The cobra was angry. The sweat, the heat of human exertion, the blood racing through Stratton's body as he pounded the door-all this had ignited the snake's primal reflex.

Instinctively, Stratton jumped to his left, crashing into a suit of clothes that hung from a dowel. The snake followed. Once, ssshhhhhh, in the air. Again, closer, a deadly sibilance two inches from Stratton's ear. And once more, higher and longer…

Stratton pressed his head against the wall; he held himself there to stay out of range. Now he heard a different sound. The cobra was struggling in front of him, thrashing wildly in the folds of clothing. Stratton knew instantly what had happened. Its fangs were hung in the fabric. The beast was stuck like a dart on cork.

He reached out and found the snake. He grabbed it like a rope, working upward, hand-over-hand toward the frantic lethal head. Stratton found the cobra's hood.

It seemed enormous, but it folded smoothly in his grip. Stratton kneaded his way to the head.

Both hands yanked the cobra down to the floor of the closet. Squeezing its neck with all of his strength, he threw his body on the writhing coils. The cobra took twelve and one-half minutes to die. Stratton knew. He counted every second.

"Thomas! I hear you in there." Alice Dempsey paced the hallway outside the hotel room. Her voice dripped with annoyance. "You missed breakfast again, and you're about to miss the bus." Alice despised disorder; Stratton embodied it. In her mind, she had already composed a stern letter to his dean. The trip was a farce as far as Stratton went. He had disappeared for days at a time. He had openly taunted his colleagues. He had insulted the Chinese and even fought with them, for God's sake. Stratton would live to regret his inexcusable behavior.

"Come on!"

Alice knocked again. This time the door swung open on its own. Two Chinese strangers stood there. One wore a Mao cap pulled down low over his eyes.

"Where's Mr. Stratton?" Alice demanded. She sensed trouble.

The man with the cap shrugged and said nothing.

"Do you understand English?"

The other man, younger than the first, shook his head no. Alice took a step inside. The bed had been slept in, but the room held no sign of Stratton. The drawers in the bureau had been drawn half open. The closet door was ajar-it too was empty-but something caught Alice's eye: a length of heavy rope hung from the outside doorknob. In one corner of the room appeared to be another length of rope, brownish green in color, and glossy, as if it were made of plastic.

Curious, Alice stepped forward for a closer look.

She let out a hoarse scream when she saw that the coil of rope was actually a large dead snake.

The man with the Mao cap pointed to the reptile and then tapped his chest proudly.

"You killed it?" Alice gasped.

The man nodded excitedly and pointed at his friend. Then he performed a brief pantomime, clubbing at the floor with an imaginary truncheon. Then he pointed at the cobra again and grinned.

Alice returned a nervous smile. "Well, you both are very brave. But where has Mr. Stratton gone? Have you seen him?"

The men's faces went blank.

"Weiguoren," Alice said, laboring over each syllable.

"Wei," answered the man in the Mao cap. It was as good as a shrug.

Alice bowed goodbye and left the room, grumbling. No one on the bus would believe this.

Stratton poured himself a large cup of hot tea and drank it quickly; the train would lurch to a start any second, and he didn't want the steaming cup to spill in his lap. That the soft-class compartment was unoccupied was his second stroke of luck this morning. The first had been talking his way onto the Peking-bound train. His papers showed that he was not routed back to Peking, and the clerk at the station had noticed the discrepancy at first glance. She had called for an interpreter, who had explained that Stratton could not leave Xian until the date prescribed on his papers. Stratton had responded with a hideously graphic story about food poisoning from some bad snails; he even interrupted the discussion and run to the restroom, pretending to be sick. It was a good performance, and both the clerk and the translator had solemnly agreed that he should return to Peking at once for rest and medical treatment.

Now, alone on the train and seemingly safe, Stratton had time to think.

David-dead at the hands of his own brother. Kangmei-arrested, maybe worse. Then there was the deputy minister, Wang Bin-frightened enough to order the murder of an American tourist. But why?

At the dig, Kangmei's friend had observed Wang Bin struggling for David's camera. This puzzled Stratton, for the site had been photographed extensively, and the pictures had been published throughout the world. Evidently David had found something extraordinary-something forbidden.

The inventory of his belongings provided by the American Embassy listed three unexposed rolls of film. To Stratton, the explanation was simple: Wang Bin had confiscated all the film his brother had shot during his homecoming.

A shrill chorus of military music exploded from a scratchy speaker in Stratton's compartment. He groped for the dial and tried to turn it off; the marching song faded, but it would not die. He glanced at his wristwatch and noticed that the train was already ten minutes late for departure.

Stratton was uneasy. Next time, he knew, Wang Bin's methods would be less diabolical, but more dependable than a killer snake. Once back in Peking, Stratton would make a beeline for the embassy and enlist Linda's help.

A waiter knocked lightly on the door of the compartment. He brought Stratton a hand towel and a small lumpy pillow. Stratton thanked him and said, "Are we leaving soon?"

"Soon," the waiter answered politely. He stared at Stratton's swollen nose as he backed out.

"Is there some kind of mechanical problem?"

"Soon," the waiter repeated, disappearing.

Through the window Stratton scanned the empty station ramp. The train was loaded. Any minute now… he sighed, and stretched his legs on the long seat.

Stratton toyed with his newfound scenario. Wang Bin had invited his brother to China, hoping to recruit David into a smuggling scheme. As a courier, perhaps, for ancient artifacts. Or maybe Wang Bin simply needed a trusted person to act as a broker for the priceless contraband back in the States.

Together they visited the Qin tombs. Wang Bin gave David the grand tour-maybe more. David took some pictures. Wang Bin made his pitch, but David rebuffed him.

The deputy minister was enraged, panic-stricken. Stratton could easily imagine Wang Bin's reaction if David had threatened-as he probably did-to report his greedy brother to the authorities in Peking.

Stratton recalled Kangmei's conversation with her uncle on the night of his death: He said that Wang Bin was doing something very wrong… He was horrified that his brother would attempt such a thing. Yes, the old professor's indignation would have been volcanic. And what if, Stratton wondered, David had learned something so scandalous that it could have sent the deputy minister to prison?

Wouldn't that be enough to make one brother murder another?

Stratton finished his tea and set the empty cup on the table. The train still had not moved, but in his ruminations Stratton had forgotten his impatience.

He was sure now. He had figured it out.

To Wang Bin, it must have seemed a simple scheme, wonderfully pragmatic.

Faithful brother David returns home from his China trip, a sword or vase or delicate clay mask packed in his personal luggage. The proper-looking receipts would be provided, of course-and where would one ever encounter a customs officer expert enough, or bold enough, to challenge such artifacts?