A Death in China by Carl Hiaasen, William D Montalbano Read Free Book Online

report from Wang Bin’s office.”
    As proof, Powell displayed a file folder. “You’re probably wondering what happened to Professor Wang’s personal effects.” Powell rose. “Come with me. We’ll do our own inventory.”
    The two men walked to a cordoned-off area of the embassy building. Powell flashed a plastic identification card at a Marine guard, who opened a gate to a stale vault. The consul used a tiny key to spring a metal drawer on a bottom row of locked cabinets. He removed three paper bags. Each had been marked in black ink: “D. Wang, Pittsville, Ohio.”
    “The Chinese authorities collected these from Professor Wang’s room. They may have overlooked a couple of things, but I think you’ll find most of Dr. Wang’s valuables are intact.”
    Stratton dumped the contents on a small table in a dimly lit corner of the vault: underwear, shirts, pants, a white sun visor, an extra pair of eyeglasss, a Nikon 35-mm camera, a bottle of Excedrin, three tombstone etchings on rice paper, four books about China and Chinese dialects, three rolls of unused film and a shaving kit.
    “Wasn’t there a suitcase?”
    “I suppose it was just too large for the drawer,” Powell said. “Does everything else seem in order?”
    “No,” said Stratton. “Where is David’s journal? He always wrote in a thick diary with a leather binding.”
    “His brother has it. Wang Bin asked us for permission to read through David’s writings. We saw no reason to object. He has promised to return the journal before the body is sent to the States.”
    Stratton said, “And David’s passport?”
    Powell adjusted his glasses and pawed through the items on the table. The Marine stood stiffly at the door of the vault, his back toward the two men.
    “It’s not here?” Powell asked lamely.
    “No.” Stratton watched the consul’s composure drain. The cool eyes fluttered.
    “It must be here,” Powell said. “Something so important.”
    “What are the regulations in a case like this?”
    “Our regulations, or theirs?” Powell grumbled as he fished in the empty pockets of David Wang’s neatly folded trousers. “Jesus, this is unbelievable. Just what I need. You say you went through the room as well?”
    “Nothing much,” Stratton said. “Socks, handkerchiefs. What happens if you can’t find the passport?”
    Powell had given up. He stuffed the sad remnants of David Wang’s life into the paper bags. “Well, if we can’t find it, then I have to write a report. That’s about it. I’ll have a few forms to fill out.” He eyed Stratton with annoyance. “What should happen? I mean, Christ, the man’s dead, isn’t he? He doesn’t need a passport anymore. A corpse travels on a bill of lading.”
    Back at the consul’s office, Stratton waited while Powell checked another office for David Wang’s passport. Stratton sat in a chair directly across from Powell’s empty desk; there was a different file on top now. It was light blue. Stratton could see his own name on the tab. Instantly, he reached for it.
    “Sir?” A woman’s voice, behind him. “Sir, please don’t. That’s confidential, for Mr. Powell only.”
    Stratton faced a young woman who had emerged from an adjoining office. She had long auburn hair and brown eyes, and wore a dark blue dress with a round white collar. “You don’t have to sneak a peek,” she teased. “You know what’s in there. Want some coffee?”
    “Please.” When she came back—”Watch it now, the cup’s very hot”—Stratton asked, “Where did that file come from?”
    “Washington. By telex. It’s routine. It would please both governments to know that the person we’re sending home with Dr. Wang’s remains is not a smuggler or a thief or a fugitive of some sort. It’s just a routine check.”
    “That’s a pretty thick file,” Stratton noted, “for routine.” The coffee was much too hot to drink, but it smelled glorious.
    “You’re a war hero,” she said. “The Pentagon