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?"