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sight he beheld before his brain died. He had short legs. Chiun hooked the PLA-issue boots to restraining straps, so they stayed out of sight. At first, the next soldier did not believe that there were two bodies in the next car. He turned to his comrades and repeated the old Korean's claim. "This old one says there are dead passengers in the next car." The soldiers gathered around the Master of Sinanju. "How could this be?" one said skeptically. "Someone would have complained before this." "I am sorry," said the Master of Sinanju, spreading his vermilion-and-lavender kimono sleeves. "Did you think I said the next car? I meant the last car. My Mandarin is poor." "The last car is empty, but for luggage," he was told. "There are two bodies there." "I do not believe you." "PLA bodies," Chiun added blandly. That did it. After a hasty exchange of words, they decided to follow the old Asian to the last car. One man-the one who had arrested Zhang in the first place-agreed to stay with the prisoner. He was not happy about it. He wanted to see the bodies too. The Master of Sinanju allowed the PLA soldiers to go ahead of him. They stampeded through the rattling, swaying cars like a caterpillar of many unsmiling heads. The train began rounding a sharp turn, forcing the chain of stumbling soldiers to grab at seat backs and overhead racks. Eventually they made it to the rear car, carefully negotiating the bumping steel platforms which joined the caboose to the rest of the train. The soldiers burst in. Seeing nothing in the gloomy caboose, they proceeded to toss luggage around and upend packages, looking for the bodies. One turned an angry face in the direction of the Master of Sinanju who stood serene on the bouncing platform between the cars. "Where are the bodies!" he demanded. "I am looking at them," intoned the Master of Sinanju. And he stamped his foot once. The coupling below cracked with a clank, separating the caboose from the train. The soldiers were abruptly thrown off their feet as the last car lost momentum and slowed. Then the caboose rolled backward. It gathered speed until it hit the sharp turn the train had just negotiated. It jumped the rails and turned over twice, throwing off bits of iron and wood and luggage. And broken green bodies. Pleased the Master of Sinanju began to work his way back to the front of the train, where the final soldier's body lay, ripe for the harvesting. Chapter 13 Page 50 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html The moment Remo Williams stepped off the jetway ramp and into the congested Beijing airport, it all came back to him. A sea of Chinese faces swam before him like biscuits with eyes and mouths. It wasn't, as the old expression went, that they all looked alike. It was that the Chinese people, used to centuries of obedience, presented similar inoffensive masks to the world their expressions uniformly bland. 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. Page 51 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html "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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |
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