Edge of War

by Larry Bond

  Josh figured Mara would still be sleeping, but he was surprised to see her sitting in the lobby, arms folded, watching a plasma television mounted in the wall beside the main desk.

  “Hey, sleeping beauty,” she said, rising as he walked over. “Where are you going?”

  “Get something to eat. Wanna come?”

  “I’d rather you stayed in the hotel.”

  She looked at Broome. He shrugged.

  “I don’t think it’s a big deal,” said the marshal.

  “Come with us,” said Josh.

  “I have to meet this guy Jablonski.” She made a face. “We’ll catch up. What restaurant are you going to?”

  “Haven’t a clue.”

  “There’s a Mexican place around the corner,” said Broome. “Decent takeout.”

  “I want something light,” said Josh.

  “You can get a quesadilla.”

  “Not Mexican light.”

  “Call me and tell me where you are,” she said. “Broome has the number. Right?”

  “Memorized.”

  * * *

  What amazed Mara was the distance between the reality she had seen in Vietnam and what the commentators on television claimed.

  It wasn’t just that they didn’t know all the facts, or that they misinterpreted them. That was to be expected. It was that they were so sure they were right, so passionate about their misinformation.

  Vietnam had been the aggressor in a pointless border dispute and was now getting its rightful comeuppance. China’s actions so far had been modest and restrained.

  It was almost as if the people talking had been paid by China to give its side of the conflict. Or drugged and reprogrammed.

  And these were people who should know better: a retired Army general who’d served in Southeast Asia, a retired ambassador to the Philippines, a former CIA analyst.

  As she thought about it, Mara realized that the titles didn’t confer any real authority or knowledge about the subject area, let alone the present conditions, though the television show implied they did. Still, given their experience, the speakers should have known to be more circumspect in their views.

  Why was China getting such a free pass in the media? Since when had it come to be viewed as a benign, or at least semibenign, foreign power?

  Maybe because it was America’s largest debt holder. Maybe because nearly everything Americans bought had been made or assembled there.

  Mara thought it had to be more than that. CNN switched to an audience-participation program, with a congressman taking questions. He was there to talk not about the world situation, but about a proposal to cut taxes to bring the country out of the recession. One after another, the people talked about the terrible economy. They seemed depressed, beaten down, and more than anything else, scared.

  One woman rose and said that her husband had been out of work for eighteen months. She was working full-time at a department store in the local mall, but because of inflation they didn’t have enough money to pay all their bills. Their house was in foreclosure.

  “When will he get a job?” asked the woman.

  The crowd applauded. The congressman, of course, had no answer.

  “But the problem is, we needed the solution five years ago,” said a voice behind Mara. “Now it is almost too late. We need to restructure the economy. Make things. That is not a thing to turn around in a few months. Not with a war threatening. Or already begun.”

  Mara stood up. The man who’d made the comments was standing right next to the couch. Fortyish, vaguely professorial, he wore a rumpled green plaid sports coat, mismatched to his blue pants. His hair was thin and hopelessly tangled. He wore thick framed glasses in a hipsterlike style, though this brush at fashion was clearly an accident.

  “You’re Jablonski?” said Mara.

  “Yes.” He blinked at her from behind the glasses. “Mara?”

  “Yes.”

  “I just called up to your room. You didn’t answer.”

  “Because I’m sitting here.”

  William looked around. “Where’s the scientist?”

  “He’s getting something to eat. Why don’t you and I talk first?”

  “Good, very good.”

  Jablonski suggested the bar. Mara, having sat in the hotel lobby for a while, wanted to stretch her legs. She suggested they find a bar somewhere else. This wasn’t hard; there were six or seven to choose from within sight of the lobby.

  Jablonski seemed to know them all.

  “O’Ryan’s has Guinness. The Tap House is mostly German on tap,” he told her, pointing from the edge of the red carpet as the electronic eye opened and closed the door behind them. “Choose your poison.”

  “I’m not drinking.”

  “Then we’ll go German. I haven’t had a Weissbier in a while.”

  The bar also served lunch, and was fairly crowded. Jablonski found a quiet spot at the far end of the bar. He didn’t seem to know the people who worked there, but he had a certain ease that implied that they should know him.

  “I understand you have an incredible story,” he told her as they waited for their drinks—she’d ordered seltzer.

  “Yes, but I don’t want to tell it.”

  He blinked behind his glasses. She couldn’t tell if it was a habit or astigmatism.

  “The president sees this as an important thing,” said Jablonski. “You’re made for TV. You, our scientist, and the little girl.”

  “They’re made for TV. I’m not that pretty.”

  “You’re not bad-looking.”

  “Thanks.” She wasn’t sure whether it was a compliment or not.

  “You’re real. That’s what’s important. And you’re not the Wicked Witch of the West. You don’t have a model’s body—”

  “Thanks.” That one definitely wasn’t a compliment.

  “You don’t have a model’s body, but you’re young, athletic. You’re good-looking,” said Jablonski quickly.

  “You’re trying to flatter me.”

  “I will if I have to.” The speechwriter had kind of a Donald Duck lisp when he talked too fast. He breathed and swallowed his words. “Why don’t you want to talk?”

  “I’ll blow my cover.”

  “That’s not already blown?”

  “No. Not the way it would be blown if I went on television. My career will be over.”

  “Nonsense. The president will take care of you.”

  “How long will he be in office?”

  The question was more pointed than Mara realized. Jablonski frowned, then looked up to get his beer. It had a lemon slice wedged into the top of the glass. He dropped the slice into the drink and took a sip, the froth sticking to his lips.

  “It’s a real uphill battle to convince people how critical the situation is,” he told her. “A story like yours would be dramatic and help a great deal. You’ll be on all the talk shows.”

  “You can tell the story with Josh and Mạ. He’d be happy to go on the talk shows.” Probably he wouldn’t, she thought, but that was Jablonski’s problem. “Or the SEALs who were with us.”

  “The SEALs?”

  “They should get the lion’s share of the credit. Ric Kerfer got shot in Ho Chi Minh City, getting us out. They lost two guys there. He’s a hero.”

  “So are you.”

  “Yes, but wouldn’t SEALs be a better story? People love talking to SEALs.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Jablonski took another sip of his beer, then pressed his lips together, thinking about it. “Everybody expects the SEALs to be heroes. This is better,” he told her.

  “Not if it kills my career.”

  “I’d have to talk to George,” he said.

  “You mean the president?”

  “I’ve known him awhile. Before he ran for Congress, actually.”

  “I want to talk to him, too.”

  Jablonski frowned, then sighed, then frowned again. Finally he took another sip of his beer. “This isn’t bad,” he told
her.

  * * *

  “That wasn’t the way it happened,” Josh told Jablonski. “It was dark. I didn’t see the other scientists being killed. If I’d been that close, I would have been killed.”

  Jablonski grimaced. “Josh—you mind if I call you Josh?” he asked.

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’m not asking you to lie,” Jablonski said. “Some of the blanks will need to be filled in, that’s all.”

  “I need a break,” said Josh.

  He got up from the couch and walked to the door. After meeting them at the restaurant, Jablonski had taken them to a building two blocks away. The twenty-third and twenty-fifth floors of the office building were leased by a law firm friendly to the president, and he’d arranged to use this conference room. It seemed an unusually quiet law firm, Josh thought; aside from the receptionist at the door, he hadn’t seen anyone on the entire floor.

  Broome was standing outside the door, slumped against the wall, eyes glazed into a spaced-out stare.

  “Just going to the john,” said Josh, walking down the hall.

  “You’re gonna need a key,” said the marshal.

  They reversed course and walked down to the reception area, where a woman in a short black skirt presided over a glass-topped desk that was twice as long as most kitchen counters. The only things on the desk were a telephone and a small platinum-cased Macintosh laptop. She swung around in her chair and reached down to the bottom drawer of the credenza behind her, flashing a good amount of leg and cleavage in the process. She fished out the key, which was attached to a large, oddly shaped piece of Plexiglas. It wasn’t until they were down the hall that Josh realized the Plexiglas was shaped in the letters of the law firm’s partners, J&H.

  “What a set of knockers, huh?” said Broome.

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Josh pushed into the restroom. Broome followed.

  “You don’t have to watch me this close, do you?” Josh asked.

  “Gotta hit the can myself.”

  Josh went into one of the stalls. He wanted privacy above anything else.

  He wasn’t going to get any, was he? Once he went public, he was going to get more attention than he’d ever dreamed possible.

  And they wanted him to lie. Or not “lie.” Present the truth in a dramatic fashion.

  Bullshit.

  He was a scientist. He didn’t lie. Or shade the results.

  But he did have to help those people. He had to.

  And Mạ. He had to help her. Her whole family had been wiped out.

  Was that why he had shot the soldiers in the train? To help them?

  Josh shook his head. He hadn’t shot the soldiers.

  He’d shot the person trying to kill them getting on the chopper. It was different. The Chinese soldiers earlier—all different.

  Why did he even think he’d shot anyone in the train?

  He didn’t think it. But it seemed almost like a memory, an intrusion.

  Guilt, maybe.

  The person he’d shot at the helicopter had been a woman, a Chinese agent. She’d had to be killed.

  For perhaps the hundredth time that day, Josh wondered how Mạ was doing. Did she have nightmares? Were they doing this to her?

  She shouldn’t testify, he thought suddenly. It would be too much for a kid.

  Maybe not. Maybe being a kid made it easier—she probably didn’t go over and over it in her head.

  He wasn’t going to lie. That was for damn sure. The real story was dramatic enough. And important enough.

  At least he was feeling better. It didn’t hurt to piss anymore.

  Josh flushed the toilet, went out, and washed his hands. Broome had gone outside to wait.

  All Josh really wanted to do was rest. Sleep for ten years.

  And maybe lie down next to Mara.

  * * *

  Jablonski was more subdued when Josh returned.

  “I gave you the wrong impression,” he said. “I want you to be completely and totally honest. This works only if you’re honest. So let’s go through it again.”

  Josh glanced at Mara. She sat with her arms folded, silent like a sphinx. He wanted to thank her, but he couldn’t even catch her eye.

  He started to talk, to remember what had happened.

  “I think that’s enough for now,” Jablonski said when Josh finished the part about finding the buried people in the village. “Let’s take a break.”

  “I think we’re done for the day,” said Mara.

  “I didn’t get to Mạ,” said Josh.

  “The girl?” asked Jablonski. “Why don’t you tell me that one. That’s a good one.”

  “I really think we need a break now,” said Mara. “For the rest of the day.”

  Josh looked at her. She was tired, more tired than he had realized.

  “I agree,” he said.

  “All right,” said Jablonski. “I have some calls. And I’d like you to get some new clothes. So maybe I can meet you for dinner?”

  “New clothes?” said Josh.

  “The president wants you to be presentable.”

  “Uh—”

  “We’ll pay for it, don’t worry.” Jablonski reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick wad of business cards. He sorted through them, then found one for a store called Schwartz’s Menswear. “Talk to this guy. Give him this card,” said Jablonski, writing on the back.

  “I don’t know,” said Josh.

  “You can pay me back if you want,” said Jablonski. “Don’t worry about it now. You have a lot to worry about.”

  Josh took the card and flipped it over. The scrawl was hard to make out, but he deciphered it as one word: Billy.

  “So, we’re set on dinner?” said Jablonski, rising.

  “I’m not sure,” said Josh. He glanced at Mara.

  “Call me and we’ll see,” she said.

  15

  New York City

  Jing Yo took a shower. The water pressure was strong, the first thing about America that truly impressed him. He examined his clothes carefully as he dressed, trying to make sure no electronic devices had been sewn into them. But this was always a possibility—the CIA was as clever as it was devious—and the first item on his agenda was to deal with it. He checked his phone to make sure there were no messages, then left the hotel.

  It was late winter. The temperature was just over sixty, cool to Jing Yo, though warm to most of the people he saw on the streets, who were going around in their shirtsleeves.

  Jing Yo walked a few blocks south and west, choosing his turns randomly. He stopped and looked in windows, trying to see if he was being followed. The environment was so foreign that he couldn’t tell. There was no one obviously following him, but if the Americans were onto him they would have their best operatives, and they would have a decided advantage.

  He wasn’t about to concede. He wasn’t even prepared to assess the odds of his success.

  After twenty minutes of wandering, he set his mind on finding new clothes. This took him farther downtown, where a panoply of small shops and even street vendors offered items for only a few dollars.

  Ironically, nearly all were made in China.

  Shirts and sweatshirts were easy to find, and so were shoes—though he had to settle for athletic shoes rather than something sturdier. It took longer to find a place that sold pants, but finally he was finished, outfitted from head to toe in completely different clothes.

  Jing Yo dumped his old clothes in a garbage can, then walked toward the East River. At First Avenue he turned uptown. As he crossed East Thirty-fifth Street, he heard crowd noises—loudspeakers blaring, and the vague buzz of people gathering somewhere nearby. Cars were backed up on the avenue, a few beeping, most simply looking for a way to get out of the gridlock.

  He noticed people moving down the street toward him, younger people mostly. One or two had signs, but he couldn’t make out what they said, and didn’t want to st
are, let alone ask.

  At Thirty-sixth Street, people were sprinkled along Saint Gabriel’s Park and the green islands that flanked the entrance to the Midtown Tunnel. A few were eating sandwiches. By now it was the middle of the afternoon, and Jing Yo was confused—they seemed to be having a picnic in the middle of a workday.

  There were police sawhorses at Thirty-ninth Street; behind them stood a crowd of people, their backs to him as he approached. A policeman was trying to wave the traffic from First Avenue onto Thrity-ninth, but it was like trying to fit the contents of the ocean into a milk jug. Every time a vehicle inched onto the side street, three more tried to nose into its slot. They were packed so densely together that Jing Yo had trouble finding a way across.

  Safely on the sidewalk, he walked through the gaps in the crowd, weaving between the clusters of people. These signs he could read:

  NO NEW VIETNAM!

  LEAVE CHINA ALONE!

  WE DON’T NEED THE UN.

  Unknowingly, Jing Yo had stumbled onto a protest against the war. It was aimed at the UN a few blocks away.

  The prudent thing would have been to take one of the side streets and walk away. Jing Yo guessed that the police would have agents in the crowd taking pictures, and if the authorities decided to move in, they wouldn’t care if he said he was just out for a stroll. But he was too curious to simply turn around. He was surprised, even fascinated by the fact that these people seemed to be supporting China, or at least not criticizing it. None of them seemed to be Chinese.

  A man was speaking from the back of a pickup truck that had been driven onto the island divider at East Forty-first Street. The loudspeaker blared. “Vietnam started this war. Let the Chinese finish it. Keep the UN out.”

  There were several dozen policemen nearby, lining the street behind him. Police cars, lights flashing, blocked the road.

  Jing Yo turned and surveyed the crowd. As he looked at the signs, he realized many had nothing to do with the war.

  BRING DOWN GAS PRICES!

  BIG $$ BLEEDING US DRY!

  HAVE YOU SHOT A BANKER TODAY?

  There had been demonstrations like this in China. Many had turned violent, generally with provocation. The police would pick their moment and wade in to make arrests. Knowing this, the people would pick up rocks and other things to throw. Bricks. They would be waiting, something in each hand, for the inevitable charge. A few would have guns.