“Don’t be so melodramatic. I’m not going to blow their secrets, and they know it. I have as much to lose as they do. I could go to jail if all the details come out. No, you’re the one with problems. We can’t do anything tonight except be careful. But if things look dicey tomorrow, we’ll put you on a plane.”

“I won’t leave China until you do, Arthur.”

“You’re a fool,” said Bowman. “Let’s go eat.”

We headed back toward the red-tiled roof of the Gate of Heavenly Peace, with its familiar photograph of the Great Helmsman, Mao Tse-tung. Bowman was walking slowly, still leaning on me occasionally. The booze seemed to have helped ease the pain, and Bowman was a fighter; anger had a medicinal effect on him. He steered us to the right, toward the area known as Wangfujing, which was full of narrow lanes and small restaurants, where Bowman figured it would be safer to talk.

It was past 8:00 now, but the streets were still crowded. Down Chang’an Street, you could see a line of people outside McDonald’s. We headed toward what we hoped would be the safety of Wangfujing and its alleyways. Bowman remembered a Szechuanese restaurant down one of these hutongs. We still had our watchers, trailing behind. We turned left onto a street called Chenguang Jie. Bowman thought his place was nearby. I looked behind. It seemed to me that our entourage had grown; there were perhaps half a dozen people following us now.

We turned into the hutong where Bowman thought he remembered the restaurant. It was a narrow street, only one lane wide. When we had gone perhaps fifty yards, I heard Chinese talking animatedly at the top of the lane, their singsong voices announcing that something unusual was happening in their tiny block of Beijing. An instant later I saw why they were babbling. A large truck had turned into the lane. It barely fit, it was so wide. It accelerated down the lane, sweeping away some of the laundry that hung from second-floor windows. As the truck gained speed, the driver switched on his headlights.

“What the hell is this?” said Bowman, staring into the light.

I will not forgive myself for what happened in the next few seconds. Arthur stood motionless in the middle of the lane, arms outstretched, calling out to the driver to slow down. I stood and watched, immobilized. The truck was still gaining speed.

“Arthur!” I cried out, running toward him. “Get out of the way!”

The truck was coming faster. The headlights were shining directly at Arthur. There could have been no mistaking who it was. His arms were still outstretched; he wasn’t moving. It was almost as if he were beckoning the truck toward him. He didn’t try to escape; this was his escape.

“Arthur!” I screamed a final time.