Styles of dress were looser than the last time Remo had been to Beijing. The ubiquitous Mao jacket was obviously passe. Remo spotted only six upon arrival-all on older men. And the women wore dresses, not baggy khaki pants. Remo was surprised how Western they looked.
Remo eased into the crowd. People gave way, smiling the identical smile of the East. One that was brought up like a shield in the face of trouble as well as pleasure.
Remo towered over the Chinese throng, even the ever-present baby-faced soldiers. Eyes followed him curiously. He moved past the ticket counters, searching for an exit sign.
Every sign was in Chinese. He frowned. He couldn't read Chinese.
Remo stopped, uncertain what to do. Between the lack of visual clues of the faces surrounding him and the alien calligraphy of the language, it was like being on another planet.
Even in countries where Remo couldn't read the language, there were clues. A Spanish word similar to an English one. A half-remembered French phrase. Here, Remo couldn't even connect with the letters.
While he was puzzling out what to do next, a slim Chinese woman in a blue brocade jacket and slacks came up to him and bowed with her head.
"Fang Yu," she said in a breathy voice.
"Uh, you're welcome," Remo returned. "Speakee English?"
The Chinese woman straightened, smiling broadly. It made her eyes light up like those of a child.
"Fang Yu is my name, and I speak excellent English-or so I am told by other American tourists I have encountered."
"Great," said Remo in genuine relief. "I need to get to the Beijing Hotel."
"I will be happy to escort you," said Fang Yu.
"That's kind of you," Remo said. "But if you'll just dump me into a taxi, I'll manage from there."
"Not at all, Mr. Loggia."
Remo blinked. She knew his cover identity.
"Okay, let's go," he said suddenly.
They found a modern moving walkway and stepped aboard. Remo looked Fang Yu over. She was short, small-boned, and delicate without seeming fragile. She wore her glossy black hair in a modern shag cut. Her makeup was tasteful and yet alluring, her small lips very red.
She wore round tortoiseshell eyeglasses. They made her resemble a delectable almond-eyed owl.
"You said your name is Fang Yu," Remo said casually.
"Do you like it?" she asked, giving him a shy smile.
"Not bad. Yu. Would that by an chance mean 'ivory'?"
"No," she answered without skipping a beat. "It means 'jade'. It is my personal name. My family name is Fang. In my country, unlike yours, we place our last names-what you call surnames-first."
"Oh," Remo said. His sudden change of expression alarmed Fang Yu.
"Is there something wrong?" she asked, touching his bare arm suddenly.
"No," Remo said quickly. "Do people call you Yu?"
Her returning smile was eager. "You may call me Yu if that will please you."
"I'll bet you hear a lot of 'Hey, Yu' jokes."
"A few."
They stepped off at the end of the moving walkway and Remo saw his first English-a multilingual sign in which CUSTOMS was the third word from the bottom.
"I will take you to your luggage," Fang Yu said.
"Didn't bring any," Remo told her.
It was Fang Yu's turn to look perturbed.
"No luggage?"
"Hate the stuff."
Fang Yu stared at Remo curiously. Then she shrugged and together they went down the corridor to Customs.
"Wait here," she told Remo. She went to a counter and filled out a form in Chinese. She returned and handed it to Remo.
"Present this with your visa and passport to the man in the last station," she told him. "I will meet you on the other side."
Remo went to the last station. The customs inspector had the sleepy eyes of a melting Buddha. He looked at Remo for a long time after examining his documents. He stamped Remo's passport with such sudden violence that Remo had to suppress his Sinanju reflexes. He almost neutralized the man.
Joining Fang Yu, Remo asked, "What did you write on that form?"
"That the stupid Hong Kong airline people lost your luggage and you were very upset."
"Oh. "
Outside, the Beijing air was snappy and cold, the sky gray. Coal smoke and diesel exhaust mixed in an unappealing bouquet. Snow clotted the ground in dirty gray patches that had been pounded into submission by uncountable Chinese feet.
A cab whisked them into Beijing traffic, which consisted of trucks, pedicabs, the rare automobile, and moving flocks of the stripped-down Flying Pigeon bicycles which were as common on Chinese streets as the Volkswagen Beetle used to be in America.
Fang Yu was issuing sharp directions to the driver. Her Chinese was quick and guttural, not at all like her breathy, polished English.
As they moved through a rickety residential neighbor hood, Remo could smell cabbage, although the cab windows were closed. The scent brought back half-buried memories of Remo's last visit, when he and Chiun had recovered the Sword of Sinanju from a Chinese museum.
Remo pushed all thought of the Master of Sinanju from his mind. A truck trundled by, its flatbed overflowing with piled cabbage.
Cabbage lay stacked in the tiny alleyways. Apartmenthouse balconies had become cabbage sheds. Bicycles flew by, cloth sacks heavy with hard spherical burdens hanging off handlebars.
"Cabbage must be on sale this week," Remo remarked.
"It is winter," Fang Yu remarked quietly. "In winter, we eat cabbage for breakfast and dinner."
"Rice for lunch?"
She shook her glossy hair. "Cabbage."
"Chinese people must love the stuff."
"No one loves cabbage," Fang Yu answered. "It is for winter eating, not for pleasure. It is December now. By February the price of cabbage will be five times what it is now, three times what it was in October. Only the foolish buy winter cabbage in winter." She shrugged. "But there are many poor fools in China these days."
Eventually they reached the Beijing Hotel. Remo waited with folded arms while Fang Yu haggled with the front desk. Many strange glances were cast in his direction. Since he wasn't the only American in the lobby-the Beijing was popular with Western tourists-Remo waited until they were in the ascending elevator before asking Fang Yu a question.
"What was the problem?"
"No luggage," Fang Yu said aridly. "It is very suspicious. You may be reported to the local cadre. Please inform your superiors that the next time they send an agent, he must bring luggage-even if it is filled only with towels."
"Wait a minute. Are you Ivory Fang?"
Fang Yu said nothing. She led Remo to a simple white-painted hotel-room door and opened it with her key. They entered.
It was not much different from a Western hotel. The decor was subdued. The rug was peach, the bedspread yellow.
"I asked you a question," Remo said as Fang Yu pulled the draperies open. She pushed aside the sliding glass door and stepped out onto a balcony. Remo joined her out in the cold.
Down below, the vast expanse of Tiananmen Square lay open to their eyes. The square was only sparsely populated. Most of the walking figures looked like tiny Gumbys. PLA soldiers.
"Yes, I am," Fang Yu said quietly.
Remo started to speak. Fang Yu silenced him with a slim finger on his lips. Her scent was in his nostrils suddenly. It was very, very faint. Possibly even a natural scent. Remo liked it. She smelled of dying roses.
"What are you looking at?" Remo wondered.
"I have never seen it from such a vantage point," Fang Yu said in a dreamy voice.
"The Kentucky Fried Chicken fits in real well," Remo remarked dryly.
When there was no reply, Remo said, "Were you there? When it happened?"
Fang Yu looked down at the square, saying nothing for a long time. Presently she whispered a low question.
"Do you know the sound a human head makes when it is crushed under the treads of a tank?"