"Please," Chiun said in flowery Mandarin, "do not shout at this unworthy one, for my ears are very old and sensitive. I have something of importance to impart to you concerning that murderer." Chiun indicated Zhang with a fluttery fingernail.
"He is a murderer?"
"There is a body in the car behind us," Chiun hissed.
"Show me!" the soldier said, tight-voiced.
The Master of Sinanju swirled his skirts turning around. He floated down the aisle, the soldier stepping on feet and knocking over luggage as he stumbled after him.
Chiun stopped before a luggage alcove.
"In here," he said, drawing the curtain aside.
The soldier looked in, holding on to the edge of the alcove as the train rattled along.
"I see no body," the soldier said.
A shiny knuckle connected with the base of the soldier's skull. He collapsed without a sound.
The Master of Sinanju folded the soldier's legs so that they did not stick out. He let the curtain fall.
Then, his face innocent, he padded back to the official car.
There, they were still haranguing Zhang Zingzong.
The Master of Sinanju selected a soldier and tugged on his green sleeve. The soldier bent down and accepted the Master of Sinanju's breathily urgent words whispered in his ear.
He followed him back to look at the body promised to be there. It was the last 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
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.