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

first time in nearly fifty years, I wept. So did he, although Chinese do not display their emotions publicly. Americans are much more open about that, aren’t they?”
    “Yes, I suppose so.”
    “As David—that was not my brother’s given name, but that is what he asked me to call him—as David may have told you, I was unfortunately not in Peking when he arrived, but in Xian, a city in the west. Do you know it?”
    Stratton shook his head.
    “A beautiful city where the emperors lived when Peking was still just a village. So David flew to Xian and there we reunited. We wept, and laughed, and at night after dinner we would go to his room, drink tea and remember; be little boys again.”
    “Did he show any signs of being sick?” Stratton asked.
    “Only the excitement, at first. But then, perhaps it was the day before we returned to Peking, he complained of pains in his chest. We sat for a while and then continued our walk; we were in a park. He took a little pill, I think, and when I asked him if something was wrong, he laughed and said he had some trouble with his heart, but that it was not serious. His doctor had joked, David said, that the problem was just grave enough for him to take two or three little pills a day for the next forty years.”
    “I hadn’t known that,” Stratton said.
    “Well, he tried to do too much, you see. He was so excited about being in China again and being with me. He tried to do too much, rushing everywhere. I tried to slow him down, but you know how David was … “
    “Yes. Were you with him the last night?”
    “At the beginning. Some of my colleagues here had arranged a special banquet for us in honor of my brother—a Peking duck banquet. You will forgive my patriotism, Professor Stratton, but I am assured by men who know that Peking duck is the single finest dish in the world. It is also, for Chinese people, quite expensive. My brother and I were both moved by my colleagues’ gesture. It was a wonderful meal, one I shall remember always. Afterwards, I went with David back to his hotel, but I did not join him for tea. I had a meeting.”
    Wang Bin’s eyes again strayed to the ceiling.
    “Someone came for me there to say that David had been stricken. I rushed to the hospital, but the comrade doctors said he was dead when he arrived. Heart, they said.”
    “I’m sorry,” said Stratton.
    “Your embassy has inquired about David’s passport. The comrades at the hospital told me that intravenous solution had spilled on the passport during the attempt to save David. An apprentice, not knowing what it was, threw it away. He will be punished.”
    Stratton sipped some of his own tea. He had the overwhelming sensation that he was being lied to, fed a carefully contrived script. But what was the lie? And, more important, why?
    “Tell me about America, Professor Stratton.”
    The request caught Stratton off guard.
    “Well, how—I mean—what would you like to know?”
    “I would like to know something of the truth, something between the lies of the Revolution and the lies of the American Embassy. It is not often that a senior Chinese official may speak frankly with an American without someone present to listen.”
    Better natural access than any of us will ever get, Linda Greer had said. Well, why not?
    “I am partial, of course, Comrade Minister, but it is one of the few places on earth where a man is actually free. Think what you like. Do what you like. Which is not to say that it is a nation without problems. Many people never think at all, and even more talk without having anything to say. It is a beautiful and powerful and vigorous and violent country.”
    “Yes, I have always admired the vigor without understanding the violence.”
    “You must come to visit.”
    “I would like that, but my duties here and”—his hand waved at the window, toward the Communist Party headquarters across the massive square—”elsewhere do not permit it. But tell me about my brother’s