where they had gone.
At the first floor, Mahmout pushed the cart into the lobby.
“There’s a way out through the kitchen,” Smith said.
“I know. You used it earlier today with that young Han. Who is he? Where is he?”
“An interpreter.” Smith’s voice dropped. “He’s dead, too.”
Mahmout shook his head, his expression hard. “You’re a good-luck charm, Colonel. I’ll be sure to watch not only your back, but mine. Who killed him?”
“I suspect a man named Feng Dun and his people.”
“Never heard of him.” Mahmout hurried off through the aromatic corridors behind the kitchen to the employees’ exit, Smith by his side. They abandoned the cart and crept outdoors, where they were instantly assaulted by city noises. The dark alley stretched left to Nanjing Dong Lu and its crowds, and to the right toward the street behind the hotel.
“You have the Land Rover?” Smith asked.
“Are you mad? Not with me.”
The shouts came from neither left nor right, but from behind, inside the hotel. The security police had figured out where they had gone sooner than Smith expected.
“Run!” Like a greyhound, Mahmout tore off to the right.
Smith raced along the dim alley beside him, following his lead as the babel of Nanjing Dong Lu faded in the distance. At the corner, more shouts exploded and feet hammered, chasing them. They turned left, away from the Bund and the river, plunged across the narrower side street and into the mouth of another alley, and twisted through into a third alley.
Checking over their shoulders, they shot out across another street. As they entered a new alley, Mahmout settled into a punishing, distance-devouring trot. Sweating, confused, Smith had no idea where they were or where they were going. Mahmout took him through a bewildering maze of back streets and anonymous alleys, where they dodged, eluded, jumped over, and bounced off swearing pedestrians, bicycle parking lots, construction sites, strewn debris, street vendors, cars parked up on the sidewalks, and cars that ran red lights — right and left — without even a token pause.
As they panted on, they were assailed by a hundred raw, stinking odors and earsplitting dins. They ducked under hanging laundry, leaped over cooking fires, skidded around garbage, and dodged both bicycles and motorcycles that made no distinction among streets, alleys, and sidewalks. All this while shouts and the racket of running feet continued to dog them, sometimes closer, sometimes farther back, but always there, like a bad dream.
Twice, Mahmout darted sharply right or left, as new pursuers suddenly appeared ahead, trying to block their path. Once an unmarked car skidded to a screeching stop just meters before them. They swerved into a dwelling and blasted through and out into yet another alley.
Their pursuers were relentless. There was no time for talk or questions.
No time for rest. No respite of any kind.
Smith lost his sense of direction, although he was certain he had run miles. His muscles ached, and his lungs felt raw. By now, they must be in old Shanghai or the French Concession. But then they emerged into the packed masses of Nanjing Dong Lu again, where the world swarmed with shoppers, bar hoppers, sightseers, thieves, pickpockets, and men on the prowl for the women who had reappeared in the city as if by magic when the economic “free” market became the new goal of socialism.
“The metro! There, old boy. Come along!” Mahmout skidded downstairs, used his Y90 prepaid ticket to enter, and handed it back to Smith.
Smith pounded after, to a well-lighted platform marked he nan lu. At this late hour, few people waited for trains. On edge, drenched in sweat, Smith and Mahmout paced the loading area and studied the various entrances. When a train finally came, they leaped aboard.
Smith took a deep breath as the cars rolled from the station, leaving the platform behind. “Nice job,” he said in the mostly empty car. “But you’ll never make a tourist guide. You don’t schedule in enough time to enjoy the sights.”
Mahmout’s face was shiny with sweat, and his expression as always ranged between grim and neutral. Suddenly he gave a sardonic grin. The skin around his black eyes crinkled with humor. “Obviously, Colonel, you don’t understand.” Smith was adjusting to the strong Brit accent from the fellow who looked as if he might be Chinese but probably was not. “I require very special tourists, those more interested in endurance than a photo op. In any case, one must have a permit. That simply won’t happen here, for me.”
“You can’t get one?”
“Not if the police are involved. They have a habit of chasing me.”
“This sort of thing happens to you often?”
“Why do you think I’m such a fine physical specimen? I may live in China, but I still talk openly about the Party, the government, and the minorities. I’m far from popular with those hired by the crooks at the top.”
The subway car was clean, fast, and comfortable. When they reached the next station, Mahmout stepped off and looked up and down the platform.
After one survey, he returned to the car, shaking his head.
“Trouble?”
“The city police are watching the exits, which tells me the Public Security people know we took the metro.”
“But how would they know which direction?”
“They don’t. If they knew, we’d be seeing Public Security agents on the platform, not city police. The security guys are waiting for us to be spotted.”
“I don’t like that.” “I do,” Mahmout said. “It gives us a small advantage. The city cops won’t arrest us — they’ll wait for Security to arrive.”
The train pulled out again. Mahmout let two more stations pass before telling Smith, “The next stop is Jing An Temple. We’ll get off there.
They never did get a sharp look at me, and in these clothes, I could be anyone. As for you, I doubt they’ll stop you in the station, but I can’t be certain. I’ll tell you which exit to take, and you swarm out with the crowd. I’ll be right behind, in case you’re spotted. We’ll jump them together.”
“Then what?”
“Then we run again.”
“Good. Can’t wait.”
Mahmout grinned widely, showing white, even teeth beneath his black mustache. As the train burst into the lighted station and rolled to a stop, he looked out the windows. “Go out with everyone else. Turn left toward the far end of the platform. There’ll be three exits along the way. Take the next to last.”
As they watched, the doors rattled open.
“Got it.” Smith stepped off the car with the surge of passengers. He followed those who turned left. Fewer than a quarter chose the next-to-last exit. He stayed among them, not daring to look back to be sure Mahmout was near.
At the exit, two Shanghai policemen were scrutinizing each passenger.
The attention of the first officer passed right over Smith, but the second, after an initial cursory inspection, jerked back and fixed on his face.
Smith walked faster, with a glance back. The policeman was bent to his communications unit, talking.
Smith had made it to the stairs, when a shout behind erupted first in Chinese, then English: “Stop! Tall European, you will stop!”
A hand pushed him in the back. “Go, old man. Like the wind!”
Smith leaped up the stairs, raced forward, and burst out into a dark street.
Mahmout passed him. “Follow me!”
More shouts reverberated through the night, above the sounds of traffic.
“Halt! You, Colonel Smith. Stop, or we shoot!”
Public Security had arrived. Vehicle headlights blazed on, and motors roared.
“Stop them, you idiots!” This was in the best English.
