"No thanks. David would be pleased if an old student proved intrepid enough to track him down. In the meantime, if you hear anything, could you call me? I'm at the Minzu."

"Sure," Powell said. "Good tracking."

Stratton nearly missed the hotel. It was tucked away in a lane barely wide enough for one car. Stratton left the bicycle in a parking lot near Wangfujing, Peking's main shopping street. An old woman with a can affixed a wooden marker with a number on the handlebars, handed him a paper receipt, and took a fee from among the aluminum coins Stratton displayed in an open palm.

It was a smaller hotel than the one he was in, and more graceful. Stratton did a full circle in the lobby looking for the front desk. There was the usual assortment of work spaces, but none of them identifiable. Finally, he chose one at random.

"Excuse me, could you tell me the room number for a guest named David Wang. He's American."

Three desks later a hunchback with a gray Mao jacket and some English took Stratton's request into an inner office. Through the open door Stratton could see him staring farsightedly at what was obviously a handwritten guest register.

Just as Stratton was succumbing to the sinking feeling that Wang had registered in his Chinese name-which he didn't know-the hunchback emerged. He had obviously found something.

"You wait," the man ordered.

Stratton watched curiously while the man trundled into a second office. There he spoke animatedly with another man whose face Stratton could not see.

It seemed to Stratton they were arguing.

Finally, the second man appeared alone. He had a hook nose and an obvious habit of command.

"The Wang man is not here," the Chinese said in labored English.

"Couldn't you check again? I'm a friend of his."

"Not here." The man turned away, walked back into his office and closed the door.