It had taken two days-a drugged two days-before he had come to his senses. He remembered a big dinner of roast duck, then sipping tea alone in his hotel room afterward. And then nothing-until he awoke as a captive.

For six days, David Wang had analyzed the routine of his keepers until he had identified the flaw. After his supper was delivered each day, the jailers all ate together, loudly, in a large kitchen at the end of the hallway. They never returned for the tray in less than an hour, on one occasion, they had not come again until the next morning.

An hour was plenty of time, David Wang figured, to break out, slip away from his brother's museum and lose himself in the streets of Peking. The guards had dressed him in an old-fashioned undershirt, more gray than white, baggy blue trousers and cotton shoes. In the darkness of the street, he would be indistinguishable from millions of other Pekingese.

He would walk to the American Embassy if he could. Failing that, David Wang decided, he would approach the first policeman he saw and ask for help. The policeman would not believe his story, of course, but he would take him in, just the same.

David Wang would find someone to tell: My brother is committing a terrible crime against China, against humanity. I have seen it in Xian. He must be stopped.

David had reached this conclusion with sadness. His important brother was a criminal. For days he had expected Wang Bin to appear at the attic to explain, to apologize, to disavow any knowledge of David's imprisonment. Then he had prayed that Wang Bin would come in repentance, denouncing his own crazed scheme, begging forgiveness. David would have given it, willingly, and returned to the United States without saying a word.

On the third day, David Wang had shouted at his jailers, demanding an audience with Wang Bin. The jailers had laughed at the old man.

By the fifth day, a new thought had occurred to David, and he came to fear that Wang Bin would appear. Death itself did not frighten him, but he did not want it like this, in Peking, at the hands of his own brother.

David convinced himself that the only perilous part of the escape would be finding his way out of the museum. In dim lighting, his weak vision suffered from a loss of depth and distance. He would have to move slowly, maybe too slowly.

After the jailers brought the dinner tray that night, David meticulously counted one hundred and twenty nervous seconds before he slipped the latch on the door.

The corridor was poorly lit. At one end, light seeped from a room where the jailers dined raucously. Peering intently, David Wang could make out a doorway that appeared to lead to a flight of stairs. His confidence rising, he tiptoed along the hall until he reached the door and his feet found the first flight.

Cautiously, he began to descend.

The stairwell was dark. David felt his way like a blind man-one hand groped the grimy wall, the other clung to a cold metal handrail. Would it be four flights, or five? He tried to remember the size of the building from the day he had first visited the museum as his brother's honored guest.

After two flights, David Wang stopped to rest. A reassuring stillness wrapped the museum; the only sounds he heard were his own shuffling, tentative footsteps. At the third landing, David's questing hand encountered something tall and wooden. At the same instant, his foot kicked something bulky and metallic. David dropped to all fours and used his hands to identify the objects: a ladder and a chest of tools. He found the handle of the tool chest and lifted it. Not too heavy. He would take it with him as protective coloration. It might be just the thing to get him out the back door and into the street.

Suddenly the lights in the stairwell snapped on. From above came agitated shouts, and the rumble of feet on the stairs.

For a few precious seconds David Wang was paralyzed, rooted and tremulous as the din escalated. Only when the first young cadre appeared at the top of the stairs did he act.

With a desperate jerk, David toppled the ladder. It fell in front of his pursuer. As David lunged for the door on the landing, the cadre hurdled the ladder easily. A hand clamped David by the shoulder. He spun around and breathlessly shoved-nearly threw-the tool chest into the cadre's gut. The young man staggered backwards and doubled up. When his heels hit the ladder he tumbled down the stairs in a groaning somersault.

David Wang did not wait to see his enemy stop rolling. He was already anxiously exploring the second floor of the museum. It was a large room, dominated by rows of display cases, dimly perceived, their contents a mystery. If only there were someplace to hide, and if only he could see it. Across the gallery was another doorway. David Wang did not particularly care where it would take him. He ran for it. His gait was the huffing half-waddle of an old man, no match for the athletic cadres who streamed behind him.

David was but halfway to the door when he realized that he would not make it. He meant to stop, to gather himself and surrender with dignity. Instead, he lost his balance and skidded into a glass display case housing a collection of seventh century bronzes. David Wang and the exhibit went down together with an ear-splitting crash.

When his wits returned, a circle of young men was standing over him. He expected that they would scream at him, perhaps jeer, or even beat him. But they did not.

Rather, the cadres simply led David back to his attic cell with the impatience of peasants who have frustrated the ungainly escape of a commune mule.

Later, the keepers even brought the old scholar tea and dumplings to replace the dinner he had fled. This time the spoon was plastic.

In another cell, hundreds of miles away, Tom Stratton shakily faced a contrived tribunal. The jailer returned to the chair on Zhou's left. Zhou himself sat down next, his back straight, his face unreadable. Kangmei wordlessly took the chair on Zhou's right. Her long hair had been braided in pigtails, and her Western clothes had been replaced with standard Mao blue. Stratton searched her eyes for a clue, but Kangmei looked away.

"Nice room, huh?" Stratton said. "This is what I get for taking the American plan."

"You are to remain silent," Zhou warned, "until these accusations are read. Then you will be permitted to state your confession and sign it. Then sentence will be declared. Wang Kangmei?"

"Yes, Comrade Zhou."

"Do you see the man named Thomas Stratton in this room?"

"Yes, Comrade."

"Describe him," Zhou commanded.

Kangmei studied the half-naked Stratton for several moments, up and down, and this time it was he who looked away.

"He is an American. He is tall and light-haired. With a mustache."

"And what is he doing now?"

"Kneeling, Comrade Zhou."

"And what is he wearing, Wang Kangmei?"

"A shirt, a torn shirt."

"Filthy? Unclean?"

"Yes, Comrade."

"And what else? What else is he wearing?"

"A bandage. A filthy bandage." Kangmei glared scornfully down at Stratton. "And that is all, Comrade Zhou. He has no other clothes on."

"And do you find him… attractive?"

"No! He is disgusting. He is a pig. A pig and a liar."

"Liar!" shouted the jailer. He propped one of his shoes on Stratton's bruised shoulder. "Liar! Liar!" Stratton pushed the foot away.

"Kangmei, what crimes did Mr. Stratton commit against you?"

"He asked me to come to his hotel room in Xian. He said he wanted to give me something that belonged to my uncle, David Wang, who had died in Peking. He said it was something of great sentimental value."

Zhou said, "Did you believe the lying pig Thomas Stratton?"

"Yes, Comrade. I believed him."

"What happened when you went to his hotel room in Xian?"