Perplexed, Stratton cycled slowly back to his own hotel. He had been lied to. Of that he was certain. Hook Nose had known something about "the Wang man" that he had chosen not to tell. Why would a hotel in Peking deny the presence of a guest?
Stratton was still thinking about it when he got back to his room.
The phone was ringing as he walked in.
"David?"
It was not David.
"Mr. Stratton, this is Steve Powell, at the consulate."
"Oh, hello. I went to the hotel and they claimed never to have heard of any David Wang-"
Powell interrupted brusquely.
"Mr. Stratton, I am sorry to have to tell you this. David Wang is dead."
CHAPTER 3
Tom Stratton could smell the smoke. He could taste the cordite. He could see the gray shape, feel its struggle, hear its scream. He could sense the impatient clatter of the helicopter, hovering, waiting, anxious to be gone. Fire. Run. Run to the chopper, its rope ladder slowly dangling, the only lifeline he would ever get. Drop. Fire. Run from a black night and a devil-scorched patch of earth, all memory and no meaning.
Run, captain. Rope swaying. Lungs burning. Side burning as the black medic cut away the cloth and applied a salve. Eyes burning, exhaustion and shame, in the cramped cabin of a blacked-out aircraft carrier.
"You're sure there were no prisoners?" A man, a colonel, trying to be professional, sounding only disheartened.
"No POWs." A dirt-poor commune with a PLA company stationed on its fringes.
"Intelligence was so damn sure about the prisoners. They said there were American prisoners."
"Not anymore."
"How did they get on to you?"
"We made a mistake."
"Your team?"
"Gone, all gone."
"How long did they have you?"
"Not long."
"Bad?"
"Real bad."