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and business cards.  He could be a journalist, marketing executive, supplier, retail purchaser or an independent film producer.  There were passports:  American; British; French; Swiss and Singaporean.  Included were American, British and French military IDs and three finger rings.  The metal box ensured that Mr. Li played an extralegal game.  But what the box was missing was any sort of weapon—no firearm, no hidden dagger or fast explosive.  The box said Mr. Li’s job was to avoid confrontation, not engage in it.  Mr. Li matched fingers on his right hand with the three rings—one slid over his middle finger, index finger and thumb.  He turned his attention to the closet once again.  Sliding everything over to the right revealed a single black leather jacket, hanging on a hook not a hanger.  Mr. Li removed the jacket from its hook and pulled it out into open light.  The jacket was not new, it looked cleaned but not clean.  Mr. Li removed a fresh white shirt from its hanger and put it on neglecting to tuck it in.     
    He slipped the leather jacket over the white shirt.  He took the contents of the metal box and put it in his shoulder bag.  He removed his teacher ID badge and his laptop.  He readied nothing else, no change of clothes.  He went to the far side of the bedroom toward the window and crouched down on one knee, reaching under the bed toward a black plastic box.  He slid the box toward him and took the lid off.  In the box, were several white aerosol cans both white and silver capped.  He grabbed three of the white-capped cans and one of the silver.  He put the cans in his shoulder bag.  He went to the bathroom again and opened the medicine cabinet.  He reached inside for a white-capped aerosol can.  Mr. Li used the can to spray himself on each hand just past the wrist and he sprayed around his neck.  Where the spray landed, his tattoo disappeared.  He palmed the white-capped can and added it to the collection in his shoulder bag.  He sent a text message to Sister Guo telling her he was too sick to teach the next day.  As for the other days, Sister Guo was an administrator; it was her job to deal with.  Mr. Li stepped out his apartment door and closed it gently as always.  The door locked automatically.  He looked at his watch showing 5:14 in the afternoon.  Mr. Li had memorized the train and bus schedules for all of Handan.  Every six months, he sat on his bed with the most recent schedules laid out and memorized.  He knew the last train leaving Handan for Beijing left at 6:23pm, putting him at Beijing West Station shortly before 10 o’clock at night.
    He gently descended the steps in the stairwell and walked determined but not noticeably fast-paced.  He walked pass the kiosk, out of the alley, and onto the main street.  He flagged a maroon taxi and gave Handan Train Station as his fare.  The meter started at 6.50 RMB, so Mr. Li had 12.50 ready to exchange.  Ten minutes later the taxi pulled up to the edge of the plaza in front of Handan Train Station.  Making sure his destination was the only thing he said to the driver, Mr. Li handed the driver exact change and exited the car.  It was a forgettable fare.  The driver drove away.  Mr. Li walked straight toward the entrance of the train station.  The ticket counter was outside the station to the right of the entrance.  The vendor at the window said there was still standing room on the Z177 train to Beijing for 14 RMB.   Mr. Li would have to stand for over three hours; he could go for twice as long.  Standing in the queue, Mr. Li raised his cell phone to his ear and held a conversation with ‘Mr. Wang’, whom eavesdroppers would learn was a manager of some sort of company in Beijing.  Mr. Li joined the queue to enter the train station.  The entrance had a bag scanner manned by two uniformed officials—one male, one female.  Mr. Li put his shoulder bag down on the conveyor belt that sent it through the