The blood slammed into her temples. She scanned the previous column. “…with the U.S. and China’s mutual enemy—the Soviet regime—out of the race, these two leading global powers are jostling for supremacy, a struggle in which there can only be one winner….”

“My God. It’s the same article from Wade's file! Daniel wrote this.” She now understood the MTV host’s question. “The White House should wake up from its euphoric ignorance to smell the tea. Instead, it has mustered its most formidable weapon: a cultural dose of pop music! Send Nola Sands and let this China doll reset the buttons on the control boards of history.”

She crumpled the paper, not looking in Leslie's direction. Oh, no! Daniel had indeed objected to her goodwill tour; he had publicized the ridicule with which the Chinese had accepted her. Never mind his cynical view on the state of the U.S.-China relationship. It was his dismal, unflattering, deflating view of her mission that belittled her.

“What was that about?” Leslie asked.

She punched her fist on her thigh. “You know what’s the absolute worst part about being a celebrity? I have no true friends. I can’t trust anyone—”

“I’ll follow you through flood and fire.”

“Thanks.” She touched his arm. No point mentioning that he had no tolerance for things that didn’t fit his agenda. She would never know which way he would have gone on the issue of Lulu.

Nola instructed the driver to stop at the Western drugstore, where they emptied the shelves of baby powder, ointments, wipes, pacifiers, disposable diapers, light blankets, cold medicine, small toys and some clothes.

Not knowing which side street led to the Dying Rooms alley, Nola ordered the driver to park a few feet past the American Embassy, and retraced the route by entering the Silk Market on foot.

Their arms full, Nola, Leslie, Yoram and the driver wove their way down the busy alley. All around them, shops and stalls burst with shirts, ties, jackets, backpacks and umbrellas in solid or printed bright colors—all made of silk and smelling of biting chemical dyes. Leslie spotted American designers’ labels, surplus from local manufacturers, but Nola did not let him stop.

“I remember vaguely my promise to follow you through flood or fire,” he said, “Which one is this?”

“An earthquake.”

The street was filled with shoppers, tourists and merchants, and Nola had to slow her pace to keep the purchases in her arms from being knocked off. She was carrying so many items that she could barely see over her burden.

The overflowing stalls from the main alley ran halfway down the block leading to the orphanage, and Nola almost missed the turn. After a moment’s confusion, she stood in front of the building with the “Happy Door” calligraphy. Nola tried the handle.