Then came small voices. Dozens of them crying; "Buzhen! Buzhen!" Stop. And then Stratton remembered: Bicycling is strictly forbidden inside the great square.
Quickly he dismounted. He found himself in a sea of schoolchildren, dressed in blue and white uniforms with brilliant red scarves. They walked in formation, bright-eyed, singing, toward Mao's tomb, stealing secret glances at the tall foreigner with the Chinese bicycle. The youngsters had stopped shouting the moment Stratton dismounted. He smiled apologetically and set a course for the ornate main gate at the far end of the square. Looking back, he no longer could see the limousine. Perhaps his escorts finally had given up.
"You, mister!" A young Chinese waved at Stratton. A plastic badge identified him as a guide from the China International Travel Service.
"Please no ride bicycle in the Square," he said firmly.
"I'm very sorry," Stratton said. "I am late for a train. Can you tell me which way to the railway station?"
The young guide pointed east. "Left at the Tienanmen. About five blocks."
"Thank you."
"Where is your suitcase?" the guide asked.
"At the train. I overslept," Stratton said.
The guide eyed him curiously. "You need a ticket to enter the station."
"It's in my luggage." Stratton waved, moving off. "Thanks again."
"Is that your bicycle?" the guide called.
Stratton waved again and kept walking. His eyes fanned the crowds for a sign of the two cadres. The square was immense. Still, Stratton knew, he could hardly be invisible.
In the center of Tienanmen, at the Monument to the People's Heroes, a class of teenaged boys listened to a political speech. Someone had placed a wreath of red and gold paper flowers at the base of the statue. The speaker paused briefly while Stratton passed, then resumed an ardent, high-pitched denunciation.
Finally, Stratton reached the tree-lined avenue bordering the end of Tienanmen.
It had taken twenty minutes to cross the great square. He mounted the bicycle, praying that the train would be late in departing.
Pedaling quietly, he was absorbed quickly into the flow of traffic. The bright sun gave life to the brown buildings, and the trees shimmered green. Stratton's heart beat cold when the big car roared up behind him. He was incredulous; the resourceful cadres wore their familiar expressions.
Recklessly, Stratton broke from the pack and veered south down a side street.
With the limousine close behind, he raced through the Old Legation Quarter, gracious Colonial-styled embassies long since converted to warehouses, clinics, banks-buildings to serve the workers. And, between them, drab and monotonous apartment buildings, sterile and new, lifeless in the shadow of the Forbidden City.
He tucked the bike down an alley so narrow that his knuckles scraped against the flaking walls. The cadres merely circled the block and waited at the other end.
Crooked Teeth tried to position the limousine to block Stratton's path, but the American managed to skitter by, jumping a curb so violently that the basket snapped off the bicycle and clattered to the pavement.
"Stop!" Fat Lips cried in English.
But Stratton heard a train. He was back in the safety of traffic. Ahead, a busload of tourists turned south. Stratton followed. The railway station was but two blocks away. Another whistle blew.
This time it was the cadres who found a propitious side street. The railway-bound minibus passed, with Stratton not far behind. Crooked Teeth punched the accelerator.
By the time Stratton spotted the long black car, it was too late. The Red Flag clipped the bicycle's rear tire. Stratton spun clockwise. He hit the pavement to the sound of glass tinkling around him. A headlight. Through half-open eyes he watched the twisted bicycle skid away, kicking up sparks as it bounced.
Stratton forced himself to his feet. He had landed brutally hard on his right shoulder. The sleeve was in shreds, and his arm was bloody. His left hand felt for broken bones.
"Now!" said a triumphant voice behind him. "Time for airport."
Stratton lurched into a run.
"No, no!" Fat Lips scuttled back to the limousine. "Stop!" he yelled as Crooked Teeth started the car.
And Stratton did stop-when he got to the bicycle. The chain had been torn from the sprockets and hung from the hub of the rear wheel. He picked it up.
The limousine pursued with a needless screech of the tires.
Stratton stood motionless, his arms at his side. This time the cadres showed no sign of slowing down.
Stratton's left arm shot up and windmilled above his head. The steel bicycle chain hit the Red Flag like a shot, and pebbled the glass in the cadres' faces.
The car weaved erratically through the cyclists, hopped the curb and parked itself violently around the trunk of a Chinese elm. The radiator spit a hot geyser into the branches.
Stratton trudged the last leg to the train station in a stinging fog.
"You're darn lucky the train's late. What happened to your arm? What was all that fuss back at the hotel?"
"Nice to see you, Alice," Stratton muttered.
The group was gathered fitfully outside the entrance. There had been the usual delays. Miss Sun had gone inside to make the necessary inquiries. The Americans were outnumbered by large groups of Chinese travelers who waited patiently with cardboard suitcases. A crate of two hundred live chickens perfumed the air.
It was Weatherby who came up with a first-aid kit. Stratton was grateful for the disinfectant and bandages.
"What happened?" Alice repeated.
"I had a little bike accident."
"You're lucky it's just a scrape," Weatherby said.
"You don't know the half of it," said Stratton.
Miss Sun bounced down the steps. "Okay, we go now," she said brightly.
Then she saw Stratton. "But you went to the airport."
"No. I straightened everything out."
"You come to Xian?"
"Yes," Stratton replied. He knew it wasn't what little Miss Sun had wanted to hear. She had pegged him as a troublemaker back at the hotel. "You have my ticket?"
"Yes, Professor," she said, scanning the promenade for some sign of the diligent cadres.
"Then let's go," Stratton said.
Miss Sun led the way. Once inside the railway station, the art historians filed up a long escalator toward the trains. Stratton made it a point to be first.
The train to Xian was half full. As the Americans walked along the platform toward the soft-class cars, Stratton glanced up at the faces of the Chinese who were already aboard.
An old man with an elegant gray beard, squinting at the tourists. A plump matron with a baby on her shoulder and a toddler in her lap. A dour soldier.
And a stunning young woman with long black hair, tapping gently on the dingy window. Stratton smiled.
Kangmei.
From his private office in the national museum, Deputy Minister Wang Bin could gaze at the Forbidden City, a grand horizon, serrated by the gold-tiled rooftops of a dozen ancient temples.
His thoughts were sour. History taunted him. The architecture was inspired, ripe with passion. The city was full of such masterpieces.
But where did they come from? The ages, Wang Bin reflected sadly. The dynasties.
Where could one find such imagination now? And, worse, how could it nourish?
The thin man in the stuffed chair waited until the deputy minister turned from the window. "I'm deeply sorry we were not successful," he said in Chinese. "The cadres were clumsy, and their actions were dangerous. I would punish them but…
" He clasped his hands together.
"Both dead?" Wang Bin asked.
"One, yes. The other is badly injured."
Wang Bin asked, "Did Stratton leave on the train?"
"Yes," the thin man said. With nervous hands, he lit a cigarette.
"Liao and Deng are on their way to Xian?"
"The plane leaves in an hour," the thin man reported. "Their documents are in order. No questions were raised. Officially, they are joining the inventory team at the tombs."