"The director regrets that the excavation is only opened when Peking advises him that an important visitor is coming. He regrets that the responsible officials in Peking did not inform him you were coming, but, he says, perhaps in a day or two it will be possible."

Damn. What that meant was that the director would check with Peking.

"I would be grateful," Stratton said. "Ask him if my friend-"

"The director also apologizes, but explains that he now must supervise the closing and meet with the technicians to discuss tomorrow's work schedule," Mr.

Xia interjected.

"Shit," said Stratton. It escaped. Mr. Xia looked perplexed. Stratton flushed.

"Say we are sorry for interrupting his work. Thank him for his hospitality and say we will return to look at the special excavation when the details have been arranged."

Darkness was falling and large numbers of workers had already left the site on a wheezy bus by the time Kangmei returned to the car.

"It happened here, Thom-as," she erupted. "My father and my uncle had an angry discussion, shouting. A young worker told me; he is a cousin of a friend of mine who also studied languages."

"What was it about? Why did they argue?"

"I do not know. My friend could not speak long. But later I will see him. He will tell me then."

"Kangmei, that's terrific."

Kangmei bubbled excitedly as the car returned to the old imperial city. After darkness had fallen, and she was sure Mr. Xia would not see from the front seat, she grasped Stratton's hand and clasped it tightly.

Stratton ate alone in the restaurant of the sprawling hotel complex, careful to time his arrival and departure to miss the art historians. To his astonishment, the food was awful. He retired to his room with wizened tangerines and a bottle of mineral water. He was half asleep, near ten o'clock, when the phone rang.

"Thom-as," she said without introduction. "In two minutes, you must walk to the end of the corridor with the vacuum bottle in your room and ask the floor attendant for more hot water."

Stratton understood; he was to be a decoy. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"Please."

Stratton obeyed, remembering to empty the thermos. The attendant, drowsing over the color pictures in a back copy of Time that a tourist must have left, smiled and obligingly padded into a kitchen with the bottle, leaving the hall un-watched.

When Stratton returned to the room, Kangmei was waiting. She embraced him. Her tongue played a sparrow's tattoo against his teeth. It was Stratton who broke the embrace.

"Kangmei… " he said uncertainly.

"It is so exciting," she said. "My friend told me everything, Thom-as, everything." She sat on the narrow iron-framed bed, leaving Stratton standing absurdly above her, thermos suspended.

"Would you like some tea?" he asked weakly.

"Yes, please."

Stratton turned and busied himself elaborately with the tea leaves. He tried to ignore the rustlings behind him. Was she getting into bed?

"Here is what happened," she began. "My friend saw it. There is a special place near the emperor's tomb, Thom-as. It is not controlled by the workers there, but by Peking directly-my father-and it makes all the Xian people very angry."

"What kind of a place?" Stratton asked.

"My friend called it a special place. No one may go there without permission.

When my uncle came, my father took him there. My friend was there to help; it is covered with reeds and cloth most of the time. My father and my uncle went down into the hole on a ladder, into a long tunnel. They were gone a long time. When they came out again, they began to argue. My father tried to grab my uncle's camera. 'No, no!' my uncle kept saying. My father grew very angry. They shouted.

Then my father ordered the hole covered and they drove away."

Stratton was thinking furiously. If the chamber with the common soldiers was an international sensation, then Wang Bin's private dig could be a literal gold mine. Stratton had a vision of gold swords encrusted with jewels, of bronze and gold helmets, chests of gems: an emperor's legacy.

"My father wanted my uncle to help him steal something, Thom-as, didn't he?" It was the voice of a little girl.

"It's possible," Stratton said. He turned, a full teacup in each hand.

Kangmei lay naked on the bed. The light from a single dim-watted bulb painted her the color of brushed ivory. She wriggled, and the shadowed V between her legs became a beckoning S. She reached for him, arching her back.

"Kangmei, we can't… "

"Thom-as," she whispered. "Do you know what Kangmei means in Chinese?"

"Mmm?"

"It means 'Resist America,' Thom-as. My father was very patriotic before he become a thieving old man. Shall I resist America, Thom-as?"

Her little-girl laugh broke the spell.

"Kangmei," Stratton said more sternly than he felt, "you are David's niece, and I'm nearly old enough-"

"To what?"

"To know better," he said. She was a spectacular woman, and certainly older than some of the students with whom he had dallied in his early years as a teacher.

"You are very beautiful, and I want to," Stratton said lamely, "but it would be wrong. Do you understand why?"

Kangmei seemed to wilt. Stratton, feeling a fool with a teacup in each hand, watched as tears sparked in her eyes. She clawed for the sheet and drew it up to her chin.

"Oh, Thom-as, I meant nothing wrong, but you… there is so little time, and I am very excited. Also a little frightened."

"So am I," Stratton said, and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

She took the tea, and he sat primly by her on the bed, stroking her hair as an uncle might, or a lover-to-be. When at last Kangmei fell asleep, Stratton curled stiffly in a hard-bottomed chair, wondering if he yet knew enough to lay murder charges against her father.

CHAPTER 10

The men named Liao and Deng moved away from the streetlight and into the shadows. Their discussion was brief, disturbed.

"You are sure it was her?" Teng asked. He was the older of the two; brawny, leather-faced, he wore his Mao cap pulled tight on his head, the brim snug on his eyebrows.

"I am certain," Liao replied. "This changes everything." He lit a cheap cigarette and glanced across the street at the hotel. His eyes moved up the wall to an open window. A faint bulb gave a burnished light to the inside of the room; no shadows moved. Liao was hatless; his black hair was cropped extremely short. In a robe, he could have passed for a Buddhist monk. His round face was youthful, but humorless.

"When she leaves… " he said.

"And if she doesn't?" Deng asked. "Perhaps we should contact Peking."

"I don't think we should wake the deputy minister." Liao shook his head.

Deng scowled. "This foreigner is important."

"That's why we're here."

"But so is the daughter important. It is a grave matter," Deng insisted. The brim of his cap bobbed as his brow furrowed. "We can't wait all night. I say we grab the girl. As for the American, we have our instructions."

Liao sighed. He had an intuition about complications, and this assignment troubled him. "We'll have to report this to her dan-wei."

Deng said, "Why? Let Lao Wang handle it. He is her father." And then he thought for a moment and said, "You are right. We must report it. Even if the deputy minister tells us not to." Deng and Liao had heard the same rumors. Today the old man was a power broker, but he could just as easily be shoveling cowshit in Hunan tomorrow.

"We do as we're told," Liao said finally, "and a little more. The deputy minister does not have to know whom we talk to. China comes first."