A Death in China (28 page)

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 of China’s archaeological discoveries and the museums that display them.

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In November, Stratton won permission from a bemused college administration, which had regarded him as a popular underachiever, 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’ll 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 goodbye. He walked back to his desk and opened the middle drawer. The envelope was stained, dogeared. 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.”

About the Authors

One of the first group of American reporters to be based in China since World War II, William D. Montalbano served as Peking bureau chief of the Knight-Ridder Newspaper chain from 1979 to 1981. Montalbano, forty-three, has reported from more than fifty countries on five continents and is regarded as one of the foremost authorities on Latin America in the United States press. He is now El Salvador Bureau Chief for the Los Angeles Times. His major awards include the Ernie Pyle, Tom Wallace, and Overseas Press Club Awards, and the Maria Moors Cabot Prize.

Carl Hiaasen, thirty-one, is an investigative reporter for the Miami Herald. In 1981, he was part of a Herald reporting team that won two national journalism awards for a series of articles about smuggling and corruption in Key West. His reporting honors also include the Heywood Broun and National Headliner’s Awards.

Montalbano and Hiaasen are also coauthors of the novels, Powder Burn and Trap Line.