by Larry Bond
Mara opened her sling bag, poked around quickly—making sure not to expose her pistol—then began patting the pockets of her clothes. She reached inside and pulled out the passport. There was a twenty-dollar bill in it.
The lieutenant opened the passport, keeping the bill in place.
“Is there a problem?” Mara asked him.
“All transportation must be organized by the army,” said the lieutenant. “The minister of education is nothing.”
Mara saw Kerfer coming down the aisle behind the Vietnamese officer.
Go back to your seat, she thought. We’re almost through with this.
“Where in Ho Chi Minh City are you going?” asked the Vietnamese lieutenant, still looking at her passport.
“We’re supposed to call when we get to the station,” she said. “I would imagine they will send a car. I hope they will send a car, or we will have to walk. We’ll do whatever they tell us, of course.”
“Whose child?”
“Mine.”
“She’s not on your passport?”
“That’s not necessary in America,” she lied.
The lieutenant closed the passport, tapping it against his hand. He seemed to be deciding whether to take the money or not.
Finally he slipped the bill out and handed her the passport back.
“Now let me see your bags,” he said.
Kerfer raised his arm, revealing a pistol. Before Mara could say anything, he’d pulled the trigger, putting a bullet through the side of the officer’s head.
~ * ~
12
Hanoi
Jing Yo put it simply to Hyuen Bo—he was looking for an American scientist who had come to the country a few days before the war started. Hyuen Bo’s job in the central ministry gave her the perfect pretext for checking with the Hanoi police to see if the scientist had registered at the local hotels, as required.
Jing Yo did not try to soften the fact that she was, in effect, betraying her country. He walked her halfway to work, promising to meet her at lunch. Then he walked southward, cautious but more confident than he had been before.
Hanoi was on high alert, with soldiers scattered through the streets. But mostly they ignored him. He was dressed like many Vietnamese his age, those with good jobs at least: fresh black slacks and a light blue shirt, pulled from his rucksack and nicely pressed by Hyuen Bo. He was tall for a Vietnamese man, and might look somewhat more Chinese than many others, but he had identification, a license, and other miscellaneous papers if he needed to establish his bona fides.
There were soldiers stationed along some of the streets, and on several of the corners sandbags had been piled to make crude strong-points. Rolls of barbed wire were coiled by the side. The Vietnamese seemed to be planning to fight street by street, if it came to that.
That was unlikely, Jing Yo guessed. From what he knew, China planned to let Hanoi wither on the vine, cutting it off from the rest of the country. The Vietnamese would eventually be allowed to sue for peace assuming, of course, that the rest of the world did not intervene.
Which was why he was here.
Jing Yo caught the eye of a soldier across the street, staring at him. He frowned but put his head down, walking as he imagined a compliant Vietnamese citizen would walk, anxious not to cause any trouble. He crossed the street and turned the corner onto a block lined with stores. Ordinarily, the street would be choked with traffic, but there was little today. Even the usual clusters of scooters and bicycles were much thinner than Jing Yo remembered from his previous stays in the city.
His destination sat squarely in the middle of the block, a small clothing and dry cleaning store where one could get handmade clothes. The trade for tailored goods had declined sharply over the past decade, as fashions became more and more westernized—and imported. The shop was now regarded as somewhat dusty and old, a place that mostly served an older generation.
Jing Yo went in cautiously. The proprietor was seated at a chair, speaking with another man. They looked up as he came in.
“I’d like to be measured for a suit,” Jing Yo said.
The tailor rose without comment. He reached into his pocket for a measuring tape, and slowly unfurled it.
“You are an awful optimist,” said the other customer.
Jing Yo didn’t reply. He was afraid that if he spoke too much, his accent would betray him.
The tailor began taking his measurements. He moved slowly, feet shuffling. His whole manner was glacial, except for the way he moved his hands—they pulled the tape out as if snapping a line over a piece of wood at a construction site. His fingers furled the tape back between them with the quick efficiency of a fisherman reeling in an errant cast. He smelled of perfumed tea.
“Have they gotten far with the defenses?” asked the other customer.
Jing Yo shrugged.
“Have they barricaded the street?”
“No,” answered Jing Yo.
“I don’t think they will be barricading the street,” said the tailor, his voice a bare whisper. But the customer heard it, and replied.
“They will. You’ll see.”
“They made no such preparations during the American war,” said the tailor.
“The Chinese are not the Americans. The Chinese are murderers. They will carry off the women, if they ever enter Hanoi.”
“They will not enter Hanoi,” said the tailor. He pushed Jing Yo’s right leg slightly to the side, so he could measure his inseam.
“The Chinese are devils,” said the customer.
“Yes,” said Jing Yo.
“You disagree?”
“They are devils.”
“I think they will retreat,” said the tailor, continuing with his measurements. “This will be the way it was with the border war. They will see that we cannot be defeated. They will run away.”
“The Americans are egging them on,” said the customer. “They are probably the ones who planned this. They want revenge.”
“Ah, revenge,” said the tailor. “They have been gone forty years. They care as much for us as you do for the dust under your stove.”
The tailor shambled over to a small table at the side of the room. He took a pencil from a cup, wet the tip, and began writing numbers on pad. Then he turned to Jing Yo.
“What style do you want?” he asked.
Jing Yo hesitated. He didn’t know what the options were.
“Let me show you my most popular suit. They wear this in Hong Kong.”
“Hong Kong is China,” said the other customer. “Show him something else.”
“It’s up to him to decide.” The tailor stepped toward a rack at the side of the shop.
“Why do you want a suit anyway?” asked the other customer. “To be buried in?”
“For work,” muttered Jing Yo.
“Work? You don’t need a suit for work.”
“This is something popular in Paris,” said the tailor. “Many young men such as yourself choose a suit like this to make an impression.”
“Hmmm,” said Jing Yo.
“Well, I must get to the market,” said the other customer, rising. “I will see you later, Mr. Loa.”
“Later, Dr. Hung.”
The tailor pulled out another suit to show Jing Yo. “This is also French,” he said as the door closed.
“I am interested in a hat,” said Jing Yo.
The tailor pushed the suit back into the rack and fished for another.
Jing Yo wondered if he had made a mistake and come to the wrong place.
“This is a lighter fabric,” said the tailor.
“I’ve changed my mind,” said Jing Yo abruptly. “Your friend was right. This is a bad time for a suit.”
The tailor clutched his arm as he turned to go. Despite the old man’s fragile appearance, his clasp was strong.
“People are watching everywhere,” whispered the tailor in Chinese. “You must be extremely careful.”
“Yes,” said Jing Yo.
“The Paris suit would be the best.” The tailor once more was speaking in Vietnamese. “In black, I think.”
“I am in your hands.”
~ * ~
Jing Yo explained that he had a mission, and was looking for an American scientist. He showed the picture that had been obtained from the UN Web site by Chinese intelligence. The tailor did not recognize the man, and made no promises, except to pass on the message.
The old man was a low-level operative, more of a cutout than a spy, a person used to insulate the upper ranks from the people in the field who were constantly in danger of being caught. There might be several cutouts in any given chain of information.
Then again, there might not. For all Jing Yo knew, this old man might actually be China’s Hanoi spymaster.
After warning Jing Yo that he must be careful, the tailor said that the airport had been bombed sufficiently that it was now closed. The word from Da Nang was that the airport was no longer open. The only flights out of the country were leaving through Saigon. Most likely, said the tailor, the American would head there.
“I need better information than guesses,” said Jing Yo.
“Many foreigners were taken south the first day of the war,” said the tailor. “Beyond that, I cannot say.”
The old man seemed more interested in getting rid of him than in doing his job. Jing Yo decided he would not mention the two hotels he’d been told to check.
“What kind of transportation can I find to get south?” he asked.
“Hmmm,” said the tailor. He went into the back. Jing Yo waited. He returned with a small satellite phone.
“You will receive a phone call after six p.m. There will be instructions,” said the tailor. “Do you have money?”
“Yes.”
“The suit will be ready when you return,” said the tailor loudly, as if someone were listening to their conversation.
“Thank you very much,” said Jing Yo.
~ * ~
13
South of Hanoi
Mara reacted automatically, pushing Mạ down as she grabbed for the pistol in her sling bag. By the time she had the Beretta in her fist, the car had erupted with automatic-rifle fire: the five SEALs had slaughtered the Vietnamese soldiers.
“Out the back,” said Mara, grabbing Mạ into her arms. “Come on, let’s go!”
When she reached the vestibule at the back of the car, Mara took the train key and jabbed it into the lock that opened the door. The door flew open.
The train was going just over ten miles an hour. There was no time to do anything but jump.
“Try to roll when you hit the ground,” Mara told Josh, and then she leapt out with Mạ, pushing off hard to make sure they cleared the track. She rolled, taking the force of the fall on her back, protecting the child.
Mara got up and looked at Mạ. She expected the girl to be crying. Instead, she had a determined look on her face, eyes slit.
“They were bad men,” said Mạ in Vietnamese.
“Yes, but we’re all right,” Mara told her.
~ * ~
The adrenaline that had spiked with the gunfire vanished as soon as Josh hit the ground. His body exploded with pain. He couldn’t breathe.
“Come on, come on,” said Mara, pulling him to his feet.
“I need—I can’t breathe. ...”
“Come on, come on,” she insisted, pulling him along.
Mạ grabbed his leg, urging him to run.
The SEALs were jumping from the train behind him. Josh pushed himself forward. He was dizzy and nauseous, and his head pounded.
A road ran parallel to the tracks. As Josh struggled to breathe, Mara ran into the path of traffic, her pistol out. She signaled wildly as a car approached. The frightened driver hit the brakes.
Mara yanked at the door and yelled at the woman driver in Vietnamese. The woman got out, running across the road.
“In,” Mara told Josh.
Josh pulled tentatively at the passenger-side door. Little Joe grabbed him from behind, took the door handle, and opened the car. As soon as they were in, Mara hit the gas, spinning the car into a three-point turn. Another car narrowly missed her.
“We need Lieutenant Kerfer,” said Little Joe. “Unlock the door.”
Josh had slipped into a confused haze. Mạ was next to him, climbing into his lap. Little Joe reached across him and unlocked the door. Another SEAL, Squeaky, threw himself in, pushing Josh into the other sailor.
“The lieutenant has the other car,” said Squeaky. “Go! Go!”
Mara stepped on the gas pedal. Tires squealing, they drove up the wrong side of the highway for about five hundred yards before coming to an intersection. Mara turned, bumping over the railroad tracks, and speeding onto the road heading eastward, finally on the right side.
“I think I have to throw up,” said Josh.
“Go for it,” said Mara. “We’re not stopping.”
~ * ~
Mara didn’t stop until she’d gone nearly five miles. Fortunately, the roads were clear of almost all traffic, the only exceptions being a few old farm trucks.
Even better, Josh managed to keep his stomach under control.
They stayed on back roads, moving through the outskirts of towns clustered along the highways. The terrain was mostly partitioned into paddies and fields, completely given over to agriculture.
Kerfer was behind her. He’d grabbed a pickup; two of his men were in the back, no doubt looking for someone else to shoot.
Mara was furious with him, so angry that she was having a hard time keeping the car on the road.
“You okay back there?” she asked Josh.
He moaned an answer.
“Better stop soon,” suggested Squeaky.
Mara spotted a small dirt road on the left that led to an abandoned, ramshackle building. She braked and cranked the wheel hard to make the turn, skidding in the dirt. She pulled up in front of the building and hopped out, her gun in her hand.
Kerfer pulled in behind her.
“Why the hell did you do that?” she screamed at him.
“What do you think he was going to do when he found your gun in the handbag?” Kerfer said.
“I was bribing him,” said Mara. “That was his way of asking for more money. If it came to that, I would have told him we were armed because of the war. He wouldn’t have said anything. Except to ask for more money.”
“Right. You think twenty bucks gets you a get-out-of-jail-free card? You can’t corrupt everyone. You probably pissed him off by offering him the bribe.”
“His unit is probably following us.”
“It’ll take them a while to catch up,” said Kerfer. “They probably don’t even know what happened yet. The train sound covered the shots.”
“You’re a jackass, Lieutenant. You just killed seven of our allies.”
“If they’re allies, why the hell do we have to sneak out of their country?”
Mara stomped back to the car. Josh was bent over near the building. Squeaky and Little Joe were standing between him and the car, looking at her. She got behind the wheel. Squeaky got in the front, immediately pushing back the seat to try and get more legroom.
“Where we going?” he asked.
“South,” said Mara.
Josh, pale, got in the car. Little Joe pushed in beside him.
“It was a do-or-die thing,” said Squeaky. “Just a reaction. It’s how we’re trained.”
“I’m sure you’re very good at what you do,” said Mara. “But sometimes you have to take a risk.”
“The lieutenant lost some people in an extraction out of Afghanistan a year ago,” said the SEAL. “We were trying to get them out as civilians. Those were the orders. Taliban came up, disguised as policemen . . .”
Squeaky’s voice trailed off.
“This isn’t Afghanistan,” said Mara.
~ * ~
They drove with the windows down. Gradually, the fresh air helped clear J
osh’s head.