by Larry Bond
“Then what happens?” asked Christian.
“Then we go home.”
“How?”
“We steal a truck and drive back to the Zodiacs.”
“And if the Zodiacs have been discovered?”
“Then we steal a boat,” said Zeus. “But I’d rather take the Zodiacs. They’re faster, and the Chinese won’t be patrolling that far north. But we can take another boat from the fish farm area if we have to.”
“I think we ought to land farther north to begin with,” said Christian. “Steal something from up there. Then hit the fisheries on the way back. Once we take something from one place, they’ll be on guard there. If we switch it around a bit, there’ll be less chance of being caught.”
It wasn’t a bad idea, even if it was Christian’s.
“Okay,” said Zeus. “That’s what we’ll do.”
9
New York Thruway, en route to New York City
The president ordered a military jet to fly Josh and Mara to New York. To keep Josh’s existence secret, the aircraft flew to Stewart International Airport, about an hour north of the city. They were met by a pair of U.S. marshals who packed them into a black Jimmy SUV, hopped onto the thruway, and raced toward the city at speeds approaching those the jet had used. Josh fell asleep, but between the bumpy pavement and the speed, Mara was more than wide awake. She shifted nervously in the front passenger seat, trying to tamp down her anxiety, or at least hide it.
When she saw a sign for a rest stop ahead, she told a marshal to stop for some coffee.
“Orders are to go straight, ma’am,” said the driver.
“We’re either stopping or I’m going to pee right here on your seat,” she told him.
The driver took his foot off the gas.
The rest stop was basically a slightly oversized McDonald’s, manned by sleepy-eyed retirees. It was a little past five in the morning, but more than a dozen people were already in line for coffee and breakfast sandwiches, the first wave of the far-suburb rush hour.
Mara had been away from the States for over a year, and while she was not generally a fast-food junkie, the smells stoked her appetite as soon as she walked in the door. She ended up ordering two Sausage McMuffins with Egg, hash browns, and a large coffee.
Then she realized she didn’t have any money.
“Don’t worry, hon,” said the woman behind the counter. “Your husband can pay. Can’t he?”
The marshal standing behind her looked like he wanted to melt through the floor. He ordered a coffee, then paid — reluctantly.
“I better get reimbursed,” he said on the way out.
“Bill the agency,” Mara said.
“Oh yeah, I bet that works.”
Josh was still sleeping in the car. The other agent, slumped behind the wheel, asked why they hadn’t brought him back something.
“Your partner’s a cheapskate,” said Mara. “You can have one of my McMuffins if you want.”
“Got sausage?”
“Of course.”
“Nah, I don’t want take your food. Besides, I’m supposed to stay away from that stuff.” He started to back out of the parking space, then pulled back in. “Maybe I’ll just go grab something.”
Mara tried to make conversation with the other marshal while they were waiting, but he remained in a bad mood. He was middle-aged, the sort of man who by now was more interested in the job’s pension plan than in its possibilities for travel. He answered her questions with as few words as possible. Most of his assignments involved protecting witnesses in federal cases, though he’d never protected anyone more interesting than a low-level mobster. He hadn’t been involved in any interesting busts, either, at least to hear him tell it.
Mara let him drink his coffee in peace. She was still worried about having to go public. Lucas said he was going to take care of it — but would he really? How strongly could he argue against something the president wanted?
Josh didn’t need Mara. She could blend into the background easily enough, even pretend to be part of his bodyguard contingent.
Here was the funny thing: she was prepared to give up her life for her country, but not her career. Going public meant she’d work a desk for the rest of her life.
Maybe not. Technically, it was possible to work in covert operations once you were known. It was highly unlikely, but possible.
No way would that happen. They’d give her some sort of gig as a trainer, pretending it was a reward.
To them, maybe.
Then she’d get some BS assignment that would be, at its heart, an analyst’s job. Visit, drink, report. Not necessarily in that order. Repeat as necessary.
Mara glanced at her watch. Was it too early to call Peter and see if he had fixed things? Would he have gone home after the briefing and gone to bed? Possibly he was still in the session; Greene and his cabinet were known for marathons.
She decided she would try anyway, and reached for her phone — only to realize she didn’t have one. She’s surrendered her gear as soon as the helo landed in Thailand.
“Son of a bitch,” said Mara.
“Problem?” asked the driver.
“Coffee’s hot,” she told him, reaching over to turn on the radio.
* * *
Josh leaned against the door of the car somewhere less than fully awake but not quite sleeping, either. He kept seeing the village where the people had been buried. And Mạ, hiding from him in the jungle the next day, at yet another massacre site.
It had taken so much to win her trust.
And now he was just going to let her go?
But he couldn’t take care of her. There were experts. She’d need psychologists and tutors for English.
He felt as if he were letting her down somehow. That he was abandoning her.
She’d be at the UN with him. But how was she going to deal with that? It’d be crazy. She’d think the Vietnamese were after her again.
“She should just be left alone.”
“Problem, Mr. MacArthur?” asked the marshal next to him.
Josh opened his eyes. He hadn’t realized he’d been speaking out loud.
Mara turned around in the seat in front of him. “You okay, Josh?”
“Just a bad dream,” he told her.
10
John F. Kennedy Airport, New York City
“Let’s see the passport.”
Jing Yo hesitated a moment, as if he didn’t understand the words. Then he raised his hand and gave over the small book. The customs officer took it and held it under a light at his station before comparing it to something on his computer screen.
The U.S. and China were not at war, but Jing Yo had been given a Thai passport and an assumed name to travel under nonetheless. He had a false background story and an entire biography memorized; he was a student returning to America to work on his medical degree. He could give any number of details relating to this, from his three previous (but false) addresses to the difficulties he had (supposedly) had finding suitable cadavers to work on.
What he could not do was speak much Thai beyond a few simple phrases. The agent who had given him the passport, some other travel documents, and a supply of cash and credit cards, had told him it wouldn’t be necessary to speak the language; no customs official would waste his or her time with him.
This one certainly seemed interested, however. He moved the passport back to the little light, fanning it gently, as if maybe he thought the ink would flow off.
Jing Yo told himself to be patient.
“What’s the purpose of your visit?” asked the officer. “Mr. Sursal.”
“Srisai,” said Jing Yo, correcting the pronunciation in case this was a trick. “I am studying to be a doctor.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“A student. Hearn to be a doctor.”
“You’re going to stay in this country?”
“Only for school,” said Jing Yo.
“I’ll bet.”
Th
e man shoved the passport back at him. Jing Yo took that as a sign that he was cleared to go. He took his bags and moved on, passing through the dimly lit hall with its grimy walls and well-scuffed floor. A set of double doors swung open ahead, activated by a motion detector. He walked through and found himself going up a ramp into a large hall cluttered with voices and echoing sounds. People were standing at the edge of a velvet rope, looking anxiously for relatives. Drivers held up cardboard signs with names: smith, fenton, bozzone.
srisai.
The crowd swelled at the end of the rope. Jing Yo walked through it, circling around to see if he had been followed. It was hard to tell in the terminal — there were so many people, and many places to hide or appear otherwise engaged. He pulled his bag with him, circling around a set of chairs, then edged back into the crowd.
“I am Srisai,” he said to the man holding the small cardboard sign.
The man jerked around, surprised. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I missed you.”
His accent was difficult to understand, but he took Jing Yo’s bag and led him out through the main doors.
It would be easy for him to kill me when we reach the car, thought Jing Yo as they walked through the parking garage. He let himself fall a step behind, glancing left and right to make sure he wasn’t being watched.
The trunk on a black Cadillac opened as they approached. Jing Yo’s stomach knotted in an instant.
There is no way but the Way, he told himself. You must surrender to your fate.
The driver touched another button on his key fob, and the car started.
No way but the Way.
“So, your hotel?” said the man, slapping the trunk down.
“The Janus Ambassador,” said Jing Yo.
“Nice place,” said the driver.
Jing Yo opened the back door to the car and slipped inside. The driver seemed to remember belatedly that he was supposed to have done that, and rushed over to close it.
“Long flight?” asked the driver as he pulled out of the parking spot. He was Hispanic, and spoke with an accent that was difficult for Jing Yo to understand.
“Yes.”
“Visit here on pleasure or business?”
“I am a student,” said Jing Yo.
“Ah. What do you study?”
“Medicine.”
“You are a doctor?”
“A student.”
“A good thing, to be a doctor.”
The man began talking about a cousin or a nephew — Jing Yo had trouble understanding — who wanted to be a doctor but was having difficulties with his undergraduate classes. The man seemed content to talk without any encouragement, and Jing Yo let him talk. He looked out the window at the early-morning traffic, taking in New York.
It was his first visit, not just to the city, but to any part of the Americas.
His first glimpses were less impressive than he had imagined. The airport was ancient, not even close to Beijing’s. The buildings along the highway were mostly small and dirty — again, he compared them to Beijing and found them wanting.
There was one place where New York had an advantage. The thick brown fog that hung over the Chinese capital wasn’t present here. The sky this morning was about three-quarters filled with clouds, but they were bright white, inviting instead of threatening. And behind them was an azure blue that reminded him of a dress Hyuen Bo had worn the first time he saw her.
Jing Yo held his breath, trying to push the memory away. He felt the pressure in his lungs, urging it to replace the sorrow. He pushed his chin to his chest, the pressure growing.
Think only of the breath, welling up.
Think only of the Way.
Or revenge. Revenge was an easier thought.
“We’ll take the tunnel,” said the driver.
Jing Yo let go of the breath. His head tingled, blood resuming its normal flow.
“The tunnel is okay?” asked the driver, a little concerned.
“The way you think is the best.”
“Your hotel is on the East Side, so we will do better getting out there,” said the driver. “We could go different ways. At this hour sometimes there isn’t much difference. The traffic can back up unexpectedly. Would you like some coffee?”
The question caught Jing Yo by surprise. He was not sure, at first, what the words meant. Or rather, he knew the words, but wondered if there was another meaning.
“Coffee?” said Jing Yo finally.
“Breakfast. Would you like to stop for breakfast?”
Was this a spur-of-the-moment question? Jing Yo wondered. Or was it part of a plan? The man was almost surely a hired driver, with no knowledge of anything. But…
“Do you have a place?” Jing Yo asked, leaning forward against the front seat.
The man waved his hand. “There are many places.”
“I do not drink coffee,” said Jing Yo, not sure whether the man was actually trying to get him to a meeting place or was just being hospitable.
“Tea, then?”
“Can I get tea at the hotel?” asked Jing Yo.
“Oh, I’m sure you can. We’ll just go there,” said the driver.
They drove through an electronic toll booth at the entrance to the tunnel, a large sign proclaiming the toll in red lights: $50. Jing Yo stared at the words beneath the sign, trying to decipher them:
toll doubled at high traffic times.
“The toll is higher because of traffic?” Jing Yo said to the driver.
The man laughed. “In a way. It’s always fifty except from one to three. They pass the law to double it, but then they change the hours. A racket. To raise money by Billionaire Mayor. Always rackets. Bogus.”
The tunnel was narrow, with yellow lights and large, old-fashioned tiles that reminded Jing Yo of the shower room at his army training camp. The pavement was uneven, with jagged cracks running from side to side. Suddenly, the driver braked and blared his horn. A man had darted into the road. He ran in front of the car, something black under his arm.
Jing Yo turned toward the door, ready, sure he was being ambushed. “Go!” he hissed in Chinese. “Don’t stop! Get us out of here.”
The driver gave another blast of the horn, then hit the gas. “I don’t blame you for cursing,” he said when they were well past. “That jackass.”
Jing Yo said nothing, still unsure of what had happened.
“Risking his life for a muffler,” continued the driver. “And what will he get for it? Five hundred dollars, if that. If it was his muffler, it would be different. Weld it back on the car. But you can tell it wasn’t his muffler. Do you know what it cost my boss to replace the muffler on this? Two thousand dollars. That was just the muffler. Two years ago, ten times less…”
The driver moved on to other complaints. Jing Yo sat silently, trying to recover. His heart was pounding.
It would take him time to find his balance here, he thought. He might never find it.
* * *
The driver took him to a small business-class hotel in midtown. The door was flanked by four bulky men in dark suits, hands held together at their belts. They eyed Jing Yo as he got out of the car, then went back to staring blankly into the distance. A doorman appeared and ushered him in.
Jing Yo presented his passport to the desk clerk, who took it with a quizzical look, then entered the name into the computer for the reservation. Jing Yo was surprised when he handed it right back. In most Asian countries, the passport would have been held on to at least until the hotel had copied it, if not for the entire stay.
“What I need is a credit card for additional charges,” said the clerk.
Jing Yo gave him an American Express card.
“This is your first stay with us,” said the clerk.
“Yes.”
This seemed to please the clerk, who began running down a list of the hotel’s amenities, including its gym and free Internet. Jing Yo had no use for either, but he listened politely, nodding occasionally. Finally, the
clerk gave him his key card. Jing Yo picked up his bag.
“I’ll have that sent right up,” said the clerk. “You don’t have to carry it.”
“Carry?”
“Your bag, sir. We’ll take care of that.”
Jing Yo hesitated. There was nothing in the bag that would give him away — it had to be “clean” to get through customs, in case it was inspected — but as a matter of general principle, he didn’t want to lose control of his things, even temporarily.
On the other hand, he didn’t want to seem suspicious.
“I think I will carry it,” he said finally. “For a shower.”
“Suit yourself,” said the clerk.
Jing Yo had no idea what that meant, though the man’s smile indicated he was releasing him. He went to the elevator, got in, and pressed his floor number, 6.
The room was at the end of a twisting hall, across from a door to the back stairwell. It was a good size, with two king-sized beds and a small couch. Light flooded in from the windows.
Jing Yo put his suitcase down on the bed closest to the door and began looking around. The Americans were clever, he knew; they could have mounted a bug anywhere and he would be unlikely to find it. But examining the furnishings helped him assimilate. He needed to know his environment.
There were no bombs hidden here, at least. No messages from the intelligence service or its spies, either.
Jing Yo flipped on the television and began trolling through the channels. He stopped on Fox News.
There was a map of Vietnam on the screen. It showed what it claimed were the approximate lines of the war. Jing Yo looked at them and decided they must be wrong — they were no farther south than when he had left the battlefield in pursuit of the scientist several days before.
A pair of experts were discussing the war. One was a historian, the other a general. The general declared that Vietnam would be forced to surrender within a few days.