"No, Thom-as, no. This is my country. China is where I belong."

"But you will be hunted here. You have sacrificed everything for me. Your school, your family… "

"I have done what is right."

"That will not protect you."

"My relatives here will protect me now. Later, I will find my protection in the millions of young people who believe in China, and who believe as I do. I have talked to you about them and I have seen how you looked at me-like an uncle looks at a young girl who says she can walk to the moon. I am right. You will see."

Damned if she wasn't mad, twin points of color blazing from her cheeks.

Stratton tried not to sound patronizing.

"Kangmei, let's not argue. I believe in your vision, but I want to be with you.

If a man and a woman can find love-isn't that enough?"

"I, too, have thought about that. I am… confused. A part of me wants to go with you, but another part insists that I stay. So I will stay and I will think. I-"

"Look!" Stratton was on his feet, pointing. On the far side of the river, bellowing in fear, blind with pain, ran a pig. In the failing light, Stratton could see the stream of blood that marked the pig's passage and, in distant pursuit, a peasant with a knife. Running pig of Chinese commune-ism. A weak joke.

There was nothing funny about the running pig.

It veered onto the narrow dirt promenade that paralleled the one Stratton and Kangmei had walked on their side of the river. Striking from behind, the dying pig tore through the line of schoolchildren like a berserk bowling ball. The youngsters flew to the left and right. Most were simply shuffled. Stratton saw one trampled. A peasant woman in black dumped a load of laundry from her head and kicked viciously at the pig. It staggered off the path. The young teacher who had been leading the children screamed. Around her frightened, crying children needed immediate attention and reassurance. But that was not the worst of it. Two of the children-they could not have been more than three years old-tumbled down the steep bank and into the river. First the boy, then the girl. They made twin ripples.

"Aiyee!" Kangmei screamed.

Across the river, Stratton could see men running. Behind him, too, there came the sound of feet. They were all too far away. And in minutes, the rescuers would need flashlights if they were to be of any use at all.

Tom Stratton threw himself down the bank with a rush that left his leg yelping in protest. He entered the water in a long, flat dive.

The river tasted of mud. Stratton angled upstream, fighting the current. It was his only chance. Wait until the water brought the children to him.

Stratton had three enemies in the warm, pungent river. First was the current, stronger than it had seemed. It tugged and caressed, unyielding, eternal.

Treading water, trying to ride as high as possible, Stratton knew he was barely holding his own. If he was pushed downstream he would travel roughly at the same speed as the children who even now should be, must be-God, where were they?-approaching him. They would certainly drown then.

Second was the light. Precious little remained. If he did not find the children while he could still see, he would never find them.

Third was his strength. His leg, he felt sure, was bleeding again. The bicycling motion in the water reminded him how badly his body had been abused by Wang Bin's thugs. He hadn't much stamina.

People dotted both banks now. He saw one man running up with a ladder and another setting a match to a kerosene lamp. On the Evergreen side a middle-aged man with a coil of rope was purposefully making his way down the embankment.

Stratton wondered how long the rope was. He would know when the man reached the water's edge.

But where were the children? He couldn't see…

"Thom-as! Swim to the right." A banshee's command. Kangmei. Smart girl. She had stayed up on the embankment where the elevation expanded her vision. She had never taken her eyes off the children from the moment they hit the water. For the first time Stratton felt a surge of hope. Obediently, he swam right, challenging the current.

"Four meters… three meters… two meters… now! Now! Now!"

Still, he almost missed it, a bundle of color that was on him before he saw it.

Stratton grabbed. Missed. Grabbed again. He pulled the child by the hair until its face came clear of the water. He could not tell if it was the girl or the boy, but it was alive, feebly fighting his grasp.

"Right again. Now! You must hurry!"

Stratton windmilled right with one arm, clutching the child tightly with the other. Within seconds the arm felt as though it would wrench from his socket. He seemed rooted.

"Faster! Faster!"

Stratton swallowed a mouthful of water. He gagged. He wanted to scream. I'm swimming as fast as I can. He wanted to rest. I never said I was Superman. He wanted to tell her, I love you. Stratton swallowed more water.

The little boy whimpered as he swept past, a chick peeping. Got ya, you little bastard. Gotcha. He grabbed the boy by the collar of his shirt. His strength failing, the children clutched to his chest. Stratton pumped his legs ruthlessly, fighting off extinction for three flickering candles. It was dark now. And he was so tired. He must rest. Tomorrow he would finish…

Talons that felt like steel yanked Stratton's hair. He cried out.

The stocky man had not thrown the rope. He had tied one end to the trunk of a dead tree and the other around his waist. Mercilessly, the stocky man pulled again at Stratton's hair, gasping in Chinese.

"All right, all right," Stratton protested. "You win, take one."

Clumsily, a splashing pas de deux for the blind, they transferred one of the children from Stratton to the man on the rope. His arm free, a fiery, tremendous, unbearable weight suddenly lifted, Stratton grasped the man's shirt.

Willing hands reeled them in. Tom Stratton felt as if he were flying.

CHAPTER 19

Harold Broom put on his most expensive tailored suit-navy, with a fine ash-gray stripe-and plunged into the muggy Washington afternoon. He flagged a taxi at 14th Street. Six blocks was too damn far to walk on a hot day in your best suit.

The curator was waiting in a private office. It was a Monday, and the museum was closed to the public.

"Hello, Dr. Lambert."

The curator nodded. "You have the photograph?"

Broom gave it to him.

"I asked for an infantryman," Lambert remarked with a scowl.

"Not available," Broom said curtly. He didn't like Lambert at all; he didn't like experts in general.

"When was it dusted?"

"Two, three months ago," Broom answered. "I'm not sure."

Lambert grunted.

Broom said, "If it's the quality you're worried about, don't bother. It's been stored in a dry place, safe from the elements."

The curator unfolded a schematic of the Qin tombs. The drawing illustrated each of the eleven columns under excavation. The location of the archers, the chariots, the spearmen and the armored infantry was noted in pencil.

"Which vault did this one come from?"

"I have no idea," Broom said. "That's my partner's end of things. And what the hell difference does it make? You know exactly what you're getting, friend.

There's seven thousand of these buggers underground in China, but this is your only chance to get your hands on one."

"It's history," Lambert said stiffly.

"History, my ass. It's an investment."

"You're revolting," the curator said in a hoarse voice.

"I'm also late for a plane. I want the down payment right now-that is, if you're still interested."

"Oh, I'm interested, Mr. Broom. But first: How many of these have you and your partner smuggled in?"