I’m betting that China had tried to sweet-talk South Vietnam into expanding their current trade agreement to include esterium, but they realized that they had competition for it—the Americans. But the US had its hands full as the Vietnam War simmered to a rolling boil. Kennedy had no time to explore a trade deal when he was busy sending advisers to Hanoi and mapping out a war strategy.
But what if that war came to an abrupt halt? A newly independent South Vietnam would want to ally itself with the most powerful and richest country in the world, and the Chinese could kiss that esterium goodbye.
So China set out to stop the Washington-Moscow Accord.
They had to break up that treaty before it got signed.
As long as the war kept the US and the USSR locked in a fistfight, the Chinese had a chance at cutting themselves a decent slice of that esterium pie. I remember how Envoy Yu had tried to talk to Minister Tran throughout our time here at the Games—maybe to get him to change his mind?
Minister Tran looks concerned. “Are you unwell? Your face is very pale. Perhaps you should sit and I’ll get you some water.”
I nod absently as my thoughts spin faster and faster. The Chinese had to stop the Accord, but they had no clout to bring to the table or to even get a seat. So they had to do something underhanded.
Something like poisoning the fighters at the Pax Games.
It’s no wonder then why Team China made a sudden return to international competition after decades away from the limelight. As soon as they arrived in Washington, they tried to drive a wedge between the Americans and the Soviets. They targeted their fellow Communist fighters and pinned the crimes on me—the fire on the float, the poisonings ahead of the matches—all with the goal of enraging Khrushchev so much that he’d yank his team out of the Games and perhaps out of the treaty too.
Khrushchev, however, didn’t buckle. Not when his own fighter was poisoned. And not when the Chinese poisoned their own in a desperate bid to push the Soviets over the edge. Because how could they ignore the fact that three Commie fighters had been targeted? Even if Mao and Khrushchev no longer saw eye to eye, they still had their communism in common.
But the Chinese underestimated how much Khrushchev wanted the Accord signed, so much so that he was willing to overlook Lukas’s death and Zoya’s and Rushi’s poisonings, all to secure a few gold and uranium mines.
That had left the Chinese with a big problem on their hands. They had to switch tactics. If Khrushchev wouldn’t budge, then maybe Kennedy would.
That’s why Rushi poisoned me next.
The thing is, the gamble almost worked. If Sam and I hadn’t caught Rushi on his camera bot, who knows where we’d be right now? Certainly not here.
I can’t forgive or forget what Rushi did to me, but now I have to wonder how much of it was really her idea. Did her own government force her into poisoning me and the others? I can see Envoy Yu carrying out Mao’s orders with a salute and no questions asked, but Rushi seems to have a conscience. What was being held over her head to make her follow in lockstep?
Minister Tran returns with a glass of water for me, but I don’t take a drink from it. I’m too worked up.
“I don’t think Rushi and Envoy Yu were acting on their own. I think they were told to poison the fighters and set fire to the float,” I say quickly. As soon as the words fly out of my mouth, I hear how far-fetched they sound, but I can’t take them back and I don’t really want to. I finally feel like I’m seeing the bigger picture.
Minister Tran eyes me carefully. “Who do you think gave them the orders?”
“Somebody in their government. Most likely someone high up.” I know this probably sounds like a conspiracy theory, but Rushi doesn’t come across as a criminal mastermind. Neither does Envoy Yu, who seems more naive and brainwashed than ruthless.
To his credit, Minister Tran doesn’t start looking for my dad and telling him to take me to the nearest sanatorium. He surprises me instead. “I’ve suspected the same,” he says quietly.
I blink. “You have?”
“I’ve lived and worked in China. I’ve seen how the Maoist government runs,” he says by way of explanation but doesn’t delve into it further, ever the diplomat. “But what proof do we have?”
None whatsoever actually. “Then their whole government should be on trial!”
“I’m afraid that won’t happen. Envoy Yu and Rushi have already confessed, and the world is moving on,” he says gently before gesturing at the reporters, who are peeling off to write their stories and start on new ones. After tomorrow’s headlines are printed and tossed out, Rushi and Envoy Yu will be blips in the history books.
I grind my teeth together. “We could talk to Rushi and Envoy Yu. Get them to confess what really happened.”
“And risk hurting their families?” He looks at me sadly. “Rushi wouldn’t do that.”
Our gazes lock, and I realize that he’s talking about Rushi’s sister. If Rushi came clean, no doubt the Chinese government would toss her sister in a reeducation camp for a decade or two. Or worse. Minister Tran is right. She’d go to jail before jeopardizing that. She’d give away her fighting career for it too.
But wouldn’t I do the same for Peter?
“I will see what I can do. Set up a few meetings,” Minister Tran says before clasping his hands together. “I’m headed to the Capitol to see Senator Appleby, but I hope our paths will cross again soon. There’s something I’d like to go over with you.”
I’m not sure what he means by that, but I don’t ask him to elaborate. My head is buzzing with everything we’ve discussed—about Rushi, about her crimes, about the Games—and I wander out of the room to find Dad and Peter. As soon as he sees my face, Peter asks me what’s wrong, but I only tell him that I’ve got a lot on my mind. Rushi’s and Envoy Yu’s confession might seem like a victory to most people who attended the hearing, but it doesn’t feel like much of a win to me. The two of them are merely the scapegoats for their government, and what do they get for that? Mao is leaving them high and dry. Rushi might have blood on her hands, but whose crime is this really?
It makes me feel sick to my stomach and, even worse, completely helpless.
“Why don’t we walk back to the Pavilion? The weather isn’t too swampy,” Dad offers, and I grunt in agreement because I could use the fresh air.
We exit onto K Street and make our way south, eventually walking through the National Mall and toward the Smithsonian Castle, which is a museum but resembles more of a church. Peter asks if we can go inside because there’s an exhibit on the history of worker bots in the nation’s capital.
“You go on ahead. How does thirty minutes sound?” Dad says. “Jo and I will wait here in the garden.”
I toss Dad a glance, but he tilts his head toward a wooden bench surrounded by butterfly bushes. He waits for me to sit down before he gets down to business.
“Might as well come out with it. Something has been chewing you up since the hearing,” he says.
“You could say that again,” I mutter. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Dad shrugs like he often does. It’s his little way of telling me, Suit yourself, but soon enough the simmering pot of emotions inside me bubbles over and I tell him everything, starting with how the Chinese desperately need esterium to how they used Rushi to try to secure it. When I’m finished, I feel out of breath. Dad takes a minute to follow my train of thought, but he seems to understand.
“Those Commies are never up to any good huh? Although I can’t say that I’m shocked,” he says. “What do you want to do about this? How about you talk to Senator Appleby?”
“I don’t know what she could do. I swear Envoy Yu would jump into a shark-infested swimming pool if that’s what the Chairman wanted, and Rushi—” I swallow a lump in my throat. “She wouldn’t risk her family taking the fall.”
“It sure sounds like a mess, but you’ll figure it out.” My father stares off at the Mall’s grassy expanse of lawn befo
re letting his eyes roam back over to me. “You always do.”
“I don’t know about this time.” I’m not only talking about Rushi, but everything else—how my life has imploded in the span of two weeks. People worldwide know my name now, but not for the reasons I necessarily wanted. And who knows what we’ll be going home to? “Have you talked to the landlady—”
“We’ve got two extra months to pay up our back rent. I don’t think she wants the publicity of evicting America’s newest heroine,” Dad says wryly.
It takes me a second to realize who he’s talking about. “America’s heroine? Me?”
“Sure thing. You should’ve seen some of the headlines when you were in the hospital. People were spitting mad that you were poisoned and on our own turf to boot.”
I have to believe that Malcolm worked some publicity magic behind the scenes to get that reaction because a few days earlier those same papers were hinting that I might be a secret Maoist.
“The Chronicle even called you San Francisco’s hometown sweetheart,” Dad adds.
Hmm, maybe I won’t swear off that newspaper forever, although that nickname needs work.
Dad chuckles when he sees the look on my face. “You might not be the sweetest, but you sure got a lot of heart. Peter and I couldn’t be prouder at how you played the Games.” With his voice soft, he adds, “And your mom would be too.”
I draw in a sharp breath. He rarely brings her up, but my mother has always lingered between us, and pretending that she isn’t there hasn’t helped us much. I guess we’re both realizing that now.
“I wish you could’ve known the girl she used to be,” Dad says, his voice thick with emotion. “So smart. So stubborn. She was a real force to be reckoned with.”
“And then she had me,” I say flatly.
Dad is quick to shake his head. “Nah, she adored you. She really did. Maybe you came as a surprise, but once you were here, she toted you everywhere she went.”
I try to picture this version of my mother. Doting. Caring. Loving. I never would’ve thought that possible a month ago, but Dad’s account squares with what Old Wen told me too (before he sold me out to the press).
“So what happened? The mom that I remember”—the one who shouted and neglected us—“wasn’t like that at all.”
Dad rubs his face, looking tired, looking older. “All I know is that something changed after your brother was born.” He says this quietly, almost a whisper, even though Peter is in the museum and well out of earshot. “The docs said that she had a nervous condition, but that it would work itself out. After a couple months, she did seem to be getting better.”
“But?” Then I answer my own question. “That’s when you went to Korea.”
Dad looks grim, his mouth tightening at the corners. “Yep.”
That’s all he says and he doesn’t explain further, but judging by the pained look on his face, I start to connect the dots of what happened. After he left, Mom’s “nervous condition” must’ve come back. She stopped getting out of bed. She cried a lot and slept even more. Our little apartment seemed to divide us into halves—her against Peter and me. I couldn’t count on her anymore to feed us or take care of us. To love us.
“After you came home, I heard you and Mom fighting one night,” I say slowly, choosing my words with care because I don’t want to hurt him but I need to ask. “She said that you broke a promise to her. What did she mean?”
Dad’s face screws up tighter. “That was so long ago. Do we really need to bring this up?”
“Please?”
He crosses his arms and starts talking, albeit reluctantly. “Your mom wanted to fly more than anything else. After you were born, she put those plans on hold, but she told me over and over that she wanted to get her pilot’s license one day, so I promised that she could after I got back from Korea and we had more savings.” He sounds more defeated as he goes on. “But life gets pricey, Joey. We had Peter by then too, so it made more sense to me to put our savings toward buying my own shop.” He flinches and won’t look at me. “I told your mom that the flying lessons wouldn’t be in the cards.”
My mouth goes dry as burlap. So that’s what happened all those years ago. My dad had to support the family and he sacrificed my mother’s dreams to do it. She must’ve been devastated.
But there’s a rock in my heart that won’t budge.
“She didn’t have to leave us,” I say fiercely. “She still made that choice in the end.”
“That she did,” Dad says plainly.
“Then why aren’t you mad about it?”
“I’m too tired for that, Jo. And your mom’s gone. Nothing will bring her back, and I can’t change the choices I made that led to her leaving.”
“You were trying to look out for Peter and me.”
“Sure, but I wasn’t looking out for her. Not at that moment.” A long pause stretches between us, and when he speaks again, his voice sounds like gravel. “But she lives on in the two of you. You got your mom’s spirit, and Peter got her smarts. She gave you two the best parts of her.” Dad sniffs and I wonder if he’s crying, but he stands up and turns away from me. Gruffly, he says, “Let’s find that brother of yours and get something to eat. I’m half starved.”
I get to my feet, with my heart feeling heavier and lighter at the same time. I know now why my mother left us, and while I’ll never forgive her for it, maybe I can understand her better too. Maybe I don’t have to be so angry anymore.
Maybe I ought to focus on what Mom left me with—Peter and Dad.
My father is already a couple steps ahead of me, but I catch up to him and thread my arm around his like I did when I was little. He startles a bit at the unexpected touch, but he doesn’t pull away. In fact, he leans in.
We’ll never be the type of family that hugs or cries together or says I love you every day, but walking together like this?
It’s enough.
It’s time to book it out of Washington. The Games have ended, and the ink on the Washington-Moscow Accord has officially dried. The Cold War has cooled by a few degrees, and we don’t have to worry about a battalion of Vostoks attacking our shores any time soon.
Well, at least until the next crisis hits.
I zip up my bag, shut the door to my room, and head down to the dormitory’s lobby to turn in my badge and key. The Pavilion has almost emptied by now, and all that I have to do is catch my flight home. The ’63 Pax Games are truly over, and aside from a few new bruises, I’ll be leaving empty-handed. No title. No prize money. Not a single endorsement either.
But there’s some decent news to come out of this.
The IC has decided to hold a vote as to whether they should nullify the results of the Games or not—not only the championship match between Lidiya and me, but the entire ’63 cycle. They’re under pressure from the public at large as well as numerous national sporting federations, with Senator Appleby leading that charge. If everything shakes out the way that I’d like, the 1963 Games will be a wash, a dark mark on the record books, but at least it’ll be fair. Isn’t that what the fighters deserve?
Plus, it’ll make Lidiya furious.
Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I make my way across the quad to wait for my ride. The sun beats down on me, and I plop onto a bench where someone has left a copy of the Washington Post. My eyes drift over the headlines. The Kennedys and Khrushchevs had a private dinner after the Accord was signed. Esterium from South Vietnam will make its way to the America market in the coming months. And there, toward the bottom of the page, I notice a short article on Rushi. Due to her age, the US has agreed to extradite her to Hong Kong, a city under British rule, not Chinese. She’ll serve her sentence there, and I’m glad to hear that. Maybe her sister will be allowed a visit or two since Rushi will be much closer to home.
I set the paper aside because I might have enough time to grab a Coke from the dining hall when I hear someone calling my name.
“Where are your dad and brother?” M
alcolm says, walking up to me.
“Peter wanted to visit another museum before we left, so they’ll head to the airport straight from there,” I explain. “You here to see me off?”
I haven’t seen Malcolm much since the final match. He did visit me at the hospital before I got discharged, but he didn’t stay long since he had “pressing matters” that required his attention, whatever that had meant. He skipped out on Senator Appleby’s brunch too.
“More like see you soon,” he says, squinting in the bright sun. “There’s the North American Invitational at the end of the summer down in Mexico City that you ought to start training for.”
I lift a brow. “You actually want me on the team? Even with my mother’s ‘background’?”
“You certainly have areas for improvement, but you’ve made a name for yourself at the Games. In any case, the cat is already out of the bag when it comes to your mother and it hasn’t made much of a difference with the general public. Most of them are still riled up that you were poisoned on American soil. So the fighting slot is yours if you want it.”
I give myself a minute to think this over, but the decision is an easy one. Another go-around on Team USA? In Mexico City? I’m ready to sign up now, but I decide to play my cards a little closer to the chest.
“What I really want is a rematch against Lidiya at the World Championships next summer,” I say. If I can’t have the Games, then I want the next best thing.
“That’s a bold statement,” Malcolm replies dryly.
“You know full well that I can take her on.”
“Don’t get cocky now, Linden. She’s still ranked number one.” But he isn’t saying no to me either. “Let’s see how you perform at the Invitational and a few other tournaments, and we’ll talk more about this.”
“You’ll be coaching for the World Championships then?”
He nods. “The Association has hired me on for another four years. The ’63 Games might as well be a DQ in their book, so I’ll be keeping my eye on ’67.”
The Great Destroyers Page 29