A Death in China by Carl Hiaasen, William D Montalbano

wouldn’t go for it. All it did was get his antennae up.”
    The station chief, a gray-skinned man with baggy eyes and thin dark hair, nodded tiredly. “It was a risk,” he conceded. “And I take the responsibility.”
    Powell was getting frantic. “I don’t understand.”
    “It’s not important now,” the station chief said. “What is important is that Wang Bin is going to be pissed off at a time when we don’t want him pissed. He’s going to suggest that Mr. Stratton has offended the People’s Republic and is not so welcome here anymore. He’s going to want to know more about Mr. Stratton and we cannot afford to let him find out anything. Is that clear, Powell?”
    “Man-ling was a long time ago,” the consul remarked.
    “To the Chinese, it might as well have happened last night,” the station chief said sharply. He leaned back, waiting for another remark from the consul.
    “Steve, it’s a matter of lousy timing, that’s all,” Linda Greer intervened. “Stratton could have helped us with Wang Bin, but he didn’t want to. Now he’s headed off to the countryside, upset about his friend’s death, suspicious when there’s no reason to be—”
    “It was a goddamn heart attack!” Powell said in exasperation. “I told him, death by duck.”
    “I know,” Linda said.
    The station chief stood up. “Powell, see if you can smooth Wang Bin’s feathers. Apologize on behalf of the embassy. Tell him Stratton meant no offense. Offer a fucking dress guard of Marine escorts if you have to. And remember, we want the old guy to like us. Just in case.
    “Linda, you think your dinner friend will really stick with that tour group?”
    “I think so,” she answered coldly, trying not to blush. The Company kept track of everything, didn’t it?
    “Any other reason he’d go to Xian?” the station chief asked.
    “History,” Linda Greer replied. “That’s all.”
    The Americans piled their luggage on the steps of the Minzu Hotel. Stratton offered polite good-mornings to Alice Dempsey, Walter Thomas, and the other art historians who milled and paced and tested their cameras on passing Chinese. Naturally the gaggle of brightly dressed foreigners attracted a crowd outside the hotel, and Stratton was mildly embarrassed. He melted back into the lobby to wait for the bus.
    “Are you coming to Xian?” It was Miss Sun, the pert, ceaselessly cheerful tour guide.
    “Yes, I’m looking forward to it,” Stratton replied.
    “Yesterday you missed beautiful White Pagoda,” Miss Sun said. It was not a reprimand, but there was concern in her voice.
    “I’m sorry,” Stratton said. “I had a personal matter.”
    Miss Sun seemed embarrassed. “I did not mean to intrude in your business, Professor Stratton.”
    “It’s quite all right. Your English is coming along very well, Miss Sun. You’ve been practicing,” he said warmly.
    The tour guide smiled gratefully.
    “Tom’s going to be a good boy, aren’t you, Professor?” Alice Dempsey had a way of inserting herself into conversations that made Stratton want to punch her. “I promised Miss Sun I’d keep an eye on you at Xian, Tom. If you’d read the tour book, you’d know about the travel restrictions outside of Peking. Can’t just go roaming the hills, digging for pottery and chatting with the townsfolk. You’ll get us all in hot water.”
    Stratton scowled. “Don’t worry, Alice.”
    “Mr. Stratton?” A thin man with thick glasses and a fresh-bought Mao cap called out across the lobby. It was a man Stratton knew only as Weatherby, an art history teacher from a small college in San Francisco. Weatherby was delicate, anemic-looking; he approached in tiny, diffident steps.
    “Tom Stratton?”
    “Yes.”
    “There are two men out front who say they’ve come to pick you up,” Weatherby reported.
    “Here we go again,” Alice Dempsey muttered.
    “I do not understand,” Miss Sun said, her voice rising.
    “Me neither,” Stratton said. “There must be