screams.
“What the gawd-almighty hell is
that
?” asked Regina Greenberg, nudging Sam under the covers. “It sounds like an unoiled piston.”
Devereaux opened his eyes into the visual abyss of a hangover. “That, dear patron saint of Tarzana, is the voice of the evil people. They surface when the earth churns.”
“Do you know what time it is? Call the hotel police, for heaven’s sake.”
“No,” said Sam, reluctantly getting out of bed. “Because if I do, that gentleman will call the joint chiefs of staff. I think they’re scared to death of him. They’re merely professional killers; he’s in advertising.”
And before Devereaux could really focus, hands had dressed him, cars had driven him, men had yelled at him, and he was strapped into an Air Force Phantom jet.
They all smiled. Everyone in China smiled. With their lips more than their eyes, thought Sam.
He was met at the Peking airfield by an American diplomatic vehicle, escorted by two flanking Chinese army cars and eight Chinese army officers. All smiling; even the vehicles.
The two nervous Americans that came with the diplomatic car were attachés. They were anxious to get back to the mission; neither was comfortable around the Chinese troops.
Nor did either attaché care to discuss very much ofanything except the weather, which was dull and overcast. Whenever Sam brought up the subject of MacKenzie Hawkins—and why not? he had relieved himself on
their
roof—their mouths became taut and they shook their heads in short, lateral jerks and pointed their fingers below the windows at various areas of the automobile. And laughed at nothing.
Finally Devereaux realized they were convinced that the diplomatic car was bugged. So Sam laughed, too. At nothing.
If the automobile
was
fitted with electronic surveillance, and if someone
was
listening, thought Devereaux, that person was probably conjuring up a picture of three adult males passing dirty comics back and forth.
And if the ride from the airfield seemed strange to Sam, his half-hour meeting with the ambassador at the diplomatic mission in Glorious Flower Square was ludicrous.
He was ushered into the building by his cackling escorts, greeted solemnly by a group of serious-faced Americans who had gathered in the hallway like onlookers in a zoological laboratory—unsure of their safety but fascinated by the new animal brought in for observation—and propelled quickly down a corridor to a large door that was obviously the entrance to the ambassador’s office. Once inside, the ambassador greeted him with a rapid handshake, simultaneously raising a finger over his slightly quivering moustache. One of the escorts removed a small metal device about the size of a pack of cigarettes and began waving it around the windows as though blessing the panes of glass. The ambassador watched the man.
“I can’t be sure,” whispered the attaché.
“Why not?” asked the diplomat.
“The needle moved a touch, but it could be the loudspeakers in the square.”
“Damn! We have to get more sophisticated scanners. Scramble a memo to Washington.” The ambassador took Sam’s elbow, leading him back to the door. “Come with me, General.”
“I’m a major.”
“That’s nice.”
The ambassador propelled Sam out of the office, acrossthe corridor to another door, which he opened, and then preceded Devereaux down a steep flight of stone steps into a large basement. There was a single light bulb on the wall; the ambassador snapped it on and led Sam past a number of wooden crates to another door in the barely visible wall. It was heavy and the diplomat had to put his foot against the surrounding cement in order to pull it open.
Inside was a long-out-of-use, walk-in refrigerator, now serving as a wine cellar.
The ambassador entered and struck a match. On one of the racks was a candle, half burned down. The ambassador held the flame to the wick, and the light swelled flickeringly against the walls and the
“What the gawd-almighty hell is
that
?” asked Regina Greenberg, nudging Sam under the covers. “It sounds like an unoiled piston.”
Devereaux opened his eyes into the visual abyss of a hangover. “That, dear patron saint of Tarzana, is the voice of the evil people. They surface when the earth churns.”
“Do you know what time it is? Call the hotel police, for heaven’s sake.”
“No,” said Sam, reluctantly getting out of bed. “Because if I do, that gentleman will call the joint chiefs of staff. I think they’re scared to death of him. They’re merely professional killers; he’s in advertising.”
And before Devereaux could really focus, hands had dressed him, cars had driven him, men had yelled at him, and he was strapped into an Air Force Phantom jet.
They all smiled. Everyone in China smiled. With their lips more than their eyes, thought Sam.
He was met at the Peking airfield by an American diplomatic vehicle, escorted by two flanking Chinese army cars and eight Chinese army officers. All smiling; even the vehicles.
The two nervous Americans that came with the diplomatic car were attachés. They were anxious to get back to the mission; neither was comfortable around the Chinese troops.
Nor did either attaché care to discuss very much ofanything except the weather, which was dull and overcast. Whenever Sam brought up the subject of MacKenzie Hawkins—and why not? he had relieved himself on
their
roof—their mouths became taut and they shook their heads in short, lateral jerks and pointed their fingers below the windows at various areas of the automobile. And laughed at nothing.
Finally Devereaux realized they were convinced that the diplomatic car was bugged. So Sam laughed, too. At nothing.
If the automobile
was
fitted with electronic surveillance, and if someone
was
listening, thought Devereaux, that person was probably conjuring up a picture of three adult males passing dirty comics back and forth.
And if the ride from the airfield seemed strange to Sam, his half-hour meeting with the ambassador at the diplomatic mission in Glorious Flower Square was ludicrous.
He was ushered into the building by his cackling escorts, greeted solemnly by a group of serious-faced Americans who had gathered in the hallway like onlookers in a zoological laboratory—unsure of their safety but fascinated by the new animal brought in for observation—and propelled quickly down a corridor to a large door that was obviously the entrance to the ambassador’s office. Once inside, the ambassador greeted him with a rapid handshake, simultaneously raising a finger over his slightly quivering moustache. One of the escorts removed a small metal device about the size of a pack of cigarettes and began waving it around the windows as though blessing the panes of glass. The ambassador watched the man.
“I can’t be sure,” whispered the attaché.
“Why not?” asked the diplomat.
“The needle moved a touch, but it could be the loudspeakers in the square.”
“Damn! We have to get more sophisticated scanners. Scramble a memo to Washington.” The ambassador took Sam’s elbow, leading him back to the door. “Come with me, General.”
“I’m a major.”
“That’s nice.”
The ambassador propelled Sam out of the office, acrossthe corridor to another door, which he opened, and then preceded Devereaux down a steep flight of stone steps into a large basement. There was a single light bulb on the wall; the ambassador snapped it on and led Sam past a number of wooden crates to another door in the barely visible wall. It was heavy and the diplomat had to put his foot against the surrounding cement in order to pull it open.
Inside was a long-out-of-use, walk-in refrigerator, now serving as a wine cellar.
The ambassador entered and struck a match. On one of the racks was a candle, half burned down. The ambassador held the flame to the wick, and the light swelled flickeringly against the walls and the
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