’s impossible, comrades. Thanks just the same, but my bus is about to leave.” Stratton turned away and hurried along the sidewalk. The green minibus was idling. The driver tapped on the horn three times.
    “Coming!” Stratton shouted, breaking into a trot.
    Then he felt an arm on his sleeve. Angrily, he whirled to face Crooked Teeth. The other cadre jogged a few steps behind, puffing.
    “Come now,” Crooked Teeth said. This time is was a command, and there was nothing polite about it.
    “What is this?” Stratton demanded.
    Inside the tour bus, the Americans watched the confrontation with shock. Stratton towered over the cadres, shouting down into their impassive faces.
    “Fuck off!” is what he said.
    “My God,” sighed Alice Dempsey.
    “He’s nothing but a troublemaker,” mumbled Walter Thomas. “He’s going to spoil this for all of us.”
    “He’s a little upset, that’s all,” Weatherby said. “He’s just upset about his friend.”
    The other Americans craned for a glimpse of their