Dark Zone

47

They caught the last possible plane to Paris that night, an old Boeing 737 operated by a Spanish airline Dean had not only never heard of but which also apparently operated only one aircraft — this one.

The plane sat at the gate for nearly an hour after they boarded. Dean took out the World War I book he’d “borrowed” from the British and read about a wounded German calling to the Marine for help in the dark. The author wondered whether he should put the German out of his misery or take him prisoner. Doing either involved great risk, since he’d be exposing himself to anyone hiding nearby, as well as to the man himself, who might have a concealed weapon. The writer spoke honestly and simply of his uncertainty.

Something similar had happened to Dean in Vietnam: he’d come across a North Vietnamese soldier lying in the brush, stomach full of blood. The man babbled something in Vietnamese; Dean thought he was begging to be killed.

Dean’s job was to kill the enemy. He wasn’t squeamish about it. He’d taken down a Vietcong officer (or at least someone suspected of being one) just a few hours before. But for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to kill this man.

What had stopped him? To this day he couldn’t say.

Did war stay the same, or did men?

Lia curled her body tight against the comer of the seat, wedging herself next to the window.

All I need to do is sleep, she told herself. Sleep will cure this.

It didn’t, though. The few hours’ dozing on the plane left her restless and stiff, and every bit as confused and scared and unsure as she’d been before.

Lia had trouble finding the ATM at Charles de Gaulle Airport, even though she’d been at the airport dozens of times just in the past two years. It turned out to be only a few yards from the gate where she exited. Then she couldn’t remember the PIN on the ATM card she was carrying, even though the support team always set the PINs on her cards to the same sequence. It took a monstrous amount of effort not to start kicking the machine, to calm down, to ask the Art Room for help.

She found Dean on the taxi line.

“You look tired,” he told her.

“As if you don’t,” she snapped.

He didn’t say anything else.

“Concorde Lazare,” she told the taxi driver when they got in. The man started telling them in French what a nice place it was. “Oui,” she said. Then she switched to English. “Just drive there, though, OK?”

Dean turned and gave her a dirty look. “Excuse us,” he said in English. “My friend has not had much sleep. I apologize for her.”

Lia thought she, too, should apologize, but it was much easier not to say anything at all.