Ten o’clock seemed an eternity away. The afternoon dragged by into evening, and still ten o’clock seemed a distant prospect. Yongli’s return had put an end to Li and Margaret’s conversation. She glanced at him frequently as he sat in the corner smoking. He must have been aware, surely, that his presence had had an inhibiting effect on them? He was surly and withdrawn, so different from the sparkling young man she had met that night in the Xanadu, when he had indulged in a verbal fencing match with her, a battle of wits. But then Li, too, in spite of their revelations of hope, seemed to have descended into the same trough. Perhaps it was infectious. The gloom that settled over Datong as the sun slid down in the west seemed to reflect their collective mood. Two hours earlier they had seen the work gang they had followed that morning, returning from some detail to the north, heading home for a hot meal, a glass of beer, a night relaxing in front of the television. Now darkness fell and they could see only by the dim glow of reflected light from distant streetlamps.

Eventually, shortly after nine thirty, Yongli got to his feet. “I’ll go and get our wheels,” he said. “Meet me outside the gate in half an hour.” And he was gone without another word, vanishing quickly into the darkness.

Margaret looked at Li with concern. “Is he all right?”

Li shrugged. “I don’t know.” Usually you couldn’t shut Yongli up, or stop him making bad jokes. But there wasn’t much to talk about, and not much to laugh at. If they got caught, Yongli could face execution. There was a good chance they would be looking for him in Beijing. It was known the two of them were friends. Still, his friend’s mood was puzzling, uncharacteristic. Li looked at Margaret. “I hate this,” he said. “I hate doing this to my friend. I hate running away.”