Viper Strike

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General Hsiao Kuoping stooped beneath the still-turning blades of the helicopter as he strode across the tarmac toward the group waiting to receive him. It had rained the night before, and the runway was slick with pools of water on which the helo's prop wash etched churning patterns.

The long flight northeast from Rangoon had only added to Hsiao's anger.

Twenty-four hours before he had been in Bangkok. Travel from the That capital to this remote corner of Burma was dangerous, and the chance of discovery became greater each time he risked travel between the two countries.

Hsiao was not in uniform, but the Burmese honor guard snapped to attention and the officers saluted. One of the three officers present wore the austere uniform of a general of the Chinese People's Army. The other officer, a ponderously fat man, wore the gaudy uniform trappings of a Burmese army general.

With his glasses, short stature, and graying hair, Hsiao Kuoping looked more like a college professor than a military officer, but the attitude of his reception committee was one of deference. Once, he had been director of the foreign service branch of China's intelligence directorate. Theoretically, he still was. Beijing did not yet know that he was now working not for them, but for himself.

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