Stratton walked out of the lobby and down the steps. A jet-black Red Flag limousine was parked in front of the hotel. Two cadres in starched blue uniforms stood near the front bumper, talking in whispers. At the sight of Stratton, they turned and bowed slightly, from the neck, in unison. When the cadres looked up, they wore official smiles.
"Where is your luggage, Professor?"
"On its way to Xian."
"Oh. Very bad." The taller of the two wore thick eyeglasses set in heavy black frames. His teeth were crooked and yellow.
The other cadre, a plump young man with fat rubbery lips, said, "Mr. Stratton, we came to take you to airport."
"But I'm going to Xian by train. With my group."
The cadres conferred, brisk Mandarin whispers.
"We take you to airport," repeated Crooked Teeth, unsmiling. "Plane leaves for America."
In Chinese, Miss Sun asked, "Where are you?"-the equivalent of an American, "Who do you work for?"
"Ministry of Culture," Fat Lips replied curtly, and then again in English for Tom Stratton's benefit. "Deputy Minister Wang Bin sent us." And then more, to the tour guide, in Mandarin.
"He says you are scheduled to fly back to America with the body of your friend,"
Miss Sun said to Stratton. "I very sorry, Professor. I did not know of this tragedy. I did not know that the deputy minister had made this request of you."
"Miss Sun-" Stratton began.
"Comrade says your plane leaves soon," she said. "I'll get your suitcase from the bus-"
"No!" Stratton said. "Miss Sun, please tell the comrades that I sent a message to Deputy Minister Wang this morning, informing him of my change in plans. The U.S. Embassy was notified at the same time. Everything is fine. I don't wish to leave China today. I wish to stay with the group."
Miss Sun translated. Fat Lips frowned and traded glances with his partner. They replied breathlessly, together: This is a most urgent matter. The deputy minister is anxious. Mr. Stratton is expected at the airport soon; we know nothing of any messages to the embassy. Our task is to take the professor to the plane. There is no other choice.
Miss Sun understood. "Wei," she said neutrally, and walked away.
Stratton saw that the other Americans were filing into the Toyota bus for the ride to the train station. From a window seat in the first row, Alice Dempsey glowered out at him.
"We take you to airport," Crooked Teeth announced with cheerfulnesss. "Come now."
"No," Tom Stratton insisted. The cadres were well trained in the Chinese art of stubbornness. The next stratagem, he knew, would be guilt. Americans were suckers when it came to guilt.
"We must go," Fat Lips said worriedly. "It would be bad not to go, Professor."
"Arrangements are ready for you," the other cadre added. "The deputy minister-"
"It's impossible, comrades. Thanks just the same, but my bus is about to leave."
Stratton turned away and hurried along the sidewalk. The green minibus was idling. The driver tapped on the horn three times.
"Coming!" Stratton shouted, breaking into a trot.
Then he felt an arm on his sleeve. Angrily, he whirled to face Crooked Teeth.
The other cadre jogged a few steps behind, puffing.
"Come now," Crooked Teeth said. This time is was a command, and there was nothing polite about it.
"What is this?" Stratton demanded.
Inside the tour bus, the Americans watched the confrontation with shock.
Stratton towered over the cadres, shouting down into their impassive faces.
"Fuck off!" is what he said.
"My God," sighed Alice Dempsey.
"He's nothing but a troublemaker," mumbled Walter Thomas. "He's going to spoil this for all of us."
"He's a little upset, that's all," Weatherby said. "He's just upset about his friend."
The other Americans craned for a glimpse of their colleague haggling with the government cadres. Miss Sun quickly moved to the front of the bus and whispered to the driver: "Go now."
As the tour departed for the railway station, Alice Dempsey saw Stratton being guided down the sidewalk toward the limousine, a resolute Chinese at each elbow.
"I missed the fucking bus," Stratton was growling. "Get your hands off me, comrades."
"All is arranged," Crooked Teeth said as they walked.
Stratton sneaked a backward glance over his right shoulder as the minibus turned down Dongdan Street and disappeared. Fat Lips slipped away from Stratton's side long enough to open the door to the cavernous Red Flag.
"Okay," said Fat Lips, with a shove.
"No okay," said Stratton, uncorking a nasty left jab that snapped flush in the cadre's face. Fat Lips fell backward like a domino. His head cracked on the rear fender.
Instantly, Stratton stumbled forward, gasping. His right side cramped from a kidney punch; he caught himself with both hands on the Red Flag and spun around.
Crooked Teeth coiled in a crouch, snarling. His cap was on the pavement. Other Chinese pressed in a growing circle, yammering excitedly. The fight did not last long.
Crooked Teeth feinted a punch, then spun forward on one leg, aiming a powerful kick at Stratton's neck. It was a prosaic maneuver, and Stratton deflected it from memory. Deftly, he seized the cadre's ankle in midair, and seemed to hold him there-flustered and grunting-before delivering a decisive punch to the poor man's testicles. Crooked Teeth fell in a blue heap, bug-eyed, semiconscious.
Instinct warned Stratton to run, but he could hardly move. The bystanders formed a wall-hundreds of them, packed shoulder to shoulder in front of the hotel. Soon the police would arrive.
Sideways, Stratton edged through the heaving crowd with deliberate slowness.
Stratton resolved to keep calm, to stop the fear from reaching his eyes, where people could see it. Obviously, the Chinese in the street were confused; some hastily moved out of the tall American's path, while others stood firm, scolding. The worst thing would be to run, Stratton knew, so he held himself to a purposeful walk; a man with someplace to go.
After three blocks, Stratton appropriated an unlocked bicycle and aimed himself on a wobbly course toward Tienanmen Square. He had no map and very little time.
The Square was the heart of Peking, a central magnet, lousy with tourists.
Somebody there surely would be able to tell him the quickest way to the trains.
Inexorably, Stratton was drawn into a broad, slow-moving stream of bicycles. He had hoped that the clanging blue mass would swallow him and offer concealment-but his stature and blond hair betrayed him. Among the Chinese he shone like a beacon.
From somewhere a car honked, and the cycling throng parted grudgingly. Stratton dutifully guided the bike to the right side of the blacktop road. He heard the automobile approach and he slowed, expecting it to pass. Instead it lingered, coasting behind the two-wheeled caravan.
Puzzled, Stratton turned to look. It was the Red Flag limousine, so close he could feel the ripple of heat from its engine. Crooked Teeth was at the wheel, fingers taut on the rim; his battered eyeglasses were propped comically on his nose. He looked like Jerry Lewis.
Next to him sat Fat Lips, gingerly daubing a scarf to a gash on his forehead.
Neither of the cadres showed any anger, only eyes hardened in determination.
Stratton pedaled like a madman. He weaved and darted from street to sidewalk, stiff-arming cyclists who dawdled and elbowing himself a narrow, navigable track through the horde. The tin bells on a hundred sets of handlebars chirped furiously in protest as Stratton plowed through a lush pile of fresh cabbages.
In a racer's crouch, he doubled his speed, his chin to the bar. He gained precious yardage while the Red Flag braked and swerved, dodging Chinese pedestrians who had raced into the street to retrieve mangled vegetables.
Finally, Stratton broke free of the mob and barreled into the cobbled vastness of Tienanmen Square. Behind him the limousine came to a jerky stop on the perimeter road. The cadres got out and stood together, smaller and smaller as Stratton pedaled on.