"Stratton could have helped us with Wang Bin, but he didn't want to. Now he's headed off to the countryside, upset about his friend's death, suspicious when there's no reason to be-"

"It was a goddamn heart attack!" Powell said in exasperation. "I told him, death by duck."

"I know," Linda said.

The station chief stood up. "Powell, see if you can smooth Wang Bin's feathers.

Apologize on behalf of the embassy. Tell him Stratton meant no offense. Offer a fucking dress guard of Marine escorts if you have to. And remember, we want the old guy to like us. Just in case.

"Linda, you think your dinner friend will really stick with that tour group?"

"I think so," she answered coldly, trying not to blush. The Company kept track of everything, didn't it?

"Any other reason he'd go to Xian?" the station chief asked.

"History," Linda Greer replied. "That's all."

The Americans piled their luggage on the steps of the Minzu Hotel. Stratton offered polite good-mornings to Alice Dempsey, Walter Thomas, and the other art historians who milled and paced and tested their cameras on passing Chinese.

Naturally the gaggle of brightly dressed foreigners attracted a crowd outside the hotel, and Stratton was mildly embarrassed. He melted back into the lobby to wait for the bus.

"Are you coming to Xian?" It was Miss Sun, the pert, ceaselessly cheerful tour guide.

"Yes, I'm looking forward to it," Stratton replied.

"Yesterday you missed beautiful White Pagoda," Miss Sun said. It was not a reprimand, but there was concern in her voice.

"I'm sorry," Stratton said. "I had a personal matter."

Miss Sun seemed embarrassed. "I did not mean to intrude in your business, Professor Stratton."

"It's quite all right. Your English is coming along very well, Miss Sun. You've been practicing," he said warmly.

The tour guide smiled gratefully.

"Tom's going to be a good boy, aren't you, Professor?" Alice Dempsey had a way of inserting herself into conversations that made Stratton want to punch her. "I promised Miss Sun I'd keep an eye on you at Xian, Tom. If you'd read the tour book, you'd know about the travel restrictions outside of Peking. Can't just go roaming the hills, digging for pottery and chatting with the townsfolk. You'll get us all in hot water."

Stratton scowled. "Don't worry, Alice."

"Mr. Stratton?" A thin man with thick glasses and a fresh-bought Mao cap called out across the lobby. It was a man Stratton knew only as Weatherby, an art history teacher from a small college in San Francisco. Weatherby was delicate, anemic-looking; he approached in tiny, diffident steps.

"Tom Stratton?"

"Yes."

"There are two men out front who say they've come to pick you up," Weatherby reported.

"Here we go again," Alice Dempsey muttered.

"I do not understand," Miss Sun said, her voice rising.

"Me neither," Stratton said. "There must be a mistake."

"They've got a car," Weatherby said dramatically.

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.