Chan Li led the boys to an arched opening in the wall, and they passed through it. Before them, Biff saw a large courtyard. A graveled pathway led to the main door. Three small pools were spaced on either side of the path from the opening to the house.
As they neared the door, Biff sensed and felt the presence of someone behind him. He turned his head. Two Chinese soldiers, each with a revolver in hand, had closed in behind the three.
Before Biff could raise his voice in protest, or question Chan Li, the Chinese guide spoke.
“Welcome to the House of Kwang.” He entered the door. The guards moved up behind Biff and Chuba. There was nothing they could do but follow Chan Li. He led them down a long corridor. The corridor was lined with small rooms on each side. This may once have been the House of Kwang, Biff told himself, but there was little doubt as to what it was being used for now. The small windows in the center of the doors were barred. At several of the windows they passed, silent men stared out of the bars at them.
At the end of the corridor, two more guards threw open a large, richly decorated door. Chan Li, a leer on his face now, bowed low, and with a sweep of his arm, ushered the boys through.
“The courtyard of the Ancient One. The Old Lord of the House of Kwang.” He spoke the words in perfect English.
In the center of the room two men sat on high-backed throne chairs. One of them was richly dressed in a flowing robe, decorated with red and gold dragons. The other man, much older, was in tattered clothing. A wispy beard waved downward from his chin. Both men wore tight-fitting skull caps.
“Approach, my friends,” said the richly dressed man. Biff and Chuba crossed the large room until they stood directly in front of the two men. On closer inspection, Biff saw that the speaker who wore the rich clothing had coarse facial features. His big, broad nose seemed to have been ironed onto his face. The other man, though poorly dressed, had a fine, proud face. He held his head high. His eyes, dimmed by the years, were the eyes of a frightened man, but of a man who would face his fate without flinching.
“You are seeking the master of the House of Kwang, I am informed,” the younger man said. As he spoke, two men appeared from behind the chairs. One of them had but one good eye. The lid of the other eye drooped until the eye was shut.
The Chinese of the Chicago plane!