The Last Mandarin (35 page)

Mutely Hao-lan reproached him. She was speechless. She tried to breathe, and managed only an airy sob.

“On your side of my seat, down on the floor there's a latch. Release it.”

Hao-lan groped. “It's up.”

“Now, that red handle left of your seat: pull it up.”

A rumble, a thud.

“Now put it back where it was. Not past that point.”

“Damn, damn!” she sobbed. “Now what? What happens now?”

“Why, we're in the air,” he said. “At this point the co-pilot usually kisses the pilot.”

Far back at the edge of the tarmac Feng and Kanamori stood astonished. “I always believed such machines rose directly and without interruption,” Feng said. “Apparently it was reluctant to leave the earth, as I too would be.”

“The bouncing is not customary,” Kanamori said.

“It was those automobiles,” Feng said. “Automobiles are a menace, and should be confined to foreign countries.”

“I would never have believed it,” Yen said softly.

The chubby captain groaned. “I am a policeman, not a human sacrifice. To feel such fear is belittling.”

The six men watched the aircraft rise and recede.

“We have lost,” Yen said.

“At least we have not lost the cars. Are there further orders?”

“Take me back to my car and those bodies,” Yen said. There remained a riddle or two.

“I gathered up these pistols,” Feng said. “One for you and one for me. You will instruct me in their operation and maintenance.”

Kanamori accepted Ming's short-barreled .38. He hefted it and snapped it open. The feel of it was familiar but saddening.

“What is this character here?” Feng asked.

Kanamori looked, and said, “Canada.”

“And what is Canada?”

“A place across the water. A cold place, near where the American lives.”

“A good omen,” Feng said.

The six policemen examined the two bodies. Yen groaned and muttered. He preferred order, regularity and brutalizing students.

“This must be reported,” the lieutenant said.

“I shall report it,” Yen said. “A complicated case, and now further complicated.”

“We must send for a meat wagon,” said the chubby captain.

“No. Pile them into the back seat of my car. Odd, odd. Two corpses and no weapons. A policeman with an empty holster. Do you know him?”

They did not. They dragged the bodies to Yen's car and loaded them.

“Stand by,” Yen said. “This spirit-cart is a lemon and unreliable.”

“A lemon?”

“That is a technical term,” Yen said, “for an automobile of fugitive moods.” He took his seat, turned the key and pressed the starter. The engine whined and coughed. Yen performed the customary rituals, banging and cursing, and tried again; the motor caught, even purred. “Perhaps my luck has turned. Well, thank you. It was a brave attempt.”

“We shall make our report.”

“By all means. I shall make mine, and commend you all.”

Bearing his grisly cargo he set his course for Peking. A gift for Sung Yun. He also had a question or two for Sung Yun. Perhaps the tycoon would reward silence, or tip Yen well for the delivery of these two cadavers. Another in the long series of unsolved crimes and mysteries that were called, in the aggregate, police work in Peking. Inspector Yen fails again, and is reassigned to a middle-school traffic crossing.

At the edge of the tarmac two coolies were walking hand in hand. Irritated, giving vent now to years of anger and days of frustration, Inspector Yen pressed the siren. The coolies leaped out of the way in alarm.

Yen felt gray within. Coolies. In a matter of days the whole city—Peking! Peking!—would be theirs.

“That was Inspector Yen,” Feng said, with the air of one who has traveled in the first circles.

“Yen!” Kanamori blinked like a tortoise. “I am a stranger to him, but he knows you.”

“Nobody sees the ricksha man,” Feng said. “But this Yen is a policeman, and he was present in the cemetery.”

Kanamori hissed.

Feng said, “Sooner or later he may … snoop.”

“Snoop.” Kanamori mulled this. “Well, we are now the custodians of the cemetery.”

“Indeed. Should this Yen come prowling, we must be faithful to our duties.”

“It would be a shame,” Kanamori said. “I am accustomed to peace.”

“A shame, yes. This Yen seems not as bad as some. Nevertheless, he is bad enough.”

“I know just the place to bury him,” Kanamori said.

40

Burnham flew at a few thousand feet, in the sweet solitude of his own heaven, with his own angel. His enemy now was a light head. He had survived on adrenaline and love, but the adrenaline was ebbing. “Talk to me. Keep me awake. I'm faint.”

“
I'm
supposed to faint.”

“Nonsense. You're a doctor and a car thief. And don't make fun of me. I've been shot. I suppose there's a first-aid kit, but I don't know where.”

“You need a psychiatrist.”

“The least you could do is carry aspirin.”

“You swore at me,” she said. “And you called me
woman
as if I were a domestic animal.”

“Tell you what: you be my domestic animal and I'll be yours. This damn arm! We can't even hold hands.”

“You must drive,” she said.

“If I put her on automatic pilot we could go back and lie down.”

“You're wounded. You're faint.”

“I am indeed. Keep talking. That reminds me: under one of these seats there ought to be a thermos bottle. Hot coffee.”

Hao-lan rummaged, and came up with an odd rubbery contraption. “What's this”

“A relief tube.”

“A man's world. Here, coffee! How did you know that?”

“Always. American aircraft run on high-octane coffee.”

“It tastes awful,” she said, “and this plane scares me. It's noisy. Creaks and clatters, and the wing flaps up and down.”

“That's called flex,” he said. “A famous aircraft. Squeaks and groans, runs rough, leaks oil. But it's the most forgiving plane in the air. You have to work hard to make an accident. Safety first is the Burnham motto.”

“I've noticed. You are not what I would call reassuring to be with.”

“I thought you cared,” Burnham grieved. “This always happens. I spend all my money and sexual energy, no sacrifice too great—”

“Can you think of nothing else?”

“Certainly,” he said woozily. “I am a man of the world with many and varied interests. We are now over the Yellow Sea. Passengers on the starboard side may look down and see Shantung, home of the world's most famous silk. We are flying at one thousand feet to avoid the waves. Our cruising speed is one hundred and ninety miles per hour. All gauges and dials are normal—at least those I recognize.”

“Stop babbling and breathe deeply.”

“Yes, Doctor. But speak to me from time to time.”

“This version is called the C-47,” he said affectionately, “but to us early barnstormers it will always be the DC-3. They used to carry whole fighter planes, with the wings slung below the fuselage and everything else inside, dismantled.”

“You really ought to shut up. How's your head?”

“Clear and light. I know I ought to shut up, but I'm afraid I'll snooze. Keep an eye on me. If I droop, whack me.”

“Oxygen!”

“Sorry. Maybe a walk-around bottle somewhere. I'll be all right. If I get sleepy we can sing some of the great old songs. ‘I was eatin some chop suey,'” he caroled, “‘with a lady from Saint Looie, when there come a sudden poundin at the door.' That's Yeats.”

“Stop it! Stop talking too. Just take deep regular breaths.”

“Yes ma'am.”

“It isn't over,” she muttered. “I know it isn't over. Something terrible will happen.”

“Well, we could ditch and drown. You only live about thirty seconds in that cold water down there.”

“Shut up. Where are we going?”

“To the first frozen bean field in Korea. Or a straight stretch of road without donkeys.”

“You mean we have to land this thing.”

“Nothing to it.” He grinned, goofy again. “My Christ, what a beautiful woman you are! Only a boor could fall asleep with a face like that beside him.” Her eyes warmed, and he fought to swallow his swelling heart.

“I have never seen a fatter, smugger, more imbecilic smile,” she said.

“I need a kiss.”

“Watch the road,” she said, but shortly relented.

Burnham dozed fitfully during the third hour. Hao-lan took the wheel, and read her own altimeter. “This is
fun!
”

“You'll have work to do when we land.” Flight instructor Burnham rehearsed her. Higher flights to come. We supply all transports, including the amorous. She repeated his commands like a cadet. “Better give me the wheel now.”

“Aw, why?”

“Company.”

She gasped. Four fighters, well apart, converged on them. “Shooting Stars,” he said. “Ours.” The fighters flanked them, two on each side, one on their level, one above.

“Radio,” she said. “Call them. Tell them who we are.”

“The hell with it. No free hand. They know who we are. We're Moran.” The Korean coast broke the horizon. Off his port wing a pilot waved: follow. Burnham acknowledged. The upper fighters shot forward and altered course, left about ten degrees. Burnham followed. They would not freeze to death in the Yellow Sea, and they would not need a long road or a farmer's bean patch. Soon he saw roads and farms. “Hell,” he said, “I just thought of something.”

“That girl with spots.”

“Oh, shut up. Was Yen killed?”

“I have no idea.”

“If he's still alive he's going to wonder about that cemetery.”

“Have faith,” she said. “Trust Feng.”

“A young man of sterling character and infinite resource. Just the same, I wish I knew.”

The F-80s led them to an airfield, a long, shiny modern airfield with a control tower and fire trucks. “A relief. I admit it. Never landed one of these, and I wasn't looking forward to some dried-up pig's wallow in the middle of my runway.”

“How's your head?”

“Clear as a bell, except for the customary exhilaration in the presence of my musky fox. Let's go to work now. I'll circle the field once, if they'll let me.” He banked and leveled. “Throttle back now. Slowly.” Lazily they went around. “Back a little more. Good.”

Hao-lan shifted the mix from auto lean to auto rich. Carburetor air cold. “Cold.” Fuel booster pumps on. “On.” RPM: “Twenty-two fifty.” Tail wheel locked. “Locked.” Parking brake off. “Now, that handle by your seat.”

“The landing gear control.”

“Terrific. Push it all the way down.” Again the rumble and thud. “Now back to neutral.”

“Neutral.”

“Now that latch over here. Slide it forward. Locked?”

“Locked.”

“Now look out your window.”

“I see the landing gear.”

“You don't say that. I told you. You say ‘I got a wheel.'”

“I got a wheel. Burnham, I
love
this.”

“I got a wheel too. You got a green light?”

“I got a green light.”

“Now that upper lever. Swing it out of the slot. I want it full down.”

“Flaps down.”

He turned carefully into his approach leg—too carefully. He overshot and corrected. “Speed ninety. Well, kid, all we got to do is land it. I thank the spirits of the middle air, and crave the indulgence of the spirits of the lower air.”

“Amen.”

They hopped, skipped and jumped a bit, and ran too far, but Burnham jammed on the brakes and they hauled up well short of ditches, rice paddies and interested spectators. He had Hao-lan turn off every switch in sight and cut a few himself. “Cheated death again. I'm tired.”

“You look like hell.”

“Damn little sleep this past while. Too old for sex.”

“Then I'm going back.”

They sat gazing ahead, as if some sacrament had been successfully administered and further orders from the gods were necessary. Slowly they became aware of motion and commotion outside: sirens, men at the run. “Uncle Sam really cares,” he said. “Look at that: trucks, jeeps, fire engines, lots of soldiers. Makes you feel all warm and squiggly inside.”

“No band,” she said. “I'm glad you came to China.”

“Wouldn't have missed it for the world.”

They stirred then, undid their seat belts, shared an easy kiss, filed past Moran and stood at the door, almost reluctant.

“They have guns,” he said. “You go first.”

“I can't marry a man who talks like that.”

“Got to now. We crossed a state line.”

“Stand aside,” she said, and wrenched at the lock.

The infantry were deployed in a semicircle, some kneeling, some prone. Fifty weapons bore on Burnham and Hao-lan. Outside the ring trucks and jeeps idled.

Two officers approached. “Take it easy, now,” one called.

“We're all right,” Burnham said. “You folks appear to be in some trouble.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Jack Burnham, American major.” A useful half-truth.

“You don't look like a major to me.”

“I'm on vacation. Also, I have a bullet in my arm.”

The captain wavered; he and the lieutenant holstered their .45s. “You look like an American and you talk like an American.” He wheeled: “Ground your arms!” Then: “Where's Moran?”

Burnham jerked a thumb. “In there. Dead. A riot at the airport. By the way, I want to thank his ground crew.”

“Dead? God damn it! These crazy countries! You want a doctor?”

“I got a doctor,” Burnham said. “What I need is a bellhop.”