If only, he thought as he watched the commune-bound train pass, there were some country in the world where the two systems had been merged, where the flaw in each canceled out the flaw in the other.
But there was no such place. That was a child's dream and always would be.
How terrible to be raised to have a fierce belief in your government and society, only to be given the wit, knowledge, or experience to suddenly see that the system was unjust, imperfect. Chai saw that he had been forced by his society to make certain decisions which that same society had taught him were decadent and shameful.
But there was only one escape from an intolerable future, and it was far from the perfect answer: leave China.
Now.
But how?
As the outbound train finished passing and their own train began to move once more toward Peking, Chai Po-han wrestled with his conscience and tried to make himself accept the only future that made any sense at all.
FIVE
McAlister took Burt Nolan's pistol from the seat. He held the gun above the dashboard and studied it in the purplish-white light that filtered into the Mercedes from a nearby mercury-vapor street-lamp. He found, the red safety and flicked it off.
Nolan watched none of this. He stared intently out of his side window at the houses across the street.
Shoving the gun into his coat pocket, keeping his right hand on the butt, McAlister opened his door and got out of the car.
Unarmed but game, Bernie Kirkwood climbed out of the back seat and followed his boss across the sidewalk.
Carl Altmuller's house was a small two-story Colonial saltbox, pale-gray, with black shutters and trim. A neat, matching gray-and-black saltbox garage stood at the top of the sloping driveway. The garage doors were closed. The house was dark; apparently Altmuller was not at home.
McAlister felt somewhat foolish stepping into this peaceful scene with his shoulders tensed and a loaded gun in his pocket. Nevertheless, he kept his hand on the gun butt.
The doorbell was set beneath a clear three-watt night light. The chimes produced a four-note melody that sounded like distant Christmas bells striking up “Joy to the World.”
No one came to the door.
“Maybe it's his night for macrame lessons,” Kirk-wood said.
McAlister rang the bell again.
Nothing. No one. Silence.
“He could be at a prayer meeting,” Kirkwood said. “Or counseling a troop of boy scouts.”
Ringing the bell a third tune, McAlister said, “Have you ever considered a career as a comedian?”
“No. You think I should?”
“Well, it would be something to do after I've fired you.”
“Yeah. We could form a team. You'd be the straight man.”
“I don't intend to fire myself.”
“Yeah,” Kirkwood said, “but you won't last long without me.”
Turning away from the front door, McAlister said, “Come on. Let's have a look around.”
“Around what?”
“The house.”
“Why?”
“I want to find a way in.”
“You're going to break and enter?” Kirkwood asked, shocked.
“I won't break anything unless it's necessary. But I damned well am entering.”
Kirkwood caught him by the arm. “Let's get a warrant first.”
“No time for that.”
“You don't sound like the Bob McAlister I know.”
“I've changed,” McAlister said, feeling hollow inside, chilled. “Probably for the worse. But I've had no choice.” He pulled free of Kirkwood's hand. “Bernie, do you realize the trouble we're in if Rice is one of these Committeemen?”
“It's a major scandal,” Kirkwood said, pushing his damp woolly hair back from his forehead.
“It's more than that. We're sitting on a time bomb. Bernie, look, suppose
Kirkwood thought about it for a moment, then said, “Protecting the power I've finally gotten. Which would mean protecting my cover. I'd lay low. Play it cool. Go easy.”
“And is that what Rice is doing — supposing he
“No. He's taking big risks. Like trying to use federal marshals to monitor our investigations. If one of the marshals rejected his offer and told us about it, Rice would have a lot of explaining to do.”
“Exactly,” McAlister said. “And when he told me that Bill Fredericks hadn't been very cooperative in arranging for the marshals, Rice had to know there was a good chance I'd catch him in his lie.”
“You think he no longer cares whether he's caught or gets away with it?”
“It looks that way to me. Which means Dragonfly will be used soon. So soon, in fact, that Rice figures if we nail him, we won't have time to make him tell us Dragonfly's identity. We won't have time to stop the project before detonation.”
“But he'll end up in jail just the same,” Kirkwood said. “Is he fanatical enough to spend the rest of his life in prison for a cause?”
“Maybe he doesn't think he'll go to trial, let alone to prison.”
“I don't follow you.”
“My imagination may be running wild. I'm beginning to see some very ugly possibilities. Like… Maybe the Dragonfly project, as big as it is, just isn't the whole bundle. Maybe it's only one element in a much larger scheme.”
“Such as?”
“Maybe Rice is taking these risks because he expects his people to seize control of the United States government during or immediately after the crisis in China. If that was what he was anticipating, he would have no fear of jail.”
Kirkwood was dumbfounded. He looked up at the stars, then at the quiet houses across the street. “But that's… Well… I mean… For God's sake, that's screaming paranoia!”
“Paranoia?” McAlister said wearily. “That's just a way of life, like any other. These days, it's just another way to get along.”
“But how could they do it? How could they seize the government?”
“I don't know.”
Kirkwood stared at him.
“Go back to the car.”
