money. The motive wasn’t robbery, then.
Outside again. Breathe deeply . Inhale: one, two, three four, five . Exhale: one, two, three, four, five . Again. Gradually, her breathing returned to normal, and her heart stopped fluttering like a caged bird in her chest.
Overhead, one of the big black birds she had seen circling over the foothills soared on an updraft from the valley floor. Though it had looked small from a distance, she now realized that it was enormous; its wingspread must have been well over six feet. She also realized from its great hooked beak what kind of bird it was.
A vulture.
It was Orecchio who notified public security, which was the Chinese equivalent of the police. He’d offered to jog back to the guest house, and called from there. A young police officer named Ho wearing a dirty white-jacketed uniform met them in the guest house reception room shortly after their return. He had a thin black mustache which Charlotte assumed was supposed to look William Powell-ish, but actually looked more like a pair of tadpoles having a tête-à-tête under his nose. The reception room was identical to all the others they had visited in China—at the art museum in Shanghai, at the cloisonné factory in Guangzhou, at the embroidery shop in Beijing: brass spittoons in the corners; photographs of a smiling Zhou Enlai and a stone-faced Hua Guofeng on the walls; and overstuffed chairs clad in ill-fitting slipcovers, the back and arms protected by crocheted doilies, spaced with geometric precision around the perimeter of the room. A large floor fan in one corner whirred, creating the illusion of coolness. They each took a chair: their party of six; Ho, looking appropriately officious; and his earnest young assistant, who had slightly crossed eyes that blinked every few seconds, like those of a turtle basking in the sunshine. After a few minutes, they were joined by Chu, who wore a dark gray Mao suit that matched the frames of his heavy, thick-lensed eyeglasses as well as his hair, which stood up stiffly in the severe style favored by the cadres, as Party officials were called. He held a cigarette between the thumb and forefinger of his one remaining hand, like a gangster in a Grade B gangster movie. Occasionally, he leaned back to spit into a cuspidor in the corner behind him. As they all drank steaming cups of bitter green tea from lidded cups, Ho asked a few questions: the name of the victim, the location of the camp, the purpose of their visit. Then, after notifying them that he would probably want to talk with them again, he got into a police jeep and sped off into the desert toward the Mountain of the Three Dangers.
The interview was disappointing. Charlotte had the feeling that something more should have happened. The police didn’t seem to care. To them, Larry was just another foreign national who had had the temerity to inconvenience them by being murdered on Chinese soil. Never mind that he was a Fiske, that he was a paleontologist from Yale, that he was a man of vigor and imagination. That didn’t mean anything to them. After the interview, there was little else to do but carry on. They adjourned to the dining hall for lunch, but Larry’s murder had robbed them of their appetites. And the few bites they were able to get down were interrupted every few minutes by the other guests. The word was out that an American paleontologist had been, murdered in the desert, and foreigners and Chinese alike were curious. The waiters stood around in little knots at the edges of the room, looking on as the other guests came forward with their questions. When did it happen? What’s going to happen next? Who will conduct the investigation? The Only person who was able to reply to any of them was Peter, whose years of foreign travel had left him with a good knowledge of official procedure in such situations. The investigation would be conducted by the Chinese police, he told them. The State Department had no authority to
Outside again. Breathe deeply . Inhale: one, two, three four, five . Exhale: one, two, three, four, five . Again. Gradually, her breathing returned to normal, and her heart stopped fluttering like a caged bird in her chest.
Overhead, one of the big black birds she had seen circling over the foothills soared on an updraft from the valley floor. Though it had looked small from a distance, she now realized that it was enormous; its wingspread must have been well over six feet. She also realized from its great hooked beak what kind of bird it was.
A vulture.
It was Orecchio who notified public security, which was the Chinese equivalent of the police. He’d offered to jog back to the guest house, and called from there. A young police officer named Ho wearing a dirty white-jacketed uniform met them in the guest house reception room shortly after their return. He had a thin black mustache which Charlotte assumed was supposed to look William Powell-ish, but actually looked more like a pair of tadpoles having a tête-à-tête under his nose. The reception room was identical to all the others they had visited in China—at the art museum in Shanghai, at the cloisonné factory in Guangzhou, at the embroidery shop in Beijing: brass spittoons in the corners; photographs of a smiling Zhou Enlai and a stone-faced Hua Guofeng on the walls; and overstuffed chairs clad in ill-fitting slipcovers, the back and arms protected by crocheted doilies, spaced with geometric precision around the perimeter of the room. A large floor fan in one corner whirred, creating the illusion of coolness. They each took a chair: their party of six; Ho, looking appropriately officious; and his earnest young assistant, who had slightly crossed eyes that blinked every few seconds, like those of a turtle basking in the sunshine. After a few minutes, they were joined by Chu, who wore a dark gray Mao suit that matched the frames of his heavy, thick-lensed eyeglasses as well as his hair, which stood up stiffly in the severe style favored by the cadres, as Party officials were called. He held a cigarette between the thumb and forefinger of his one remaining hand, like a gangster in a Grade B gangster movie. Occasionally, he leaned back to spit into a cuspidor in the corner behind him. As they all drank steaming cups of bitter green tea from lidded cups, Ho asked a few questions: the name of the victim, the location of the camp, the purpose of their visit. Then, after notifying them that he would probably want to talk with them again, he got into a police jeep and sped off into the desert toward the Mountain of the Three Dangers.
The interview was disappointing. Charlotte had the feeling that something more should have happened. The police didn’t seem to care. To them, Larry was just another foreign national who had had the temerity to inconvenience them by being murdered on Chinese soil. Never mind that he was a Fiske, that he was a paleontologist from Yale, that he was a man of vigor and imagination. That didn’t mean anything to them. After the interview, there was little else to do but carry on. They adjourned to the dining hall for lunch, but Larry’s murder had robbed them of their appetites. And the few bites they were able to get down were interrupted every few minutes by the other guests. The word was out that an American paleontologist had been, murdered in the desert, and foreigners and Chinese alike were curious. The waiters stood around in little knots at the edges of the room, looking on as the other guests came forward with their questions. When did it happen? What’s going to happen next? Who will conduct the investigation? The Only person who was able to reply to any of them was Peter, whose years of foreign travel had left him with a good knowledge of official procedure in such situations. The investigation would be conducted by the Chinese police, he told them. The State Department had no authority to
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