A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [36]
He tucked the bike down an alley so narrow that his knuckles scraped against the flaking walls. The cadres merely circled the block and waited at the other end. Crooked Teeth tried to position the limousine to block Stratton’s path, but the American managed to skitter by, jumping a curb so violently that the basket snapped off the bicycle and clattered to the pavement.
“Stop!” Fat Lips cried in English.
But Stratton heard a train. He was back in the safety of traffic. Ahead, a busload of tourists turned south. Stratton followed. The railway station was but two blocks away. Another whistle blew.
This time it was the cadres who found a propitious side street. The railway-bound minibus passed, with Stratton not far behind. Crooked Teeth punched the accelerator.
By the time Stratton spotted the long black car, it was too late. The Red Flag clipped the bicycle’s rear tire. Stratton spun clockwise. He hit the pavement to the sound of glass tinkling around him. A headlight. Through half-open eyes he watched the twisted bicycle skid away, kicking up sparks as it bounced.
Stratton forced himself to his feet. He had landed brutally hard on his right shoulder. The sleeve was in shreds, and his arm was bloody. His left hand felt for broken bones.
“Now!” said a triumphant voice behind him. “Time for airport.”
Stratton lurched into a run.
“No, no!” Fat Lips scuttled back to the limousine. “Stop!” he yelled as Crooked Teeth started the car.
And Stratton did stop—when he got to the bicycle. The chain had been torn from the sprockets and hung from the hub of the rear wheel. He picked it up.
The limousine pursued with a needless screech of the tires. Stratton stood motionless, his arms at his side. This time the cadres showed no sign of slowing down.
Stratton’s left arm shot up and windmilled above his head. The steel bicycle chain hit the Red Flag like a shot, and pebbled the glass in the cadres’ faces. The car weaved erratically through the cyclists, hopped the curb and parked itself violently around the trunk of a Chinese elm. The radiator spit a hot geyser into the branches.
Stratton trudged the last leg to the train station in a stinging fog.
“You’re darn lucky the train’s late. What happened to your arm? What was all that fuss back at the hotel?”
“Nice to see you, Alice,” Stratton muttered.
The group was gathered fitfully outside the entrance. There had been the usual delays. Miss Sun had gone inside to make the necessary inquiries. The Americans were outnumbered by large groups of Chinese travelers who waited patiently with cardboard suitcases. A crate of two hundred live chickens perfumed the air.
It was Weatherby who came up with a first-aid kit. Stratton was grateful for the disinfectant and bandages.
“What happened?” Alice repeated.
“I had a little bike accident.”
“You’re lucky it’s just a scrape,” Weatherby said.
“You don’t know the half of it,” said Stratton.
Miss Sun bounced down the steps. “Okay, we go now,” she said brightly.
Then she saw Stratton. “But you went to the airport.”
“No. I straightened everything out.”
“You come to Xian?”
“Yes,” Stratton replied. He knew it wasn’t what little Miss Sun had wanted to hear. She had pegged him as a troublemaker back at the hotel. “You have my ticket?”
“Yes, Professor,” she said, scanning the promenade for some sign of the diligent cadres.
“Then let’s go,” Stratton said.
Miss Sun led the way. Once inside the railway station, the art historians filed up a long escalator toward the trains. Stratton made it a point to be first.
The train to Xian was half full. As the Americans walked along the platform toward the soft-class cars, Stratton glanced up at the faces of the Chinese who were already aboard.
An old man with an elegant gray beard, squinting at the tourists. A plump matron with a baby on her shoulder and a toddler in her lap. A dour soldier.
And a stunning young woman with long black hair, tapping gently on the dingy window. Stratton smiled.
Kangmei.
FROM HIS private office in the national museum, Deputy Minister