A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [35]
Puzzled, Stratton turned to look. It was the Red Flag limousine, so close he could feel the ripple of heat from its engine. Crooked Teeth was at the wheel, fingers taut on the rim; his battered eyeglasses were propped comically on his nose. He looked like Jerry Lewis.
Next to him sat Fat Lips, gingerly daubing a scarf to a gash on his forehead. Neither of the cadres showed any anger, only eyes hardened in determination.
Stratton pedaled like a madman. He weaved and darted from street to sidewalk, stiff-arming cyclists who dawdled and elbowing himself a narrow, navigable track through the horde. The tin bells on a hundred sets of handlebars chirped furiously in protest as Stratton plowed through a lush pile of fresh cabbages. In a racer’s crouch, he doubled his speed, his chin to the bar. He gained precious yardage while the Red Flag braked and swerved, dodging Chinese pedestrians who had raced into the street to retrieve mangled vegetables.
Finally, Stratton broke free of the mob and barreled into the cobbled vastness of Tiananmen Square. Behind him the limousine came to a jerky stop on the perimeter road. The cadres got out and stood together, smaller and smaller as Stratton pedaled on.
Then came small voices. Dozens of them crying, “Buzhen! Buzhen!” Stop. And then Stratton remembered: Bicycling is strictly forbidden inside the great square. Quickly he dismounted. He found himself in a sea of schoolchildren, dressed in blue and white uniforms with brilliant red scarves. They walked in formation, bright-eyed, singing, toward Mao’s tomb, stealing secret glances at the tall foreigner with the Chinese bicycle. The youngsters had stopped shouting the moment Stratton dismounted. He smiled apologetically and set a course for the ornate main gate at the far end of the square. Looking back, he no longer could see the limousine. Perhaps his escorts finally had given up.
“You, mister!” A young Chinese waved at Stratton. A plastic badge identified him as a guide from the China International Travel Service.
“Please no ride bicycle in the Square,” he said firmly.
“I’m very sorry,” Stratton said. “I am late for a train. Can you tell me which way to the railway station?”
The young guide pointed east. “Left at the Tiananmen. About five blocks.”
“Thank you.”
“Where is your suitcase?” the guide asked.
“At the train. I overslept,” Stratton said.
The guide eyed him curiously. “You need a ticket to enter the station.”
“It’s in my luggage.” Stratton waved, moving off. “Thanks again.”
“Is that your bicycle?” the guide called.
Stratton waved again and kept walking. His eyes fanned the crowds for a sign of the two cadres. The square was immense. Still, Stratton knew, he could hardly be invisible.
In the center of Tiananmen, at the Monument to the People’s Heroes, a class of teenaged boys listened to a political speech. Someone had placed a wreath of red and gold paper flowers at the base of the statue. The speaker paused briefly while Stratton passed, then resumed an ardent, high-pitched denunciation.
Finally, Stratton reached the tree-lined avenue bordering the end of Tiananmen. It had taken twenty minutes to cross the great square. He mounted the bicycle, praying that the train would be late in departing.
Pedaling quietly, he was absorbed quickly into the flow of traffic. The bright sun gave life to the brown buildings, and the trees shimmered green. Stratton’s heart beat cold when the big car roared up behind him. He was incredulous; the resourceful cadres wore their familiar expressions.
Recklessly, Stratton broke from the pack and veered south down a side street. With the limousine close behind, he raced through the Old Legation Quarter, gracious Colonial-styled embassies long since converted to warehouses, clinics, banks—buildings to serve the workers. And, between them, drab and monotonous apartment buildings, sterile and new, lifeless