The passenger dragged deeply, opening the window to let the smoke escape.

"It is no surprise."

He was a slender youth in his twenties with a tousled thatch of black hair and sharp cheek bones. He wore a cheap open-necked white shirt and baggy olive-green trousers. A schoolboy's satchel sat primly on his knees. Over the past year, since a casual meeting at an art exhibition arranged by the American Embassy, the shy youth had become McCarthy's best Chinese source.

"Shall we go to my place for a few drinks and some music? The kids are all asleep, Little Joe." It was a name the boy had assigned himself. McCarthy didn't know his real name, or where he lived. He knew only about the young man's dreams and that his information was good.

"Tonight is bad, Lao Jim. The army, the police, the watchers all have instructions to be particularly alert about contacts with foreigners."

Among foreigners who knew any Chinese willing to risk it, the procedure for getting a guest into the walled diplomatic compound was almost routine: bundle them down in the back and drive smiling through the gate. The PLA soldiers seldom did more than wave; in the winter, they simply peered out from their hut and wrote down the special license numbers reserved for weiguoren. Except for taxis with passengers, normally registered vehicles were forbidden to enter the compound.

At first, Little Joe had been reluctant, and then thrilled, at the prospect of cheating the security system. In recent months, he had become more cautious, resorting finally to hurried phone calls to arrange meetings at "the usual place"-the hotel parking lot.

"How are things, Little Joe? Are we hearing the same rumors?" McCarthy coaxed.

The youth lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the old.

"Special security units are being assigned to the embassies-uniformed and plainclothes-beginning two days from now. I think they expect some attempts to defect."

"Why?"

"The old Maoists are winning control. They will purge several hundred officials in Peking in the next week. Did you hear that rumor?" Little Joe not only spoke good English, but also had a subtle sense of humor, rare in a Chinese. He was a friend to be treasured.

"Among others," McCarthy lied.

"Well, I have seen the list, and it is true."

"Any names I would recognize?"

"Possibly." He named two or three. "Most of them, though, are second- or third-rank people, administrators and-how do you call it?-technocrats."

"What have they done?"

"Just like the others who have already been purged. They are skilled at what they do and have great experience in dealing with foreigners. The Party thinks they are more loyal to their own jobs, or to their ministries, or to their foreign friends, than to the Party itself. The Party allows no other lovers, as you know, Lao Jim."

"Is it true? About their loyalties?"

Little Joe laughed. "What do you think?"

"I'd say yes. A lot of people dislike the dull old men."

"You are right. It is not their loyalty to China that is the problem, but their reliance on the Party. The people I am talking about run factories that are profitable or bureaus that are too modern. They make decisions without asking the Party each day if it is permitted to eat rice for lunch."

"I know the kind of people you mean."

Little Joe nodded. "Yes, they are the best of China and the young people who work for them are fantastically loyal-these men are seen as the true future of the New China."

"To purge them will have a great effect on morale, won't it?"

"Will you never understand China, Lao Jim?" The Chinese laughed at his own question. "They will be purged not because they are efficient, but because they are corrupt. That is what the accusations will say, and that is what many people will believe. That Manager Hu used his position to enrich himself; that he stole money, or the factory's car; that he accepted gifts or bribes from foreigners; that he had a foreign bank account; that he smuggled goods from China under false documents. The list of charges is endless. The Party can say anything it likes. No guilt is necessary. The accusation is enough-for the Party."

McCarthy saw what was coming.

"No good news for you, huh?"

"I have been denied permission to travel-no families of leading cadres may go abroad to study any longer. That is the ruling."

"I'm sorry."

Little Joe had worked three years to pass the exams and polish his English. When McCarthy had first met him, the young man had boasted of a scholarship offer from an American university. "I am going to study language and literature,"

Little Joe had said. "Can you lend me some books to read before I go?"

It had been a year of yes-maybe-come-back-tomorrows. And then the bureaucracy had reneged.

"I have been assigned to work in the Number Five Locomotive Factory. I am to be a cook."

"Jesus, that's awful." They were on the tree-shaded street where Little Joe usually got out. McCarthy stopped the car and reached around for a package on the back seat. "It's easy for me to say, but try not to be discouraged, Little Joe. Keep reading and studying. Here, take a look."

McCarthy flipped on the dome light and the Chinese quickly riffled through his gifts-back copies of The Economist, Time and Newsweek and some paperback books.

"I couldn't find Twelfth Night, but I got Merchant of Venice. And here's one by Graham Greene, Monsignor Quixote. It's great."

"Quixote… Cervantes, right?"

McCarthy nodded.

"Well, he wrote in prison. I guess I can read in prison." Little Joe gestured.

He meant everything around him.

"Zaijian," said Little Joe, and vanished into the night.

Pensively, McCarthy drove home. Poor bastard, he thought, another one of the good young ones being devoured. But a damned good source. Apprentice cook he might be, but Little Joe was still the son of a general.

"I trust the accommodations are satisfactory," Wang Bin said from the doorway.

"I would be offended if such a distinguished guest were not comfortable."

Stratton stared dully at him from a pile of dirty straw at the far corner of the room.

Bathed in sweat, he rolled clumsily to a sitting position.

Wang Bin sneered. "Your leg is all bloody. You should be more careful, Professor."

"Fuck you."

"Stand up."

"I can't."

On mincing steps, as though afraid of dirtying his highly polished shoes, Wang Bin advanced into the room until he stood over Stratton. His foot lashed out, striking Stratton's shin. Stratton bit back a moan.

"That is just the beginning, Professor." He spat as he spoke, hitting Stratton between the eyes. "I regret only that I shall not be present for the end. It was planned for Xian, but you were lucky. A train station is too public, and a bullet is too merciful for a man who rapes my daughter."

Stratton felt the spittle course down his face. He tensed for a spring. Movement caught Stratton's eye. Framed in the doorway stood one of the jailers, a pistol leveled at Stratton. With an explosion of breath, he allowed his body's tension to dissipate. Revenge alone was not enough. There must also be escape. There would be another time.

"I will tell you where you are, since you will never leave," Wang Bin said. "It is a museum on the outskirts of the city of Nanning. It is a backward place, Manning, but it has some lovely Ming Dynasty pottery."

"You know where you can put your pottery."

"Oh no, Professor Stratton, there are better uses for it. For you, there is no use at all. Except as an example of revolutionary justice. Has anyone listed your crimes for you? No? An oversight, I'm sure."

Wang Bin rocked with his hands behind him, a student reciting his lessons.

"You are accused of theft: of the personal effects of my distinguished brother.