Stratton got there first. He chose a spot slightly downhill, across the footpath from Mitchell's grave, in an older section of the cemetery. Here a six-foot granite marker paid homage to a four-star general and one of his three wives, and it was here that Stratton easily concealed himself.

He had already decided against a confrontation among the tombstones. The park police would arrive swiftly, to be sure, but what would they have-a couple of prowlers? No, it was better to let Harold Broom and Wang Bin finish their task.

The evidence would be obvious, and afterwards the ghouls would be pegged as criminals.

Part of Stratton's decision owed to logic, and part to curiosity. He wanted to see if they would really try it.

Whispering, Broom and Wang Bin passed above him. The two men shuffled off the footpath and began probing grave markers in Section H. Stratton rose from his knees-dampened by the grass-and peered over the general's headstone.

He heard a voice counting: "Four-fifty, four forty-eight… "

And another: "It is here."

The flashlight threw a skittish beam from the ground to the trees to the crosses. Stratton crept out of the tombstones, sliding caterpillar-style along the earth until he reached the paved footpath. From there, braced on his elbows, he studied the grave robbers.

Wang Bin struggled out of the canvas shoulder bag and turned it upside down. The shovel and picks landed with a sharp clink against one of the white crosses.

"This is fucking insanity," Broom muttered.

"Where are your Marines?" Wang Bin chided. "It appears we are alone. You dig first."

"We're going to wind up in Leavenworth!" Broom said.

"There is a fortune beneath your feet. Now dig."

Grudgingly, Broom assembled the portable shovel. He removed his knit golf shirt and draped it across the arms of Kevin Mitchell's cross. As Broom poised at the edge of the grave, Wang Bin took one step back and folded his hands at his waist.

"Keep your eyes open!" Broom instructed. He planted his shoe on the shovel and rammed it into the moist green sod.

The exhumation went on for two hours. Stratton watched the shadows trade places, and measured their progress by the muffled grunts and curses, some in Chinese, some in English. Otherwise Arlington was perfectly still, save for the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns.

Stratton felt himself dozing when the sound of muffled voices arose in Section H. The flashlight snapped on, and he was able to see both of them: Broom, shirtless, sweaty, up to his waist in the pit; and Wang Bin, toweling his own forehead, exhorting Broom from the edge of the grave.

Then the flashlight went black.

Stratton squinted, waiting for his eyes to readjust. When he focused again, the two shadows were moving with belabored haste, a blur of pick and shovel, flinging dirt back into the grave. Then Wang Bin himself dropped to his knees and pressed ragged squares of green sod back into place, like so much carpeting.

"Let's get out of here," Broom said.

Wang Bin took the feet of the ancient soldier while Broom cradled its head. They walked without light, an odd and halting procession made easier by the perfect geometry that ruled the Fields of the Dead.

Fascinated, Tom Stratton did not move at first, but merely watched them recede among the graves.

Then he was on his feet, padding quietly behind them at a distance of fifty meters. When they reached an iron fence, Stratton dropped to one knee and raised the field glasses. Broom went over first, ripping his golf shirt. Wang Bin followed, grimacing with the exertion. The soldier was brought over on a precarious makeshift pulley, fashioned from two long ropes. Through the binoculars, Stratton noticed that the artifact had been carefully wrapped in a canvas bag.

Stratton scaled the fence easily, and followed the men along a deserted road.

Fearful that they might wheel around and spot him, Stratton clung to the trees and hedges.

"Faster!" he heard Broom say. "We're almost there."

Ahead, parked on a curb, was a car. Stratton ducked into a grove of young trees.

He did not move again until he heard the sound of the car doors.

Then Stratton stepped to the middle of the road, twenty meters from the car. The trunk was open. Beside it stood Harold Broom and the smaller figure of Wang Bin, their backs toward him. Stratton drew a.45-caliber pistol from his belt and took aim at the base of Wang Bin's skull.

It was an easy shot. Even in the dark he'd never miss. David Wang's murderer would die instantly-die without knowing who had claimed revenge.

Behind Stratton, something rustled in the trees.

Wang Bin whirled, his face a fright mask. At the sight of Stratton the fear vanished in a portrait of pure hate.

Another noise. Wang Bin slowly raised a finger, as if to point. Broom's arms fell to his side.

Footsteps. Stratton's pulse hammered. He held the gun steady. Someone was there, beside him. He turned to see.

The pain hit Stratton high in one leg. It seared like a snakebite, racing up his thighs, burning through his lungs until it choked him. The gun dropped from his hand. Stratton spun down like a top, clawing at his leg, his throat, mashing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

Even as he lay there rasping, the galaxy exploding in his skull, he was aware of someone standing over him.

The last thing Stratton heard was the faraway voice of the deputy minister.

"Miss Greer, it is very good to see you again."

CHAPTER 25

All the next morning, Dr. Neal Lambert waited.

Harold Broom phoned at eleven. "All set," he had said. "Be ready at noon."

But noon came and went, and Lambert's excitement soon dissolved into panic. He paced the halls of the museum. He told himself not to worry; people like Broom were always late. They were incapable of common courtesy.

At six the museum closed. Lambert sank into the chair behind his polished desk and ranted out loud. Every few minutes he would dial the number that Broom had given him, only to be reminded by a very bored answering service that, no, Mr.

Broom had not called in. Would he care to leave a number?

Lambert grew despondent. Broom was a greasy twit, but would he dare sell the Chinese soldier out from under him? And was he resourceful enough to locate a new buyer on such short notice? Doubtful, Lambert assured himself.

He wrung his hands and stood at the window of his office, gazing down the mall toward the Washington Monument.

Gravely he thought of his three-hundred-thousand-dollar down payment. Then he thought of something worse: someday, years from now, walking into another museum, maybe Renner's in Atlanta or that bastard Scavello's in New York, and discovering his own Chinese warrior on grand display in the main room.

No, not even Broom-his minimal reputation at stake-would stoop so low, Lambert concluded. Something else must have gone wrong. The possibilities were numbingly depressing. He picked up the telephone and tried again.

Tom Stratton awoke in the back of a taxi. He was dizzy, queasy, babbling.

"Easy, bud," the cabbie said. He led Stratton up the steps of the Hotel Washington and into the arms of a doorman.

"I took a twenty off you, okay?"

Stratton nodded foggily.

"What happened?" the doorman asked.

"Some broad called. Told us to go get this drunk out by the cemetery." The cabbie glanced down at Stratton. "That's where I found him, crawling around on all fours like a mutt."

Stratton groaned.

"Better get him up to his room," the cabbie advised, "before he urps on your nice carpet."